Kelley Armstrong - Broken

“We’ll have to step out back to speak freely if a customer comes, but that’s unlikely. We haven’t seen anyone since noon. Now they’re just phoning about charms and whatnot-afraid to even leave the house. Complete nonsense, of course, like wearing those hospital masks during the SARS outbreak.”

“You said you have more information for us?” Clay said.

I resisted the urge to glare at him. I suspect it didn’t matter how rude Clay was-Anita would get to the point at her own pace.

First, she had Clay haul out three folding chairs. Then she set up bottled water and cookies on a box of books, insisting I at least have the water to avoid dehydration.

She finally settled into the empty chair. “I managed to dredge up a Jack the Ripper story with a portal angle, though it doesn’t mention the From Hell letter.”

The story seemed to be an embellishment on the one about a half-demon making a deal with his father. In this version, the killer had been only partway through fulfilling his obligation to his demon father when he’d been caught by a band of sorcerers, who’d imprisoned him in a dimensional portal.

“The legend goes that the sorcerers then lost the portal device, and it’s out there somewhere, waiting to be accidentally triggered, whereupon the monster will, once again, be unleashed on the world, rendered insane by his long imprisonment, driven only by the need to fulfill his unholy obligation.” Anita grinned, eyes twinkling. “Rather sounds like a campfire story, doesn’t it? Something for our children to spook their supernatural friends with.”

“It does. I suppose there could be a nugget of truth buried in there…”

“Well, it’s not the part about sorcerers playing world saviors, I’m sure.” She shook her head. “Uncharitable of me, but I suspect they would have been negotiating to share the demon’s boon instead.”

We discussed the story for a few minutes, then Anita asked about our progress, and I brought her up to date. When I told her about Hull, her eyes widened.

“He came through the portal?”

“Well, he says so. But he isn’t a zombie, so I doubt-”

“Oh, but that doesn’t prove anything. Only those who were sacrificed come out as zombies. If they were alive when they went in, they’ll be alive when they come out.”

“Like in the story,” I said. “If Jack the Ripper was imprisoned in a dimensional portal-”

Clay snorted. “That guy is not Jack the Ripper.”

“And how do you know-?”

“It is just a story,” Anita said. “At most, as you said, it may contain distorted elements of truth, as most folklore does. But still, if this man came from Victorian London-”

“He claims,” Clay said.

“But if he did, I would love to speak to him. The historical wealth of information, combined with his circumstances…Why, it would be supernatural folklore in the making.”

My cell phone rang.

“Zoe,” I said. “Hopefully she found Tolliver.”

She had. “He’s at Trinity Church. Are you still over on Yonge? I can swing by and meet up with you.”

I told her where we were. A moment of silence. Then, “Hmm, that’s a bit farther out of my way than I thought. How about I just meet you there?”

According to the plaque outside, the Church of the Holy Trinity was built in 1847, on what had then been the outskirts of Toronto. Looking around, it was hard to imagine this had ever been on the outskirts of anything. The small church stood incongruously cheek-to-jowl with the sprawling Eaton Centre shopping center-an urban shopping mall in the heart of downtown. As if having a house of spiritual worship standing beside a monument to material worship wasn’t ironic enough, the church also served as a walk-in center for the homeless.

As we waited for Zoe, I read the homeless memorial list posted outside. The list of names was dotted with Jane and John Does, those who couldn’t even be properly immortalized on their own memorial.

Clay glanced over my shoulder as Zoe approached. She tensed, her face going rigid.

“What?” he said.

“Go ahead. Say it.”

“Say what?”

“Ask how many of those-” She waved at the list. “-were mine.”

Clay gave me a “huh?” look, but said only, “I was going to say something. Like ‘hello.’ Or ‘about time you showed up.’ ”

Zoe nodded, obviously relieved. A few of the names on those lists undoubtedly had been her victims. A vampire doesn’t kill every time she feeds, but she does need to drain lifeblood once a year to retain her immortality. Most pick someone like the men and women on this list. Choosing a victim from the streets lessens the ripple effect, affecting fewer lives than, say, killing a suburban mother of four, and drawing less public attention. Still, however much has gone wrong with a life, it is still a life. I suppose vampires realize that, at least some of them.

As we headed for the front doors, Clay said, “So what’s up with Anita Barrington?”

Zoe blinked. “Why? What did she-?”

“You heard where we were, and suddenly didn’t want to meet us,” he said.

“No, I-” She paused, then shook off the denial. “I’m sure there’s nothing wrong with Anita Barrington. She’s quite new here, but from what I hear, a nice lady. It’s just…well, she’s an immortality quester.”

Zoe looked across our blank faces. “An immortality quester is-”

“A supernatural trying to find the secret to immortality,” Clay said. “Yeah, we know. Ran into a couple of vampires doing that a few years back.”

“Edward and Natasha.” Zoe nodded, then lowered her gaze for a moment before continuing. “Well, even vampires can catch the bug. But those questers who aren’t vampires sometimes develop an…unhealthy interest in our kind, the semi-immortals.”

“So Anita’s bothered you-”

“No, no. Never met her. But I had an…experience with an immortality quester years ago. It just taught me to avoid them.”

Clay studied her face, then grunted. “Let’s get inside. Before this Tolliver guy takes off.”

We climbed the steps to a set of tall, narrow green-painted wooden doors, propped open to welcome daytime visitors. Inside was a reception area, staffed by a volunteer at a table with guides and history booklets. To our left, a huge framed antique coat of arms hung over recycling containers. On the right, tarnished brass memorial plaques hung above a bulletin board covered in flyers for antiwar demonstrations, AIDS clinics and missing-person notices.

Zoe led us to the left, where the pews were. They were arranged to form a three-sided box that faced a table in the middle. Above the western entrance doors were colorful banners for social justice, peace and cultural diversity. Beneath them, a young man slept on a green sofa.

Zoe headed toward two men talking near an interior door. The younger man, probably in his early forties, turned and started walking briskly down the aisle. Dressed in jeans and a T-shirt from the Metro-Central YMCA, he was fit, average height, dark-skinned with a short beard and distracted eyes. In one hand he carried a black bag that looked like an old-fashioned medical satchel.

He almost smacked into me, as if I’d materialized from nowhere. With a murmured apology, he started going around me.

“Randy,” Zoe called after him.

He stopped, and turned. “Zoe?”

“Hey, Doc. Do you have a minute? We need to talk to you.”

A discreet glance at his watch, then at Clay and me, as if curiosity was warring with an insanely busy schedule. Without a word, he nodded and waved us to a hall on the east side of the church. We went down a few steps, then out a single door into a courtyard.

Brightly painted red and blue metal chairs and tables were arranged around a small fountain. Every chair was empty, but Tolliver still led us around the fountain, to take a table at the far side, where the noise of the falling water would mask our conversation.