Gott in Himmel. Lassen Sie uns bitte sterben.
Translated: God in Heaven, please let us die.
—Graffiti seen in Dead City, 1925
San Francisco, California
Harkeness was smoking a cigarette on the hospital roof when Isaiah found him. The Pale Horse had wanted to be alone with his dark thoughts. In a foul mood, he tossed the butt over the side and watched it fall.
“Good news,” Isaiah said. Pershing told the Traveler girl where to find Southunder.
“Really? Her?” The old man had been getting desperate.
She’s stronger than you realize. Pershing saw that. Isaiah joined him at the railing. “It is done. I’ve already made the call.” The Chairman will have possession of the complete Geo-Tel in a matter of hours. Pershing hid it right under his nose.
If Isaiah felt any guilt for taking advantage of such an innocent, he did not let it show. The Reader had suffered so much at the hands of the willfully ignorant and evil that there was nothing he wouldn’t do to accomplish their mission. “So that’s it . . . All we can do now is wait.”
And pray.
Harkeness nodded thoughtfully. There was no turning back now. But there never was, not after so many sacrifices . . . Jane had merely been the latest, an innocent girl swept up into their grand scheme, but if this worked, then her sacrifice wouldn’t be in vain. The years of lies, the oaths broken, and the hundreds of lives he had taken would have meant something.
“I would join you in prayer, old friend, but I’m afraid that God will not listen to the likes of me.”
Francis grimaced as the doctor ran the needle back and forth through the skin of his forehead, stitching the nasty gash back together. He’d bashed his head on a rock in the cave while thrashing back and forth trying to squeeze into the ocean. It had been the most frightening thing he’d ever done and he knew that he was lucky to be alive.
But he didn’t feel lucky.
“No Healers, huh?” Lance asked from the other table. He’d broken at least one rib, and they were guessing that he might have cracked his hip. Lance looked like Francis felt.
“Once I convinced them who I am, it didn’t matter anyway,” he muttered. The one the hospital had on call was away in Hollywood tending to some starlet’s sprained ankle and it was unknown when he would get back. “We can’t wait around.”
“I’m mobile,” Lance said, trying to sit up.
“Hold still,” the nurse ordered him.
He sighed and lay back down. They had to be careful what they said in front of witnesses. “John and Dan are out, but we’ve got Rawls and his man.”
“Where do we start?” Francis asked, already knowing that it would be futile. Madi was long gone by now, which meant that Jane was as good as dead.
“We split up, probably groups of two, start chasing down leads.”
“You aren’t going anywhere,” the young doctor working on Francis’s head said. “Neither of you is in any shape and there are some government men outside waiting to speak with you.”
“I already explained everything,” Francis complained. He’d told the state police about how he’d been giving his guests a tour of his mansion’s basement when there had been a bright light and a cave in. Lance and John were both officially dead. They had fake identities, but he knew that as soon as word got to the police that both Browning and Garrett had bullet wounds, then their story was out the window. Right now they were victims, but they needed to get out before the authorities decided that they were somehow involved with the Peace Ray attack.
“One of them is from the Army,” the nurse cleaning up Lance added helpfully. “He said he had a message for the survivors, but I told him he’d have to wait.”
“What kind of message?” Lance asked suspiciously.
She shrugged. “Beats me, something about Imperial blimps. He was talking to that white-haired negro.”
Francis was off the table, pushing past the doctor before she had even finished speaking. The iodine-soaked thread swung back and forth in front of his eye as he shoved the doors open.
In the hallway, a young man in an Army aviator’s uniform was walking away. Isaiah Rawls was reading a typed note. He saw Francis coming. “Now stay calm, I—” Francis tore the note from his hand and scanned it quickly.
“Sullivan, you son of a bitch,” Francis said, grinning. The Chairman’s personal airship! This had to be it. The timing was too perfect. That had to be where Madi had taken Jane. “We can go after them right now.” His pocket watch had been smashed on the rocks, but there was a clock on the waiting room wall. They had one hell of a head start, but if they hurried—
“No,” Isaiah said sternly. He leaned in close so the other people in the area couldn’t listen in. “It is too dangerous.”
“What?” Francis couldn’t believe his ears. “Are you daft, man? They’ve got my friend.”
“Even if you could catch them, you expect to board the Tokugawa, defeat its whole crew, and get away? You don’t even know that’s where they are. All you have is the word of one untrustworthy Heavy that he saw it docked with a ship off the coast.”
“It’s more than we’ve got now,” Francis spat.
“No wonder the elders sent me out here. Pershing’s lack of caution has trickled down. You think it’s wise to throw away the lives of an entire cadre of knights on a hunch? Listen to me carefully, Francis. We will get your Healer back, but we need to be smart. An overt attack on the Imperium’s flagship would be war.”
Francis didn’t care who heard. He threw his hands wide and shouted. “Look around you, Rawls. This is war!” Dozens of eyes turned toward them. “Yes, it was the Imperium who did this!” The other patients and hospital staff began to mutter.
The senior Grimnoir appeared ready to explode. His voice was a barely audible hiss. “Calm. Down,” Isaiah ordered, and Francis could feel the matching thoughts inside his head. “You will not go after that ship. That is an order. You took an oath, and part of that is that you’ll follow the elders. There are plans within plans, and your half-cocked actions will have repercussions.”
Francis was seething. “What are you so scared of?”
“The Tokugawa must not be harmed. There are bigger things afoot than you understand, young man. You need to trust me.”
Before Francis could respond there was a commotion at the main desk. A group of men in suits and surgical masks were pouring into the waiting area, and in their midst appeared a fat, bellowing, bull of a man, sputtering and swearing. “Who’s in charge of this fiasco? I demand to speak with the head!” He pulled down his surgical mask revealing a face that was red and sweating and shouted at the top of his considerable lungs. “Bring me my grandson!”
“Grandfather?” Francis asked in bewilderment. He turned back to Isaiah, but the Grimnoir elder had his head down and was retreating down the hall. “Grandfather Cornelius?”
“Francis!” Cornelius Gould Stuyvesant lumbered down the hall, past startled onlookers, and engulfed Francis in a hug. His belly was so large that his arms wouldn’t close around Francis’s back. “You’re alive! Thank God, boy.”
“What are you doing here?” he asked in disbelief, taking in the wall of surgical masks that were watching him. “I don’t—”
“I’ve come to take you home, Francis,” he said. “Oh my, look at that awful wound. What are you doing, getting stitches like a commoner? Howard!” He snapped his fingers. “Heal this man!” One of the masks stepped forward.
Francis grabbed Cornelius by the lapels and jerked him forward. Francis was much taller and stronger, and he swung the fat man around so hard that the security men reached into their coats for their pistols. “You’ve brought a Healer?”
His Grandfather was shocked by the rough treatment. “Of course. When I’d heard of the tragedy, I gathered all of my staff into my fastest prototype airship and came straightaway.”
“Fastest . . .” he let go of Cornelius. “You have this ship here?”
“The Tempest is docked at the city terminal. It will need to be serviced but we could be on our way back to New York within a few hours. I—”
Francis pointed at the Healer. “Howard, right?” The man nodded. “Follow me. Grandfather, I’m going to need to borrow that dirigible.”
Faye found Heinrich Koenig in the morgue. The room was empty of live people except for him, sitting the wrong way on a chair with his arms folded on the backrest, though there were plenty of dead people lying around. She was a little taken back by the number of shapes under white sheets.
Heinrich had heard the boots hit the floor when she’d Traveled in. He turned to regard her. The young man appeared very tired, with dark circles under his eyes. “Hello, Faye.”
“Everybody else is getting patched up . . . I . . .” She hadn’t wanted to be alone with a bunch of strangers, so she’d found the man who’d shot her in the heart instead, because at least she kind of knew him, but saying that out loud seemed silly. “Whatdoing?” she blurted.
Heinrich turned back to the sheet-covered body. Long dark hair hung loose from one end. “One last vigil, I suppose . . . I promised Sullivan I would see to her.” He gestured at Delilah. “I know that there are more pressing matters, but there is something I must do.”
Faye was confused. “Like what? We’ve got to start looking for Jane, so we don’t really have time for a funeral or nothing.” The arrangements for Grandpa’s funeral had seemed to take forever, and that was even after he’d been burned to near nothing with the haystack.
He gave a sad little shake of his head. “Nothing like that. We must see to the living first, though I’m afraid that it is too late for Jane. No, afterward, I will dig Delilah’s grave myself. I have much practice at digging graves.”
She leaned on a big porcelain sink and waited for him to continue. There was a rusty drain hole in the floor and the idea of what it was for made her uncomfortable. Heinrich rubbed one hand over his face and she saw that he had his Luger sitting in his lap. “Why the gun?”
“Because sometimes when a Lazarus creates undead the effect can linger for awhile. Sometimes if the Active is strong enough, it can last for hours, and anyone who dies in that place could have their spirit trapped . . . When I followed the orderlies down here with her body, I thought that I felt a tingle of magic.”
“You think Delilah could be a . . . zombie?” she asked, incredulous.
He shrugged. “Probably not, but if she is, I will deal with it on my own and spare her dignity. It is a terrible fate, and one that I would never willingly have fall on another. I have known of people waking up as much as twenty-four hours after their death, and they do not even realize it.”
He sure does know a lot about zombies. “I heard that you grew up in Dead City.”
The silence was long and uncomfortable. A sink was dripping. “I do not wish to speak of it . . .” he said.
“Okay,” Faye answered, not really knowing what else to say. “Would you mind if I helped you . . . keep watch?”
Heinrich didn’t answer then. Seconds passed into minutes and he had a faraway look in his eyes. Faye grew bored, and started counting the drips coming from the faucet, but Lance and Francis were busy, Mr. Browning was medicated asleep, and Mr. Rawls had had to leave to place a telephone call.
“It wasn’t always Dead City. It used to be called Berlin,” he said finally, sighed, and then it was like a ditch had broken and memories spilled out. “It seemed like a magical place to a young boy. My family lived on the outskirts. Father fixed pianos, and he would often bring me along with him into the city. Many of the pianos were in old churches and schools, and while he worked, I would play. I would climb the towers, find the crawl spaces in the walls. Those places became my kingdom, and I was the valiant knight that defended them. There were so many people, always moving about, and then the war came, and all of the men went to fight, including my father.”
“In the Great War?” she asked.
“Ja. We did not know to call it that then. To a little boy, I only knew that I missed my papa very much, and there was not so much happiness anymore. Many of the other boys received letters, saying that their fathers had died, but I knew that mine would come home. Food was scarce, and we were often hungry. It got worse, but I got older. I took care of my family, even if it meant stealing the food we ate. Finally so many of our soldiers had died that the government could not keep up with the letters, and all of us wondered if the war would ever end.”
“But it did end . . .” Faye said. She was no student of history, but she listened to the radio. Everyone knew the brave Allies had beat the dastardly Kaiser.
“Ah, yes, it ended in a flash of light. When I woke up, my home, my town, was rubble. Berlin was ruined, all of the old places crumbled, and in the center was nothing but a smoking hole. I spent days searching for my family, but they were all dead.”
“I’m sorry,” she said.
He chuckled. “Do not be sorry. They were the lucky ones. Were you ever taught in school what happened next?”
“I never went to school.”
“Good, you’re not missing anything . . . History is mostly lies. The Kaiser had grown so desperate that he had used his wizards to keep his soldiers alive. As they were killed, he had their spirits chained to their bodies, so that they could continue to defend the Fatherland. When the war was over, there were still nearly a million of these poor wretches. They could not die, but the process of this false resurrection had left most of them too dangerous to send back to their homes. The treaty left us bankrupt and unable to care for them. But the Kaiser had a perfect solution. He had a dead city, so why not fill it with his dead subjects? A great wall was raised around the ruins, and the undead were herded inside.”
“What about the alive people, like you?”
“The survivors were supposed to rebuild. It was our duty. We were to be caretakers for these poor soldiers. When the wall went up, there were several thousand of us . . . at first.”
Faye was aghast. “That’s terrible. They just left you?”
Heinrich fingered the Luger. “Do you know what happens to the untotten? The undead? The pain of death is upon them still. They never heal from the wounds that sent them there. The pain never lessens. It only grows as does their hunger. Most of them keep their wits, for a time, but soon it becomes too much to bear. They lash out in a rage at anything available, including each other . . . We were caretakers at first, then we were merely . . . food.”
She covered her mouth, but a little yelp slipped out anyway.
“Koenig is not my real name. It means King. That’s what they called me after a while, because I was the last man alive in Dead City. I was the King of the Living. I survived by my Power, by my cunning, by my stealth. The old places where I’d hid and played as a child became my sanctuaries. I spent my days in the walls, in the tunnels, hunting for food, killing the undead that tried to hurt me and my friends. Then after several years, I couldn’t take it anymore, and I Faded through the Berlin Wall and never looked back. I was fifteen years old.”
And I thought that I’d had it rough . . . An Oklahoma shack might as well have been Francis’s mansion in comparison. Faye reached over and touched Heinrich gently on the shoulder. “Why’d you stay so long?”
He watched Delilah’s sheet for movement, but there was nothing moving there except bad dreams. “Because not all of them were mad. Many of the dead remained true to who they were in life. My family never got a letter from the front, but . . . he did come home, most of him. Together, we found a working piano in an old school. He played it every day. The sound gave the other sane ones hope. Finally, I made him stop, because the sound attracted the hungered. After that . . . he had nothing to survive for . . . but I stayed with papa until the end.”
“Son of a bitch . . .” Harkeness said, peering through the corner of the window into the hospital room. “What’s he doing here?”
If he links us to Pershing’s death, it could ruin everything.
The Pale Horse watched Cornelius Stuyvesant as he followed his grandson, still shouting useless orders at his functionaries. He had come as soon as he had heard Isaiah’s panicked voice inside his head.
Stuyvesant brought a fast blimp. Francis intends to go after the Tokugawa with it. It must not be delayed.
“I will not let him ruin everything,” he muttered under his breath. Harkeness awoke his Power. To him it was a dark, malevolent cloud that swam in his lungs. He could still feel the connection to Stuyvesant, lips under poison fingertips, the beating of his heart, the electrical firings of his brain, the pumping of blood. They were inevitably connected by death magic. He’d never thought that he would need to do this to the pathetic old man, but they could not afford the interruption. Not now. The Healer might slow him, but nobody could stop the full focus of his Power at this range. “Reap the whirlwind, you bloated fool.”
Dan Garrett moaned as the hole in his arm hissed and steamed. Visible bone was coated by rolling muscle and sprouting veins, then finally by bright pink skin. The Healer’s hands were glowing as he took them away. He paused to wipe his sweating brow on his shirt. “Next?”
“Browning is on the third floor,” Lance said. “Come on.”
“That’s the one with the punctured lung?” the Healer asked. “Very well.”
“Hold on there, Howard,” Cornelius ordered. “How much Power do you have left?”
The Healer was a surprisingly tubby man with bushy sideburns. “Truth be told, not much, sir. After this I’ll need to rest for a few hours before I give you your daily checkup, especially after I help this other man.”
“Then you will do no such thing,” the richest man in the world commanded.
Francis had known that this moment was coming. He could only keep up the momentum for so long before his grandfather’s inherent stubbornness was sure to raise its ugly head. He looked around the room to see who was going to be witness to the coming argument. He had the surly Lance, and the semiconscious Dan, neither of which would be of much assistance, one hospital doctor, and then six of his grandfather’s functionaries, hangers-on, and bodyguards. It was standing room only.
“Grandfather, could we speak in private?”
He thought about it for a moment, then snapped his fingers. “Everybody out!”
“But I work here,” the doctor said, but a guard grabbed him by the arm and yanked him effortlessly through the door. Lance helped Dan from the room. His friend was obviously disoriented. It was too bad, because he sure could have used Dan’s Influence right then. The last one out was the Healer. He closed the door behind them, leaving Francis with his grandfather. The only remaining witness was a white skeleton that was bolted to the wall.
“Why are you here?” Francis asked.
“I told you. I was concerned for your safety. You are family.”
Francis shook his head. “That’s not what you said the last time we spoke.”
Cornelius lowered his gaze, studying the shine on his shoes. “What would you have me do? Apologize? That’s not my way.”
He laughed. “An apology? You think an apology makes up for all the terrible things the Imperium has done? That you’ve helped them do so you could turn a coin?”
“Don’t you dare lecture me, boy!” Cornelius shouted so loudly that it seemed as if the windows shook. “It is a competitive world, and if I didn’t do the job, then somebody else would have. I did what I had to do. I always make sure the family interest comes first. Your father understood this, why can’t you?”
Francis ripped the skeleton off the wall with his Power and hurled it across the room. Cornelius cringed before the sudden fury. “My father was a coward. He saw what the Chairman was doing to people, and he looked the other way. I saw children being butchered because they weren’t up to snuff! I saw people, horrible distorted people, broken and re-formed by magic! They kept Actives in cages like animals while they tortured them!” A bottle came off the counter and shattered against the far wall. “My father killed himself with opium once he knew I’d found the truth. He died rather than face it. He was a filthy coward!”
The door opened and his grandfather’s guard stuck his head in. “Is everything—”
“Be gone, you oaf,” Cornelius said. The door closed. “Francis, the world is what it is. The best you can hope to do is read the current so that you don’t end up dashed against the rocks.”
Francis did not have time for this. “If you really consider me family, then you’ll grant me this one thing. I need—” he stopped, scowling. “What’s wrong with your nose?”
“What?” A thin trickle of blood was streaming from Cornelius’s nostrils. He touched it, and his glove came away red. “Why . . . Why . . . I don’t rightly . . .” The trickle of blood turned into a torrent, rolled down his chest and splattered across the floor. He took a step, and Francis caught him as he fell, calling for the Healer.
Howard scrambled in, hurrying to his meal ticket’s side. The rest of Cornelius’s entourage was right behind, staring over their masks. His grandfather began to convulse in his arms, splattering blood across them both. “What’s wrong with him?”
The Healer’s hands turned to molten gold and he placed them against Cornelius’ chest. “He was recently cursed by a Pale Horse, but I’d seen no sign.”
“What? That can’t be.” Just like Pershing. “Why?”
“Nobody knows,” Howard said. “Let me concentrate.”
After several seconds of direct Power, the shaking stopped, and Cornelius began to breathe again, exhaling great rasping gusts that stank of corruption. The calculating part of his mind said that he should only feel disgust at watching this man die, but all Francis felt was alarm. Howard removed his hands and they returned to normal. “I can’t believe it . . .” he said, shaking from the exertion. “It’s as if everything is going wrong at once. Give me a moment to regain my strength.”
His grandfather’s hand closed around his sleeve. “Francis,” he heaved. “Listen.”
“Save your strength, Grandfather,” he cautioned.
“No . . . Curse him. If this is to be my death bed, you must know . . . the truth . . .” When he opened his eyes, Francis cringed at the sight of the blood tears flowing from them. “I . . . I had Pershing cursed . . .”
What? He couldn’t believe it. He’d known his grandfather was a crook, but he’d never . . .”Why? Why would you do that?”
“For you . . . To avenge your father . . . Forgive me.” He spasmed as a terrible cough shook his ribs. Howard gritted his teeth and laid his hands back on Cornelius. “Oh, please, I did it for you . . .”
Francis couldn’t respond. The words would not come.
The Healer rocked back. Visible heat waves bent the air around his hands. “I can’t . . . It’s like the Pale Horse is counteracting everything I do . . .”
The Power had bought him another few seconds. Cornelius dragged Francis close. “The Pale Horse . . . He made me do him a favor . . . Mod-Modify the Chairman’s ship . . . Nonsense design . . . Nothing . . . He used me . . . as a fool . . . I’m a fool . . . But I did it for you.” He closed his red eyes and his breath was coming in rapid shallow gasps.
“Can’t you do something?” Francis shouted, turning to the crowd. “Any of you?” But there was no answer.
Cornelius’s eyes flashed open, and he spoke with force, making sure he would be heard by all. “Francis Cornelius Stuyvesant . . . you are my heir. You’re the only one worth . . . a bucket of warm piss . . . in . . . in the whole lot. Howard, Raymond, Kirk, all of you . . . as my witnesses, Francis is my sole heir. Take it all . . . as an . . .” His voice trailed off to a whisper and Francis had to press his ear against his bloody lips to hear his last word. “. . . apology.”
The richest man in the world died in his arms. Francis took a moment to gently lower the heavy body to the ground before rising and stumbling over to the sink. He turned it on, as hot as possible, and washed his hands, then scrubbed his face until his skin was raw. He tore his shirt off and threw it on the floor. The scalding water felt good as it sent the blood down the drain.
Pershing died because of me. Father killed himself because of me. Mother drank herself to death after father’s death, also my fault. Grandfather died, making a deal with the devil, for me . . . The Peace Ray was fired at Mar Pacifica because it was my home . . .
He had to steady himself on the sink. The UBF men were all watching him. None of them wanted to remove their masks now. The water dripped down his face and he watched it run in a stream from his nose. They’d always said he’d inherited his grandfather’s nose. One of the retainers stepped forward and cleared his throat. “Sir, I’m your grandfather’s senior attorney. There will have to be an immediate—”
“Shut up,” Francis whispered.
“Sir, really, there will be an inquiry, and the board will—”
What would Black Jack Pershing do?
Every loose item in the room rose a foot off the ground before dropping in a terrible clatter. “I said shut up!” he screamed. They did. He pushed away from the sink and used a towel to dry his face. When he spoke again, his voice was as calm as he could make it. “You heard the man. I’m in charge. Now I want my airship ready to fly immediately, with fuel enough for a transoceanic voyage. Which one of you is in charge of security?” A Brute raised his hand. “What kind of weapons do you have aboard?”
“Other than sidearms? A few Springfield rifles and a Thompson,” he said hesitantly.
“Not good enough,” Francis snapped. “Go down to the local outfitters. I want trench guns, accurate rifles in heavy calibers, automatic rifles, and machine guns, lots of machine guns. And ammo, piles of ammo . . . and explosives . . .”
“Uh . . . Explosives, sir?”
“Dynamite, or something better if they’ve got it,” Francis snapped. “Take my friend Heinrich, he’ll know what to buy. If you’re useless, leave now; if you’re willing to go kick some Imperium butt, come with me. This is going to be dangerous and most of us will probably die, but if you do . . . Grandfather was bound to bring an accountant. Which one of you is the accountant?” A tall man raised his hand. “Any volunteer who dies. Make sure his family receives double, no, triple his salary every year for the rest of their lives.”
“Can do,” the accountant promised.
Francis scowled at the group. It would have to do. “Let’s go . . . And take those stupid masks off.”
After telling his story, Heinrich had gone back to his stony morgue vigil. Faye watched him quietly. She had not liked the German at first, but she decided that that was just because he had shot her to death. He was nice too, in his own way.
Each of the Grimnoir had his own burden. All of them had been beaten by the world, but rather than give in, they’d committed to making that world a better place. She really did fit in here, and she amended her promise accordingly. She would kill the Chairman, not just for revenge, but because as long as he was around, the world was going to stay a bad place, and maybe even get worse. She was sick and tired of mean people hurting others, and she was going to put a stop to them.
It felt good to put everything into black and white and to pick a side. It filled her with a sense of purpose.
Heinrich shifted imperceptibly in his seat. He was listening to something. “What?” she asked, but Heinrich rose quickly, Luger in hand.
“Faye, Travel away. Right now. You do not need to see this.”
“What? Oh, Heinrich, no. It can’t be.”
“Please, just go, Faye. Leave this to me.” He approached the table, gun extended.
She slid off the edge of the porcelain and prepared to Travel, her heart heavy. She felt hot tears rushing involuntarily to her eyes. Delilah had always been so good and beautiful.
A pale hand shot out from under the sheet, grabbed Heinrich’s wrist, and Faye screamed.
