by Tim Waggoner
“You mean her stubbornness,” Jinx interjected.
I noticed that Sanderson did not disagree with my partner.
“I am not unsympathetic to your feelings in this matter,” Sanderson said. “I understand that you have a deeper personal stake in taking down the shuteye dealers due to what happened to Officer Sawyer.”
My lips tightened when Sanderson brought up Nathaniel, but I didn’t say anything, and he continued.
“But we’ve had reports that the Lords of Misrule have been active in New York lately. I fear that they may be attempting to recreate the Fata Morgana’s technology and finish what she started. I want you and Jinx on that case, Audra. Not only because the two of you stopped her before, but because you’re more familiar with her than any other officer. That gives you an edge on her.”
The Fata Morgana, in the guise of Dr Cecelia Kauffman, had been the psychologist my parents had taken me to see when I’d first started dreaming about Jinx and insisting he was manifesting in reality at night. Kauffman was searching for Ideators that she could use in her plan to merge dimensions, but I’d proven “intractable,” so she’d let me go.
Jinx spoke then, and the calm and, above all, rational tone of his voice surprised me.
“Has the Fata Morgana been sighted in New York – in either of her Aspects?”
Sanderson looked just as surprised as I was. It was a good question. In fact, it was the kind of question I would’ve asked. Another sign of our Blending?
“No,” Sanderson admitted.
Jinx nodded, then glanced at me. I picked up the ball and ran with it.
“So there’s no reason for us to go to New York right away, is there? Besides, it took the Fata Morgana years to build her Incursion Engine. You could give us a few days to see what more we can turn up on the shuteye operation, can’t you?”
I did everything but add pretty please with sugar on top. I could tell from the sour look on Sanderson’s face that he knew I was trying to manipulate him, and he didn’t like it one bit.
“You might as well give us permission,” Jinx said. “You know she’s going to do it, no matter what you say.”
Sanderson’s sour look got even sourer, but then he sighed.
“Fine. But try to keep the destruction to a minimum, all right?”
Jinx grinned. “No promises.”
As Jinx and I left, there was an empty space on the wall where the hourglass painting had been. None of us remembered it ever having been there in the first place.
* * *
We went to our lockers and exchanged our undercover civvies for our uniforms. In addition to the gray suit jacket, white shirt, and gray pants, Jinx wore a garish large red tie with white polka dots and huge red-and-white clown shoes. He also sported an outsized daisy on his lapel that was capable of squirting any number of substances, from nausea-inducing to agonizingly fatal. I urge him to always use the former, but hey, accidents happen.
I used the medical kit in my locker to treat my wounded hands, and then I slipped on a pair of dark gray gloves. I winced when the cloth came in contact with my wounds, but the cream I’d put on them was an analgesic as well as an antibiotic, and after several minutes the fiery pain in my fingers had ebbed to a dull throb. Annoying, but I could ignore it. Jinx and I then left the Rookery before Sanderson could change his mind and come looking for us.
Once we were outside on Chimera Street, Jinx said, “So, where do we start?”
I thought for a moment.
“There are only two people we know who were working on bringing down the shuteye operation when the drug first appeared. And, unfortunately, only one is sane enough to talk to us coherently.”
“So we need to go back to Chicago,” Jinx said. “Unless you feel like visiting Nathaniel. We could take him a new straightjacket. He’s probably chewed through his original one by now.”
I intended to stomp on one of Jinx’s gigantic feet hard enough to break a couple bones, but he anticipated my move and jumped back in time. I ended up stomping only on cobblestone.
I glared at Jinx and in a low, dangerous voice said, “You don’t joke about Nathaniel like that. Ever. Got it?”
Jinx glared back at me for a moment, but then his expression softened and he averted his gaze.
“Yeah. Sorry.”
For Jinx, that was an effusive apology, and, although I was still mad at him, I decided to let it slide.
“Come on. Let’s go find a Door.”
We started walking again, Jinx moving his head back and forth like a dog searching for a scent. Not only did he have to find a Door, he had to find one that led to Chicago as opposed to anywhere else on Earth. Finding the right Door can take some time, and it doesn’t help that the damn things switch location every day.
The neighborhood around the Rookery was one of the oldest in Nod, and the buildings are a mix of architectural styles from Earth’s past, from mud and wattle huts to stone walls and thatched roofs, with the occasional Dali-esque nightmare construction tossed in. The Incubi there tend to be old – really old – and they dress in the fashion of the country and time period in which they were Idealized. Simple robes and tunics, mostly, but some doublets and leggings as well. Incubi don’t age, but Ideators do, and almost all the Incubi who live in Oldtown are on their own and have been for centuries, or, in some cases, millennia. Oldtown has a somber feel to it, and I’ve always wondered if it’s because its denizens no longer have their Ideators with them.
I glanced at Jinx, and not for the first time I wondered what he would do when I died. Some Incubi can’t – or won’t – go on, and they slowly Fade into nonexistence. Jinx had once told me that was his plan. When I go, he goes. But I didn’t want him to become a Fader. I wanted him to live as long and happily as he possibly could. I might not be his mother exactly, and I didn’t create him on purpose, but that doesn’t mean that I don’t care for the big psychotic jerk.
The Rookery isn’t the tallest structure in Oldtown, though. That distinction belongs to the building we now approached – the Idyllon. It’s a white stone tower surrounded by tall, stately trees whose leaves remain perpetually lush and green. A pathway made of the same white stone as the tower leads to the entrance, which is always left unguarded. People can come and go as they please, and they’re free to explore any room or level at any time. The area surrounding the Idyllon is a permanent camp for believers as well as those determined to exploit them. Firstians, as the faithful call themselves, live in tents pitched on the Idyllon’s grounds. A mix of human and Incubi, they tend to dress in eclectic, expressive styles, which is a fancy way of saying they’re hippies. There are lots of impromptu music sessions, people playing guitar and singing, alone or in groups, and people having serious, thoughtful, and often animated discussions about the finer points of their faith. The more evangelical among them stand on wooden crates or makeshift stages, urging any passing unbelievers to reconsider their faithless ways.
There are always plenty of vendors around, selling wares from stalls or making their way through the crowd, trying to make sales one on one. You could buy just about anything here. Food and drink, clothing and jewelry, cheaply printed copies of the Primogenium – usually missing pages – and any number of fake religious relics, the most common of which are bones purported to belong to the First Dreamer. The bones are real enough and had once belonged to someone, but, if they were all put together, they would make a hundred complete skeletons, with parts left over.
A number of the vendors sold more than the wares they had on display. You could find just about any drug for sale, from stimulants like my old favorite rev to jump juice, mem tabs, stunners, tinglies, and more. I should know. I’d bought plenty of rev here over the years. Thinking of rev made me remember what it was like to take a hit from an inhaler of the stuff. The sudden rush of energy that wiped away all traces of weariness. The exhilaration, the feeling that you could do anything, could conquer the whole damned world if you wanted to. I suddenly wanted�
� no, needed a hit. The need was an almost physical ache, and I broke out in a cold sweat and started shuddering.
Jinx looked at me, and I saw sympathy in his gaze that would’ve been more common to his Day Aspect. It reminded me once again that despite the Jekyll and Hyde nature of Incubi, they were more complex beings than they seemed.
The almost-ache eased, my shaking subsided, and I gave Jinx a nod to let him know I was all right.
Believers and the mercenary-minded weren’t the only groups present on the Idyllon grounds. Sometimes non-believers came to taunt believers who – just like many religious folk on Earth – don’t react well when confronted with challenges to their faith. Chief among these challengers are the Wakenists, and, as Jinx and I passed through the crowd, we saw one such confrontation taking place quite loudly. Jinx and I stopped walking and watched, in case the verbal argument became a physical one and we needed to intervene.
“Forget for a moment that what you people suggest is madness. You can’t wake the First Dreamer because the Dreamer has no physical form. The Dreamer is part of the Great Dream, and may in fact be the Dream itself!”
The Firstian resembled a crow-headed humanoid with bird-claw hands and feet. Despite his beak, he had no trouble forming perfectly understandable words. He wore a tie-dye T-shirt and ragged jeans, and he clutched a worn leather-bound copy of the Primogenium close to his chest.
“That’s just propaganda that church officials spread so people won’t realize that not only is the First Dreamer a physical being, but they keep him hidden inside there!”
The Wakenist, whose body was formed from a tightly packed group of buzzing flies, pointed to the Idyllon. As if mirroring her emotional state – her voice sounded female, at any rate – the flies’ buzzing increased in volume. She wore no clothes, but, considering how disturbing her conglomerate insect form was, I wish she had been.
She went on. “They have a secret level, one that they keep hidden not only from the public, but even from their most devoted worshippers. That’s where the Dreamer is held prisoner!”
“Absurd!” Crow-Head said. “How could you possibly know this?”
In response, Fly-Girl held up a hand. A single fly detached itself from her hand, buzzed around the crow Incubus’ head, then returned to rejoin the rest of her.
“There’s nowhere I can’t go,” she said.
Normally, I wouldn’t have thought much of their argument. It was an old debate, probably as old as the Incubi themselves. But this was the first I’d heard anything about a secret level in the Idyllon, let alone from someone who claimed to have been there. Still, I didn’t take it too seriously. Conspiracy theories are as prevalent on Nod as on Earth. But what caught my attention was the other people in the vicinity of the arguing pair. One was a tuxedo-clad ventriloquist’s dummy, one was a gray-haired woman in a jean jacket and rainbow-patterned skirt, and the third was a large bipedal weasel carrying a wooden rod on which a dozen soft pretzels were threaded. They weren’t standing anywhere close to each other, but they were all watching the argument between Crow-Head and Fly-Girl, and, when the latter mentioned having located the supposed secret level of the Idyllon, the three lifted their wrists to their faces and spoke softly into wispers.
I started to feel a little paranoid right then.
I looked to Jinx. “Did you see–”
He nodded.
Fly-Girl continued talking. “The Church keeps the Dreamer locked away so he’ll keep dreaming what they want him too. This!” She made a sweeping gesture that caused several of the flies to detach from her arm, and they hurried to catch up with the rest. “This reality, and Earth’s, are nothing more than a fantasy conjured by the First Dreamer’s mind. The Church wants to keep reality the way it is, and so they force the Dreamer to continue dreaming the same dream. It’s slavery! The Dreamer should be free to dream as he wishes. One day the Wakener shall come and rouse the First Dreamer, and then reality will be free to take whatever form it will!”
“Blasphemy!” Crow-Head shouted. He swung his Primogenium at Fly-Girl. His clawed hand swept the book through the group of flies that made her head, scaring them. They buzzed furiously as they swarmed around, but her body continued to stand, seemingly unaffected by suddenly finding itself headless. Each of the individual flies had intact heads, I thought. Maybe that’s why she didn’t appear to be injured.
I decided it was time to step in before the situation could get any worse. I started toward the two Incubi, Jinx at my side. But, just as we reached them, a woman approached from the opposite direction. She was in her sixties, thin-faced, with long white hair that she wore in a thick single braid down her back. She looked like she’d originally come from somewhere in the Pacific Islands on Earth, but I wasn’t sure. She wore a white robe which marked her as an official in the Church of the First Dreamer, and the trio of golden stripes around the neck, sleeves, and hem indicated she was a highly placed official.
She smiled kindly as she drew near the two Incubi and placed a hand on each of their shoulders as she reached them.
“Looks like we have a difference of opinion here.”
Her voice was kind and soothing. The flies still buzzing in the air grew quieter and began to circle more slowly, but they did not rejoin to form Fly-Girl’s head.
Crow-Head bowed before speaking. “Ecclesiastor, this… woman was making outrageous claims about the Church. She said–”
The Ecclesiastor tightened her grip on Crow-Head’s shoulder and his beak snapped shut.
“It doesn’t matter what she said. All are entitled to their views. Diversity in all things is a prime component of the Dream, is it not?”
Crow-Head looked down as if ashamed. “Yes, Ecclesiastor.”
She smiled. “Good. Now why don’t you go off by yourself to meditate for a while and restore your calm?”
He nodded without lifting his gaze, then turned and shuffled off on his bird feet. The Ecclesiastor remained standing next to Fly-Girl, her hand still gripping the Incubus’ shoulder.
“And you, child. I respect your part in the Dream, but now I think it best if you move on.”
The flies that had formed the woman’s head slowed down even more, and they flew closer together, almost but not quite reassembling into their former shape.
“What if she doesn’t want to move on?” I said. Thinking before I speak has never been one of my strengths.
The Ecclesiastor turned to me, smile still fixed firmly on her face, although now it was a bit strained.
“Hello, officer.” Her gaze flicked to Jinx. “Officers.”
The fact that she didn’t acknowledge Jinx right away pissed me off, but it didn’t surprise me. Some Firstians view Incubi as lesser creatures, dreams of dreams, as it were. Sure, they were still part of the Dream, and that was all well and good – as long as they remembered their place. An Incubus cop? That was getting more than a bit above Jinx’s station as far as she was concerned.
The Ecclesiastor returned her gaze to me and continued speaking. “Of course this child is free to do as she pleases. But in the interest of maintaining the peace, she might consider keeping her distance from Heckle until he’s had a chance to cool down. That’s all I meant to suggest.”
Jinx snorted. “Sounded to me like you were telling her to fuck off.”
A few cracks developed in the Ecclesiastor’s placid expression, but it didn’t break, and she didn’t rise to Jinx’s bait. The flies buzzing around in the space where Fly-Girl’s head had been started flying in erratic patterns, but then they quickly settled down and joined together to form the woman’s head once more.
“Yes,” Fly-Girl said. “I think that would be best. Thank you.”
The Ecclesiastor removed her hand from the woman’s shoulder, and she turned and walked away.
“I wonder why she bothers walking,” Jinx said. “I mean, she is made up of flies.”
The Ecclesiastor then reached out and clasped my right hand in both of hers. She held my
hand tightly and my wounded fingers flared with pain, despite the glove I wore. I couldn’t help grimacing. I’m sure she noticed, but she didn’t remark on it.
“Thank you for being willing to step in and help, Officer…”
“Hawthorne,” I said. “And this is Jinx.”
He smiled broadly, displaying a mouthful of jagged yellowed teeth and bleeding gums. A small worm of some kind stuck its head out from between a gap in his front teeth and wiggled, as if it were waving to the Ecclesiastor.
“A pleasure,” she said, in a tone which indicated it was anything but. She turned back to me. “I’m Ecclesiastor Withrow, but you, my dear, can call me Constance. Tell me, are you a believer?”
It was the second time that day I’d been asked that question, and I still had no idea how to answer it. While I pondered my reply, Jinx slurped the worm back into his mouth and began chewing with noisy wet smacking sounds.
“Once you discover the Maelstrom is real and that its energies can be shaped to create… well, anything, it’s hard not to believe, you know?” I said.
“I do know.” Her smile seemed genuine this time. “But that wasn’t an answer to my question.”
She turned and started walking back to the Idyllon. I looked around for the three people who had presumably alerted her to Heckle’s dispute with Fly-Girl, but they were gone. This did not come as a surprise to me. What I did find surprising – or at least puzzling – were a half dozen small black objects lying on the ground where Fly-Girl had been standing. I knelt to get a closer look and saw they were flies. Dead ones.
“Check this out,” I said to Jinx.
He knelt next to me, and we examined the flies for several moments.
“Maybe she shed them,” Jinx said. “Like humans shed skin cells.”
“Maybe,” I allowed, but somehow I didn’t think it was that simple. I straightened. “Come on, let’s go.”
“Just a sec.” Jinx picked up the flies before standing. “Waste not, want not,” he said, and popped the entire handful into his mouth, and started chewing.
