Part 55 (1/2)

Melissa sucked her lower lip in and released it. ”So did he kill that woman or not?”

”I don't know,” Katie said. ”I want him to be a good guy.”

Gina patted her shoulder, then reached across to also pat the journal with her fingertips. ”I say we go to his apartment and find out.”

There were drawbacks to being a member of Matthew's society of Magi. For one thing, n.o.body else liked them. And with good reason; not only was the Prometheus Club full of sn.o.bs, Capitalists, and politicians, but its stated goal of limiting and controlling the influence of wild magic in the world put him in sworn opposition to any hedge-witch, Satanist, purveyor of herbs and simples, houngan, or priest of Santeria he might want to contract with for ritual supplies.

Such as, say, a white, virgin c.o.c.kerel.

New York City was not bereft of live poultry markets, but given his rather specific needs, Matthew wasn't sure he wanted to trust one of those. He'd hate to find out at the last minute, for example, that his bird had had a few sandy feathers plucked. Or that it was, shall we say, a little more experienced than Matthew was himself.

And then there was the recent influenza scare, which had closed several poultry markets. And what he really needed, now that he thought about it, was an illegal animal; a fighting c.o.c.k.

He booted his desktop system, entered an IP address from memory, wended his way through a series of logon screens, and asked about it on the Promethean message board.

Fortunately, even if Matthew didn't know something, it was a pretty good bet that somebody in Prometheus would.

Before close of business, he was twenty blocks north again, edging through a flaking avocado-green steel door into the antechamber of a dimly lit warehouse that smelled of guano and sawdust and corn and musty feathers. It drove the eyewatering stench of the c.o.c.katrice from Matthew's sinuses, finally, and seemed in comparison such a rich, wholesome smell that he breathed it deep and fast. He coughed, sneezed, and waved his hand in front of his face. And then he did it again, feeling as if the inside of his head were clean for the first time in hours.

There was a desk in a cage-not unlike the ones inhabited by the clucking, rustling chickens, but far larger-behind the half-wall at the far end of the dirty, hall-like room. Matthew approached it; a stout woman with her white hair twisted into a bun looked up from her game of solitaire.

He cleared his throat. ”I need to buy a c.o.c.kerel.”

”I've got some nice Bantams,” she said through the grate. ”And a couple of Rhode Island Reds.” Not admitting anything; those weren't fighting c.o.c.ks. ”You got a place to keep it? There are zoning things.”

”It just needs to be pure white.” He hesitated. ”Or pure black.”

She reached up casually and dropped the shutter in his face. Of course. He sighed, and rapped on the grate, rattling the metal behind it. No answer. He rapped again, and again.

Five minutes later she cracked it up and peered under the bottom, through the little hole for pa.s.sing papers and money back and forth. He caught a glimpse of bright black eyes and a wrinkled nose. ”I'm not selling you any bird for your Satanic rituals, young man.”

No, but you'll sell me one for bloodsports? Matthew sighed again and stuck his hand through the slot, nearly getting his fingers up her nose. She jerked back, but he caught the edge of the shutter before she could slide it closed again. His biceps bulged inside his s.h.i.+rt sleeve; his tendons dimpled his wrist. She leaned on the shutter, and couldn't s.h.i.+ft him.

”Young man.” A level, warning tone. She didn't look intimidated.

Oh, what the h.e.l.l. ”It's for the c.o.c.katrice,” he said.

Her hand relaxed, and the weight of the shutter lifted. She slid it up; it thumped when it reached the top. ”Why didn't you say so? About time somebody took care of that thing. Though I notice you didn't give a s.h.i.+t when it was just in East Harlem.”

Matthew glanced aside. The cops were always the last to know.

She hesitated. ”You'll need a human virgin too.”

”Don't worry,” he said, biting the inside of his cheek. ”I've got that covered.”

When he returned home, there was a woman waiting in his apartment. Not surprising in itself; Jane had a key and the pa.s.scode for the locks. But it wasn't Jane. It was the homicide detective, Marion Thornton.

She had an outdoorswoman's squint and silky brown hair that framed her long cheekbones in feathered wings; it made her look like a brighteyed Afghan hound. She showed him her badge and handed him back the keys before he was fully in the door.

”The victim was an alcoholic,” Marion said, re-locking the door as Matthew put his chicken on the counter. It was in a cardboard animal carrier. Occasionally a glossy jet-black beak or a malevolent eye would appear in one of the holes along the top. It scuffed and kicked. He pushed it away from the counter edge and it grabbed at him, as he thought of a line from a Russian fairy tale: Listen, Crow, crow's daughter! Serve me a certain service- ”The nun was a drunk?”

”To put it crudely. And we found another possible for the same bogey, about three days ago. Elderly man, never married, lived alone, drank like a fish. We're continuing to check back for others.” She flipped pages in her report pad. ”Here's something interesting. He was castrated in a farming accident when he was in his teens.”

”Oh,” Matthew said. ”It's always virgins, isn't it?”

”For dragons and unicorns, anyway,” Marion answered. ”But I'd guess you're correct. And more than that. Heavy drinkers. Possibly with some talent; a link my ... secular ... colleagues won't come up with is that Promethean records show that we considered inviting both of these victims for apprentices.h.i.+p when they were young.”

”So they saw things,” Matthew said, thinking of Henry, living on the monster's doorstep. If the thing had a preference for s.e.xually inexperienced prey, that would explain why it hadn't eaten him yet. Well, if Matthew was prepared to make a few conjectures. ”Do you think it wanted them because they drank, or they drank because they saw things?”

”We operate on the first a.s.sumption.” Marion picked her way around him, leaned down to peer into the animal carrier. She pulled back as a grabbing beak speared at her eye. ”Vicious.”

”I sure hope so.”

”Jane said you had a possible ID on the bogey?”

He knelt down and began peeling the rug back, starting beside the inside wall of the living room. ”The black c.o.c.k isn't enough of a hint?”

”Basilisk.”

”That's a weasel. c.o.c.katrice, I'm guessing. Though how it lured its victim into hurling herself from her window is beyond me. You're describing very specialized prey.”

She straightened up and arched, cracking her spine. She picked a spoon off the breakfast bar and turned it, considering the way the light pooled in the bowl. ”Call it one in ten thousand? Then the Greater New York metropolitan area has, what, two thousand more just like 'em?”

”Something like that,” Matthew said, and pinched the bridge of his nose. A dust bunny was stuck to the heel of his hand; he blew it off. When he opened his eyes, he found her staring at him, tongue-tip peeking between her lips.

”Want to make sure we're safe?” she said, with a grin. The spoon glittered as she turned it beside her face. ”I'm off duty. And your chicken won't mind.” She held up her left hand and showed him a plain gold band. ”No ha.s.sles.”

He bit his lower lip. Matthew had practice. And years of careful sublimation-which was, of course, the point: sacrifice made power. He also had a trick of flying under the gaydar, of making straight women think he was gay and gay men think he was straight. All just part of the camouflage.

He hated having to say no. ”Sorry,” he said. ”That's a lovely offer. But I need a virgin for the c.o.c.katrice already, and it beats having to send out.”

She laughed, of course.

They never believed him.

”Come on,” he said. ”Help me ensorcel this chicken.”

Doctor S. lived in Midtown West, on 60th near Columbus Ave. It was kind of a hike, but they got there before sunset. It wouldn't get dark for an hour, but that was only because the afternoons were still long. By the time they paused down the block Katie's stomach was rumbling. That milkshake was only good for so long.

The spot they picked to loiter had a clear view of the front door of Doctor S.'s brown brick apartment building. ”Nice place for a junior professor,” Melissa said, and for ten seconds she sounded like she was from Boston, all right.

Katie looked at Gina and made big eyes and whimpering noises, but it was Melissa who went and got convenience store hot dogs, Diet Pepsi, and a bag of chips. They ate in the shade on the north side of the building, the heat soaking from the stones, their hair lank and grimy with the city air. Katie scratched her cheek and brought her fingernails away sporting black crescents. ”Ew.”

”Welcome to New York,” Gina said, which was what she said every time Katie complained.

Katie had nearly stopped complaining already. She scratched her nails against her jeans until most of the black came out and finished her hot dog one-handed, then wiped the grime from her face with the napkin before drying her hands. It worked kind of halfway-good enough, anyway, that when Melissa splashed ice water from a sport bottle into everyone's cupped hands and Katie in turn splashed it onto her face, she didn't wind up feeling like she'd faceplanted into a mud puddle.

The second handful, she drank, and only realized she had been carrying a heat headache when the weight of it faded. ”All right,” she said, and took the bottle from Melissa to squirt some on her hair. ”Ready as I'll ever be.”

”Unfortunately, apparently Doctor S. isn't,” Melissa said, reclaiming the bottle to drink. She tilted her head back, her throat working, and as she lowered it a droplet ran from the corner of her mouth. ”No, wait, spoke too soon.”