Darren Shan: City of the Snakes

“Adrian,” I moan, crashing to the floor as he takes a turn without braking.

“Miss me, Capac?” he asks mockingly. He’s controlling the wheel with a couple of fingers, oblivious to the traffic.

“You’re dead!” I gasp.

“So are you,” he retorts.

“What are you doing here? What do you want?”

He laughs ecstatically. “I want to be James Dean.”

He takes his fingers off the wheel and presses down harder with his foot. The car roars ahead, veering sickeningly from left to right.

“We’re going to crash,” I note dully.

“Do I look like I’m worried?” Adrian whoops.

“Where have you been? Do you recall the past? How have—”

“Too late!” he shouts, covering his eyes with his hands. “We’re doomed!”

There’s a metallic, demonic shriek as we hit something hard and cartwheel through the air. We crash back to earth and the world explodes. Adrian goes up in a ball of fiery fury. A split second later, the fire engulfs me, and I scream with pain and shock as I thrash, burn and die.

I slump in my chair on the fifteenth floor of Party Central and gaze at the face of the puppet I retrieved from the wall when I returned from my latest bout of death. It’s Adrian’s. The Cardinal used it to bring him to life. I raise its chest to my ear, listening for a heartbeat, but there isn’t any. None of the dozens of puppets has a heartbeat. I’ve checked each and every one of them over and over again. It’s all I’ve done these last few days.

My door opens and Jerry slides in. He stares at the puppets scattered on the floor and over my desk, then steps forward gingerly. “Mr. Raimi?” I don’t respond. “Sir?” No response. “Capac!”

“What is it?” I sigh, lowering the doll but not letting go of it.

“Are you OK?”

I laugh shortly. “Never better. What do you want?”

He clears a path through the dolls and crouches beside me. “Snap out of this. You’re acting like a loon and it’s gonna be the end of us.”

His candor catches me off guard. Jerry knows I value his advice but he’s never spoken this bluntly to me before. It’s a risk. I could have him executed for addressing me so plainly.

“What’s up?” I ask, laying the doll on the table, directing my thoughts away from Adrian, the car crash and the other Ayuamarcans for the first time since coming back to life on the train.

“We’re on the brink of losing everything,” he hisses. “Do you even know what’s been happening?”

I shake my head.

“Eugene Davern invaded Hugo turf and annexed about seventy percent of it.” The Hugos are one of the largest gangs in the city, loyal to me. They control most of the northwest, a largely undeveloped area, a valuable source of income in the years to come. Losing it to an independent operator like Davern is a serious blow and it jolts me out of my daze.

“Is he crazy?” I snap. “He can’t believe we’ll let him take the northwest.”

Jerry shrugs. “Apparently he does.”

“That’s it,” I growl. “He’s been picking and poking at me too long. If this is designed to test how far I’m willing to let him go, he’s misjudged terribly. Call the Troops and have them assemble in the—”

“Hello, Capac.” The voice comes from the balcony. Jerry and I spin toward it. Jerry’s hand shoots to his holster and he draws his pistol.

“No,” I stop him, laying a hand on his.

“But—,” he begins.

“It’s OK.”

I step ahead of Jerry and face the girl on the balcony. In appearance she’s thirteen or fourteen years old. Long, shiny blond hair. An innocent, beautiful face, body covered from the neck down. But appearances can be deceptive. I know she’s a woman, older than me, the victim of a cruel, unique disease.

“Hello, Conchita,” I croak. Conchita Kubekik — Ferdinand Dorak’s ex-wife — was a special friend of mine. Seeing her again, after all these years… I almost feel human.

“Long time, big guy,” she grins. “How’s tricks?”

I stop at the door to the balcony. Conchita’s leaning against the railings, playing with her hair, smirking. There’s something not right. She has a glint in her eyes that I never noticed before. But there’s no doubting it’s her.

“Why are you here, Conchita?” I ask. “How?”

“Two reasons. To pass on a message — Ferdy wants to see you — and to fly. How is easy — just spread my wings and dive.”

I frown, not certain what she’s talking about. Then I remember Adrian (“I want to be James Dean”) and my eyes shoot wide. “No!” I scream and dash for her, meaning to clutch her to my chest and protect her — I promised The Cardinal I’d look after his wife if she survived. But I’m too late. She swings away from me with a laugh, hoists her legs over the railings and lets go. She yodels wildly and plummets fifteen floors, as I did myself not so long ago.

I don’t chase to the railings. I just slump and shut my eyes to the nightmare.

“Capac?” Jerry says, bending to help me. “Who was that? Are you—”

“Go and bring me her body,” I cut him short.

“But what about Davern and the—”

“Go. And bring me. Her body.” My tone leaves no room for argument. Jerry’s seen me order people’s deaths before. He knows, the mood I’m in, I could easily order his. Saluting with a snappy “Yes, sir!” he leaves me on the balcony and goes to sweep up the debris. After a few minutes alone, listening to the sounds of the city, I drag myself back inside to my chair and the silent, lifeless puppets.

There was no body. The ground was bare. I didn’t believe Jerry. Insisted on checking for myself. Walked all around the building — nothing. Which means she disappeared in midair, or someone cleaned up ultra-quick after her, or she really did learn to fly.

I retired to my office once I’d abandoned the search. Told Mags to let nobody disturb me, not even Jerry or Frank. Sat on the floor, surrounded by dolls, and gave myself over to madness. But it refused to take me, and after a slew of numb hours, I replayed my brief conversation with Conchita and recalled what she’d said before taking off. “Ferdy wants to see you.”

“Ferdy” was Conchita’s pet name for The Cardinal. I’m not sure what she meant — Dorak was human, so I can’t imagine any way for him to return — but as I play her words over, I begin to think that I know what she wanted. Leaving my fortress of dolls and memories, I order a limo — Thomas is still off work, recovering from the crack over the head Adrian gave him before taking his place at Solvert’s — and tell the driver to take me to the Fridge.

The Fridge is another of The Cardinal’s grotesque playthings. A huge morgue, home to thousands who died in his employ or opposing him. The dead lie in refrigerated caskets, preserved against the ravages of time, awaiting Judgment Day and the call to arise. I’ve added my fair share of corpses to the pile but never visited personally until now.

The Fridge is camouflaged by the shell of an old building. Access is through computer-coded doors. Inside, row upon row of metal caskets, stacked five high, twenty wide. The rows stretch ahead, seemingly without end, and rise all the way to the distant ceiling.

There’s great excitement at my appearance. Staff crowd the landings overhead, eager to catch a glimpse. I guess I’m the next best thing to royalty in this city, and it’s not often that my minions — apart from those who work in Party Central — get a chance to gawk at me.

I stand my ground where I entered, waiting for a guide to come. It turns out to be the chief pathologist, Alex Sines. We’ve met before, at various functions, and a couple of times in Party Central. He’s a pain in the ass but the best in his field.