Playing With Fire

Chapter Twenty-five A SMATTERING OF SLAUGHTERING

NEW YORK. 7: 37 A.M . A man who wasn't there left the comfort of the shadows and strode after the three businessmen. He crossed Bleecker Street, followed them up Hudson, three steps behind them the whole way, and they never even sensed him. They were talking about Sanctuary business, slipping into code words whenever a civilian passed within earshot. They were sorcerers, these businessmen, and important ones at that.

The man who wasn't there followed them to the parking lot off West 13th Street, to their car,

and when he judged the moment was right, he struck. The businessmen, the sorcerers, saw the air part and a figure blur, but it was too late to raise the alarm, and far too late to defend themselves.

Bologna. 10:51 a.m.

Five of them: young, powerful, and eager to prove themselves. They wore black clothes, leather coats, and sunglasses. Their hair was spiked and their skin was pierced. They liked to think of themselves as goth-punks. No one argued. No one argued and lived, anyway.

Italy in April. It was warm, and sunny. The goth-punks waited around the statue of Poseidon, fighting off boredom by scaring the occasional passerby.

One of them, a girl with no hair and wild eyes, spotted their target as he crossed the square. They moved toward him as a pack, grinning in anticipation.

He saw them and frowned, his step faltering. He started to back away. He worked with the Sanctuary in Venice — they knew he wouldn't be willing to use his powers out here, in full view of the public.

He started to run. They gave chase, the thrill of the hunt making them laugh.

Tokyo. 7: 18 P.M.

The woman in the pinstriped suit sat in the hotel lobby and read the newspaper. The suit was deep navy, the skirt stopped just past her knees, and beneath the jacket she wore an off-white blouse. Her shoes matched her suit. Her nail polish matched her lipstick. She was a very elegant, very precise woman.

Her phone, impossibly sleek and impossibly thin, beeped once, alerting her to the time.

She folded the newspaper and placed it on the seat as she stood.

Two men, one old, one young, entered the hotel lobby. The woman appreciated punctuality.

She joined them at the elevator. The men didn't speak to each other. While they waited for the elevator to arrive, a foreign couple walked up, in Japan for a holiday, perhaps. The woman didn't mind. It didn't alter her plan one bit.

The elevator arrived, the doors slid open, and they all stepped in. The young couple pressed the button for the eighth floor. The old man pressed the button for the penthouse. The woman didn't press any button.

The doors closed, the elevator started moving, and the woman's nails grew long and her teeth grew sharp. She killed everyone and painted the elevator walls with their blood.

London. 9:56 a.m.

Springheeled Jack looked down at the man he was about to kill, and for the first time in his life he wondered, Why?

He wasn't suddenly struck by his own sins. He wasn't having an attack of the conscience or anything pedestrian like that. He wasn't having one of those epiphany things. It was just a voice, that was all, just a voice in the back of his mind, telling him to ask something. But ask what? He'd never had the urge to ask any of his victims anything before. He didn't know where to start. Did he just strike up a conversation?

"Hello," he said, as nicely as he could.

The man was a sorcerer, but not a very good fighter. He lay crumpled in the alleyway and had a scared look in his eyes.

Jack felt uncomfortable. This was a new situation,

and he didn't like new situations. He liked to kill people. Taunt them, sure. Maybe make a witty remark. But not. . . not talk to them. Not ask them something.

He blamed Billy-Ray Sanguine. Sanguine had taken Jack out of his cell, taken him through the wall, through the ground, and out, into fresh air. He had talked a little, mentioned a hospital in Ireland called Clearwater, something like that, and then he had looked like maybe he'd said too much, so he'd shut up.

Jack hadn't cared, at the time. He'd been freed, after all, and all he had to do in return was kill someone. But the thought was nagging at him: Why? Why had Sanguine wanted this bloke dead?

Jack tried to sound casual. "If someone wanted you dead, hypothetically, what do you think their reasons would be?"

"Please don't kill me," the man whispered.

"I'm not gonna kill you," Jack lied, and gave a reassuring laugh. "Why would you think I was gonna kill you?"

"You attacked me," the man said. "And you dragged me into this alley. And — and you told me you were going to kill me."

Jack cursed under his breath. This guy had a good memory.

"Forget about all that," he said. "Someone wants you dead. I'm curious as to why that may be. Who are you?"

"My name is — "

"I know your bloody name, pally. What do you do? Why are you so important?"

"I'm not important, not at all. I work for the Council of Elders, here in London. I'm just, I help coordinate things."

"Like what? What are you coordinating now, for example?"

"We're . . . sending help to Ireland. Baron Vengeous has escaped from — "

"Damn it!"

The man shrieked and recoiled, but Jack was too busy being angry to bother attacking him.

So Sanguine was working with that nutter Vengeous again, carrying out his orders as usual.

Only this time he'd tried to get Jack to do some of the dirty work.

"I been hoodwinked," he said. He looked down at the man. "If Vengeous is involved, that means all this is about the Faceless Ones, right?"

"Y-yes."

"I been hoodwinked. That's . . . unprofessional, that is."

"So are you going to let me go? You don't want to help the Faceless Ones, right? So are you going to let me go?"

Jack hunkered down. "I'd love to, pally. I really would. But see, I was sprung from jail, an'

I always repay my debts."

"But . . . but by killing me, you'll be helping them!"

"I'll just have to find some other way to get back at 'em, then. No hard feelings."

The conversation came to its natural conclusion with a bit more begging, and then Jack killed the guy, so that stopped too.

Jack straightened his top hat on his head and walked away. He still had a few friends, friends who could transport him where he wanted to go.

And it was such a long time since he'd been to Ireland.