I rode my motorcycle across Manhattan to the John Doe Hospital.
The day had turned blustery, with sharp gusts of wind howling through the concrete canyons of the city. I was soon grateful for my heavy jacket and helmet and thick gloves. It wasn’t going to be motorcycle weather for much longer, but I didn’t care. I enjoyed riding my motorcycle, the feeling of speed and power and freedom from it. Plus, there hadn’t been much time for it lately. I had spent a big chunk of the last two years harassing Nicholas Connor’s Rebel organization across the United States, and I had lived out of my old van for most of that. The van was inconspicuous, but motorcycles were not.
So, I enjoyed the chance to ride whenever I could. Even though Manhattan wasn’t exactly the best place for a bike. The crowded streets did not leave much room for accelerating, and traffic was bad, probably because some of the damaged streets were still closed four months after the Rebel attack.
Still, I made my way across Manhattan without undue difficulty and arrived at the hospital.
The John Doe Hospital did not look like a hospital. It looked like an unobtrusive warehouse and parking garage overlooking a wharf that jutted into the Hudson River on the southwestern side of Manhattan. Of course, given how expensive Manhattan real estate was, that should have been a giveaway. Maybe back in the pre-Conquest days, there would have been an actual warehouse here, but not any longer.
But the hospital could afford it.
It was a hospital for people who wanted their injuries and wounds treated quietly, off the books, and were willing to pay for the privilege. Organized crime used the hospital a great deal. The Elven nobles usually allowed organized crime to operate so long as they kept things quiet and orderly and paid a reasonable percentage to the noble in question. Though the minute anything went wrong, the nobles employed the syndicate as a scapegoat. (Organized crime is not a life for the faint of heart.) Several other private organizations used the hospital and paid its subscription fees. The Shadow Hunters were one of them, which was why Riordan had brought me here when I was in a regenerative coma after getting shot four times in Washington DC.
Good times.
I steered into the parking ramp next to the hospital, paid the attendant, and parked my bike. After I clipped my helmet to my backpack, I walked around the block to the main entrance of the hospital, a steel door in a cinder block wall with a sign that said NO SOLICITING and THESE PREMISES ARE UNDER 24-HOUR VIDEO SURVEILLANCE.
The John Doe Hospital wasn’t the sort of place that advertised.
An intercom rested next to the door. I hit the button.
“Yes?” came a woman’s voice after a few seconds.
“I’m here to see Dr. Morgan about Max Sarkany,” I said. “He should be expecting me.”
There was a long pause. “A few moments, please.”
I waited for about five minutes. Towards the end of the fifth minute I started thinking about how I was going to break undetected when the locks clicked, and the door swung open.
A man stood just beyond the threshold, and I took an involuntary step back in alarm.
It was a Knight of the Inquisition.
The Elf was tall, with sharp, alien features, pointed ears, and dark hair. He had bright bronze-colored eyes, and he wore the crisp black uniform of a Knight of the Inquisition. The Inquisition was the High Queen’s secret police and personal enforcers, and though they focused on the Elven nobles, sometimes they dealt with troublesome humans.
Like illegal wizards.
I had just started to pull together power for a spell when I remembered that I wasn’t an illegal wizard any longer.
The Elf’s eyes narrowed, and then he nodded.
“I remember you,” he said in the Elven language. “The Worldburner, and the retainer of Lord Morvilind who accompanied him to the Mage Fall.”
God, I hated that nickname. “Do you, Lord Elf? I don’t recall where we…wait.”
Oh, hell. I remembered him now.
Right before the battle of New York had started, a pair of Inquisitors had detected the rift way Riordan and Russell and me had used to escape the Shadowlands. They had ignored our warnings about the Sky Hammer and tried to arrest us. Since Nicholas had been about to nuke New York, I had overpowered both Knights of the Inquisition, and we made our escape.
“Hi,” I said, trying to smile. “Sorry about bouncing your head off the wall and stealing your motorcycle.”
“You gave me a concussion,” said the Inquisitor. He glared at me for a moment, and then almost smiled. “But I saw that video of you and the bomb. Since you stopped the Rebels from nuking the city and saved my life in the process, I suppose I cannot be ungrateful.”
“I like to think that’s a very healthy and magnanimous attitude, Lord Elf,” I said.
The Inquisitor snorted. “I expect you will have identification.”
“Yeah.” I concentrated on the ring on my right hand. The blood ring shivered against my finger, and it projected a translucent image of the High Queen’s seal, an elaborate thing with a crowned lion and a lot of roses and swords and things.
“Very good,” said the Inquisitor. “I received orders to expect someone like you. This way, please.”
He beckoned, and I stepped after him into a dim hallway built of cinder blocks, a corrugated steel ceiling overhead. The door slammed shut behind me. I tried to ignore the fact that I was standing two feet from a Knight of the Inquisition, which was making my skin crawl.
“Thank you, Lord Elf,” I said.
“Politeness does not come naturally to you, I suspect” he said, that flicker of amusement going over his alien face once again. “You may address me as Sir Vormythar, Worldburner.”
“Thanks,” I said, and we started down the corridor. He was so much taller that I kind of had to crane back my head to look at him. Why was everyone taller than me? “Uh, do you know why I’m here?”
Vormythar inclined his head. “Our sovereign has dispatched you to investigate the murder of the dragon Malthraxivorn.”
I decided to be bold. “Do you mind if I ask you some questions about that?”
“As you wish. Though I know little. I helped transport the body to this facility but have done nothing more. Soon my duties will take me elsewhere. Which is why I imagine the High Queen has dispatched you here.”
“Did you notice anything strange?” I said.
Vormythar opened the door to a stairwell at the end of the corridor and paused. I wondered why and realized that he was holding the door for me. The courtly gesture surprised me. Or maybe I was so much shorter that he figured I couldn’t get the door open. Elves sometimes have odd ideas about humans.
“The fact that Malthraxivorn was murdered at all was unusual,” said Vormythar, following me into the stairwell. “Dragons, by and large, are not violent creatures. They are immensely powerful and dangerous, but prefer to get what they want through commerce, manipulation, and proxies.”
“You don’t think another dragon murdered him?” I said as we started up the stairs.
“Likely not,” said Vormythar. “Among humans and Elves both, the normal motives for murder are money, sex, and ambition. Dragons will only fight when their spheres of influence come into conflict and they are unable to resolve the matter through their traditional methods of competition.” He shrugged. “And given their power, when two dragons fight, the resultant battle would have leveled a large portion of this city.”
“A fight isn’t the same thing as a murder,” I said.
“Indeed.”
“Any guesses on how he was killed?” I said.
“A powerful blow by a blunt object to the back of the skull while he was in his human form,” said Vormythar. “The easiest way to kill a dragon. They’re more vulnerable when they take Elven form.”
I frowned. “Malthraxivorn shapeshifted into an Elf?”
Vormythar blinked. “No, wait. I misspoke. He was shapeshifted into human form. Back on Kalvarion, the dragons always took Elven form. Here they take human form because most humans can’t use magic. But dragons are more vulnerable when they’re in human or Elven shape.” He paused. “But not that much more vulnerable. They’re still much physically stronger than we are, and more powerful with magic. And tougher. Whoever killed him didn’t use a cinder block or a sledgehammer to do it. That would just bounce off a dragon’s skull, even while shapeshifted.”
We paused at the steel door at the top of the stairwell.
“So what could have done it?” I said.
“A magical weapon,” said Vormythar at once. “And a powerful one. Like something forged by the dwarves or made by the artificers in the Towers of Art on Kalvarion in the old days. A powerful spell, but it would take an archmage to cast it.”
“So it couldn’t have been a normal physical object?” I said.
“Likely not,” said Vormythar. “It could have been, but it would have required a tremendous quantity of physical force. Like the sort of pile drivers they use for interstate bridges or a hydraulic press.”
“Damn,” I said.
“Yep,” said Vormythar. I realized that I never heard an Elf say “yep” before. “Don’t envy you. If you find whoever killed old Malthraxivorn, you’re going to have a hell of a fight on your hands.”
“Great,” I said. Again, Vormythar opened a door for me. “Thanks. Um. Did you know him? Max Sarkany, Malthraxivorn, I mean.”
“Passingly,” said Vormythar. “The Inquisition investigates all the dragons who settle on Earth, to make sure they are obeying the High Queen’s laws. Malthraxivorn was hardly the worst of the dragons. He was greedy and pompous and arrogant, but that’s true of all the dragons.” That amused look returned. “Of course, I suppose some humans might say that about Elves.”
“That’s elfophobic, and I wouldn’t know anything about that at all,” I said. “I wouldn’t want to wind up on a Punishment Day video.”
Vormythar snorted, once.
We stepped into a concrete room that looked like a waiting area. A pair of nurses in medical scrubs sat at a desk, working on computers. More nurses and doctors in lab coats walked around, intent on their tasks. The odors of a hospital came to my nose – antiseptic and bleach and something that smelled like liniment. A shiver of bad memory went through my mind. I had woken up here, dazed and confused after I had nearly been shot to death in Washington DC. But I had only woken up here because Riordan had brought me to the hospital, and he had guarded me while I was in the regenerative coma.
Huh. A lot of memories that would have been bad became good ones because Riordan was in them.
A change went over the room as we crossed it. No one stopped their work, not exactly. But everyone stiffened, surreptitious glances going to Vormythar in his dark uniform. Inquisitors tended to have that effect on people.
“Do you think any of the other dragons on Earth could have killed Malthraxivorn?” I said as we entered a hallway lined with metal doors.
“No,” said Vormythar. “I could be wrong, but I doubt it.” He shook his head. “I’m baffled, truth be told. I do not envy your task, Worldburner.”
“Lucky me,” I said. Vormythar stopped in front of an elevator door and hit the call button. “Where are we going?”
“The restricted morgue,” said Vormythar. “Dr. Morgan awaits you there. He is one of the hospital’s specialists on non-human creatures.” The door hissed open. “Sub-basement C. I need to return to my duties.”
“Okay,” I said, stepping into the elevator. “Thanks for your help.”
“We both serve the same master,” said Vormythar. “Good fortune in your hunt, Worldburner.”
He walked away, and I hit the button for sub-basement C.
Huh. I just had a civil conversation with an Inquisitor. Now there was something new.
Then I remembered when Lord Arvalaeon had captured me, and I had gotten to experience the business end of an Inquisition interrogation firsthand. His soldiers had beat me up, stripped me naked, photographed me for their records, and then handcuffed me to a metal chair in a cold room. A shiver of revulsion went through me, and my hands clenched into fists. The funny thing was that wasn’t even the worst thing that happened to me that day, because Arvalaeon had thrown me into the Eternity Crucible a few hours later…
Those memories started to boil up in my head.
I shoved them back. I had to keep it together. Investigating the murder of a dragon was definitely not the time to have my head come unglued.
The elevator door dinged open, and I stepped into a large concrete room that looked like a combination office and autopsy lab. There were three metal tables and several carts full of nasty-looking medical tools. The lighting was harsh and stark and the air stank of chemicals. On the far wall was a desk with a computer, and a man in scrubs and a lab coat sat at the desk, scowling as he filled out a form in a medical application.
“Dr. Morgan?” I called.
“I don’t need a nurse,” called the man, speaking with a thick Brooklyn accent.
“I’m not a nurse,” I said, walking towards the desk, “and I’m here about the dead dragon you have in your basement.”
That got his attention. Morgan turned, his chair squeaking a little beneath his bulk.
He was a big man, with dark skin, graying hair and beard, and a substantial paunch beneath his scrubs. Morgan also had thick arms heavy with muscle, which probably came in handy when he needed to crack a corpse’s ribcage open. He crossed his arms over his chest and looked me up and down. I wondered if he was ogling me – I admit my jeans were on the tight side - but he looked more annoyed than anything else.
“Sir Vormythar said they were sending a specialist,” said Morgan. “You don’t look like a specialist in dragon murder.”
“I’m more of a generalist,” I said. “What do I look like?”
He grunted. “Biker chick with crazy eyes.”
“Aw, that’s so sweet. It’s the jacket, isn’t it?” I said. “But I’m not here for amusing banter. I’m here to look at a dead dragon.”
“Whatever.” Morgan grunted and heaved himself out of the chair. “I get paid a lot to not ask questions. This way.”
“How’d you wind up doing autopsies on dragons?” I said.
“Never did an autopsy on a dragon, miss,” said Morgan. “Started out as a medic for Baron Thronaris. Wound up treating both Elves and humans from the fighting in the Shadowlands, and went to medical school. A place like this needs doctors with unique skills who know how to keep their mouths shut, and they pay well.” We walked down a short hallway and came to a metal refrigerator door. “You comfortable with seeing blood and weird shit?”
He had no idea.
“Yep,” I said.
Morgan nodded and pulled open the door.
A blast of chilly air washed over me. The room beyond was metal and sterile, and also quite large. John Doe Hospital could probably store a couple dozen dead bodies in here with room to spare. At the moment, the refrigerated room only held one dead body, which was lying on its side on the floor.
“Okay,” I said. “Why is Max Sarkany naked on the floor?”
“Watch,” said Morgan. “Here comes the weird shit.”
I frowned, reached into my backpack, and drew out my aetherometer. It was a watch-like device about the size of my hand, with a metal case and a crystal face covering a dozen different small dials. It had been a wedding present from the High Queen, and it was an instrument designed to measure and examine magical auras with far greater accuracy than the common spell for detecting magic.
“What is that, a fancy watch?” said Morgan.
“Weird shit,” I said. “Okay, it’s really more of an instrument for measuring weird shit.” I focused on my mental link with the aetherometer, and its dials began turning. It detected a powerful magical aura radiating from Sarkany’s body, a magical spell of considerable potency. After a moment, the aetherometer identified the magical aura as a metamorphic spell, and that it was in the process of decaying…
“Here we go,” said Morgan.
Sarkany’s corpse glowed with golden light.
Then it swelled and expanded, and where the naked man had been lying, a dead dragon appeared.
“Damn,” I said. “You weren’t kidding about the weird shit.”
Sarkany’s true form was a massive winged reptile about fifty or sixty feet long from tail to snout. His scales were a bright, molten red, and his black-slit yellow eyes gazed lifelessly at me. He had ivory fangs and claws like daggers, and his forelimbs and hindlimbs looked thick and strong. Wings like red leather lay folded against his sinuous back. His body was about the size of a big van, and his head was just slightly larger than me.
I had a brief, intense vision of the huge head snapping forward and biting me in half. But dragons could breathe fire, so maybe Malthraxivorn would have burned me where I stood. I had been both eaten alive and burned alive, and neither was a pleasant way to die.
“He’s been doing that,” said Morgan. “That’s why we had to bring him down here. His body keeps shifting between human and dragon form.”
“His metamorphic spell is decaying,” I said, glancing at my aetherometer. “He’ll keep oscillating back and forth between human and dragon for another four to six hours, and then he’ll stay permanently in dragon form.”
Morgan scowled. “Sir Vormythar said the Inquisition was going to collect the corpse. I hope they do. It’ll take up half my morgue otherwise.”
“Better hope they do it quickly,” I said. I had the suspicion that a dragon’s carcass would be a valuable commodity. Even dead, Malthraxivorn was radiating powerful magical energy. I had the feeling that his bones could be used to make all kinds of powerful magical devices. I wondered what the dragons thought of that. Maybe they viewed it as a desecration. Or maybe they would claim the items themselves.
Hell, I should have thought to ask Vormythar that. It was a possible motive.
I stepped into the chilly room, my shoes clanging against the metal floor.
“Careful,” said Morgan, who remained where he was. “If you’re standing next to him when he shifts, you might get hurt.”
“I’ll be fine.” I waved my aetherometer at him. “Weird shit detector, remember.”
Morgan didn’t move. Smart of him.
I crossed to Malthraxivorn’s head and looked at the back of his skull. There was a nasty wound there, about six inches across, and maybe two feet deep. As it turned out, dragon brains didn’t look that much different from human brains. There was just more of them. A harsh smell like ozone came from the wound, and the scales around it had been smashed and cracked. A faint trickle of golden blood oozed from the wound. It almost looked as if someone had tried to pound a fence post through the back of his head.
I couldn’t see him standing still long enough to let that happen.
Of course, he hadn’t been in dragon form at the time, he had been wearing his human guise.
My aetherometer buzzed in my hand as it detected a surge of power from the dragon. The metamorphic spell was shifting again. I took a step back as golden light flowed up and down Malthraxivorn, and the dragon shrank back into the form of Max Sarkany. His body was surprisingly muscular, in a way that took either religious exercise and diet or steroid injections. Which made sense, of course. If he was going to disguise himself as a human, why not use a handsome form? Then again, his shapeshifted form hadn’t fooled his killer.
I circled around his body and looked at the back of his head.
Ugh. Now that was a mess. In his human form, the back of Sarkany’s head was mostly gone. The wound was identical, which meant the back third of his skull had been destroyed. Likely the damage had been so severe he had died at once. Which meant someone had walked up behind Sarkany and killed him with a single overwhelmingly powerful blow.
I thought about that for a minute. The aetherometer buzzed, and I walked back to the door as Sarkany’s corpse shifted back to its true form.
“I have some questions for you,” I said.
Morgan shifted, putting his hands in the pockets of his lab coat. I could tell I unsettled him a bit, which was just as well. It would make it easier to get information out of him.
“Sir Vormythar said I was supposed to cooperate,” he said.
“You’re a coroner, right?”
He winced. “I’m a forensic pathologist, which ignorant laypeople sometimes call a coroner.”
“Great,” I said, putting my aetherometer away and pulling out my phone. “So you know about blood splatters, right?”
“Quite a lot,” said Morgan. “But I should warn you that most of what the public thinks it knows about how blood spatters are used in criminal investigations is total bullshit.”
“Cool,” I said. I unlocked my phone and brought up the crime scene photos of Sarkany’s corpse at the art gallery. “So, look at these and tell me if Sarkany was killed where he stood, or if his body was moved.”
Morgan scowled, but took my phone and examined the photos. He did a good job of it, too, flicking between multiple pictures and zooming in. After about five minutes, he handed the phone back to me.
“He was killed where he stood,” said Morgan. “The position of the body and the blood pool makes that obvious. Someone walked up behind him and inflicted the wound on the back of his head. It was either immediately fatal or fatal within a few seconds. Whoever hit him did it hard enough that it crushed the back of his skull and threw him off his feet. You saw how he landed on his face?” I nodded. “The force of the blow knocked him forward. If he had still been standing when he died, his legs would have buckled, and he would have landed on his side. You can also see the blood spatter from the original impact, and how the blood pooled under his head. If he had been moved, there would have been smears. No, he was killed there, and the blow knocked him to the floor.”
“Any guesses on what actually killed him?” I said, putting my phone away.
“Hell if I know,” said Morgan. “That dragon bone is like rock. You’d need a jackhammer to get through it. I’m glad the Inquisition doesn’t want me to do an actual autopsy. I’d need a slab saw to open his chest cavity.”
“Bet that would be messy,” I said. “I’m done. You can close it up.”
Morgan nodded and closed the door with a massive thump. I took a deep breath of the antiseptic-scented air. It wasn’t the most pleasant odor, but it was better than the peculiar mixture of ozone and hot metal that had radiated from the wound in Malthraxivorn’s skull.
I hadn’t learned much here, but it had confirmed what I suspected. It had taken a weapon of surpassing power to kill Sarkany, and it had taken him by surprise. Combined with his magical power and the prowess of his true form, he could have put up a ferocious fight. Or maybe it hadn’t been a fight?
Maybe it had been someone he knew and trusted, someone to whom he had been willing to turn his back.
Still, it would have been nice if, say, someone had left a note explaining why and how they had killed Sarkany. But why should things go simply now?
Well, it was time to take the next step. I wanted to have a look at where Sarkany had been killed. He had playacted as some sort of fancy art dealer, and I had robbed a few art galleries for Morvilind back in the bad old days. Places like that always, always had security cameras. Maybe I would get lucky and find a video file of someone taking a crowbar to the back of Sarkany’s head.
“You need anything else, miss?” said Morgan, eyeing me.
“Nope.” I took another deep breath. “Thanks for the help.”
He nodded. “You going after the guy who killed him?”
“That’s my job.”
“Good luck,” said Morgan as I started to turn. “I wouldn’t want to meet anyone who could punch through solid dragon bone.”
I froze. “Punch? You think he was punched?”
Morgan shrugged. “Don’t see how. You try to punch the back of a dragon’s head, you’re going to break every bone in your hand.” He hesitated. “But the wound…it’s just about the right size for a punch, isn’t it?”
“Yeah,” I said, mulling that over. What could punch that hard? “Thanks, Doc.”
“Good luck,” he said again. “I bet you’re going to need it.”
“And I bet you’re right,” I said.
I took the elevator to the main floor and walked around the block to the parking garage. My phone chimed as I did, and I saw that I had a text from Riordan. He had a job from the Firstborn and thought it would keep him busy for the rest of the day. A little flicker of fear went through me. Riordan was one of the most capable people I had ever met, but everyone needed someone to help them on occasion. And if he found himself in a dangerous situation, he might need my help.
Still, he said Nora was with him, which made me feel better. She had a level head on her shoulders. Though Nora had also warned Riordan not to get involved with me since she thought I would pull him into danger.
Well, she'd been right about that.
Nevertheless, I texted Riordan to give me a call if he needed help. After I swung my leg over my motorcycle, I pulled up Sarkany’s file and found the location of his art gallery. It was in a pricey neighborhood in the Upper West Side, and I looked at the address and name…
Dragon Imports Art Gallery. Charles Edina, general manager, Max Sarkany, owner.
I snorted. “Subtle.”
Still, I didn’t think Sarkany deserved what had happened to him. He had obviously liked money and fancy artwork, but that didn’t mean he deserved to get killed. I remembered how both the High Queen and Sir Vormythar had said that dragons were like cats. Maybe Max Sarkany / Malthraxivorn had been like a big fancy cat who liked to surround himself with shiny toys.
I drummed my fingers on the handlebars of my bike.
But I really didn’t want to find anyone capable of killing a dragon with one blow.
I sighed, pulled on my helmet, and started my motorcycle.
It was time to resume my hunt for whoever had killed a dragon with one blow.
I pulled out of the ramp and headed for Dragon Imports Art Gallery.
***