We post up on the porch separating the entrance to the shop and the gas station. I’m deep into the pie when she finally speaks.
“You’ve been okay to kill Prentis from jump.” It’s her resignation, not the words, that hits me.
“Fuck you,” I say. “I’m not here to kill our girl.”
“I know that, but if it comes to that . . .”
“It won’t.”
“What do you always say? ‘No need to plan for the best.’ I know you don’t want it, but if it comes to it you wouldn’t want that blood on my hands and you wouldn’t trust Mico to do it.”
“Stop it, girl.”
“You’re misunderstanding me, Taggert . . . Dad. I’m not mad. I get it. You would rather take her out than see her in Nordeen’s hands. I didn’t, couldn’t see that before the rabbit and the—” I numb her vocal cords so she can stop talking. I drain her ears of wax so she can fully hear me. Then I speak.
“I’m not killing Prentis. You aren’t killing Prentis. She’s not dying.”
“Wot you gonna do when she comes for you?” she asks, using her mind. But before I can answer, we both notice a guitar picking that sounds a lot like Mico’s. The voice, deeper, calmer, obviously isn’t. I lean over the porch to see all the children of town and some of the teenagers shaking and bopping to a little black shiny man with a wry smile in a worn brown pinstripe suit.
“No fucking way,” Tam says in my mind. I reactivate her vocal cords, and she croaks out, “Can’t be no Robert Johnson.”
“Looks like your plan was right,” I tell her. “See, keep hitting bad luck and you’re bound to get some good. That’s why we never stop, Tamara, get it? Even when you don’t have a plan, no idea what’s to do next, when you’ve been punched in the face by the bigger and better more times than you can count, you stay fighting. Stay in the game, yeah?”
“Nordeen teach you that?”
“I wish,” I say. “My brother.” She goes silent. I don’t talk about him much on purpose. “He was one of us. First Liminal I ever knew. And he was a savage. I at least had him as a model. He came first and had no support. Fuck, I’m still making excuses for his shit.”
“Family.” Tam consoles me, taking a genuine interest, trying not to be distracted by the crowd of folks flowing around the corner for Johnson.
“Yeah, family. Big brother. Stronger than me, better than me. I didn’t even know how to hurt people with my power back then. But I beefed up and beat him into a drooling incontinent mess of a retard.”
“Jaysis, Tag. Guess he wasn’t stronger after all.”
“He was. Smarter as well. But I got him by surprise, and once I started wailing on him I didn’t stop. Whatever he gave I took and kept coming. That’s how I’ve been training you and . . . Prentis. In every fight . . . Fuck it, life is gonna punch you in the face hard. I know it already has, but there’ll be more. I could’ve focused on teaching you how to avoid blows, but . . .”
“They ain’t us.” I hear her pride.
“Yeah, kid. That ain’t us. We’re counter-punchers. We see the left coming, we throw the hard overhand right first.”
“Eat a shot to give five.” She nods, loving learning a new part of me.
“And make them count. Tamara, when I was your age I was still playing at normal. I was stabbing myself in the hand to see how quick I’d heal. You’ve travelled through time, faced off against Entropy Gods and ridden on a ghost ship. All for the love of fam. You know how many people would be broken by now?”
“Aww. You saying you’re proud of me, Taggert?”
“I’m telling you I love you, little girl.” She clears the table and hugs my head before I have a chance to stand.
“Pardon, ya’ll,” Johnson’s voice calls to us from the street. “I’m sorely hungry and’d ’preciate any bit of Christian kindness you might could muster.”
“You that Robert Johnson plays ‘Pony Blues’ better than Son House?” Tam asks, not bothering to let me go.
“According to some pretty lady. Build my strength up with a slice of that salt meat and maybe you judge yourself.” He smiles and tips his hat.
“Better than that, let’s head over to Big Sally’s to get you a proper meal. Plus there’s someone I want you to meet.”
Chapter Fourteen
Just when I can see the burnt-out remains of our Duesenberg, waves of deep-space cold emanate from a human form in Big Sally’s. I shut my scan down hard. Not wanting to risk pinging Mico, I give Tam the high sign and she loses herself with Johnson in tow. He’s happy enough to walk off with “the pretty little yellow girl” he’s been hitting on for the entire walk. Crossing the abandoned field that borders Sally’s gives me time to prepare. To relax.
Sitting alone in the middle of Big Sally’s empty joint, a male version of the rat-bitch Poppy sits in a cream-colored, narrow-shouldered suit complete with matching riding boots. If Sally’s right hand isn’t on her shotgun behind the counter, then she’s not the moonshiner her liver tells me she is. Her bloodshot brown eyes blame me as I clear the span from the door to the Alter’s field of vision. Confusion inhibits his ability to sip from the Mason jar in front of him.
“What are you?” It’s the voice of privilege, elitism, and excess that issues forth from that impossibly small mouth. I’m compelled to respond just to stop it from talking again.
“You don’t know?” It’s all I can do to not scream at it. It’s using a lighter version of the same chaos voice that broke my girl in Morocco. It takes a long drag of the air.
“I smell my sister on you, but an older version of her. You’re obviously a Liminal, but I’ve killed all the black Liminals in a 500-mile radius.” I have to deaden Sally’s arm so she doesn’t raise her shotgun.
“Guess the better question then is who are you?” I say, quicker than I want to, and sit down across from him.
“I am Poppy. Complementary twin of the Rat Queen. I kill niggers.”
“That so?” My liminality builds calf muscle on instinct, wanting me to run.
“Oh yes. It’s a great time to kill niggers. No one cares. No one who matters, anyway. I’ve killed over one hundred and fifty niggers from Carolina to Texas in the past four years. Drowning, lynching, shooting, strangling—all of it. Any way a body can be maimed or tortured, I’ve tried. The murders themselves are inconsequential, you understand. They were just models for others. A ‘how-to guide,’ if you will. Naturally it’s better for humans to come to entropy through their own steam. But of course, they need prompting. That’s why I haven’t included my plague in the body count.”
“What plague?”
“The hookworms. Didn’t my sister tell you? No doubt she’s jealous. The Spanish flu was hers. An admirable attempt to be sure . . .”
“Spanish flu wiped out 5% of the human population.” I’m trying not to launch myself at it. There’s something off about this male Poppy. It spits into its empty glass, and a hair-thin, translucent, writhing wisp of a worm appears.
“Exactly. Wiped them out. Killed them completely. And if there’s one thing the human creature knows how to do, it’s reproduce. All she did was thin the herd. No, my hookworms weaken the entire herd. They kill during birth—mother and child—leaving a deep malaise in their wake. But even better, they slow the growth of the brain and mind. They’re not deadly, you see, but they aid in the entropy of the human animal.”
“I am Taggert. I am a healer.” I beg for the blades in my hands to be quick enough to catch whatever fresh hell this perversion is about to throw at me. Its mockery of eyes blink hard. Something has changed for it.
“You are not under my sister’s sway,” it says slowly. It’s pissed.
“I helped toss your twat sister in the ocean,” I say with a hungry blade under the table. The hookworm in the glass feeds off his rage, growing from a few centimeters to a nine-inch writhing anathema in a matter of seconds.
“That never happened.” His voice alone is cripplingly loud. Its emotion, so po
tent with power, is barely comprehensible.
“But it will.” Ice speaks from the doorway with a British accent. Another Alter. Older, dressed in khaki safari shorts, complete with a circular medium-brimmed hat.
“Kothar, is this Liminal yours, or am I allowed to destroy it?” Poppy asks, not bothering to look behind him.
“It is not mine, but it serves my purpose. Even now it has delivered the champion of the Manna to us.” He strides through the room with large steps, surveying everything with disgust.
“Don’t tell me that fat, bloated, ignorant heifer is what you’ve spent your existence preparing for.” Poppy finally looks away from me and turns to Sally.
“Fuck you, cracker,” she shouts back before I can deaden her vocal cords. In a second her body is teeming with hookworms. She begins to double over in pain. I numb her agony, make her body inhospitable to the worms. In another second she’s shitting and vomiting them out violently. It’s embarrassing for the woman, but at least she’ll live. Kothar smiles like someone told him a bad joke.
“That human has nothing to do with my plans or the Manna. The healer is from another time. He’s searching for something an agent of your sister stole from him.”
“Give her back.” I keep my eyes on Poppy, who hasn’t bothered to stand.
“Fair trade, Ibn Nordeen. The vassal for the animal girl . . .”
“Why are you conducting your business without regard to my concerns in my domain?” Poppy shouts.
“. . . and your brat delivered to Poppy for a much-deserved thrashing,” Kothar says to me casually. Speaking to Poppy, his chill goes to a deep freeze. “It was the child of this one that embarrassed your other half. But in general your concerns are of little relevance to the Uncreated Cold Dark that we all serve. Remember that, Rat King, when you speak to me, or I’ll return you to the Still and Quiet.”
For once I’m happy the blades are in my hand. When Poppy stands abruptly, I snap into a combative stance. It laughs at my reaction and slides to Kothar’s side, a clear half a foot shorter and significantly less bulky.
“Yours is the way of the Gelid Stagnancy,” Poppy says, performing a conciliatory bow before the bigger . . . thing. The older Alter approaches me, dodging bloodstains deftly.
“A smart leader knows when to admit defeat, when to retreat,” Kothar says gently next to my ear as he pulls on his stray chin hairs. “But you are not smart, Taggert. I have watched you for years. I know you. You will fight hard for what you’ve already lost.”
“Then what are you waiting for? If you know so much, if I’m so dumb, let’s get it on. Two of you and one of me. Odds are with you,” I say, totally unsure of what I’ll do if he takes me up on it.
“This isn’t about you, failed healer. You are the least of the Liminals. I can destroy you in my sleep. I want the vassal. Give me the vassal in twenty-four hours or I bathe in the animal girl’s blood.”
I’m too frightened to say anything as they walk out. Instead I run to Sally to check on her. She’s stronger than she looks, doubled over behind the bar.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Got any Christian in them heathen eyes of yours?” she says, mortified by the smell of her evacuated bowels.
“Nope,” I tell her while helping her up.
“Good. Then you send them bastards to your heathen god for justice. You some kind of hoodoo man?”
“Some kind.” She pushes me away as soon as she can stand. I go back to the still squirming worm in the glass and kill it with another glass.
“You got trick enough to handle them two?” She pours whiskey—real brown liquor aged from a barrel—for the both of us.
“Don’t know for sure. I’ll tell you this for free, Sally, your help would be appreciated.”
Tam did it right and kept Mico from Big Sally’s. He’d gone up the creek behind Sally’s to “collect more songs,” whatever the hell that means. Tamara caught sight of him half a mile upcreek and contented the two musicians with each other’s company until I signaled the okay to come back. Johnson seemed comfortable with dodging unknown powers for his own reasons. Wish they’d come back with better news.
“They already took the hellhounds,” Mico tells me after I brief him on my double-Alter confrontation. He doesn’t ask why I’m mopping up vomit and shit with white vinegar. He’s scared, so I can’t be.
“They beat us to Johnson?”
“He had a dream similar to Nesta’s a few days ago. When he sings ‘Hellhound on my Trail’ there’s no spirit in it anymore. The thing I heard in the recording—it’s not there.”
“So we can’t turn the hellhounds on Nordeen and them.”
“And they’ll be coming at us this time tomorrow.”
“Wouldn’t put too much stock in that timetable. Classic bait and switch. They’ll try to catch us with our pants down.”
“What are we going to do?” he almost shouts. “Half the plan is null and void. Poppy is bad enough. You’ve witnessed its power before. And Kothar. You don’t know Kothar. Alters don’t have an organizational structure to speak of, very little unity. They detract from each other and humanity equally. But none of them even think of touching Kothar. He’s their Alpha male. I should have seen him as the architect of all of this from the beginning. Do you get it, Taggert? He has one purpose, he exists for one reason only. To end me. What are we going to do?”
“We’re not going to run.” I stop moping and enunciate each word. “There are no allies coming to the rescue. No ancient god is going to save our bacon. It’s just us. You, me, and Tamara. Remember? Badness is coming. There’s going to be a fight. One side is going to win, the other is going to lose. Time to sack up and tool up, Mico. Time to risk getting punched in the face.”
I see a thousand ‘what ifs’ play their infinity games on his face. Then the steely reserve he wore in singing down angry spirits, hateful cops, and the souls of black folks: he gets it.
After the mopping, I pour shots for all of us and listen as Robert Johnson and Mico jam on what can only be called murder music. If Mico is a banjo beater, Robert Johnson is a guitar domestic abuser. He plucks strings, pops them, stomps the ground, chokes the neck of his guitar. His technique usually comes after a lifetime of proficiency. But he’s not even thirty years old. He sweats and stares, impressed at Mico’s near howls on stage. But Johnson is strumming with a purpose as well. To an empty gin joint, save for me and Tam.
“Round two,” she says after I tell her about boy Poppy.
“Talk about racist.” I laugh.
“Fucking disgusting is what he is. Hookworms? He’s a hookworm god?”
“Should’ve known something was off back in Biya. He’s going to be yours. Don’t touch him. But if you do, get to me right away. I’ll purge you.”
“Right.”
“I’m not playing, little girl . . .”
“Something I’ve said make you think I am?” Not much little girl left in her. “Like hell I’m going into battle holding my daddy’s hand.” She musses my hair a bit before standing. She’s going outside to train. When Mico and Johnson take a break, the blues legend takes her seat.
“Hear tell tonight might get interesting.”
“If you want to undersell it.”
“Glad to help, you understand. That boy Mico make a convincing case. Thing is, I ain’t much of a fighter. . . .”
“I’m not asking you to raise a fist. Just keep jamming with Mr. Banjo over there until you can’t. After that, probably best to start running.” Johnson nods and takes a few sips of a fresh pour of whiskey before he speaks again.
“This about that dream I had the other night?”
“And that hellhounds song you put down last year.”
“Ain’t nothing but my version of a Skip James—”
“It’s all lost on me, blues man. This is what I know: you made something—said something that has an impact long after you die. It’s about running, knowing running isn’t gonna do you any good. I know the
feeling. And so do millions of others. Just like I know that sometimes you’ve got to stop running and face whatever it is that’s on your trail.”
Fatigue spoke through me as Robert Johnson listened, so I went and did my best to get some sleep in the loft bedroom. It’s not the heat, the impending fight, or the music downstairs that keep my mind conscious as my body rests. It’s Samantha.
She feels farther away than ever in my sleep, but still I see her withered, beaten, an amorphous shadow on a red and black horizon. From that unreasonable distance—land, sea, and years away—I know she sees me. I start to scream her name, but she shakes her head vigorously. Something, someone is tormenting her, but she stays silent. She falls hard, crumpled in pain. Her spirit horizon shape forms eyes like pin lights and looks silence into my body. She can’t have me saying a word.
Whatever her tormentor is, I can’t see it, can’t feel it. All I see are its effects on Samantha. Its invisible hand rakes her face. Silhouetted skin gives way to unseen teeth. It’s killing her. She’s dying. I feel it from here. I beef up my legs. I’ll jump that telescopic distance. But she screams.
“You’ve got to win!”
I wake to a room tossed by a Titan. I couldn’t have done all this damage in my sleep. These aren’t nightmares. Whatever’s happening back home is real enough to impact the world here.
“Nigga, what’d you do to my guest room?” Sally’s slapping feet herald her coming long before she pushes the door open.
“You really want to know?”
“Knew I shoulda kept going to church,” she says, leaving the doorway. “Come on downstairs if you want some food.”
The Liminal War Page 14
