Wings of Fire Part 46

Long after midnight and there was no escape.

Three Bloods caught Nicky in the free flophouse he ran for the Diggers down in Tintown--that part of Soho to which the hobos tended to gravitate. They had silver Mohawks shot through with orange and black streaks, ice stones glittering in their ears, black leathers. The two males held Nicky on the floor while the third took a small metal container from her pocket. She held it in front of Nicky's face and gave it a gentle shake.

Shucka-shuck.

"Got something for you, Nicky," she said. Her thin-lipped smile never reached her eyes.

Nicky struggled in his captors' grip, then froze when a new shadow filled the doorway of the room. A tall Blood stood there, but he wasn't a punk. His long silver hair fell to his shoulders and his clothes were pure elvin cut, made from some sleek and glimmering material that there was no name for this side of the border. A High Born. Not a Bordertowner, but straight out of glittering Elfland. He took a step into the room.

Nicky's blood went cold when the candlelight picked out the tall Blood's features.

It was Long Lankin, the murdering knight. Nicky had only seen him once before when Tam Sharper pointed out the High Born to him at an outdoor concert in Fare-you-well Park. There was something in the Blood's hawk-like features and cold eyes that would never let you forget him, once you'd seen him.

Shucka-shuck.

Nicky's gaze flickered back to the woman and the container she held.

"There's a new kind of pearl in town, Nicky-boy," she said.

Her name was Ysa Cran and she ran a gang of Blood pushers who could provide you with whatever you wanted--smoke, fairy dust, c.o.ke, pearl, they had it all.

"I don't...." Nicky began.

"Oh, everyone knows," Ysa said. "Nicky broke his habit. Nicky dropped the pearl. Nicky's a f.u.c.king saint."

She popped open the little metal container and shook its contents into the palm of her hand. Pink and mauve flakes glittered in the candlelight.

"See, it's something new," Ysa said. "Not quite pearl, but not quite anything else either. Straight from Elfland, Nicky-boy. And it's going to be good for business, you know? The business you're taking away from me, you and the Diggers, trying to clean up everybody's act. It's called shake, Nicky-boy, and its going to be all over the streets in a few weeks. We're doing, like, a test run tonight. And you know what's really fine about this?"

Nicky swallowed thickly, but made no reply.

"It's one hundred percent addictive, Nicky-boy." This time the smile reached Ysa's eyes. "You just gotta try it and you're hooked. And that's the secret of this biz, Nicky-boy. Repeat customers." She gave the Bloods holding him a nod. "Open his mouth."

"N-nuh--"

The Bloods had Nicky's mouth open before he could spit out a word. He struggled frantically in their grip, but they were too strong for him.

"You can smoke it," Ysa said conversationally. "You can powder it up and snort it like pearl. You can swallow it. You can stick it up your a.s.s, Nicky-boy. Any way you take it, it's a straight mainline back to that place you left behind when you dropped the pearl. Remember, Nicky-boy? Remember how it felt to be on top of the world, f.u.c.king-A?"

There were tears in Nicky's eyes as she cupped her hand and funneled the shake into his mouth. He gagged, trying to spit it out, but she rubbed his throat with smooth cool fingers and he swallowed reflexively.

"You can let him go now," she told her companions.

The two Bloods dropped his arms and Nicky sprang to his feet, lunging for her. She batted him casually aside and he skidded across the floor. Her companions moved towards him, but she shook her head.

"He's flying now," she said.

And it was true. Nicky lay where he'd fallen. From behind them, Long Lankin stepped over to the boy and rolled him over with a s.h.i.+ny black boot. Nicky's eyes were glazed. Spittle trickled from a corner of his mouth.

"You see, Corwyn?" Ysa said. "You feed this s.h.i.+t to a townie and they're gone before it's halfway down their throat."

Long Lankin nodded. "And the most amusing thing is that they will actually pay to have this done to them."

Nicky lay staring up at them, trying to focus, trying to get up, but he was long gone. Flying high. f.u.c.king-A.

"Well?" Ysa asked the High Born. "Do we get the contract or what?"

Long Lankin nodded. "Exclusive--for three months. The first s.h.i.+pment will be delivered by the end of the week."

Ysa tried not to let her satisfaction show. "Sounds good."

"But finish up here first," Long Lankin said. He gave Nicky a last look, a vague smile flickering in his silver eyes, then he turned and left the room.

The Bloods waited till they could see him on the street below, walking away from the building, before they really let loose with some whoops.

"All right!" Nabber shouted. "Ysa--you've got the b.a.l.l.s, that's all I can say."

Teddy Grim nodded. "Dealing with Lankin--that's like dicing with the dragons, man. But, hot s.h.i.+t, you pulled it off!"

Ysa just grinned. She screwed the top back on the little container of sample shake and knelt down beside Nicky.

Shucka-shuck.

"How's it going, Nicky-boy? You met G.o.d yet?"

She ran the long nails of one hand down his cheek. Silver nail polish glittered in the candlelight.

Nicky stared up at her, eyes focused now, but blurred with tears. The shake was burning through him--it was good, oh Jesus, it was so good. But there was a part of him that remembered. He'd been a junkie with nothing going for him till the Diggers pulled him back. He'd gone through h.e.l.l breaking the hold the pearl had on him. Vomiting his guts, day after day. Cramps and seizures. Shaking. Headaches sharp as amps feeding back at full volume....

And then he was clean.

Two years he was clean. Two years he worked helping others through that h.e.l.l. Helped the Diggers clothe and feed the hobos and runaways, the lost and the lonely. Helped talk down the junkies, dry out the alkies. Helped the people who were going to throw it all away because they were hurting, or burnt out, or the hundred other reasons that people could find to kill themselves. And now....

He could hear Ysa's voice, though she wasn't speaking.

There's a new kind of pearl in town....

Oh yeah. Didn't he know it? The shake was riding through his body like an old friend. He could feel the pearl glow, and behind it, kicking in every few seconds, speedy little rushes that made him feel like he was coming. Flying high. Long gone.

One hundred percent addictive....

He couldn't do it again. He couldn't go through it again. He'd already been to h.e.l.l. He couldn't go back. He....

Shucka-shuck.

Ysa shook the container, a mocking glitter in her silver Blood eyes.

"Here, Nicky-boy," she said, and she stuffed the shake container into his pocket. "You're going to be needing this."

She stood up. Nicky couldn't take his eyes from her. G.o.dd.a.m.n Bloods. She looked so good. G.o.dd.a.m.n Bloods. One like Ysa Cran could seduce you just by looking at you. He hated her. He wanted her.

She could see it all in his eyes and all it did was make her laugh. "I don't f.u.c.k junkies," she told him. "I just f.u.c.k 'em around, Nicky-boy."

Nicky lunged up to a sitting position. The room spun, the candlelight turning into a kaleidoscope of pulsating colours, before everything settled down. Teddy Grim moved towards him, but Ysa waved him off.

"Nicky-boy's not going to hurt n.o.body," she said. "Are you Nicky-boy?"

Nicky struggled to his feet and stood swaying on a floor that breathed slightly, in a room that strobed with colour. The Bloods were brilliant flares of black and silver and orange.

One hundred percent addictive....

Cold turkey.

He couldn't do it again. No one could do it again. He staggered across the room towards the window.

"Hey, Ysa," Nabber began. "Maybe we'd better--"

He and Teddy Grim started to move towards Nicky, but before they could cross the room, Nicky threw himself at the window.

The gla.s.s shattered. It sounded like bells. The shards that cut him didn't really hurt. They were just opening his body so that his blood could breathe. Wind was rus.h.i.+ng by his ears. Everything was moving so fast. The whole world was moving. The ground was waiting to embrace him. It'd keep him safe from Ysa and Long Lankin and from the h.e.l.l that'd be his if he tried to drop the pearl again....

Falling was a speed rush and slow motion, all at the same time. When he hit the ground he had one stunned moment of shocked realization. I'm dea-- And then everything was gone.

"Hol-ee f.u.c.k," Nabber said.

The three Bloods looked out the window. It was a three story drop to the street below. Nicky's small body lay in a twist of strange angles.

"Come on," Ysa said finally. "Let's burn this place down. The Diggers are going to have to realize that they're out of the helping people business. People get helped, they're worth s.h.i.+t to us, right?"

Her companions nodded.

"So let's do it."

Later, out on the street, while the Diggers' free flophouse went up in flames, Ysa stood over Nicky's broken body. Hobos and runaways were shuffling and staggering around them, milling in a panic while the building burned. Grey smoke rose up to meet the lightening skies of the coming dawn. Ysa took a flat piece of lacquered wood from her pocket and glanced at the dragon embossed on it, black against red, before flipping it onto Nicky's body. Teddy Grim gave her a questioning look.

"Maybe they'll think one of Dragontown's tongs did him in," she said.

Teddy Grim, and then Nabber, smiled in appreciation. Laughing, they headed for the club district and one last round of brews.

TWO.

There were just the two of them now.

Everyone else had crashed by the time a grey dawn came crawling in over Soho. They sat on the rambling front porch of the Diggers' House--the main house that sits in a rubbled lot equidistant from the Ca.n.a.l and Soho's club district, just a spit away from New Asia. Two of them, still following where the music led them. Up all night, playing the blues.

Berlin had a vintage Martin New Yorker six-string. Its tiny body fit comfortably in the curved hollow between her lap and b.r.e.a.s.t.s, while the neck was wide enough so that her fingers didn't get tangled, but not so wide that her small hands couldn't shape the chords. She was playing an easy-going G progression, violet eyes closed, head bobbing just slightly to the rhythm. Her hair was thick--a dark brown with green tints--and pulled back from her face with a pink scarf that made it stand up around her head like a halo.

Well, if the good die young.

I said, the good die young.

She was singing, her voice surprisingly gruff and deep for her small frame and nineteen or so years. Joe Doh-dee-oh was accompanying her on the harmonica, leaning back against the porch railing across from her, a smile in his dark eyes.

He looked to be in his late seventies, an old black man playing the blues. He wore a checkered s.h.i.+rt and faded jeans held up with bright red suspenders. His hair was a salty white, his brown wrinkled skin was a road-map of all the tunes he'd played through the years. He knew them all, and a few more besides.

Now if the good die young.

Then I gotta be just as wicked as they come.

--uh-huh.

I gotta be Just as wicked as they come.

He sang along on the last line, then brought the harmonica back up to his mouth, chording on it while Berlin's fingers did a walking riff up the neck of her guitar. By the time Berlin hit the final G chord, a double bar at the tenth fret, Joe was wailing a long finis.h.i.+ng note.

"Whoo-ee," he said, cradling his harmonica on his lap. "That's an old one."

Berlin grinned. "Learned that from Poppa Lightnin'--could that man play."

Joe didn't say anything for a moment. Poppa Lightnin' had died a long time ago--in the World beyond Bordertown--maybe only a decade or so after the Change. He gave her a curious look.

"He made some good records," Joe said finally.

"I suppose he did. Hey, remember this?" She broke into a version of "Cold, Cold Feeling".

"Know it? I coulda wrote it," Joe told her. "I've been there, Berlin. Makes for a good song, but you don't much care for it when it's going down."

He brought up his harmonica, but before he could join in, Berlin laid her hands across her guitar's strings. In the sudden silence, they could hear the creak of wooden wheels.

"Brandy's up early," Joe said.

Berlin nodded. "Too early. I got a bad feeling, Joe...."

They held off playing as Brandy Jack came walking around the side of the house. He walked with a shuffling limp, an old skinny hobo in battered hand-me-downs, hair as white as Joe's, but looking washed-out against his pale skin. Beside him a big mongrel pulled a small wagon that held all of Brandy's worldly possessions. Tin cans and found things; magazines, a couple of old Reader's Digest books and a lot of paperbacks with the front covers torn off; rags and mismatched clothing, a lot of it too big or too small for him; a broken harmonium and a ukulele that still worked; a bit of everything to reflect the varying aspects of his fifty-five some years.

The dog was called Noz and he had a small beanie on his head with a propeller that still turned. Berlin hoped that Brandy had just heard their music and come to play a few of his old Music Hall songs.

"Hey, Jack," Joe called. "Glad you're back."

Brandy shook his head mournfully. Even on the sunniest day he wore a hang-dog expression.

"Dig out your old uke there, Brandy," Berlin said, "and sing us a couple."