An immaterial hand pushes me roughly forward, forcing me to bend awkwardly at the waist, and I feel the cord being tugged at. After a minute of having my arms jerked and hauled at I call the ghost off. There isn’t time enough to wait for him to get it right.
I struggle to my feet, using the door as leverage, feeling awkwardly for the knob with my bound hands. Before I can find it I hear noises from outside, audible even over the roar of the fire. Shouting, several voices raised in anger or fear, then some kind of chittering roar and the sounds of several hard things pelting the door and walls with serious force. Moments later all the sounds are swallowed by a harrowing, lilting tone that shifts pitch at least three times, then all goes silent again. I find the doorknob, but when I try to turn it the knob simply refuses to budge. I try again, heaving against the resistance, but I manage nothing better this time. It doesn’t take much imagination to twig this one – Claire has fused the latch.
“Thorough bitch, isn’t she,” I snarl. I step back and square myself against the door, then throw the hardest kick I can summon six inches in from the doorknob. The door groans and shakes obligingly under my bare foot, a jagged crack spreading where the kick lands. Two more kicks do the trick, flinging the door open. I tumble outside into the cool night air and sprawl painfully in the dirt, coughing and sputtering.
I look around in alarm from my position in the dirt. I had no idea who or what had been behind the voices I’d heard moments before, which also reminds me of the crowd of shapeless things that had followed us home. To my immeasurable relief the surroundings are empty of anything supernatural, at least as far as I could tell. Naked, battered and bound I’d have been something’s easy meal.
“Jamie,” I call out. I have no idea if the magical shield that protected the house is still intact, and I never was really clear in the first place whether Jamie could pass through it. By rights he shouldn’t, but he always managed to come up with information that he shouldn’t have been able to find if he was confined to the house.
Come to think of it, he shouldn’t have been able to pick me up and drag me, either. I call out again, waiting for some kind of response.
I hear a patting sound in the dirt next to me. I look down and see rough, block letters scratched there. You okay?
I laugh, collapsing back into the dirt. I laugh loud and hard in the harsh light of my burning home. “Yeah, pal. I’m fine. You?”
Alive.
“Yes, we are. Thanks.” I roll awkwardly to my knees, looking around. The battle had been brief, but apparently vicious. Judging from the bodies that make up my new landscaping it had also been comically one-sided. I see what looks like a pair of black leathery wings hanging over the porch railing, and a pair of men with trench coats and long, curling horns lying stretched out on the steps next to what looks like a giant, legs-up spider. My Jeep is gone, of course, and judging by the spray of rocks and the deep gouges in the gravel she’d been in a hurry, but what she’d left behind is impressive.
“Bitch took my Jeep,” I grumble. I struggle painfully to my feet, every bruise and scrape I’d earned tonight protesting my every move. I look back to the letters in the dirt. “What happened to you? Another minute and I’d have been a ghost myself.”
She sang a song, knocked me out. Didn’t even know I could sleep anymore.
“Guess we all learned something tonight.” Further thought is interrupted by red and blue flashes melding with the firelight. A polished black Ford Interceptor rolls swiftly up the driveway and screeches to a stop in front of the house, a police light blazing from the dashboard. It has barely stopped moving when the driver’s door flies open and SBPD detective Adam Farelli bounds out as if launched by a giant spring, an impressive feat given his heft. His eyes clench when he sees me, his face contorting into an uncomfortable looking grimace.
“DeLong? What happened?” he says as he comes over to me. “And why the hell are you naked?”
“Forgive the cliché, but it’s a long story. Can you help me with this?” I turn and offer my bound hands. I give him credit. He has every right to ask a lot of very awkward questions, but he doesn’t say anything at all. He strains at the cord for a minute.
“I can’t unwrap this. Hold on, I’ll get my seatbelt cutter.” He starts back to his car, but I’m already walking away.
“Don’t bother. I’ll handle it. Jamie, come on.” I head around the back of the house, skirting the heat of the fire.
“Who’s Jamie?” Farelli asks, looking around.
“Just forget it, Adam. Take my word for it. You don’t want to be here right now.”
“You’re hurt,” he says, an observation completely void of concern. “The EMT’s will be here in five minutes. Sit down before you make it…”
His words cut out so abruptly that I’m taken off guard. I look back to see him running heroically over to the porch, where he grabs the feet of one of the horned men and drags him away from the burning house.
“Adam, wait a minute,” I yell, but he ignores me and runs back for the second one. Who knew he was so athletic? He pulls the second corpse next to the first one, then kneels down to feel for a pulse. In doing so he gets his first real look at exactly what he’s rescued, their curling, serrated horns shining in the firelight for all the world to see. He recoils in surprise, but not all that far. I’m impressed, despite myself. I don’t know the horned men’s story, but they had to have been operating under some kind of screen. To be honest I hadn’t been sure Farelli would see them at all, but death seemed to have broken whatever masking magic they might have been using.
“Why are they wearing horns on their heads?” he asks.
According to ancient Aegis rule I’m supposed to mislead him. It’s not really all that hard, to be honest. People may say they want to know the truth about everything, but in reality they just can’t handle it. Knowing about what’s really out there going bump in the night wouldn’t do anything for the average person except cause many, many sleepless nights.
I’m not an Envoy any more, though. “They aren’t ‘wearing’ them, Adam. The horns are real. Those are satyrs. If you pull up their pants you’ll find goat legs.”
He looks dumbstruck, but being who he is he can’t take my word for it and bends down to check it out for himself. Seeing the thin, furry leg, he jumps back and draws his gun in a fluid, mechanical motion.
“What the fuck!”
“Put it away, Adam. They’re dead.”
“What killed them?”
“A siren. A witch with a magical voice.”
He gapes, staring at me while the world in his mind cracks at the corners.
“Just relax, Adam. I’ll explain later. If you want to help, and I mean really want to help, slow down the first responders. This fire will attract a lot of attention from my people. My kind of backup will be here soon. They’re equipped to handle this. You’re not.” I jog lightly around the house, not too fast since after three fast steps I learn that running naked is not pleasant for a man, to the small detached garage in the back. Farelli catches up with me before I get there. To my shock, he looks as composed and under control as I’ve ever seen him. He’s already processed his first exposure to the supernatural, accepted it and is moving forward. It’s actually rather impressive.
“Tell me what’s happening,” he says.
I stop at the doors to the garage. There’s a digital keypad that runs on its own power line, complete with a 48 hour battery backup. “Jamie,” I say.
“Who the hell is this Jamie?” Farelli asks again, then jumps away from the door as the buttons begin to seemingly press themselves. When the ghost finishes the code the doors quietly glide up on well-oiled tracks. I step inside and Jamie turns on the light.
From the outside it’s a standard, one-car garage. On the inside it’s slightly more customized for someone of my needs. Two waist-high shelves run the length of the walls, with various common tools pegged to the walls. A wall mounted dehumidifier runs nearly around t
he clock, a necessary evil in Superstition Bay. But under them, bolted to the floor, is the one concession to my past life: my emergency kit.
The kit is a flat black case the size of a foot locker, black oak and iron chased with silver, all sealing a case of titanium. Inside is everything I might need to handle a standard magical problem with no access to my home’s resources. A thick leather belt full of vials of salt and holy water, Transylvanian dirt, mint and wolfsbane. Two handguns, a generic 9mm Glock and a thick, solid hunk of gun-shaped metal – a Smith & Wesson .460 XVR five shot revolver capable of throwing a two-plus inch round at nearly twice the speed of sound, the highest muzzle velocity of any handgun in the world. Tucked in with them is two boxes each of my special ammunition and a double shoulder rig to hold them. A Mossberg Thunder Ranch HS12 shotgun. Money, a gym bag with spare clothes, and the one thing I’d had designed especially for me during my service for the Aegis. I’d brought with me when I’d packed my belongings, secreted under my clothes.
The sword is a wonder of modern re-imagining. It’s styled after the Roman gladius, two and a half feet long, forged from an alloy of silver and titanium. The grip is molded to fit my own hand, the rounded pommel tipped with an inch long, triangular silver spike. The blade is double edged with a razor’s edge, flaring wider at the point than the hilt before narrowing to a lethal point.
I love the sword, though it isn’t an easy thing to utilize on a regular basis. The love is mostly practical, because of its two distinct advantages over the firearm – swords don’t run out of ammo, and I’ve yet to meet the being that couldn’t be put down permanently when its head comes off. My first practical lesson in dealing with magical threats. I remember it well.
It says something about the life I’ve led that a floating sword wielded by a ghost is barely notable as an odd event, but Matthiassen of course isn’t so accustomed. He nearly fires off a shot before I can reassure him that the sword isn’t coming for him, but he doesn’t really relax until the sword moves behind me and starts cutting the wire around my wrists. Jamie gently saws it back and forth, using the weight of the blade to do the cutting, and after a minute or two the topmost strand has parted. From there it’s a simple matter to unwind the loops. I sigh in relief as they fall free, landing in a heap between my bare feet.
“You’re basically a supernatural cop, aren’t you?” Adam says as Jamie works. “That’s why you were always at those crime scenes that had elements we couldn’t explain.”
“That’s a really loose way of explaining it, but for right now it’ll do.” Painfully rubbing circulation into my wrists and rotating my stiffened shoulders, I take the sword back from Jamie, set it back into the emergency kit and pull out my gym bag. A black t-shirt and blue sweatpants is now the extent of my wardrobe, along with my worn-out mud-spattered Nikes. Next time I’ll remember to stock socks and underwear.
“I always thought that retired CIA number was bullshit. So, this is just another case for you,” he says.
“No, this one’s special,” I tell him, as I get dressed. I squat down to tie my sneakers, my left side protesting the motion. I’ll have to stock aspirin in my kit from now on, too.
“Tell me.”
I don’t want to fight. Time is running down as fast as my home is burning, but a time when I’d asked similar questions came unbidden to my mind.
“There are many strange things in this world,” I say as I start packing weapons into the gym bag. Both handguns fit nicely along with the sword, but the shotgun is too long. The barrel protrudes from the closed zipper, but that can’t be helped. Besides, there are more important things to deal with tonight. I sling the pack over my shoulder and stand up, looking Adam square in the face.
“These creatures are predators, Adam, and their prey are the normal, everyday folk who don’t even know that they are there. To them, humans are less than cattle. Humans have no defense against them. Unless we provide it. Unless I provide it.”
His face might as well be marble for all I can read from it, but after a second’s thought he nods.
“I’ll help you,” he says with a determined scowl.
I think it over for a second, which shows exactly how desperate I’m feeling. Another gun, and another pair of eyes, might be useful in the next hour. I know the idea is folly, though. It’s more likely that the second pair would end up with coins on them.
“Sorry, Adam. I’ll fill you in on all of it another time, I promise. Okay? I promise. Just not tonight. I can’t look out for myself and you.”
“I can look after myself,” he says with steel in his voice. Unseen, a shape passes ten feet over his head in near perfect silence, just a suggestion of wings and weight and swiftness, but he doesn’t even notice it. I believe him, but it’s out of the question. I shake my head.
“Not tonight, you can’t.”
He scowls, his face’s natural state, but doesn’t argue any further. “We’re going to discuss this further tomorrow.”
I laugh. “Provided I live that long, it’s a deal.”
“What can I do to help?”
I’ve actually been thinking along this line already. I know full well where Claire is going, and I can’t make it there in time on foot. “I need to borrow your car.”
“Where are you going?”
“To Remy Danaher’s house.”
Clearly he doesn’t like the short answer, but there just isn’t time for the long one. Reluctantly, as if he still isn’t sure he isn’t dreaming, he hands me the keys to his Interceptor. I run lightly over to the car, throw the bag in the passenger seat and slip behind the wheel.
“I like this car,” he warns me through the passenger window. I turn the key, taking a second to enjoy the authoritative roar as the finely tuned machine came to life. Farelli keeps his tools sharp.
“Sorry to hear that. I’m kind of rough on cars. Jamie,” I call over his shoulder, “introduce yourself. Gently. I’ll see you soon. I hope.”
I’m reaching for the gear shift when the radio comes to life. A short, chopping acoustic riff, then the band kicks into a distinctive refrain. Lawyers Guns and Money by Warren Zevon. ‘The shit has hit the fan,’ the last line says. I smile.
“Not bad, Simon,” I say, then I throw the car roughly into gear and the tires spit gravel all over Farelli’s rumpled slacks as I speed off towards Remy Danaher’s house.
Twenty-One
I’ve been around the world, fighting every kind of nightmare the human mind can imagine. Monsters. Sorcerers. Some malignantly evil, some merely misguided and some lacking any kind of guidance at all. I’ve seen things that would drive a normal person insane at the mere sight of it, some that did deeds that would make that insane person vomit. But despite all my years of service and all I’ve seen, I am utterly unprepared for the sight that awaits me at Remy Danaher’s house.
I’d made amazing time. The streets of Superstition Bay had been utterly empty, with barely a soul to be seen the entire length of the drive. It was an eerie feeling, seeing the normally bustling shorefront reduced to little more than a ghost town. I guessed that the presence of all the supernaturals that had packed the town had finally shoved the population over the tipping point. The normal humans and even lesser members of the Grey had gone into hiding like the prey they were, driven out of the open by the weight of the magic in the air.
That didn’t mean I had been alone, though. Through the night I could see shapes moving around me in unnatural ways. Winged things soared over homes and shops, oddly-legged shapes bounded through the empty alleys. There was even a contingent of deep-water fish men walking down the empty Main Street, tridents in the ready position. As slow as they were, there was no chance they’d make it there any time soon.
Unfettered by traffic I hadn’t been shy about testing the limits of the Interceptor. The car impressed me. It was up to every challenge I gave it, roaring unchallenged through the streets and leaving the monsters in my exhaust. The ones still in town weren’t important anyway. Cl
aire had a good lead on me, and the really bad things would have been hot on her heels. I pressed a little harder on the gas. Time had not been my friend this last day. It wasn’t any better now.
Minutes later I swerved up the path to his house. It was lined with vehicles, everything from passenger cars to what looks like a military grade armored personnel carrier. Last to the party again. At the tree line I stood on the brakes, nearly losing control, finally skidding to a halt just past the trees. That’s where I’ve been for the last few minutes, formulating and discarding plan after plan. I stare through the windshield for a very long moment, processing what my eyes are telling me and understanding at last what I’d been missing by not listening to my voice mail. After a minute I slowly open the car door and slide out, utterly amazed by what I’m seeing.
Most of Superstition Bay’s supernatural community are either here or at least represented. I see Erich Gault and what looks like his entire pack of wolves, almost thirty in number, some in wolfman shape and some completely wolfen. They are keeping a healthy distance from Moira and her coven, who are standing in a tight circle to avoid the possibility of being taken by surprise. They are still naked.
I see the man we all know only as Stirling, whom is known to a select few in town to be an immortal but everyone else just sees as an adept who lives a hermit’s life even by my standards, standing with his arms crossed at the fringe of the crowd and studying the masses intently. He flashes me a quick, venomous glare. That’s nothing new, he does it all the time. I’ve never been able to find out why. And, standing alone in an empty circle twenty feet across because nothing wants to be near him is Raymond, small and slight in his perpetual blue suit.
Swim Like Hell: A Visit to Superstition Bay Page 22
