by DD Barant
And unlike last time, I’m alone. No car, no Stoker, not even my own body—I’m just like any other spirit here, except for the fact that I’m not dead. Yet.
Maybe I can use that to my advantage. What can a living spirit do that a dead one can’t?
I think about it. Think about how quiet this place is, how its defining aspect is that nothing ever happens.
I smile. And then I throw back my head and yell.
“HEY! YOU! YEAH, YOU! YOU GOTTA SEE THIS! IT’S—IT’S CRAZY! I MEAN, YOU WOULD NOT BELIEVE YOUR EYES! THIS IS SOME SERIOUSLY INSANE STUFF!”
I pause. No takers yet, but I’m just getting started.
“I HAVE NEVER, EVER SEEN A CHIHUHUA THAT BIG—OR WEARING A HAT LIKE THAT! OR RIDING AN ELECTRIC MOOSE! WOW!”
Deep breath. “AND WHO’S THAT WITH HIM? IS IT? IT CAN’T BE! NOT HIM—AND HER—AND THEM! BUT IT IS! AND LOOK AT WHAT THEY’RE CARRYING! I CAN’T BELIEVE THEY LET THEM IN HERE WITH THOSE! IT’S TOO MUCH!”
I pause again, longer this time. You have to build up a little suspense.
“OH MY GOD, THAT’S AMAZING! IT’S THE MOST BEAUTIFUL THING I’VE EVER SEEN! IT MAKES MY EYEBALLS WANT TO EXPLODE WITH HAPPINESS! NO, EYEBALLS, DON’T DO THAT! I WANT TO SEE MORE! I WANT TO SEE IT UP CLOSE, RIGHT HERE, WHERE IT IS HAPPENING RIGHT NOW!”
Apparently the stamina of my vocal cords in spirit form is pretty impressive, because I don’t feel even a little bit hoarse. I resume bellowing.
“THANK YOU! THANK YOU, EYEBALLS! I’M SO GLAD I SAW THAT! NOTHING WILL EVER BE SO—AAAAAAH! NO WAY! I WAS WRONG! THAT IS SO MUCH BETTER! THAT NEW THING MAKES THE OTHER THING LOOK LIKE CRAP! BROKEN CRAP! CHEAP, MASS-PRODUCED BROKEN-DOWN OLD CRAP THAT IS GOING TO DIE ALONE AND HAVE CATS EAT ITS FACE!”
Whoops. Getting a little off message. Time to bring it back.
“BUT IT’S OKAY, THE NEW THING TOTALLY MAKES UP FOR IT! WOW, LOOK AT IT GO! I DIDN’T KNOW IT COULD DO THAT! THAT IS HIGHLY IMPROBABLE BUT VERY ENJOYABLE TO WATCH!”
Still no takers? Time to switch tactics.
“I COULD WATCH THAT ALL DAY! TOO BAD IT’S SLOWING DOWN AND WILL SOON STOP! I BET IT WILL VANISH AND NEVER APPEAR AGAIN! I AM SO GLAD I WAS HERE AND MY EYEBALLS DIDN’T EXPLODE! BUT WAIT! WHAT IS HAPPENING NOW? IT IS THE FIRST THING! THAT CHIHUAHUA LOOKS ANGRY! THE MOOSE ISN’T HAPPY, EITHER! I THINK THEY MUST BE JEALOUS OF THE WONDERFUL NEW THING! NO, NO, NO! DON’T DO THAT, CHIHUAHUA! STOP THAT, MOOSE! IT’S HORRIBLE! I CAN’T WATCH! SOMEBODY STOP THIS SENSELESS ATROCITY!”
One last pause, one more deep breath.
“OH, THE HORROR! THE INHUMANITY! THE WEASELS! FOR GOD’S SAKE, WILL SOMEBODY THINK OF THE WEASELS! I CAN’T TAKE THIS ANYMORE—EEEEEEEEEEE! MY EYEBALLS! THEY JUST EXPLODED! I NO LONGER HAVE ANY IDEA WHAT IS GOING ON AND WILL HAVE TO STOP YELLING!”
I stop. I don’t have long to wait.
“You’re very loud.”
The voice comes from directly behind me, so close that I almost jump out of my astral skin. I spin around and see—
Jinjing Wong. Looking exactly the same as the last time I saw her, of course. Just as colorless. Just as dead.
“Oh! Yeah, sorry about that. I was just trying to attract somebody’s attention.”
Jinjing looks to my left, then to my right, her gaze sweeping slowly over me as emotionlessly as the beam from a lighthouse. “I don’t see any weasels.”
“There aren’t any weasels.”
“Your eyeballs seem intact.”
“That they are.”
She pauses. I wait, because I’m genuinely curious as to what she’ll say next.
“Did they leave?” she asks.
“Who?”
“The moose. And the Chihuahua.”
I consider my answer carefully. “Yesssss. They left. But I’m still here.”
She looks at me blankly. “I would have preferred the moose.”
“Yeah, I get that a lot. Look, I could really use some directions.”
“Directions? You are in Yomi. Whichever way you go, you will still be in Yomi.”
“I know. I get that. But see, what I’m looking for is in Yomi but relatively new.”
“A new thing? In Yomi?”
“Yes. I know this place doesn’t change much, so it should really stand out.”
“Oh. You mean The Place.”
“The Place? What’s The Place?”
“The new thing in Yomi.”
I take a deep breath. “Of course. Can you show me this place? Is it far?”
“It is not far. I will show you.”
She turns without another word and trudges off. I follow, staying close, not wanting to get lost in the mist.
So far, this is going better than I hoped. I figured most of the real badasses in Yomi stampeded across the bridge to Disney Yakuza as soon as they could, so whoever showed up to investigate my little ruckus would probably turn out to be harmless. The fact that it’s Jinjing is a stroke of luck—I think.
“Jinjing, do you remember me?”
“Yes. I told you before, I’m not an idiot.”
“You’re just dead. Yeah, sorry. So … Yomi’s a lot emptier now, huh? Lot of souls emigrating?”
“Some have left. But Yomi holds many. Still many souls here.”
“Okay, but the ones that have left—what sort of souls were they? And please don’t say dead ones.”
“Bad souls. Evil. Violent. They could do no harm in Yomi, but they did much when alive.”
“How do you know?”
“We talk. That is all there is to do.”
Yeah, and Jinjing is such a fascinating conversationalist. “So let’s talk. Tell me about The Place.”
“It is new. Demons came and built it. It houses seven who are neither alive nor dead.”
“You mean pires? Seven pires?”
“Yes. Small ones.”
Children. Seven pire children. If I had a pulse right now, it’d be speeding up. I’m trying to think of what to ask Jinjing next when she stops and says, “We are here.”
The building that rises out of the gray fog is four stories tall and vaguely pyramidal, in that each successive floor is smaller than the one below it. It’s as gray as its surroundings, and appears to be made of old, cracked concrete. There are no doors or windows. Tall iron poles tipped with spheres of dark metal jut from the cornices of each floor. What looks like black lightning crackles around them, occasionally arcing up into the sky without a sound. The architecture reminds me more of an industrial structure than a temple, the kind of building you’d find housing a generator substation or an electrical routing hub.
I pull the charm out of my pocket—or the astral equivalent of it, anyway—and check it. It’s a little piece of folded silk, and right now it’s got seven little bloodstains on it.
I stare at it, then up at the building. I’ve found them. Problem is, I have no idea how to get inside, or what to do when I get there. I need some serious mystical help—Eisfanger would be a good start, but I suspect he’d find himself out of his depth pretty quickly. This is going to require a high-level NSA shaman, which means getting out of here and in touch with Gretch as soon as possible.
Which raises all sorts of other interesting questions—like, can I find my way back here again? And if I do, do I even have the legal right to enter the premises? Who do you go to when you need a search warrant for another plane of existence?
I fold the cloth and put it back in my pocket. Then something occurs to me, a question I haven’t asked yet. “Jinjing—why haven’t you left?”
“Don’t want to be a soldier.”
A soldier?
That opens an entirely new and unpleasant can of worms. Big, ugly, supernatural worms.
Soldiers mean an army. An army means a war. And a military force comprised of spirits implies a war so far out of my jurisdiction I can barely see it with the Hubble telescope.
But a war waged on who? For that matter, who’s in charge of this hypothetical army? Am I looking at an invasion of mundane re
ality, a campaign against another afterlife, or some kind of large-scale mercenary operation with the Yakuza farming out combat units to the highest bidder?
This is all a bit much. A case involving kidnapped kids has abruptly mushroomed into some kind of multiversal military conflict. I really wish I had a chair so I could sink into it, but since I don’t I opt for lowering myself slowly to the ground and hugging my knees. After a moment, Jinjing joins me.
“Ah,” she says. “Sitting. I did that once. Something to do.”
Well, in Yomi you take your pastimes where you can get them. Which, for some spirits, apparently includes enlisting in the Astral Marines. “Yeah? How’d that go?”
“Didn’t go. Sat.”
“Right. For how long?”
“Hard to say. Not long. Few years.”
“Sounds relaxing. I could use some of that.”
“Not as good as it sounds.”
“Nothing ever is…” I stare up at the blocky concrete. I can hear an almost subliminal hum coming from it now, if I really concentrate. It’s soothing, calming. Hypnotic. I really have no desire to do anything but just sit here and listen to it.
And I’m not the only one.
I didn’t notice them before, but there are figures in the mist surrounding the structure. Just out of sight, but becoming more and more visible every second. Is the mist drawing back?
No. I can just see farther into it. My senses are acclimating, getting more in tune with their surroundings. I realize, in some distant part of my mind, that this is what those who dwell in Yomi see all the time. There is no mist for them; they see the endless blankness broken only by the occasional empty, abandoned building and the shuffling dead.
Whom I’m becoming one of. I try to move and find I can’t.
Stupid. Of course an installation like this is going to have defenses. Not obvious ones like the guard Charlie took on, but subtler things. Like some sort of field that amplifies the natural effect of this place and turns anybody nosing around into a mindless, immobile captive.
It’s getting harder and harder to think. I need to get out of here, but I can’t even turn my head anymore—I’m stuck staring at the side of the building, a blank gray space that’s becoming a better and better description of my brain.
And then I hear the voice.
“Jace.” It’s muffled, unrecognizable as anything but male. Charlie? I try to respond and can’t.
“Yog-Sothoth,” the voice says. The word means nothing to me—is it a name, a place, a thing?
“Yog-Sothoth,” the voice repeats. What am I supposed to do now, say Gesundheit?
I feel a hand on my shoulder. With its touch, I can move again. I stand up and turn around.
It’s Cassius.
EIGHTEEN
“Ugh, soy sauce,” Cassius says.
“What? Yog soy thoth?”
“Don’t talk with your mouth full.”
I blink. Cassius drops his hand from my shoulder and turns back to the—barbecue?
I look down at the bottle of soy sauce in my hand, then at the piece of sushi in my other hand. I look up again, feeling very confused. I was just thinking about something important, I know I was—but now it’s gone. Oh, well. Probably wasn’t important.
“I don’t know how you can use that stuff,” Cassius says. He’s turning over steaks on the grill, a big black propane-powered thing set up on our deck. He’s dressed casually in shorts, sandals, and a tight-fitting T-shirt, protected from the sun by the overhead canopy and UV-resistant plastic sheeting that lets in light without turning him into a cinder. “It’s mostly salt.”
“Says the guy who sucks down nothing but AB negative for lunch,” I fire back, but there’s a playful note in my voice. “You know the rules, sweetie—no bugging me about my health until after my first heart attack.”
“As opposed to the ones you give me on a regular basis.”
“Those are due to your delicate nature and sensitive constitution. I told you when you married me you wouldn’t be able to keep up.”
“I should have listened.”
“Too late. Now you’re stuck with me.” I pop the sushi in my mouth and give him a quick kiss on the cheek. He pretends to make a face. “Fish breath,” he says.
“Bloodsucker.”
I throw my arms around him from behind and press my face against his back. He’s wearing the cologne I got him for Christmas the first year we were together—just the tiniest amount—and after ten years I don’t even think of it as artificial. It smells like him.
“Dad! Is my steak ready yet?”
I mock-frown at my son. Only nine, but as smart as his father and outspoken as his mother. Charles looks up at me, plate held in one impatient hand. He’s as blond as Cassius, with my big dark eyes.
I sigh. “How did we wind up with a carnivorous offspring again?”
“I stand by my theory that he was switched at birth.”
Charles rolls his eyes. He’s a champion eye roller, and I guess I know where that particular trait came from. “Oh, please. I’m half human, so I can eat whatever I want.”
“Half human and all stomach,” I say. “You’ve got one parent who’s a vegetarian and another who’s on a strictly liquid diet, so what do you choose to chow down on? Meat, meat, and more meat. You’re going to sprout fur at the next full moon, I know it.”
“I’m not going to,” his sister says from the door to the kitchen. Only seven, but Lucinda’s already bossing her older brother around. She squints at me from behind mirrored sunglasses—she favors her father’s side of the family and is especially sensitive to sunlight. “I’m going to keep on drinking blood. Food is yucky.”
“Well, at least you’re easy to buy groceries for,” I tell her. “Wouldn’t hurt either of you to have a salad now and then, though—”
“EEWWW!” they say simultaneously, and then burst into laughter. Cassius grins at me over his shoulder in that way only one parent can to another: it’s a combination of Kids—what are you gonna do? and I love them so much it hurts and How did we ever get so lucky?
“Right back atcha, Caligula,” I say softly.
So we have supper and the kids tell us about their day. My husband listens intently to every word they say and asks them questions that range from the thoughtful—“Why do you think he said that to you at that particular moment?”—to the absurd—“When is it appropriate to wear a duck as a hat?” I tease him and them and they tease me right back. Just another meal in the Valchek/Cassius household.
After we’ve cleaned up, Charles goes upstairs to do some homework and Lucinda plays in the basement. Cassius and I snuggle up on the couch together and argue about what kind of movie to watch.
“Death Wish Seventeen,” I say. “Come on. I’ve never seen it.”
“You know they replaced Bronson with a giant puppet three movies ago, don’t you? One that’s a better actor.”
“You just don’t appreciate the genre. If you had your way, all we’d ever watch would be Shakespearean productions and period pieces.”
“I lived through a lot of those periods.”
“No, you didn’t. You unlived through them.”
“Exactly. So seeing those same scenes in daylight intrigues me.”
I sigh. “Great. So it’s a combination of nostalgia and archaeology for you, and a snorefest for me.”
“You’d rather see an urban vigilante find new and interesting ways to decapitate people?”
“Hey, it’s research. I might pick up an interesting new technique. Maybe even one that’ll save my life.”
He gives me a look. “Not fair. And besides, after sixteen sequels they’ve used up every plausible method known to pire- or thropekind. The last one had someone killed with an industrial washing machine.”
“Oooh, that’s one of my favorites. Especially what Bronson says as he’s loading the machine up with quarters: ‘The only constant … is change.’ Menacing and philosophical.”
“But ex
tremely improbable. Where did he find all those silver razor blades he dumped in?”
“Weren’t you paying attention? That evil Bane dealer used them to torture people who owed him money.”
“I must have missed that vital plot point.”
“We could always watch it again.”
He grimaces. “Highly unlikely … anyway, there’s something I wanted to talk to you about, now that the kids aren’t around.” He’s using his business tone of voice, which means it’s work-related.
“Okay. What’s up?”
“This isn’t easy to say.”
Uh-oh. “What’s wrong?”
“I—this really isn’t easy to say.”
He’s giving me a strange look, and I’m starting to get a little worried. “Just spit it out, sweetie. Whatever it is—”
“No. You don’t understand. It’s the saying that’s hard. It’s hard to say. Can’t. Can’t get the—”
And now he’s breathing funny. Big, in-and-out gulps, like he can’t get enough air. But—
But Cassius doesn’t need air.
His face is turning red. Veins are pulsing on his skin. His eyes are bulging and he’s clutching at his chest. If I didn’t know better I’d swear he was having a heart attack.
“Jaaaaaaace,” he gasps. “You have to—have to—”
I don’t know what to do. “Charles! Lucinda!” I scream. “Call nine-one-one!”
Charles wanders into the room. He looks at his father with no expression on his face at all. “Nine-one-one? What is that, some kind of code?”
I rip open Cassius’s shirt, trying to see if there’s some kind of wound, but all I see is skin. Skin that’s more flushed than usual—
Skin that starts to smoke.
I draw back in horror. I stare at my husband’s face as he mouths his final words in a guttural hiss. “Save meeeeeeeee…”
There’s the flash and whoof! of something catching fire very quickly. For one frozen instant, I see a statue where my husband was sitting, a perfect reproduction made of white-gray ash.
Then it dissolves, into powder so fine it’s almost a vapor. It hangs in the air for a second and then starts to settle, ever so slowly, on the couch and the floor. And me.
