Magic Time: Angelfire

by Marc Zicree

  In the center of the floor the artfully combined letters CMG—apparently the Chicago Media Group logo—were inlaid in solid brass. Howard squatted in the middle of the logo with an expression of resignation on his face. “We wait.”

  “You’re kidding,” said Colleen. “Wait for what?”

  “For me.”

  We glanced up in unison toward the farther of the two escalators. A man was descending. He was dressed in a long, silk Chinese robe, his hands hidden among the billows of fabric in that archetypal pose that probably had little reality outside of Saturday morning cartoons and old Charlie Chan movies. On his head was an extravagantly tall hat of the same fabric and pattern. His face was heavily made up, more like a kabuki dancer than a Chinese noble. He even sported a Fu Manchu mustache. In spite of that, he did not look the least bit Asian.

  “Trick or treat,” Howard singsonged. He looked back over his shoulder at me, his mouth wriggling with what I would have said was derision on a fully human face.

  The faux Chinaman set foot on the marble and glided to meet us, his feet moving invisibly under the robe. It dragged the floor in a soft whisper. He stopped in front of us. “I am Clay,” he announced, then cocked an eye at Howard. “You’ve brought… friends?”

  Howard nodded and pointed at me. “Cal here wants to talk to Primal. Cal’s a lawyer.”

  Clay’s eyes wobbled up to meet mine. They were strange eyes. One of them seemed to focus in a different place than its mate. They held an expression of perpetual surprise, probably because of the curved eyebrows penciled in arcs above them. “A lawyer? Why does a lawyer want to see Primal?”

  “He wants to … er … serve notice,” Howard informed him.

  “Notice? What sort of notice? I need more specifics, Cal… ?” His brows rose with the inflection of this voice. “Griffin. Cal Griffin.”

  “Ah, Cal Griffin, attorney at law. Do you have a business card?”

  I glanced at Howard, who looked the other way. Primal had interesting taste in toadies. “Sorry, I seem to have left them in my other pants. Primal has a musician under contract named Enid Blindman.”

  Clay’s eyes fluttered and his lips formed a wordless O. “You’ve heard of him.”

  “Oh, my, yes. Everyone here has heard of Enid. Primal’s been waiting for him to come home. He thought he might be in the neighborhood. Have you brought Enid home, Mr. Griffin?”

  “That’s an issue I need to raise with Primal.”

  We locked eyes for a moment, then Clay’s lips curved into a smile. “By all means, come up. I’ll announce you.”

  We followed him up the escalator into a broad second-floor gallery, then turned the corner, mounted a second escalator and climbed to the third floor. He turned left down a wide, marbled hallway, Howard moving just behind him, the rest of us walking three abreast like a trio of gunslingers.

  “Freaky,” mumbled Colleen. “I feel like I’m in a production of the Wizard of Oz.”

  The words were no sooner out of her mouth than Goldie began intoning the chant of the Witch’s Guard, “All we owe, we owe her,” under his breath.

  “Wrong scene, Goldman,” Colleen murmured.

  He switched to a mumbled rendition of “Follow the Yellow Brick Road.” I glanced at him sharply. His eyes glittered and a grin was tugging at the corners of his mouth, giving me vertigo.

  The end of the corridor disappeared into red twilight. Up ahead I could see people moving back and forth across intersecting halls. We traveled all the way to the end of the north-south corridor and turned left toward the front of the building, which gave us every opportunity to see the denizens of Primal’s domain up close.

  “Normals,” murmured Goldie.

  They seemed to be. Among the dozen or so people we saw roaming the corridor, not one was a tweak. At least, not as far as we could tell. Just like the rest of the Loop. At the same time, Howard’s presence didn’t seem to cause them any pause at all. He had pushed off his hood, fully displaying his distinctive features, but no one had given him any but the most cursory notice.

  We reached a point in the east-west corridor where a huge set of wooden doors, decorated with the CMG logo, halted our progress. Clay did an about-face and looked from me to Colleen to Goldie. “Do you need to bring your people with you or shall they stay outside?”

  “They’re not my ‘people,’ ” I said. “They’re my friends. We stay together.”

  His eyes repeated the journey from Colleen’s face to Goldie’s. “I see. In that case, they may enter.”

  I steeled myself for my first sight of the monster that might be Primal, and followed Clay into the room. Somewhere in the back of my mind I think I actually expected to enter a boardroom—the sort of regal wood, chrome, and glass chamber that Ely Stern had favored, decorated to intimidate or impress. But this was a grotto, a cavern, dimly lit, seemingly boundless, a place the dragon-Stern would comfortably hang out in now, if he still lived. The walls and ceiling were invisible, obscured by gloom and glistening streamers of what looked like wet silk. Woven among those were strands of something like silver Christmas garland. Some of the banners hung so low I had to duck to avoid them. Eerie light in shades of blue and green oozed from unseen sources overhead.

  There were people here, collected in small groups and draped in long, strangely kinetic shadows. Their voices made soft, pink noise like the murmur of moving water. I thought of the Indian Caves at Olentangy and was surprised at the depth of my longing for the place. As we passed through the chamber, a wave of silence followed in our wake.

  “It’s like an underwater cocktail party … or a disco,” murmured Colleen. “All it needs is the damn glitter ball.”

  I barely heard her over the trip-hammering of my own heart. Looking up, I had found the source of the spectral light. Floating high up amid the trailing banners were several flares, gleaming emerald and aquamarine. They watched us, lazy-eyed, and drifted aimlessly, as if their only purpose here was to light Primal’s world. I found myself trying to make out the features, coloring, and clothing hidden beneath Saint Elmo’s fire. Hoping to surprise something familiar and beloved.

  “Wraiths,” whispered Goldie. “They’re like lost souls.”

  Colleen peered up at them. “Really? They look downright comfy to me. Well, as comfy as you can be on a leash.”

  I didn’t have time to ask what she meant. Our progress through the long, cavernous room had stopped. I looked up to where Clay stood waiting for us. There was nothing there at first, only an inky, sticky blackness that filled the northeast corner of the room. But the blackness eddied and, as if on cue, light sprung up around it, revealing a dais, a throne, and the undisputed Emperor of the Red Zone.

  Suddenly I was Alice. Having just eaten the wrong side of the mushroom, I was too small. I would have to flood the room with giant tears to get face-to-face with Primal. He was immense—seated, he was at least ten feet tall—and gave the impression of great mass. He was human in form, but his naked, coiled body gleamed blue-black, as if it were carved out of solid obsidian. It reflected the tendrils of light in the room and gave up a kinetic radiance of its own. Beneath the skin—or whatever passed for skin—delicate traceries of red pulsed, like neon tattoos, like veins full of luminous blood. His face had the smooth, perfect features of a pharaoh’s death mask, frozen but for the eyes. Those were the size of baseballs and bright as burnished brass. He was horrible and he was beautiful, and I was confused and disturbed by the paradox.

  And the eyes were on me. On us.

  Beside me, Colleen had come up short, her stance changing subtly, as if she meant to spring or run. She drew in a hissing breath and exhaled, “Holy shit.”

  I don’t know if Primal heard her, but Clay did, and raised a hand to his mouth to hide a grin.

  Primal spoke. In a voice like rocks being crushed, he asked, “What amuses you, monkey?” The aurora brilliance increased, spiking with reds. I didn’t see the lips move or the eyes blink.

  Clay’s en
tire demeanor changed. His face went flat and colorless, as if made of wax, and he groveled—literally, groveled—rubbing his hands together in their obscuring sleeves, twisting his head sideways like a beaten dog. “I’m not amused, Primal. I’m pleased. Pleased that you have such… presence. You really wow ’em. It, eh, it tickles me a bit.”

  “Tickles you?” Primal repeated. Without preamble, he swung one huge arm in a sweeping arc. A flash of bloodred light rolled down the length of the arm, caught Clay under the chin, and tossed him a good six feet through the air.

  Colleen shouted, flipped open her jacket and reached for the crossbow strapped to her hip. I grabbed her arm hard, stopping her.

  Amid derisive laughter, Clay unfolded slowly upright, like a paper doll. He shook off hurt and derision alike, straightened his robe, and turned toward us, a smile on his lips. His hat was gone and blood from his nose had run over lips and chin to stain the silk.

  “You’ve ruined your outfit,” purred Primal. “Why don’t you go change into something else?”

  Clay merely nodded and bobbled away, stopping only to pick up his hat. The rest of the people in the room ignored him. Their attention was on us again.

  “Howard Russo.”

  The grunter, who’d turned to watch Clay disappear, swung around and squinted up at the being on the throne. “Yessir.”

  “You’ve come to honor your contract, have you?”

  “Nosir.”

  “No?” The voice was like smooth, musing thunder. “Then why have you come?”

  “Brought friends to see you.”

  “You don’t have friends, you wizened little toad. According to my information, these are the friends of Enid Blindman.”

  “Oh. Yessir.”

  “And where is Mr. Blindman?”

  Howard’s eyes squinted to wrinkled slits. “Don’ know. Around. Haven’t seen him since—”

  “Yesterday,” said Primal.

  Howard blinked. “Yessir. Yesterday.”

  He’d actually seen him about fifteen minutes ago. That was encouraging. It meant there were holes in Primal’s information.

  The brass eyes swung to me. “You’re a lawyer.”

  “That’s correct. I represent Enid Blindman and Howard Russo,” I said, and heard Howard mew in surprise. “Represent, Mr. Griffin?”

  “You are the holder of a contract of which they are cosignatories. Recent events have caused revisions to that contract which neither of my clients have approved. Those alterations have resulted in severe penalties.”

  Primal’s eyes seemed to glow brighter momentarily. “The Source Project,” he said.

  “Oh, God,” Goldie murmured, and Colleen took a quick step closer to me.

  “I’m … surprised you’ve heard of it.” I lied. Surprise didn’t begin to cover it. “How did you come by your intelligence?”

  Primal laughed—boulders rolling down a hill. “My intelligence,” he repeated. “Let’s just say that… there was a leak.”

  My throat had gone bone hard and dry. “What do you know about the Source?”

  He put a massive hand over the perfect, unmoving mouth. “Mum’s the word, Mr. Griffin. Why do you care?”

  “I believe the Source Project is responsible for… the changes in the environment.”

  “You mean the hocus-pocus.” He waved an arm over his head. Neon pulsed wildly in the pattern of veins, and the hand extruded a smear of ruddiness that was nothing like light. It was viscous, gelatinous, and it hung in the darkness over his head, gleaming dully, before drifting downward.

  The room around us gave up an audible sigh. I could feel people pressing forward, straining toward the oily gleam. The flares, high up in their tinsel forest, were drawn to it, too. The tide of desire was palpable; they wanted to lap it up, to bathe in it.

  My gaze was drawn unwillingly upward to where the aqua glow of flares met Primal’s crimson and altered hue, becoming muddy, opaque, the color of clotting blood. I pulled my eyes away.

  “I realize all this, of course,” Primal said, forcing my attention back to him. “My more superstitious people call it the Dark, or the Storm, or any one of a hundred other folksy and inaccurate things. It’s not dark. It’s blindingly bright.”

  “And is that why you hide from it?” asked Goldie. He pushed himself up next to me, and I glanced at his face. He was sweating, pale—like an alcoholic fighting DTs.

  Primal sat up just a little straighter. “And who, exactly, are you?”

  “I’m irrelevant. You’re hiding from the Source, aren’t you? Pretty much the way the rest of us are.”

  “Ridiculous.” Clay’s voice came from behind us.

  We turned in unison to see him working his way through the cavernous room. He had, indeed, changed into something else. He had changed into a mime, replete with whiteface, Alice Cooper eyes, beret, white gloves, and leotard.

  “Oh, jeez,” muttered Colleen.

  “Primal is afraid of no one.” Clay came to a gliding stop in the same place Primal had bowled him over, as if it were policy to place himself in harm’s way. There was a smile painted on his face. I doubted it was echoed beneath the paint.

  “Thank you, monkey,” Primal told him. “Your new attire suits you.”

  Clay struck a dramatic pose, pointing a finger at Colleen. “The bitch doesn’t like it.”

  “The bitch has a name,” said Colleen tartly. “Colleen. That’s Queen Colleen to you, monkey boy.”

  “You dislike mimes, Colleen?” Primal inquired.

  “Doesn’t everybody?” Colleen asked. “The only thing I hate more than mimes is clowns. They give me the creeps.”

  Clay postured exaggeratedly, making a sad mime face, and for a moment, in the slow eddy of light and dark, the weirdly watery luminance of the flares, the strangeness of the room and conversation, I was sure I’d been tossed head first into a Fellini film.

  “She’s scrappy, isn’t she?” Primal observed. “You could learn something from this young woman, Clay. She seems to have found the balls you misplaced.”

  Clay was silent, his mime face smiling sadly into the insult.

  Primal watched him for a moment more, then turned back to me. “So, you represent Misters Russo and Blindman, and you want to strike a compromise on their contract with us.”

  “Actually, I’m here to effect their release from it.” “Release. I see. And why would I consider releasing either of them?”

  “Quite simply because you have no choice. The contract is no longer binding. I’m here simply to inform you of that fact.”

  All sound in the room stopped as if everyone in it had suddenly held their breath. Primal sat back in his throne and underwent a metamorphosis. His obsidian skin flushed with color until it seemed his entire body was cut from garnet.

  “What do you mean, no longer binding? They signed the contract, Mr. Griffin. We signed the contract.”

  “No. No one signed this contract,” I said, drawing the papers out of my jacket. I held them up before Primal’s bright gaze, which followed them as if they were a mesmerist’s charm. “This document and the stipulations in it have changed since the original was signed. Drastically. Those changes invalidate the agreement. In addition, I seriously doubt that you personally signed the original contract. If I’m not mistaken, you didn’t exist before the Change. At least not as you are now.”

  I glanced down at the signatures on the page. “This contract was signed by Daniel Freemont, Glenford Blaker, and Shirley Cross. Are you one or more of those individuals?”

  Primal changed aspect again, seeming to grow and inflate, his body blazing golden and glorious. “I AM PRIMAL.”

  The voice was immense, room-shaking. Primal’s shadowy courtiers drew back in fear and Howard Russo cringed and quivered against my legs. I was struck with the absurd image of Dorothy and her three stalwarts quaking before the Wizard of Oz. Life imitates art. Except that I wasn’t going to rattle, cower, or shed my straw innards on Primal’s throne room floor. />
  “Irrelevant,” I said. “The legal fact remains: this contract is invalid. It is no longer binding on either Enid Blindman or Howard Russo.” I nudged Howard out from behind me and held the contract out to him. “Howard Russo, are you prepared to void this contract on behalf of yourself and your client?”

  Howard blinked up at me and lifted an uncertain hand. Primal said, “DON’T,” with a voice in which wind howled and trees collapsed.

  Howard squinted at the contract so hard his eyes watered. For a moment I thought he might run and hide. Instead he snatched the pages from my hand.

  “DON’T.”

  Howard stepped out of my shadow, faced the gleaming giant, held up the contract, and ripped it in two. It gave up a flash of sickly green light that lingered like the after-image of fireworks before weeping to the floor. This time the damn thing stayed torn. Howard grasped it with new vigor and ripped it again and again into tiny pieces. He flung them to the floor and danced on them. Then he pointed a finger up at Primal and said, “Done with you! I am done with you!”

  I steeled myself for an explosion from Primal—the tirade of a thwarted tyrant. Instead he sat back in his throne with a sound like the roll of low thunder. His eyes, half lidded, looked like twin suns. He guttered toward garnet. “So…” was all he said, and raised an arm the size of a tree trunk. Red mist cascaded down it. Howard flinched back a step, but there was no menace in Primal’s movement. “Not so hasty. This contract is voided, but might we not strike a new deal?”

  Howard glanced at me, then back to Primal. “What deal?”

  “I still want Enid Blindman. I still want… devas.” He might have been announcing that he craved chocolate. “Why?” I asked.

  “I like having my very own pantheon of little gods and goddesses. I like the way they gleam through the darkness. They soothe my troubled breast.” He folded a ruby hand to where a heart might have beat were he human. “They… light up my life.”

  “Wow,” said Goldie. “I’m impressed. Half-assed literary allusions, bad song title puns. We could be twins. I think you and the flares protect each other.”