Stories: All-New Tales - By Neil Gaiman & Al Sarrantonio Page 0,62

an unfamiliar wave of fear.

“You’re young.”

“I’m older than I look.”

She glanced around my office. The décor was much like my underground home. There were three straight-backed oak chairs and a small round oak table under the window that looked out on Brooklyn. The only decoration that hung on the wall was a watercolor of a patch of weeds in the bright sun.

“May I sit?” she asked. Her voice was neither masculine nor feminine, hardly was it human, it sounded so rich and deep.

“Certainly,” I said.

She lowered herself into the closest chair and I sat across from her. She looked into my eyes and I concentrated on not looking away. This made her smile. It was a predatory smile—on this subject I consider myself an expert.

She was beautiful in the way that fire is, dangerous and untouchable.

Her nostrils flared and then, after a minute had passed, she handed me a card that read ÒËÓ¤Í Î. ¯¤Ò¡ÌË in red lettering at the lower left-hand corner.

That was all, no job title, profession, address, or phone. There was no e-mail or emblem. If you didn’t know what that name meant, then you didn’t know anything.

“How can I help you, Ms. Demola?”

She smiled and stared for another spate of seconds.

“The painting surprises me,” she said at last.

“Why?”

“Your hours, your profession. You don’t seem like a sun worshipper.”

“My girlfriend’s a painter. She gave me that for an office-warming present.”

“Serious?” she said.

“Come again?”

“Is it serious between you?”

“Why are you here, Ms. Demola?”

“I’ve lost my pet.” Her smile would seduce emperors and frighten children.

“Dog?”

“A rare breed, large and quite vicious.”

“I don’t know…”

“I worry that Reynard may be dangerous.”

The light in her eyes shifted, and either I was made to pay attention or the words themselves moved me.

“Dangerous how?”

“He’s a carnivore and he’s large,” she said in way of explanation.

“If a dog’s attacking people in the city, I’m sure animal control will be out after it.”

“Reynard is a sewer rat in spite of his size. I believe that he’s found his way into the abandoned subway tunnels under the city. There are, I believe, people living down there, people who might not be on the radar of your animal control.”

I’d spent some time in the various abandoned catacombs beneath the city. I’ve hunted there and spent some relaxing days deep under the ground, away from the sounds of the city.

“How big are we talking?”

“Big.”

Mahey carried a large white bag that looked to be made of some kind of naked flesh. From the sack she took a blue velvet roll, maybe a foot and a half in length. This she handed to me.

I unfurled the cloth, revealing a simple black knife, somewhat less than a foot long. The handle was part and parcel of the metal blade.

“Carry this with you,” she said.

“I didn’t say I was taking the job.”

“Don’t let’s be coy, Mr. Nyx.”

I wanted to argue further, but instead I rolled the dark metal blade back up and stood.

“I guess I better be getting to work then.”

“You can see me to my car downstairs,” she said, a little less formal than she had been.

When we got into the close quarters of the elevator, I was assailed by the odor of deep woods. It wasn’t a sweet smell, but there was lightness and dark, decay and new growth. It was almost overpowering.

On the street there was a cherry red Lincoln Town Car parked at the front door. A short, porcine man in a bright green suit stood at the ready, waiting for Ms. Demola.

As we approached him, someone shouted, “Hey, Nyx!”

He was jogging across the street, coming right at me. It was Tarver Lamone wearing white exercise pants and a gray sweatshirt. He was moving pretty quickly when he pulled a pistol out of the pouch of the sweatshirt. I was so surprised that I didn’t move immediately. The chauffeur was taken off guard also, but Mahey was anything but slow. She reached out and put four fingers on the forearm of Tarver’s gun hand. The whole arm turned to spaghetti and hung down, lifeless.

“He is not yours to kill,” she said in an almost matter-of-fact tone. “Not tonight.”

Tarver dropped the pistol and screamed. He turned and ran away. His gait was odd because the right arm was still hanging loosely at his side.

I turned away from him to stare at my Amazonian client.

“What was that?” I asked.

“You were not made for love, Mr. Nyx,” she said. “Its spikes and spines will stake you as certainly as Reynard’s great teeth.”

With