by A C Spahn
kadum kadum kadum, went the magic in the hotel room, mirroring the chaos I felt churning inside.
Geralt was coming for me.
kadum kadum kadum
Glue on lace. Press to red cotton.
Don’t think. Don’t think.
Kadum kadum kadum
A magical bomb lurked in my body. I was built for murder.
Glue on lace. Watch the threads of melted glue string out from the gun’s tip.
Kadum Kadum Kadum
Geralt was coming to detonate that bomb.
Lace on cotton. Gold on red. Fiery colors writhing in false wind.
Everything I’d ever feared was coming true.
Don’t think, don’t think. Glue on lace.
Kadum! Kadum! Kadum!
Tomorrow, my fears grew flesh.
KADUM!
I cursed as my hands fumbled. Hot glue scorched the back of my knuckles. I dropped the gun and peeled the knobby glue free, staring at the red mark where it had already started to burn me. I’d have blisters tomorrow, for sure.
Tomorrow.
When all of this would go down. When we’d set up the trap for Geralt, and wait for him to spring it. Tomorrow, when the war would arrive.
Dozens of amber lace fragments peeked out amid the crimson fabric strips. I was surprised. I didn’t remember attaching so many. The fan whirred stoically along, heedless of the way the cloth writhed under its influence. Magic pounded at me, just below the level where its beat became truly painful. I should use it, craft an enchantment that would help me stay alive tomorrow. Though I wasn’t sure what I could make that I didn’t already have, or that would be useful against an entire horde of fleshwriters.
One of the red fabric strands brushed my burned hand. I caught it, halting its fluttering, and wrapped the cloth around my fingers. The other strips fluttered around my hand, like tentacles of an anemone surrounding a piece of prey. I drew in the room’s magic, let it fill me up from toes to skull. Its drumbeat pounded on my bones, reverberated through my muscles and echoed on the inside of my skin. For a moment, it was all I could feel. But even through that, my fears bubbled up.
Embody fear, I chanted, letting the words come to me spontaneously. Evoke danger. Embrace pain. I focused the magic on myself, on the morass of emotion inside me. I became one with the magic, and it with me. I felt it change, become skittish and shrinking, terrified of being pinned down or contained. Yes, I thought, that was me. Eager to flee. Unable to trust. Even when I’d chosen to make my stand.
Yet amid the magic’s flighty cowardice, something else stood out. A sense of firmness, of steel-edged determination. Willingness to fight, to protect, to overcome. That’s in me? I thought. It must be. Magic absorbed the nature of its focus. Or it did when it behaved properly, anyway. This was what had stopped me from running away all these weeks, the growing determination to defend the life I’d built here.
Pressure began to build behind my eyelids, so I channeled the magic through the strip of cloth wound around my hand, targeting my art piece. The magic zipped along easily, eager to keep moving. Yet even in its flight I felt that same solid determination underlying the chaotic exterior.
The last magic left me, and I opened my eyes to see a deep, blood-red pattern tracing its way along the crimson fabric strips like dye. It bled into the amber lace as well, giving each piece a faint tint of blood. The pattern swirled and zigzagged, never repeating the same move twice. As my eye followed it, I realized the mark of enchantment was formed of a single, unbroken line.
Yes, I thought, tracing my enchantment tattoo through my shirt with one finger. That’s the shape of fear. I’d endowed my fabric sculpture with my own essence, and looking at it was like looking at an embodiment of everything I’d felt for the last five years. The fabric still blew in the fan’s breeze, but the enchantment had altered the tatters’ movements, making them jerk and slither in dizzying tangles. Somehow, though, they never knotted together. The dark enchantment line on the cloth caught the light and shone ever so slightly, enhancing the effect that I was looking at an inverted flame.
Suddenly five of the strips blew straight out horizontally like flags. They stayed that way, ramrod straight, like a jab to the eye.
There was that determined firmness I’d sensed hiding beneath the fear. I stared at the rigid fabric strips, at their unyielding posture. I somehow knew if I touched them, they’d feel solid as steel.
After several heartbeats, the fabric strips slackened, descending into the chaotic tumble again. But the image of their strength lingered with me.
Magic no longer harassed me, its pressure channeled into the fabric sculpture. My mouth opened in a huge yawn. To my surprise, I felt tired. Fear still simmered in my chest, but it had quieted with the magic.
I switched off the fan. The red fabric strips fell limply to the table.
As I crawled into bed, I thought on that steely determination I’d sensed in the magic, of the way the red tatters had suddenly jabbed out, forceful and unimpressed by the turmoil around them.
That strength was part of me, just as much as the frightened chaos. That was the part I had chosen, the part I had claimed as my legacy.
I was ready to face my monsters.
Chapter 25
BUTTERFLIES TICKLED MY STOMACH as I stared up at the Dayfall Gallery. Its name and logo, a half-finished sculpture of a rising sun, were emblazoned on a rich blue awning over the single glass entry door. I wiped clammy hands on my paint-spattered jeans, then pulled the door open. Were my clothes too casual? I’d needed to look recognizable for the plan to work, but I didn’t want to make a bad impression. Would the proprietor kick me out? Decide my acceptance into the gallery was clearly a mistake, and give my part of the show to someone more deserving? Ban me from the SF art scene entirely?
A woman with skin the cool black of a moonless night and a beautiful floral headscarf spotted me and walked over. I recognized the smooth features of Fatima Williams from her photo on the gallery’s website. She carried herself with the poise of a classy art gallery owner, but her smile was genuine and welcoming. Also, her shoes were purple and glittery.
Okay, no problem fitting in, then. My tension eased.
“Adrienne Morales?” she asked, shaking my hand. “You waste no time, I see. You’re the first to drop off your pieces for the show.”
I offered a shy shrug. “What can I say? I’m excited. I never thought ...” My eyes fell on the nearest display of art, a chaos of color mounted alone on a white wall. “Oh my god. Is that a Jackson Pollock?”
She glanced over her shoulder and laughed. “Absolutely not. The rich and famous are too pricey for my gallery. That’s a piece by an up-and-coming artist out of Oakland. Some critics call him the next Pollock.”
The discreet price tag below the painting caught my attention. I blushed. Obviously not a masterwork by one of the greats, not without more zeroes on the end of that number. But it was still over ten times what I had ever charged for one of my pieces. “I can’t tell you how honored I am that you chose me, Ms. Williams.”
“Call me Fatima. And you earned this. I loved your entries, and cannot wait to see what else you’ve brought.” She swept an arm around the gallery. “We don’t have the space open for the show just yet, but I’ll keep your pieces safe in the back. We have a climate-controlled storage area if you need it.”
“Th-thank you.”
“Are you all right? You look a little faint.”
“No, sorry, I’m okay.” Climate-controlled storage area. Until now my idea of climate control had been leaving the window cracked so my paint would dry.
It would be all too easy to fall into my artistic personality, to goggle at the pieces on display and fantasize about seeing my own among them. To forget that I wasn’t just here to drop off my art. That I might not live to see my work displayed here.
I glanced at the door, watching cars creep past in morning commute traffic. Kendall’s truck was parked outside in a loa
ding zone, its hazard lights flashing as she and Desmond unloaded my art pieces from the covered bed.
Kendall balanced a paper-wrapped round object on her hip–probably my wire and bead sculpture–as she pulled open the door. She paused in the doorway. “Wow. This place is shiny.” Indeed, from the bright recessed lights to the white floor tiles, walking into the gallery felt like stepping onto a futuristic spaceship. A very well-decorated spaceship.
Desmond followed her, bearing a cardboard box that held my macramé. He and Kendall introduced themselves to Fatima. She led all of us through displays by the Bay Area’s most promising artists, some of whose pieces went for twice the cost of the not-Pollock painting in the entryway. This art show really could be a career maker.
I wished it was the only thing I had to worry about. I kept glancing over my shoulder, peering at imagined shadows flitting between walls of paintings or hiding behind sculpture pedestals. Visitors wandered the gallery, and security guards stood in each of the rooms to protect the art. Could one of them have been bought? Was that man in the fedora watching me, or just staring off into space? Was that security guard walking closer to me, or just changing her position? Was that woman in the denim jacket texting my position to Geralt, or just blogging her thoughts about the gallery?
Finally Fatima let us through a door marked “employees only” and directed us to a wall of shelves where we could set down my pieces. The storage area was mostly empty, no doubt cleared for me and the other contest winners. When I spotted a shelf marked by a printed label with my name on it, I nearly cried. It was like my dreams were coming true all at once–the good ones and the nightmares together.
Desmond and Kendall went to get the rest of my pieces while I set the current ones on the shelf. Fatima quizzed me about whether any pieces were meant to be shown together, and whether any of them required a special setup.
“Just the last one,” I told her. “I just finished it last night. It’s supposed to have a fan blowing on it. I have one in the truck.”
“Interesting. I’m excited to see that. What’s the piece called?”
I smiled slightly. “Bravery Found.”
She paused and gave a thoughtful nod. “I think I’m going to enjoy hosting your show.”
Once all the pieces were safely shelved, except for one big sculpture of scrap metal that had to sit on the floor, Fatima had me fill out some paperwork, and we signed a contract granting her the right to display my pieces. None of them would be sold during the show, but interested parties could contact me through the gallery if they wanted to make an offer for afterward. “That way you don’t undercut yourself,” she told me. “You’ll probably get better offers from our patrons if they’re looking at the costs of other pieces on display, rather than prices you set. You first-timers always think your work is worth less than it is.”
Once Fatima assured herself that she understood my wishes, and then assured me that this was the start of something big for me, she shepherded us back to the gallery proper and welcomed us to look around.
“I actually need to go,” I said regretfully. “Busy day.”
Fatima nodded sympathetically. “I’ll contact you once we start setting up the show, so you can spread the word to your friends and family. I’m excited to work with you, Adrienne.”
“Me too, Fatima. Thank you.”
We stepped out to the busy street, but didn’t immediately climb into Kendall’s truck. Desmond pulled me into a hug. “Congrats,” he whispered in my ear.
I leaned into him. “Thanks. How long do you think we have to wait?”
“They said they’d be here around ten.”
“It’s five after,” Kendall said, mushing herself against us to form a group hug. “Can’t the Union set its clocks right?”
“They’re probably giving us a couple extra minutes,” Desmond said. “Making sure we’re seen waiting.”
I shook my head to clear it. “If Geralt is going to notice me here, he’s already done it. Harrow’s just putting me in danger by stalling.”
“He’s a man who likes to be sure.”
“I’m a woman who likes to be alive.”
“That’s why I’m here.”
“And me,” said Kendall. “Anybody messes with you, I’ma bite his nuts.”
I laughed. Desmond winced.
A honk from the street drew our attention. A white SUV with tinted windows double-parked by Kendall’s truck, and three huge men piled out. I recognized Axel as the lead one, and relaxed slightly. “They’re here.”
Axel stalked up to us, while the other two remained by the car. “Reserve Desoto. Enchantress. Shifter.”
“Elmer,” Kendall replied.
Axel glared at me. “You told her.”
I smiled helplessly. “She guessed.”
With a sigh, Axel scanned the surrounding rooftops. “Any sign?”
“No,” said Desmond. “If they’re watching, they haven’t shown themselves.”
“They’re watching,” I said. “At least Vince is. He’ll make sure he knows everything I’ve done leading up to Geralt’s arrival. Geralt likes to have all the information, and he doesn’t like carelessness. Vince has to prove himself after his screw-up with the car crash.”
Axel’s surveillance turned to the windows of the tall buildings. “You’re sure?”
“Positive. We may not see him, but he sees us.”
A grunt. “Good. Get in.”
The three Voids surrounded me like an honor guard. Or maybe a prison guard, it was hard to tell. One of them opened the back door of the SUV, letting out a whiff of leather and chrome. I climbed in. Desmond came after me. Kendall watched us from beside her truck. Her job was to pick up Sam and meet us later.
The door shut. The Voids got back in the car, one beside me, two up front. We pulled back into traffic and headed for Union Headquarters, hoping all of my enemies were soon to follow.
Chapter 26
“THIS IS TAKING FOREVER,” Kendall announced. No one answered. She lounged in an office chair, her feet up on an empty desk beside an inactive computer in one of the dozens of unused cubicles on the seventh floor of the Union building. From what Desmond had told me, half a dozen floors of the building looked exactly like this, though the rest were actually devoted to Union activities. This was just what they showed any normals who got too curious about the company occupying these premises.
In the adjacent cube, Sam hunched over the desk, her body shielding her tire art project. Kendall had brought it along with my own art stuff. When Sam asked Kendall why she’d do her a favor like that, Kendall had shrugged and said, “Sometimes I’m not an asshole.” Sam had smiled. Kendall had smiled back.
So at least my friends were no longer fighting while we waited for people to try to kill me.
I paced the aisles between the rows of cubes, up one, down another, over and over. Desmond stayed at my heels. He tried to make it seem like he just happened to be strolling the same way, but his ears flushed every time I looked back. Finally I slowed and held out my hand, and we walked together as a couple.
We passed Axel between the elevator and the door to the stairs. He watched us pass, the corners of his mouth turning further down when he saw our entwined fingers. Despite standing an inch from a perfectly lean-on-able wall, he bore his own weight, looking ready to do violence at a breath’s notice.
I resisted the urge to peer around the room. More Voids had hidden throughout the floor, under desks and behind boxes. All trained fighters. All armed. Teeth in a trap to close around Geralt when he broke in to claim me.
At least, that’s what he was supposed to think. We assumed he’d have access to some sort of heat reader, and would be able to tell that I wasn’t alone up here. When he saw I was guarded, he’d avoid a direct assault. Instead he’d have his people sneak in, through one of the building’s emergency exits, or maybe a first-floor window. Of course they’d disable the office’s obvious security system first, and they wouldn’t risk the
easy trap posed by the elevator. What they wouldn’t know was that whenever someone set foot on the first floor stairs, the secondary security system would kick in, releasing an incapacitating gas that would knock out the entire strike team. A little insurance Harrow had installed years back when the fleshwriter cults first started getting more aggressive. Most Voids didn’t know it existed. In theory, Geralt should walk right in, and then pass out the moment he started up toward me.
If that didn’t work, more Voids were stationed throughout the building, ready to bring him down. And if that didn’t work, my guards and I were prepared for a fight. All the guards on my floor were men, to rule out the cult’s female spy, and all Union women not trained in combat had been sent home for the night. If the spy made a move, she’d be set upon by the rest of the Voids before she could get far.
I should pose a tempting target, I thought dryly. My magical bomb sat right here in Union Headquarters, with all available Voids on duty to protect me. Even if Geralt suspected a trap, he couldn’t pass up an opportunity like this. A chance to eliminate both me and the entire San Francisco Union at once. Compared to his other attacks around the country, this would be a rocket-propelled grenade alongside BB gun pellets.
And yet he delayed. We’d been here for eight hours, and it had been days since Vince’s message. Surely the cult had arrived in the city. Surely Vince had reported in. Surely they knew where I was and who was with me. I rubbed my thumb against the enchanted ring on my index finger. “What is taking them so long?”
“Maybe their hotel has a pool,” Kendall called from the next aisle over.
Desmond snickered. I couldn’t laugh. They should have been here by now. Something felt wrong, though I couldn’t identify what. I’d reviewed our plan at least a dozen times, and while it had flaws, none were anything we hadn’t already considered. What was I missing? What didn’t I know?
