Cherry Bomb_ A Siobhan Quinn Novel - Caitlin R. Kiernan Page 0,43

down at the alley, at the spot on the pavement where, regrettably, there wasn’t a dead vampire. Then I looked back at Selwyn. She was leaning out towards me, all twinkly, big, star-sapphire eyes. Sad puppy-dog eyes. I felt a flutter in my belly. And another flutter between my legs. Go me, sentimental monster, thinking with her cunt.

“Fine,” I muttered. “Come the fuck on, then.”

Because that’s what stupid, horny people would say.

We found Jodie and the rental car waiting exactly where she’d promised to wait for us. Only someone—presumably the assassin—had ripped out her throat, slashed the tires, and punched a hole in the radiator. Scratch one getaway vehicle. Scratch one helpful witch. We’d have to beat our hasty retreat on foot, which wouldn’t have been such a problem if I hadn’t had Selwyn. On my own, I could have moved a whole hell of a lot faster. But I did have Selwyn. We headed towards the subway station at Fiftieth and Eighth. It didn’t even occur to me until we were waiting on the platform just how fucking suspicious we’d look in our matching black outfits.

“Quinn, where are we going?” she asked.

“I don’t know. You tell me.”

“We can’t go back to Jodie’s.”

Near as I could figure, she wasn’t upset by Jodie Babineaux’s death. Well, not unless it had made her more worried about her own skin. I could tell Selwyn wouldn’t be mourning the woman anytime soon. Or ever.

The train pulled into the station, the doors slid open, mind the fucking gap, and we got on. Luckily, the car was empty. I sat down. Selwyn didn’t. She held on to one of the shiny poles with her free hand and stared at the floor while we swayed and bumped along beneath the grimy streets of Manhattan. I watched her, waiting for an explanation. No dice. She clearly wasn’t about to volunteer the lowdown she’d promised. Now that I’d decided not to leave here high and dry, probably she was hoping I’d just forget all about it, distracted by our daring escape, apparently dire predicament, and possible pursuers.

“So,” I said, “what the fuck’s going on?”

Warning. Next infodump ahead. If that sort of thing annoys you, might want to skip a few pages ahead. Of course, then you’ll have no idea what’s going on later. I know. Decisions, decisions. Whee.

Selwyn glanced at the bundle.

“You promised,” I said.

“Have you ever heard of the Byzantine Ghul?”

I shook my head and looked out the window at the blackness rushing by.

“I must have been playing hooky from the Monster Academy that day,” I said. “You got me. What’s the Byzantine Ghul? Short version.”

“I’m not sure there is a short version, Quinn.”

“But it’s got to do with Isaac Snow and why he’s trying to kill us.”

“Yeah,” she said. “It has everything to do with that. Do you know anything about the church during the Byzantine Empire?”

“Hooky,” I reminded her. “Monster hooky. Jesus hooky.”

Selwyn showed me what was hiding in the T-shirt. It was a plaque, a bas-relief carved into a slab of dark gray stone. It was one of those mother and child things, good old Catholic idolatry. Only, with a twist. The artist had managed to give what I assumed was meant to be the Virgin Mary a hungry, leering smirk. And the Baby Jesus, well, he looked as if he’d fallen out of an ugly tree and smacked into every branch on the way down. He was also smirking, like the two of them were gloating over some awful secret, a secret that amused them no end. There was a fossil ammonite, about as big around as a silver dollar, set into the plaque, clutched in the kid’s hands. It was some sort of glittering gold-colored mineral, the ammonite, and I guessed pyrite. Fool’s gold.

“What the fuck, Selwyn?”

“It has a lot of names,” she said. Just then the train lurched and she almost fell, almost dropped the carving. I wouldn’t have caught it. It would have been a relief to see the thing break into a hundred pieces at her feet.

“Such as?”

She held the thing closer to her chest.

“Basaltes Maria Virgo, La Virgen negra de la Muerte, Unser Mutter von der Nacht—”

“Anything in fucking English?”

She sighed and frowned. Oh, the burden of having an ignorant vampire girlfriend.

“Well, in Cultes des Goules, François-Honoré de Balfour translated Basaltes Maria Virgo as La Madone de basalte. The Basalt Madonna. And mostly that’s what it’s been called ever since he published his book in 1702. The ghoul call

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