Blood Heir Read online

  A side door opened, and a middle-aged woman in a beige business suit walked in, the man who had met me following close behind. The woman was in her mid-fifties, with straight black hair cut in a flattering bob and features that hinted at East Asian heritage.

  The woman held her hand out. “Hazel Chao. I’m the Methodist Bishop of North Georgia.”

  I shook her hand. She had a firm, dry handshake. “Aurelia Ryder, knight of the Order.”

  “A pleasure to meet you, although I wish it was under better circumstances. Why don’t we talk in the garden?”

  I followed her through the side door, down a hallway, and through another door that led outside. We emerged into a large courtyard garden, with the cathedral directly behind us and auxiliary buildings on the three sides, each rising three stories high and topped by turrets on the corners.

  “A good place to weather a siege,” I noted.

  “‘The old world is dying, and the new world struggles to be born: now is the time of monsters,’” she quoted.

  “And monsters necessitate castles,” I said. “Although I doubt Antonio Gramsci had our kind of monsters in mind.”

  There were two translations of that quote, and as it often was, the least accurate one sounded the best.

  She gave me a surprised look and smiled. “And I just showed my own bias. I didn’t expect you to be well-read.”

  “My family emphasizes education. Between stabbing people, of course.”

  “Of course.” She glanced at the man. “It’s okay, Gerald. I don’t believe the knight will harm me, and if she tries, I’m not sure you could stop her anyway.”

  Gerald gave me a suspicious look and went inside.

  The bishop and I strolled down the path. On the right bees buzzed around delicate pink flowers of mountain laurel. On the left, rhododendron bushes were ablaze with bunches of raspberry-red blossoms. Blue-eyed grass and bluestar bordered the path, offering purple and blue flowers. They must’ve had beehives somewhere on the premises.

  “I will be blunt,” Bishop Chao said. “The death of Pastor Haywood was a devastating blow. On a personal level, he was one of my dearest friends. His contribution to the Church and to the people of Atlanta cannot be overstated. Whoever killed him tore a gaping hole in our city. I will help you in any way I can.”

  “Thank you.”

  “In seeking answers, I have a responsibility to his congregation and to the city at large. He meant a great deal to a great many people. He was beloved, yet he was murdered with such shocking violence and for unknown reasons.”

  She had put a lot of emphasis on that “unknown.” Atlanta viewed Pastor Haywood as a saint. She had just warned me that if I found out any unsavory secrets that led to his murder, the responsibility for ruining the memory of the holy man would rest on my shoulders. Interesting.

  I had to stay in character, so it was my turn to reach for fancy quotes. “‘For each one will bear his own load.’”

  Bishop Chao glanced at me. “Galatians 6:5.”

  “My load is to discover who killed Pastor Haywood. His sins, whatever they were, are his load. Your load is to deal with the consequences of his loss. Think of me as a tool. I do not take sides. It’s not up to me what people do with my findings.”

  “I see,” Bishop Chao said. “Perhaps this is a conversation I should have with the Knight-Protector.”

  Oh, Nick would just love that. “Perhaps.”

  If Pastor Haywood had done something sordid, the blow to the Church would be devastating. Questions would be asked. Did the bishop know, and if she didn’t, why not?

  Bishop Chao sighed. “So how can I help you, Knight Ryder?”

  “Shortly before his death, Pastor Haywood was approached by a man about a ‘holy artifact.’”

  The bishop frowned. “Really? What kind of holy artifact?”

  “My source isn’t sure. They were preoccupied with cookies at the time. I do know that Pastor Haywood left in a car the next day and returned several hours later.”

  “Nathan?” Bishop Chao asked. “Are you sure?”

  “Why is that unusual?”

  “He got carsick. He preferred to walk or ride a horse. Also, many of the people he ministered to didn’t have a vehicle. He didn’t want to set himself apart.” She smiled a sad little smile. “He really did get terrible motion sickness though. He vomited twice on the way to his own ordination. We had to coax him back onto the bus, because he declared that since Jesus walked, so would he. And that was thirty years ago.”

  Magic fell. Both of us paused, adjusting to the sudden absence of power. Technology had temporarily gained the upper hand. It wouldn’t last, but meanwhile I had fewer tools at my disposal.

  “So this artifact must’ve been very important to him?”

  “Yes. I can’t imagine what would make him get into a car, especially with someone he didn’t know. I don’t understand why he didn’t call me. He always called me about things like that.”

  “Was it common for Pastor Haywood to authenticate artifacts?”

  Bishop Chao sighed again. “It happened. Nobody likes to talk about it, but holy items are a big business. Especially Christian relics. Ninety nine percent of them are fake, but that one percent can perform miracles.”

  Not all miracles were benign. A few years ago, the rod of Aaron was found in Egypt. When cast down, it created an enormous unkillable serpent that devoured several dozen people before the army finally managed to drown it.

  “Nathan had the gift of discernment,” the bishop continued. “But he was selective with his expertise. Five years ago, the Catholics asked him to authenticate nail clippings from a saint, because they wanted an independent expert. Unfortunately, the clippings didn’t belong to a saint. They don’t know where they came from, but they induced madness in the devout. Nathan lost three days to delirium. After that, he was very careful.”

  “And you’re sure the request didn’t come through the Church?”

  “Absolutely. I will check, but since the clipping episode, all such requests are forwarded directly to me.”

  So, either they approached him on their own or she was lying. If she was lying, she was an incredible actress, because she seemed genuinely surprised.

  “You have to understand,” she said. “Nathan didn’t care about money or prestige. Whatever they showed him had to be truly extraordinary.”

  “Who are the most prominent relic hunters in the region? Who would have the kind of reputation that would lure a man like Pastor Haywood away from his church?”

  Her face twisted with disdain. I might as well have asked her who were the best pimps in the neighborhood.

  “I would have said Waylon Billiot, but he died three or four years ago. Besides him Darryl Knox and Dakota Mooney. Darryl and Dakota used to be married. They had some kind of falling out, and rumors say Dakota shot him in the a… upper posterior. Now they can’t stand each other. There is also Mark Rudolph, who is extremely unpleasant. I’ll ask Gerald to give you a list. It may take him a couple of hours.”

  “Thank you,” I told her. “I’ll come by later in the day and pick it up.”

  “These are not nice, reasonable people, Knight Ryder. They are the kind of people who cross an ocean filled with monsters, climb into dark tombs filled with horrors, and then sell what they find to the highest bidder. They will shoot you for a dollar. If they decide that you are interfering with their business, they will retaliate.”

  “Thank you for your advice.”

  “Keep me in the loop,” Bishop Chao asked. “Please.”

  “I will,” I promised.

  Tulip trotted down the deserted street. Behind me towering poplars and oaks shielded the tall walls that guarded the houses of Tuxedo Park. Ahead lay urban ruins. After leaving St. Luke’s, I’d turned south and then east, on West Paces Ferry Road. Soon it would cross the New Peachtree Road, and I would turn right again, heading south to Jesus Junction.

  Jesus Junction, otherwise known as the safest pla
ce in Atlanta, sat at the intersection of three roads, Peachtree, East Wesley, and West Wesley. It was a place where three churches formed a rough triangle: the Cathedral of Christ the King, the mother-church of Catholic Archdiocese of Atlanta, Second Ponce de Leon Baptist Church, and the Cathedral of St. Phillip, home to one of the largest Episcopalian congregations in the country. A good chunk of Buckhead lay in ruins, but Jesus Junction stood untouched, a beacon of safety among the chaos, the houses of worship protected from magic’s teeth by the faith of its congregants.

  Pastor Haywood had worked with the Catholics before, and among all the Christian denominations, the Catholic church bought the most relics and offered the highest prices. If I were selling holy artifacts, I’d tap the Catholics first.

  I had just passed the Atlanta History Center when I heard the jingling. It was an odd, disconcerting sound, as if someone had sharpened some metal coins and was now shaking them in a sack. I’d heard this before.

  Tulip flicked her ears.

  The jingling came again, insistent. Jingle. Jingle. Scrape of metal on metal, sharp enough to make you cringe.

  Interesting. I brought Tulip to a halt. Let’s see what happens.

  Two men stepped out into the road from behind the ruins of Regions Bank. The one on the left, six feet tall, with a beefy build and a gold chain around his tan neck, looked like a typical street tough guy, the kind who made his money collecting debts and carried brass knuckles in his pocket. He wore jeans, a tank top, and a custom pair of tennis shoes, handmade. A rifle hung off his shoulder. He was a large man, but next to the other guy, he looked like a child.

  The second man towered over the first by a good foot and a half. Huge shoulders, barrel chest, weirdly long arms bulging with muscle. He wore stained camo pants tucked into giant yellow boots and a brown tank top that left his shoulders bare. A three-and-a-half-foot wooden club hung from his belt. Every inch of his visible skin was covered with dense red body hair, matching the greasy mane hanging from his head. His brutish face sported a permanent sunburn, except for the spots covered by his beard.

  The two men strode to the middle of the street and stopped, blocking my way. The goon on the left wouldn’t be a problem. His swagger told me he was strong and likely relied on brute force and his mass rather than speed and training. The giant next to him was another story. He moved like a man half his size, with a kind of animalistic smoothness. Like a bear, seemingly lumbering but big and fast, and hard to stop once he charged. Not good. With a club, his reach was longer than mine by half a foot. With magic up, he wouldn’t have been a problem. But magic was down, and he outweighed me by at least a hundred and seventy-five pounds.

  Jingle, jingle. Getting closer.

  The smaller man unslung his rifle and pointed it at me. “Don’t move.”

  I’d picked this road to avoid traffic. Buckhead used to be an edge city, an uptown anchored by a cluster of high-rise hotels, offices, condominiums, and restaurants, none of which had fared well since the Shift. It also spawned some nasty magic hazmat during magic waves. Like downtown and midtown, the area was a treasure trove for the reclamation crews, but downtown was safer, and so far, the city mostly left Buckhead to its own devices.

  These two weren’t run of the mill bandits. This road wasn’t well used, and the persistent jingling told me they were a good way from home. Were they waiting for me? Why?

  I could shoot them now with my bow, but there was a good chance I’d kill them, and any answers would die with them.

  A huge dog trotted into view from behind the Regions building, thirty-five inches at the shoulder and slabbed with monstrous muscle. His chest was so deep and broad that his hindquarters looked like an afterthought. He gripped the ground with paws the size of melons. A single hit would crush a human skull. His head with wide oversized jaws sat on a neck thicker than my thigh. Long metal spikes thrust from his skull, running all the way down his spine to the long tail. His fur was a forest of blueish metal needles.

  An iron hound. There was only one place in Atlanta it could have come from.

  The beast saw me. His turquoise eyes focused on my face. He opened his cavernous mouth, flashing four-inch fangs, and snarled. The spikes snapped erect with a metallic screech. The dog took a step toward me and halted, brought up short by a thick chain wrapped around his throat.

  A moment later its handler waddled into view. He was the smaller man’s height, but the giant’s weight, and he carried most of it in a beer gut. White, hairy, wearing denim overalls with no shirt. A machete hung in a sheath on his hip. He held the dog’s chain in his left hand, and a second chain, stretching behind the building, in his right.

  The handler anchored himself, pulling the hound short, and yanked the other chain. A small body flew into view and landed at the handler’s feet.

  Dougie.

  His face was a puffy bruise, his lips split, his right eye swollen shut. His hair was caked with blood. His jeans were shredded, and bloody flesh gaped through the holes. They had dragged him, scrapping his knees raw. The chain was wrapped around his narrow waist, and it had worn the skin way from his ribs and stomach. He hadn’t fallen the way a person would normally fall. He had collapsed like a rag doll, boneless and making no effort to catch himself.

  The world turned red in a single furious second. They’d beaten a child. They’d broken his bones. They put him on a chain. They dragged him across the city. The rage burned in me like a firestorm.

  The handler yanked the chain, lifting the child three feet off the ground. “This her?”

  No answer.

  The asshole shook the chain. The boy dangled like a broken doll.

  I would kill him slowly.

  “Is this her?”

  Dougie opened one eye to a mere slit. His voice was little more than a whisper. “No.”

  The handler dropped him and looked at the giant. “It’s her.”

  If I showed the slightest interest or concern, they’d torture him to get me to behave. I had to shift their priorities.

  “Wow, the hills really do have eyes,” I called out. “And greasy hair.”

  The giant peered at me. “You look like a good breeder.”

  “You look like your parents met at a family reunion.”

  His sidekick with the rifle frowned.

  “Keep thinking. It will come to you.”

  The handler bared yellowed teeth at me. “Mouthy bitch.”

  My middle name. “Did you finally get it? Don’t be ashamed. It’s hard to be the son of Sasquatch.”

  Dougie crumpled, forgotten on the ground. That’s right, focus on me.

  “Get off the horse and lie down on the ground,” the asshole with the gun ordered.

  I needed to get them away from the boy. I raised my arm and pointed at the gunman.

  “What’s that? You gonna shoot me with your finger, you dumb bitch? Get off the horse and lie down on the ground. I’m not gonna tell you again.”

  I got off Tulip and tapped her with my hand. She trotted off to the side, out of the way. The three men watched me. Dougie lay still.

  I whistled once, a short, harsh note, and dropped to the ground.

  Turgan dropped from the sky like a stone, raking the gunman’s face with his talons. The man shrieked. A shot rang out. I jumped up, dashed left, behind the Regions building, and whistled again. The eagle streaked across the sky, soaring clear. The whole thing took less than two seconds.

  I pulled Dakkan out and screwed the spear together. The building blocked the street. I couldn’t see them, but they couldn’t see me either.

  The gunman was still screaming.

  “Shut up,” the giant snarled, his voice cold and vicious.

  “It took my fucking eye!”

  A wet thud announced a punch landing. “Shut up or I’ll crush your head.”

  The screams died. I moved east, circling the building, moving silently along the wall.

  “Larry, loose the fucking dog on her.”

  The chain
clanked on the ground.

  I waited.

  The dog came around the corner, following my scent, his massive paws scraping the stone in a shower of sparks. Fangs flung spit into the air. The cavernous mouth opened wide…

  I stabbed Dakkan into that gaping maw. The spear bit into the soft tissue inside the throat, slicing through muscle, cartilage, and bone into the brain. I jerked the spear free. The dog stumbled, his charge suddenly aborted. Blood gurgled, gushing from his mouth.

  I withdrew and drove the spear into its neck, cleaving the spinal column. The hound collapsed, its needles jingling like a sack of coins spilled on the ground. One down. I turned and kept circling the building.

  “Charger?” Larry called out.

  I rounded the corner and pressed myself against the wall. He was out in the street, just a few feet away. Dougie curled into a ball to Larry’s right.

  Hold on. I’m coming.

  Twenty yards down the street, in the direction I had been coming from, the shooter stared at the ruins. He gripped his rifle with his right hand. His left pressed some cloth against his injured eye. The giant was gone.

  “Charger! Get back here, boy.”

  I lunged from behind the building and thrust the spear into the handler’s back. The metal blade slid into flesh, ripping the kidney and liver on its way up. Larry gasped. I twisted the spear in the wound. He moaned in an oddly high voice. It would take him a long time to bleed out, and it would hurt every moment. He would never put another child on a chain.

  Larry’s body jerked on my spear. A bullet bit into his stomach. The sound of the rifle was like the popping of a firecracker. Sudden lack of depth perception was hell on aiming.

  “Larry, get out of the way!” the shooter yelled.

  I spun Larry to my left, using his bulk as a shield, pulled the spear free and sprinted back to the ruin. Behind me the rifle cracked again, the bullet whizzing by to ricochet off a brick wall half a foot away. I ducked around the corner and kept moving, to the spot where two rectangular columns had once framed the entrance. I hid behind the first column and waited.