I struggled harder to wake up, trying to wrestle sleep into submission. But there was nothing to wrestle, and nothing to wrestle with—I had no sense of my body or my limbs. The vision of Tina faded to echoes of taunting, demonic laughter. Then all subsided to nothingness.
Maybe nothing was the key.
The never-ending nothingness that absorbed me was an illusion. It had to be. I wasn’t some disembodied consciousness drifting in the void. I knew that. And I also knew the way to shatter an illusion is to focus on what’s real.
My mind searched for some shred of reality I could build on. It was hard. I’d think of something I knew was real—the smell of coffee, Mab’s onetwothree pats, Kane’s silver hair—and try to catch hold of it. But before I could, it was subsumed by the void, like a raindrop falling into the ocean.
I kept trying. What was the last thing I remembered before I plunged into darkness? I groped for a memory. Kitchen, I’d been in the kitchen. I must still be there. What did my kitchen look like? From where I floated, it seemed impossibly far away and difficult to remember, but piece by piece I brought it into my mind. The table—there was a table, right? Yes. I strove to remember what it looked like. Black … there was black, like the blackness here. A blurry image of a table began to form, with a black top … and chrome legs. More black—the counters were black granite. The picture gained a little more focus, and I added the cherry cupboards, the stove, the stainless-steel fridge. I could see myself now, slumped across the table, a pot of cold herbal tea beside me. Juliet’s FANGS FOR THE MEMORIES mug. There—that’s where I really was. In my kitchen, not dissolved into utter darkness.
Black mist blew across the images, smudging their edges and threatening to swallow them. But I kept focusing, hanging on to that picture of my kitchen—the table, the counters, the fridge, the mug—and eventually the mist wafted away. The vision grew sharper, more substantial. I could feel the cool, smooth tabletop now, feel the hardness of the chair I sat on. My head rested on my right arm, which tingled from the weight. Mab’s tea floated scents of herbs through the room. I pushed myself into the vision, making myself experience what was real, letting go of what wasn’t.
I opened my eyes, awake. I lay half-sprawled on the table, slumped over the open book. I’d drooled on the page in my sleep. I wiped my chin and tried to sit up. A wave of dizziness and nausea made me take it easy, but I got upright and surveyed the kitchen. Everything was as I’d pictured it. Solid. Real.
Using a napkin to blot the saliva from the book, I saw the picture had changed. Difethwr, receded to the background, loomed gray and featureless. Like a shadow. It stood behind a woman—one who looked way too much like me, with short, reddish-blonde hair. She wore a long, medieval-style gown, and on her shoulder perched a monstrous, black crow. She was hugely pregnant.
I shoved the book across the table. It crashed into the pepper mill, which tottered, spun, and fell to the floor. To hell with The Book of Utter Darkness. To hell with its prophecies, taunts, and tricks. The book was like that dark void—empty and fake, an illusion. Mab was right; we make our own destiny. And I was taking charge of mine.
I’d been asleep for hours. The kitchen clock read four twenty; the sun would set at five. I needed to hurry. I changed my sweats for jeans and a sweater. From my weapons cabinet, I chose two bronze-bladed throwing knives and then, reverently, lifted down the Sword of Saint Michael. I anointed its blade with sacramental wine, invoking the aid of the archangel Michael, scourge of demons, to guide his sword. The ritual finished, I buckled on the sword belt. As I slid the weapon home in its scabbard, I remembered with satisfaction how Pryce had cringed from this sword over the dream phone. Tonight, he’d get up close and personal with the real thing.
I called Kane. This time, he picked up on the first ring. “I’ve been trying to call you for hours,” he said. “Where have you been?”
“I was going to say the same thing to you.”
“I got routed through Minneapolis. Then I couldn’t get a direct flight to Boston. Anyway, I’m back now.”
“Did you convince the mayor to stop the concert?”
“No such luck. It’s on.”
Damn. “Okay, meet me at Tina’s dressing room. Before sunset, if you can make it. She’s in danger, Kane.”
“I’m on my way.”
So was I. My jacket was draped across the living room sofa. I put it on, then tucked the HOME SWEET HOME slate into an inner pocket. Hellforged lay so still against my leg that I had to check to make sure it was there. On an impulse, I took the dagger from its sheath. Except for a slight vibration, it handled like a regular knife, no twitching or jumping. I spun it around a couple of times, like Mab had done on the first day. Smooth and easy. “Come on,” I said, “let’s go stone some crows.”
36
GRANARY BURYING GROUND IS ONE OF THE OLDEST CEMETERIES in Boston. It holds more than two thousand graves, including those of some famous Bostonians: Paul Revere, three signers of the Declaration of Independence, and various Massachusetts politicians. It seemed like a strange place for a concert, until you remembered who the concert was for—the undead, partying hard enough to wake the dead.The concert wasn’t in the actual cemetery; the site had way too much historical value to risk being stomped to bits by a bunch of zombies getting their groove on. Instead, the city had closed off parts of Tremont and Bromfield streets, forming a T-shape. The stage was erected in front of the iron-spiked cemetery fence, allowing a good view down Bromfield Street, all the way back to the barriers. Roadies set things up, adjusting lights and checking the towering amplifiers that looked powerful enough to knock over a building or two when Monster Paul blasted some guitar chords through them.
Zombies already milled around, staking out their spots. Some crowded the area directly in front of the stage. Others set up chairs along Bromfield Street. Lines formed in front of the vendor carts selling hot dogs, popcorn, falafel, burritos, deep-fried clam cakes—anything zombies could stuff into their faces in huge quantities.
The late afternoon was chilly, the temperature hovering a few degrees above freezing, practically a heat wave for Boston in early February. I pushed through the crowd, looking for the dressing rooms. It was almost five. The sun was low enough that zombies were taking off their sun-protection gear, relying on the long shadows of tall buildings to protect their skin and eyes. I wanted to be right there, watching over Tina, before the actual moment of sunset when the Morfran could come out.
Several news vans clustered near the Tremont Street barrier. One of them belonged to Channel 10 On-the-Scene News. Lynne Hong sat in the front passenger seat, her face in profile. Funny. She usually covered hard news and didn’t bother with fluff pieces like rock concerts.
A pudgy teenage zombie, wearing an oversized Monster Paul T-shirt and ripped jeans, talked to another reporter. As I got closer, I heard Jenna say, “Nope, sorry. Tina can’t give you an exclusive. What can I say? MTV called first.” She popped her gum with finality. She must’ve got the job as Tina’s manager.
When I asked Jenna where the dressing rooms were, she told me to go behind the stage and through the gate into the cemetery. Then she went back to booking Tina’s nonexclusive interview. I walked in the direction she’d pointed and saw a couple of trailers inside the cemetery, right up against the fence. At the main gate, a massive concrete structure that looked vaguely Egyptian, two hulking zombies stood sentry, watching the crowd through narrowed eyes. Muscular and broad-chested, they both reminded me of Sykes. I hoped Tina had given them my name—if she hadn’t, it was going to be tough ducking past these two.
But there was no need to worry. The taller zombie consulted a clipboard and put out his hand for ID. I showed him my driver’s license, and he waved me through. “Next-to-last dressing room,” he said. “Name’s on the door.”
I hadn’t gone more than two steps when a hand grabbed my arm in a bone-crushing grip and yanked me backward to face a scowling zombie. “What the hell is that?” he asked, gesturing at the Sword of Saint Michael.
“A toothpick. What does it look like?”
“You can’t take a sword in there.”
“Why not?”
“Gee, I wonder.” With a flick of his wrist he flung me back to the wrong side of the gate. He moved in front of me and folded his arms, daring me to try to get past him.
The light was almost gone. If the sun hadn’t dropped below the horizon yet, it would within minutes. I needed to get to Tina. It’d cost me one of my knives, but I had to knock this bozo and his buddy out of my way. I hung my head, pretending to give up. One guard wore running shoes; the other had on steel-toed work boots. I could throw one knife to nail a running-shoed foot and stab the other guard in his overdeveloped bicep, then run like crazy—
“It’s okay,” said a voice behind me. “The freak’s with me.”
I looked back to see Norden, my old Goon Squad pal. He wore a dark blue parka and his usual sneer.
The zombie glowered at Norden, then me. “Why didn’t you say so?” He stepped aside.
Never in three million lifetimes would I ever imagine I’d be happy to be “with” Elmer Norden, but as we trotted past the guards, that was exactly how I felt. I started to thank him, but he cut me off.
“You’re late. And you were supposed to report to the command center on Bromfield Street, not waltz back here.”
“I have no clue what you’re talking about.”
“I’m in charge of security for this event. You’re on my staff list. Some nutcase phoned in a demon threat, and somebody seems to think you’re pretty good at fighting demons.” He shook his head. “In the old days, we got bomb threats,” he muttered, sounding nostalgic.
Oh. I guess that nutcase would be me. So that sleepy-voiced cop had woken up and reported a possible demon attack. That explained why Lynne Hong was here. Someone must have tipped her off about the “threat,” and she’d come in hopes of getting some zombie carnage on video. Not if I could help it.