“So,” Sheriff Copeman said, “what can you tell us?”
I leaned back into my chair, looking up at the pock-marked ceiling tiles. “Not much without meeting this guy. But from the gist of it, I’d say you made yourself a deal with a fae lord or maybe some dusty old fertility godling. Things like that don’t really give a shit about money, so it was probably running a con the whole time—he expected you to break the deal, opening the door for whatever shiesty business he’s got in mind. Like I said, though, I don’t know how to fix it until I figure out what he’s done to the kids.”
“So what do we do?” the sheriff asked, eyes narrowing, forehead creasing.
“You?” I shook my head. “You folks just hang tight. I’m gonna head out and see if I can’t pick a fight with this Piper asswipe. Figure out what we’re up against.”
“How you reckon you’ll do that?” Harlan asked, perking up at the idea of a little ass-kickery.
“Don’t worry about it. I got a feelin’ he’ll come out of the woodwork once I start blasting holes in his shithead army of nightmare kids.”
It took only a little haggling before Sheriff Copeman agreed, turning me free, then escorting me from the premises.
“Good luck,” Harlan called down to me from the roof as I weaved through the C-wire barricade. I shot him a quick wave, then beelined for Third Street, not bothering to get in the Camino. Didn’t want to risk this Piper guy denting up the bodywork—taking a shot at me is one thing, but no one touches the Camino. It took me maybe five minutes to get back to the K–12 school on foot, but I’d attracted attention long before I ever reached my destination.
Blank eyes watched me from house windows while ghostly shapes slipped from shadow to shadow, alley to alley, street to street, tracking me, though never closing. Cautious, now that I’d tipped my hand.
A ring of kids waited for me at the four-way intersection of Third and North Wood, fanning out in a tight horseshoe by the school. Twenty of ’em, easy. A daunting number for sure, but even more so because I’d seen double that when I’d first stopped at the school. So the question was, where were the rest of the little turds? With my luck, probably closing in around me like a noose, hemming me in tight so I wouldn’t be able to run. That was okay, though. I wasn’t planning to run. Not this time.
Letter-Jacket and his bouncy cheerleader girlfriend broke apart from the rest of the pack, apparently the impromptu leaders of this merry little gang of horrors.
“Glad to see you’re both doing okay after our little tussle,” I said, drawing my pistol from its holster, canting the gun so I could check the revolver’s cylinder for rounds. “But here’s the thing, if you screw around with me again, I promise you’re not gonna walk away. So, let me just make this real simple—I want to talk to your boss, Piper. If he’s not here in”—I bobbed my head from side to side—“let’s say two minutes, I’m gonna start shooting. Find out what’s under those flesh-suits.”
Letter-Jacket hissed as he dropped into a crouch, limbs elongating, joints cracking, fingers stretching into spidery appendages. More kids started dropping, shifting. A few at first, but more every second. Morphing, their rudimentary flesh-suits melted away, revealing pasty long-limbed critters of ropey sinew, bleached skin, and pouching potbellies that skittered around on all fours. Each had a chinless frog-like head, attached directly to their rib-lined torsos; they stared at me with yellow goat-eyes, their fleshy lips pulled back from blunt, yellowed horse teeth.
Yep, definitely not human. No doubts in my mind now. Oh, also, grade A nightmare fuel. I’d really been hoping to bluff my way through this encounter, but apparently the freaks surrounding me didn’t mind taking things to the next level. Great. Just my friggin’ luck.
A battle cry went up a moment later, a chorus of awful voices shrieking and warbling, the sound hoarse, raspy, and sharp—a dog whistle made for human ears. Almost as one, they came at me in a wave, scampering on hands and feet, shuffling forward with a lopsided gait that nevertheless ate up the space between us quick as hell. I bolted toward a nearby truck, leveling my gun, going to town as I ran.
I aimed at what remained of Letter-Jacket and squeezed the trigger a pair of times—the gun barked in my hand, spewing a flash of fire from its muzzle. Most Rube handguns won’t do much against the movers and shakers of the supernatural community, but my piece wasn’t any regular handgun. Nope, not even close. It was a specialty item crafted by the Dökkálfar: .44 Magnum, dark hammer-forged steel, six-inch barrel, etched with runes and mystic symbols, swirling and twisting with artful flourishes.
Only bad, bad things lay at the end of the muzzle. Which Letter-Jacket found out.
The first round went wide, lodging itself in the wall of a nearby building, but the second shot caught him in the jaw—the side of his ugly-ass mug exploded in a shower of skin and black blood. He let out a gurgled shriek of pain and surprise, then spiraled to the ground, groping at his ruined face as he died.
I kept moving, dropping another of the encroaching Pasty-faces before scrambling into the back of a beat-to-shit pickup. Fighting from the high ground was always smart, even if the high ground ended up being in the back of a truck. Pop-pop-pop, I squeezed off my remaining three rounds, blasting one of the spidery-limbed dickbaskets in the stomach, punching a softball-sized hole of shit-kickery clean through its center. Another of the Pasty-faces—a short little freak that’d probably been masquerading as a toddler—I dropped outright. Its headless torso flopped to the roadway.
The cylinder ran dry, and though I had a speedloader in my pocket, I stowed the gun instead. A great tool, my hand cannon, but against a small army, thirty strong, I’d need more than bullets.
With a snarl, I pulled in sweet, life-giving Vis—my senses sharpening, strength flooding my body, time taking a shuddering breath—and thrust out my right hand, conjuring a spear of fire, thick as my wrist. Flame washed over the wave of creatures closest to the pickup, tongues of orange and yellow lapping at exposed skin, setting pilfered clothes ablaze. The front row fell back yowling, arms waving and flapping in the air. A few dropped to the ground, rolling in manic circles to put out the flames, but most simply ran around in terror, streaks of oily smoke trailing behind them.
That move got their attention awfully quick.
More pressed in, though, only to drop as the sharp report of distant gunfire split the air with a thunderous crack—rounds shearing down bodies. Not my handiwork either.
I took a hasty glance back toward Main Street and thought, for just a second, I saw the glint of a rifle scope, though it was probably my imagination. Still, it had to be Harlan. God bless that hillbilly hick. The firing continued in earnest: the shots slow, steady, methodical, and precise as a surgeon’s scalpel. Every round found a target—sinking home with a deadly thud and a spray of black gore, dropping opponent after opponent.
The mad rush slowed, faltered, and died as the strange pack of critters surveyed their fallen dead, too-large eyes shifting suspiciously between the corpses and me in turns, confusion evident on their gruesome faces. Obviously, these clowns had expected some easy game, but were now reconsidering their options. I still wasn’t sure what exactly I was dealing with here, but that hesitation told me a couple of things: one, they weren’t keen on dying horrible deaths and two, they weren’t nearly as tough as some of the nastier things in Outworld.
Both damn-good points to know.
“Yeah, that’s right, assholes,” I called, shifting from foot to foot, hand still outthrust—a loaded weapon ready to maim or kill. “This isn’t gonna be a walk in the park. Now, like I said, get me your boss, Piper, or things are gonna start getting ugly—”
The melodic sound of a flute cut me off mid-sentence, its graceful trill parting the tension in the air and stilling the assembled mass of ugly-ass critters in an instant. The sound of that music swirled and danced around me, thrumming with ancient, potent power. Some kind of Vis-wrought glamour, meant to control and manipulate emotion and thought.
The friggin’ working pounded at my brain like a sledgehammer, demanding I cease my murderous tomfoolery. Demanding I relax, submit.
“That’ll be quite enough,” a man said as the music died.
The speaker in question stepped out from between two houses near the end of the block and ambled my way, his steps light and carefree. At a glance, he looked human—average height, unremarkable build, dusty brown hair, and a plain, if pinched, face sporting a five o’clock shadow. He wore faded jeans, a deep brown poncho, squared-toed cowboy boots, and a garish white Stetson. Guy looked like some sort of Old West gunslinger, except instead of a pistol he carried an ancient wooden flute, painstakingly carved with intricate vines and thick leaves.
“Yancy Lazarus,” he said, drawing ever closer as the long-limbed freaks scuttled out of his way, subjects scraping before their king.
“Got it in one, bub,” I said with a nod. “I take it you’re Piper?”
He bowed with a fanciful flourish of his poncho, like some kind of matador acknowledging his adoring public. “So I am. And let me say what a pleasure it is to meet you—it’s not every day I run across such an esteemed former member of the Fist of the Staff. You’ve got quite the reputation in certain circles, Mr. Lazarus.”
I shrugged one shoulder and hawked a fat loogie to the ground to show him what I thought of his pleasantries. “Listen, guy,” I said, “I’m not interested in any ass kissing. Let’s just cut to the part of the conversation where you tell me who you are, what in the hell you’re doing here, and what it’s gonna take to get you to go away and give back the kids you took.”
“A man of business,” he said with a smug nod, then twirled his stupid flute around and around in one hand. “People, they call me the Pied Piper—”
“Like from that Brothers Grimm story with the rats.”
“One and the same,” he said with another bow and flourish. Friggin’ weirdo. “I also happen to be a lesser lord of the Springlands. Now, in answer to your questions, I am here conducting business and there is naught you or anyone can do to get the missing children back. The governing officials of these fair lands entered into a binding agreement with one of the Daoine Sìth, then reneged on their word.” He pouted, tut-tutting as that damned flute spun round and round. “Very bad form, I’m afraid. Now, I am simply exercising my right to recompense.”
“By taking their kids,” I said, folding my arms, offering him a cold, flat glare.
“That is my chosen form of compensation, yes. Now, I know a thing or two about you—information gleaned from some of my kith and kin—so I know my decision might rankle you. The fact remains, however, that I am acting lawfully and within my rights. They entered into an agreement and failed to follow through, and this?” He spread his hands, gesturing toward the crowd of heinous monsters.
“Well, this is the consequence. Now, I am prepared to let your assault on my children go, since you acted in ignorance, but if you interfere with me or mine again I shall take it quite personally. Are you prepared to commit yourself to such unpleasantries for people you don’t even know?”
“You threatening me, asshole?” I asked, voice a growl, as I conjured a sphere of crystalline ice in my palm.
The Piper dipped his head and held up a hand in a placating gesture. “Haste and anger make fools of us all, Lazarus. So please, just consider my offer, won’t you? Otherwise, we may find ourselves at an unfortunate impasse. And I think you’ll find I can be a formidable adversary, despite your”—he paused, eyes narrowing, head tilted to the side—“unique skill set.” Then, before I could reply, he twirled on his heel, poncho spinning in a whirlwind of cloth, and started playing his flute. A jaunty tune that urged you to move and dance. To follow. To obey.
And his pasty-faced brood did just that. The beasts turned and trailed after him.
“So what did you find out?” the sheriff asked.
I absently ran my palms over my dusty jeans. The damn interrogation room felt claustrophobic, despite the fact that I knew I wasn’t being charged or held—guess there’s just something about police stations that give me the jitters.
“Not much I didn’t already know.” Except that you might be royally boned, I thought. As much as I hated what was going on in Valentine, if these idiot Rubes really had entered into a legally binding contract with the Piper, there wasn’t much I could do for ’em. They shouldn’t have screwed around with something they didn’t understand. There were a lot of nasty things out there in the big wide world; most were predatory, looking for any excuse to attack. The law of the friggin’ jungle, right there.
Harlan pushed his way through the door a moment later, carefully balancing a large plastic trash can full of sloshing water.
“Just set it here,” I said, waving him over. The man complied, confusion running across his face as I removed my socks and dipped my toesy-wosies into the water with a soft sigh.
“I’m sorry,” Sheriff Copeman said, eyeing the trash can, then rubbing at one temple, “but what exactly is this going to accomplish?”
I sniffed, then wiggled my toes. “It’s magic stuff,” I replied, even though it’s not really magic—more like advanced physics than weird rituals or any of that occult bullshit. “Don’t worry about it. I just need to hammer a few things out.” I closed my eyes, letting go of my fear and anxiety over this whole clusterfuck, feeding all of those unhelpful thoughts and emotions into the fires of the Vis as I conjured a weave of water and will, boring deeper inside myself. Seeking to connect with my inner man.
And by “inner man,” I mean Cassius Aquinas, the shit-talking water elemental who lived inside my head, permanently bound to my subconscious mind.
When I opened my eyes a heartbeat later, I was no longer gazing at Sheriff Copeman in the boxy interrogation room. Instead, I stood on a narrow street lined on either side by two-story buildings and lit with the yellow glow of evenly spaced street lamps and neon signs in a riot of hues: sapphire blue, fallout green, look-at-me red. Most of the buildings had balconies jutting out over the wide sidewalks, which were filled with umbrella covered tables, all absent of guests. Bourbon Street, smack dab in the New Orleans French Quarter.
Except it was quiet, still, and lifeless—a thing which could never be said of the real Bourbon Street.
My brainscape, a metaphysical representation of my psyche, which naturally resembled the Big Easy, with its hot, muggy nights, over-the-top eats, and outta-this-world music scene. Here I was at home. Here I was safe and the aches and pains of real life were like distant memories, hazy and faded at the edges. The air filled with the scent of slow roasted pork—tangy, smoky, sweet—while licks of gritty blues swirled around me, thick as cigar smoke. I inhaled deeply, letting tense muscles relax and unknot.
“Yancy,” came a voice from behind me. My voice to be precise. I glanced left, watching a dark figure, bathed in weak light from one of the hanging lanterns near a brick-fronted eatery, saunter toward me. He held a stout glass of scotch in either hand; a fat cigar hung from the corner of his mouth. He extended one turquoise-tinged hand, offering me the second glass as he drew up next to me.
I took it with a thankful grunt and a nod, then pulled a long slug as I regarded the man. Cassius Aquinas. An Undine—a creature of water and spirit, permanently grafted into a piece of my soul. The very embodiment of my subconscious mind. Minus the seawater-colored skin, he could’ve passed for my twin: an average guy of maybe forty with short-cropped, dark hair and an unremarkable height and build.
“You been paying attention to this horseshit in Valentine?” I asked without preamble.
He titled his head and took a deep drag of his cigar, then nodded in confirmation.
“So you got anything for me? Seems like this Piper douche is the kinda guy you mighta heard of in your past life.”
“Yeah,” he said. “Yeah, I know him. It’ll be easier to show you, though.” He placed one hand on my shoulder, fingers sinking down, then wheeled, dragging me with him. With a step, we shifted,
leaving behind the comfort of the French Quarter, manifesting in a sprawling room with plush carpet, dark wood wall paneling, and mahogany furniture—all old, finely made, and smelling of lemon oil and leather. Cassius’s office, I guess you could call it. I took a seat in a padded leather club chair and gazed up at a ginormous wall-mounted flat screen.
A picture of the Piper appeared on the TV, except now he was dressed in some stupid, frilly Shakespearian getup with a wide collar, puffy sleeves, and a ridiculous floppy hat. Complete tool.
“That’s what he looked like the last time I ran across him,” Cassius said, sweeping his free hand toward the screen. “But he goes back further than that—he used to go by the name Silenus.” The picture on the screen blinked, resolving into an image of a potbellied, goat-legged yahoo with a pipe. “That was when he was still living the high life with Dionysus, back in the days when Greece was still a major player. Silenus is a minor satyr deity, I think. Asshole’s fallen a long way since then, though.” He paused again, drawing a long pull on his cigar. “He’s been running con games since the fifth or sixth century.”
“What kinda cons?”
Cassius shrugged, a look of disgust creeping over his features. “A tasteless, unimaginative one. Nothing like what I did to those pricks in Glimmer-Tir—and he only works his hoodoo on Rubes, which is about as lowbrow as you can go. Ol’ Silenus there runs the same friggin’ play every twenty or thirty years. Rolls into some little flyspeck town or village, uses his fertility-god powers to whip up some kinda problem.
“Plague-rat infestations were his tragedy du jour in the middle ages, but he’s got control over the weather, crops, all kinds of shit. Anyway, after he stirs the pot, he swoops in, fixes the problem he created, and demands payment. Not a bad grift, I guess, but lazy as hell. Then, obviously, when the townsfolk don’t pay, he takes kids. Guy’s a grade A shithead. No one likes him. No one.”
Parallel Worlds- the Heroes Within Page 21
