by DD Barant
I get out the gun and my cleaning kit. I lay out a fresh, clean white cloth on the bed and start taking the Ruger apart. I fall into a familiar rhythm and it feels good.
At first.
But then something happens. Something that’s never, ever happened before.
It starts as I’m cleaning and oiling each individual component: a feeling that something’s wrong. That something’s, I don’t know, missing. I make sure there’s nothing on the floor or under the bed, some little part I might have dropped. Nothing there.
But the feeling gets stronger. You know how you can forget something, and the only piece of information left in your brain is a little scrap of paper with the words YOU FORGOT SOMETHING, DUMBASS written on it? It’s like that, only stronger. Insistent, nagging. It’s driving me crazy, but no matter how hard I try my memory just sits there with an idiot grin on its face, drooling and picking its nose. I finally give up and return to the task at hand, hoping the routine will relax me enough that whatever it is will surface on its own.
And that’s when it hits me.
I have no idea how to put the Ruger back together again.
* * *
“Damon!” Pound pound pound. “WAKE UP!”
The door rips open. A snarling, snow-white, six-foot werewolf glares at me with ice-blue eyes. He’s wearing pajama bottoms with little puppies on them.
“It’s affecting me!” I blurt. “The spell!”
His snarl droops, then turns into a yawn. He signs What spell? with furry white hands.
I storm into his room as he shifts—a lot slower this time—back into human form. “You know, the spell! I took it apart and now I can’t put it back together!”
“Can’t put what back together?”
“My—my Splatter!”
“Your what now?”
I groan in exasperation. I’m having trouble even remembering what the damn thing is called. “That’s what the Stanley Park pack called it. The Splatter. I guess because it makes things go splat.”
“Oh. You mean your gun.”
“Yes! Yes, my gun! Gun, gun, gun!”
“Just take it easy, okay?” He pads over to the bed in his bare feet and slips into a fluffy hotel robe like the one I’ve got on. Even the hair on his chest is white. “You took your gun apart? Why?”
“Maintenance. It’s something I do on a regular basis. Dismantle, clean, oil, reassemble. But this time I got halfway through and just blanked.”
Eisfanger blinks at me sleepily. “Sounds like a real crisis. Can we talk about this in the morning?”
“No! Don’t you get it? I thought I was immune to the spell because I’m from another reality, but I’ve been here long enough that it’s starting to take hold. Right now I’m all worked up, but by the morning I might not even be able to care. You know, I’ll be all like What did I ever see in that thing anyway?”
“Well, now that you bring it up—”
“No! Don’t you dare take its side! That’s what it wants you to do!”
“Okay, okay, I won’t. But I have to say, you’re sounding a little paranoid.”
“Of course I’m sounding paranoid! An ancient enchantment cast by an immortal serial killer is trying to eat my brain!”
“Oh. Well, when you put it that way…” He yawns again, then holds his hands up in self-defense when he sees the look on my face. “Sorry, sorry—I’m tired, not bored. I’m taking your problem very seriously, all right? What do you want me to do?”
“Fix it!”
“Umm. Right. Well, I’ll try.” He frowns. “Let’s see. The spell doesn’t let anyone take your gun seriously, me included. But I did manage to build a silencer for you.”
“Yeah, you did. How’d you manage that, anyway?”
“I thought of it as a challenge in acoustic design. You know, isolated the engineering aspects of one specific effect and worked on that.”
“Maybe you can do that again.” I rub the palms of my hands against my forehead. “Ahh! This is going to be tricky. The spell is layered, and the second layer tells you to ignore any logical discrepancies the first layer might cause.”
“What logical discrepancies?”
I glare at him, but he’s not trying to be funny. “Never mind. Let’s try to focus on one particular problem: how to reassemble my gun.”
“I—no, that wouldn’t work.”
“Tell me!”
“No, it’s ridiculous…”
I swallow. “Damon. Right now, I could really use a good laugh. Really. So please, please tell me your completely useless, stupid, moronic idea.”
He looks hesitant, but then shrugs. “Well, this’ll never work, but—we could look at some footage I have from when you first showed up. You remember? I took your gun apart, piece by piece, and recorded it.”
I sigh. “What can I say? You’re right. That is completely useless to me right now, seeing as how my gun is already in pieces.”
“I know—but I was thinking maybe we could play the footage backward.”
I goggle at him. Even though I know it’s the spell screwing with my judgment, I can’t believe I didn’t think of that. “Yes. Get it, get it now.”
“Sure, I’ve got it archived on my laptop.”
“Bring it to my room.” I don’t want to risk moving the disassembled gun, afraid I’ll do something insane like throw the parts out a window.
Eisfanger grabs his laptop. A minute later, we’re studying digital footage that’s moving in reverse. I take a deep breath, grab the same two pieces that Damon’s holding in the video, and fit them together. The click they make is the most reassuring sound I’ve heard all week.
I don’t think about what I’m doing or why, I just focus on repeating the steps I’m watching on the laptop. It goes smoothly; once I’ve recaptured the rhythm my own muscle memory takes over. I even finish the last step on my own, without looking at the video.
I collapse backward on the bed, heaving a sigh of relief. “Okay. Don’t want to go through that again.”
“Glad I could help,” Eisfanger says. He’s perched on the room’s single chair. “Though I still can’t believe that worked.” He gets up and reaches for his laptop.
I sit up abruptly and stop him. “Wait. We have to do something about this.”
“Uh—we did. Just now. Remember?”
“We threw a bucket of water on a fire, Eisfanger. But it’s not out. We need to find a way to get this damn spell out of my head. Fast.”
He frowns and sits down on the bed next to his computer. “Yeah. Well, the problem with a spell like this—ancient, global, and self-masking—is that you need something equally old and powerful to counter it. I’m just a forensics shaman; I can’t beat something like this on its own terms.”
He sees the look of despair on my face and holds up one thick finger. “But. I don’t need to fight it toe-to-toe; all I have to do is convince the spell that you’re outside its parameters. That’s why it didn’t affect you when you first got here: it wasn’t designed to work on natives of another reality.”
But apparently now I’ve been here long enough to qualify—from illegal alien to landed immigrant, magic-wise. “So what do we do? Show it my passport? ‘Hi, Jace Valchek. I’m here on business, not sure how long I’m staying, and I’m not bringing any fruits, nuts, or currency worth over ten thousand dollars with me.’”
“Actually, that’s not far off. You’ve integrated pretty well into this reality, so we need to reverse that a little bit. Bring up your outsider vibe.”
“How?”
“I’ve got an idea. Stay here, I’ll be right back.” He leaves his laptop on the bed and jogs out of the room. A minute later he’s back, with his forensics kit in his hand. He sets it down on the bed, opens it, and pulls out a small, transparent bag with a scrap of pink cloth in it.
“What’s that?”
“A piece of what you were wearing when you crossed the dimensional boundary.”
Which was an oversize T-sh
irt sporting a picture of a panda, and nothing else. After I threw up on it and passed out, I woke up in a hospital bed and never thought about that shirt again. “You have it?”
Eisfanger looks uncomfortable. “Well, yes. It might seem mundane to you, but it is an artifact of another reality. We studied it purely for research reasons.”
“And what did it tell you? Kmart sells a nice cotton blend in extra-large sizes?” My eyes narrow. “And why do you have a scrap of it with you, anyway?”
“It was in case you disappeared. I could use the psychic traces on the shirt to help pinpoint your location.”
I guess that makes sense. “Well, look at that. It worked. Here I am.”
He pulls the scrap out, selects a small pair of surgical scissors, and starts cutting the cloth into strips. “That’s the problem. You’re here, and the spell senses that. What we’re going to do is use this cloth as a focus for transdimensional energy, and infuse your own aura with it. It wouldn’t fool an actual shaman, but it might be enough to deflect the spell.”
I nod. “Change my scent, throw it off the trail. Yeah, that might work. But—”
“What?”
“Tell me that piece came from the part of the shirt I didn’t vomit on.”
Eisfanger looks apologetic. “Sorry. This kind of thing works best with a maximum infusion of extradimensional material.”
“Even if it’s semi-digested french fries marinated in tequila? Don’t answer that.”
He’s finished cutting the cloth into strips, and now he’s braiding them together. “I’m weaving a simple radiant enchantment into this. All you have to do is tie it around your wrist.”
“Huh. Well, what do you know. Where I come from, we call that a friendship bracelet.” I lean over and take a sniff, then wrinkle my nose. “Though ours tend to be more colorful and less fragrant.”
“The smell will fade—to your nose, anyway.”
I sigh. “Thanks, Damon. Gee, maybe after this we could braid each other’s hair and talk about boys.”
He looks about as confused as he usually does when I’m trying to be funny, so I just pat him on the shoulder. “Never mind. I appreciate this.”
“No problem.”
He finishes, ties it around my wrist, and performs a short ritual. I feel a little twinge of nausea, which tells me it must be working. Once again, my body is informing me it’s in a place it doesn’t belong and never will. I tell Eisfanger good night and my body to shut up; it’s always been terrible at important decisions, anyway. Before he leaves I let him know about my appointment with the corporate head of Hemo so he’s up to speed.
It’s almost 3 AM by now, so I have a shower—taking care not to get the bracelet wet, though I don’t know if that makes any difference—get dressed, and go knock on Charlie’s door. He tells me he’ll be out in a minute and sounds as if he wasn’t even asleep, though that’s misleading; Charlie doesn’t so much wake up as shift from inert to alert. He’s also infuriatingly quick at getting ready, not needing to shower or shave or tend to any other tedious biological habits.
I grab a fast Danish to go and coffee from the hotel restaurant—one nice thing about Thropirelem, it’s not hard to find places open all night. Charlie’s car is back from the auto shop with new glass, and he drives while I talk, eat, and suck back caffeine.
“So that’s the rundown on Hemo,” I say between bites. “No idea what, if any, connection they have to the pire disappearances.”
“Other than Stoker’s word.”
“Yeah. Vague accusations backed by no evidence. I’m just about done with that, Charlie. I’m glad we shut down that blood farm, but unless I get some genuine proof that pire kids are vanishing—and soon—we’re out of here. Stoker can clean up his own messes.”
“I figured. Maybe we should hit the streets, ask around ourselves. Might get better results than bracing a CEO.”
“Good idea. I just wish I knew where to start.”
“At the top. And the bottom. Then apply pressure in both directions.”
I grin around a mouthful of Danish. “Mr. Aleph, I like the way you think. It beats the hell out of the way I’ve been thinking, anyway—or not thinking, as the case may be.” I tell him about my middle-of-the-night panic attack and Eisfanger’s fix.
Charlie grunts. “I always said that damn thing was more trouble than it’s worth. And aren’t you almost out of bullets, too?”
“I’ve got a box back in Seattle—but I’m down to six rounds here. After that, I’m going to have to rely on Eisfanger. Again.”
“You really think he can duplicate that formula?”
“Sure. I mean, it should be simple—he just has to…”
I frown. My mind is filled to bursting with nothing at all. What was I just thinking about, again? “Oh, no…”
“What?”
“The bullets. They have this stuff in them that makes them go. And I—” I pound on the dash with a fist. “Damn it! Now I can’t even remember what it’s called! Goonpower? Funchowder? Happy Bullet Flying Snuff?”
“Gunpowder,” Charlie says. “Calm down.”
“Gunpowder! That’s it!” I scrabble in my pocket for a pen. “Got to write it down. Can’t forget.” I find an old receipt and a pen and scribble the word in large block letters. “This is bad, Charlie. Eisfanger’s bracelet isn’t working.”
“Just breathe, Jace. What’s the full name of your weapon?”
“A Ruger Super Redhawk Alaskan.”
“How does it work?”
“Like a camera. Point and shoot.”
“And what happens when you use it?”
“It makes large, messy holes in things I’m angry at.” I take a deep breath. “Whoooo. Okay, so I haven’t completely lost it. I can still use the damn thing.”
“Absolutely.” Charlie pauses. “For another six shots, anyway.”
“Just drive, sunshine.”
* * *
The corporate headquarters of the Hemo company is in Yaletown, an upscale community of condos and apartment clusters on the shores of False Creek. The building is a sleek, mirrored monolith forty-five stories tall. We show our credentials to the guard at the entrance to the underground lot, receive passes, and park. The elevator takes us up, close to the top, and the doors open on a large foyer that’s all black glass and chrome. An Asian receptionist who looks like she’s slumming from her day job as a supermodel gives us a professional smile from behind her sleek, ultra-futuristic, and completely transparent desk. I can see that she’s wearing a miniskirt, two-inch stilettos, and pink underwear. God, I hope that’s underwear.
“Hello,” she says. “Ms. Valchek? Mr. Mizagi is expecting you.” She indicates we should go left with a graceful gesture of one immaculately manicured hand.
We do. The walls are tiled in glossy black stone with inset Chinese ideograms in gold leaf. Our shoes clack loudly on the polished cherrywood floor.
The door, a dark brown slab of intricately carved teak that probably cost more than my car, swings open silently as we approach. A handsome pire in his apparent forties, dressed in a conservative salaryman’s black suit, stands in the doorway. He bows, enough to be polite but not deferential, and motions us inside.
The room is large and mostly empty. A large desk of the same teak is framed by a wall of glass that overlooks False Creek, with an excellent view of the two bridges and the ocean beyond. The walls are adorned with various certificates, mostly scientific doctorates and awards. One corner is dominated by an immense jade sculpture of a Chinese dragon curled around a sphere. No, not a sphere; a globe.
“Thank you for agreeing to talk to me, Mr. Mizagi,” I say. “I have a few questions.”
“Not at all,” he says. There’s a long, black leather couch along one wall and he motions for us to sit.
I don’t, though. I’m staring at his hand.
And at the gold-and-jade ring on his finger.
ELEVEN
I decide to stay on my feet. Charlie, as al
ways, follows my lead.
“That’s a nice ring,” I say. “Where’d you get it?”
Whatever he was expecting me to ask, that wasn’t it. His eyes go blank as he comes up with an acceptable half-truth. “A gift, from an old colleague. To congratulate me on my promotion.”
I smile. He’s an embellisher. I love embellishers. They just can’t leave well enough alone; they’re convinced that unnecessary details added to a lie are like embroidery on a jacket, and that the prettier the lie, the more believable it is. The phrase Give someone enough rope and they’ll hang themselves was created for embellishers, and with a little encouragement they’ll weave a lie so big and intricate that pretty soon they’ll be dangling from it themselves like a novice spider stuck in his own web.
(I probably should have stuck to one metaphor instead of mixing thread, rope, and webbing, but hey—once you start embellishing, it’s hard to stop…)
“Your promotion here?” I ask innocently.
“Yes, as a matter of fact.” Hmmm. Half-truth, I think. Just a little hesitation beforehand and a qualifier tacked on the end.
You have to keep the pace going with an embellisher or they’ll try to change the subject, veer away from the lie. I quickly ask, “Where were you before this?”
“Japan. If you—”
“Is the ring Japanese?”
“Yes, it is. Very old. I was honored to have it bequeathed to me.”
“From a colleague, you said. Your superior?”
“I—yes.”
“I have contacts in Japan. What’s his name?”
Mizagi stares at me and says nothing for a full second. Deer-in-the-headlights time. An innocent question, but if the gift was from someone in the Yakuza heiarchy, he doesn’t want to disclose it. He needs a moment to come up with another name to give me, and when he finally does I know he’s lying. “His name is Kamoto. Hondo Kamoto.”
The lie is meaningless trivia, but it’s enough to rattle him. A good start. “Mr. Kamoto, yes. I know him. I’ll make sure to pass along your regards when I talk to him next.”
