Hallow Point Read online

  So where would he expect me come up after him? Same spot he’d climbed? Opposite end?

  Screw it. I sprinted over, tumbled beneath the first elephant, and climbed the second with the L&G in my teeth, like some pirate spider.

  And whaddaya know, all that extra luck made a difference.

  The kick, when it came, was off-balance. He’d been waiting elsewhere, had to jump to this side to hit me, and whatever elephants may be, they ain’t the most stable things to land on. So he didn’t hit me hard enough to crush in a part of my skull, dry-gulch me into dreamland, or even toss me back to the floor.

  It did make my eyes ring and stars dance in front of my ears, or whatever. I went sliding, spinning sideways, and only a real solid fingertip grip kept me’n the elephant acquainted. I tried to turn that spin into a roll, so I could come up onto the creature’s back and face Herne proper, but I knew I was seriously behind the eight ball.

  Not as though I hadn’t known I was in Dutch from the moment I recognized horn-head, of course.

  I hadda take a couple of socks from him, rolling with ’em just enough to keep anything from breaking, so I could get a good slant on his patterns. I…

  All right, yeah. Bunk and a half. He walloped me a few good ones that damn near put me down then and there, but I was fortunate enough to be able to pluck some useful know-how out of the lesson.

  Fast, strong—think I mighta mentioned those a time or two already—and skilled, but he was wild. Savage. So, back to finesse.

  I met the next punch with my forearm, sweeping him down and toward me, yanking him off center. His other hand came at me, I wrapped my arm around his, and for a minute we were locked up, arms making like a cat’s cradle.

  No way I could keep him locked up that way, not with his strength, but I didn’t plan to hold him long. We both tried kneeing each other in the breadbasket right about the same time, nearly breaking each other’s shins in the process. My whole body went rigid from the shock, and I felt the gink pulling away…

  Good. He hadn’t realized that one of the fists in the knot of flesh and bone between us held a wand.

  I twisted my wrist, painfully, so the L&G pointed right up under his chin, and let loose another blast of agony.

  To this damn day, I think my hearing ain’t what it was before that scream.

  Herne ripped himself free of the arm locks. He was shaky, wobbling, but still standing! He came at me, both hands, and I jammed him up again with a different series of locks, this time ending it with my wand jabbing him in the side and pumping ever more hurt into him, and pulling ever more luck out.

  He tried to get away. I shifted my grips, and kept going, feeling more of his weight as he slumped. And I remember thinking with more’n a small amount of real wow, Good gods, I beat Herne the fucking Hunter!

  And then he completely changed it up on me.

  Suddenly he threw his strength, his bulk, into pushing through my hold instead of jerking out of it.

  The first poke wasn’t too bad; he couldn’t get a lotta strength behind it. But it still damn near cracked a rib, put me on my heels, shook me loose.

  Which meant the next punch had everything he wanted to put into it. And the one after that. And after that.

  Mighta been some kicks in there, too. Possibly a headbutt.

  I didn’t stand a chance. It all came in too fast, too hard, more ordnance than fisticuffs. I knew my grip’d slackened when the L&G clattered away across the stone floor, though I needed a second to even recognize the sound. Only reason I was still on the elephant was because Herne had switched to gripping me by the collar with one paw while trying to make a jigsaw puzzle outta my bones with the other.

  When he decided not to hold me upright anymore, I only knew I’d hit ground when the room stopped Charlestoning in all directions. After Herne’s punches, I didn’t even feel the floor.

  He landed, and loomed over me, one foot on my wrist. Dunno why he bothered. The L&G was a few feet away, and right now it might as well have been on the moon.

  I’m gonna tell you something I don’t like to admit. If he’d chosen to pop me there, I was dead. I had no tricks left, no cunning sneak to pull. I was done. If he’d given me a few hours to heal, or even just a couple minutes with the wand, maybe… But nope.

  He beat me. Simple as that.

  I remember thinking, This never woulda happened in the old days, though I dunno why I mighta thought that. And then I tried to brace myself for it.

  But it didn’t come.

  Herne just knelt down, almost crushing my wrist, and hauled my head up off the stone by the collar.

  He wasn’t even winded, even though I knew he still hadda be feeling what I’d fed him. Hell, he was calm. Like Talking Herne and Fighting Herne are two separate Joes.

  “We have never been enemies,” he said in a low rumble. “Given what’s at stake, I am prepared to forgive your assault on me. This time.”

  Mighty big of him, that.

  My whole back spasmed as he hauled me up closer, mug to mug.

  “If you tell me where it is!”

  I’d have happily told him, if I had the faintest idea what “it” was, let alone where.

  Say this for Herne, he’s sharp. Guess centuries after centuries of hunting’ll do that for a guy. Whatever I croaked out wasn’t much of a word, but whatever he heard in it, saw in my face, he realized quick enough that, far as I was concerned, he was speaking Greek.

  Well, not literally, since I coulda understood if he was, but you know what I mean.

  “If you don’t have it and aren’t searching for it,” he said, now more bewildered than anything, “why are you here?”

  This time, I managed syllables that actually belonged in the same neighborhood as each other.

  “’Vestigating… break-in…”

  Herne’s lamps went wide, and he chuckled, just the once. Then he shifted his weight off my wrist and lowered me back down to lie flat. As he did so, he leaned in, staying in my face. I had a crazy thought that he was gonna either bite me or kiss me.

  “Heed my advice, then, Mick Oberon. Keep your head down for a few weeks. Stay home, or perhaps leave Chicago. You do not want any part of what is happening here—and I am far from the least merciful of us. Do not stand in my way again, or I shall become so.”

  I didn’t really have a smart answer to that. Or even a dumb one. In fact, he’d dusted out before I had the breath and brain to speak again. I didn’t even see which way he’d gone.

  I lay there for a long damn time, feelin’ like a goblin’s ass after a double shot of gin and cholera. All I could see was the ceiling, but I wasn’t paying any attention to it. I was looking more inward.

  You wanna know how come I got licked? What happened to all that extra luck I’d armored myself with? I’d burned through every iota of it not getting pummeled worse.

  Everything hurt from pate to plates, but other’n a few hairline fractures, nothing was actually broke. I could feel the blood of shiny new bruises bubbling under my skin, but nothing important had ruptured.

  Hell, the way I heal, I might even be tip-top in just a couple days!

  Didn’t hurt any less now, though. Damn, how bad would it’ve been if Herne had really wanted me chilled off?

  It wasn’t me wincing and groaning as I staggered to my feet, it was, uh, the elephant, making fun of me. Yeah. Same thing on my second attempt. Mighta been both of us on the third.

  “Think you’re looking at?” I growled at him, wobbling like a stubborn ninepin. “Huh?”

  That showed him.

  I stumbled over to where my wand had rolled, nearly falling again as I collected it. One knee on the floor and one hand on a display of I-don’t-even-remember-and-who-gives-a-damn are all that saved me from a face full of floor.

  Display. Shit. I hadda think of a good yarn to spin about the case back in Africa before…

  I froze, glaring back at where I’d fallen. Thick pool of the red stuff spattered over the stone. No
t as much as you’d expect from a broderick like I’d taken from Herne, but enough.

  Hadda deal with that, then, too.

  Cost me another twenty minutes, three trips to the washroom, and any tiny bit of hope I mighta had about ever washing the blood out of this shirt. Shoved that wadded, sodden lump in a flogger pocket and gave the mirror another quick up-and-down. The worst of the grime on my face had gone down the washroom sink, and most of the blood on the coat itself was on the inside. Button up tight, make myself walk steady, maybe fiddle with a few people’s noodles here and there, nobody oughta see that I was banged up.

  Or shirtless.

  When I finally got down to the basement—hey, it took a while! Damn stairs were in cahoots with the elephants—the big room we’d been in before had sprouted more police. Probably the bulls who’d been waiting around outside. Still barely enough people here for a good solid round of musical chairs. Lydecker was hopping, trying to oversee everyone at once, telling ’em where to put things and where not to put things and don’t-touch-this and that-dingus-is-worth-more’n-your-house-that. None of ’em had their happy faces on, and I couldn’t blame ’em.

  I always casually wonder, when people all look up’n see me the way these mugs all did, what they’re each seeing. Same basics, yeah; couple knuckles taller’n average, sharp face, dull blond hair—some wiseass once described the effect as a tomahawk wearing a straw toupee.

  Yeah, I thought so, too. But I swear to you, that ain’t why I killed him. Anyway…

  Point is, everybody was giving me the dust, either glad for, or irritated by, having a new distraction, and I knew each of ’em was seeing something just a tad bit different than the others. That’s how it always works with you mortals’n me.

  “’Fraid there’s more work for some of you boys,” I said. “Looks like the gonif didn’t just mess around down here after all. There’s a display upstairs been wrecked something ugly. Glass and stone and small whatsises all over.”

  Hey, no reason our mystery crook shouldn’t take the heat for it, right? I was only here in the first place ’cause of him.

  A few of the coppers bitched and moaned, but that wasn’t nothing to Lydecker. His “What?” was high enough, I figure he deafened every stray pooch in five blocks.

  “That’s not possible!” he shrieked. “We have security guards, I looked around for damage after I found the spear missing, there’s no way—”

  “Ankled the whole museum between calling the police and them getting here?” I asked. “You sure ’bout that, Mr. Lydecker? This is an awfully big place you got here.”

  “No, of course—”

  “Or are you saying you did your looking before you called? ’Cause that’d mean you lied about what happened when.”

  “No!”

  “Then I imagine it is possible, ain’t it?”

  The gink’s jaw was actually twitching; I swear he was grinding and chattering his pearly whites simultaneously.

  “How do we know that you didn’t—?”

  I glared. Pete glared. Most of Pete’s fellow buttons stared. It was a dumb accusation, and even those who didn’t know me personally could damn well see that. What possible motive could I have?

  You know, leaving aside the whole “me and Herne locked in mortal combat” thing.

  “You wanna dislike me, Mr. Lydecker, you go right on ahead. I could give you good reasons ’til they’re coming out your ears. But this ain’t one of ’em.”

  Reason number one, of course, is that I’m a big, fat liar.

  The fuzzy grey curator clammed up and retreated to the other side of the room, where he continued to glower holes through me.

  “Where’s Galway?”

  I’d turned to Pete while asking, but it was one of the others—clean-shaven kid who looked like he couldn’ta been on the force more’n a week—who answered.

  “Went upstairs a while ago. Something about finding a phone and making a dil-ya-ble to the precinct. Actually, ’fore he left, he said he wanted to chat with—”

  “Oberon! There you are!” The man himself appeared in the doorway, and I didn’t much care for what I saw. Galway was still hot under the collar—I’d figured, by now, that “hot under the collar” was his natural state—but it wasn’t at me anymore. Hell, I didn’t have to see it in his mug, hear it in his voice. The flavor of his anger had changed.

  I don’t much like sudden changes, and I think I was more comfortable when he was steamed at me.

  “I’ve talked to the station,” he said, jerking to a stiff halt in front of me. “They’re seriously considering hiring you on as a private consultant.” The expression he turned on everyone else wasn’t nearly so keen. “Me, I’m hoping they do. Since the officers assigned to me on this don’t seem able to keep track of stolen property, or catch a thief in the building with them, some newer eyes are just what we need. And I’ll tell you another thing, I won’t be shy punishing any further dereliction or carelessness. You are not gonna embarrass me or the department in front of an outsider!”

  Oh, for the love of… Just tell ’em all to draw their billy clubs and pound me into hamburger, why don’tcha!

  And yep, Pete—and one or two of the others I’d gladhanded personally now and again—all winced or muttered and looked at their toes.

  The rest?

  Yeah, I’d better not need the boys in blue anytime soon. ’Cept maybe as pallbearers.

  “Detective Galway,” I began, “I don’t—”

  He waved me off. “I know, I know. Gotta negotiate fees and all. Come on by the clubhouse tomorrow morning. Assuming they give us the go-ahead, we’ll have you John Hancock something.”

  “But I—”

  “Listen.” His voice dropped to a rough whisper. “You won’t just be digging for an actual burglar. I ain’t sure the old man—” he cast a glance at Lydecker that mighta qualified as subtle if it’d been at all, y’know, subtle “—isn’t putting us all on. Give him a good up-and-down, too.”

  “Yeah, but I—”

  “Go on and bunk for the night, Oberon. You look all in.”

  Swell. Even complete strangers could see I was bushed.

  Tell you square, what I’d been about to say was that they’d have to do this one without me. Been noodling on that since before I even peeled myself off the floor. I’d wanted nothing much to do with Herne even before he’d gotten himself bound to the Wild Hunt, and he was even worse now that it’d left him behind. I sure as shooting didn’t wanna get dragged into whatever wingding had brought him to Chicago.

  And I couldn’t get his little parting speech outta my noggin, either. Maybe he was just being melodramatic—it’s a Fae thing—but I couldn’t shake the notion that he’d been legitimately trying to warn me off. Off something other’n just him, I mean.

  That… wasn’t Herne’s style. When the Hunter says something’s dangerous, wise folks listen.

  Fuck it for now, though. Galway wasn’t wrong; I was tired. I’d been tired, started the night off tired, and that was before I went five rounds with a guy who wrestles bears to loosen himself up in the morning.

  And that meant I was too damn wiped to argue with Gasbag Galway. He’d just hafta find out my decision tomorrow.

  Over the phone, preferably. And given how I feel about the damn dinguses, that alone oughta put you wise to just how bushed I was.

  So for tonight, I just jerked him a nod, then a second more friendly one to Pete—poor guy was gonna be stuck here a while yet, with a buncha pals who weren’t feeling real pally—and made for the exit.

  Actually, sympathies for my buddy aside, I was kinda relieved he wasn’t driving me home. Hoofing it to the station and taking the L meant a longer trip, but it also meant not crossing town with an engine right in my kisser, trying to process my brain into cheap sausage.

  It was drizzling again by the time I got outside. Of course. The bulls still loitering around the property tried to hide under their caps—the two or three hadn’t been called in
side—getting cold wet down their necks and cheeks for the trouble, and muttered to each other about how much longer they were expected to stand there.

  Miserable as a teetotaler’s birthday, basically.

  Not that I was a lot happier, but the cold don’t bug me as much, and more to the point, I was heading home. I squeezed past with a few polite words most didn’t return, and aimed my cheap Sears and Roebuck Oxfords south toward 18th Street station. Should be duck soup to hop the L over to Pilsen, even this time of night, and I could finally get some damn shuteye. Hell, after the wringer Herne put me through, I might just let myself snooze an extra day. Galway could wait to be disappointed.

  Whatever the case, I was done. This whole spear thing was curious, yeah, but definitely not worth getting into. I was through with it, and whatever went down next was no skin off my nose.

  Done. Absolutely, positively done.

  CHAPTER THREE

  I wasn’t done. Learned that as I got to the station.

  Smattering of papers danced down the street past me, carried by low gusts until they splatted against the side of this building or that, sticking thanks to the drenching they’d gotten on the way. I could almost read one of ’em; looked like somebody or other was having a huge sale on Ovaltine. I started up the station steps, making a mental note to remember not to care.

  Brakes howled, tracks rumbled, shaking oily drops from the trestles overhead, granting the already rain-soaked steps just that little bit of extra slick. Normally it wouldn’ta bothered me much. I could balance on a blade of grass in my youth, I wasn’t gonna worry about wet floors. Normally.

  Normally I didn’t feel like the dance floor on Come Cut a Rug With Your Donkey Night, either.

  Staggered once, caught myself with one mitt on the guardrail, and—

  Oh, fucking goddamn it, ow!

  It was a passing touch, not as though I’d tripped and conked myself on it, so it wasn’t too ugly. No agony, no shakes. My hand was pan-seared, though, ready to serve up with a side of greens, throbbing to beat the band. And it itched so bad I’d have welcomed ants and mosquitoes to scratch it for me.