Deader Still

40

No one escaped cleanup duty later that night. Some Other Division and Greater & Lesser Arcana employees headed back uptown to take on the bulk of the workload under the Guggenheim while several other divisions stayed to work on cleaning up Bryant Park. I was thankful that we hadn’t been stuck with that task—sure, the zombie menace had been quelled, but there were bodies all over the inside of the tent. The Guggenheim was just fine with me. Even Godfrey Candella had come along, still in his fashion show outfit, furiously taking notes on the remains of the Paralyzed exhibit.

Worn down as I was, the powers that be took mercy on me and I was spared the task of zombie body removal. Instead, I concentrated my efforts on going through boxes and boxes of invites Cyrus has stashed into one of the crates for his freak show when David Davidson arrived. Everyone looked up from what they were doing.

Davidson looked a little rough around the edges after all the spin he must have had to work tonight, and he loosened his tie.

“Well?” the Inspectre said. “How stands the situation?”

Davidson said, “Well, the good news is that most of what happened was contained to the big tent behind the library. The bad part is that there were a lot of celebrities who witnessed it, and part of it was being broadcast live.”

I crossed over to him.

“So the cat’s out of the bag,” I said, pissed off that we had done so poorly at containment. “We’re public.”

Connor came over to me and patted me on the shoulder. “Easy, kid. Let’s hear what the man has to say.”

Davidson gave me a stern look, then turned to Connor and smiled. “Thank you, Connor. The last thing Cyrus said before the people from the Thaniel Graydon took him away was a resounding “Even if you arrest me, you’re still going to have to deal with all the media.” A pretty weak parting threat, if you ask me.”

“But what about all the media?”

David Davidson actually let out a chuckle. “If there’s one thing that’s easy to do, it’s spin something in the fashion industry,” he said. “With all the witnesses and footage leaking out, to deny what was going on would be foolish. So why not play into it?”

Despite his confidence in Davidson, the Inspectre looked worried. “Meaning what, exactly, my boy?” he said.

Jane came up to me and put her hand in mine, squeezing it. The pain in my wrists from earlier still rang out, but I continued holding her hand.

“Ladies and gentlemen,” Davidson said with a flourish. “I give you the fashion industry’s newest marketing stunt—a high-fashion zombie walk!”

“Zombie walk?” Jane asked.

Davidson nodded. “Yeah, I hadn’t really heard of it either, but there’s an underground movement on the Inter-net of these flash mobs that show up costumed as zombies. Mostly they’re fans of zombie movies and the like, but they get together, usually in urban areas, and wander around in character for several hours. Anyway, we had a few down by NYU a while back, and I thought it might be a good idea to start funding some of their events . . . you know, so they’d gain more popularity and just in case I ever needed a plausible cover story for a real zombie outbreak. Like, say, at Bryant Park.”

“And you expect people to buy this?” I asked.

Davidson nodded again. “People will believe almost anything they can Google. You should look it up. Besides, who can tell the difference between brainless, emaciated supermodels and gaunt, brain-hungry zombies? It’s fashion . . . People are far more likely to buy into a flash zombie walk than they are the harsh supernatural reality that the dead were rising and walking the land, consuming the living.”

All of the agents erupted into applause.

“That’s what passes for genius?” Jane whispered to me.

“I guess,” I said, joining in the applause. “Seems to be working.”

I turned to look for Connor, only to see him standing alone over by the invitation boxes I had been working on, stock-still as everyone around him clapped. I went over to him, but he took no notice.

His face was stoic and his hand was clutching one of the invitation envelopes. He reached in his pocket and pulled out the letter I had seen in my psychometric flash of his desk. He clutched it in his other hand.

“Connor,” I said, “you okay?”

“You know how I’ve been a little distant lately? Wanting you to keep out of my business?”

I nodded.

He unfolded the letter from his pocket and handed it to me. The page was blank except for one single message in the center of it. No address, no signature, nothing.

It read: AIDAN CHRISTOS IS OURS. STOP LOOKING OR HE DIES.

“Aidan?” I asked. “Your brother?”

“How many Aidan Christoses do you know of? Someone sent it to me a little while ago, kid.”

“I accidentally got a psychometric reading off your desk,” I said, sheepish. “I know. I’m sorry. But whoever sent it to you knew I might see it, and they somehow blocked it from my power. It knocked me out. But why now? Why send something after all this time?”

Connor was silent, assessing the information I’d given him. “Because whoever they are, they must know I work with you. And now that your control over your power is growing, they know it’s only a matter of time before I use you to help me track him down.”

“But if you were going to keep that letter from me to keep him safe, why tell me now?”

He held up one of the invitations. The name on it read only Aidan, and it had an address. Right here. In New York City.

“What are the odds, kid?”

“I’m not sure,” I said, “but I think it’s time to find out.”

Connor nodded. “Let’s find him.”

The two of us headed back toward the exit. When the Inspectre saw us leaving, he must have seen our determination, and didn’t say a word. And I knew why: You could never get away with stopping people with the kind of hope we had on our faces.