Dead Harvest

14

The morning sun ducked behind a passing cloud, and I wrapped my arms tight around my chest to defend against the sudden chill. The signal changed, and I stepped out into the street, the ceramic shards in my pocket jangling as I hit the crosswalk on Morton, headed northwest toward Seventh Avenue on Bleecker Street. Since I left Wai-Sun's, I'd been wandering for hours, taking refuge in the quiet chaos of the Village. A far cry from the rigid grid of streets and avenues that traversed the rest of Manhattan, the tangled streets of Greenwich Village seemed as good a place as any to get lost — which was fine by me, since beaten and bloodied as I was, the last thing I needed was to be found.

I still wasn't sure just what in the hell happened back there, but one thing was certain — I was lucky I'd gotten out of Wai-Sun's alive. After I'd dispatched the false Wai-Sun, I'd collected up the shattered remains of the ceramic cat and stuffed them in my pocket. I'm not sure what kind of mojo that cat had, or whether it would work again, but I figured it couldn't hurt. Of all the things the demon had told me, at least one of them was true: Mystical objects need not be as elaborate as one might think.

After sweeping up the remains of the cat, I'd drawn the blinds, flipped the sign to Closed, and gotten the hell out of there, locking the door behind me. It was only a matter of time before Wai-Sun was found, but I wanted to be well away from there when he was. Besides, the longer it took for word to spread I'd killed a member of the Fallen, the better. The last thing I needed now was a pack of demons with a vendetta on my tail.

Once I'd left Wai-Sun's, I set out walking toward the neighborhood the top had circled in its last lazy arcs before skittering off the table and across the room. Of course, the top had only narrowed it down to an area of maybe fifty blocks, and it wasn't like I could just go around knocking on doors. Policeman-suit or not, that was liable to arouse exactly the sort of suspicions I could really do without. Still, the top was all I had, and one way or another, I simply had to track Kate down.

Fun as all that sounded, though, it was gonna have to wait. Right now, I had to deal with whatever it was that was following me.

I'd first spotted him last night on the way to my meeting with Merihem — a dirt-streaked kid in a jacket a few sizes too big, sitting at a busy corner and begging for change. I wouldn't have given him another thought, except I spotted his reflection in the window of a Korean take-out joint earlier this morning, and then again a couple minutes ago, when he got chased off from a news stand a half a block ahead of me for loitering. The kid didn't look to be more than eleven, and he was thin as a rail, but I didn't let that fool me — plenty of demons like to take a spin in the little ones, and tiny frames or not, demonic strength is all the same.

I lagged back a while to make sure he caught sight of me, and then ducked into a narrow service alley beside a dingy neighborhood pub. The stained brick walls were a scant three feet apart, blotting out the morning light, and the alley smelled of rotting garbage and piss. I held my breath and soldiered on.

The alley intersected with a haphazard courtyard, just a couple of picnic tables and a pair of withered birch trees overlooked by three buildings' worth of windows; the rear of the bar and the dry cleaner's next door made up the windowless fourth wall, bisected by the alley I'd just cut through. Clotheslines criss-crossed the sky above.

Yeah, I thought — this'll do fine.

Other than the alley, the only way out of the courtyard was through one of the three buildings. I checked the doors — two were locked, but the third was propped open with a dented Folgers can, filled with sand and littered with cigarette butts. I glanced back the way I came. There was no sign yet of my pursuer. Good — that meant I still had time. I dragged one of the picnic tables over to the far wall, and climbed atop it. After a minute or two of wild, flailing leaps, I managed to snag the fire escape ladder. It extended downward, rattling like a rusty chain, and then slammed into the tabletop with a satisfying thunk.

I hopped down from the table and retreated to the propped courtyard door. I set the can aside and stepped into the building, shutting the door behind me. I'd done my job well — through the narrow pane of safety glass set high into the door, I had an eyeline to the ladder and the alley as well. Now, all I had to do was wait.

Turns out, I didn't have to wait long. Maybe a half a cigarette after I'd assumed my post, I saw the kid's head duck around the corner of the alley. He was a cautious one, I'd give him that — he stuck to the shadows, his tattered, down jacket pressed tight to the dingy alley wall. He paused there a moment until he was sure there was no sign of me, and then he trotted over to the picnic table, circling it a time or two as though unsure what to make of it.

"Come on, you son of a bitch," I muttered, "take the bait."

After what seemed like forever, he did. I watched him scamper up the ladder, haul himself up onto the first landing, and continue on up the stairs toward the roof and out of sight.

It occurred to me then that I could run — just head out the way I came, and be rid of this tail, maybe for good. But I needed answers, and running wasn't going to get them for me. So instead, I forced myself to sit and finish my cigarette, allowing him ample time to reach the roof, and then, stubbing out the butt on the heel of my SWAT-issue boot, I slipped out the door and followed.

The pebbled roof bit into my tender stocking feet as I slinked across it, ceramic shard in hand. My boots were tied together at the laces and draped across one shoulder; I'd taken them off so I could ascend the fire escape unheard. But six stories of rusting waffled iron had bit into my soles and left me raw and hobbling, and now the kid was nowhere to be seen.

The rooftop was dotted with massive air conditioning units, and the odd pyramidal structure that housed the stairwell entrance jutted upward from the center of the building, blocking my view of the roof beyond. I clung tight to one of the air conditioners and crept toward the edge, painfully aware that, should I suddenly have to run, my chances were nil. The best laid plans and all that, I guess.

I wheeled around the corner of the AC unit, shard at the ready, but there was no one there. I approached the next, and crouched behind it, wary of remaining too exposed. Slowly, I circled, the seconds stretching on for hours it seemed, but again I came up empty.

Ahead lay the shed that allowed access to the stairwell. The roof behind me was hidden from sight by the hulking mass of the air conditioners. I let out a breath I hadn't known I'd been holding, and approached the stairwell door.

It was locked, as I'd expected, which meant he had to be beyond the shed. I crept around it, my thumb stroking the smooth surface of the ceramic shard for reassurance. My foot came down on something hard and sharp — a bottle cap, left over from some rooftop party, no doubt — and I stumbled forward. It was then that I saw him: leaning over the edge of the building, a hand on the handrail that curved upward over the low stone wall and provided access to the fire escape below. This fire escape was street-side, opposite the one we'd come up on — he must've assumed I fled down it, eager to be rid of my irksome little companion. But I had other plans. I stepped clear of my hiding place and strode toward him, the cat-shard brandished before me like a knife.

"Lose something?" I said.

The kid spun around, eyes wide with fright. His mouth opened and closed, but no words came out. He tried to back away, but his thighs connected with the rooftop wall — had he not been holding the rail of the ladder in a vise-grip, he would have surely gone over.

"Who are you?" I asked. "Why are you following me? Are you one of them?"

Still, he said nothing.

I stepped closer, shard held at ready. "One way or another, you will answer me."

Again I stepped toward him. He flinched but held his ground. Then my head snapped back as someone behind me grabbed a fistful of hair and yanked. I staggered backward. The tender flesh of my neck dimpled as a knife blade pressed tight against my windpipe.

"Easy, pal," said a voice into my ear, "the kid's with me."