Ad Eternum by Elizabeth Bear Read Free Book Online Page B

court of public opinion was still divided, as far as the wampyr knew. Captain Grell was a Mata Hari; Captain Grell was a war hero; Captain Grell was no better than she should be—and perhaps a Hell of a lot worse. But the wampyr knew a few old soldiers—ones who had fought the front lines on both sides of the Great War, enduring mustard gas and artillery and the thunder of armored cavalry rolling across battlefields strewn with broken men.
    He rather thought those men would have sent her white roses every day, if they knew where to find her.
    There were no quotations from Captain Grell in the paper. Apparently she had met the reporters at dockside with a thousand-yard stare in her pale blue eyes and a battle-honed “No comment.”
    “Oh, Ruth,” he said.
    The story was continued inside. Seeking the rest of it—hoping and dreading another photo—the wampyr flipped the first page. Only to find a different story, albeit one of equal concern, at the top of page three.
    Apparently Abby Irene’s obituary was running in the society pages because there was a note to that effect below a much clearer photograph of himself than he would have anticipated, annotating a story about his arrival in New Amsterdam that was only a little less sensationalistic than the one featuring Ruth. The wampyr had underestimated the state of the art in telephoto lenses.
    Damian could not have missed his distraction. “Jack?”
    “Once we moved quietly,” the wampyr said. He turned the paper so Damian could read the article about his arrival. He let the article about Ruth stay hidden.
    “Now the paparazzi follow you.” Damian gave him an encouraging smile. “Look, I have some errands—”
    “Go,” said the wampyr. “I will meet you at Sarah’s home tonight.”
    “Yes,” said Damian. He stood, and was gone before the wampyr noticed that he had left money to cover the cost of his meal.
    Ragoczy, of course, had not done so. But the newspaper would suffice.
     

     
    One of the delights of modern life, the wampyr decided, was that he did not need to wait for a rainy day to take care of the sort of inquiries normally handled during business hours. Instead, he availed himself of one of the hotel’s telephones and made a few calls.
    His new status as a public figure was a mixed blessing in his old profession. It would be a challenge to create the sort of network of informants and acquaintances so essential to a private detective’s work. And there were those in law enforcement and its associated disciplines who were not…sanguine…about wampyrs. But in general, the police were more educated than general society when it came to the existence and habits of the blood.
    Prejudice aside—and they had plenty—they had a vested interest in knowing who the killers were.
    And the wampyr did still have an extensive network of contacts in London, in Moscow, and elsewhere. These included the grandson of a Moscow homicide detective to whom the wampyr had once been very close indeed.
    The long-distance bill would be substantial. But in the end, and far more easily than anticipated, the wampyr had the information he required.
     

     
    The wampyr left the Aphatos at sunset, while red banners still crept from behind the buildings concealing the western sky.
    It must have been shift change for the protestors, because there seemed to be about twice as many as there had before. Perhaps, like their prey, they turned out at nightfall.
    Their prey. Hah.
    The young wampyr he’d met earlier, the lovely Elizabeth, loitered against a lamppost clad in blue jeans and a black cowhide jacket, stiff with age and scuffed at the elbows so the rich dry scent still rose from the leather. Heavy boots encased her calves, and the faint smell of gasoline surrounding her hinted that she’d arrived on a motorcycle. She was not smoking a cigarette, but she held one theatrically. The wampyr understood that it was a part of her costume.
    He had nothing but approval for this