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“That way.”
“Let’s get going.”
I hang back and let Delon walk point. Not that he needs any encouragement. I think he’s been looking forward to being in charge. I wonder how his brain works. He’s not a computer. He’s goddamn Stretch Armstrong. It’s not like he’s downloading video to a chip in his brain. All his memories and personality must be hoodoo Atticus stuck in his head when he was screwing the skull shut. What I really want to know is if Delon knows he’s a cuckoo clock or does he think he’s a real boy? Part of it is cheap curiosity and part of it is self-defense. I keep thinking about Trevor stepping in front of that bus. Did he do it because he knew he was replaceable or because he thought he was sacrificing himself for the Angra cause? I’d love to get hold of a Paul or Trevor or Donny Osmond or whatever other names they have and let Manimal Mike take it apart to see what makes it run.
As we climb, I can feel people’s nerves kicking in. Before this, meeting the Kill City crazies was an abstract concept. Now a machine is taking us to a meet and greet with Peter Pan and the Lost Boys. I have to admit that I’m a little concerned myself. As we reach each floor, I keep an eye open for shadows that might hide an ambush or ones dark enough that I can pull people into.
I say, “How far are we going?”
“Twelve floors. All the way to the top. There’s a hotel up there with views all the way from the ocean to the city.”
He sounds like a fucking real estate developer.
The empty retail spaces don’t look like they were ever stores. More like strange minimalist art. Hard geometric lines and soft fungal patches behind smashed security gates. The funny thing is that the scattered glass and broken fixtures are the only things that make the spaces look like humans built them and that anything with a frontal lobe might have wanted to go inside.
“What do you know about the Mangarms?” says Traven.
“Like I said, they’re Sub Rosa,” says Delon. “Old-world types that specialized in black magic.”
“Baleful,” says Candy.
“What?”
“The correct Sub Rosa term is Baleful magic. Not black. He told me,” she says, pointing to me.
“Thank you,” says Delon, trying not to sound too sarcastic. “May I go on?”
“Please do.”
“They were and I suppose still are black potionists. They made poisons and hexes subtle enough to get around all but the most powerful charms. The problem is that their old-school magic didn’t keep up with modern medicine. Antibiotics, transfusions, and stomach pumps put them out of business.”
He looks at Candy.
“The Mangarm term for it is ‘scientificated magic.’ ”
“Cool.”
Glass elevator enclosures run alongside the stairs. It looks like they haven’t worked since the day the place closed down. But someone is using them. Ropes have been strung inside. There are pulleys every couple of floors. My guess is that the setup runs all the way to the top. It’s probably how the Mangarms move swag from the lower floors to home sweet home. It also explains the garbage heap in the lobby. Whatever they don’t want anymore goes over the railing to the floor. I wonder what living over your own garbage dump smells like in high summer.
“Stop!” yells Brigitte.
Everyone freezes where they are.
Brigitte flashes forward and knocks Delon onto his face. Something creaks and blasts by us, swinging from a wire that reaches up into the dark over our heads. It smashes into the railing on the far side of the stairs, taking out a few feet of it, before swinging back and almost clipping Traven. It cracks the opposite railing and gets stuck there. Everyone turns their flashlights on the thing.
It’s smashed to bits, only held together with yards of wire and duct tape. Sharpened metal spikes stick out at all angles. The center of the thing is dull beige plastic with holes in the front where keys might have been.
Father Traven examines it, pushing pieces of crushed plastic back into place.
“It’s a cash register,” he says. “Sharpened rebar wrapped around a cash register.”
Brigitte gets up and goes to him.
“Are you all right? It almost hit you.”
He touches her shoulder.
“I’m fine. Really.”
