Chapter 11: Bring Some Work Home

It was peak rush hour, and traffic in New York was stop and go. Riordan preferred to drive and only let Nora take the wheel to humor her, but right now, he was glad that she was driving. That let her get frustrated with the traffic, while he used his phone to do research.

“I’ve looked up Max Sarkany,” said Riordan. “Rich art dealer. Owns numerous buildings in New York, and a few in Manhattan. He apparently makes a lot of money selling rare artworks to Elven nobles and rich humans.”

“For God’s sake! Does no one in this bleeding city know how to use their turn signals?” snarled Nora, scowling at the windshield. In a much calmer voice, she said. “Our next stop is to chat with Mr. Sarkany?”

“Doubt it,” said Riordan. “He’s dead.”

Nora stopped glaring at the traffic long enough to give him a startled look.

“Murdered,” said Riordan. “A few days ago at his art gallery on the Upper West Side. The Homeland Security report says he was killed during a robbery, but there’s not much detail about it.”

“Jesus,” said Nora. “This is turning into a mess, isn’t it?”

Riordan nodded. “My best guess is that Sarkany found some copies of the Summoning Codex by accident. Art dealers like him will sometimes buy out the contents of estate sales or abandoned storage lockers and hope they find something profitable.” He glanced at the web page for Dragon Imports Art Gallery on his phone screen. “I bet he found something in Russia. His gallery’s website is touting an exhibition of artwork on the bogatyrs from the Russian Imperium…”

“Bogatyrs?” said Nora.

“Semi-historical, semi-legendary figures from medieval Russian history,” said Riordan. “Knights-errant who wandered around the countryside fighting ogres and witches.”

Nora snorted. “Maybe Malcolm Lock should write a book about them.”

Riordan chose to ignore that. “The Russian lab report we found in Watkins’ copy of the Codex would confirm that. I suspect Sarkany bought a load of old books and antiques in Russia, didn’t realize what he had, and sold some of them to Anthony Watkins. Watkins sold one copy of the Summoning Codex to Ricci and kept another for himself.”

“Does Sarkany have more copies of the Codex?” said Nora.

“That’s a good question.” They drove through a stoplight and made it maybe another fifty yards before traffic came to a stop again. “Another good question is who killed him.”

Nora considered that as they waited for the next stoplight to turn green. “Could’ve been the Inquisition. If they caught word that Sarkany had sold copies of the Summoning Codex, they might have just shot him and made it look like a robbery.”

“Maybe,” said Riordan. “But they would only do that if Sarkany had deliberately and knowingly sold copies of the Summoning Codex.” He scratched his jaw. “It’s also possible that someone realized Sarkany had another copy of the Codex and killed him for it.”

“Yeah,” said Nora. “Or maybe Sarkany found something else in Russia. Dark Ones cults hoard copies of the Summoning Codex, don’t they? Maybe Sarkany found the secret cache of an old Dark Ones cult. Maybe there was a copy of the Void Codex among the books, or something worse.”

“Something worse?” said Riordan. “A copy of the Void Codex would be dangerous enough.” That book was a manual for summoning Dark Ones, and copies had been circulating since it had been written in medieval Germany a thousand years earlier.

“Maybe an artifact like those cuneiform tablets that summon Dark Ones,” said Nora. “Or something like the Sky Hammer.”

“The Sky Hammer?” said Riordan. “Why would you think that?”

Nora shrugged. “You told me about Last Judge Mountain. The US government had all sorts of nasty things hidden in there. Well, the Russians and the Americans were enemies before the Conquest, right? They almost nuked each other a couple of times. If the American government had a secret base full of nasty things like the Sky Hammer and automatic summoning circles for the Dark Ones, why wouldn’t the Russians?”

“That’s a good point,” said Riordan. “Nadia and I saw a video inside the Last Judge base, a message left by General Jeremy Shane for his successor. He said that the pre-Conquest US government stole most of its knowledge about summoning Dark Ones from the Russians after the Soviet Union collapsed.” He didn’t like that thought at all. The things Nicholas Connor had found inside Last Judge Mountain had nearly killed millions of people. Had Sarkany found something similar inside a Russian version of Last Judge?

“Guess we had better take a good long look around Sarkany’s warehouse,” said Nora. “Heard from the tigress?”

“No,” said Riordan, turning his phone over in his hand. He had sent her a text message, explaining that he would be late, and he hadn’t heard back. Likely she was busy and hadn’t had time to respond. Or her phone was on silent, and she hadn’t seen the message. Or she was hurt someplace, and needed his help…

He forced aside the worry and mostly succeeded. Nadia could look after herself. She could defend herself more capably than nearly anyone else.

Except when she couldn’t.

“She’s probably doing the same thing we are,” said Nora. “Fighting this bloody damned traffic and running around the city looking for leads. If she really needed your help, she would call.”

“I know,” said Riordan.

He wasn’t sure of that, though. Sometimes he thought that Nadia’s mind was an engine that would rip itself apart if it wasn’t eased back from time to time.

“Of course, we might want to get her help for this part,” said Nora. “I’ll bet Sarkany has excellent security around his warehouse. Might be easier to have the tigress turn invisible and shut all the cameras off for us.”

“You’re right,” said Riordan. “We’ll take a look around first, see what kind of security we’re dealing with.”

But he didn’t want to wait. He was reasonably sure that someone had killed Max Sarkany for his copies of the Summoning Codex, or to claim whatever other relics Sarkany had found in Russia. Which meant, in a way, this had turned into a murder investigation. Riordan had never been an officer of Homeland Security, but he knew that if a murder wasn’t solved within the first seventy-two hours, it was probably going to remain unsolved.

He shifted in his seat as Nora joined the traffic over the I-278 bridge and into Brooklyn. At least his clothes were more comfortable. They had stopped by the Sanctuary long enough to shower and change, and Riordan had to admit it had been a relief to wash the smell of cat piss away. Odd that it annoyed him more than the scent of blood. He had changed clothes to boots, cargo pants, a T-shirt, and a leather jacket loose enough to conceal a shoulder holster, and Nora had donned similar clothing. Riordan had also loaded more weaponry and suitable equipment into the back of the SUV from the Family’s armory.

Whatever they found inside Sarkany’s warehouse, Riordan wanted to be ready.

At last they cleared the traffic jam near the bridge and proceeded into Brooklyn. The traffic dropped down considerably as they passed the South Brooklyn Marine Terminal and headed into the grid of warehouses and piers that jutted into the bay. Most big ships went to the ports in New Jersey, but quite a few smaller ones put in here.

It would be easier to smuggle forbidden items. Though Riordan wondered if Max Sarkany had known what he had found. Dragon Imports likely had any number of employees, and one of them might have been willing to steal and sell the copies of the Summoning Codex. Maybe Sarkany had planned the sale of the copies of the Summoning Codex. Or perhaps it had been a rogue employee, and Sarkany had no idea.

Or maybe Sarkany had known and had been killed to shut him up. The elderly owner of an art gallery could not have put up much of a fight against a summoned anthrophage or wraithwolf.

They drove past the Dragon Imports warehouse. It was a block-sized four-story building of red brick. All the windows had been bricked up, and the only entrance Riordan could see from the street was a pair of heavy steel security doors. An access road went past the building to a small lot behind it, no doubt leading to a truck dock.

“Looks deserted,” said Nora. “We…”

The SUV jolted, and Riordan’s seat belt sawed into his chest. He thought they had hit something, but the vehicle kept moving.

“Goddamn potholes!” snarled Nora. “Why can’t the city fix them?”

“They’re probably busy repairing the damage from the Rebel attack,” said Riordan.

“That was all in Manhattan. We’re in Brooklyn.”

“Drive to the next side street and park there,” said Riordan. “We’ll head up on foot and take a look at the building.”

“If anyone asks, we’re private investigators working for an insurance company?” said Nora. She turned and found an empty street.

“It’s a classic,” said Riordan, “but it works. Impersonating Homeland Security investigators is always too chancy. People ask to see badge numbers.” Nora eased the SUV into an empty parking spot. “Ready?”

“Always,” said Nora with a grin.

They paused long enough to check their weapons. Nora had a Royal Arms. 45 semiautomatic hidden beneath her jacket, and so did Riordan. He had his Shadowmorph blade and his magical spells, but sometimes a drawn gun had a greater impact than a flashy display of magic.

They circled the block and headed towards the Dragon Imports warehouse. It was past 6 PM by now, and the sun was starting to go down in the west. Most of the sky was overcast, but some of the rays of the sun broke through the gray clouds and struck the waters of the bay. Between the dimming gray light, the few spots of color from the sunset, and the rippling water, the scene had an eerie, solemn beauty.

Though the smell of garbage from the bay balanced that out nicely.

Riordan slowed a little as they approached the warehouse. He saw a security camera over the doors, recording anyone who passed in front of the building. Though there were no cameras mounted elsewhere on the warehouse's exterior, at least that he could see. No doubt there would be more near the truck dock, and many more inside the building. They started to pass in front of the warehouse, and Riordan glanced to the side, wondering if he could spot the pothole that had given his SUV such a bad shake.

He came to a surprised stop.

“What’s wrong?” said Nora, her hand twitching towards her hidden gun.

“Look at this,” said Riordan, stepping to the curb.

The pothole was easy to find. It was about the size of a dinner plate, and deep enough that Riordan saw the gravel fill beneath the road. Yet most potholes were crumbled and weathered. This one looked as if it had been melted through the asphalt. Small bits of broken dark stone were scattered around it, and Riordan stooped and picked one up.

It was a piece of asphalt that had melted and then dried into a twisted shape. He had visited Hawaii some years ago on a mission for the Family, and once he had accomplished his task, he had taken a few days to play tourist since he had never been there before. A shop had sold pieces of cooled lava thrown up by the volcanoes, pieces that had cooled as they struck the earth, and they had looked a great deal like the pieces of asphalt scattered around the crater.

Because it was a crater, not a pothole.

“What the hell?” said Nora. “Looks like something melted through it.” She pointed. “Look at the guard rail by the sea wall. Something hit it pretty hard. Maybe there was an accident.”

“Maybe,” said Riordan. “Doesn’t look big enough for a car impact, though. Might be a coincidence.”

Nora raised an eyebrow. “An art dealer who apparently sold two copies of the Summoning Codex gets murdered, and we find a weird melted spot in front of his warehouse.”

“I really don’t like coincidences,” said Riordan. “Let’s head around back. We might find a fire door that doesn’t have a camera.”

Nora nodded, and they walked up the access road and behind the warehouse. There was a mid-sized concrete parking lot behind the building, big enough for forty or fifty cars. Likely the employees of Dragon Imports parked here. Since this was New York, the parking lot was surrounded by a chain link fence and barbed wire, with a gate and an attendant’s booth. The booth was unmanned, and there were no cars in the lot. A truck ramp sloped down to the back of the warehouse, leading to three truck doors. Next to the truck ramp was a concrete loading dock and a smaller truck door.

A man in a black coat sat on the steps to the loading dock, smoking a cigarette and watching Riordan and Nora.

Riordan’s first thought was that he was the night watchman or a security guard. But the man was dressed wrong for that. His coat was the sort of navy-style pea coat that Nadia preferred, and beneath it, he wore dusty jeans, steel-toed work boots, and a gray T-shirt. He didn’t have a radio or a flashlight or any of the other equipment of a security guard. Though to judge from the way his coat hung on the right, he had a pistol in a shoulder holster.

The man had icy blue eyes in a hard face, with close-cropped black hair and black stubble shading his jaw. Riordan’s immediate impression was that the man was dangerous. His instincts reacted the way they did when he came face to face with a predator.

Perhaps the man in the black coat had something of the same reaction when meeting two Shadow Hunters.

He remained sitting, still smoking that cigarette.

They stared at each other for a moment, the sun growing dimmer to the west.

“Hi,” said the man at last. “My name’s Neil.” He spoke with an English accent. Not with Nora’s Manchester accent, but precise Received Pronunciation, the sort affected by all the broadcasters in the UK.

“Hello yourself,” said Nora.

Neil blinked and then grinned. “I’ll be damned, someone from home. Liverpool?”

“No, Manchester,” said Nora. “Close, but still too far.”

“Yeah, spoken like a true Manchester girl,” said Neil. His expression turned distant, and Riordan was struck by how weary he looked. “Been a long, long time since I’ve been home.”

“Are you a security guard here?” said Riordan.

“Nope,” said Neil. He shifted, and Riordan saw patches of dried blood on his gray T-shirt. “I’m just waiting for new orders.”

“Are you hurt?” said Riordan. “Do you need medical attention?”

He shared a glance with Nora. She gave a faint nod and shifted her stance, freeing her hands to grip her pistol.

Neil snorted. “I’ve had more than enough goddamn medical attention in my life, thank you.” He glanced at his shirt. “This? Let’s just say I ran into a couple of women who didn’t like my orders.” He let out a long sigh. “Mind telling me what you’re doing here?”

“We’re private investigators working for an insurance company,” said Riordan.

Neil twitched at that as if he had been jolted by a live wire. “Let me guess. You’re investigating the death of Max Sarkany?”

“As it happens, yes, we are,” said Riordan.

“Would you mind if we asked you a few questions?” said Nora.

Neil sighed and rose to his feet in a single fluid motion that belied his battered and weary appearance.

“You have pretty eyes,” said Neil.

“Thank you,” said Nora, giving him a cautious look.

“And I really, really wish you hadn’t said that,” said Neil. “My orders are clear. I’m sorry about this.”

He moved in a blur, his left hand dipping into his coat and coming up holding a peculiar, boxy-looking pistol. The weapon looked like it should have been too heavy to support one-handed, but Neil spun with fluid grace, the pistol’s muzzle tracking towards Nora.

But Riordan and Nora were already moving, drawing on their Shadowmorphs for speed and strength. Neil squeezed the trigger, and Riordan expected to hear the crack of the shot, the whine of the bullet, the twanging noise as it ricocheted off the pavement.

Instead, the pistol made a dull howling noise and spat a bolt of something that looked like red-orange fire. The bolt struck the ground and blasted away a plate-sized chunk of concrete, and the harsh smell of vaporized rock filled Riordan’s nostrils.

For a single instant, his mind froze. In a century of life, Riordan had never seen a weapon like that. It was almost like a powerful magical spell. Nadia could probably summon enough power to blast a hole in concrete like that, but it would take all her strength and concentration to do it. Neil had just pointed his strange weapon and pulled the trigger.

But Riordan had his own weapon, and so did Nora. They drew their pistols and started firing, the muzzle flashes brilliant in the twilight gloom. Neil twisted and threw himself to the side, off the concrete platform of the loading dock and onto the truck ramp. Riordan didn’t think they had hit him.

He glanced at Nora and gestured. Nora nodded, and they started forward, spaced a few yards apart so Neil couldn’t get them both with the same shot. Riordan watched the corner, expecting any moment to see Neil poke his head around the platform and start shooting. Riordan had to take him down first. He suspected a single shot from that strange fire-pistol would be fatal, even for someone with the recuperative powers of a Shadow Hunter.

Then Neil opened fire, but he wasn’t shooting around the corner of the platform.

He was shooting through it.

At the corner of the loading platform, the concrete was only a few inches thick, and his weapon was powerful enough to penetrate. The first shot went wild, blasting a fist-sized hole in the concrete.

The second hit Nora right in the stomach. She fell backward with a cry of pain, and the sudden odor of burned flesh filled Riordan’s nostrils. The concrete of the platform had soaked up most of the bolt’s power, or else it would have sawed her in half. As it was, she landed with a groan, her gun falling from her hand.

Riordan’s initial impulse was to help her, but Neil sprang around the corner of the platform, the fire pistol in hand. Another half-second, and he would shoot both Riordan and Nora.

Riordan sprinted forward, firing his pistol one-handed and casting a spell. Shooting a pistol while running was terrible for accuracy, but it forced Neil to duck. Riordan saw one of his bullets strike Neil’s right arm, tearing through the sleeve of his coat, but it ricocheted away with a whine. Did he have some sort of armor beneath his clothes?

Riordan finished his spell, and a pair of lightning globes leaped from his left hand, their light harsh in the twilight gloom, and hurtled towards Neil. The gunman twisted his body, turning his right side towards Riordan, and clenched his right arm. There was a strange thrumming noise, and a round shield of harsh blue light appeared over Neil’s arm. The lightning globes struck the shield and shattered into brilliant sparks.

Neil stumbled, and Riordan sprang on him. His fist connected with Neil’s left wrist and the strange pistol clattered to the ground. Neil recovered his balance and punched with his right hand. Riordan’s first instinct was to block, but something in his mind screamed a warning, and he dodged instead.

The action saved his life.

Neil’s fist blurred past Riordan’s head with the speed of a bullet, and it struck the side of the loading dock with enough force that it tore a crater into the concrete, jagged chips raining in all directions. Had Neil punched Riordan in his face, his skull would have exploded like a pumpkin thrown from a rooftop.

Riordan kicked, drawing on his Shadowmorph for strength, and his boot caught Neil in the stomach. The impact knocked Neil back, but it also staggered Riordan. It felt like there was armor plating across Neil’s stomach, beneath his ragged T-shirt. Neil hit the ramp, rolled sideways, and sprang back to his feet, reaching for his dropped pistol as he did.

The Shadowmorph blade extended from Riordan’s right hand as he charged, calling on his Shadowmorph for speed and power as he did. Neil’s eyes flicked wide in surprise for just an instant, and then he raised his right arm in a blocking motion. Blue light flashed around him, and suddenly his arm was encased in a sheath of that harsh blue light. Riordan’s Shadowmorph blade could cut through nearly anything, but it rebounded from the blue light.

But the Shadowmorph blade gave Riordan a longer reach, and he went on the offensive, driving Neil back. His foe was quick and strong, as strong as a Shadow Hunter using his Shadowmorph, but Riordan kept after him. Neil retreated, the blue light flickering around his right arm as he deflected the Shadowmorph blade. Whatever that blue light was, Neil didn’t seem able to sustain it for long periods. A Shield spell, perhaps? Riordan had never seen a Shield spell that acted like that.

Three times his Shadowmorph blade slipped past Neil’s guard to land minor wounds on his chest and hip. The wounds dripped blood, but something strange also came from the cuts, something that looked like a gritty gray paste. Neil looked human, but humans didn’t bleed anything that looked like that.

They fought until they reached the edge of the truck ramp, and Riordan lunged, driving his Shadowmorph blade in a stab. Neil twisted around it at the last possible second, but he wasn’t quite fast enough. The Shadowmorph blade raked across his hip, and Neil stumbled. He turned, did an actual backflip that carried him a dozen feet away, hit the ground, and started running, still moving with considerable speed despite his injured leg.

Riordan started to pursue, then stopped himself. If he ran down Neil, he might be able to overpower the strange gunman and take him alive, forcing him to answer some questions. Or Riordan might have to kill him. Or Neil had gone to get reinforcements and was drawing Riordan into a trap.

And Nora was hurt. Riordan hadn’t been able to help her. Had he taken his attention from Neil for a single second, the assassin would have killed him. But if Riordan didn’t help Nora right now, she might die.

He turned and ran back along the truck ramp, pausing only long enough to grab Neil’s fire-pistol from where it had fallen. The weapon felt strange in his grip, perhaps half again as heavy as a fully loaded handgun. The balance was off, but Riordan supposed the weapon didn’t have any recoil since it didn’t seem to use a chemical propellant.

Riordan stuffed the gun into the pocket of his coat and went to one knee next to Nora.

“Boss,” she croaked, trying to grin. The fire-gun had burned a small crater into her belly, and the stench of burned flesh filled his nostrils. The bolt had gone deep enough into her that it had destroyed a portion of her intestines, and on anyone else, the wound almost certainly would have been fatal.

But Nora was part of the Family, and already he saw the black patterns of her Shadowmorph flickering across her face and hands, stark against her dark skin.

“What the hell was that?” said Nora, her voice growing slurred. Her brown eyes had turned solid black.

“I don’t know,” said Riordan. “We’re getting out of here. I’m going to have to move you. It’ll hurt like hell.”

“Don’t worry,” murmured Nora. Her eyes closed. “Going to sleep now. See you when I wake up.”

She let out a breath and went limp, and darkness gathered around the wound in her stomach. When mortally injured, a Shadow Hunter could fall into a coma while the Shadowmorph healed the wounds. If it worked, Nora would wake up completely healed.

Or the Shadowmorph couldn’t deal with the extent of the wounds, and Nora would succumb.

Or she would wake up, but her mind would be destroyed, and she would immediately start killing everyone in sight to feed her Shadowmorph’s hunger for life force.

There wasn’t time to worry about it now. Riordan needed to get her off the street, and he needed to do it before Neil came back. The assassin might return with another fire weapon. Or he might have allies, more men like him. Riordan thought he would have won his one-on-one fight with Neil, but if Neil found allies, Riordan would be in trouble.

Especially if those allies had Neil’s strange abilities.

He paused just long enough to retrieve their pistols, and then Riordan scooped up Nora as gently as he could, his arms under her shoulders and knees. He ran up the access road, back to the street, and down the sidewalk. If he had the bad luck to run into a Homeland Security patrol responding to the sounds of gunfire, there was going to be trouble, but the street was deserted.

He laid Nora in the back of the SUV, climbed into the driver’s seat, and drove away. Should he take Nora to the Sanctuary of the Shadow Hunters? No, if she was insane when she awoke, she might hurt someone. Riordan decided to take her to his condo. If Nadia wasn’t home, it was a quiet place where Riordan could deal with Nora if she woke up insane, maybe talk her down until her self-control reasserted itself. And if Nadia was home, her help would be invaluable.

Riordan tried calling Nadia, but the call went straight to voicemail. He hoped she was safe. His mind brooded as he drove, the weight of the fire-gun tugging at the left side of his coat. What the hell was that thing? In all his experience with violence, he had never seen a weapon like that. And what had Neil been? Riordan suspected that strange shield hadn’t been a product of magic, but of some sort of machine.

It was clear they had stumbled into something far more dangerous than an art dealer selling copies of the Summoning Codex.

About forty-five minutes later, Riordan pulled into his parking spot below the building. He picked Nora up and carried her to the service elevator. If anyone asked, he would say that she had drunk too much and he was taking her home. Fortunately, no one was in the service elevator, and the hallway outside his condo was empty.

He was fumbling with his keys, Nora slumped against his side, when he heard the lock and the deadbolt release, and the door swung open.

Nadia stood on the other side, her face grim and stark. She was wearing a gray sweater and black jeans, and she held a gun in her right hand. Relief went through Riordan at the sight of his wife, followed by alarm.

Why did she look like she expected trouble?

“Oh, thank God, you’re home,” Nadia said. “We…” Her eyes widened. “What happened to Nora?”

“We had a bad day,” said Riordan, lifting Nora and maneuvering her through the door. “I’m going to put her on the couch, and…”

He came to a stop when he saw the scene in the living room.

A woman of stunning beauty lay on one of the couches, her eyes closed. Over her stood a fit-looking dark-skinned young man in a good suit, a worried scowl on his face. At the end of the couch sat a young woman in a skirt and a jacket, watching the sleeping woman with obvious worry.

“What’s going on?” said Riordan.

“Guys, this is my husband Riordan,” said Nadia. “The woman on the couch is Della Sarkany. She’s actually a dragon. That’s Helen Page, her personal assistant, and Shawn Brewer, her bodyguard.” She grinned that mirthless rictus she smiled when stressed. “We kind of had a bad day, too.”

***