I leaned forward. “Can you turn that down?”
The driver scowled into the rearview mirror, his eyes narrowing under bushy salt-and-pepper eyebrows. He reached forward and reduced the volume by maybe half a decibel. The talk-radio ranter speculated on how many megatons of explosives it would take to wipe out Boston’s zombie population.
“No, I meant turn it down. I really don’t want to listen to that nutjob right now.”
“Nutjob? What nutjob? The man has a point.” The volume stayed where it was.
I glanced at the cabbie’s license for the driver’s name: Ferris Mackey. “Listen, Ferris—”
“Mack. Everybody calls me Mack.”
Okay, fine. “Listen, Mack, I live in Deadtown. So I’m not all that thrilled to listen to some lunatic who wants to blow up my home and my friends, all right?”
Mack shrugged, but he switched off the radio. A couple of seconds later, his eyes returned to the rearview mirror. He studied me so intently he almost ran a red light.
“Watch the light!”
He slammed on the brakes, throwing Mab and me forward, the taxi’s nose a third of the way into the intersection. He turned around in his seat to gawk at us. This time, his scowl seemed puzzled.
“So what are you, a werewolf?”
“No.”
“You’re not vampires.”
“No, we’re not.”
The light changed, and the car lurched forward. “Vampires and werewolves, them I don’t mind. Good tippers, usually. So are the people who’ve been out to the bars—real people, I mean, you know, humans. Usually the humans are so relieved to get the hell out of there, they show their appreciation with cash, know what I mean? That’s why I wait for fares outside the checkpoint. But I won’t let a zombie in my cab. Those things . . . they’re unnatural.”
I didn’t want to listen to this crap for the couple of blocks we still had to go. “How about you turn your own volume down? You’re as bad as the nutjob.”
The salt-and-pepper eyebrows climbed his forehead. “There’s a serial killer running around Boston, and she calls me a nutjob. Nice. Hey, I’m just telling it like it is. This city has got its problems. Political corruption. Muggings. Gangs out in Roxbury and Dorchester. But we ain’t had a serial killer since, what, the sixties? Seventies?”
“The Boston Strangler was a human.”
“Yeah, and he was a good, old-fashioned crazy-type killer. Him I can understand. But now all these zombies appear, and next thing you know there’s this weird, ritualistic, carve-’emup killer on the loose. Everybody knows the zombies got bloodlust. That’s what happened. The bloodlust, it got to one of ’em. For humans to be safe, we gotta get rid of the zombies. Us or them.” He took another look at me in the rearview mirror. “I don’t believe you live in Deadtown. I saw you come out of that bar. You ladies are human, ain’t you? Out looking for a little paranormal excitement. Well, take my advice—stay out of the Zone. Unless you want to end up as monster chow.”
He pulled over to the curb and threw the cab into park, as if to underline his point. He stopped the meter and told me the fare. I got out and handed him exact change, down to the last quarter. He scowled as he counted the money, and I smiled sweetly. “Add shapeshifters to your list of lousy tippers.” I shoved the door shut.
He shouted something, but I didn’t hear him through the closed cab window. His gesture was clear enough, though. The cab peeled away from the curb, but slammed to a stop at the red light at Clarendon.
A nutjob and a lousy driver. I was glad to be out of his cab.
When I turned around, I didn’t see Mab. She wasn’t standing on the sidewalk where I expected her to be. My heart lurched. We were a block away from where the Reaper would strike, and I’d turned my back on my aunt.
“Here, child.”
I tracked the sound of her voice. There she was, sitting on the steps of an elegant, four-story brick town house. I went over and sat beside her. “I liked the way you handled that bigot,” she said. “Some people aren’t worth arguing with.”
There were a lot of those in Boston. Like Police Commissioner Hampson. You’d never convince a guy like Mack the taxi driver, because he was so totally in love with the sound of his own voice spouting off his opinions. Anything you tried to say presented a chance to spout off some more.
But I didn’t really care about norms and their opinions right now. I was worried about Mab. We hadn’t even made it to Back Street, and she was already sitting down to rest.
“Are you okay to go on? Be honest,” I added before she could reply. “I know using the bloodstone took a lot out of you. If you’re too drained, I can run and get that taxi before the light changes. He’ll take you back to Deadtown.”
Mab’s expression showed she had no intention of listening to any more of Mack’s monologue. Too late, anyway. Down the block, someone ran over from Clarendon Street, hailing the cab.
“I’m fine,” Mab insisted. “And I’m not letting you proceed without backup. Your roommate seems to have forgotten us.”
It was true. I looked up and down the street, but there was no sign of Juliet. I hoped she was okay. Most likely she was fine. She hadn’t fed properly in days, and I could see how hunting would distract her. Vampires weren’t what you’d call team players; they were survivors who put their own interests first. Juliet could easily get sidetracked and assume I’d handle my own problems. Like stopping the Reaper.
I stood, and so did Mab. She moved easily, but something haunted her eyes. How much pain was she hiding? If I asked her, she’d deny she hurt at all.
Side by side, we walked down Beacon Street to Clarendon, where we turned right, toward Storrow Drive and the river. The spot I’d marked on the map, the top point of the eihwaz rune, was a block east, just past Berkeley Street. We’d approach the site slowly, looking for places where Myrddin could be hiding, alert for any sign of the Reaper.
Back Street was deserted. To our left, past a narrow strip of grass and trees, cars zipped by on Storrow Drive, but traffic was light. To our right, Beacon Street town houses and apartment buildings showed us their backs. Grand and elegant in front, they were much plainer from this vantage point, crisscrossed with metal fire escapes. Parked cars lined the street and crowded into tight lots. We kept to the shadows, peering into the windows of garages and basements, looking for any sign that the Old Ones might be in residence. Slowly, we made our way east.
We were about to cross Berkeley Street when headlights shone down that road. Probably a car headed to the Storrow Drive on-ramps. I grabbed Mab’s arm, and we ducked into a small parking lot, getting between an SUV and a car. We crouched there, peering through the SUV’s windows, as the beams grew brighter. The car, a taxi, rolled slowly into view. It didn’t accelerate like it was going to get on Storrow Drive. As it crossed Back Street, it drifted to the right—past the on-ramps—and hit a signpost. The overhead STORROW DRIVE EAST sign shuddered. The car halted, kissing the post, its front bumper crumpled.
A drunk taxi driver? Just what we needed stumbling onto the scene when we were trying to stop a serial killer.
I hesitated. Should we go over and make sure the occupants were okay? Find a phone and call 911?
Before I could decide, the taxi’s front passenger door flew open, and a man—at least the silhouette looked like a man from where I crouched—jumped out and ran east on Back Street, away from us. Guess he wasn’t going to pay a drunk driver who crashed the cab.