Celebromancy

by Michael R. Underwood

  Ree took a long breath and tried to talk herself up. You’re almost there. You can do this. Just a few more feet. It’s like a ropes course, you can do this yourself.

  But then panic came a-knocking on the green room of her mind. The fuck it’s like a ropes course! You’re at least a hundred feet up a tiny shaft, and it doesn’t fucking matter which cute or dashing or rugged detective finds you and tries to solve the case, you’ll still be dead!

  She took another moment to breathe, the air in the vent still with the scent of sweat, then looked up and focused on her destination. It was almost within reach. She just had to push one, maybe two more times up the shaft. Ree pressed with her right foot and slid her right hand up the wall, maintaining pressure. It was far slower than what she’d been doing with the magic, but slow and steady would win the race of not dying in a ventilation shaft.

  Ree stretched out with her left, but she stopped a few inches short at the end of her extension.

  One more, Ree. She pushed off with her foot, but the shoe slipped.

  She fell, hands scraping and sliding down the vent.

  Ree cried out, arcing her back and straining with her legs to catch herself. Her hands burned, and she felt friction catch her back on fire as she slid down to just above the seventh floor.

  “Fuckmuncher!” Ree growled aloud, instantly regretting the outburst. Now I get to find out how well sound carries from here. For science!

  Ree tested her footholds and slid herself a couple of inches up, then climbed up the vent with her left arm.

  Slow and steady, Ree. Don’t get hasty.

  Inch by glacial inch, Ree scaled her way back up the vent. Her legs were burning with the acid of why the fuck don’t you do more cardio? and her back was screaming oh, God, ow, I need a fifty-hour hot bath, but she was making headway. Her legs started trembling, and she couldn’t afford to shake them out.

  Come. The Fuck. On, she told herself.

  Her right hand found the vent opening, but she wasn’t done. If she was going to have any chance of pulling herself up into the vent, she’d need to climb even higher so she could get her head and shoulders in without lifting her whole body weight with her arms, which, while more mighty than when she’d started hero-ing, were still not really up to Action-Hero levels.

  She hauled herself up as much as she could with her hands and legs pulling and pushing together, then leaned forward, straining against the vent with her tailbone, trying to keep pressure up so she didn’t slip back down again.

  Okay, think this through. Aside from the pants-wetting terror, the situation didn’t map to any of Ree’s experiences with rock walls or ropes courses from the leadership course she’d taken as a kid. In this case, leadership meant “self-confidence and making friends.” Ree had succeeded at the first, but not so much at the second. She had her peeps already, her tribal affiliation delineated pretty clearly after her going as Han Solo three Halloweens in a row.

  Ree thought back to the terror from those early attempts on the ropes courses, about how everything seemed impossible at first. But each time, she’d thought it through, swallowed her terror, and kicked its ass. No reason to stop now, she told herself, and stretched her legs straight, pushing herself up and forward. She re-placed one leg beneath her butt, ready for the last push-off that would (hopefully!) get her waist-deep into the vent.

  Visualize the pwn. I will roll a 20, and I will not fall to an ignominious and painful death. I will achieve my goal and be totally awesome even if no one is around to see it.

  Ree exhaled and pushed off with her leg, hauling herself forward with her arms and diving forward. She got as far in as the bottom of her rib cage, then wobbled, half in and half out. Knuckles white with tension, she clawed her way forward, flailing with her legs to scoot farther in. Two inches more, and the wobbling stopped. She military-crawled forward, the duffel filling the vent at her back.

  Confident that she was in fact not going to fall and die, Ree went limp in the vent, unable to do anything more than breathe for who knows how long. Her bodysuit was slick with sweat, her hair plastered to her face.

  Hot damn.

  She heard a fake sales pitch in her mind as she panted:

  The Hero Gym would like to offer you an exciting opportunity: four indoor climbing courses at the low, low price of eight easy payments of $89.99 (plus S&H).

  After training at The Hero Gym, you will be able to face gorgeous Celebromancer villains without looking like a wasted hot mess!

  Call today and we’ll throw in a carabiner with totally vague utility, a $29.99 value!

  Ree pushed aside the product of her loopy brain, accepting her hot-mess-itude. Then again, the sweaty would let her do the Ripley-at-the-end-of-Aliens look, which was always a plus. Her bodysuit was about the right amount of not-clothing.

  Ree squeegeed her hair off of her face and shimmied forward. Now she had to find out which room on this floor was Rachel’s. The paparazzi that Charlie had researched from were damned good, but even they couldn’t get her room number.

  • • •

  After what seemed like an hour of skulking around in the vents, she found Rachel MacKenzie’s room.

  There were three things that made her sure she’d found the right place:

  1) The mass of leopard-print suitcases,

  2) The powerful scent of the perfume she’d smelled on the star in her trailer back during Ree’s short-lived career as a media journalist impostor, and

  3) The sight of the bodyguard who had ruined her last run at MacKenzie with a shotgun, who was standing in the corner, scanning the room with bored focus.

  All right, girl. Go time.

  Ree checked the clock on her phone, then cued up The Matrix. She wouldn’t need much to get past the guards (hopefully), but having a little kung fu left to intimidate Rachel wouldn’t suck.

  And this time, she’d know to look for three of them, not just two.

  As the film opened, Ree focused on Trinity, empathized with the calm sexiness of Carrie-Anne Moss’s performance, the sleek awesomeness of this badass woman in head-to-toe PVC. She felt the fu build in her mind, even with the sound turned off, the light shielded from the hotel room by the corner of the duffel. She might end up having to leave it behind, which would be tons of physical evidence, but if today was nearly endgame, it shouldn’t matter.

  Keep believing that, kid, a cynical voice in her head said—a voice that sounded like Eastwood. He hadn’t been her mentor for very long, but his stern cynicism had apparently made a mark.

  Ree focused on the kung fu again, on the wonder of the first time she saw the bullet-cam effect blended perfectly with wire work.

  When the scene was over, Ree put the phone away, mind buzzing with energy. The color palette of the world green-shifted ever so slightly, and Ree pulled out her screwdriver to open the grate.

  Surprise Shotgunner crossed the room to get a drink of water, and Ree made several quick turns of the screw and grabbed the grate. She aimed, thought of Trinity, and threw.

  True to magical form, the vent hit the guard on the side of the head, and he went down in a pile of muscle and silk.

  Ree knew she had less than a second, so she fell forward and flipped into the room, the duffel over her left shoulder. She scanned the room, saw the other guard to her right, and kicked a chair at him. The chair knocked him back a step, and in that time, Ree jumped forward onto a table then whooped with joy (internally) as she did Trinity’s signature jump-kick. She could almost see herself from outside, the camera panning in slow-mo-groundbreaking-awesome and then jumping back to high speed as she kicked the guard in the jaw.

  She dropped back to the ground and looked left into the living room of the suite, where the third guard, the one she’d sent for coffee, took a step back in shock at his companion being Matrix-pwned. His eyes flashed with surprise that quickly gave way to anger.
Great. Looks like he remembers the Jedi mind trick. Ree imagined getting hoodwinked like that would really leave razor wire in your craw. He set a stance as Ree closed in on him, hands pumping at her side.

  The guard raised a large handgun, and Ree crossed her mental fingers.

  Dear Wachowski siblings, please hear me in my hour of needful pwn.

  The guard opened fire, and Ree dug deep into the magical reserves, one compound word in her mind: bullet-time. Wait. Is that one word or two? How do hyphenated words count?

  Later, she told herself as the world slowed to a molasses crawl, the projectiles making ripples in the air. She leaned left under the first bullet, still moving forward. Two more bullets launched out in quick succession, but they were on the same plane, each tracking a bit up as the weapon recoiled. The world grew more colorful, the green filter fading like someone pushed a slider on the control room of her visual cortex.

  She’d burned through the magic damned fast with those displays, but it would have to be enough.

  Luckily, now she was in range. She dove into a slide-tackle, kicking at the back of the guard’s knee with her left foot and scissoring into his shin with her right. The world snapped back into normal speed and the guard stumbled forward. The magic fizzled out in her mind, and the green hues were gone.

  Now it’s just me and my normal, non-physics-defying self. And my black belts.

  Ree let the duffel slip from her shoulders and dove forward onto the guard. He was face-first in the expensive carpet, but the guy still had a hundred and fifty pounds on her, and the extra kick of being pissed off that a skinny-ass Latina had mind-whammied him (or so she imagined).

  She needed to end this quick, before he could bring his weight to bear. Ree rabbit-punched him in the kidneys, but the blow came in soft, since all she hit was corded muscle. The guard huffed but still turned, roaring like a wounded grizzly. He was slowing down, so she saw his haymaker telegraphed Western Union. She ducked under the blow and threw a tiger fist at his armpit, hoping to hit a nerve cluster.

  Her blow connected, but the guard kept coming. And worse, he started yelling, “Red Alert!”

  There fucking better not be a fourth gorram guard, Ree thought.

  Ree continued to press her advantage. If he got his balance back, she’d be hosed like a sunburned kid at Splashin’ Safari. She switched modes and climbed onto his back, wrapping one arm and her legs around the large man and laying punches into the back of the man’s skull with her right. She tore open her knuckles as her fist hit bone.

  The guard flopped back, crushing her under his weight. Ree felt millions of nerve endings cry out at once, but they didn’t go silent. Instead, they kept complaining, clawing, and clamoring over one another for priority in the emergency-room triage of her brain.

  The wave of pain and the pressing lack of anything in her lungs reeled her, but as the man recovered, Ree lost her angle on the vulnerable back of his head. Sighing inside, Ree threw a Hail Mary, a move that was only barely good kung fu, but if it landed, should end the fight.

  She shouted, “Headbutt!” and hurled her whole body forward, striking the guard’s nose with her forehead.

  The world wobbled for a moment, Ree having rung her own bell (and not in the good way). After she reconciled her double vision, Ree confirmed that her opponent was down.

  Her vision was still flooded with spots and stars as she checked the room. One, two, three guards down, and no number four in sight. Ree picked up the duffel and kicked open the bedroom door.

  To find Rachel MacKenzie pointing number three’s shotgun at her head.

  Chapter Seventeen

  Fifteen Minutes Are Up

  Celebromancy is a strange style, both complex and simple. Put simply, adoration in becomes power out, but each star’s persona is distinct enough that there are as many Celebromancies as there are practitioners.

  Heaven help you if you come across a star in their prime. A friend of mine got written out of the memory of nearly everyone who ever knew him after a messy breakup with a star. I only remember him because I was there when he got erased. It’s the strangest thing: My only memory of the guy is forgetting him.

  I’ve been working on some protections, since my regular approach of Green Lantern ring is my trump card failed spectacularly and I ended up spending a weekend wandering the city in an amnesiac fugue. No success so far. I hope the watch serves you better.

  Short version: Watch your back.

  —Eastwood, personal correspondence with Ree Reyes. Sent May 21, 2012. Never received.

  Ree slammed the door closed again and dove back. Buckshot tore through the door but went past Ree on her right.

  Rachel MacKenzie’s voice came through the hole in the door. “If you get out of here now, I might be lenient and not wipe you from the memory of everyone you’ve ever known.”

  “Do you greet all of your fans that way?” Ree asked, scooting away from the door, trying to keep out of the star’s eyeline.

  “Only the ones that make a habit of assaulting me.”

  “I just want answers, okay?”

  “You’re not going to like them.”

  “I can live with that,” Ree said, looking around for something in the room that could take a load of buckshot for her. There were the guards, but she couldn’t lift them even if she was willing to use a human shield (which she wasn’t). “How do I remove the curse?”

  Rachel spat her response. “She brought this shit on herself, you know!”

  “Yeah, but does she deserve to die for it?”

  A pause. “What?”

  That took Ree aback. Is she shitting me?

  Ree paced the room, raising her voice to call back to Rachel. Come on, shield . . .

  “Are you telling me you don’t know? That curse is like feedback mixed with a hangover topped off with a Freddy Krueger Smoke–filled transparent terminator. It’s tried to kill her twice, and judging by the amount of power she used today, it’ll come back to finish the job tonight. Assuming we didn’t kill it. Did we kill it? That’d be awesome. That thing was ri-goddamned-diculous tough.”

  She picked up a steel room-service platter and a thick pillow and grabbed the sides of the pillow, hoping the soft-over-hard protection would give her more than a wizard’s chance in a melee.

  Rachel’s voice was softer, uncertain. “It was just supposed to keep her from trying to take my mantle again. I never meant for anyone to get hurt.”

  The hell? It didn’t sound like Rachel was lying, but then again, actress. “Supposed to? You did the spell, right? Shouldn’t you know what it was going to do? Since you’re a mojo-laden mantle-bearing Celebromancer?”

  Or is your magic even less consistent than mine? Ree wondered, not at all reassured by the possibility.

  Ree waited for a response, but got nothing. After a few seconds, she returned to the door, keeping her makeshift shield front-and-center. She peeked through the hole in the door to see Rachel still holding the gun in front of her, but in a waiting position, not up and sighted.

  Waving the cushion and tray like a white flag, Ree asked, “Can I come in? There’s clearly some shit going down. I just want to help Jane, I don’t have a vendetta.” Which was a lie, but only sort of. She’d way rather have a healthy Jane and no vengeance than vengeance a-plenty and a dead Jane. There were other places for righteous fury. Like political discussions, or flame wars about Peter Jackson’s The Lord of the Rings.

  “Don’t try anything,” Rachel said, the gun lying across her knees on the lush bedspread.

  Ree set the tray and cushion down, one eye glued to the gun. She opened the door and stepped in, one hand up, the other holding onto the gold-plated pocket watch she’d gotten from Eastwood.

  This better work, she thought.

  As soon as she was full into the room, Rachel straightened herself up on her knees and snapped wit
h a flourish.

  Huh?

  Ree felt a rush of magical energy as the room flooded with light. She flinched instinctively, but the light didn’t hurt, even though it was like she was staring into a six-pack of floodlights. The light tore at her mind, and for a split second, she forgot where she was, who she was, and what the hell was going on. She mentally reached for memories, and they pulled away from her, like the fruit from Tantalus. That split second dragged on as Ree’s mind flailed for purchase.

  But as quickly as the feeling came on, it slipped off and faded, along with the light. Whew.

  “What—” Rachel said, dropping her hands.

  Gotcha.

  Ree pulled out the pocket watch and waved it by its chain. “I figured you might try to do some kind of whammy, so I came prepared.”

  On the watch, the time showed 12:16.

  “Little trinket I picked up from a friend. He’s got a bit of a Warhol fetish. Plan for everything. Your fifteen minutes of fame are up.”

  Eastwood wasn’t high on her Favorite People list after trying to round up the souls of teen suicide victims to get back his beloved (aka Ree’s mom). He was obviously trying to make amends, and he’d come through this time. But she didn’t forgive that easy. Not him. And not Rachel.

  And his best solution had only barely worked. Damn, this woman is a powerhouse.

  The star’s facade of confidence fell for a second, and she cursed under her breath, scrambling for the gun.

  Ree jumped her before the star could bring up the barrel. Struggling over a gun was a great way for someone to end up dead, but some carefully applied Hapkido made short work of the struggle.

  She slid off the bed, held the gun behind her by the stock, and locked her eyes on Rachel, trying to make an Intimidate check. “So how about you tell me how to undo the curse. Is this a plot coupon thing, or do I have to get all of the minor cast members to stumble around reciting a Bob Dylan song?”