The Long Way Down (Daniel Faust #1)(39)
“I don’t even know who you people are,” I said. “Let me level with you. I’ve done a lot of bad things to a lot of people, and I remember each and every one of ’em. Whoever you think I am, whatever it is you think I did, you’ve got the wrong—”
“You loosed the hound!” the toe-eater roared, pointing a blackened fingernail at me as he trembled with rage.
The hound, again. I still had no idea who or what the hound was. A few nights ago Toe-Eater was stalking me on Fremont Street, celebrating the hound being gone. Now the hound was back, and it was my fault? What had I done since—
“Caitlin,” I said aloud, the pieces clicking together. “Caitlin is the hound.”
The skylight exploded. The crowd of cambion jumped back, flailing and scattering, as a thunderstorm of broken glass rained onto the concrete and glimmered like diamonds in the dying light. Caitlin plummeted in its wake like a hawk plunging after its prey, landing on the heels of her high leather boots and rising gracefully from a crouch. A long white coat draped her willowy form, billowing around her, and she brushed a speck of glass from its tailored shoulder. She turned to me and smiled.
“You called?”
Twenty
“Bitch!” screamed the cambion with the stun gun, charging her like a maddened bull. She didn’t hesitate, turning and flicking out her arm. A blur whined through the air, and the cambion crashed to his knees, clutching the ivory handle of a knife protruding from his neck. His eyes bulged, blood guttering down the front of his shirt, his throat convulsing.
“Correction,” Caitlin said, “the proper title is ‘hound.’ You’re the bitch. Now then, would anyone else like to do something foolish?”
The cambion fell on his face, his breath rattling as he died. The others wavered on their feet, only a few of them still clustered behind the toe-eater. Not Melanie, though. She stared at Caitlin like a kid who just got caught forging her report card.
Caitlin pulled back one side of her coat. A coiled bullwhip rested on her hip, its brass handle engraved with swirling sigils.
“Most of you know me,” she said as she surveyed the room, “but for those who do not, I am Caitlleanabruaudi, the Wingtaker, hound of Prince Sitri’s court. You gather here in violation of hell’s law, and I stand in judgment. You live, or die, at my pleasure. So who would like to tell me what I want to know, in the hopes of putting me in a good mood before I pass sentence?”
“We spit on your law!” the toe-eater snarled. “We spit on your prince! You have no authority over us!”
The other cambion had looked intimidated by him before, even openly frightened, but now they seemed intent on edging as far away from him as they could. Anybody could see which way the wind was blowing. Anybody but him.
Caitlin held up a slender hand, offering a faint smile that didn’t reach her frozen eyes. “I can be gracious, even in the face of rebellion. Tell me who put you up to this and you can walk away.”
“No one!” the toe-eater shouted. “We are free and ungoverned! We will not be ruled by your bastard prince or any of his puppets!”
“You know what?” Caitlin said. “I actually believe you. What a shame.”
The whip flashed from her belt, slashing across the air and landing with a thunderous crack. Flames surged from the handle and raced along the leather like it was a trail of gasoline. The toe-eater turned to run. He never had a chance. She lunged out her arm, and the whip coiled around his neck and hauled him to the concrete floor. The fires engulfed him in a storm of napalm.
The air stank with an unholy blend of burnt tires and pork. The cambion thrashed and shrieked. Caitlin held the whip fast, yanking him back down every time he tried to get up or roll free. The others backed away as the burning man flailed at them, screaming for help.
It didn’t take long. Caitlin waited until there was nothing left but a charred husk, barely recognizable as anything close to human, before flicking her whip free. The fires died as she coiled the lash around her arm and hooked it back onto her belt.
The crowd watched her in horrified silence.
“You will go and tell others,” she said calmly, “that the hound has returned, that order has been restored, and the law will be obeyed. Be thankful. You all got a second chance tonight. I don’t give thirds. Now go. Except for you, Melanie. You come here. Now.”
The cambion shuffled off, alone or in pairs, out into the night. The punk kid came over, her shoulders slumped and head down. She approached Caitlin like you might approach a lioness in the wild. Caitlin put her fingers under the shorter girl’s chin, forcing her head up. She looked Melanie in the eyes.
“She wasn’t in on it,” I said quickly. “I mean, she was here, but she didn’t want to be. She tried to talk them out of it.”
“I know,” Caitlin murmured. “Melanie, this is getting tiresome. You know this isn’t your crowd. You don’t belong here.”
“I know,” she stammered, on the verge of tears, “I know, but…I didn’t realize. I mean, I thought it was just talk. I didn’t think they were really going to hurt anyone—”
“Shh,” Caitlin said. “Now…you know I have to punish you for this. You understand that, right?”
A tear rolled down Melanie’s cheek. “I know.”