Ned hauled himself off the stool and made his way to the door. “Yeah, I got it. I can lock up too. My friend and I just want to shoot the breeze.”
“Sure. Whatever you like.”
Moving fluidly in the near darkness, Ned skirted tables without disturbing any of the chairs stacked on them to flip the latch over the front door and head back to his seat. The man who stepped inside wore a tan jacket that extended an inch past his waist, and he had enough pockets to make a shoplifter drool with envy. He twisted the latch back into place using a scarred hand, walked to the bar in a few quiet strides, and propped the staff he’d been carrying against it.
“What happened, Jonah?” Ned asked. “This was supposed to be a way to clean up the storm that was kicked up in KC, not create a new one.”
Lancroft’s beard didn’t have a single whisker that was too long or out of place. His eyes were cold and calm as he said, “The mess is getting cleaned up. Thanks to the pheromones from the nymphs I’ve harvested, the Half Breeds have been drawn to the Pestilence carriers quicker than we could have hoped. Even Mongrels drop dead within a few seconds after Pestilence gets into their system.”
“And what about the Nymar? Every time one of those things pops, it’s a goddamn spectacle.”
“I could have spread Pestilence a lot quicker using those temples, but things didn’t turn out that way. It’s worked out for the better, though. My original creation has mutated like any other virus strain. Its effect on the Nymar has given me some ideas as to how to modify the next batch.”
Lowering his voice to a fierce whisper, Ned snarled, “That creature of yours is running wild. It found my home. It killed an innocent boy.”
“Henry wasn’t after you. He has some history with your student, but he is also a necessary part of the equation. Without the Mind Singer—”
“See, that’s what I don’t like,” Ned snapped as he twisted around to stab a finger in Lancroft’s direction. “Right there. Only the shapeshifters call that thing Mind Singer. When I agreed to work with you, it was to make a move that had to be made. I don’t give a damn if you’re the real Jonah Lancroft or not. The way I see it, any man who does what we do against these monsters has gotta have a screw loose. You wanna be called Lancroft? That’s fine. I knew a guy down in Florida who thought he was St. George the Dragon Slayer. He was a hell of a good Skinner, so I called him George and fought alongside him. You came to me with this notion to poison the well, so to speak, and it seemed like a shitty way to fix an even shittier situation. A minimum of folks would get hurt in exchange for Half Breeds to be wiped out.”
“And I’ve held up that end of the bargain,” Lancroft pointed out.
“Yes you did. Since the people comin’ down with this Mud Flu seem to be getting better, I can let a lot of this pass. But I will not stand by and let you attack other Skinners. We’re all in the same fight here!”
Lancroft reached into one of his pockets for a metal flask and set it on the bar, where an inscription on the flask of flowing symbols caught the glow of tired neon. “If those three had come to me earlier, I could have spoken to them the way I’ve spoken to you. When they arrived, they’d already been swayed by the nymphs. Your students even took orders from one among them with roots that go much deeper than the other girls.”
“From what I hear, you were the one to get the fight rolling.”
“They were not in a bargaining frame of mind.”
“Well they probably wouldn’t have liked your goddamn proposal since it’s turned into an epidemic.”
“Don’t be so dramatic,” Lancroft said. “You’re starting to sound like those people on the news, crying because they had a sore throat that lasted for a few days. The Mud Flu is messy, but not fatal.”
“Not unless you’re one of the ones killed by a Half Breed.”
Lancroft shrugged and pushed the flask toward Ned. “Some had to be targeted so numerous others could be spared. Because of those sacrifices, there is hardly a Half Breed population anymore, and once I spread the nymph pheromones, the Nymar population will take an even larger hit.”
“Those pheromones are too potent. They don’t just attract the Nymar like we thought. They whip them into a frenzy. When they get a whiff of that stuff, Nymar don’t just feed, they tear people apart. I’ve seen it. And the Half Breeds are slaughtering more than just the folks that were sprayed with that nymph scent.”
“The wretches are strong-willed if nothing else. By any account, it’s worth some blood being spilled if it rids our world of such abominations.”
“They’ll come back,” Ned grumbled. “Half Breeds always do, and Nymar are worse. What if they get an immunity to Pestilence? What if they’re like cockroaches that can’t be poisoned by anything? You ever think of that?”
“By the time they adapt, I will have created a new strain. It’s the natural cycle between predator and prey.”
Picking up the flask, Ned ran his fingers over the cool metal and held it closer to his good eye. The symbols engraved on it were too large and irregular to be letters, but not detailed enough to be pictures. “What is this?”
“It’s called Memory Water. I told you I’d try to do something about your injury in exchange for your help.”
Ned set the flask down. “Keep it. We’re through.”
Smiling warmly through his silver beard, Lancroft signaled to the bartender, who’d just returned, and ordered a dark lager. “You’ve done more than enough to earn it,” he told Ned. “Besides, I’m a man of my word.” Leaning over to him, he added, “How do you think I’ve stayed so healthy for the last couple of hundred years?”
“Did you make this stuff?” Ned asked as he reached out to touch the flask.
“No. It’s been around for a long time. Now that your students have grown so close to the nymphs, they’ll probably find out about it sooner or later.”
Ned shook his head slowly at first, but quickly built up steam. “I been gettin’ along fine as I am.” He rapped his knuckles against the bar and pointed at a bottle of mid-grade vodka. As the bartender poured some into a shot glass, Ned grumbled, “All I do anymore is stroll around this city and chase off a few Nymar here and there.”
“Maybe you should take a more active role. Skinners need to learn from experienced trackers instead of splicing videos for the Internet. Men like us are needed to cut straight to the root of the problem and make sure the next batch does the same.”
Ned grunted. “The public barely even knows there is a problem.”
Lancroft chuckled and sipped from his pint glass. “True enough, my friend. Back home, all I meet are Skinners who would rather go into business with creatures that don’t have a place on God’s green earth.”
“Where did you say you were from? Philadelphia?”
“That’s right. Did you know some Nymar back East want to become Skinners? They speak with forked tongues while dressing like whores or dandies. Where the hell did these youngsters get the impression devils like that could be trusted?”
Nodding as if he’d just heard his own thoughts put into words, Ned raised his drink and knocked it against Lancroft’s glass. “Traditionalist, huh? That’s nice to hear. Makes me feel like I ain’t the only one anyway.
“The monsters fear us because they don’t fully understand us. It’s an old strategy, but a very, very good one. We can’t pick and choose which prey to hunt either. That decision has already been made for us by the natural order. Working with Nymar, trusting outside groups like those crackpot ghost chasers, those are the sorts of things that will undo us.”
“Welcome to the modern world.”
“Keep it,” Lancroft sighed. “I’ve had my fill.”
Surrounded by the comforting dimness of the bar and the warbly prerecorded voices of pinball machines, Ned savored the slow burn of the vodka easing through his system. “You’d best pull up your stakes and burn whatever’s left of Pestilence,” he said. “Otherwise, those youngsters of mine will burn you along with it.”
Lancroft placed both hands on the bar. “If we’re parting ways, let’s do it amicably. One more drink to celebrate a fine, albeit short, partnership.”
Taking his cue, the bartender waddled over to collect their glasses. He filled them and set them in front of the only two customers in the place.
“After all that’s happened,” Ned said, “another snort wouldn’t be such a bad idea.” He took his glass, doffed it like a cap, and knocked it back in one swig. The liquid inside tasted clean and cool. It had the burn of vodka, but a salty sweetness that didn’t belong. “This ain’t the usual brand.”
The bartender took a step back, cocked his head to one side and silently wiped at a dark trickle that ran from
