Swim Like Hell: A Visit to Superstition Bay

by Benjamin LaMore

  Danaher’s chair slides behind the desk. “I have something important to do,” he says as he loosens his tie. “What can I do for you, Mr. DeLong?”

  “Been a while, eh, Remy?” I find I can’t quite look at him. He seems to have no trouble looking at me, though.

  “Not long enough.”

  My wanderings have led me next to his desk. A small series of unpolished clay jars sits in a long Lucite box that has been fixed to the right side of the desk.

  “I’ve heard of these jars of yours,” I say, regarding them curiously. I’m awkwardly trying to make small talk. “The design is interesting. Inuit?”

  “As far as I know I don’t have to explain my decorating choices to you.”

  “Yeah. I remember seeing something like these in Murmansk, once. If I were to hazard a guess, I’d say that they’re soul jars. I’d further guess that you’ve got human,” I tap the first lid, “werewolf,” the second, “witch,” the third, “and…”

  My finger hovers over the fourth jar. I have no earthly idea what else he might be bottling. Supernatural beings abound in this area, and almost all of them give some kind of fealty to him. This fealty usually is paid through the donation of the most precious commodity they possessed – their souls.

  Not their whole souls, of course. Danaher regularly shaves off tiny slivers of soul, a process that I’ve heard is almost unbearably painful. It grows back, of course, but the shavings never lose their vitality. Nor do they lose their connection to their owners.

  This was how Danaher’s influence seeped insidiously through the community. Not control, of course. No matter how much of a being’s soul he bags, he can’t out-and-out control them. But the knowledge that he has some of their souls in his possession tends to make people think more favorably towards his requests.

  And still, since it’s all done consensually, none of it is technically illegal by Aegis standpoints. It’s past time they overhauled their rulebooks.

  “You know why I’m here,” I say, still looking at the jars.

  “You’re looking for the Cleave,” Danaher says matter-of-factly. “Like half of the other monsters in this town.”

  “So, you’re aware of it?”

  “Of course.”

  “Where is it?”

  “I have no idea yet.”

  “Okay, if you don’t know about the where, tell me about the what. What exactly is this thing? I’ve never heard of it before, and I’m getting a lot of different opinions.”

  His expression, which heretofore could be described as formal at best, has toughened gradually as I wandered closer to him. Now it’s a full-fledged glare.

  “If you’re looking for a wet nurse, Ian, you’re ridiculously off base. I’m not a library or a search engine. You’ll get no answers from me, and no help either. You’re wasting both our time, and it’s time for you to leave.”

  He’s staring at me with open venom now. His face, famously so composed, is flushed, and tiny beads of sweat are dotting his hairline. I realize then that I’ve been mistaken all this time about how deeply the bad blood between us runs. I nod slowly, turning towards the door.

  “Goodbye, Remy,” I say quietly as I go for the door.

  “I really don’t understand why he sent you to this town,” he says to my back. I turn back and see that his head is bowed and sadly shaking.

  “I don’t either. I guess he wanted someone to try to help keep the peace.”

  “You really think shepherding drunk golems makes the man to do that? You see what kind of hold I have here and I’m not even an Envoy anymore.” He’s leaning forward in his chair now, spitting his words at me. “Do you really think that you’re the one who keeps the peace in this town? Do you really think that every ghost, vampire, werewolf, devil and cryptid in this town walks the line because they’re afraid of you and your magical immunity? If you do, then you’re nothing but a fool. It’s me, DeLong. I’m the one they fear. I’m the reason the wolves don’t hunt. I’m the reason the vampires don’t kill. I’m the reason the merfolk haven’t charged against the fishing fleets. I’m the reason they all haven’t risen up en masse against the human world. I’m the reason that they’re alive.”

  “If that’s the case, Remy, then I think you missed the whole point.”

  “Oh, did I? Tell me, then, Marshal. What’s the point?”

  “Maybe he sent me here to keep an eye on you.”

  He stares at me, turning the idea over in his mind and finding it revolting. “If that’s the case, then you’re doomed to failure. You’re powerless against me.”

  “Well, just in case it slipped your mind, you can’t exactly do much to me, either.”

  He opens his mouth, then closes it. He smooth’s his jacket and shoots his cuffs as he eases back into his chair, forcibly regaining a measure of composure. “How is that magnificent young siren you have been seen out and about with tonight?” he asks smoothly. “What’s her name? Claire Carlisle, the EMT. I’ve heard you’re getting along nicely.”

  The gun is in my hand before I know it’s en route. Its mouth finds a spot two inches below Danaher’s hairline and stays there. Even as I do the two statues next to the door move. Their heads turn as one with a horrific grinding of stone on stone, angling their blank faces my way. Their right arms rise, the rough metal beams in their hands pointing at me in a naked threat. They take mirror image steps off their platforms and into the middle of the room, the floorboards groaning under their weight. They stop just far enough away to crush me under their imitation swords if they wanted to. All through this Danaher’s eyes stay locked on mine, totally ignoring the gun.

  “It takes a lot more than a gun to frighten me, DeLong. I’ve wrestled with devils. I’ve crossed worlds. I’ve defied God himself, and I’ll do it again as I see fit. You think you have anything that can impress me? If you do, I’d love to see it.”

  I pull myself up to my full height. “I won’t let you have that razor.”

  “You’re only one man, DeLong. You have limits. I don’t.”

  “Let me guess,” I said coldly. “I’m in over my head.”

  He swells with rage, face turning purple with fury. I almost feel sorry for the taunt. I know it hits below the belt.

  “Get out of here.” He points to the door, which has come noiselessly open during our exchange. I give Danaher a last stare, but he repels it effortlessly.

  I give him my back and walked out, carefully affecting nonchalance as I pass between the two golems. As I step through the door I’m nearly bowled over by Miss Jameson, who in heels gives me a body check worthy of an NHL all-star. She has a package under one arm the size of a long shoe box, wrapped in what looked like old leather. A series of odd markings runs up the side, ink slashes in odd, disturbing patterns. She tucks it under her arm when she sees me looking. I pretend not to notice, giving her cold stare the cold shoulder. She goes into Danaher’s office, closing the door behind her.

  “It’s time,” I hear her say before the door closes.

  Eight

  “He doesn’t have it, either,” I say, dropping into my seat with a groan.

  In my absence Claire has taken the opportunity to make herself presentable. Her strawberry hair looks a bit neater, or as neat as she could manage without access to comb or brush. She makes me feel conversely shabbier. Her uniform top is folded neatly across her lap, and she looks frustrated and pouty in a snug black tank top. She’s not used to being told to wait in the car.

  When she reaches to the right to fasten her seat belt I can see a tattoo on her right shoulder blade, partially hidden by the tank top. I can see a partial arc of neatly scripted lettering, the words Tout le Monde. All the World, in English. There’s more, but the arc drops below the material of the garment. Underneath the arc is the top corner of some kind of design, a curl of red and blue.

  I’m fascinated. I always am when I see only part of a woman’s tattoo. It’s as alluring to me as a deep cleavage is to some men, or shorts that rise u
p just over the cheeks. Half of a tattoo is half a glimpse into her heart, and the partially revealed image is more seductive than any glimpse of intimate skin could be, as far as I’m concerned, and suddenly all I can think of is peeling down the obscuring swath of fabric and discovering the entirety of the illustration.

  “So, this was another waste of time,” she says, oblivious to my gaze. It takes an effort, but I button up thoughts of the ink and bring my mind about.

  “Not exactly. I learned something very important.”

  “What was that?”

  “The town’s two most powerful practitioners haven’t been able to find Bruce. That means he’s smart, well trained and not going to make any stupid mistakes. He’s going to have to know that people are going to be looking for him. My guess is he’ll go to ground until he feels he can get out of town safely.”

  “Why wouldn’t he call Madeline for help, or maybe a friend?”

  “Probably doesn’t want to leave a trail to himself. You never know who’s listening to your phone these days. Moira and Danaher definitely have their ears on, plus whoever else might be in town already. No, he won’t be reaching out for anyone anytime soon.”

  “So, what’s next?”

  I lean back against the head rest, closing my eyes, thinking.

  “Ian?”

  “I’m thinking, I’m thinking.”

  “You’ve been thinking for five minutes.”

  I wrench my eyes open and look at the dashboard clock. It’s five-seventeen. Sure enough, five minutes have slipped by in the instant I’d closed my eyes. The first glowing rays of the sun are starting to climb over the horizon, causing little pink ripples on the dissipating clouds. Looks like it has the potential to be a nice day.

  “Ugh, shit,” I say. “Sorry. Long day.” I take a steadying breath. “Okay, first I think we…”

  “First, you drive me back to my car,” she cuts me off. “Then you go home and rest for a couple of hours. After that we take the next step.”

  “Claire, any minute now someone could be getting killed over this thing. Worse, the wrong person could be getting his or hands on it. I have to find it before…”

  “Ian, you’re half dead. You’re no good to anyone if you can’t even think, let alone act. You’re more likely to get someone hurt. How would you feel then?”

  I rub my eyes furiously. Damn it, she’s right. “Two hours.”

  “It’s almost eleven o’clock, Ian. I’ve been awake for almost twenty hours myself. No less than four.”

  I acquiesce, but not gracefully. She sits back, satisfied, and the first wisp of a smile breezes across her lips. Then it’s gone, but I remember it.

  The rescue station where she left her car when going on-shift isn’t far, and at this hour there’s next to no traffic. Even in a resort town people eventually have to sleep. A couple of minutes later I pull up next to her car, a worn-down but efficient green Saturn.

  “Ian,” she says, one hand on the door handle, “you’re dead on your feet. Let me drive you home.”

  “No, thanks,” I say. “You’ve done enough for one day.”

  She gets out slowly but holds the door open. “Drive safely,” she says. “Be ironic if you spent a lifetime fighting monsters only to die from falling asleep at the wheel.”

  “Thanks,” I say. Then she closes my door, hops in her car and speeds off, faster than I think is safe on rain-slick roads. Alone for the first time in hours, I let myself collapse into my seat. My head throbs to the point of nausea. My back feels like a wire hanger bent out of shape. My shoulder still aches from where that monster had thrown me to the ground. I still feel the chill of the rain, and the adrenaline dump has left me a ragged, shambling mess. I take a deep, bracing breath, think about tattoos for a second, and start the engine.

  I wait a moment to see if Simon’s going to mess with my radio, but it stays silent. That’s one plus. I put the Jeep in gear and head for home.

  The ride home is possibly the worst part of an already legendarily rough day. The oncoming streaks of light from the growing dawn send dizzying rainbow arcs across my vision and lances of pain into my head. I try to put all distractions aside as I drive, meticulously staying at the speed limit. Last thing I need now is to get pulled over for any reason. I don’t care to think what Officer Gault might be able to get away with if he finds me in this condition.

  Somehow I manage to obey all the traffic laws long enough to pull into my driveway unmolested. My home was constructed by the Aegis to serve as a safe house, and as such it has a high standard to meet for safety to both the public and the Envoy hiding inside. It’s a one-floor log cabin with a detached garage situated far off the beaten path, backed up against a state game preserve. My life is usually pretty quiet these days but I know that there’s always a chance that my violent past can find me here, and having a home in the suburbs can only expose innocents to the crossfire. It’s lonely here but privacy is all but guaranteed, and if for whatever reason I have to bring someone (or something) unusual home there are plenty of places to hide it in the woods. The Jeep rumbles up the long gravel driveway, headlights stabbing deeply into the trees.

  I kill the engine and get out, lock the door, and stagger up the steps to the wide wraparound porch that circles the entirety of the house. In the back the porch widens into a comfortably expansive deck that overlooks a small clearing, and a little bit farther back there’s a pond that I’m pretty sure is bottomless. I don’t go back there often. There are protective spells of an alarming kind laid on the surrounding acre that keeps most of the natural wildlife away, but there’s no such thing as an infallible system and the spells don’t do a damn thing about the mosquitoes anyway.

  Besides, something fairly big lives back there. I don’t know what it is, since it has never ventured near my house, but every so often I hear it sniffing around the copse of tumtum trees a hundred yards or so past the clearing.

  I nearly trip on the top step but manage to stop myself from falling headlong into the thick oaken door. It takes two tries to find the keyhole. I always lock it, even though I don’t have to. My home has several layers of mystical protection imbued within it, standard issue when it comes to the Aegis. Mine is more specific than most, though – anything that crosses the threshold into my house dies instantly. Anything down to the viral level, regardless of any mystical reinforcement, drops lifeless on the spot. A very thorough means of protection, though if I leave the windows open I have to sweep dead bugs out for a day. If I have a visitor (not that I ever do – Moira’s observation had been all too keen on that regard) I have to maintain physical contact with them until they are inside the house, but there’s no way I’m planning on letting anything in here tonight. I slap the wall randomly until I find the light switch and stagger in.

  “Jamie, where are you?” I call as I go into the living room. I collapse into the couch, too exhausted to close my eyes, so I’m able to clearly see the notebook sized piece of slate floating into the room.

  Jamie is a ghost. That’s pretty much the limit of my knowledge of him. He’d been here when I’d moved in, and even after three years I know precious little about his past, like who he was and how he came to be tied to an Aegis safe house. To be technical, I’m not even sure he’s a “him” but I’ve fallen into the masculine pronoun habit and, since Jamie never answered questions about himself, I’d kept it. He’d been somewhat annoyed at having a roommate at first, but we get along now for the most part.

  The slate comes closer, carried by an invisible hand. A stick of chalk hanging from a string floats around and begins scratching on the slate.

  Walk of shame, Ian? About time. Who was she?

  The board freezes in mid-air as the ghost gets a good look at me for the first time.

  You look like shit.

  “Thanks, pal.” I finally close my eyes, then open them again as vertigo twists my stomach. The words are quickly rubbed away by an invisible hand and the chalk moves again.

 
Are you ok?

  “To be honest, I’m in pretty bad shape here.”

  What can I do?

  “Tea. The special blend.”

  Wait here. The slate is carefully set down on the floor. Seconds later I hear water running in the kitchen. I lay there, burning with the pain, until a cup of steaming liquid comes floating my way. Invisible hands grab the collar of my shirt and haul me up to a sitting position, then the hot cup is pressed into my hand. I manage to drink it on my own, choking on the foul brew.

  What we called tea is really anything but. God only knows where the chemists of the Aegis had found whatever wretched stuff goes into it, but it does wonders to promote healing and restoration of the body. Not magical, just skillfully manipulated elements of Nature, though they could have added a little mint flavor to make it palatable. I drain the cup with a wince and a shudder and settle back with a groan.

  That bad, huh?

  “Worse,” I say. I give him the Cliff’s Notes version of the day. He doodles while I talk, then erases and starts over.

  What’s your take on Remy?

  “Just like the rest. He wants the Cleave for himself.”

  Why? He’s already got more power than most countries.

  I shrug. “Some people can’t ever have enough.”

  Why not help him?

  “Because he’s lying about something. Besides, I can’t sell my loyalties. It belongs to Madeline.”

  He was your friend.

  “No, he wasn’t.” I stand up with a groan and limp towards the kitchen.

  My house isn’t big by any means, but it’s comfortably designed. The front door opens into a nicely open living room, with the kitchen on the far side of the room. My bedroom and the bathroom are down at one end, a bedroom I’d converted into a small workout room at the other.

  It had been close to two presidential terms since I’d had a place of my own, so I didn’t have much of a style when I’d moved in. The furniture is simple but comfortable, but the decorations are decidedly eye-catching. Mementos of my past as an Envoy, of my victories and my defeats. A tribal shield I’d taken off a rogue witch doctor, a battle-scarred Viking sword, a genuine magic wand. One section of wall is dominated by a large oil painting of an Arctic landscape, painted by an Inuit shaman. In a slender glass case hanging over a large pine desk is an old, old Colt .45 Peacemaker. A brass plaque on the case of proclaims that the long-barreled revolver, the firing pin long since removed, belonged to Wyatt Earp. Marshal Wyatt Earp.