by Paul Neuhaus
Molly smirked. “Present company excepted of course. Anyway, I feel like there’s a storm coming. And you’re gonna be on the frontlines.”
Quinn grinned again. “Fuck yeah, I am! Because I’m a wizard policeman!”
The older woman picked up one of Quinn’s pillows and hit her with it. “Don’t tease me,” she said. “I’m being serious.”
The smaller woman yanked the pillow away from the larger and slid up the bed so that she was could lay next to her. “I know you’re being serious, but, if trouble comes, it won’t be anything I can’t handle.”
Molly’s eyes narrowed and she shook her head. “That’s exactly what Cam used to say to Sheila.”
“Yeah, but he made it all the way through to retirement without getting killed. Doesn’t that prove my point?”
Blank folded her hands on her lap. “I dunno,” she replied. “Does it count that it killed my mom?”
When Quinn showed up again in Darren Taft’s apartment, Taft was on the toilet taking a shit. Worse, Quinn was with him in the bathroom. “Oh! Jesus Christ!” Taft said, locking his knees together and throwing both hands over his groin.
Henaghan was mortified. “Sorry. Sorry. Sorry. Sorry,” she said, backing through the door into the living room. There she waited until Darren flushed and came in.
“What the fuck?” Taft said. “You literally just left.”
Quinn nodded. “Yeah, I wanted to time it as close as I could since I knew you’d be here.”
“Thanks for that. Man can’t even take a shit in his own castle.”
“About that…” the petite woman said. “You should maybe see a doctor, ‘cause that smelled wrong.”
“What do you want?” The heavyset man was irritated. Quinn would be too in his shoes. He moved around her and plopped down on his couch.
Henaghan sat down too, keeping a safe distance between herself and the cranky storeowner. “I got a statue,” she said. “I wanted to ask you about it.”
“How’d you get a statue? You were just here like ten minutes ago.”
“Not really. Since I talked to you, it’s been like—”
He cut her off. He’d momentarily forgotten about the twisty nature of space, time and reality. “Tell me about the statue.”
Quinn leaned in, eager to get past the earlier incident with the shitting. “It’s a bird. Like a hawk or something. A predator bird. Not like a chicken. It’s about yay-big…” She held her hands about a foot apart. “It’s got gold eyeshadow—Egyptian-style—and it’s wearing a little crown that looks like a two-liter Coke bottle.”
Darren’s irritation melted away. In fact, his jaw had gone slack. “Where did you get this statue?”
“A guy brought it to me. He gave it over then he croaked in my entryway.”
“He brought it to you specifically?”
Quinn nodded. “He called me Aja.”
Taft nodded. “‘Messiah’. Do you know what this means?”
Henaghan shook her head.
“It means word’s getting out after you did whatever you did that I don’t wanna know about. You’re developing a reputation.”
“Good or bad?”
“Both probably. The world’s not that simple. At any rate, this dead guy—whoever he was—thought he could trust you with a priceless Tilted heirloom.”
The girl’s eyes narrowed. “Tell me what you know.”
Darren sighed and stood. “I’m gonna need a belt. I’d offer you one, but you’re not really here.” He disappeared for a moment and returned with a twenty-ounce bottle of Mountain Dew. His idea of a belt. He took a long swig before speaking again. “What you’ve got, Georgia, is a one-of-a-kind statue of the Egyptian god Horus—and it’s a falcon, not a hawk.”
“Ornithology’s not my forte.”
“Fine, but you need to get up to speed on antiquities. At least the magical ones. Did I tell you that physical objects could be infused with maya?”
“You did.”
“This statue you’ve inherited is the granddaddy of all magic gizmos. Maybe the first such object in history.”
“Who made it?”
“The Tilted. Pay attention.”
“Right.”
“Well…” Darren conceded, tipping his green bottle toward her. “The Tilted and the Resolute.”
“The Jedi and the Sith working together?”
The man nodded.
“I thought the two groups hated each other.”
“They do and they don’t. Or they did. I can’t always track it, truth be told. Remember how the Jihma—AKA the Tilted—rose up to take down the Asura, and the Dharmin—AKA the Resolute—remained loyal?”
It was Henaghan’s turn to nod.
“Well, that relationship’s gone in and out of hot and cold phases. Right now it’s running a little hot, but that’s beside the point. After the revolution, the Resolute realized that staying loyal to the Asura had its pluses and minuses. Mostly minuses. Imagine you had an aging, needy parent that required constant attention. That’s what the Asura became after the war. Finally, the Resolute started to distance themselves. They were all like, ‘Thanks for the magic and all, but you guys’re turning into great big loads’. They remained loyal in spirit but not so much in practice. Anyway, a long time ago—no one knows for sure how long—the rebels and the loyalists were more or less getting along. During that period, they got together and, with their collective power, they forged two statues. One of Horus and one of Set.”
“Who’s Set?”
“You probably know him as ‘Anubis’. Guy with the dog head. Supposed to be in charge of the land of the dead. He was Horus’ brother or his uncle or his second cousin. I can’t remember.”
“Waitaminute,” Quinn said. “What does it mean that they adopted Egyptian iconography? Don’t tell me the Egyptian gods were real.”
“I’m not telling you that. No, I’m sure the choice of form was symbolic in some way. Or Horus and Set were based, by the Egyptians, on Asura. There was a lot of that kinda thing. Cultural evolution is nutty. In any case, this would’ve been before Egypt, so who knows?”
“Good,” Henaghan said. “I’m not sure I can absorb any more cosmological layers.”
“Me neither.”
“What do these statues do?”
“Not a goddam thing,” Taft said.
“Oh,” Quinn replied, unprepared for the anticlimax.
“Unless,” Darren went on. “They’re brought together.”
“Okay, what happens then?”
“T.B.D.”
“T.B.D.? What does that mean?”
“‘To Be Determined’. You need to get out more.”
The girl sighed. “I’m familiar with the concept. I meant what do you mean by T.B.D.? Does nobody know?”
“That’s the basic gist. Word around the campfire is, it depends on who it is that’s bringing the statues together.”
“The bringer-together gets a custom result?”
The man drained the rest of his Mountain Dew and nodded.
“That’s… scary.”
“I know, right? So, if what you’ve got in your possession is the genuine article, you could become very popular very fast.”
“I think I’m already getting there,” Henaghan said with a sigh. She was thinking of Matt Abrigo and the funny little man in the bus terminal. “Where’s the statue of Set?”
“It never left Resolute possession. Rumor has it Horus was on a galley in the Mediterranean Sea when pirates attacked. This would’ve been hundreds and hundreds of years ago. Somewhere off the coast of Malta. People have been playing hot potato with it ever since. Offhand, I’d say you’re gonna be dealing with Resolute who want Horus so they can reunite him with Set. Also you’re gonna be dealing with Tilted who want Horus so they can keep the Resolute from reuniting him with Set. Your dance card’s gonna be full, Georgia.”
“Swell,” Quinn said, crestfallen.
“Say,” Taft said in a different tone of v
oice. “I wanna float an idea: What if you don’t come here anymore? I mean, I don’t see this… situation coming to anything good.”
“I’ll take it under advisement.”
“At the very least, try and come when I’m not excreting things.”
As before, Quinn returned to her bedroom and dropped onto her bed. She listened for a moment. The apartment was empty. She stretched her legs out onto the bed and laid down. None of what Taft had to say was good news as far as she was concerned. It was nice that some dying goofball trusted her with a priceless antiquity, but she didn’t want it. From what Darren had told her, it sounded like the old geezer had dropped the equivalent to the Ark of Covenant in her lap.
And she’d just told Molly everything would remain quiet.
That thought brought her back to Molly’s worry. On the one hand, the concern was nothing but a product of the love Blank felt for Henaghan. On the other—and Quinn chastised herself for thinking this—it was also another unwanted constraint. For years, no one had worried about Quinn and Quinn liked it that way. She resented Molly’s futzing and felt guilty for the resentment.
Maybe she should talk to a therapist. (Although the therapist would probably tell her to go ahead and explore her feelings, to let the little men in her head fight. Stupid therapist.)
A rapping at the front door took Quinn out of her reverie. Having just gotten a spooky earful from Taft, Henaghan entered the living room cautiously. It could be someone completely innocuous standing outside her front door, but that wasn’t the way her luck was running. She opened up just enough to peek out. Standing on her front porch was a middle-aged, heavyset woman and a thinner man wearing a placid expression.
Quinn didn’t even have to scan the woman to know she was an Asura.
Henaghan flung the door wide and adopted a combat stance. Around each hand, a ring of yellow fire appeared, turning and spitting sparks.
The plump woman cried out and lunged backward. The man drew a revolver out of his coat pocket and pointed it at Quinn. “Easy, easy,” he said. “If you’re gonna let fly, you better do it quick. I will shoot you. Just know that you’re making a mistake.”
The older woman peeked around her protector. “You are. You’re making a mistake. I know you can see me. I know you know what I am, but think about it. Think about what it means…”
Henaghan’s eyes narrowed but the flame rings around her hands didn’t diminish. She looked back and forth between the fat woman and the man brandishing the gun. “Explain,” she said.
“I’m Asura,” the lady said. “I’m Asura, but I’m female. That means I have no magic powers whatsoever.”
Quinn catalogued what she knew and the other woman’s statement rang true. Asura society was profoundly patriarchal. Female Asura weren’t Channelers and the human followers the male Asura had cultivated weren’t gifted with powers unless they too were male. “What’s his deal?” she said, meaning the man with the pistol.
“He’s my insurance policy,” the female Asura said. She stepped out from behind the man and said, “Put your gun away, Arnold.”
The man—Arnold, apparently—said, “You sure?”
“Of course I’m sure.”
Arnold uncocked his piece and returned it to his coat pocket. The two strangers waited for Quinn to drop her defensive posture. She did, but her demeanor was no less wary.
“Okay,” Quinn said. “What the fuck?”
“What the fuck indeed,” the heavy woman said with a smile. “May we come in?”
Henaghan was edgy but still but curious. She nodded.
Arnold remained stoic. The older woman looked around the cluttered apartment with a smile. “Is there… a particular couch we should occupy?”
“Take your pick,” Quinn said, watching the two closely.
The lady sat down on the nearest couch while her escort stood. “My,” the lady said. “Look at the way you’re looking at me. You may scan me if you like. I assure you I’m not a threat.”
“Who are you?” the younger woman said, still wary.
“My name is Simone Gros. A French name. You may have noticed my waning accent. I’ve been in the States for many years now. I— Would you please sit? This is most disconcerting.”
Quinn couldn’t deny Gros’ manner and smile seemed completely benign. She sat.
“I’m Simone Gros and my well-armed friend is Arnold Ristich. You are Quinn Henaghan,” Simone said. “I know your name because of what you did. You’d be surprised all the places your reputation is traveling these days. Before you ask, I am in no way related to either Reginald Verbic or Charles Sato. The two Asura you so bravely put down. In any case, I would applaud you for what you did. I’m a woman and my culture has not been kind to women. That is what Ristich is for. To make sure my… culture doesn’t find me and pull me back in. I suspect you take my meaning…”
Quinn nodded.
“Being who I am, I’m in no position to try and fill the vacuum left by Mr. Verbic. I don’t have the means or the inclination. Though I warn you: there will be others with considerably less laissez-faire intent. I am here, in your charming city, for you. I wanted to meet you because I think you and I will share certain traits and philosophies. To that end, I’ve rented the apartment beneath yours. I know this is… odd. I don’t want to you to think I’m a… What’s that word again, Arnold?”
“‘Stalker’,” Ristich said.
“Yes, stalker. I don’t want you to think I’m a stalker, but, as I intimated, I think you and I can be of help to one another.”
Henaghan cocked her head, unconvinced. “Help how?”
“I have both knowledge and resources that would, I think, make your life much easier. You, on the other hand, could provide me with the kind of protection Arnold, despite his considerable talents, never can.”
The redhead was still struggling, dizzied by the strangeness of her visitors. “You’re… gonna have to elaborate. Like a lot.”
Simone Gros nodded. “Of course. I’ll do exactly that when you join me for dinner this evening.” She stood as if the matter were settled. “Bring your good lady-wife.” Halfway back to the door, the woman stopped. “Your good lady-wife knows about your… extracurricular activities, does she not?”
Quinn nodded.
“Then, by all means, bring her.”
With that, Ristich stood aside so Simone could exit then he went out and shut the door behind him.
Henaghan was floored. “Duh Fuh?” she said aloud.
Molly came home from Target to find Quinn sitting at the dining room table, picking at the seam in the middle. Blank put down her purse, causing Henaghan to look up for the first time. “Whatcha doin’?” the older woman said.
“We have an Asura living underneath us.”
Molly plopped down in the chair opposite Quinn. “Huh?” she said. She’d heard what the younger woman had said, but she’d been unable to process it.
“I said we have an Asura living underneath us.”
“An Asura as in an ancient demon? That kinda Asura?”
The redhead nodded. “Only here’s the rub… She’s a lady Asura. Which means she can’t Channel. She seems nice. She wants us to come to dinner.”
Molly nodded, once, then twice, then she stood. Without further comment (or even a glance at her partner), she entered the bedroom and shut the door.
Quinn expected as much.
Quinn waited around as long as she could, but she needed to rouse Molly before too long if one or both of them were going to dinner at their new neighbor’s. After she’d made up her mind and taken two steps toward the bedroom, there was a knock at the front door. Before Molly moved in, Henaghan got maybe one visitor a week (and that was often just a misguided Mormon missionary). She sighed and opened the door.
David Olkin stood on her front porch.
Quinn slammed the door shut again and moved again toward the bedroom. A second, more persistent knock interrupted her. Crossing her eyes, she backtracked and op
ened the door again. “What?” she said to Olkin.
David’s knuckles were still poised to deliver another knock. Sheepishly, he put his hand down. “I’m not even gonna ask if I can come in, but I’ve got something to tell you so you come out here.”
“Have you lost your fucking mind?”
“I guarantee you you’re gonna wanna hear this. Plus, I’d like witnesses if you try and split my skull. Which I deserve, by the way.”
Henaghan looked back toward the bedroom, sighed and exited her apartment. She shut the door behind her. “This better be good.”
“Short and sweet,” Olkin agreed. “You remember how you wanted to know the head of the Guild and I wouldn’t tell you?” The Guild was a group of movie people with magical powers. The organization was formed in the early 1920s by the now-deceased Reginald Verbic.
Quinn nodded.
“It’s Ephraim Zilberschlag.”
The girl did a mild double-take. “Just like that?”
“Just like that. You needed to know.”
Henaghan nodded and turned back to her apartment. “Thanks,” she said.
Olkin grabbed her gently by the shoulder, afraid of angering her. “There’s more,” he said.
Quinn stopped, brushed his hand off her shoulder and turned, waiting.
“Zilberschlag’s now the unquestioned head of the Guild. He no longer has to pay the implied respect toward Verbic. Also, thanks to some complex legal wrangling, he’s the de facto heir apparent to Verbic’s tangle of corporations. All those businesses—built up over the course of almost a hundred years—funnel through one main entity.”
“Fleurs-de-lys.”
“Right. Ephraim’s in charge of all of it now.” Great. So one of Hollywood’s most powerful men had just become an order of magnitude more powerful. (Zilberschlag was also the head of Celestial Pictures, one of the town’s most successful production and distribution companies). Olkin went on, “He told me one-on-one that Fleur-de-lys had some deals going of a mystical nature. Not surprising, but I thought you should hear about it now instead of getting some kind of nasty surprise further down the road.”
