Die Once More
Page 8
“In the sixties and seventies,” he says, hands thrust into his pockets as he digs back in his memory, “New York’s numa were out of control. Violence was at a high, and anarchy reigned. The city was the undisputed murder capital of America. That’s when we bardia decided to reorganize, and instead of continuing our traditional role in the city—that of saving humans on an individual basis—we decided to infiltrate the system. During the next decade, we focused on placing bardia in roles of authority, both in the government and in the city’s administration: police, fire, emergency services. Things started to turn around in the nineties.
“Of course, we never ran for office—didn’t want the visibility. But today, behind each and every fire chief, police commissioner, councilman, and even mayor, there is significant bardia influence. Have you heard about a mayor called Giuliani, who ‘single-handedly’ cleaned up New York City during his eight years in office?”
I nod. “Even in France we heard of him.”
Gold chuckles. “Some say he went too far. Took some of the city’s character away along with its sex shops and illegal street vendors. Maybe so. But that entire initiative can be credited to a bardia named Tristan Fielding, a friend of mine from my human days. When we were alive, in the nineteenth century, the gangs of New York were terrorizing the Lower East Side. More than a hundred years later, some of the same numa who had been involved in that crime scene were still making trouble.
“While the New York administration cleaned up the human mess, we took out most of the numa population: either running them out of town or destroying them. And the balance swayed in our favor for a good ten years. Until September eleventh, 2001.”
I can’t help but shudder when he says that date. It’s as if the numbers hold a dark power when spoken together. Pure evil. “Faust told me that more bardia were made on that day than any other in New York’s history.”
Gold nods. “We’ve got two seers here—me and Coleman Bailey, who sat next to you at the council meeting. The two of us kept busy for days and had the entire kindred working along with us. Too bad we can’t see when numa are created. Could have destroyed them before they were even animated.”
“I thought there were only a dozen or so hijackers. Don’t tell me they animated after being incinerated in the tower fires!” I say.
“No, they were gone, as far as we can tell. But evil draws evil, and the slaughter of human lives that happened that day acted like a magnet for our enemies. But more importantly was the one behind it all. Most men who engineer mass killings have a core of evil in them that comes from somewhere subhuman. Whether numa himself or advised by numa, you can bet the architect of 9/11 had close links to our enemies.”
“Are you talking about . . . ,” I begin.
Gold looks around like he’s worried someone’s listening, although the street we’re walking down is empty, and most houses we pass completely dark. “Why do you think there was no photo or DNA evidence of his death released to the public? Buried at sea? Right. After his head was chopped off and his body incinerated, perhaps. Gunshots aren’t enough to kill a numa overlord. Our men in the Pentagon made sure he was good and gone and not rising from the grave three days later.”
“Bardia in the Pentagon?” I ask, truly astounded.
“Like I said, our style here is to infiltrate and advise. Not just in New York, but all over America,” Gold says with a grin.
I am speechless. I honestly had no idea. This country is a millennium younger than ours, but man, do they know how to handle their own.
We turn onto a quiet side street, just one block long, nestled between two larger avenues. The brownstones here look homey, and the street is squeaky clean, like its inhabitants take pride in their hidden haven.
“All that is to say,” Gold says, as we walk up a set of concrete steps to a green door with a big number 16 in brass letters in the middle, “the numa population has exploded here since 2001. Things seem to be coming to a head, and something has to be done. Something like what happened in Paris. That’s why we need you to go there.” Gold turns from me and rings the doorbell.
“But,” I begin, and then I stop, because the door is opening and above us stands Frosty, in all her copper-skinned, raven-haired glory. I haven’t seen her since the drug bust and have a feeling that that isn’t a coincidence. I know she’s been around—she’s obviously been avoiding me.
Evidence: Her face lights up when she sees Gold, but when I step from the shadows behind him, out comes the permafrost.
“Ava, my dear, how good to see you,” says Gold, and steps up to give her a good old American hug. So. Frosty Whitefoot has a first name. Trust old-fashioned Gold to fly in the face of current convention and use it.
He lets go of her and turns toward me. “You remember Jules Marchenoir,” he says.
“Yes. We walked together his first week. Took down those numa on Bushwick,” Ava says stiffly, putting her hands on her hips as she stares down at me.
“Oh yes, I had forgotten,” says Gold. “May we come in?” Even he has noticed her reaction to me and is waiting, puzzled, for her to stop body-blocking the door and invite us in.
“Of course,” she replies, shaking her head as if clearing a fog, and steps aside to let us pass. She shuts the door and double-bolts it before ushering us into a large room with mid-century minimalist couches arranged around an old-fashioned fireplace.
One of those dogs that looks like it has a full-on shaggy mustache lies on a rug in front of the chimney, and upon seeing us rolls onto its back to have its belly rubbed. Gold obliges, adjusting his white suit in order to squat down, and baby-talks to “Vera” as he proceeds to massage the blissed-out pooch into dog heaven.
Gold’s obviously been here before—he doesn’t give the room a second glance—but I am mesmerized by its contents. Art. Everywhere. I can’t help myself: I have to look, and wander from picture to picture, inspecting them carefully. There are several examples of pop art by artists whose names sound vaguely familiar. A framed Velvet Underground poster hangs on one wall, signed, To Ava, my one true love (among many), Lou and under that, Sisters in crime: Ava + Nico. A Salvador Dali sketch stands framed on a table: a nude woman with a bouquet of flowers instead of a head, with the dedication, To the divine Ava, scrawled underneath.
“Of course, we never ran for office—didn’t want the visibility. But today, behind each and every fire chief, police commissioner, councilman, and even mayor, there is significant bardia influence. Have you heard about a mayor called Giuliani, who ‘single-handedly’ cleaned up New York City during his eight years in office?”
I nod. “Even in France we heard of him.”
Gold chuckles. “Some say he went too far. Took some of the city’s character away along with its sex shops and illegal street vendors. Maybe so. But that entire initiative can be credited to a bardia named Tristan Fielding, a friend of mine from my human days. When we were alive, in the nineteenth century, the gangs of New York were terrorizing the Lower East Side. More than a hundred years later, some of the same numa who had been involved in that crime scene were still making trouble.
“While the New York administration cleaned up the human mess, we took out most of the numa population: either running them out of town or destroying them. And the balance swayed in our favor for a good ten years. Until September eleventh, 2001.”
I can’t help but shudder when he says that date. It’s as if the numbers hold a dark power when spoken together. Pure evil. “Faust told me that more bardia were made on that day than any other in New York’s history.”
Gold nods. “We’ve got two seers here—me and Coleman Bailey, who sat next to you at the council meeting. The two of us kept busy for days and had the entire kindred working along with us. Too bad we can’t see when numa are created. Could have destroyed them before they were even animated.”
“I thought there were only a dozen or so hijackers. Don’t tell me they animated after being incinerated in the tower fires!” I say.
“No, they were gone, as far as we can tell. But evil draws evil, and the slaughter of human lives that happened that day acted like a magnet for our enemies. But more importantly was the one behind it all. Most men who engineer mass killings have a core of evil in them that comes from somewhere subhuman. Whether numa himself or advised by numa, you can bet the architect of 9/11 had close links to our enemies.”
“Are you talking about . . . ,” I begin.
Gold looks around like he’s worried someone’s listening, although the street we’re walking down is empty, and most houses we pass completely dark. “Why do you think there was no photo or DNA evidence of his death released to the public? Buried at sea? Right. After his head was chopped off and his body incinerated, perhaps. Gunshots aren’t enough to kill a numa overlord. Our men in the Pentagon made sure he was good and gone and not rising from the grave three days later.”
“Bardia in the Pentagon?” I ask, truly astounded.
“Like I said, our style here is to infiltrate and advise. Not just in New York, but all over America,” Gold says with a grin.
I am speechless. I honestly had no idea. This country is a millennium younger than ours, but man, do they know how to handle their own.
We turn onto a quiet side street, just one block long, nestled between two larger avenues. The brownstones here look homey, and the street is squeaky clean, like its inhabitants take pride in their hidden haven.
“All that is to say,” Gold says, as we walk up a set of concrete steps to a green door with a big number 16 in brass letters in the middle, “the numa population has exploded here since 2001. Things seem to be coming to a head, and something has to be done. Something like what happened in Paris. That’s why we need you to go there.” Gold turns from me and rings the doorbell.
“But,” I begin, and then I stop, because the door is opening and above us stands Frosty, in all her copper-skinned, raven-haired glory. I haven’t seen her since the drug bust and have a feeling that that isn’t a coincidence. I know she’s been around—she’s obviously been avoiding me.
Evidence: Her face lights up when she sees Gold, but when I step from the shadows behind him, out comes the permafrost.
“Ava, my dear, how good to see you,” says Gold, and steps up to give her a good old American hug. So. Frosty Whitefoot has a first name. Trust old-fashioned Gold to fly in the face of current convention and use it.
He lets go of her and turns toward me. “You remember Jules Marchenoir,” he says.
“Yes. We walked together his first week. Took down those numa on Bushwick,” Ava says stiffly, putting her hands on her hips as she stares down at me.
“Oh yes, I had forgotten,” says Gold. “May we come in?” Even he has noticed her reaction to me and is waiting, puzzled, for her to stop body-blocking the door and invite us in.
“Of course,” she replies, shaking her head as if clearing a fog, and steps aside to let us pass. She shuts the door and double-bolts it before ushering us into a large room with mid-century minimalist couches arranged around an old-fashioned fireplace.
One of those dogs that looks like it has a full-on shaggy mustache lies on a rug in front of the chimney, and upon seeing us rolls onto its back to have its belly rubbed. Gold obliges, adjusting his white suit in order to squat down, and baby-talks to “Vera” as he proceeds to massage the blissed-out pooch into dog heaven.
Gold’s obviously been here before—he doesn’t give the room a second glance—but I am mesmerized by its contents. Art. Everywhere. I can’t help myself: I have to look, and wander from picture to picture, inspecting them carefully. There are several examples of pop art by artists whose names sound vaguely familiar. A framed Velvet Underground poster hangs on one wall, signed, To Ava, my one true love (among many), Lou and under that, Sisters in crime: Ava + Nico. A Salvador Dali sketch stands framed on a table: a nude woman with a bouquet of flowers instead of a head, with the dedication, To the divine Ava, scrawled underneath.
