Anton Strout - Deader Still

Jane and I stopped when we reached the center of the cavernous room.

“Where do you think he is?” Jane whispered, continuing to look around.

“I’m not sure,” I said. I listened for any sign of him, but all I could hear was the sound of continuing chaos outside the library in the big Fashion Week tent. “But we’ve got to start somewhere. Any suggestions?”

Jane thought a minute. “How about we start with the N ’s?”

“Why there?” I asked.

“Well, that’s where I’d keep a necromancer,” Jane said, giving a wan smile. “Under the N ’s.”

Her logic made as much sense as anything else tonight, so we set off toward the shelves around the edge of the room.

The N ’s turned out to be along the wall facing Bryant Park and, lo and behold, when I entered the aisle, I could make out the silhouette of Cyrus Mandalay standing on the ledge of one of the high-arched windows up ahead. His attention was focused outside, and given the noise, we didn’t need to be especially careful in sneaking up on him.

About two-thirds of the way down the aisle, I motioned for Jane to stop and wait while I continued ahead. All I needed was to get close enough to knock his legs out from under him with my bat as he stood on the window ledge. The backs of his calves were about eye level, perfect for my natural swing.

Winding up behind Cyrus’s back, I caught his face in the reflection of the glass. It was a mask of concentration as he stared down into the park. The thought occurred to me that if I could see Cyrus’s face in the reflection, then he could probably see mine, which explained why his reflection shifted from the park to me in that instant. Before I could swing, his foot lashed out and caught me in my temple. A flash of blinding whiteness hit my eyes and I couldn’t help but drop my bat and clutch my head as I reeled backward.

Cyrus jumped down from the window ledge and landed in front of me. Even without the added height, he still towered above me at well over six feet. He grinned, his facial tattoos warping as his sharklike smile spread wide.

“See?” Jane cried out from behind me. “I told you he’d be under N for necromancer!”

Cyrus grabbed me by the hair, wrapped his arm across my throat, and held me there. “What?” he said. “Is this really the N section?”

I nodded, my chin digging into the taut muscles in Cyrus’s arm.

Cyrus chuckled, and the sound echoed throughout the quiet hush of the library. “Nice detective work, Ms. Clayton-Forrester, but I’m afraid you’re wrong. It’s just a coincidence that you found me in this section of the library. It simply had the best view that I needed for today’s theatrics.”

I pushed against Cyrus’s arm, but it was no use. He had been an imposing fellow when he had been the owner of Tome, Sweet Tome, but cultish crazy had pushed him into the realm of unearthly strength, and there was no way I was breaking free.

“Jane, run,” I shouted.

Part of me half hoped she had some kind of ace up her sleeve, but she smartly turned back and ran up the aisle, which was impressive given the heels she was wearing.

That was, she ran for about ten feet, before a new obstacle presented itself. A column of zombies had started working its way down the aisle toward us and Jane ran smack-dab into them. She spun swiftly to escape, but decaying hands latched on to her and held her in place. In a last-ditch effort, she dug into her sequined clutch and pulled her phone free, but Cyrus made a gesture and one of the zombies knocked it free from her hand. The rest of them grabbed both her arms and pressed her up against one side of the shelves.

“Bad girl, Jane.” Cyrus tsk ed. “You were such a promising Sectarian, too. I saw you when you went all Tesla coil on that double-crosser Mina back at the Guggenheim, my dear. We won’t have any repeats of that. I think we’ll just keep you pinned right there against those books like a butterfly on a specimen board, far from anything electrical.”

Cyrus grabbed my head like he was palming a basketball and turned me so I looked up at him. “And as for you,” he said, “I think I have an exciting little surprise to share with you.”

Holding me in his viselike grip, Cyrus helped himself back onto the window ledge and then lifted me up to join him, my bat still lying useless on the library floor.

With his free hand, he pointed down into the crowd through the hidden slit in the roof of the tent. He was pointing at Argyle Quimbley, who was earnestly protecting a pack of supermodels from a horde of zombies using a folding chair, quite adeptly, I thought. No wonder F.O.G. had appointed him to teach me Unorthodox Fighting Techniques. Still, the odds were against him. Zombies never tired.

“Lucky you,” Cyrus said. “For all the trouble you’ve caused me, you’re getting ringside seats to watch as I tear your precious Inspectre apart, limb by limb.”

“For all the trouble I’ve caused you ?” I said, laughing. “Are you kidding me? I’ve just been trying to protect my city.”

“What with you foiling my plans twice, I’m a pariah with every cultist in the tristate area,” Cyrus shouted, his anger increasing along with the pressure of his arm around my neck. “You and that partner of yours made a laughingstock out of my grand plans that night at the Met. Now you’ve ruined Para-lyzed.”

“Sorry . . .’bout . . . that . . .” I said, gasping for breath.

“So first you get to watch the old man die,” Cyrus said, delighted with himself, “and then the girl.”

At the mention of the Inspectre and Jane, I started to panic. Well, panic more than I already was. Unfortunately, the more I struggled to free myself, the more air I used. Stars began to pop and burst before my eyes as darkness started to take over.

“Um, excuse me,” a familiar voice called out. It was meek and nervous and 100 percent Godfrey’s. Cyrus relaxed his grip a little and turned us toward where it had come from. Godfrey stood farther along the bank of windows. He looked fantastic in his tux, yet nervous as hell, but he stood there, unmoving. “I think you should let go of him . . . now.”

The nerves in his voice kept his threat from seeming anything more than silly, and even I wanted to join Cyrus when he laughed out loud. He jumped down from the windowsill and started walking us toward Godfrey.

I was worried about slipping on my bat, but I didn’t have the best lines of sight from my chokehold position, and I couldn’t see it anywhere.

Cyrus gestured and a few zombies broke from the pack and also headed toward Godfrey. Godfrey started backing away, but Cyrus closed the distance in a flash and smashed him in the face, breaking his glasses. They tumbled to the floor and Godfrey clutched his face, blood running through his fingers.

“Oh, God,” he said. “I think I’m about to throw up.”

“I’ve got it from here, Godfrey,” another familiar voice said from behind me. Connor. “Thanks.”

There was the unmistakable dull, metallic thud of my bat, and I felt Cyrus’s arm release me as he toppled over and hit the floor hard. I spun around and, sure enough, there was Connor, holding my bat. He was covered head to toe in bits of rotting flesh, and he twirled my bat around in his hands.

“That felt good, kid,” he said. “Maybe I oughta get me one of these.”

“Oh, boys,” Jane called out. “A little help here?”

The zombies still had her, but with Cyrus unconscious, they seemed a little less focused on holding her now. In fact, they looked far more intent on trying to eat her.

“I thought if we neutralized the necromancer, the zombies would drop,” I said to Connor.