Christopher Buehlman - The Lesser Dead

“You think too much.”

“As you pretend not to understand the concepts I challenge you with. You do not believe the myth of your own ignorance. But you perpetuate it out of habit, out of a desire to align with the ideals of American pop culture. Charisma, action, dumb luck. You will not learn chess because you are too vain to imagine yourself bent over a board with dull old men or with the hucksters in Washington Square Park. You enjoy poker because it is an American game, the game of saloons and broad smiles. A game where luck or sudden violence may yet save the unprepared.”

“Train,” I said.

We took a niche, got small and flat, him higher, me lower, our backs to the tunnel. None of the sleepy fuckers goldfished behind the windows of the morning 5 train would know what they saw.

“So, magic,” I said.

“Do you remember the man you called the Pied Piper?”

Of course I remembered; it was one of the weirdest things I ever saw, which is saying something. There had been this guy, shabby-looking guy, I thought he was a Huncher. He walked through the sewers on his way uptown, a mob of rats around him. He was pointing at the biggest rats like a stickball captain picking teams, and damn if they weren’t following him. He must have had forty, fifty trailing behind him like a bride’s dress, all as big as cats or beagles.

“You said don’t fuck with him because you thought he was a wizard.”

“I said, Do not disturb him .”

“You said he was on his way to kill somebody.”

“I believe so, yes.”

“With rats. And he saw us.”

“He was aware of us.”

“What’s this got to do with the kids?”

“If magic is a current or river, perhaps some manipulate it, as that man with his rats. And perhaps others are caught in it. Those who are accursed.”

“Us,” I said.

“And them. Perhaps there are different streams in this river. Perhaps slight alterations in the nature of this curse result in something like speciation. Vampires like us, but not like us. This may account for their increased appetite. Or…”

“Or what?”

“Or anything. This is only one possibility among countless possibilities.”

“Like what else?”

He stopped on the tracks, picked up a coin. Looked like a buffalo nickel, I wasn’t sure.

“I am officially on strike. I refuse to do any further thinking for you until you offer me your own theories.”

“Maybe,” I started.

“Not now. You are tired and hungry. Watch them. Think. Avoid television. Tell me your theories this time tomorrow.”

“Okay.”

We walked on for a moment.

I could feel him looking at me.

“Do you think the Hessian is like us? The same species?”

He didn’t ask why I said that. He didn’t have to, a guy like Cvetko.

He just drew in a little breath and said, “Ah.”

That ah was the start of the third part of all this.

Or the end of the second.

The Latins went after the Hessian three days later. Don’t go thinking this was all about holy morals and the despoiling of children, though that was how it got dressed up. Wars are never officially about taking shit away from somebody else, be it oil or land or money; officially they’re always about liberty or God or saving somebody. Avenging some wrong works pretty well. So the Latins said they were going to Greenwich Village to avenge a great wrong.

“And get your hands on his money,” Margaret said. It was a hell of a fight. Margaret was dead set against peeling him until we talked to him, but they said talking to him would just warn him and he would button up or run.

“He won’t run,” Margaret said, but she didn’t like the idea of attacking him, as disgusted as she was by what he stood accused of. Attacking a beast like that seemed like too much risk for too little gain. But then, she was already in the mayor’s apartment and likely to stay there. With the Hessian’s money, the Puerto Rican guys could set themselves up in some nice, basemented fortress like the Hessian had, get out of the tunnels, pay guys to watch over them by day, roam rich neighborhoods by night, unsuspected because of their fine clothes. Rich vampires definitely had it better.

“But he will fight. Have you perchance noticed how you’ve gotten just a little stronger every year? Do you know how old he is, and how well dug in? This’ll be no easy matter. We talk to him first.”

“We don’t fucking need to talk to him, Puta Madre , what’s he gonna say? ‘Yeah I did it, ¡cortame la cabeza! Now cut me my fucking head off please’?”

“He’s too dangerous.”

Old Boy got up from his leisurely squat and walked around to flank the Latins, standing now about ten yards behind them and to their right. He let them see where he was putting himself. He was a guy who spoke with gestures and motion.

Mapache flicked his eyes at Old Boy, but then settled them back on Margaret. He wasn’t giving up.

“So what? So, you’re dangerous, you get to turn six children, six , and fuck them, too?”

“Are you suggesting, sir, that we should police every vampire on this island? Or just the very rich ones?”

“You disappoint me. I thought you were in charge , man.”

His men were on edge. They hadn’t anticipated things going south with Margaret, they were always cool with Margaret.

“When it comes to these tunnels, I am in charge, Mr. Ramirez, and you would do well to remember it.”

“Or what?” he said, getting much closer to her than she liked. “You gonna talk to me?”

Old Boy gritted a boot on the concrete to let them know he was now five yards away. Margaret, never taking her eyes off Mapache, held a hand up to her pet ghost, as a master might to a dog. Not yet, boy. But maybe soon.

“If you don’t take one step back,” she told Mapache, growling a little in her throat and speaking slowly—it was always bad when she spoke slowly—“We’ll talk, just you and me. And much will be said between us in a very short time.”

Margaret didn’t bluff.

Ruth was already standing next to her, frowning her Statue of Liberty frown.

I moved closer to Margaret and Ruth, looking at Mapache, which didn’t impress him. Billy Bang stepped up, too, though. On Mapache’s side, Bug and Gua Gua got closer. Damn , Gua Gua was big. Dominic was about to step up next to Margaret, but Baldy hung back so he did, too. This could be bad.

Nobody said anything for about five seconds, but it felt like an hour.

Mapache stepped back, but he did it slowly, sarcastically, like Okay, but fuck you .

Margaret took it because everyone knew he still backed up. We were on uncharted waters now. I knew it. Baldy knew it so well it was all he could do not to smile, not to show the tip of a fang which is like the bird finger from a vampire. If this didn’t get fixed, Margaret’s biggest counterweight to the Italians was gone. And they weren’t the rookies they were before, they knew what they were doing now. They might move on her when Old Boy was on one of his walkabouts. They just might.

And she knew it.

“You want it done?” she said.

“We want it done.”

“Fine,” she said. “Then you’ll do it on your own.”

Let’s back up.

The night before this went down, Margaret came to the 18th Street station to check on things, and Cvetko told her what had been said. The kids wouldn’t utter a peep to Margaret, though; they didn’t like Margaret. She wasn’t exactly child-friendly. She wouldn’t have lasted long on Sesame Street .