pinning the creature to the bar with her sword.
For a moment, no one moved. Hawk and Fisher stared incredulously at the
blood-soaked man transfixed by Fisher's sword. His clothing hung in rags, and he
held his hands like claws. Blood soaked his hands and forearms like crimson
gloves, and there was more blood spattered thickly over his livid white flesh.
His eyes were wide and staring. He snarled silently at the two Guards, showing
his bloody teeth, but he was still just a man. And then he lunged forward,
forcing himself along the impaling blade, his bloody hands reaching for Fisher's
throat. She held her ground, watching in fascination as the jagged-nailed hands
grew steadily nearer. Part of her wondered crazily what had happened to wreck
his nails like that.
Hawk lurched to his feet, lifting his axe. The killer lunged forward again,
blood spilling down his gut from where Fisher's sword pierced him, snarling and
growling like a wild animal. And then Fisher lifted her hand with the silver
dagger in it, and cut his throat. Blood sprayed across her arm, and she watched
warily as the light went out of his eyes and he slumped forward, dead at last.
She pulled out her sword and he fell limply to the floor and lay still. Hawk
came over to stand beside her.
"He must have been up in the rafters," he said finally. "All this time, just
watching us, and waiting."
.Fisher looked up at the ceiling. "There's no one else up there. But I can't
believe one man did all this, drug or no drug."
Hawk looked down at the dead user. "Maybe we shouldn't have killed him after
all. There are a lot of questions we could have asked him."
"He didn't exactly give us a choice," said Fisher dryly. "Besides, he wouldn't
have been allowed to talk. We'd have had to keep him in gaol till he came down,
and by then word would have reached his suppliers. They'd either have sprung him
or killed him to keep his mouth shut."
Hawk scowled. "It has to be said Headquarters' security isn't worth spit these
days. Particularly when it comes to drug arrests. You know, it wasn't this bad
when we first joined the Guard."
"Yes it was," said Fisher. "We just weren't experienced enough to recognize the
signs. There's a lot of money in drugs, and where there's a lot of money there's
a line of Guards with their hands out."
"This day started out depressing," said Hawk, "and it's not getting any better.
Let's get the hell out of here and file our report. If one chacal-user can do
this much damage on a rampage, then this city is in for some interesting times."
A low growl trembled on the air behind them. Hawk and Fisher spun round, weapons
at the ready. The tavern looked just as still and quiet as before. None of the
bodies had moved. The growl came again, but this time low and subdued, sounding
almost more like a groan. Hawk glared in the direction of the sound, and his
gaze came to rest on an overturned table leaning against a wall. It was a big
table, with room for one, maybe two, people behind it. Hawk silently indicated
the table to Fisher, and they moved slowly forward. There were no more growls or
groans, but as he drew nearer, Hawk thought he could hear something dripping.
Something… feeding.
They reached the table in a matter of moments, moving silently through the
gloom. Hawk put away his axe and grabbed the rim of the table with both hands,
while Fisher stood ready with her sword. They counted to three silently
together, and then Hawk braced himself and pulled the heavy table away from the
wall with one swift movement. Fisher moved quickly forward to stand between him
and whatever was waiting, and then both she and Hawk stood very still as the
table revealed its secret.
The second chacal-user was a young woman, maybe seventeen or eighteen. Her face
was bone-white, with dark, staring eyes, and her hands and forearms were slick
with other people's blood. She held her hands like claws, but made no move to
attack Hawk or Fisher. Someone, presumably the other user, had ripped open her
stomach. It was a wide, hideous wound that should have killed her immediately,
but the chacal was keeping her alive. She lay propped against the wall in a
widening pool of her own blood, and as Hawk and Fisher watched she dipped a hand
into the ragged wound in her gut, pulled out a bloody morsel, and ate it.
Oh, dear God, she's been feeding on herself…
Hawk moved forward, and put a gentle restraining hand on the girl's arm. "Don't.
Please don't."
"Get away from her, Hawk. She's still dangerous. We don't know how many people
she's killed here."
"Get a doctor," said Hawk, without looking round.
"Hawk…"
"Get a doctor!"
Fisher nodded, and hurried over to the main door. Hawk put the girl's hand in
her lap, and brushed her long, stringy hair from her face. The user looked at
him for the first time.
"Something went wrong," she said slowly, her voice barely rising above a murmur.
Hawk had to lean close to understand her. Her breath smelled of blood and
something worse. Her dead white skin was beaded with sweat. "This wasn't
supposed to happen. They said it would make us feel like Gods. I'm cold."
"I've sent for a doctor," said Hawk. "Take it easy. Save your strength."
"They lied to us…"
"Can you tell me what happened?" said Hawk. "You said something went wrong. What
went wrong?"
"It was a new drug. Supposed to be the best. Like chacal, only stronger. We were
going to be like Gods. We were packing it up at the factory, ready to ship it
out. Leon took some, for a lark. We tried it here, just a little. And then
everything went bad."
"Tell me about the factory," said Hawk. "Where is it?"
The girl's hand drifted towards her wound again. Hawk stopped it, and put it
back in her lap. She looked at him. "I'm cold."
Hawk took off his cloak and wrapped it around her. She was shivering violently,
and sweat ran down her face in rivulets. There was no color left in her face.
Even her lips were white. Her breathing grew increasingly shallow, and when she
spoke Hawk had to concentrate hard to make out the words.
"Morgan's place. The Blue Dolphin. In the Hook."
"All right, lass, take it easy. That's all I need. We'll get the bastards. You
rest now. The doctor will be here soon."
"Would you hold my hand? Please?"
"Sure." Hawk took off one of his gloves and held her left hand, squeezing it
comfortingly. Warm blood spilled down his wrist. "All right?"
"Hold it up where I can see it. I can't feel it."
Hawk started to lift her hand up before her face, but she'd stopped breathing.
He was still holding her hand when Fisher finally came back with the Guard
doctor.
"I didn't even find out her name," said Hawk, pulling his cloak around his
shoulders. Guard Constables and Captains summoned to the scene by the
communications sorcerer spilled around Hawk and Fisher as they moved in and out
of The Crossed Pikes tavern. They were carrying out the dead and lining them up
in neat rows on the snow, ready for the meat wagon when it arrived. The Guard
doctor hovered over them like an anxious relative, making notes on cause of
death, for when the forensic sorcerer arrived. A large crowd had gathered, but
were being kept back by two Constables. Hawk knelt down suddenly, and started
roughly cleaning the blood from his hand with a handful of snow. Fisher put a
hand on his shoulder and squeezed it comfortingly.
"You did all you could, Hawk."
"I know that."
"She killed at least a dozen people in there. Probably more."
"I know that too." He got to his feet and pulled his glove back on. "Before she
died, she told me where they're making the stuff she took. It's Robbie Morgan's
place, down in the Devil's Hook."
Fisher looked at him sharply. "Standard procedure would be to contact
Headquarters and tell them the factory's location. Since you haven't done that,
I assume there's a good reason why not?"
"I want these bastards, Isobel. I want them bad. It's a new drug, you see; they
haven't released it yet. Can you imagine what the Northside will be like once
this super-chacal hits the streets? We've got to stop it now. While we can."
"So let the Drug Squad handle it. That's what they're paid for."
"Oh no; I'm not risking this one going wrong. You can guarantee some Guard would
tip Morgan off, in return for a sweetener. The Drug Squad would get there just a
little too late and find nothing but an empty warehouse. That's happened too
many times just recently. So I think we'll do this one ourselves."
"Us? You mean, just you and me?"
"Isobel, please; I haven't gone completely crazy. Morgan's probably got a small
army of security people protecting the Blue Dolphin. But we've got a small army
ourselves, right here. There's a dozen Constables, five Captains, and even a
sorceress. We'll leave a few people here to mind the store, and take the rest."
"On whose authority?"
"Mine. If we bring this off, no one's going to ask any questions."
"And if we don't?"
Hawk looked at her steadily. "This is important to me, Isobel. She died right in
front of me, scared and hurting, and there wasn't a damn thing I could do to
help her. Just this once, we've got a chance to make a difference. A real
difference. Let's do it."
"All right. Let's do it. But how are we going to get the others to go along on
an unofficial raid?"
Hawk smiled. "Easy. We won't tell them it's unofficial."
Fisher grinned back at him. "I like the way you think, Hawk."
They finally ended up with an impromptu task force of ten Constables, two more
Captains, and the sorceress Mistique; all blithely unaware that they were about
to break every rule in the book. Which was probably for the best. That way, if
anything did go wrong, Hawk and Fisher could take all the blame on themselves.
Besides, no one with the brains they were born with would have volunteered if
they'd known the truth. At which point Hawk decided very firmly that he wasn't
going to think about the situation anymore. It was depressing him too much. All
that mattered was shutting down the drug factory, and Morgan as well, if
possible.
Hawk had heard about Morgan. Most people in Haven had, one way or another. He'd
made enough money down the years from drugs, prostitution, and murder to buy
himself respectability. He was seen in all the best places, belonged to all the
right clubs, and these days was officially regarded as above suspicion. In fact,
he still had a dirty finger in every pie in Haven, though no one had ever been
able to prove anything. But Hawk and Fisher knew, like every other Guard. They
had to deal every day with the violence and suffering his businesses caused.
Hawk frowned thoughtfully. It wasn't like Morgan to get so personally involved
in a scheme like this, having the super-chacal packed and distributed from one
of his own warehouses. And it also wasn't like him to get involved with such a
dangerous drug. The more traditional drugs brought less publicity, were just as
addictive, and therefore just as profitable. Hawk shrugged mentally. Every
villain makes a mistake sooner or later, and Morgan had made a bad one.
Hawk and Fisher led their people through the Northside at a quick march, heading
for the Devil's Hook. They made an impressive spectacle, and the crowds drew
back to let them pass. It was almost like a parade, but nobody cheered. The law
wasn't popular in the Northside. Hawk looked back at his people, and smiled to
himself. They might just bring this off after all. The Constables were some of
the toughest Guards in Haven. They had to be, or they wouldn't have been working
the Northside. And he knew both the Captains, by reputation, if not personally.
Captain Andrew Doughty was a medium-height, stocky man in his late forties; a
career Guard, with all the courage, cunning, and native caution that implied. He
was blond-haired, blue-eyed, and glacially handsome, and his job was his life.
He had a good enough reputation with his sword that he didn't have to keep
proving it, but he liked to anyway, given the chance. He'd had a lot of partners
in his time, but worked best alone. Mostly because he didn't trust anyone but
himself.
Captain Howard Burns was a tall, lean man in his late thirties, with an unruly
mop of dark hair and a thick spade beard. He was an expert in personal and
company security, and worked mostly in the Westside, overseeing the transfer of
money or valuables from one location to another. He took his work very
seriously, and had several official commendations for bravery. He had no sense
of humor at all, but then, no one's perfect. Especially not in Haven.
Hawk had worked with both of them in his time, and was glad he had someone apart
from Fisher to watch his back this time. They were both good men, men he could
depend on. The only real wild card in the pack was the sorceress Mistique. She
was new to the Guard, and still looking for a chance to show what she could do.
Mistique was a tall, slender, fluttering woman in her early thirties, dressed in
sorcerer's black, carefully cut in the latest fashion to show lots of bare
flesh. If the cold bothered her at all, she didn't show it. She had a long,
horsey face, and a friendly, toothy grin that made her look ten years younger.
She had a husky, upper-class accent and wouldn't answer questions about her
background. She also had a thick mass of long black curly hair she had to keep
sweeping back out of her eyes. All together, she wasn't exactly the most
organized person Hawk had ever met, but she was supposed to be bloody good at
what she did, and he'd settle for that. Morgan's warehouse would undoubtedly be
crawling with defensive magic and booby traps. The only real problem with
Mistique was that she hardly ever seemed to stop talking. And she wore literally
dozens of beads and bangles and bracelets that clattered loudly as she walked.
Hawk made a mental note not to include her in any plans that involved sneaking
up on the enemy.
And then they came to the Devil's Hook, and Mistique's chatter stumbled to a
halt. Even casual conversation died away quickly as Hawk led his people into the
Hook. It was a bad place to be, and they all k
new it. The Devil's Hook was the
single poorest, most decayed, and most dangerous area in Haven. A square mile of
slums and alleyways backing onto the main Docks, the Hook held more crime,
corruption, and open misery than most people could bear to think about. The
squalid tenement buildings were crammed with sweatshops that paid starvation
wages for work on goods that often fetched high prices in the better parts of
the city. Child labor was common, as was malnutrition and disease. No one
ventured into the stinking streets alone or unarmed. The Guard patrolled the
Hook very loosely rather than risk open warfare with the gangs who ran it. The
gangs weren't as powerful as they once were, thanks to some sterling work by the
sorcerer Gaunt, but after he left Haven the bad times soon returned as new gangs
established themselves and fought for territory. Nobody was surprised. No one
made any complaints. The Hook was where you ended up when you had nowhere else
to go but a pauper's grave.
All in all, the perfect spot for a new drug factory.
The Blue Dolphin was a squalid little lock-up warehouse, on one end of a rotting
tenement. Chemicals from nearby factories had stained and pitted the stonework,
and all the windows were boarded up. It was cheaper than shutters. The street
was deserted, but Hawk could feel the pressure of watching eyes. He brought his
people to a halt outside the warehouse, and quickly set up a defensive
perimeter. The last thing they needed was a gang attack while they were occupied
with the drug factory. Fisher moved in close beside him.
"Are you sure this is the right place, Hawk? If Morgan's got a packing and
distribution setup here, he's going to need a lot more room than this pokey
little warehouse."
"This is the place," said Hawk, hoping he sounded more convinced than he felt.
When all was said and done, all he had to go on was the dying words of a girl
already out of her mind on chacal. He pushed the thought to one side. He'd
believed her then; he had to believe her now. Or she had died for nothing.
"There are mystic wards all over the place," said Mistique. Hawk jumped
slightly. He hadn't heard her come up behind him. The sorceress smiled briefly,
and then turned her attention back to the warehouse. "I can't quite make out