Obsidian Blues

by J. S. Miller

  My mind snapped back to the present. Those runes. That smell. Someone had used alchemy to blast a hole in my basement. But that meant an alchemist had been involved, which was impossible … unless someone was trying very hard to incur the wrath of the Royal Academy.

  “What the hell is going on here?” I asked aloud.

  I hadn’t expected an answer, but I got one anyway. Eerie, high-pitched laughter danced in through the open door, sounding like some unholy union between human child and hyena. Hearing it in that strange place conjured up images of ancient, evil beings — ones with teeth and claws and quiet speed. Beasts that had hunted us in the night and driven humanity to build its first fires and forts and means to take flight.

  Naturally, as an award-winning smartass, I responded the only way I knew how. I stood up straight, cleared my throat, and told a joke to the darkness.

  “Good evening!” I said in my best from-the-diaphragm stage voice. The laughter stopped. Apparently, Captain Creepypants wasn’t used to friendly hellos.

  “OK, an alchemist’s apprentice walks into a bar …”

  No remarks from the peanut gallery, but I somehow got the impression I’d just made a slavering beast of the night roll its eyes.

  “The taptender asks him what he’ll have, and he responds, ‘I'll have your secret of forging gold from nothing, Tender.’ For the tender was an alchemist of unparalleled skill who was renowned for having done just that.”

  Dramatic pause. The silence sat on my tongue like lead.

  “‘Take a seat, my young friend,’ the tender says. ‘Have a beer, and I'll tell you.’ So, the young alchemist sits down at the bar and drinks the best beer he’s ever tasted. The tender watches as the apprentice drains glass after glass. Upon emptying his sixth pint, the young alchemist asks, ‘When’er you gonna tell me yer shecret a’makin’ gold?’”

  I couldn’t suppress a grin. I’m fluent in drunk.

  “The tender walks over, drops the apprentice’s bill on the bar, and says, ‘My friend, I believe I just did.’”

  I bowed. My audience stayed silent, which pissed me off a little. This thing laughed itself silly because the sky was blue, but my off-the-cuff joke didn’t even warrant a courtesy chuckle? Rude.

  When the creature did start up again, however, it did so slowly, in shattered fragments from different families of laughter. It was like getting a slow clap from an audience of grinning, shark-toothed cannibals. I wanted to say, “No no, on second thought, I’ll take the rotten tomatoes, thanks.” Instead, I let my anger off its leash — but in the way I’d been trained to do, grounding the energy within me, focusing it.

  “Shut it!” My voice thundered in the tiny room, but the laughter didn’t stop this time. I raised the glowstick, which made the stars spin on the metal pipes. “You haven't heard the ending yet. See, it’s more parable than joke. As soon as the apprentice realizes he’s been had, he asks for one more beer.”

  The laughter crept closer. My heart hammered the inside of my ribcage, but I closed my eyes and focused on my ring. On the runes carved into the band. On the philosopher’s stone at its center. The air around me began to hum.

  “When the young man receives the final glass, he flings the suds into the taptender's face. The moral of the story — what the tender learned from this encounter — is that you don't fuck with an alchemist who’s got a fistful of chemicals.”

  I closed my eyes and snapped the glowstick, sweeping the two halves away from each other in an arc. Blue chemical light erupted and sprayed forward through the door. Even through my closed eyelids, the effect was stunning, like facing an army of paparazzi armed with 10-megaton flashbulbs. The laughter transformed into a howl of pain and rage.

  I smiled around gritted teeth as I opened my eyes. The remnants of my alchemical torch were fading quickly, but the walls in front of me were pitted and scored, as if eaten through by acid. What the hell? Idle threats to Agent Crusher aside, my glowsticks had never been capable of much physical damage. Maybe they had become unstable with age.

  Before things could plunge into total darkness, three columns of light rolled into the room behind me. Flashlight beams. They flitted here and there, bouncing off walls knotted with shiny brass shoelaces.

  “West?” It was Elena. “Are you all right? Was that an explosion?”

  “No, but there’s something else down here,” I said. “Check the door.”

  The lights flicked to the doorway, now empty. The laughter had departed once again. My eyes darted around the room but found only the pipes, three puzzled human faces, and black nylon ropes swaying gently behind them.

  “Bullshit,” Crusher said. “This place is deserted.”

  The two men lowered their guns, and as they did, a skinny, man-shaped shadow lowered itself spider-like from the ceiling behind them. It touched down silently, unfolded its spindly limbs, and lunged with the heavy, powerful speed of a predatory cat.

  I shouted a warning, but it was too late. The creature had leapt at Lowblow's back before I’d even opened my mouth. But he saw my face, and that moment was the worst of it. The moment when he knew something was coming but that he wouldn’t be fast enough to stop it.

  Lowblow was turning and raising his gun when his right shoulder erupted in a geyser of blood. He bellowed and dropped the flashlight, which rolled across the concrete, bouncing light around the room like a disco ball above a killing floor. The creature’s other hand plunged into Lowblow’s stomach. Despite his injuries, he clenched his jaw, shoved the muzzle of his handgun under the creature’s chin, and pulled the trigger.

  Flash. Pop. A concussive wave rippled through the air around me as the gun exploded in Lowblow’s hand. Instead of dropping it, he took a swing with what was left of the gun butt. The creature knocked his hand aside and rushed away from the beams of light, dragging the struggling man into the shadows. The small room stank of spent gunpowder and burnt flesh.

  Crusher unloaded his clip into the shadows — or tried to, but his firearm also flashed and popped. He dropped the weapon and glared down at it, and his eyes hardened when he saw the blood-soaked floor. I couldn't see the beast, but laughter echoed everywhere. Christ. It had been laughing the entire time.

  Crusher’s knife sang from its sheath. The sound rang so sharply in the small space it seemed to be challenging the laughter for dominance. As the burly man fell into a fighting stance, Elena stepped in front of me, firearm raised. Great. Out of everyone in this room, I was the damsel in distress.

  The Laughing Man darted out of the darkness at Crusher, who immediately backed up two steps and put up his meaty fists, knife held in a reverse grip. Elena lifted her Glock, waited for a clear line of sight, and pulled the trigger. Pop went the weasel. She swore and dropped the smoking pistol.

  A hand holding a long, curved blade swiped down at Crusher's head, but the big man caught the arm with an overhead block and countered, slashing at his opponent’s throat. The agent moved like a machine built for fighting, whereas the laughing thing was obviously untrained, all brute strength and lightning speed. However, it did appear to deflect Crusher's blade using its face, so I doubted the man could keep up with it for long, regardless of skill.

  “Get out,” he said, stumbling out of the way of another scything blade. “I'll cover you as long as I can!”

  Without giving myself a chance to think about it, I rushed forward, grabbed Elena around the waist, and lifted her through the open door behind me. She dropped the flashlight, struggling and shouting several unflattering nicknames. I dropped her and was turning back to close the door when Crusher’s scream of pain eclipsed the malevolent laughter.

  Elena's flashlight rolled across the room, momentarily illuminating the creature as it tossed Crusher aside like a broken toy. It was all long limbs wrapped in scaly, crimson leather and straps with black buckles. From each strap hung more of the dark, curved knives it carried in each hand, the blades of which appeared to have been cut from volcanic glass. Then the thing look
ed at me, and several parts of my anatomy either clenched or retreated. It wore a mask, whiter than sun-bleached bone, with two black holes where eyes should be.

  Before I had a chance to select one of the many options laid out before me — such as run away, soil myself, or run away while soiling myself — The Laughing Man flew across the room like a gust of wind, swept open the half-closed door, and thrust both knives into my unprotected chest.

  Chapter 5

  If, in that final moment before disembowelment, I had been more philosophical a man, an old school alchemist with wisdom and spirituality shooting out of my ears, I probably would’ve pondered my imminent death. What would it feel like as my soul left my body? Where would it go next? Should this last moment of life, in all its pain and terror, be shut away or savored?

  Instead, all I could do was try not to cower like a frightened child. I didn't want to die here, in this land of unsettling sewers and knife-happy spider-men. Then again, I wasn’t helpless. I was an alchemist, whether the Royal Academy chose to acknowledge me or not, and I didn't have to go out like this. In the seconds before impact, I centered my anger, my terror, my will to survive — I let focus override the fear.

  The twin blades screamed toward my chest and shattered as if on stone. The force of the blow sent me flying, suspended in the air for one second, two, and then I slammed into something that was definitely not a bean bag chair. In the doorway at the other end of the hall stood The Laughing Man, gazing at me with the quizzically cocked head of a curious dog. It held two hilts with broken stumps where blades had been. I checked myself but saw no blood. Even my jacket was intact. In fact, the garment’s worn, gray-brown leather, stained and splotchy from years of alchemical spills, now seemed to shift and swirl like oil spilled in water. This panoply of colors even extended down my jeans and to my normally black and white Chucks.

  The creature turned away, evidently deciding I was a puzzle not worth solving, and began examining the crumpled pile of fabric resting at its feet. Then it dropped the hilts and dug long fingers into bright red hair. Elena cried out from the floor, pawing meekly at the arm as the monster gazed down at her. Somehow, the expression on the bone face was smug.

  Her eyes met mine, looking for something, anything that could answer all the terrifying questions posed by this strange subterranean room.

  Here I was again. Just like all those years ago. Eyes looking to me for help. I’d failed them then, and in a thousand nightmares since. A tiny ball of rage exploded deep within my chest and spread with the ravenous speed of a brush fire, turning the dark world a bright, silvery white.

  I leapt to my feet and sprinted down the hall. My muscles burned, but each step seemed to carry me farther than it should have. I pushed harder, even though I had no idea what I planned to do when I got there.

  But the creature was too fast. It darted back through the open door, dragging Elena behind it. When its attention shifted from her for that split second, however, the helpless girl act fell away. Her eyes flashed, and one hand snaked down to her ankle. Steel glittered in the dim light as she drove a tactical knife into The Laughing Man’s undefended groin.

  A shriek like black smoke and brimstone boiled out of the beast, and in a blur it grabbed her by the throat, lifted her off the ground, and gazed into her eyes. It held her so close she must have been able to smell its breath, if it had any. Then, in a gesture that was almost gentle, it lifted its other hand and caressed her face. At the touch, she shuddered as if having an epileptic fit. Her limbs went limp, and the beast tossed her over one shoulder with the affection most men would show a gym towel. Then it bounded across the room in three long steps, shouldered open another steel door as if it were made of craft paper, and disappeared into the gloom. Elena’s hair glowed for a moment before vanishing, a dying ember in that cold, dark place.

  I slowed to a walk as I re-entered the main room and stared at the door The Laughing Man had fled through. What remained of it hung from a single hinge, as if brushed aside by a hormonal rhinoceros.

  Why had it taken her? Where was it going? Most important, how was I supposed to stop it? As painful as it was to admit, this situation was way beyond my skill level in both hand-to-hand combat and alchemy, if the runes on the ground were any indication.

  Injured animal noises from across the room interrupted my introspection. It was an awful sound, like someone trying to breathe through a sheet of maple syrup. I picked up a flashlight and glanced around, spotting Agent Crusher slumped against one wall. His shirt was awash with blood but still moving slowly up and down.

  “You OK?” I said, and instantly felt like an idiot for asking.

  “I saw it get you,” he said. “Get you worse than it got me. How are you not dead?”

  “Hold still, Agent Crusher. Let’s take a look at your wounds.”

  “Agent Crusher?” He squinted at me through the blood clotting in his eyelashes. “You got any medical training?”

  “Well, I …”

  “Then get the fuck away from me,” he said and spat blood onto the ground between us. “This is your fault. Had to stick your damn nose where it didn’t belong.”

  “Next time I enter my own home, I'll try to remember to leave my nose at the door.”

  But he was right. If I hadn't tripped and fallen into this mess, Elena would probably be on her way home, contemplating deep, universal questions like whether to cook or get takeout. Still, I couldn't help anyone by sitting around bemoaning my poor choices. And by the looks of Crusher, Elena was in for one hell of a rough time. I couldn’t abandon her to that fate, not after she’d come down here to rescue me. I walked to the center of the room, gazed up into the hole, and cupped my hands around my mouth.

  “Cagney! Brando! Hanks!”

  After a few seconds, a voice answered mid-yawn.

  “Boss?”

  “I’m down in the hole.”

  Another minute passed before odd sounds began echoing down, like flapping wings and crumbling stone. Three small shadows drifted out of the darkness, shivering and glancing back up at the hole, as if not quite sure what to make of it. Each was squat, only about three feet tall if you didn’t count their tails, but their shapes were distinctive. One was round, one was thin, and one was somewhere in between.

  “‘Ey, Boss,” Cagney, the in-between gargoyle, said as he touched down a few feet away. He spoke in an over-the-top New York accent and touched the brim of the fedora resting between his curved horns. Served me right for letting my pet gargoyles watch old gangster movies. “What can we do for youse?”

  “You want this guy should get whacked?” Hanks, the heavyset one, asked with a nod at Crusher. “The rest of the way, I mean. You been playin’ a little chin music, Boss?”

  Crusher had propped himself up on one elbow and was staring at the trio of talking statuary. To his credit, he only looked mildly amazed. He’d probably seen some freaky stuff working for Arclight.

  “No, he’s on our side,” I said. “Mostly. I need you and Brando to take him to a hospital. Not you, Cagney. You go back, get me my rune satchel. Fill it with every vial you can find. And bring me the gun.”

  They glanced at each other uneasily but followed orders. Crusher pushed himself into a hunched half-stand, and one gargoyle slid under each arm, looking like a pair of preschoolers trying to help an injured lineman off the field. Any other day, the sight would've made me laugh. Any other day but this one.

  “That thing has Agent Volkova,” Crusher growled. “You think you can take it on alone? I should go with you.”

  “Listen, I’d love to argue about whether I need a half-crippled rent-a-cop with a gun that won’t shoot, but I’m guessing we don’t have a lot of time. I’ll handle it.”

  “An unknown hostile neutralizes three trained Arclight Security field agents without breaking a sweat, but you’ll handle it. What’s your game plan, Chemist?”

  “To be honest, I’ll probably try to get it drunk.”

  Crusher scowled, cle
arly unhappy that his partner’s fate rested in the hands of some wisecracking, beer-swilling almost-hobo.

  “Come back for him, at least,” he said. “He deserves better than this shithole.”

  I nodded, not needing to ask who he meant, and then gestured to Brando and Hanks, who swept Crusher up like a baby and started flapping their wings. He grunted in protest, but as they slowly rose off the ground, he appeared to realize the situation was now out of his hands. Cagney followed them up. To this day, I have no idea how they fly with those stone wings. The same way they moved and talked, probably — magic. As they departed, small talk trickled back down the tunnel, its tone oddly foreign in this alien place.

  “I get Cagney and Brando,” Crusher said, his voice strained. “But Hanks?”

  One of the gargoyles snorted with laughter.

  “Road to Perdition is a goddamn modern classic, Brando,” Hanks retorted. “But by all means, proceed. I got no qualms breakin’ ya thumbs over the matter.”

  I smiled for the first time in what felt like years, but it didn’t last long after scanning the rest of the room with the flashlight.

  It had been painted red. If I hadn’t watched all that blood come out of a real person, I would’ve guessed this was a campy local haunted house slathered in corn syrup. With some effort, I made myself look around, eyes searching for something I had no desire to see.

  Lowblow lay motionless, crumpled against one wall like a discarded ball of paper. His face was bed sheet white, and his eyes shone like blown glass. No man should have to die like that, in the dark, with that nightmare laughter ringing in his ears. His life had ended because of my recklessness, and I hadn’t even bothered to learn his name.

  I rummaged through the pockets of the dark gray suit, found his wallet, and rifled through that until I located an Arclight Security ID badge. Charles Denton. I memorized the name, pocketed the ID card, and returned the wallet. Couldn’t hurt to have security access for an organization that had already locked me up once before.

  As I stood and turned back to the door, a sharp contrast in color caught my eye — a darker shade standing out against all that red. It was black and thicker than ink, and a trail of the stuff ran out the open door. Well, that explained Elena’s Hail Mary attack. She hadn’t been trying to kill the thing, only wound it, slow it down, and leave a path for someone to follow. I couldn’t leave yet, though. Not without my tools.