City of Night

expected of the hands of a convicted strangler? Deucalion’s hands had come from just such a criminal.
    His gray eyes had been plucked from the body of an executed ax murderer. Occasionally, a soft luminous pulse passed through them, as though the unprecedented storm that birthed him had left behind its lightning.
    His brain had once filled the skull of an unknown miscreant. Death had erased all memory of that former life, but perhaps the cerebral circuits remained miswired.
    Now his growing fury took him to seedier streets across the river, in Algiers. These darker byways were rank and busy with illegal enterprise.
    One shabby block accommodated a whorehouse thinly disguised as a massage and acupuncture clinic; a tattoo parlor; a pornographic video shop; and a raucous Cajun bar. Zydeco music boomed.
    In cars parked along the alleyway behind these businesses, pimps socialized while they waited to collect from the girls whom they supplied to the brothel.
    Two slicks in Hawaiian shirts and white silk trousers, gliding on roller skates, peddled cocaine cut with powdered Viagra to the whorehouse clientele. They were having a special on Ecstasy and meth.
    Four Harleys stood in a hog line behind the porno shop. Hardcase bikers seemed to be providing security for the whorehouse or for the bar. Or for the drug dealers. Perhaps for all of them.
    Deucalion passed among them, noticed by some, not by others. For him, a black coat and blacker shadows could be almost as concealing as a cloak of invisibility.
    The mysterious lightning that brought him to life had also conveyed to him an understanding of the quantum structure of the universe, and perhaps something more. Having spent two centuries exploring and gradually applying that knowledge, he could when he wished move through the world with an ease, a grace, a stealth that others found bewildering.
    An argument between a biker and a slender young woman at the back door of the whorehouse drew Deucalion as blood in the water draws a shark.
    Although dressed to arouse, the girl looked fresh-faced and vulnerable. She might have been sixteen.
    “Lemme go, Wayne,” she pleaded. “I want out.”
    Wayne, the biker, held her by both arms, jamming her against the green door. “Once you’re in, there is no out.”
    “I’m not but fifteen.”
    “Don’t worry. You’ll age fast.”
    Through tears, she said, “I never knew it was gonna be like this.”
    “What did you think it would be like, you dumb bitch? Richard Gere and Pretty Woman ?”
    “He’s ugly and he stinks.”
    “Joyce, honey, they’re all ugly and they all stink. After number fifty, you won’t notice anymore.”
    The girl saw Deucalion first, and her widening eyes caused Wayne to turn.
    “Release her,” Deucalion advised.
    The biker—massive, with a cruel face—was not impressed. “You walk real fast away from here, Lone Ranger, and you might leave with your cojones.”
    Deucalion seized his adversary’s right arm and bent it behind his back so suddenly, with such violence, that the shoulder broke with a loud crack. He pitched the big man away from him.
    Briefly airborne, Wayne landed face-first, his scream stifled by a mouthful of blacktop.
    A hard stomp to the nape of the biker’s neck would have snapped his spine. Remembering torch-bearing mobs with pitchforks in another century, Deucalion restrained himself.
    He turned toward the whoosh of a swung chain.
    Another motorcycle aficionado, a leering grotesque with a studded eyebrow, studded nose, studded tongue, and bristling red beard, recklessly joined the fray.
    Instead of dodging the chain-link whip, Deucalion stepped toward his assailant. The chain lashed around his left arm. He seized it and pulled Redbeard off balance.
    The biker had a ponytail. It served as a handle.
    Deucalion lifted him, punched him, threw him.
    In possession of the chain, he rounded on a third thug, whipped him across the knees.
    The struck man cried out and fell. Deucalion helped him off the ground by throat, by crotch, and slammed him into the fourth of the four enforcers.
    He rapped their heads against a wall to the barband beat, creating much misery and perhaps some remorse.
    Already the customers wandering from porno shop to brothel to bar had fled the alleyway. The dealers on wheels had skated with their wares.
    In rapid succession, the pimpmobiles fired up. No one drove toward Deucalion. They reversed out of the alleyway.
    A chopped-and-stretched Cadillac crashed into a