The Clarity of Cold Steel

TEXTBOOK: THAT’S WHAT my landing across the roof of the Purgatorium Daedalaum most certainly is not. And I say across the roof because to say on the roof, to me, indicates some modicum of precision or skill or success. And it ain’t that. What it is is a careening, pants-shitting, gut-wrenching plummet and sprawl that only a half-mad albatross stumbling across the edge of a straight razor might consider successful.

I don’t break my legs. There’s that. My arms, either.

I just lie in a heap, sprawled at the end of a junkyard mishmash strip of wing parts and harness components and shattered pride. And not much of the last. A strap’s wound tight around my neck and chest, tangling down around my crotch and left leg. Pieces of wing fabric flap in the breeze. I broke it good, at least.

The roof of the edifice stretches out in all directions, flat except for massive square air ducts rising at regular intervals. Greylight’s gilding the horizon in a nebulous crescent, but it’s still dark here and will be for a piece.

I have to move, but moving … moving is problematic. In short, it sucks. My bones creak and arias of flickering pain crescendo through them as I even consider doing anything. Road rash prickles angry red across my shoulders and back, and my head’s ringing. Sides splitting. Literally. Digging inside my shirt, I feel around for the bullet hole. Urgh… Good. Right where I left it. With a matching exit wound around back to boot. Broken ribs and punctured gut in between. Neither hole’s bleeding too bad, near as I can tell. Not outwards, anyways. Heard a surgeon talk on about liver bleeds, though, once upon a time. Said it was quite vascular. So, I’m probably bleeding to death and I don’t even know it. Or maybe I do and I just don’t give damn.

So who was that back there and how’d they find me out? Was it the man in the iron mask? The cops? Do the Kalighat’s tentacles reach this high? I didn’t get a make on anyone. And whoever they were, how’d they know I was there? The answer? Someone sold me out. The list of who: Brooklyn, though I don’t believe so; Johnny Shakespeare, though he sent me; Sweet Sally, though the thought makes me shudder. And it was her that warned me. It had to be. Maybe some prostitute caught a glimpse of me and was overcome with jealousy. Dropped a dime. I suppose it doesn’t matter at this point. I’m just blowing time cause I’m afraid to move.

But it’s time.

With a click and a plunk, the wreck of harness that’s still love-pretzeled around me comes falling off. I untangle the straps, crawl to my feet. Shakily. Dazed. Are there armed guards coming to murder me even now as I stand wobbling like some toddler? I give it a second. Nothing. Aces. Saint Peter’s Basilica rises to my left, the nimbus of dawn waning behind it. Saint Peter stares down at me from on high. I won’t say it ain’t impressive, but I ain’t one for conversion. Off to the north, I can make out a roof access door, and I start slogging my way there, clutching at my side, lurching along like the walking dead.

The lock on the door ain’t nothing, and I’ve it charmed open in a snap. Well, two snaps, truth be told. Something’s clicking inside my wrist when I move it. I’d say my love life’s in jeopardy, but somehow I don’t think it a long term problem. I run a hand along the doorjamb, look for hidden alarms. There’s none that I can see, so I open it and wait, my Webley-Colt hanging in hand as I wait. No armed guards come sprouting up the stairwell, though, so there is that. After a piece, I stagger on, clutching my new best friend the banister, down three flights to the bottom where I meet another door. This one ain’t locked.