by T. A. Pratt
Marla rolled her eyes. “Ha. Like I’m going to bet with you, when you inherited the old boss’s stash of luck. No thanks. I know you were born yesterday, or near enough, but I wasn’t. Nah, we’re going to make a different kind of arrangement. The kind you’ll understand.”
The creature swelled, the cracks in his body widening, revealing deeper fissures of molten glow. “Oh yeah? What kind is that?”
“Extortion, obviously. Let’s go talk in your office. I’d hate to embarrass you in front of your customers.”
“What’s stopping me from burning you to ashes where you stand?”
Bradley couldn’t help it – he squeaked out a laugh. The Pit Boss swung his head, which was now growing something like bull’s horns, in Bradley’s direction, scowling tectonically. “What’s funny?”
“The gulf between what you think you know and what you actually know,” Marla said. “You can try to burn me if you want. I know you beat Regina Queen, and hey, that’s legitimately badass. But see, you were conjured pretty much to exist in opposition to her. You’re like Regina’s supernatural antidote. But me... You’re not made to match me.” She reached out and pressed her palm against his cheek. The sound of sizzling flesh was followed a moment later by a sweet, charred, meaty smell that Bradley didn’t find remotely appetizing despite its superficial resemblance to the scent of roast pork. Marla didn’t so much as flinch as her hand charred – that kind of stoicism was a formidable trick of the mind, Bradley knew, because she wasn’t actually impervious to pain. She drew back the burned lump of her fist and held it in front of Pit Boss, and he actually took a step backward as her flesh healed, flakes of ash falling away as new skin appeared, first pink, then darkening to the same even road-trip tan the rest of her exposed flesh possessed. “Point made,” she said. “Let’s talk.”
“Maybe you can heal, but that won’t help if I dip you in concrete and dump you in Lake Mead –”
“B, why does everybody have to push me?” she said. “Don’t they know I have better things to do?”
She lashed out, her dagger suddenly in her hand, and in several swift strokes she carved a blocky uppercase letter ‘M’ into the Pit Boss’s molten chest. The streaks of lava he had instead of blood (or lymph, or whatever) tried to flow into the empty spaces, but stopped at the borders of her slashes. The Pit Boss whimpered, and that was strange, because Bradley had never heard a walking volcano whimper before.
“Oh, hey,” Marla said. “You recognize this knife, don’t you? It’s the one you found in Rondeau’s storage unit. The dagger you couldn’t lift, the one that cut the fingers off anyone you sent when they tried to touch it. And here I am, holding it – the rightful owner.”
“You’re a friend of Rondeau’s,” the boss rumbled, rubbing a hand over his scarred chest.
“Oh, yeah. Maybe not his best friend. We’ve had our ups and downs. But definitely his most dangerous friend.” She let the point of the dagger drift and weave, making little figure-eights and curves in the air. “I once wrote the first couple of letters of my name on someone’s ass with a bullwhip, when he annoyed me,” Marla said in a low voice. “You’re annoying me worse than he did. Want to continue this in private? If we stay here in front of your employees and customers I’m afraid you’ll do something stupid to try and look like a big bad boss man, and then I’d have to write my whole name on you, and maybe Rondeau’s, too.”
The Pit Boss scowled around the room – the gamblers and human employees were studiously ignoring him, and the golems didn’t care anyway – before nodding and walking toward the back of the casino, smoke rising from his body. Maybe that was a sign of irritation, or shame. Reading the body language of demonic tulpas was beyond even Bradley’s considerable abilities.
Bradley started to follow, but Marla put a hand on his arm. “Hang out here, all right? I don’t think he’s smart enough to make real trouble for us, but keep an eye on things, make sure our escape route stays open.”
“Sure.” Bradley couldn’t read minds, at least not without making an effort, but he was plenty intuitive. “But what’s the real reason you don’t want me in there? You still don’t entirely trust me?”
Marla chuckled. “I trust you as much as I trust any living soul, B. But the Pit Boss is the kind of guy who puffs up when he’s got an audience, and he’s stubborn enough anyway. If I get him alone, with no one for him to impress and no cheap seats for him to play to, I bet he’ll be a lot more reasonable.”
“Makes sense,” he said. “Maybe I’ll do a little gambling.”
“Just don’t bet anything we can’t afford to lose.” She patted his cheek with her now-unburned hand and went after the Pit Boss, who stood glowering a few feet away, waiting with no pretense of patience.
Bradley skipped the gambling, opting to sit at the bar and sip a caffeine-free cola and look at the long row of bottles reflected in the glass. Sometimes being an addict was a drag. Booze had never even been the problem for him, but booze made stupid ideas seem like good ideas, and he’d learned long ago that, for him, liquor was a door that could easily lead back to heroin. The bartender was no good when it came to conversation, so Bradley tried to empty his mind and feel the vibes of the universe, except the vibes of this particular part of the universe were desperate and squalid and gross.
A pretty young woman in a short red sequined dress and shiny hair the same shade slid onto the stool next to him, turning a practiced and professional smile his way. “Hey there, handsome,” she said. “Not in a sporting mood?”
“Not my kind of games.”
She put a hand on his thigh. “Oh yeah? What kind of games do you like?”
“Ah. Sorry. Not the kind you play with women.”
She tossed her hair, and her features shifted, smoothly changing, becoming no less pretty but decidedly more masculine, the jawline stronger, the chin more pronounced, with just a hint of stubble. The breasts, which had been generous but not shockingly so, receded as her chest and shoulder’s broadened. “Sorry about the dress. Unless you like it. I’ve got other things I could wear, too. We could play dress-up, even.”
He looked at her – him – more closely now, and saw blue flames dancing deep behind her eyes. “Whoa,” he said. “Are you, what, an incubus? Succubus? Are those just one kind of creature, that changes appearance to suit the situation?”
The creature leaned back. “That’s a trade secret, handsome. Usually I’m good at reading desires – it sort of comes with the job – but looking into you is like looking into one-way glass, so I took a guess, and guessed wrong.”
“I’ve got some pretty solid psychic armor.” Bradley tapped his temple. “It’s hell on fortune tellers too, drives them crazy. I’m not in the market for any kind of companionship, though, thanks.”
“Ah, well, can’t blame me for trying. You’re awfully pretty.”
“Thanks. If I had gone with you, would you have sucked out my soul?”
“I don’t even know what souls are,” the creature said.
“Me either,” Bradley admitted.
“Your life force, though... well, maybe just a nibble.”
The bustle of the casino went silent, and Bradley looked over to see Marla come strolling back from the direction of the Pit Boss’s office, whistling “This Old Man.” He thought “The Farmer in the Dell” was the more traditional whistlin’ ditty for a badass who’d just shown up an enemy, but either way, you couldn’t argue with the classics.
“We’re good,” she said. “We can pick up my motorcycle at –” She stopped dead. “Inky?” she said. “Is that you?”
The creature stared at her for a moment and let out a low whistle of his own. “Marla Mason?”
She embraced the – Inky? – and Bradley couldn’t have been more stunned if she’d leapt up on the bar and started singing the hits of Broadway. She let go of Inky and looked him up and down. “Your taste in fashion has gotten worse.”
“You know this... guy?” Bradley said.
&nb
sp; “Oh, yeah,” Marla said. “We were an item, a million years ago, back in Felport. What, were you trying to hustle Bradley? At least you still have good taste.”
The incubus, or succubus, or whatever, looked like someone had hit him over the head with a flowerpot and he was still seeing little cartoon birds circling around. “I didn’t think I’d ever see you again.” He glanced at Bradley. “When I was with her, I was the one who got my life energy sucked out.”
“You loved every minute of it,” Marla said. “Why are you looking at me like I’m about to cut your head off?”
He cleared his throat. “Ah. You said if you ever saw me again... you’d cut my head off. Also that you’d banish me back to the Hell I came from, and if I didn’t actually come from any Hell at all, you’d have a suitable one constructed for me.”
Marla nodded. “Oh, yeah, that. Well, you did that thing. You know what you did. But that’s all acid under the bridge. Let’s forget about it.”
“I’d like that,” he said. “How, uh. How are things with you? I heard you were running Felport.”
“Nah, got exiled. Then... sorta got promoted. Cosmically speaking. Oh, and I got married.” She reached into her shirt and took out a necklace, with a simple gold wedding band dangling from it. The only thing she’d been wearing when she woke up from her month in Hell.
Inky blinked at her. “Someone married... I mean, you found someone who... I mean... Congratulations, Marla, really.”
She nodded and tucked the ring back out of sight. “Look, we’re on a save-the-world sort of timetable, so I can’t stay and chat, but it was nice seeing you. Do you spend a lot of time in Vegas? I could maybe find a job for you that’s more interesting than lurking in the creepiest casino in town.”
Inky brightened. “I... yeah, I’m usually here, uh –”
“Somebody will be in touch. Unless we screw up, and the world ends.” She beckoned to Bradley and started to go.
“Wait.” Inky touched her arm. “You mean literally the end of the world? Not just, uh, not to be rude, but not just the death of humankind or something?”
“Everything that lives and breathes, this time. And everything that doesn’t live and breathe. Everything, really.”
Inky looked at Bradley, who nodded glumly in confirmation. The creature slouched back against the bar. “Shit,” he said after a moment. “Well, if there’s anything I can do....”
“You never know,” Marla said. “You do have skills I don’t, though I don’t see how they’re immediately applicable. Come on, B.”
He followed her out of the casino into the tunnels. “So. You knew that... guy.”
“Long ago and far away and not wisely, but pretty well.”
“You dated an incubus.”
“I wouldn’t say we dated.” She glanced at Bradley and grinned. “Just because I’m a respectable married lady now doesn’t mean I was never young and horny and stupid.”
“Sure, but he’s an incubus who did something bad to you, and now you’ve forgiven him. No offense, but the forgiveness thing....”
“Respectable. Married. Lady. Forgiveness is one of the things I’m trying to learn. Besides, Inky was just following his nature.”
“But... I mean... so does everything. Even the Outsider is just... doing what it does.”
“I promise if Inky tries to devour the substance of the multiverse I will rescind his forgiveness,” Marla said. “And if the Outsider downgrades his mayhem plans to something as mild as secretly fucking alley witches who have supernatural venereal diseases that can cross the species barrier from humans to incubi and back again, I’ll take him off the kill list.” She shuddered. “Damn, that was itchy. It made my soul itchy.”
“The incubus was just saying he didn’t even know what souls are.”
“Then his must not have itched as badly as mine did,” Marla said. “Let’s go get my motorcycle. We’ve got places to go and asses to kick.”
Bradley groaned. “The thought of clinging to the back of a motorcycle for hours is exhausting, and it’ll be late by the time we get to Santa Cruz anyway. I have an alternative proposal. Let’s get your motorcycle, then maybe find a nice hotel somewhere and spend the night, and set out for the coast in the morning. We could even take the RV, and get a trailer for the motorcycle. What do you say?”
“I say you’re going soft, B. Your job ruling the multiverse is way too cushy. Sleep is for people who don’t have magical amphetamines. But it has been a long day since I woke up in the dirt.... Okay. But we’re getting on the road tomorrow with the dawn.”
“Ugh. I guess by your standards that’s merciful.”
“My greatest weakness,” she said, “is that I’m too merciful.”
Marzi in a Mood
One problem with being a little bit psychic was that painkillers didn’t do shit to get rid of headaches caused by metaphysical environmental badness. Marzi’s threshold for human interaction was so low that she made Tessa do all the work of taking orders while Marzi made the drinks, but at least Tessa had taken note of the boss’s mood and wasn’t being openly surly. Marzi had snarled at Jonathan that morning badly enough for him to steer clear of her, too, and she felt a little bad about it, but he’d forgive her. He knew something weird was going on. She’d told him about the visit from Bradley Bowman, and after listening quietly his only reply had been, “I knew life wouldn’t be boring when I married you, baby.”
Marzi was doing inventory in the pantry when her weird-shit sense tingled. She went out to the counter, where Tessa was pretending to clean fingerprints off the pastry case, in time to see Bradley come in with a woman.
She was fairly tall, with short hair, and features that were a little too strong to be called pretty. Something about the way she carried herself made Marzi think of the bikers who came into the café for beer sometimes – some of her best customers, actually. That swagger, that certainty. Plus the fact that she was wearing riding leathers and a leather coat, though instead of a black motorcycle jacket hers was long and deep brown, maybe buffalo leather. She took off her sunglasses and squinted in Marzi’s direction, letting out a low whistle. “She’s the one,” the woman said. “We’ll talk in there.” She walked off toward the Undersea Room, the one with murals of writhing sea monsters on the walls and panes of blue stained glass in some of the windows.
Bradley came up to the counter. “Hey, Marzi. Got a minute? I want you to meet a friend of mine.”
“This is the heavy artillery you mentioned?”
“If people were weapons, she’d be an elephant gun. Hell. Maybe one of those guns they have on battleships.”
“She drink coffee?”
“You bet,” he said.
“I’ll bring some in a minute. Herbal tea for you?”
“Like you read my mind.”
“That’s more your gig, man.”
He smiled, that dazzling grin that had charmed moviegoers, and went to the table.
“You’ve got the helm, Tessa,” Marzi said, and the girl grunted, clearly uninterested in her boss’s visitors. Marzi got a cup and tea bag for Bradley and poured a big earthenware mug full of good black coffee for his friend.
She found them seated at a table in the corner, underneath the coils of a leviathan. The woman had her back to the wall, facing the entrance, and that wasn’t a surprise – every cop and soldier and criminal Marzi had ever met did the same thing, and something about this woman made Marzi think she might somehow qualify as all three at once.
She put the drinks down and sat beside Bradley, across from the woman.
“You’re Marzi,” the stranger said. “My name’s Marla. If this were a novel, I’d say the author needed to be a little more inventive with names.”
“Reality is such a disappointment,” Marzi said.
“Oh, I don’t know. It’s got its moments.”
Marla took a sip of the coffee and grunted. “Pretty good. And I used to drink coffee in Hawaii every morning, so I’ve got standards.”
“I gave you the good stuff,” Marzi said. “Blue Bottle.”
“The gesture’s appreciated.” She leaned forward, staring at Marzi’s face, her gaze disconcertingly direct. Marzi thought of butterflies pinned down on corkboard; she was the butterfly. “There’s something about her, B. What is it?”
“You’ll have to be a little more specific, boss.”
Marzi twitched a little at that. Boss? Was Bradley being ironic, or was she really in charge of him, somehow?
“Something... that pulls. Like she’s a magnet and I’m, you know, the other magnet. I can’t quite describe it. I’m only about one-fifth as gay as you are, B, so I don’t think it’s that kind of attraction – no offense, Marzi, you’re cute and all, but this is something different.” Marla inhaled deeply, as if taking in a scent, her eyes closed.
“That’s creepy,” Marzi said. “You’re creepy.”
“Sorry.” Marla opened her eyes, that pinned-down gaze again. “You’ve got a light in you. Something gods and monsters can see.”
“Marzi’s a natural champion,” Bradley said. “A little bit psychic. Touch of reweaving ability, probably. And that thing I have, where I... excite supernatural creatures? Help make them realer, put flesh on ghosts, make the tenuous more actual? She’s got that, too, even more so than me. Reality gets just soft enough in her presence that she can twist it to her advantage, too.”
“You’re a supernatural catalyst, kid,” Marla said.
Kid? If this woman was more than two or three years older than her, Marzi would be surprised. “What’s that mean?”
Marla shrugged. “There’s something in you that supernatural creatures can feed on. Your presence gives them more weight, more strength. You make the world a more wondrous place. Honestly, it’s a wonder this place isn’t overrun with shapeshifters and psychic vampires and invisible brain-lampreys, all drawn to you. The fact that your café is sitting on a place where reality gets thin anyway makes it even more remarkable. I’m surprised you don’t have to kick imps off the steps on your way to work every morning.”
