by VK Fox
Sister Mary popped out from behind a vertical grow pillar of droopy yellow lion’s mane. She squeezed off a shot before being forced back behind cover with a lash of the scything tail.
Jane tried to breathe past the pain in her side. “Going to hurt but not serious” was not the way Jane would describe the debilitating misery running through her torso. Clenching her teeth to bite off a scream was all she could manage for a few heartbeats.
Razor claws sheared the side of the grow pillar, sending chopped mushrooms flying as Sister Mary ducked left then right in a horrible game of tag. In the strobe effect of Jane’s sparks, she could see the devil’s mangled side, shattered wing, and blood globs frozen midair, thrown by momentum and captured in an instant of light. A lightning strike might take him out, but even if she could manage it in a building, her gut told her Sister Mary would be in trouble next to the cryptid on the wet floor. Jane squirmed out of the rack and tried to push it over as a distraction or a trap, but the tower of metal and fungus was so heavy it didn’t even wiggle while her lower rib agony brought her up short. Desperate eyes fell on the water tub and grim inspiration blossomed.
Don’t think about it. Jane stumbled across the squishy, slippery mushroom carpet, going down painfully twice to a knee. At the high side of the thick black plastic reservoir, she grabbed the hose, cranking the spigot, and swung her legs over the side. Lowering her body into the warm water up to her chest, she closed her thumb across the end to get a good spray and hit the cryptid in the head. A beacon of red light washed over her as the beast wheeled around and threw up an arm, deflecting the water in a showering arc.
The instant it pitched forward, gathering momentum to close the distance to Jane, she dropped the hose and fully submerged. Eyes open, energy running through her, Jane’s gaze locked on the wavy, dark surface. Why couldn’t the tub be deeper? Why weren’t there dozens of feet of shifting, gin-clear water between her and the air and not only a few inches? A grisly hand broke the surface, razor claws first, scrabbling through the tank to pull her out, the distorted demon face snarling down.
Jane let go of the magic straining inside her. The force of a lightning strike shot up the devil’s submerged arm at the same instant a solid slug shotgun shell erupted skull fragments and brain matter out the side. The warped, charged, gory visage seared clearly into Jane’s mind the instant before the light snuffed out, and she was left silently floating in darkness.
Chapter Twenty-One
The tap-tap-tapping on the window refused to quit, so Jane finally gave in, annoyed her much-needed nap was getting cut short. She forced her sticky eyes open, rubbing them and sitting up. A small crow was barely visible at the dark glass. Behind it, the sky was dusky, the last blush of sunset fading from the clouds. Of course it would come here and wake her up. Ian had been here this morning, so it had returned to the same window. The events of the day resurfaced: stealing the book with Dahl, burning it, seeing his self-harm injuries, tracking the cryptid through the woods, finding the campsite with the weird book, and the fight in the mushroom grow house. She must have passed out in the water tank after zapping the cryptid mofo. Good thing Sister Mary had pulled her out. Another personal injury assessment was in order, but Jane lay back, gaining a little more coherence first.
She must be on painkillers, as nothing hurt urgently. Jane touched her face, and her fingers came away with a salve smelling faintly like aloe. The scent reminded her of childhood summers and running through the sprinkler with her sisters. A different lifetime. Jane pictured her sisters’ bubbling laughter and smiling faces. This was why Dorothy, Wendy, and Sarah spent their stories wandering through magical lands just trying to find a way home.
Jane squeezed her eyes shut again and swallowed. Going home wasn’t an option for her. She had to focus on the present and unpack the baggage that was piling up. The memory of Dahl’s scars sat at the back of her mind. Layer upon layer of aging pink-and-white tissue under fresh, angry scabs. Those injuries did not reflect a single event but years of a serious problem. Why wasn’t he receiving treatment? How was it a good idea for him to continue with fieldwork while recovering from a suicide attempt? Jane tried to remember what Ian had told her about bad links and all the exceptions made for Dahl because he fit the bill for a difficult bond. Was this par for the course, the price of Excalibur and influence and shape-shifting?
Tap-tap-tap at the window. The crow shifted from foot to foot.
A flare of anger made Jane clench her hands at her sides. Why would Ian allow this? He obviously loved Dahl. If the King Arthur link was so dangerous, how could he have supported Dahl attempting it? Why would he continue to subject him to stress and travel and the craziness all around them when Dahl had opened his wrists a week ago?
Tap-tap-tap.
But Ian hadn’t adopted Dahl, Sana Baba had. Ian wasn’t Dahl’s commanding officer, Lovecraft was. Ian wasn’t calling the shots. Love bonded the two of them, but love couldn’t protect Dahl. Maybe he didn’t have any rights in this area. Maybe none of these decisions were his. Well, shit. Jane groggily swung her legs over the bedside.
Gingerly lifting the hem of her shirt, she peeked at her ribs which, annoyingly, didn’t look so bad. If she was going to have an agonizing injury, it would be nice to get the red badge of courage for it. Otherwise, she appeared whiny. She gently probed the area on her side and found it tender, but not scream-inducing. Was that the work of meds, or was Sister Mary’s “No Biggie” decree good only as long as Jane wasn’t brawling with cryptids? Jane stood and shuffled to the bathroom for water, where she diligently avoided looking at the halo of small, scabbed cuts from the Devil’s teeth. Someone had cleaned them up and a couple were butterfly taped, but how close a call it had been—with the beast’s jaws fully around her skull—threatened to hit home as she glanced in the mirror. Don’t think about it. Don’t freak out, like Sister Mary said. Shoes were too much trouble, so Jane brushed her teeth and wandered into the hallway barefoot and only a little rumpled.
Outside of Dahl’s door, a woman’s laugh, clear and bubbling, pulled Jane to a standstill. It was the kind of laugh children lose around the age of seven or eight when unrestrained joy becomes socially unacceptable. Hearing it through what sounded like television speakers made Jane pause for a second for the sheer pleasure of the sound. Dahl’s voice, full of good-natured teasing, projected over the tail end of the noise. “I’m pretty sure she doesn’t have any in her pockets. It might set off metal detectors or cause awkward social situations. The premise seems highly impractical.”
“No, no, I read they sew them to the inside of their clothing. Like good luck charms to carry into battle.”
“It must make laundry day more challenging. One of us would forget and put a priceless relic through the wash.”
“One of us meaning me.”
“One of us who doesn’t care to read laundry instructions. Naming no names.” Dahl finished speaking, and the woman’s voice picked up again. He must have her on speakerphone. Jane glanced at the door; she should not listen in on his conversation from the hallway. She quietly ducked back into her room and put a cup to the wall. The woman’s voice, which Jane assumed was Olive, was speaking again.
“—a holy relic in your pocket, or are you just happy to see me?”
Dahl chuckled. “Liv, I am fairly confident the Sisters don’t get a lot of mileage out of pickup lines.”
“Unless they’re undercover. Deep undercover.” Her tone was drawn out and seductive. “Deep under covers.”
Dahl affected a smarmy, arrogant voice. “Baby, you’re just like water, except Jesus turned you fine.”
Her laugh again. Gorgeous. “Oh, God. Please tell me you didn’t just say that.”
“You know what the temple veil and I have in common?”
Olive giggled. “You’re both hung?”
Dahl chuckled. “I’ll take it. I was going to say we’re both ripped.”
Olive managed to roll the laugh into a groan. “You k
now, boy, I think your chances of seducing Sister Mary out of any relics she has is high. Definitely try it. Then tell me how it goes.”
“Ahhhh—no. You want to steal holy bones from a woman who spends her entire life in prayer and target practice? You seduce her.”
“Bet I could, too.”
“Significantly better odds than me.” A comfortable pause in the conversation stretched out under the sounds of clicking and small movements. Dahl was most likely prepping for whatever they had to do tonight, maybe cleaning his gun or checking his equipment.
Olive’s voice picked back up. “Miss you.”
“Miss you, too.”
“We had an officers meeting yesterday, going over our teams in the field. You two came up.”
“I bet you were treated to a detailed description of our inadequacies.”
“Something was mentioned.”
“Shocking.” Dahl exaggerated the word and snapped metallic pieces together at the same time, punctuating his comment with the sharp sound.
“Were you injured? Or have some kind of a mental break?”
Jane didn’t miss the tiny pause before Dahl responded. “No serious injuries. Mentally, I’m fine. Why?”
“Lovecraft had Asimov sign off on denying a request to pull you from the field.”
“What?”
“Ian’s upset about something.”
“You know how he is. I’m fine.” Dahl’s tone almost hit the carefree, dismissive note.
“That’s what Lovecraft said.”
“Even a broken clock is correct twice a day.”
“I’m worried. I got a hold of the original docu—”
“Liv, stop.”
Silence. Then Dahl again. “You’ve got to trust me. I’m fine. Ian’s worried about a dream, and he’s trying to remove me from harm’s way. We’ve got this. I’ll be home in the spring, and we’ll make up for lost time.”
More silence, and then Olive’s voice, hesitant and small. “Okay.”
“Sorry to run, but we’re about to roll out. Thinking of you. Kiss the girls for me.”
“You know they hate that, but I’ll do it anyway. Oh, I almost forgot! I picked up a new one. She’s all white with black paws. I’m thinking she’s a Mittens or a Muffin. Maybe Snowflake?”
“Nice. I can’t wait to meet her.” Dahl must have taken the phone off speaker, as Jane could only hear his half of the goodbye. No I love yous, though. Jane frowned, chewing her lip. They’d been dating a year and had an established home life from the sound of the conversation. Dahl was about to go into a dangerous situation, and Olive knew it. The absence of those three words was odd. Putting the cup back on the table, she went across the hall to Ian’s room.
She knocked before remembering her walkie-talkie. Next time, she would be tactical. Ian answered the door. He was damp from a shower and ready for a night of action, the unromantic kind. Cargo pants, lace-up boots, web belt with his go-to arsenal of useful items. His black T-shirt declared “Plays Well with Others” in a gray grunge font, and over it he wore some kind of complicated gun holster under the arms and his huge swordlike machete, inverted and running along his back. His faux leather jacket, which was large enough to require a whole faux cow, hung by the door.
When he saw her, his face lit up, and he pulled her into a gentle hug and kiss on top of the head. Screw being tactical, this was way better than the walkie. She held him around the waist for almost a minute before delivering the news. “Your crow’s back. I didn’t want to scare it, so I came to find you.”
“Thank you, sweet girl. We can go speak with him in a minute. How are you doing?”
Jane tried to get it together to reassure Ian and found she couldn’t, so she picked another conversational route. “Is Dahl okay?”
Ian’s voice took on the special, warm tone he used for Dahl. “He is. He just needed to rest.” The jumble in Jane’s mind around Dahl’s mental and physical state didn’t offer a convenient handle to steer the conversation any farther in his direction, so she let it go. Ian loved Dahl, and he must know what he was doing. This wasn’t their first mission together.
A memory of the little campsite in the woods and the leather-bound book resurfaced as Jane brushed aside her worry over Dahl. She chose a different track. “Any sign of Eileen?”
“Not yet.”
“Did you find anything in the woods?”
“I tracked a cryptid to a small network of caves north of town. I didn’t locate the creature, but I found an empty chrysalis and some droppings. I would guess it’s still nesting there, but I wasn’t able to locate it.”
“A chrysalis? Like for a butterfly?”
“Yes, that’s what it reminded me of. Except obviously larger.”
“How big?” Jane shuddered. Another monster in the woods?
“Man-sized.”
“Ugh, gross. Sister Mary told you about the demonic bat-bear we found?”
Ian tightened his hug a fraction. Jane started to worry about her ribs, but he stopped before they protested. “She did. By her account, you kept an incredibly cool head. I’m so proud of you.” Ian paused and let those words sink in for a few seconds before continuing. “. . . and I would like to avoid another situation where you are in the line of fire until you have more training under your belt.” Jan hadn’t expected the edge to Ian’s voice. Or maybe the resonance through his chest just sounded deeper?
“I’m still coming on the next thing.”
“That would be unwise. You’re already injured.”
“I don’t need to do backflips, but I’m gonna be there. I could help. I could make the difference.”
Ian shuffled slightly, muttering almost imperceptibly. Poor guy. He wanted to keep her safe, but that wasn’t the name of the game, and he knew it. It wasn’t his decision, anyway. Jane changed topics before he could muster a rebuttal. “Am I on painkillers?”
“Yes, Dahl gave you something when Sister Mary brought you back.”
“I need to know what meds I’m on. And Ian”—Jane pulled her head back and caught his eye—“I’m not feeling super positive about people giving me drugs all the time without asking me first.”
Ian’s brows drew together. “It’s no different than if you were in the hospital. The doctor or EMT would give you treatment in an emergency.”
“Yes. The doctor. Is Dahl a doctor?”
“Dahl manages medications for our team. He’s trained in that area.”
Holy fuck. The suicidal nineteen-year-old was managing the medications. Jane had a lot of questions about Sana Baba’s protocols and organization. “Is there a reason you don’t manage them?”
“I, um, have trouble remembering things like dosage and timing.”
Jane put a little backbone in her voice. “Okay, well, going forward, I want to know what I’m being given beforehand.”
“But what if you’re unconscious? Or in pain?”
Jane’s expression hardened. “If my condition is not life-threatening, then ask me first. Okay?”
Ian hesitated longer than Jane was anticipating given the cut-and-dry nature of the boundary she was setting. Should she say something more? This seemed like such a straightforward request. Ian finally nodded and kissed the top of her head. “I’ll be sure to let Dahl know. You might want to follow up with him as well.”
“Good! Thanks. You want to go see your fine feathered informant before he flies away?”
A bemused smile spread across Ian’s face. “Lead the way.”
Once inside her room, he opened the window as before and laid a cracker on the sill. The crow picked at it for a few seconds, but Jane noticed it didn’t gobble it down like it had this morning. The spayed, shifted posture made its belly look plump and distended.
Ian spoke with it in the low, guttural noise, and it hopped around excitedly, its clever, dark eyes darting back and forth. Jane watched Ian’s expression lose his delighted grin: his eyes grew sad, his brows drew together, his jaw tightened. Jane bit her f
ingernails and waited.
After a few more seconds, Ian closed the window and stood. Jane watched the crow leave the uneaten cracker on the sill. “It wasn’t hungry?”
“No,” Ian checked his weapons with a touch. “It’s been feasting. I know where we need to go.”
Like someone who’d peeked at the last page, Jane didn’t need Ian’s revelation. They were headed for Longwood Gardens.
While Ian grabbed the rest of his gear, Jane pulled Dahl aside in the hallway. “Hey, I need drugs.”
Dahl’s brow wrinkled. “Jane, I know I gave you a cigarette once, but I want you to realize that although tobacco is a gateway drug, it doesn’t mean—”
“Oh, for shit’s sake, Dahl, I don’t want you to sell me crack or whatever. I need you to give me a dose of painkillers so I don’t miss the action tonight.”
Dahl dropped the condescending act and adopted actual condescension. “Yes, I can give you one more dose, but you need to be careful with painkillers, Jane. They’re just as addictive as street drugs. A lot of agents struggle with managing habits, and it’s easier if you don’t start down the road of addiction.”
“Maybe you should stop injecting me with things, then.”
“Maybe you should accept that I know more than you do.”
“In this area.”
“In most areas.”
Jane rolled her eyes. “Do you have to practice this level of aggravating, or is it natural talent?”
Dahl pulled a bottle out of his backpack and shook out a few pills. “Seriously, Jane.” He held her gaze. “Listen for a minute. A lot of agents struggle with medication, and it’s pretty fucking miserable. You don’t want that. You’re not in danger of forming a habit at this point, but it isn’t too soon to put it on your radar. Pain management is a hard part of the job. Don’t turn your nose up at my guidance.”
