Page 29

Supernatural Hong Kong was looking a little worse for the wear these days, having been through a major battle recently. And by worse, I mean half tumbled down skyscrapers with mostly missing windows, other buildings blackened and burnt out, and large swathes of land chewed up as if a gigantic mole had been tunneling. It honestly didn’t look that much better than it had during the battle itself, except that the fires had been put out.

Largely put out, I corrected, noticing flickering red light staining the inside of an already charred hulk. Of course, that could have been somebody making dinner. Housing was at a premium these days, and squatting was rampant in anything that was remotely structurally sound.

Although some people had been more creative than that.

“What the—what is that?”

Bahram, the big, bearded vamp from Hassani’s court, grabbed my shoulder and pointed at something off to the left. I had no idea what, because I was driving, which in Hong Kong meant piloting a repurposed rickshaw around the skies. And because the skies were so full, he could have been pointing at anything.

“Don’t grab me,” I said, shrugging off his hand.

He turned in his seat to stare at something behind us, and Rashid, the big, bald vamp on the other side of the backseat, frowned. “Shouldn’t Louis-Cesare be driving?”

“Why?”

A crazy-ass vehicle comprised of a couple smallish fans and someone’s living room sofa dipped down almost on top of us. Once upon a time, that would have been illegal. You couldn’t merely slap a levitation charm on something and call it a day. There were rules; there were laws; there were standards.

Right up until the city got the crap blown out of it, along with half of its vehicles. Now, it seemed that anything worked, only it didn’t. It didn’t at all! I grabbed a broom stick off the floorboard and beat on the bottom of the couch.

“Mm goi jeh!”

A small child’s face appeared over the back of the sofa, and stared down at me curiously, before someone whom I assumed to be her grandmother pulled her back so she could stare at me instead.

“Mm goi jeh!” I repeated. Which was the polite way of saying “move your ass” in Cantonese. At least, I assumed so, since it had been yelled at me a few dozen times now.

It seemed to work. A moment later, the fan on the left-hand arm of the sofa was turned to the right, causing the whole contraption to veer in that direction. And almost collide with a floating Pot Noodle Shop in the process.

“That is why,” Rashid said dryly.

“I do not know how to drive one of these,” Louis-Cesare informed him, just before we were bumped by a careening taxi, which resulted in us scraping along a levitating sidewalk for half a block before I could get the sticky control mechanism to put us back into what passed for a road.

“Neither does she,” Rashid replied, holding on white knuckled to the side of the rickshaw.

He said something else to Bahram, but I didn’t understand since it was in Arabic. That was probably just as well. My backseat driver had been kibitzing ever since we left the rent-a-rickshaw place, and I was getting tired of it.

I didn’t clap back, however, because I was busy keeping us alive. The rickshaws were kept in the air by standard levitation charms, but that was the only thing about them that was standard. They were powered by huge fans in the back, like the ones on airboats, and they were dangerous as hell.

Ours had a safety cage over the wildly whirling blades, but plenty of those around us did not, and there weren’t a lot of road rules in Hong Kong. That had always been true, but it was especially so now, as the usual land arteries had been mostly severed by damage from the battle, and people had been forced to take to the skies. That had resulted in a much more crowded airspace than I had seen before.

And the damned pirates didn’t help.

“Not today,” Louis-Cesare said, and brought up an arm, knocking a would-be thief back onto his flying rattletrap.

It was a casual gesture, but it must have been damaging, because it really pissed off the thief. He was a vampire, if a very stupid one, who didn’t bother to check out the power signature of the guy he was attacking. The rattletrap swerved away, and then abruptly swerved back, and the bastards actually tried to board us!

Bahram and Louis-Cesare made quick work of them, which was good as I was busy accepting the fact that we were lost.

“God damn it,” I muttered, and fished the map out of my jeans again.

I’d had the guy at the rickshaw place print it out for me, because my phone’s tiny screen was hard to read, but it didn’t help much. Especially not here. I stared around, looking for a reading light, and wondering where all the animated ads had gone.

Once upon a time, the skies would have been full of transparent fish swimming across the darkness, their glowing sides advertising sushi bars and sashimi places, or if said fish was also wearing a monocle, possibly fish and chips shops. There would have been cuties in miniskirts waving from the sides of buildings, trying to lure people into clubs and karaoke bars; fake, neon rain pattering down for half a block, only to have a swirl of branded umbrellas come flying to the rescue; and actual, physical ads jumping off their billboards to harangue passersby.

You haven’t really lived until you’ve been chased down a sidewalk by a human-sized bowl of noodles that is brandishing chopsticks menacingly.

But there was nothing like that now. There were still billboards scattered around, what looked like hundreds of them. But most contained script only, without an image in sight. And many were completely empty, with just a few, ragged pieces of paper fluttering in the breeze.

It made me wonder why anybody would bother to remove old ads in a time of war, but there was no one to ask, at least not until we figured out where we were going.

I finally parked us by a huge, neon yellow sign advertising beer. It was a human-style LED variety, of the type that was still spotting the darkness here and there. But while it was bright, it kept switching things up every minute or so, sending alternately yellow, blue, pink and aqua tinted light dancing over the car, and making the map almost impossible to read. And that was before a passing rickshaw clipped us and sent us spinning into the stream of traffic again.

Rashid gave a sharp little scream when I abruptly dropped us the hell out of there and looked for another bolt hole. That wasn’t easy as my requirements were: no crumbling buildings, no neon, and no pirates, which left out eighty percent of the city. But I finally located one under a levitating restaurant with festoons of lights draped along the balcony, and got my map out again.

The problem was that nothing in this city was fixed anymore. The damaged buildings had left plenty of people homeless, and that had only been exacerbated by the fact that the battle had done a number on the shield that kept this place safely wedged in non-space. The fighting had torn holes in it in places and weakened others, leading people to worry about their block suddenly being consumed by a new fissure.

As a result, thousands had fled their homes for the skies, living above the city rather than in it. That wasn’t as unusual here as it would have been most places, as supernatural Hong Kong had always been a city of bridges. Forced to grow up instead of out due to the constraints of the shield, it had long had the habit of parking shops, eateries, and even housing on the thousands of bridges that connected many of the buildings.

I guessed it wasn’t much of a stretch to go from living on a bridge over a big drop to just living over the drop, but it was damned inconvenient for us. It meant that, not only were there crazy, repurposed vehicles flying around, but also repurposed housing. Not that most of the houses were flying, but they were definitely in the way.

“There’s another one,” Rashid said, excitedly pointing off to the right. “That’s what I saw before. Are people really living there?”

“Looks like it.”

I could kind of understand his surprise. Floating off to our left was a group of old, rusted out buses that had been gutted and turned into makeshift apartments. They had curtains, window boxes, and somebody’s deck chair on a roof, and were surrounded by a bulwark of worn out tires. They were linked together by some walkways made out of wooden siding and the whole thing had been tethered to a burnt-out skyscraper so, I assumed, that it wouldn’t float away.

The sky was full of similar rough-and-ready living spaces that hadn’t been there when my map was written. To make matters worse, where people went, others had followed to cater to them. Meaning that I also had to dodge floating restaurants, bars and snack shops.

Some of those were fairly compact, with just a counter in front where you flew up to get your order. Others boasted stools affixed to the bottoms of the counters, leaving the patrons’ feet dangling over nothing at all. And a few were taking alfresco dining to a whole new level, by parking levitating platforms out from their cookshops for those who wanted a better view and a shorter lifespan.

Yet there were people eating at them, and more ordering take-out, with vehicles of all descriptions buzzing about like flies, probably because most of the makeshift apartments didn’t have stove tops.

Louis-Cesare waved one of the returning take out guys over and got a menu. He perused it while I tried to read the damned useless map by the light of a swag of bare bulbs hanging off the diner’s balcony. I tugged them down a little lower, but it didn’t help much, yet I didn’t dare move further up.

Hong Kong was currently the Wild, Wild East, and I didn’t want to get decapitated while trying to figure out where the hell we were!

“Is there a problem?” Rashid asked, his voice making it clear that he already knew the answer.

“No,” I said, not needing help from the backseat driver, who I hadn’t planned to bring along anyway.

That had been Hassani’s idea, probably to protect his interests. And since we were currently such good friends, I didn’t see how I could turn him down. Especially since the Middle Eastern Mr. Clean back there and his bearded buddy hadn’t exactly asked. They’d shown up on the tarmac with bags packed.

So they could damned well keep their opinions to themselves!

“Then why did we stop?” he asked, tempting fate.

“I’m hungry.” It was true; dhampir metabolisms were a bitch.

Of course, it was also true that I didn’t know where to find a floating whorehouse in all this, despite the fact that I’d read the map right. It was supposed to be right here! But there was nothing of the kind in view, at least not as far as I could tell.

But the skies were busy with neon, zipping with rickshaws, and crowded with floating apartments, so who the hell knew? How anybody was supposed to find anything in this, I didn’t know. And that was assuming our destination hadn’t just floated off to moor somewhere else.

“Give me the map,” Rashid demanded.

“Get your own.”

“You are obviously lost—”

“I’m not lost. The damned brothel is lost—”

“We are going to a brothel?” That was Bahram, suddenly acquiring an interest.

“Not anytime soon,” Rashid said, under his breath.

“I’ll find it, okay?” I said, and snatched back the map that he’d tried to steal.

“Why are we going to a brothel?” Bahram inquired, as Louis-Cesare held up a hand.

I was about to answer when one of the guys at a nearby dim sum shop opened a door on the side and kicked out a set of wood stairs. They’d been folded up under the door, out of the way. But now they spread-out and down, allowing me to see that they were held together by sturdy metal hinges on the side of each step.

Rotating hinges, I realized, as the thing snaked around the skies for a moment, until the waiter pushed it in our direction. It reached all the way to the rickshaw and then some, falling another half story below us. And allowing the man in his fresh white apron to run down and stop by our side.

He took out a small note pad and looked at us inquiringly.

“Char Siu Bao,” Louis-Cesare said. He held up a thumb and two fingers. “Three, yes?”

The waiter guy nodded and wrote on the pad.

“Beer,” I said. “And we’re gonna need more of those barbeque buns.”

“I just ordered three,” Louis-Cesare protested.

“But I’m going to eat two orders myself.”

“I, too, would like barbeque buns,” Bahram said, leaning forward.

Louis-Cesare looked over his shoulder at Rashid, and cocked an eyebrow enquiringly.

“I would like to get where we are going!” Rashid said, and stole my map.

I decided to let him have it, because I couldn’t figure it out and eat at the same time.

“Char Siu Bao. Four,” Louis-Cesare corrected, holding up a thumb and three fingers.

“Six,” Bahram corrected. I looked at him. He shrugged. “I have an appetite.”

“Not for those,” Rashid said, his eyes searching the map.

“Why not?”

“They have pork.” He looked up at Louis-Cesare. “They do, yes?”

“Usually.” Louis-Cesare looked back at the menu. “Har Gow—shrimp dumplings?” He looked at Bahram.

“They are mukhruh,” Bahram said sadly. “Not forbidden, but—”

“Not encouraged?” Louis-Cesare guessed.

Bahram nodded.

Louis-Cesare went back to perusing the menu. I leaned over the seat to look at the map. It was upside down, which gave me a new perspective, not that it helped.

I got out my phone.

Phone connections had been restored with the reopening of the city’s portals, allowing me to get a signal. I texted a friend: Your map sucks. And waited.

“Curried fishballs?” Louis-Cesare suggested.

Bahram made a face.

“Fung Zao?”

“What is that?”

“Chicken feet. They are deep fried, then marinated, then steamed. They come with a black bean and chili sauce.”

“They eat the feet?” Bahram looked shocked.

“They’re quite good.”

He appeared dubious about that. But then he shrugged. “I will try.”

“Fung Zao, two,” Louis-Cesare told the waiter, who nodded.

“And beer,” I added, glancing in the back. “Unless—”

“Tea,” Rashid said, still frowning at the map.

Bahram frowned. “I will have—”

“Tea,” Rashid said firmly.

Bahram sighed. “Tea.”

The waiter nodded, turned around, and tripped lightly up the stairs.

My phone dinged.

Where you at, short stuff? I read.

Underneath the Little Pig Mongolian Hot Pot.

“Are you sure that is the name?”

That was, of course, Rashid, reading over my shoulder.

“Why don’t you go up and check?” I asked, smiling.

Rashid stood up, grabbed hold of the edge of the restaurant and levered himself up.

“Are you hoping he’ll fall off?” Louis-Cesare mouthed.

I looked back innocently.

But, of course, he was a vamp. He didn’t fall off. He did surprise a diner at a table by the railing, however, who screamed and dropped a beer.

Bahram caught it and drank it quickly, before his friend got back.

Sending some guys, my phone informed me.

What will they look like?

You’ll know them when you see them.

But how will they know me?

Babe.

That was it. That was all I got. I frowned at it.

Then I shrugged and put my phone away.

Rashid rejoined us. “It is called ‘Little Pig Mongolian Hot Pot’ he informed Louis-Cesare, who ignored him both because he didn’t care, and because our food had arrived.

It looked like the dim sum place was doing a bang-up business, and was churning the food out. They must have already had everything made; they’d just needed to dish it up. Which they’d done in traditional white to-go boxes, which Louis-Cesare handed around.

“What is this?” Rashid asked, holding up something from one of Bahram’s boxes.

“Fung Zao,” I said, my mouth full of barbequed pork.

“And that is what?”

“Good!” Bahram said, looking surprised. And dug into his feet.

A large, shiny, floating limo glided toward us, not bothering to dodge anything as we, and everyone else in the skies, had been doing. But then, it didn’t need to, as everybody gave it an extra wide birth. It reminded me of a shark cutting through the ocean and fish suddenly remembering somewhere else they needed to be.

Only it wasn’t a shark that decorated the face of the man who looked out of the back window, after it silently lowered.

I didn’t know him, but I knew that tat. A beautifully rendered tiger prowled across the cheek of a handsome Chinese guy in an expensive suit. The tat matched the one I’d put on before we landed, because Kitty was not only security in these parts; she was my calling card.

I held up an arm, and my own tiger growled a little at his, before the two recognized each other and settled down.

“Dorina Basarab,” the man said, and bowed his head slightly. “If you will come with me?”

The door was opened and a hand extended. I grabbed my buns and happily scuttled over. Louis-Cesare followed, despite not being asked, and got away with it because he always did; it was a talent.

But Rashid found the door closed in his face.

“What—we are with them!” he said indignantly.

My new guide popped an eyebrow worthy of Mircea. “I was told to pick up two senators. Are you a senator?”

“I—no, but—”

“Then you can follow us.”

“But—but—we don’t know how to drive this thing!”

“You were just saying you could do better,” Bahram said, around a mouthful of feet.

“I did not!”

“Yes, you did, just a minute ago—”

“Be quiet!” he was told.

He may have been told other things, as well, but I didn’t hear them. Because our ride was smoothly gliding across the skies, which seemed much less chaotic with tinted windows and soft music tinkling in the background. And champagne on offer.

“I left my beer,” I realized.

“Bahram will no doubt handle it,” Louis-Cesare said, accepting a glass of bubbles for us both.

I smiled and ate pork buns.

I could get used to this.