Ghosts of Karnak Page 15

  Three men lay dead in the road at the foot of their float, splayed across the surface. They were riddled with bullet holes, which—judging by the pattern of the wounds—had clearly come from multiple directions.

  Gabriel had no doubt they were cultists, targeted specifically by the Reaper to disrupt the parade. This wasn’t an attempt to strike a real blow at the enemy—at least not in terms of show of force—but to reclaim the parade, to undermine the celebration. Now, when people talked about the exhibition, it would be with the solemn knowledge of what had happened, when three unarmed men had been callously murdered in the street in front of hundreds of children. For New Yorkers, any talk of Thoth for years to come would be marred with bloodshed.

  Gabriel decided he could let the police deal with this particular crisis—the reprisals would come later that night, when he’d be better equipped to make a difference. Now, he would go after Ginny.

  He broke into a run, weaving in and out of the fleeing crowd, hurrying after the float.

  He found it abandoned just a few hundred yards up the road, all sign of Ginny and the cultists gone. He turned on the spot, trying to see which way they’d fled, but there were hundreds of people in the immediate area, many of them wearing fancy dress, and it was impossible to tell. They’d probably bundled her off in the car as soon as the shooting started.

  Furious with himself, he punched the side of the sphinx, his fist passing right through the papier mâché exterior and snapping a wooden support beam inside.

  He knew they had her now, and that they’d done something to her, probably drugging her to make her suggestible, or to keep her disorientated and compliant.

  Most importantly, though, he knew she was still alive. This cult—whoever they were—had kidnapped her for a reason, and he was going to do everything in his power to get her back.

  NINETEEN

  “I saw her, Felix. I was this close to getting her back, and I screwed it up.” He was pacing back and forth across the precinct roof, his hands balled into fists. “She looked right at me, as if she didn’t recognize me anymore.”

  “These people, Gabriel, they’re dangerous. Did you hear what I said about Vettel and the dead mobsters?”

  “Yes, of course I heard you,” snapped the Ghost. He wheeled around to face Donovan. “I know they’re dangerous. I’ve seen what they can do. Last night I watched them put down an Enforcer like it was nothing but a stray dog. They nearly put me down, too. But listen to me. They’ve got Ginny. I’ve seen it now with my own eyes. I have to get her back.”

  “We’re going to get her back,” said Donovan. “Okay? We’ll do it together. We’ll bring these bastards down. But not like this. If you go out there tonight, by yourself, half dead from existing wounds and so angry that you’re not thinking straight, you’re just going to get yourself killed.” Donovan took out his packet of cigarettes. “So sit down, shut up for a minute, and smoke one of these.” He held out the packet, extending one of the cigarettes.

  The Ghost glowered at him for a moment, and then took it. He pulled the ignition tab, watched the tip flare, and took a long, steady draw. He turned his back on Donovan, staring out across the glimmering rooftops.

  He knew that Donovan was right—he just felt so helpless. Ginny was out there, alone, and he couldn’t do anything about it. He wasn’t good at biding his time. He’d never been a patient man at the best of times, and now—well, if only he knew whom to hit, he’d at least feel like he had a plan of some kind.

  “I’m sorry,” he said, after a while.

  “There’s no need,” said Donovan. “I understand. If it were Flora… well, I can only imagine.” He walked over to join him at the edge of the roof. The wind whipped up his coat and ruffled his hair. “But you have to trust me. We’ll do this the right way. We’ll nail them both, the Reaper and this Circle of Thoth.”

  “What about Landsworth?” said the Ghost. “Is he our way in? He admitted he’d met Ginny.”

  “You spoke to him? I thought we’d agreed th—”

  “Hold on,” said the Ghost, cutting him off. “There was no roughhousing, just as we agreed. I happened to bump into him at the museum yesterday while I was talking with Arthur. I tested the water, is all—told him we had a mutual acquaintance, and surreptitiously showed him a tattoo of a cartouche on my wrist.”

  “You did what?”

  “Don’t worry—I drew it there that morning, on the off-chance.”

  “The off-chance, eh?” Donovan sighed. “How did he take it?”

  “He panicked. He didn’t know what to say. I think he’s scared, Felix. In too deep with no way of getting out, but not particularly happy about what’s going on.”

  “I’m going to bring him in. Let him sweat it out in a cell for a while and see if he’ll talk. I would have done it this morning, but what with everything that happened at the parade…”

  “There’s going to be a war,” said the Ghost. “And we’re going to be caught in the middle. There’ll be more death in the streets before it’s done. We need to be ready.”

  “Easier said than done,” said Donovan. “We’ve both fought in a war before. Nothing could have prepared us for that.”

  “This is different,” said the Ghost. “This is New York. This is our town. I’m damned if I’m going to let them take it from us, not after everything we’ve done to protect it.”

  Donovan nodded. Smoke plumed from his nostrils, but he didn’t say anything.

  The Ghost scanned the nearby rooftops, searching for any sign of the baboon. The thought had occurred to him that the cult might be using it to spy on people, its glowing eye a form of transmitter, but he could see nothing amongst the darkened recesses of the other buildings. “Astrid thinks the apparition is connected,” he said.

  “The one in the news reports?”

  “Yes. She’s convinced it’s got something to do with the cult. She laughed when I told her we’d ignored it.”

  “What isn’t connected,” said Donovan. “That feels like a more pertinent question. I feel like I can’t see the wood for the bloody trees.”

  “It seemed simple when it was just the Reaper,” said the Ghost. “I knew what I was up against, then.”

  “He’s a tough cookie,” said Donovan. “Not to be underestimated. He wants to have Flora and me over for dinner.”

  “He what?” The Ghost tossed the stub of his cigarette on the ground at Donovan’s feet. “Please don’t tell me you’re considering it?”

  “Of course not. No. It’s just… he knows about Flora. He looked me right in the eye and told me h—”

  “He looked you right in the eye? Felix, is there something you haven’t told me?”

  “Mullins and I paid him a little visit. That’s all. Asked him a few questions about his dead girlfriend. How do you think I got the name of the cult? He gave us a location for them, too—a place he’d already burned to the ground. Mullins checked it out. It was derelict.”

  “You don’t want to find yourself in his debt, Felix. That’s how these things start,” said the Ghost. “Don’t let him think he’s done you a favor.”

  “He knows,” said Felix. “He knows I’m out to get him. That’s what the dinner invitation was all about. It was a threat, not a gesture. He was warning me that he knows about my family. That he could come after them at any time.” Donovan’s shoulders slumped. “I tried to send Flora away again, but she won’t hear of it.”

  “Then we have to move fast,” said the Ghost. “We have to figure out our next move.”

  Donovan suddenly stumbled, and the Ghost flicked out a hand, grabbing him by the front of his jacket to stop him tumbling over the lip of the building. He eased him back to his feet.

  “What the hell was that?”

  There was a thud, and the ground beneath them trembled again. The Ghost heard voices from down below, calling out in alarm.

  There was another thud, and then a third, followed by a steady succession.

  “Are you a
rmed, Felix?” he said, ratcheting up his flechette gun.

  Donovan pulled his handgun from its holster. “And ready.”

  “Make them count.” He leaned over the edge of the precinct building, peering down. “There are two of them, headed this way. I’ll try to draw them off while you make a run for it.”

  “Two what?”

  “Enforcers,” said the Ghost. “It seems like the Reaper really wants you to make that dinner date.” He watched as the two man-machines methodically scaled the side of the building, their fists taking chunks out of the wall as they bashed handholds, hauling themselves up.

  Below, armed police officers had spilled out of the building and were taking potshots, their bullets ricocheting off the metal ribs of the Enforcers’ exoskeletons, sparking bright and sharp in the darkness.

  Donovan was peering over the edge now, too, his weapon ready.

  “Bullets aren’t going to do much good,” said the Ghost. “Whatever the Reaper’s pumped into the pilots seems to make them impervious to pain. Maybe a shot to the head, but hit them in the chest and they’ll just keep coming.”

  “All right,” said Donovan. “Head it is.” He glanced over his shoulder at a clanging sound from behind him, followed by metal scraping against stone. “Umm, I don’t think they’ve come alone,” he said, backing up.

  The Ghost followed his gaze to see a grappling hook had landed on the roof and snagged against the lip. The attached rope was pulled taut, disappearing over the edge.

  Someone was scaling the building from the alleyway at the side. He ran over to take a look. At least five cultists were running up the wall, swords tucked in their belts and blowpipes clasped between their teeth. There were more in the alleyway below, stirring the shadows.

  “You know that war we were talking about?” he called to Donovan. “It’s starting now.”

  He backed up toward the door. “Get inside, and get out,” he said. Below, the sound of gunfire had become a cacophony as more and more police officers came running out of the building, targeting their attackers. The men below had no idea that Donovan and the Ghost were on the roof, of course—they’d always kept their conferences private, to avoid Donovan having to face any awkward questions. As far as everyone else knew, he just liked to take in the view while he smoked.

  “Not likely,” said Donovan. “Like you said, this is our city, and they’ve brought the war to my patch.”

  The first of the Enforcers had almost reached the roof, its arm smashing down through the wall, sending hunks of masonry crashing to the street below. Its massive hand sunk into the gravel, digging deep into the fabric of the roof itself, searching for purchase. Its other hand came over the top a moment later, and it hauled itself up, climbing to its feet.

  “Good God,” said Donovan, taking it in properly for the first time. “Look at it.”

  “It’s not a person anymore. It’s a machine.”

  “I don’t care what it is,” said Donovan. “It doesn’t belong on my roof.” He raised his gun and fired, but the bullet pinged off the frame, whistling away into the night.

  The Ghost flexed his neck, trying to loosen his shoulders.

  This was going to hurt. A lot.

  He dropped into a crouch, and then ran at the Enforcer, triggering his boosters as he leapt at it, grabbing for its head guard. If he could overbalance it, catch it by surprise while it was still standing precariously on the very edge of the roof, he thought maybe he could carry it over, dropping it to the street below.

  The Enforcer was too fast, however, and swung its arm up, catching the Ghost in the shoulder and battering him out of the way. Unable to stop himself, his arms wheeling, he went over the edge, plummeting toward the sidewalk.

  He fought to take a breath, gulping at the rushing air. His heart was thrumming, pounding in his ears. His eyes were trying to close, and blackness beckoned. Fighting with everything he had left, the Ghost forced his arms flat by his sides, bringing his legs together as he fell into the dive.

  Police officers, failing to understand he was trying to help, opened fire, guns barking. One of them clipped his thigh, scoring a hot, painful gash, but he had no time to consider it. The ground was coming up too fast.

  He arced his back, forcing his head up and his legs down. The pressure was incredible, and his ears felt as if they were about to burst. The sidewalk was only yards away…

  And then the boosters seemed to catch, and he was shooting upwards again, wavering as he tried to steady his course. He crested the top of the building, shots still ringing out all around him.

  Donovan was up there alone, firing into the face of the first Enforcer as the second was dragging itself over the ledge.

  The Ghost flung himself into another dive, arms extended, flechette gun spraying. He knew it wouldn’t do much to dissuade the Enforcer that was bearing down on Donovan, but it might distract it long enough for him to make a break.

  His flechettes chewed a fist-sized gouge in the pilot’s chest as he concentrated his fire, swooping away at the last minute to avoid another swipe from its fist. Donovan had taken his cue, ducking out of the way and running around behind it, but the other one was now nearly on top of them, and the black-clad cultists had also started to spread out onto the roof.

  He could see Donovan wavering, unsure which of them to aim his weapon at.

  He dropped onto the roof, tumbling into a roll and springing back to his feet close to Donovan. His broken ribs felt as though they were on fire. He put a hand on the other man’s arm, lowering his gun. “Let’s just see what happens next,” he said.

  The two of them fell back as the cultists surged in, more and more of them spilling over the lip of the roof. They divided, circling both Enforcers, blades drawn.

  Once again, the cultists appeared to be deploying the same tactics—harrying the Enforcers, goading them with their blades while maneuvering them into a more desirable position—in this instance, the very edge of the rooftop.

  The second Enforcer—the one which had only just clawed its way onto the roof—took a swipe with its fist, pivoting on one foot in order to widen the arc. Three of the cultists went tumbling off the edge of the building, screaming to their deaths, while another was tossed across the rooftop, crumpling into a bloody heap on the gravel.

  The others closed ranks, maintaining the circle, still darting forward to slash at the pilot then falling back, keeping the Enforcer pinned in place.

  The Ghost heard another scream, and turned to see more of the cultists fall, while the first Enforcer had two of them pinned beneath its foot and was slowly pressing them into the roof, squeezing the life out of them with its immense bulk.

  He thought that maybe he could try again, while the cultists had it distracted—charge it with his boosters on full thrust and send it plummeting from the roof. He couldn’t see any other option. He steeled himself.

  And then, with no apparent warning, the cultists suddenly fell back, lowering their swords and bowing their heads.

  Confused, the Ghost glanced at Donovan, who seemed just as nonplussed as he was. The first Enforcer took a step forward, as if tentatively testing the water, waiting to see how the cultists would react. They remained perfectly still.

  Something stirred above them, like a change in the currents of the wind.

  The Ghost felt sunlight on his face, and looked up, almost dazzled by the sudden glow. It wasn’t sunlight at all; in fact, it wasn’t even the glow of the womanly apparition that had drifted into view above the rooftop—it was a hot desert wind; a warm breath against his throat; the exhalation of a goddess.

  She hung there in the sky like a whispering phantasm, her arms trailing by her sides, her head thrown back, calling upon the stars. She was wreathed in bandages that seemed to unravel about her arms and legs, billowing in an unearthly wind. She carried an ankh in her left hand, and behind her head was the glowing form of a sun disk, bright and pure. He found it hard to discern her features from down on the rooftop, but h
e could see that her hair was whipping about her face, mussed by the same supernatural breeze, and her eyes shone with light so intense that it caused an afterglow to stain his retina, even through the lenses of his goggles.

  She hovered for a moment, regarding the scene that had been unfolding on the rooftop. Even the Enforcers had stopped in their tracks, their slack-jawed faces upturned toward this ancient specter.

  She raised her hands, and the light around her seemed to coalesce, curling into impressionistic shapes. They grew in intensity, their outlines becoming slowly more defined, until the Ghost could see the head and shoulders of twin lions, stirring at her feet. They had the same quality as the woman herself—ghostly, ethereal, unreal. Yet when they roared, he could feel their power, awakening a primal, ancient fear, deep in his gut. The apparition flicked her wrists, and the lions rushed forward, charging the Enforcers.

  The Ghost watched, awed, as the phantoms seemed to pass through the Enforcers, bursting through their chests, only to dissolve into nothingness as they erupted through the other side, like billowing smoke made from the purest light, dispersing on the breeze.

  The effect on the Enforcers, however, was uncanny. The life seemed to simply blink out of them. One moment it was there—the final vestiges of humanity, the spark of life that drove the machines—the next it had gone, as if the lions had simply consumed it. As one, the Enforcers seized up, toppling backwards over the lip of the precinct building.

  Donovan rushed to the edge as they fell, peering over, calling to the men below to get out of the way, and seconds later the Ghost heard the crunch of their exoskeletons hitting the sidewalk, smashing craters into the road.

  He stared up at the apparition, utterly lost for words. It was beautiful, and deadly—a thing not of this world. He found it difficult to focus on it properly, as if it were not entirely there, as if this was light that was never meant to be witnessed by human eyes.