by Leah Cutter
But that other thing was missing, whether it was environment or additional gene or nature or nurture. He just wasn’t gifted, wasn’t one of the blessed.
He still knew that his dreams were true. Erik and Gary were bringing bad things to the world.
Steve sat up in the middle of his bed and wrapped his arms around his knees. The clock next to him showed 1:13 a.m. He’d learned how to sleep with the lights on. There was no way he’d voluntarily go into a fully dark room at this point.
He listened carefully to the sounds of the night. Cars still drove in the street below. That was enough for him to know that the Old Ones hadn’t started their devastating rule yet. All electronics had been the first to go when they rose.
Steve had thought and thought about who he could tell. Who would help him stop Eric and Gary.
Who would help him save Gary, his friend, from the darkness.
He couldn’t just walk into the police station and ask to talk with a detective or something. They’d laugh in his face. Then probably lock him up.
But at Lake Calhoun, just two days ago, there’d been that woman who’d stopped him. She’d seen what had been going on. She stopped them all from raising…whatever the hell it was that they’d been raising.
Steve had no way of finding her. She didn’t know her name or what she did.
If he ever ran into her, he knew that she’d help. She’d believe him and his crazy dreams.
Hopefully, fate would bring them together sooner rather than later.
Because in addition to knowing just how terrible the rule of the Old Ones would be, Steve also knew that they were running out of time.
Ξ
The world shifted again. Hunter wasn’t sure what he was seeing, why he was seeing it. Why his sight kept changing. There was something off about his visions. He was sure of it.
But then again, his abilities hadn’t been completely trustworthy in a long, long time.
Hunter stood at the back of a series of row houses, near Loring Park. He hadn’t realized there were any houses like this in Minneapolis—they looked like they belonged someplace on the east coast. The red brick in the front had pulsed with the heat of the day. Back here, the building was made from pale brown bricks, as if they had faded.
The parking lot/alley behind the long row house was dirt. Must be a bitch to plow in the winter. Wooden steps led up to the second and third story doors. Though the wood had been treated, it wouldn’t last long in Minnesota. They should rebuild them in steel.
Hunter wasn’t sure who they were waiting for. Some new deal of Dusty’s. The midday sunlight burned Hunter’s eyes, even behind his darkest shades. He hated having to wait like this, outside Dusty’s town car, exposed.
However, he had been the one who’d complained that he couldn’t see very well in the moving vehicle.
So maybe it had been an excuse to leave the choked atmosphere of the car. Between Dusty, Ryan, and all the ghosts, Hunter hadn’t been able to breathe.
Hunter checked the perimeter on his area of knowing. Nothing would impinge on them or their business, not that Hunter could see. The most recent dose of ghost tripper had increased his area of knowing to a much larger space. He’d see anything coming at them from over a half mile away.
On the one hand, it felt good to be safe. (Safe–ish.) Secure. Knowing that nothing was there, at least for now.
On the other hand, it still felt wrong. Hunter wasn’t supposed to be here.
The ghosts in the corner of the lot jeered at him. They’d been doing that a lot recently. None had bothered to cross over into his timeline to fight him. But they still seemed unimpressed.
Hunter had gotten what he needed. He had seven stashes of the ghost tripper drug stored around the city, many in places that only he could reach. He hadn’t ever signed a contract with Dusty about the terms of his service.
Why was he still here?
His visions had never shown him there with Cassie in the final fight. Just her, alone, battling the non–men.
But did that mean he’d fallen earlier? Or was he off somewhere else, fighting his own battle?
Two of the ghosts approached. They carried an urn, one that Hunter had dreamed about before. It was huge, at least three feet high, and heavy, full of water. It was the color of dried shit, with foul black markings running just under the lip of it.
The ghosts strained to carry the urn, tottering under the weight. They wore the loincloths of slaves, like what Hunter remembered from some movie. Just past Hunter they deposited the urn on an altar, then fell to their knees to worship.
But that wasn’t right either.
Time shifted again. The ghosts, the temple, the altar, the urn, all disappeared.
Hunter ground his teeth in frustration.
No amount of the ghost tripper drug had let him overcome the glitches that had developed in his sight.
Now a different scene appeared. The usual one. Of Cassie fighting, alone.
But wait. That urn. It was in the background. Cassie stood on the shores of one of the lakes. The waters grew bilious green, the future tainted with poisons from other worlds.
Why was that urn there again?
Hunter blinked and shook his head when his vision shifted again. The abrupt changes left him disoriented.
His gift was failing. A sense of overwhelming despair came over him.
He’d fail in the end.
It was his fate.
Ξ
Like every other post–cog working the case, Sam took a look at the floats to be used during the Aquatennial torchlight parade, to see if any of them had any resonance, if someone had tampered with them at all.
None of the pre–cogs had found anything. They all predicted the parade would be safe, none of the floats would explode.
To be safe, the marshals had still requested more PAs take a look.
Sam had never gone to the parade as kid. She bet Cassie had. Cassie would be able to tell Sam which of the floats were traditional, which were new for that year. Or maybe the stories behind the float with the princesses, or even the one with the cows.
God, were they ever going to fix their shit and straighten themselves out as a couple? Or were Sam’s teachers right, and she should never try to find happiness with another one of the blessed?
The floats were strung out along the floor of a large warehouse, turned this way and that, as if some giant hand had swirled them. Despite the air conditioning unit running full blast in the windows and the cool concrete floor, the heat still felt baked in.
Sunlight bounced off the open square of the large loading doors, casting everything else in shadow. Sam blinked her eyes, then closed them.
She wasn’t supposed to be using her visual sight, anyway.
Sam’s area of knowing opened up like a fan. She knew for Cassie, just the timelines were fan–like. For Sam, the whole area was. It undulated slowly, like an underwater frond in a gentle current.
For her, there was always only a single line in that waving mass of grayness.
Were there supposed to be other lines? Had her ability to see the other timelines been trained out of her? Was she only seeing part of what she could see?
She didn’t resent the ease with which Cassie came into her power. Not exactly. There were still so many things Cassie didn’t know.
But Cassie wouldn’t listen, wouldn’t hold back. Would only ever dive headfirst into things.
Dangerous things.
Sam shook her head and focused again on the line waving in front of her. As a post–cog, she could only pick up events that had happened after the fact.
She did have “feelings” about things sometimes. Feelings that verged on pre–cognition.
But that was just crazy. None of the blessed had more than a single aspect of the gift.
There wasn’t much resonance that Sam could pick up concerning the floats. No one had touched them with anger or malice. That was probably a good thing. It didn’t guarantee that no one had
set a bomb on one of them. However, chances were much better.
In addition, the timeline didn’t shift at all. Sam took that as the most heartening.
It meant the bomber probably hadn’t been there. Not all the PAs would know that, though, which was why she’d insisted on checking herself.
Sam then visually inspected the main float.
And though her teachers had always taught her to ignore any of those feelings she might get, Sam paid more attention to them this time than she would have before her time with Cassie.
There it was again. This casual fling had marked her, her life.
It was like there was a yawning divide now. Her life before Cassie, and now, afterwards.
What would it be like once Cassie left? Would that be the third big period of her life?
The main float was built on the bed of a semi–truck. The red, gold, and blue tissue paper flowers that flowed in waves along the side rustled in the blast from the fans nearby. On a giant, golden couch, a papier–mâché statue lounged—Poseidon, Sam assumed.
Huge urns—tan–colored, with Greek–looking hieroglyphics—were carefully placed all the way around the float. They were about waist high, and looked like they’d been made out of baked clay.
There was something about the urns. No. There was something about the last urn, sitting prominently at the front of the float.
Sam was glad she’d worn culottes that day and not a skirt. She stepped up onto the float and walked up to the urn.
How odd. It was full of water.
Sam checked the other urns. They looked identical. But none of them had water in them.
She flagged over Mike, the guy in charge of the floats. “Why is this urn full of water?” she asked, suspicious.
Mike sighed and shook his head. “I don’t know! I keep emptying it. But someone here keeps filling it up again. All I can think is that it’s for some kind of fire hazard or something.”
Sam nodded and let him go.
There was nothing in the urn. Nothing in the water. It didn’t hide some sort of bomb wrapped in plastic at its depths.
Still. There was something about that urn. Something off.
She’d have to remember to get the cops to investigate it again on the day of the parade.
Ξ
Steve tried to turn away from Gary’s house. He’d found himself there again, even when he didn’t want to be. The night was pushing in on all sides of him, dark and oppressive.
He had to get out. Get away. Turn away.
But he kept being drawn back. If he stopped paying attention to where he was walking even for a moment, he found himself back at Gary’s.
Gary himself appeared in the front door as Steve made himself walk past Gary’s house again.
Without meaning to, Steve stopped. Waited for Gary to join him on the sidewalk.
“It’s time,” Gary said ominously.
What, for you to finally move out of your mother’s house? To maybe get laid? But Steve found he couldn’t ask any of those questions. His tongue was numb, and his body was no longer his own.
He walked silently beside Gary, fighting to get away. But the heat pressed down on him, unrelenting.
If only it would rain.
“Rain?” Steve finally managed to croak out as they walked toward a van obviously waiting for them.
Erik replied, laughing. “Not tonight. Not until after.”
Gary nodded sagely as he climbed into the back of the van. “Poseidon has the rain all tied up. And we have his soul!” He laughed maniacally.
Steve shuddered as he got into the van, remembering. In the game. They’d stolen the soul of a water god.
Had that been Poseidon?
Poseidon had been charged with keeping Cthulhu’s island underwater.
And Steve had been the one to remove that protection. He’d been the one who’d made the lucky roll.
He collapsed onto the seat in the van. He couldn’t fight Gary and Erik and the others anymore. His soul was just too tired. But if he got a chance, he’d shout it to the rooftops, to whoever would listen.
That they had to save the god Poseidon. Or else.
Chapter Thirteen
I didn’t have to fake my rough throat the next morning when I called in sick to the Jacobson Consortium. I sounded like shit.
Hell, I felt like shit.
I’d been stupid the night before, after finding out about missing a shift at Chinaman Joe’s, and had spent the rest of the night relentlessly smoking and reading about the goddamned Old Ones. Then, of course, I hadn’t been able to get to sleep.
Stupid fucking monsters.
That didn’t mean I wasn’t working. I was going to spend the day making it up to Chinaman Joe, doing inventory, then working the second shift as well.
I didn’t know if it would be enough. I’d missed too many shifts at that point.
And there was still Wednesday night to consider. I had to take the night off. I had to go save the world, damn it! Why did the day job get in the way of that?
Even cigarettes didn’t taste good that morning. My mouth felt dry and ragged. I’d left a message with Sam, but she hadn’t called back either. She had left a message the day before, wishing me luck on my first day of the job.
Because of the heat and my ass of an air conditioner, I had a lukewarm shower. But I still felt grimy when I stepped out. Maybe it was all the tentacles and slime from my nightmares. Or maybe it was working for Jacobson Consortium.
I knew I hadn’t discovered enough to satisfy my mother. She wanted me to delve deeper.
But I had discovered that they were corrupt. They knew about the alternate timelines, about the remote viewing. They kept that information to themselves, insisting instead that any of the blessed who didn’t meet their very thin definition weren’t actually talented. Or trainable.
And they were actively recruiting the misfits, the ones who’d fallen through the cracks.
I paced around my tiny apartment that morning, from the bed to the kitchen and back—okay, maybe it was only three or four steps. But it was some kind of movement.
I also felt restless. Was this how Hunter felt? Like, all the time? That caged tiger feeling? I growled. It felt pretty good. Sounded good too.
But it wasn’t helping. I had to figure out a way to stop the Old Ones from destroying Poseidon. The easiest, most obvious way would be to put a bomb on the float.
I called and left another message for Sam, telling her to make sure there were additional guards around Poseidon’s float.
I didn’t have enough information. I didn’t have any of the ghost tripper drug that would at least help me see the bastards behind all this. I didn’t have Hunter. I didn’t have Sam.
I was all on my own.
It just seemed a bit lonelier than usual.
Ξ
At least Chinaman Joe kept the shop well air conditioned. Outside was overcast, the clouds threatening rain, boiling and holding all the heat in. At some point, there’d be a hell of a thunderstorm. The weathermen said it wouldn’t happen for a few days, though.
However, I was stuck counting dildos, vibrators, cock rings, condoms, lube packets, and every other toy imaginable. I had them all spread out across the counter in case a customer came in.
I mean, maybe they wanted to see the merchandise as well.
I was a bit miffed about the front display. Chinaman Joe had asked for more “watery”—to go with the Aquatennial. I’d kept the red, white, and blue dildo we’d had out there for the fourth of July. The color was mostly blue. I figured it was fine.
Laura had changed the display. She’d put out the Triton! vibrator, this three–pronged thing, supposed to stimulate all the right areas on a woman. Had matching dildos on either side, along with some gold and blue condoms.
The thing kind of looked like a torture device to me, with the black curling wire for the handle and the blobby dildo part.
But since Poseidon was supposed to carry a triton, I
suppose it made sense. Even if it was the wrong color.
Chinaman Joe was all about changing the displays to show different toys. Keeping the same one on display for too long would bore the customer.
I always argued that a customer wouldn’t necessarily buy an expensive toy the first time they saw it. They needed to see something three to five times before they’d make a purchase.
We were both right. But the bastard was determined to have his own way.
A woman walked into the store about an hour after I’d opened. She had curly red hair that looked like it belonged on a rag doll. Her makeup was kind of freaky, with rosy, rounded cheeks, exaggerated lashes, freckles painted across her pale skin, really, like a doll. She also wore funky contacts, because it looked like her eyes were golden.
She had a great rack, though, which she showed off with a tube top under a fancy pair of black duck–cloth overalls—not like the denim ones, but the high–fashion ones, that really, only string–bean models should wear.
She made it look good though, despite not being model–thin.
She didn’t even glance at the merchandise, but instead, came walking straight up to the counter. “Are you Cassie?” she asked.
I didn’t like her voice. Little girl sweet and high, and absolutely fake.
“Yeah,” I said cautiously, leaning back a little from the counter. Chinaman Joe didn’t let us keep a baseball bat or anything back there, though I’d always told him we should.
We did have an emergency button. Chinaman Joe paid good money for his alarm system. I’d only ever pushed the button twice. Had shocked me how fast the cops had shown up.
There were also big–ass glass dildos in arm’s reach. They were made of surgical glass, the kind that didn’t break easy.
I knew I’d be happy to experiment and see if I could shatter one across this chick’s head. She just gave me the willies, like the schizophrenic who’d come in the week before, tripping out of his mind and ranting about conspiracies and counting in threes. He’d been out of control.
She was barely in control.
“I heard you were looking for me,” she said, giving me a fake smile full of teeth that didn’t belong in the face of that doll—they looked yellowed and jagged. Her true teeth, perhaps. “I’m Alice.”
