Blood Engines Page 4

  “I’m old-fashioned.” She continued down the sidewalk, and when she reached the sawhorses in front of the shattered gallery, she leaned over and looked inside.

  Now, this was old-fashioned. The gallery was filled with pre-Columbian artifacts—bowls, tools, weapons, and statues. Marla didn’t know a lot about art, but she knew about magical implements through the ages, and there were a few of those here, too. The items she recognized were Meso-American, but no more uniform than that—there were Aztec, Toltec, and Olmec objects here, among others.

  “Can I help you?” the cop asked. Marla chalked up another strike against San Francisco—this cop sounded like he actually wanted to help, like he was the clerk in a hardware store or something, and he smiled, blandly attractive, like a movie extra in a frat-party scene. In Felport, if a cop asked you that question, it would be in an entirely different and far more threatening tone of voice. Cops weren’t supposed to be like ushers. They were the teeth and claws of civic authority.

  Still, she did need help. “Yeah. What was stolen from here?”

  The cop looked her up and down, then looked at Rondeau, who’d chosen a bad moment to pick his nose. “How do you know anything was stolen?” the cop asked, forced-casual, and Marla could see him mentally flipping through the Police Procedural Handbook to the chapter about stupid criminals returning to the scenes of their crimes.

  Marla shrugged. “It could have been an act of vandalism, I guess, but it looked like a smash-and-grab to me.” Plus, of course, there was the dead yellow frog in the vicinity, which suggested to Marla that there was some connection between this mess and Lao Tsung’s death. She wasn’t here to investigate his murder, but she had a couple of hours to kill before Finch’s party, and this was interesting.

  The cop nodded, then reached for a notebook. “If I could have your name and address, I’d be happy to send you some information as soon as we have it.”

  As far as ruses to get names and addresses went, Marla had seen better. She sighed, shook her left arm slightly, and felt a stone fall out of the concealed pocket sewn into the cuff of her sleeve. The stone was small, smoothly polished, and heavier than it should have been. “Catch,” she said, and tossed the rock at the cop, underhand. He caught it instinctively, and his eyes widened. Then he just stood, pupils dilated, mouth hanging open, stone cradled loosely in his palm.

  In Marla’s city, every cop took an oath that put them under her sway, and she could activate them with a hand gesture or a word. She almost never had to do that—the police chief was handpicked, he belonged to her, and she generally got her information through him—but it was reassuring, having an army at her disposal, the cops themselves unaware they were sleeper agents. This rock was just a temporary charm, a one-use compulsion that she’d spent a long night imbuing. She hoped she hadn’t just wasted it, but the cop belonged to her now, and would for the next few days. “What was stolen?”

  “A statue.”

  “Can you describe it?”

  “I saw a picture.”

  “You have the picture?”

  The cop nodded and fished in his pocket, then came up with a neatly folded piece of paper. Marla opened it up—it was a photocopy of a photograph—and squinted.

  She grunted. “I can’t even tell what the hell this is. I hate pre-Columbian art.”

  Rondeau, who had progressed from picking his nose to picking his teeth, leaned over to look. “I think it’s a frog,” he said.

  Marla snorted. “That’s just because we’ve got frogs on the brain.”

  “It’s a frog,” the cop said. “They told me. Some kind of frog-monster. It has mouths on its knees and elbows. And fangs.”

  “See?” Rondeau said smugly.

  “I’ve never heard of a frog with fangs,” Marla muttered.

  “You’ve got a poisonous frog in your purse,” Rondeau said. “It doesn’t have fangs in reality, but it sort of does metaphorically.”

  “Give me your cell phone,” Marla said, handing Rondeau the photocopy.

  Rondeau took a tiny silver phone from his coat pocket and passed it to Marla. She speed-dialed, and the phone on the other end was picked up on the second ring. “This is Hamil,” he said, voice oiled and urbane.

  “Marla here. I need you to look up a frog-monster, with fangs, and mouths on its elbows and knees, maybe Mexican or Central American.”

  “I take it you don’t yet have the Cornerstone, then,” Hamil said.

  “I’m working on it,” she said, flipping the phone closed and putting it in her bag. “Okay, Officer—” she squinted at his nametag “—Whitney, thanks for your help. I’ll keep the photocopy. You just lost it somewhere, okay? One other thing—was anyone hurt in this break-in?”

  “No,” he said.

  Marla nodded. So apparently the frogs weren’t always used as a weapon—sometimes they were just around. She supposed it was possible the dead frog was a coincidence, that the theft of the statue was unrelated to Lao Tsung’s death, but it seemed unlikely; it was too many frogs in too short a time.

  “Let’s go,” she said, and strode off, Rondeau following. The cop stood by the sawhorses for a long moment, his mind recovering from Marla’s manhandling, before he shook himself and wandered back into the gallery.

  “We’re doing the detective thing now?” Rondeau said. “He’s a smooth-talking con man with a past, she’s a no-nonsense dame in a world she never made? They fight crime?”

  “I just want to get the Cornerstone,” Marla said. “If that takes detectiving, so be it. But you know me—I’m an information magpie, always interested in shiny bits of intel. I’ve never gotten in trouble because of knowing too much.”

  “So this doesn’t have anything to do with avenging Lao Tsung’s murder, if it was murder? I know you two were close….” Rondeau raised an eyebrow.

  “Let’s put it this way: I won’t go out of my way to avenge Lao Tsung. But if, in the course of doing my business, I happen to find the person who loosed those frogs on him…I’ve got a frog of my own now, and maybe I’d like to see how far I can shove it down the murderer’s throat.”

  “While wearing rubber gloves, I assume.”

  “You know I always play safely.” Marla looked around, then stopped walking. “Someone’s watching me,” she said, squinting toward an alleyway between two galleries. Was it the person she’d sensed following her? But, no, this guy was in front of her. “Hey!” she shouted. “Who’s there? What are you looking at?”

  A man walked slowly out of the alley, wearing a beige overcoat that hung below his knees and a black knit cap pulled down low on his forehead. He was shorter than Rondeau and Marla both, and several days’ stubble darkened his chin and cheeks.

  “Just some homeless guy,” Marla said, and started to walk on.

  “Holy shit,” Rondeau said. “Are you Bradley Bowman?”

  The man nodded, flashing a surprisingly bright smile. “Yeah. I used to be. You can call me B.”

  “Why do you want to call him anything?” Marla said, looking the man over more carefully. She didn’t see much that she hadn’t seen before—just that he was in pretty good shape, in a wiry way, something she’d overlooked in light of his slovenliness and slouching, and that his eyes were a startlingly crisp shade of blue. “Who is he?”

  “He’s a movie star,” Rondeau said. “He was in The Glass Harp! I love that movie.”

  “Me, too,” Bowman—B—said. “The residuals from Glass Harp pay my rent and buy my sedatives.”

  “But you don’t work anymore, right?” Rondeau said. “Because you tried to strangle that director or whatever?”

  “That’s the story,” B said, and he was definitely amused now. “I don’t work in the movies anymore, but I keep busy.”

  “If you’re a movie star, why are you dressed like that, hanging out in an alley?” Marla said, genuinely curious.

  “I’m not in movies anymore. And I was never a star, exactly, though everybody tells me I could’ve been. As for how
I’m dressed…this was a nice coat when I bought it. That was just a long time ago. Sometimes I forget to do laundry, take showers….” He rubbed his hand on his chin and winced. “Shave. I have a lot on my mind. If I’d known I was going to meet someone so attractive, I would’ve taken some extra time this morning.”

  “Why are you bothering to flatter me?” Marla said.

  “Self-centered much?” Rondeau said. “Your pop-cultural ignorance is once again your undoing. My man B doesn’t swing in your direction, Marla. It’s well known. He was talking about me. I’m the attractive one.”

  B shook his head. “I never did get used to strangers knowing what kind of people I like to sleep with, but when your sexual preferences show up in tabloid headlines, I guess it’s unavoidable. Most people don’t recognize me anymore, though.”

  “Sure, you look different,” Rondeau said, “but it’s your eyes. Can’t mistake those. I always thought they were colored contacts.”

  “You should see them in the summer. They get bluer then.”

  “Are you two flirting?” Marla said. “Since when are you gay, Rondeau? I knew you had a thing for club-hopping college girls, but this is news to me.”

  Rondeau rolled his eyes. “Don’t be so narrow-minded, Marla. You gotta leave your options open.”

  “Great. Get his number, then, and let’s go. You can look him up when you come back here to do that thing with the Chinese guy. For now, we’ve got things to do.”

  “Ah,” B said. “This wasn’t a chance encounter, actually. I need to talk to you.”

  Marla cocked her head. “About?”

  “Something’s going to happen to you. Something bad.”

  “I don’t think you’re qualified to threaten me, Mr. Bowman.”

  He held up his hands. “That’s not what I’m saying. Sometimes I have…visions. No, that’s too mystical, they’re just dreams, but there’s true stuff in them. I can tell when it’s not a normal dream, when it’s one of those dreams.”

  “And you dreamed about me?”

  “Yeah. You were wearing a purple cloak. You weren’t the only thing in the dream, though. There were frogs, too—it was raining frogs. And there were hummingbirds. And some old dude in a beaver hat.” He shrugged. “Anyway, I knew I had to come to the city, that I’d find you, and here I am. So what’s the deal with the frogs?”

  Marla tapped her foot for a moment. “I can’t be certain, Mr. Bowman, but it sounds to me like you’ve got a psychic streak. Lots of people do, though yours must be pretty strong. You picked up something, and you followed it—not a good idea, I have to say. That kind of initiative can get you in trouble. You say you saw me in your dream, and I believe that, but it doesn’t have anything to do with you, okay? You just picked it up, like a radio signal, like hearing a cell phone on a police scanner.”

  B shook his head. “Listen, I know things, I can help you—”

  “You’re not a sorcerer,” Marla said bluntly. “You don’t hold yourself like someone who uses power. I can see that. Maybe you’ve heard some things, seen some things, maybe you’re a third-rate seer, even, but you can’t be any help to me, and you’re not a threat to me, either. I’m incredibly busy. I have to go. I’d suggest you stay away from me, no matter what your dreams say. The last thing I need is the additional complication of your presence. I am simply too busy to be interested in you. Come on, Rondeau.” She walked away.

  “Sorry, man,” Rondeau said behind her. “She’s a woman with a mission. I love your work, really.”

  Rondeau caught up with her farther down the block. “Bitch,” he said amiably.

  “Starfucker,” she replied.

  “I wonder if that psychic streak is what ruined his movie career?” Rondeau said.

  “Probably. Poor bastard. Neither one thing nor the other. At least you and me, we’re up to our foreheads in magic, it’s our element, we can breathe in it. He’s probably been having dreams and seeing shit his whole life, but not strongly enough for any sorcerer to bother seeking him out to mentor him, so he’s not part of our world, but he’s too weird for the ordinaries, too.”

  “Pretty eyes, though,” Rondeau said.

  Marla laughed.

  After Marla left, B seriously considered taking a train back to the East Bay and going about the regular business of his life: reading history and mythology books, sleeping as much as possible, sifting through his dreams. What difference did it make to him what happened to Marla? But he knew his life was tangled up in hers for the next few days, that causes already past had led to effects that were as yet unnoticed. She didn’t want to acknowledge that, didn’t believe it—fair enough. Things would become clear to her later. He just wanted to get through these next days, and see Marla get through them. Because if she didn’t, San Francisco would suffer a disaster that would make the 1906 earthquake and fire seem trivial. After all, those nested catastrophes had only destroyed a third of the city. Things were likely to be a lot worse this time, and these days there was a lot more city to be destroyed. B had no great affection for San Francisco, but that was mostly because it was the center of his old life, when he’d worked in the movies and lived with his lover, H. Now he lived across the bay, in Oakland, where H had died, where the ghost that B was most responsible for resided. Even so, he’d had one of those dreams, and he knew from past experience there was no getting out of it—even if he tried to run away, events would conspire to draw him in.

  He had the feeling Marla could be difficult to find if she wanted to be, and B wasn’t much good at tracking people down. Fortunately, he had other methods. It was never very difficult to find an oracle, or a minor spirit, or a cryptophyte that could provide him with information. After wandering through various alleys, he noticed a huge metal trash bin, dented and smeared with filth. Rapping his knuckles gently on the side of the bin, he said, “Hey. This is Bradley Bowman. Who’s there?”

  A voice replied, low, hollow: “Murmurus.”

  “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I need some information.”

  “I once taught in the classrooms of Hell,” the voice said, wistfully.

  “Now’s your chance to teach again,” B said. “I need to know how to find a woman named Marla Mason. Where she’ll be later. I think something big is going to happen soon…tonight, or tomorrow. Do you know anything?”

  “There are whispers in the gutters, voices humming across the glass,” Murmurus said. “Frogs, and birds, and monsters. Old things come around again. Sleepers awakening. Sorcerers rising up against one another. Bodies stolen and bodies lost. The woman seeks something ancient and powerful, but she is not the only one who seeks it.”

  “I just need a place,” B said. “And a time wouldn’t hurt.”

  “The hill in the lake,” Murmurus said. “A sweet red hill, filling the lake. There is nowhere else she can be. But she will arrive too late. Tomorrow will be too late.”

  “How can I repay your help?” B said.

  “Books,” the voice replied.

  B had to walk a long way to find a used bookstore. He bought a cardboard box full of old paperbacks, making sure none of the titles was duplicated, but otherwise not paying much attention to the types of books they were. A disembodied spirit that lived in a Dumpster probably wasn’t that picky when it came to reading material. He walked back to the Dumpster and tossed the books inside. Murmurus didn’t make a sound of acknowledgment, but B felt a soothing sense of neutrality, of balance reinstated, come over him as he walked away. He’d learned you always had to pay your debts, or the nightmares would shake your life apart.

  So now B knew where Marla would be tomorrow—though that was still an awfully big window of time—and he knew it would be too late, though he didn’t know what it would be too late for—not too late for everything, he hoped. In the meantime, he had a whole night to kill.

  Well, why not go to the Castro, grab a bite to eat, hang around? He hadn’t been there in ages, and it had once been his happiest home. There were lots of me
mories there, but not all memories were traps or poisons. Maybe he could find a good memory to keep him warm through the night.

  3

  M arla and Rondeau wound up strolling in Yerba Buena Gardens. They were in the middle of a city, but all she smelled was grass and cool air. Marla had to admit—to herself, if not to Rondeau—that she liked the gardens, and suspected that if they visited Golden Gate Park, she’d like that, too. In the heart of her own city, where she lived and worked, most of the parks were magnets for drug dealers and users, perpetually trash-strewn, thoroughly unpleasant. The parks on the outskirts and in the suburbs were nicer, of course, but when her city had first begun growing, little thought was given to creating public green spaces. She’d been told the parks at home were nicer in the daytime, less dangerous, but Marla was usually sleeping during the brightest part of the day. Her work was more closely aligned with the night. But here, in this park at least, the night held no particular terrors, and a crowd of people milled around the modern building that Rondeau called the Metreon. Sounded like the name of a minor angel to Marla, but whatever.

  There were whimsical statues in Yerba Buena Gardens, including a giant-sized metal chair high enough to walk beneath, and while Marla generally had a low tolerance for whimsy, she found the sculpture almost charming in its straightforward silliness. San Francisco probably had other charms, but there was much about it that unsettled her, including her mental geological map of the place, which included the fault lines that streaked all around the city. There were magics that benefited from living in a place that always teetered on the edge of natural disaster, but Marla didn’t think the benefits were worth the possibility of sliding into the sea. Her own city seldom faced anything worse than ice storms in the winter and summertime heat waves. She didn’t think she could handle the local politics here, either—passing the power from sorcerer to sorcerer made sense as a way of keeping everyone happy, but she wasn’t so sure it worked well when it came to getting things accomplished and keeping the city safe. Sorcerers were backstabbing, vicious beasts at worst, cautious allies at best; how many of these pro-tem chief sorcerers were giving full disclosure to the people who came to replace them, letting them know about all the current problems and opportunities? Probably none of them. Marla preferred her own form of mostly benign dictatorship.