by Rob Thurman
“Alas, adorable isn’t in my vocabulary and I’ll have to remain comment-free there. Second, no. No. You cannot pay me back. You never live long enough to earn almost three million. If you were like me, if you had hundreds of thousands of years at the very minimum to realize what is valuable and what will be valuable”—and then accumulate mineral sources that all short-sighted individuals would have assumed to be worthless—“perhaps we could talk. That is not the situation, unfortunately. If it weren’t for Ishiah, however, sexual payback would be on the table, but regrettably . . .” I gave a classic European shrug, which meant I lust for your ass, but it cannot be. The Europeans had a wonderful system of body language.
Cal whirled and slid a plate of pancakes and bacon in front of me. His eyes were gray this morning. “You paid that bitch Delilah three million dollars to keep me alive and the Vigil off my ass? You could’ve paid me that and I would’ve gone off to live in Antarctica with the best ruby-encrusted entertainment system made by man. They never would’ve found me.”
He didn’t fail, of all those in the world—not once, Cal didn’t—to make me feel as if I were the responsible one. That was rare for me, excepting the lives of the brothers, and it made me feel good about myself. Smug. I truly enjoyed feeling smug. “It was only two point five million, and I couldn’t be responsible for what an Auphe-penguin hybrid evil overlord might perpetrate upon this planet.”
Opening his mouth, he considered, and then sat on the other side of me, sulking. “It would have to be consensual penguin sex. Adult consensual penguin sex.”
“Yes, I’m certain. There was not a doubt in my mind.” I poured on maple syrup shipped from a tiny farm in Vermont and took a bite of his breakfast efforts. It tasted like charcoal combined with blueberries and syrup. It was inedible. I chewed and swallowed with effort. “The best I’ve had, Caliban. You’ve ruined me for all other breakfast foods.” He looked pleased, then suspicious and then pleased again. No matter the color of his hair or eyes, he remained Cal yet. I patted his shoulder. “As it stands now, the Vigil is mostly not our problem. I’m not telling you not to be alert. That would be idiotic. I’m certain the Lupa will slip up now and again, as they don’t care if you live or die and their refund policy isn’t the best I’ve come across to say the very least. I have heard, however, that the Vigil are going down like the firstborn of Egypt and the Wolves are enjoying themselves greatly. But never trust rumors. You aren’t free and clear with the Vigil yet, simply better off than you were with them. Mainly, however, we need to think about Grimm and his thousand children who do not fit in any story tale shoe. Or rather you need to think about that.”
I let my hand fall to squeeze his wrist tightly enough to have his eyes flash from gray to red with surprise at the command in my grip. “I have other problems to deal with, as important, I promise you. But you, Caliban, you need to decide how you will deal with Grimm and his Bae. All of them. You are the only one who can predict what they might do.” He was the only one who thought as Grimm thought. That was half the truth, but it was all the truth he needed to hear now.
The scarlet of his eyes flared and his lips curled into the nastiest of grins. I recognized it. It was one he’d picked up from me five or six thousand years ago. “You’re right. I’ve outthought them twice before. I’ll think of something, something to make them the sorriest bastards on the face of the earth. Trust me.”
“I do.” That was true of him and Niko. I’d trusted them with anything and everything. I trusted them forever.
Except their own lives.
On that, I’d learned better.
11
Caliban
Robin had gone out to handle something; what it was, he wouldn’t say. Hell, I’d just discovered he had someone take over his car lot days ago, before Nik and I had a remote clue that shit was going down, until this mess was cleared up . . . or we were dead. I was leaning heavily toward death. But we weren’t dead yet and he asked me to stay and wait on the delivery. What was I going to say? Nah, I don’t do favors for friends for less than four million dollars? Take your measly two point five million and shove it?
Worse yet, I had the feeling the delivery was for me personally. Dropping a few million to save my life, having Ishiah call in favors from Heaven—which I was no fan of, but I did get it was a very big motherfucking deal and more reason to forgive him, to double-check how many Bae there really were. Something Nik and I hadn’t thought about since the “yeah, it’s probably fifty” discussion that had lasted maybe five minutes, because we were idiots. Not that Robin hadn’t cautiously agreed at the time, but neither had he forgotten. And he’d done something to verify its goddamn staggering lack of reality. Now he was working on other problems he waved off every time we asked about them. We’d died so many times on him, it was a wonder he hadn’t reached the point of if you want to keep them alive, do it yourself because they can’t be bothered.
Could I say that wasn’t true?
I seemed to repeat the same mistakes over and over. I didn’t need memories for that, only history books.
Patroclus had definitely gotten himself . . . myself . . . whatever . . . killed. Ignored orders, ignored common sense, ignored what it would do to those he left behind because he was a bloodthirsty idiot who hadn’t come across a fight since birth that he didn’t want a piece of. It might’ve been all right, that kind of stupid behavior, if he’d been half the fighter Achilles or Robin was, but when I asked about that, Robin said promptly that naturally he was, a warrior unsurpassed, and hand me another bottle of wine, please.
When he’d said that, I looked quickly at Niko for confirmation. Nik had a great poker face, but he wasn’t Robin; he wasn’t a trickster. I saw a flicker of truth before he hid it behind his own wine bottle. Nik studied great warriors . . . and their sidekicks. He knew who was brilliant and who couldn’t fight off a toddler with an axe and a mace. Patroclus had been okay was what Nik’s expression had said. Just . . . okay. From how Robin had talked more openly, he’d been ruthless and fearless. I’d bet that part was honest, but in the middle of a battle gone bad without superior skills to back it up or the plan he’d tossed aside, Patroclus would be in deep shit if he didn’t have Achilles or Robin at his back.
Had been in deep shit. It doesn’t get deeper than dead. He . . . I’d gotten myself killed and then, while dead, I’d gotten Niko killed—wasn’t that impressive? I didn’t have to be alive to do enormous damage. I could be deceased, gone, the beat of an owl’s wings in the twilight, and do it all the same. I’d also given Robin what seemed like one of his very worst memories. The guy had lived millions of years and I was the one to give him his worst fucking memory.
Wasn’t I special?
Was I selfish enough to wish the new “gift” of Auphe-human racial memories would go screw themselves and let me believe Robin’s lies and misdirection at the end of all his stories about the three of us? I was. I admitted it. I wanted to believe the legends, not the truth. But that wasn’t happening. And while Robin was trying to spare us on what really had occurred, I was busy giving him new shit, like last night with the Bae, to add in his giant memory book of Cal-fucked-up nightmares.
A thousand Bae, why were we trying at all?
A buzz from the lobby and then a few minutes later a knock at the door distracted me from the image on Robin’s face when Ishiah had told him about the thousand Bae on the phone. I couldn’t hear it, but I could see him and I couldn’t imagine what could be that god-awful to make the eyes of my endlessly wicked asshole friend go so goddamn desolate and flat that I could see him wishing he actually were dead. That being dead would be better than this. That Hell would be better than this.
So the knock was a distraction. And it was one that I needed desperately, as I absolutely didn’t want to relive in my mind the lack of life and hope on Robin’s face again, not now. Hopefully not ever.
I could kill whoever was kno
cking if they deserved it. I was good at that. Emotions I didn’t do so well with, but if death and destruction was needed, I was your go-to guy.
My luck was the same as usual and the person knocking didn’t deserve or require death. Didn’t that suck? It was one of Robin’s people, and he had “people” for every damn thing under the sun. The guy was a big and overly muscled gym jock with bleached blond hair—no surprise there, Goodfellow, Mr. “I certainly can look even if not touch.” He handed over the box, hovered as if waiting for something like a tip. As if that was going to happen. No one ever tipped me at the bar. I gave a friendly glance at the shovel leaning next to the door, and the guy bolted. Closing the door, I investigated the delivery box. Inside were fifty bottles of epinephrine and enough syringes to supply a hospital. They weren’t the EpiPen kind, but I’d have to make do. It’d be like a flu shot—one damn big flu shot. I’d gone to one of the guest bathrooms to put the box down on the countertop beside the sink and was unwrapping one syringe to “gate up” for the day when I took in how much epinephrine fifty bottles was. It was a helluva visual. So many bottles, so many syringes . . . a few were big enough to inject a steer or a horse.
I raised my gaze up into the mirror and this time I studied my reflection for the longest I had in years. I didn’t bother with looking at what hair I had that remained black, ignored when my eyes flickered gray. Instead I saw only the silver-white strands and the crimson eyes that went perfectly with the Auphe pale skin I’d been born with. I’d known I’d change someday. Grimm had said so and Grimm was the same as the devil in fiction . . . all his best lies were the truth. I’d thought, though, that the change would be a gradual sort of thing. There would be a silver hair that would show up here and there every few years and a speck or two of red that would do the same. But of course not. On the inside, it could be a confused macabre mess that I couldn’t predict from day to day. On the outside, it was different. When I started to change, there was no holding it back. At the rate I was going, I’d look mostly Auphe in a week or less.
I should’ve minded. I should’ve minded a great goddamn deal, but I didn’t. It was more . . . honest. When I went Auphe in my mind, I never knew.
Was I all Auphe? A little Auphe? Halfway? Would I come back? Be human again ever? I couldn’t tell you. I didn’t have any way of knowing. This was better. This I could measure. This I could see.
“There you are,” I muttered. “Finally come out where I can see you when we play.” I traced a finger over my silvered image, smudging the glass. “I’ve carried your ass around so long, now it’s time you do something for me.”
Dropping my eyes back down to track from bottle to bottle of epinephrine. One, two, ten, twenty, forty, fifty. It was an incredible amount.
Where could you gate with all this?
I smiled, twisted and triumphant.
For that matter, where couldn’t you gate?
* * *
Nik was in his bedroom—guest bedroom Robin would emphasize if he were here—when I asked if he was ready to go back home to pick up some weapons. He’d borrowed a clean pair of clothes from Goodfellow and was sliding his katana into its sheath on his back that had been converted from a double shoulder holster before pulling on his coat over it. “You’re feeling well, then?”
I slapped the top of my leg where I’d injected a gating dose of epinephrine. “Juiced up and good to go.” I was wearing a pair of Goodfellow’s jeans and shirt as well, but I wasn’t lying to myself by calling them borrowed. They were stolen and that was the fact of it. He was not getting them back. This wasn’t the first time this had happened and I didn’t feel at all guilty, as Robin had planned for it. The evidence was the T-shirt I was wearing under the also stolen leather jacket. I’d found it in the dresser of my designated guest room, the one with the least furniture to damage.
The shirt was black with small red letters that read IF I CANNOT MOVE HEAVEN, I WILL RAISE HELL. The trickster would sooner be found dead in superhero spandex than a common cotton T-shirt. Armani could have virgin sheep sheered of their wool by virgin sheepherders and woven into cloth by blind virgin nuns to be sold by virgin strippers in diamond-covered thongs and that wouldn’t change the fact that he’d find it unworthy to wipe his puckster ass. That meant intentional present for me.
Straightening his duster to hang long and smooth to conceal all his many borrowed knives, Niko took in my shirt and cocked his head before shaking it in mock despair. Or I hoped it was mock. The guy did have reason for true despair. Hell, didn’t we all? “How appropriate. If you recall, Virgil was the one who—”
I cut him off as quickly as I could. Nope. Didn’t recall. Didn’t want to recall. “Nik, don’t ruin the shirt for me, okay? If you force literary knowledge into my brain, I won’t be happy. Can we go pick up our toys now?” We’d decided with Grimm showing up that there was safety in numbers and we would stay with Robin, as Goodfellow refused to stay at our place. Or . . . wait. Had we decided that or had Robin decided that and talked us into it despite the fact that we didn’t want to risk his life too? He did, I knew he did, but how had he managed that? What had he said . . . ? I didn’t bother following that path of reasoning any further. I knew my limitations. If Goodfellow had talked us into it, we wouldn’t find a way out.
I pulled out a pair of sunglasses from the jacket pocket. As they were Robin’s, they probably cost more than Nik’s car, not that that was saying much. I shouldn’t need them if I could gate us to and from our apartment, but better safe than sorry. “I can gate us in and out of our place, no problem. I don’t feel Grimm, but as I can’t sense Auphe more than a few blocks, that’s not what you’d call reliable. He could be in the city. Hell, he could be in our apartment, but if he is, I’ll gate us back out.”
“He can follow us you said, so that’s not especially reassuring,” Niko said dryly.
“True.” I put on the sunglasses, which were too retro and Terminator-cool for Goodfellow anyway. “But he only sent three Bae to Arkansas, and that was after I’d recovered enough to wake up and fight. He’s playing the game, but he’s not playing it with much enthusiasm.” That worried me. I didn’t want him dumping a thousand Bae on my head, but that he was barely trying wasn’t a good sign. Losing interest in me was as terminal as wanting me dead—they were, in fact, the same thing. “Let’s hope he ups the ante some.”
Niko reached over to lift my sunglasses up and check my eyes. I didn’t know if they were red or gray, and his face told me nothing. “Your pupils look fine.” He let the glasses fall back in place. “Normally after Arkansas and the fact that you were shot in the head”—he gave me a grim frown as if I’d forgotten that—“I’d say we take a taxi, but if Grimm is in the city, I know you need the gating practice with the epinephrine.” His finger aimed and stabbed me rather painfully in the Hell on my shirt. “But if you get the slightest twinge of a headache, you stop. Understand? Are we clear on this? If you gate us home and I find one fleck of blood on you anywhere, I will flush the epinephrine and we’ll have to make do until I think you’re ready.”
The bastard would and do his damn best to keep between me and a gate-happy Grimm—never mind that was impossible. “All right. Okay. Jesus, such a crybaby. Shot in the head like I have anything up there worthwhile.” There wasn’t much Nik could say regarding that, as he was the one who continually reminded me of how empty my skull was . . . he’d once compared it to a beyond-empty void that went on into the astrophysics realm of black holes, sucking in all useful information to be crushed, destroyed, or spat out into an alternative universe depending on if I was aware what science fiction, with its differing levels of accuracy, was and how certain B-movie-esque theories operated.
“It’s enough to keep you house-trained. Let’s hold on to that, shall we? As I’ve had to do that for you twice now, I’d be grateful to escape a third time.” He rested a hand on my shoulder. “I’m prepared. Let’s go.”
&n
bsp; Twice?
That meant when I came back after two years in Tumulus that Nik had to house-train . . . wrong. That was wrong in too many layers of embarrassment and outright humiliation for me to begin to try to deny it. That was why he said it. True or not, he knew that I wouldn’t be able to question him about it. “You are such an asshole,” I said with a growl before gating us back home.
There was no headache, no nosebleeds, no adverse reactions at all. Epinephrine was my new drug of choice, overriding caffeine for the first requirement in the morning. I took a look around the living area where I’d brought us to check for overall damage, but that was my cover-up for what was much more essential.
“Grimm’s not here,” I said.
“No Bae either,” I added. There was nothing and no one here I could feel. A relief, on the Grimm side of it. On the other hand, he did have a thousand Bae. The three in Arkansas hadn’t been any kind of challenge, but if he threw a hundred at us—one-tenth of what he had—it was damn doubtful we’d walk away from that. They weren’t Auphe, but they weren’t nothing either. More dangerous than Wolves several times over, a hundred would take us out easily enough. Easy for them, that is to say, if not at all easy for us.
Don’t forget the game, Grimm, was all I could think. He was what I could handle now. I was working on a plan for his Bae, but it would be a trick and a half to pull off. I’d have to put Grimm and Bae in play when I needed them and where I needed them. Difficult, incredibly fucking difficult. The plan was half sketched out at best, which wasn’t what you’d hope for either. I knew what I was going to do, but I didn’t know where . . . where we’d leave and where we’d come out . . . and that made my plan somewhat lacking at this point.
I gave it all a rest for now and headed for my bedroom. “Lock and load, Nik.” He followed me, steady and smooth. The first time that I’d gated him and Goodfellow, they both came close to puking. They’d both gotten used to it after a while, being yanked through a hole in the world. I had mixed thoughts on that. It was fortunate they had adjusted to it, as I used it often when I could to escape with our lives. And unfortunate they had to become used to something they found intrinsically disturbing despite it often being our last chance at escape. That’s how unnatural it was—that you’d consider dying first, that was how sick and abnormal everyone else found it when pushed through. Everyone else, but not me.
