Careful Observance of the Necromantic Arts
I keyed openthe door to my flat and gestured for the raptorial to enter first. She shook her head, so I ducked inside, sat down on my sofa bed, and flicked on my Lemmy boot lamp. Lakshmi’s shadow fell in crisp lines, with a mortal dark-grey shimmer, like mine and Chuey’s. Except hers was rimmed in a thin scarlet line.
She quietly closed the door and turned to survey my flat with a hawkish eye. Her clothes were black and athletically form-fitting. She wore thin black dojo shoes and had pulled her hair back in a tail, with multiple ties down its length. Besides her dual swords, she carried a black knife on each hip. Around her wrists she wore black wrist guards that shone with red threading the color of her shadow’s edge. And from her neck hung a simplerose-gold crucifix. Raptorials, I’d read, weren’t bonded servants, but used threads to similarly conceal themselves to human eyes. They were mortal, but imbued through ritual and training with thanaturgic aptitudes—to fight, hunt, and discern.
“Is there a reason, Mr. Solomon, that you haven’t returned my call?”
“I slept most of the day,” I said truthfully. “Then I had a lesson to give.” Also true. “And I haven’t checked my messages.” Nobody’s perfect.
“I see,” she said, pulling over a folding chair I had leaning near the door. When she did, I noticed a second pair of black knives strapped to her outer calves.
She unfolded her chair with its back toward me. “You were out late last night, were you?”
“Let me save you some time,” I said. “I was with Henry when that whack job shot him with a Smith & Wesson 500?—”
“Good with guns, too, it would seem.”
I sighed. “Before you jump to conclusions, I basically grew up in a combat zone?—”
“In the heart of gang territory in West Los Angeles. Father was a senior leader of the Rollin’ 100s.”
“You’ve done your homework. Well, then, maybe you also know that Dad took me to the gun range every Saturday that he wasn’t settling ‘disputes.’ ”
She scanned the room. “So, now you’re a struggling heavy metal singer who busses tables at the Iron Horse from time to time.”
“I do more than bus tables.”
“You must if you’re able to afford a flat in the middle of Soho.”
I knew she was fishing, but didn’t care. “It’s not technically a flat. It’s two of the Phoenix’s unused wardrobe rooms. Henry knows the theater owner. Got me a deal.”
Lakshmi sniffed, then sat, straddling the rickety chair. “You’re friends with Henry Wilkinson then?”
“Goodfriends.” I wanted her to know I really cared about Henry.
Maybe she could help.
She leaned forward, the chair creaking beneath her. “Do you understand my job is to enforce Precedent Law? That the shooting of a thanatist violates that law? And that I must ask you some questions to rule you out as a suspect?”
“I get it.” Raptorials, I’d read, served the Convocation of schisms as an independent faction—highly trained fighters and educated operatives
that investigated thanaturgic crime and often punished those who broke Precedent law.
“Were you shot as well, Mr. Solomon?” “Yeah, I was.”
“But you were reborn.”
“I guess so, yeah.” It still felt surreal to acknowledge, but a woman carrying swords tended to help a guy’s perspective.
She nodded as if she knew. “Can you tell me why someone would want to kill Mr. Wilkinsonandyou?”
“No idea why someone would want to takemeout,” I said. “As for Henry . . . Look, I know there’s something special about the Iron Horse, but I don’t know why anybody would want to kill Henry. He was a good man.” Surprisingly, her nod to that seemed genuine. But she got serious again fast. “Mr. Solomon, you’ve worked at the Iron Horse for nearly five years now, correct?” It wasn’t really a question. “Quite enough time to consider who might run the place should anything happen to Mr. Wilkinson?—”
I held up my hands. “Let me stop you right there, Ms. Go—” I had already forgotten how to say her name. “I love the Iron Horse. I do. But I love Henry more. All I want is to find him and get him back where he belongs.”
She leaned back in her chair. “The shooting of Mr. Wilkinson has clear motive. He held an asset someone might want.” She stopped for a moment and stared at me. “But why killyou?”
“Back home,” I said, “hits come in two varieties: territorial or vengeful, and both usually produce collateral damage.”
