by John Levitt
At that pressure, an ordinary hose would pick me up clear off the ground. It would be like trying to hold an angry anaconda. But magic does have its advantages—I’d be able to direct the flow as easily as I would a simple stick. Now I was set—a wizard with a staff, at long last.
Lou was shifting back and forth on one paw and then the other, not exactly nervous, but keyed up like a boxer before an important bout. I motioned him over toward where the path exited after looping around.
“Stand guard,” I told him. “Bark if he comes out this way.” He looked at me and moved closer to the entrance. “Other side,” I said. He ignored me.
That made me think again. Lou knows a lot more about tracking than I do, and he wouldn’t ignore me for no reason. Maybe he felt is was too dangerous to separate. He did have a point; it was a lot like those slasher films where the idiot teen says, “Let’s split up. You check out the attic. I’ll head down to the basement.”
Then I realized there was no point in leaving him to guard the exit anyway. This charade had been designed to set up a confrontation. Whoever this was, he wanted to engage me. He wasn’t going to slip out the back the minute I got close. That would have made the entire charade pointless. I nodded to Lou and we started along the path together.
It was narrow and closed in. After a short quarter mile, the path started to curve around and head back. Lou was walking a few paces ahead of me, nose twitching, acting more like an actual dog than a magical companion, seeking out danger on a practical level. When he stopped, one paw raised halfway up, I knew we’d reached the crucial place, and I gripped the homemade staff tightly, one hand on the dirt cap.
Even so, it almost got me. It burst out of the bushes and launched itself toward me with a noise like an explosion of frightened quail. Time shifted down into slow motion—not the magical kind, but the type that happens in a car crash. It stood upright on two legs, and was huge, at least six feet four. I saw dark fur and long arms with claws the size of a grizzly bear’s. I saw teeth, gleaming white. They were almost the last thing I ever saw.
I tore the dirt off the end of the staff and simultaneously pointed it in one motion. A stream of water gushed out and struck the creature full in the chest, sending it flying. My idea had been to knock down whatever attacked me, then use talent to bind and neutralize it if I could. But the water hose worked too well. It went head over heels back into the bushes, and it must have hurt it and scared it as well, because instead of attacking again it took off. I heard the sounds of crashing branches as it bolted through the tangled undergrowth. Round one to me.
Lou took a couple of steps forward and looked back at me to see if I wanted him to follow. He didn’t seem that eager. From the glimpse I’d got of the creature, I wasn’t, either. I shook my head.
“Not this time,” I said. “Let’s not push our luck.”
We made it back out of the park without any trouble. There was no sign of our red-haired practitioner. Glen Park is close enough to my flat so that I could walk home, though it took about forty minutes. On the way, my mind churned. Too many questions, which was rapidly becoming my default state of mind every time things got weird.
But I had learned something, and it was important. The question of whether these murders had been done by a creature out of the energy pool or by a mad practitioner was no longer one of either/or. It was both. But was it a creature like the fake Ifrit, but under magical control? Or was it a sentient being, like the Wendigo, working in partnership with a practitioner? And if so, why? One thing was clear—unless and until I figured it out, more people were bound to die.
TEN
“I CAN’T SHAKE THE FEELING THAT EVERYTHING is slightly off, slightly askew,” Sherwood said.
We were having a celebration dinner at Angkor Borei, a neighborhood Cambodian restaurant on upper Mission Street, in honor of Sherwood’s return. All of us—Sherwood, Eli, Victor, myself, and even Timothy—were gathered around a small table. Timothy had begged off, since he hadn’t even met Sherwood before her return and so felt he’d be an intrusion. But Eli was having none of it.
“You’re family now, boy,” he said. “Like it or not. Your presence is required at all such events.”
There was hardly room on the table for the various dishes and the steaming mounds of sticky rice. Cambodian food is just like Thai food, only different. Not much of a description, I know. Lou was wandering around somewhere outside, being unwelcome as usual in restaurants. There was going to be plenty left over for a doggie bag, though. It would probably end up making him sick.
“Feeling that things are askew is to be expected,” Eli said. “Considering.”
“I know, but it doesn’t even feel like I’ve been through anything unusual. To me, we were fighting Christoph only a few days ago. Whatever happened between then and now simply doesn’t exist.”
“Maybe not consciously. But you were gone quite a while, and something in you knows that—maybe not in your mind, but certainly in your body.”
“I guess. But I don’t like the feeling. And I’m still pissed about losing a year of my life—I know, I know, it’s the wrong way to look at it, but that’s the way it feels.”
We talked between bites of food, catching up. Eli told Sherwood about the recent events in his best storytelling style—all the practitioners who’d died in the past year—the whole thing.
“I’m glad I missed it,” she said. “Sounds like no fun at all.”
“No, it wasn’t,” said Timothy. “I was only involved in part of it, but Mason managed to scare me half to death.”
“One of his specialties,” Sherwood said, punching me playfully on the arm.
This was different. In the old days, she never would have done such a thing. One of the reasons we broke up was that she felt I was too flaky, though fun, while I thought she was too inflexible, almost rigid sometimes. She’d come to a complete stop at a four-way stop sign even if it was two in the morning out in the boondocks and there was no other traffic. Ironically, the only time she’d ever got a ticket was when she was driving me to a gig and rushing to get me there on time.
If this was the new Sherwood, I approved. But maybe it was just my own perception. It’s not often you get to have dinner with someone newly returned from the dead, and that’s bound to make you view them in a different light. Not that she had actually been dead, but for all intents and purposes, she had. But maybe she’d always been somewhat playful and I’d just never noticed.
I heaped some more fish and sauce over rice, and everyone ate quietly for a time.
“You don’t remember anything?” I asked, after a while. “About . . . well, you know.”
“No. Not a thing. But I have had some odd dreams the last few nights, and every once in a while I get a quick flash of something—like someplace I can’t quite remember. But one thing that’s changed—I seem to have a much clearer view of people.”
“In what way?” asked Victor.
“People seem more open to me now. I’ve always tried to be empathetic, but now it’s a lot easier to sense when something’s going on with someone, even if they’re trying to act cool and calm like there’s nothing wrong.” She laughed at my nonchalant shrug, not fooled for a moment. “Don’t worry, Mason. For some reason it’s clearest when it’s someone I don’t know well, or even at all. You, fortunately, remain as opaque to me as ever.”
“Thank God,” I said. She turned to Timothy.
“Now, you, on the other hand—” A panic-stricken expression crossed Timothy’s face, and she laughed again. “Hey, you don’t have to worry, either. Victor doesn’t begin to know how good he’s got it with you.”
Timothy relaxed.
“See?” he said to Victor. “I told you.”
“Opinion is not fact,” Victor said, but he gave one of his rare smiles.
I couldn’t remember the last time we had all just sat around and relaxed, having fun for once, putting aside the usual strategy and planning that went with most of ou
r get-togethers.
“Speaking of knowing people, here’s a question,” Timothy said, now totally at ease. “If an angel appeared to you—” He stopped as Victor made a face. “What if God or karma or whatever, something that knew you down to your very core, gave you this choice: your life could continue on pretty much the way it’s been, or it could be changed and you would receive exactly the lot in life you truly deserve—which would you take?”
“Easy,” I said. “Leave well enough alone.”
“Absolutely,” said Eli. “Get what I deserve? Not a comforting proposition.”
Victor shook his head.
“I’d go with option two,” Victor said. “Maybe I’d end up worse off, but that’s hardly the point. It’s the moral choice.”
Pure Victor. But I didn’t believe him. I’m sure he meant it, but not as a moral issue. He was secretly convinced he would immediately be elevated to ruler of the Western world.
“Sherwood?”
Sherwood wasn’t paying attention. She was staring at the front of the restaurant, where a young Asian kid had just come through the door and was standing at the front counter. A red bandana was wrapped around his forehead.
“That boy is up to something,” she said. I looked, but he seemed normal to me.
“Are you sure?” Victor said.
“Pretty sure. He’s as nervous as a cat.”
The hostess approached the boy, smiling. He hunched over slightly and thrust his hands deep in the pocket of his jacket.
Sherwood sighed, lifted her hand, and twisted her fingers in the air. The boy froze, then suddenly screamed, jerked his hand out of his pocket, and ran out the door. The hostess looked after him in bewilderment.
“Problem solved,” Sherwood said.
“What did you do?” Eli said, in an almost demanding tone.
“He had something in his pocket—maybe a gun, I would guess. I think he was going to rob the place. I just changed its feel to that of a giant spider.” She laughed, a bit uneasily. “I imagine it gave him quite a start when it started squirming around.”
“What if he decides to hit some other place?” Victor asked. “If he really was going to pull a robbery.”
“I don’t think he will. He was scared to death when he came in. And after feeling that spider in his pocket? He’ll never try anything like this again—I got the feeling he’s the superstitious type to begin with.”
“And you got all that just from looking at him?”
She shrugged.
“I could have been mistaken; it was just a feeling I got. But I don’t think so.” Eli was looking very thoughtful indeed.
“And how did you accomplish that little trick with the spider illusion?” he asked. “You didn’t used to be able to simply wave your hand and accomplish a transformation like that.”
“I don’t know. I didn’t think about it—I just did it.”
“Curiouser and curiouser,” Eli muttered. Sherwood put her arms on the table and rested her head on them.
“Wow,” she said. “That took a lot out of me.”
We all made a show of splitting up the bill, which was our usual ritual, though pointless. Victor always offered to pay and we always let him. The man is rich, after all. Not just well-off—rich. And unlike many rich people, he’s a generous man. Victor has his share of flaws, but stinginess is not one of them. I’ll give him that.
Sherwood took a quick trip to the restroom, and Timothy reached over and picked up a section of newspaper that had been left at the adjacent table by a solitary diner.
“Look at this,” he said, pointing to the obituary section. “They’re holding a memorial for one of those hikers who was killed.”
“Or what was left of him,” Victor said. Timothy shot him a disapproving look.
“It’s sad,” he said, skimming a long article. “He was apparently quite a guy—an athlete, a musician, a top student with a bright future.” He pointed at the picture next to the text. “Cute guy, too. What a shame.”
I glanced over at the picture and did a double take. It showed a young man with curly hair, looking into the camera and smiling, his whole life ahead of him. The photo was black and white, but there was one thing about which I had no doubt. The last time I’d seen that mass of curly hair it had been died a brilliant, artificial red.
ELEVEN
BACK HOME, I FOUND MYSELF IN AN ALL-TOO-FAMILIAR state of mind—being utterly baffled. What the hell was going on? Had the practitioner I’d followed been a doppleganger? Had our mysterious practitioner taken on the dead boy’s aspect as a disguise, and if so, why? There were a thousand people he could have picked to copy, and a thousand more faces that would be entirely made-up. Was it some bizarre sense of humor, or was it a deliberate challenge? He had led me into a trap where that creature waited, but why? And why was he stalking Ruby? And what was that creature anyway?
I couldn’t answer any of these questions, and Eli and Victor hadn’t been much better at coming up with a logical theory. Maybe it was time for a visit to someone who might be able to provide them—if he felt like it. Rolf. He wasn’t much for answering questions unless there was something in it for him, but he owed me. I’d helped him out when he was worried about Richard Cory—or at least I’d tried. Rolf was unpredictable; he might ignore my questions, but he might just as easily decide to answer them simply because it was a full moon on a Tuesday.
I called Sherwood and asked if she’d mind coming along. I was interested to see what her take would be about Rolf—I didn’t trust him much, although he’d never actually crossed me. Yet. And he had a fondness for good-looking women; that much was obvious by the way he’d reacted to Campbell. It might help make him more amenable, and every little edge helped.
I picked up Sherwood a little after dark and we headed down to his stomping grounds under the Bay Bridge. To Rolf, that was home. I think he was psychically drawn to the bridge, which was a good thing. It meant I didn’t have to search the city every time I wanted to talk with him. Of course, for all I knew he had a cell phone. It wouldn’t have surprised me.
The street in front was all parked up, but I found a spot a couple of blocks away. When we reached the gate I could see the faint glow of a small fire way in the back of the site, next to one of the massive bridge support pylons. I could barely make out three figures crouched around the fire. So Rolf had company. I didn’t want to go through the whole drill of climbing over the new gate, and I didn’t want to come up on the group unexpectedly in any case. Rolf was used to me, but his friends might not be.
I found a corner of the new wire mesh fence where the bottom didn’t quite meet the ground and pried it up a fraction, giving Lou just enough room to wriggle through.
“Tell Rolf he’s got company,” I said. “And be careful of those other guys.”
Lou gave a quick tail wag and was off. He didn’t look worried.
“Who exactly is this guy?” Sherwood asked.
“He used to be a practitioner, just like you or me. But over time, for reasons that Eli seems to get, but I don’t quite understand, he changed into something less human, something more like a magical creature.”
“You mean, like an Ifrit?”
“Not exactly. More like an archetype of some magical being—the stuff legends are made of. It’s something that’s been going on for years, centuries, probably. People eventually noticed, and made up folk tales about what they saw. Werewolves. Vampires. The fey. Rolf has friends even less human than he is. And there are still others, ones who have passed entirely over. They can be dangerous—I ran into a few of them last year.
“So you’re essentially saying that such things as vampires are real?”
“No, but there must be former practitioners who have taken on some of those characteristics. I’ve haven’t seen anything that matches up with a vampire yet, though. I don’t think I’d care to meet one, either.”
Sherwood looked skeptical, especially when Rolf strolled over to the gate, looking re
markably like any other homeless man. Lou wasn’t with him.
“Where’s Lou?” I asked.
“He’s fine. Hanging out by the fire.” He gave Sherwood the once-over. “You’ve brought another lady friend, I see.”
“This is Sherwood.”
“Ah, yes. Of course. The rescued damsel.”
Once again, Rolf seemed to know an awful lot about my life. He did his little trick with the lock again and swung open the gate. He bowed low in an exaggerated fashion, sweeping one hand out to the side. Then he turned and walked back toward the fire.
Lou was sitting close to the flames, staring intently into them. On the opposite side, Richard Cory sat on an overturned plastic bucket, looking incongruously elegant. Lou gave a start as we came up, backed away from the fire, and shook himself as if he’d just come out of a rainstorm.
Right outside of the range of the fire’s glow stood a third figure, blending into the shadows and piles of broken concrete rubble. I could see him only out of the corner of my eye; whenever I tried to focus on him my eyes played tricks on me and his figure vanished. Rolf followed my gaze and chuckled in that deep way he has.
“Kind of hard to see, ain’t he? It’s just as well, believe me.” He picked up a long narrow board and poked at the fire. “I don’t suppose this is just a social visit. What’s on your mind tonight?”
“The usual. I’ve got a couple of questions. I thought you might have a couple of answers.”
“Could be. You got something to trade?”
“You owe me,” I reminded him. “You asked me to find Richard, remember?”
“And did you?”
“Well, no, but that’s hardly the point. You asked; I tried. Got myself into a bit of trouble over it, I might add.” Rolf thought for a moment before nodding.
