There were voices.
". . . that it came to this, truly am . . ."
Okay, that was Mean Mr. B. I realized I was lying on my side, my left side. I tried to sit up, tried hard, but the ground glass in my arms and legs and between every vertebra cackled and held me down.
"It wasn't a risk I was willing to take."
And that was Drusneth. Fucking Drusneth, and without being entirely sure why, I wanted to rip the whore peddler's throat out, then and there.
". . . that we'd have brought it to you, and straightaway. Surely, you never suspected any . . ."
Now, here was an unfamiliar voice, but I guessed through the pain that it was almost certainly the mutterer from B's last phone call, who had to be Boston's Harry's bogle brother.
My mouth tasted like I'd eaten roadkill. Wouldn't have surprised me. The loup is hardly picky. I tried to spit, but my mouth was dry as desert sand.
". . . coming to."
A fourth voice, which I had no trouble recognizing as one of the se'irim douche waffles. I'd left at least one of them alive.
I forced my eyes open, did my best to force them to focus. Mostly just shapes and colors. Shapes that were distorted and colors that weren't right. Wherever I was, despite the searing light scalding my brain, I could see the place was dark. I smelled mildew, mushrooms, standing water, rotting masonry. A cellar, almost certainly a cellar. Or a subcellar. Someone was squatting a couple of yards in front of me, safe on the other side of cold iron bars.
"Wake up, kitten," said Mean Mr. B.
"Have you done?" I grunted, and it was a wonder I was able to string even those three words together.
"It's only a precaution," he replied. "One that we shall dispense with as soon as possible."
And then I understood. I was in a cage somewhere, beneath a house or a street, maybe below Drusneth's sporting house in the Armory. I was in a cage. And I wasn't entirely loup, and I wasn't entirely the bloodsucker that could pass for human when she tried. They'd found a way to trap me in the space between.
"Kill you all," I snarled; then the pain crashed into me like a ton of bricks and all I could do was lie curled fetal. I pissed myself, and the air stank of urine.
"Now, now, precious. You will do no such thing."
Drusneth said, "Don't coddle the little gooch. The clock's ticking. If I lose the unicorn-"
"Madam," the bogle simpered, "haven't we assured you no such circumstance will transpire?"
She ignored him. "If Harpootlian's getting close, she's the one who knows, Belmont. Stop wasting my time and get her talking."
Silence. It could have been a hundred years of silence, a hundred years of torture.
Then B, apparently Belmont for the day, said, "I think she's hardly in any shape to tell us much of anything. If you removed the execration, we'd have somewhat better luck."
"Dying," I heard myself moan, though I don't think I'd meant to say anything at all.
"No, kitten," Belmont cooed, all mock sympathy and comfort. "You're not dying. But I'm bloody certain you wish that were the case."
A spasm rolled through my body, and my legs kicked, striking the bars of the cage. Only, those weren't my legs. Not my feet. Everything below my waist was still loup.
"Tear you all to ribbons," I all but howled. Five whole words in a row. I was making progress.
"Now, that's exactly the sort of talk will prolong your suffering," said Mean Mr. B. "Bad puppy."
Then, to Drusneth, he said, much more sternly, "You know, it actually is a truism that if you hurt someone enough, he or she or it will eventually tell you anything you want to hear."
Jesus. The motherfucker was actually taking up for me. Or, more likely, protecting his investment. Now that Shaker Lashly was gone, I was his one and only pit bull.
"Please," he said.
"You're in no position to ask for a boon," Drusneth replied.
He raised his voice. There was anger creeping in around the edges, sort of like sunshine peeking out around the edges of a solar eclipse. In my delirium, it was almost beautiful to hear.
"I know, my dear, that old habits do die hard, but fuck all, this is not your river Phlegethon. We don't even know what this is doing to her."
"I believe it's causing her unbearable pain," said Drusneth. "Do you not agree, Samuel?"
Who the fuck was Samuel?
Then I heard the bogle make a hemming and hawing noise, and I knew he was Samuel. "Most of a certain, madam," the little rat-bastard creep told the succubus.
"The curse has served its purpose," B said. "End it, or soon she'll be too far gone to ever tell you shite."
Drusneth sighed like a hurricane. She sighed like a dying man's goddamn last breath. You get the picture.
The agony dissolved quick as butter in a hot skillet, and I was left gasping, shivering, disoriented, lying naked on the metal floor of the cage. The world swam sharply into focus. Yeah, I was in a basement. Brick walls probably stacked and mortared before the Revolutionary War. A packed dirt floor. The only light a flickering orange glow from an oil lantern the bogle clutched in one ratty paw.
"There, there, now," B said to me.
Drusneth said, "You'll cooperate, girl, or I can put you right back where you were with the flick of a wrist."
Right then, I wanted to murder the whole world, resurrect it, and murder it all over again. You know the feeling.
• • •
Twenty or thirty minutes later, I was dressed, pretty much my old fucked-up vamp self again, and sitting on a hideously upholstered divan in Drusneth's office. The damn thing had enough throw cushions on it to smother half of China. I was sitting there, nursing a hangover that probably only comes with having been pounded flatter than hammered dog shit by a couple of demons, then trapped half in and half out of your wolfdom. The parts of me that didn't hurt were too few to mention. Okay, it wasn't half as bad as the pain I'd felt in the cage, but it made me miss the dear old days of smack.
"No hard feelings?" B asked. I'd heard Drusneth refer to him as Belmont, which sounded like a hotel chain.
"Fuck you," I told him.
"Play nice," he said. "Drusneth meant what she said about rescinding her spot of mercy. You know that."
I looked from B to Dru. She was sitting behind that huge desk of hers, watching me with someone else's intense, dark eyes. That day, she was wearing the skin of a young Indian woman, some unfortunate chick from maybe Bangalore or Delhi who'd strayed too near the spider's web. She was wearing a white silk suit with an oddly iridescent tie the green-brown shades of a Japanese beetle.
"In a New York minute," she assured me.
"You know me," I said. "I'm all sunshine and daisies. I shit sunshine and daisies."
"Oh, I know you," Belmont sighed, reclining in his own hideously upholstered chair.
Standing to his left was a totally horrid beast, like something that had tumbled out of the ugly tree and hit every limb on the way down. Twice. The bogle, of course. The dear, departed Boston Harry's bro. They could have been twins, except this one's hair was Play-Doh blue. Otherwise, he might have doubled for Boston Harry. Same sewer-rat-trying-to-pass-for-human good looks. Same twitchy snout and pointy teeth. Same snide demeanor. Knee high to a Doberman. It was hate at first sight. Harry, he'd been a sort of transplanar fence, a Target or Walmart for nasties in the market for occult contraband. He'd been, as I said last time out, the go-to guy. Well, until I'd eaten him. Let me tell you, that was not the best meal of my unlife. Anyway, as far as Harry's brother was concerned, I had no idea what his deal was.
"What's his deal?" I asked, and pointed at the blue rat man.
"Think of him as a silent partner, precious," Belmont replied. "A consultant brought aboard this enterprise for his not inconsiderable business acumen."
"That so?" And then I spoke directly to the bogle. "Your brother took one of my fingers and one of my toes." I held up my four-fingered left hand as a visual aid.
"As I understand it," the bogle said, "it was a fair exchange for sensitive intel." Jesus, what an annoying voice. Kind of like Papa Smurf on helium. Or maybe I only thought so 'cause he was blue and all.
I didn't offer him an opinion on whether or not the deal had been fair. I blinked, squinting about the dimly lit office. I'd been given my clothing, but not my Glock. I spotted it on Drusneth's desk.
"At least your gorillas were kind enough not to lose that," I said, and nodded to the weapon. By "lose" I meant "steal," but B had said play nice, and I figured I'd give that a try for three or four minutes.
"They know better," Drusneth said.
"Mind if I have it back? Sort of tends to keep me outta tight spots. Though wasn't much help against the demon Bobbsey Twins, I'll grant you that. You get props for your choice in hired muscle, I gotta give you that."
She thanked me, considered the gun a moment-still in its holster-then picked it up and tossed it to me.
"Now, as I was saying, Belmont. What exactly is the Blue Meanie's part in this folly?"
B didn't answer. The bogle did.