Yikes.
I’d seen Gard square off against a world-class necromancer and her pet ghoul without batting a golden eyelash. What the hell had her so spooked?
She came back out of her stance warily, then shook her head and muttered something under her breath before turning to me again. “What’s going to happen to that girl . . . ? You have no idea. It shouldn’t happen to anyone. So I’m begging you. Please help me.”
I sighed.
Well, dammit.
She said please.
THE RAIN WAS weakening the tracking spell on my amulet and washing away both the scent of the grendelkin and the psychic trail left by the terrified Elizabeth, but between Mouse and me, we managed to find where the bad guy had, literally, gone to earth. The trail ended at an old storm cellar-style door in back of the buildings on the east side of Wrigley Field, under the tracks of the El, near Addison Station. The doors were ancient and looked as if they were rusted shut—though they couldn’t have been, if the trail went through them. They were surrounded by a gateless metal fence. A sign on the fence declared the area dangerous and to keep out—you know, the usual sound advice that thrill-seeking blockheads and softhearted wizards with nagging headaches always ignore.
“You sure?” I asked Mouse. “It went in there?”
Mouse circled the fence, snuffling at the dry ground protected from the rain by the El track overhead. Then he focused intently on the doors and growled.
The amulet bobbed weakly, less definitely than it had a few minutes before. I grimaced and said, “It went down here, but it traveled north after that.”
Gard grunted. “Crap.”
“Crap,” I concurred.
The grendelkin had fled into Undertown.
Chicago is an old city—at least by American standards. It’s been flooded, burned down several times, been constructed and reconstructed ad nauseam. Large sections of the city have been built up as high as ten and twelve feet above the original ground level, while other buildings have settled into the swampy muck around Lake Michigan. Dozens and dozens of tunnel systems wind beneath its surface. No one knows exactly how many different tunnels and chambers people have created intentionally or by happenstance, and since most people regard the supernatural as one big scam, no one has noticed all the additional work done by not-people in the meantime.
Undertown begins somewhere just out of the usual traffic in the commuter and utility tunnels, where sections of wall and roof regularly collapse, and where people with good sense just aren’t willing to go. From there, it gets dark, cold, treacherous, and jealously inhabited, increasingly so the farther you go.
Things live down there—all kinds of things.
A visit to Undertown bears more resemblance to suicide than exploration, and those who do it are begging to be Darwined out of the gene pool. Smart people don’t go down there.
Gard slashed a long opening in the fence with her ax, and we descended crumbling old concrete steps into the darkness.
I murmured a word and made a small effort of will, and my amulet began to glow with a gentle blue-white light, illuminating the tunnel only dimly—enough, I hoped, to see by while still not giving away our approach. Gard produced a small red-filtered flashlight from her duffel bag, a backup light source. It made me feel better. When you’re underground, making sure you have light is almost as important as making sure you have air. It meant that she knew what she was doing.
The utility tunnel we entered gave way to a ramshackle series of chambers, the spaces between what were now basements and the raised wall of the road that had been built up off the original ground level. Mouse went first, with me and my staff and my amulet right behind him. Gard brought up the rear, walking lightly and warily.
We went on for maybe ten minutes, through difficult-to-spot doorways and at one point through a tunnel flooded with a foot and a half of icy stagnant water. Twice, we descended deeper into the earth, and I began getting antsy about finding my way back. Spelunking is dangerous enough without adding in anything that could be described with the word
“This grendelkin,” I said. “Tell me about it.”
“You don’t need to know.”
“Like hell I don’t,” I said. “You want me to help you, you gotta help me. Tell me how we beat this thing.”
“We don’t,” she said. “I do. That’s all you need to know.”
That sort of offended me, being so casually kept ignorant. Granted, I’d done it to people myself about a million times, mostly to protect them, but that didn’t make it any less frustrating—just ironic.
“And if it offs you instead?” I said. “I’d rather not be totally clueless when it’s charging after me and the girl and I have to turn and fight.”
“It shouldn’t be a problem.”
I stopped in my tracks and turned to regard her.
She stared back at me, eyebrows lifted. Water dripped somewhere nearby. There was a faint rumbling above us, maybe the El going by somewhere overhead.
She pressed her lips together and nodded, a gesture of concession. “It’s a scion of Grendel.”
I started walking again. “Whoa. Like,
“Obviously.” Gard sighed. “Before Beowulf faced him in Heorot—”
“
“Yes.”
“And it actually happened like in the story?” I demanded.
“It isn’t far wrong,” Gard replied, an impatient note in her voice. “Before Beowulf faced him, Grendel had already taken a number of women on his previous visits. He got spawn upon them.”
“Ick,” I said. “But I think they make a cream for that now.”
Gard gave me a flat look. “You have no idea what you’re talking about.”
“No kidding,” I said. “That’s the point of asking.”
“You know all you need.”
I ignored the statement, and the sentiment behind it to boot. A good private investigator is essentially a professional asker of questions. If I kept them coming, eventually I’d get some kind of answer. “Back at the pub, there was an electrical disruption. Does this thing use magic?”
“Not the way you do,” Gard said.
See there? An answer. A vague answer, but an answer. I pressed ahead. “Then how?”
“Grendelkin are strong,” Gard said. “Fast. And they can bend minds in an area around them.”
“Bend how?”
“They can make people not notice them, or to notice only dimly. Disguise themselves, sometimes. It’s how they get close. Sometimes they can cause malfunctions in technology.”
“Veiling magic,” I said. “Illusion. Been there, done that.” I mused. “Mac said there were two disruptions. Is there any reason it would want to steal a keg from the beer festival?”
Gard shot me a sharp look. “Keg?”
“That’s what those yahoos in the alley were upset about,” I said. “Someone swiped their keg.”
Gard spat out a word that would probably have gotten bleeped out had she said it on some kind of Scandinavian talk show. “What brew?”
“Eh?” I said.
“What kind of liquor was in the keg?” she demanded.
“How the hell should I know?” I asked. “I never even saw it.”
“Dammit.”
“But . . .” I scrunched up my nose, thinking. “The sign from his table had a drawing of a little Viking bee on it, and it was called Caine’s Kickass.”
