by Paul Neuhaus
Still, as Quinn hopped on one foot toward the dining room, she wondered why they had to keep the stupid, empty cage.
David Olkin was already sitting at the dining room table. Twice a week he and Henaghan met at the Burbank home and went off for a day of Fleur-de-lys-related errands. True to his word, Quinn’s former boss had kept her in the loop about the late Reginald Verbic’s company. Their outings split the difference between magic-related to mundane matters like taxes and corporate law. Olkin, as head of the Guild, was the executor and Quinn, as Verbic’s killer and magical high muckity-muck, was his right hand.
It had become tradition for the two to have breakfast at the house before setting off. That was more than okay with David since Molly was a helluva cook. Henaghan was used to it since she lived with Blank, but every breakfast was a new adventure for Olkin.
As he dug into his eggs, the agent squinted at Molly, trying to put his finger on something. Finally, he said, “That’s what it is! You’re not wearing your new glasses. Where are they? They look cute as fuck on you.”
The brunette dumped eggs onto Henaghan’s plate with a scowl. “Quinn broke them. I am no longer cute as fuck.”
“You’re beautiful when you’re angry,” Henaghan said, picking up her fork. She poked the older woman in the outer thigh with the tines and Molly bopped her playfully on the head with her pan.
Watching the two, Olkin sighed. “Look at you two. I wish Mia and I had your relationship.”
“I know I’m going to regret this,” Henaghan said. “But what kind of relationship do you have?”
“It’s weird,” David replied. “She tells me her needs and I fulfill them. It’s… transactional. Like buying stamps.”
As Molly sat down she said, “This romance has been brought to you by the U.S. Postal Service.”
“Maybe that wasn’t the best analogy,” Olkin conceded.
“By the way,” Blank said. “It’s not Mia. It’s Aoife now. Your sister identifies as Gaelic.” Molly pronounced the name correctly. “Ee-fa.”
Henaghan and David sighed the same sigh at the same time. “Please,” Olkin said. “I gotta call her that when I’m with her. Don’t make me do it here too.” He took a swig of his orange juice. “Can you imagine having to shout out ‘Ee-fa! Ee-fa!’ during sex? I sound like a crazy person.”
Quinn’s fork hit her plate with a clank. She lowered her head and shut her eyes tight.
Amused, Molly looked at her girlfriend and said, “Are you alright?”
Henaghan shook her head.
Blank turned to David. “It looks like you broke my girlfriend.”
“Mmm. Sorry,” Olkin said. Mia was, after all, Quinn’s sister and the thought of her having sex with anyone—much less one of Quinn’s friends—was too much. The image killed the mood and the three finished their meal in silence.
After breakfast, Quinn picked up her oversized bag from the counter and rubbed her right eye with a fist. “I didn’t get much sleep last night,” she said. “I might be on the cranky side.”
“Don’t worry,” her former boss replied. “What I have to show you today will cheer you right up.”
“Really?”
“Oh God, no. Not at all.”
David and Quinn’s first stop was a clinic in Sylmar. Olkin wouldn’t go into a lot of detail about why they were stopping at a clinic at the ass-end of the Valley. He just told her, “Look, I think you’ve got to see this for yourself. He also told her the man running the place was a Dr. Terry Truitt and that he went by “Dr. Terry”.
Henaghan shivered when she heard the name.
“What is it?”
“I don’t like it when doctors put their first name after ‘doctor’. Do you remember Dr. Carl?”
It was Olkin’s turn to shiver. Dr. Carl was a GP back in their native Atlanta. He’d practiced long enough that he’d treated them both despite the difference in their ages. Late in his tenure, Dr. Carl was unmasked as a serial pedophile. “To the best of my knowledge, Dr. Terry’s not a fondler,” the agent assured her.
“I don’t care,” Henaghan replied. “I’m not calling him Dr. Terry.”
The clinic itself was a shitty little building with a tiny parking lot and no sign.
“Verbic owned this place?”
David nodded. “You’ll see why in a minute.”
The two of them crossed the parking lot from Olkin’s BMW to the facility’s lobby. As they neared the building, both of them felt something odd about the facility they couldn’t quite put their finger on. They discussed it briefly and shrugged it off.
Dr. Truitt was waiting for them in a lobby that hadn’t been redecorated since the mid-nineteen seventies. He shook hands with them both and Quinn was struck with how youthful and handsome he was. He wasn’t Matt Abrigo handsome, but he was no slouch either. “Call me Dr. Terry,” he said to them. “Everyone else does.”
“Sure thing, Dr. Truitt,” Quinn replied. On the other side of the physician, David snickered. Truitt, who wasn’t in on the joke, looked at them both oddly.
The doctor was especially pleased to meet Quinn whom he knew by reputation. In less than a year and, despite her best efforts, she’d become a celebrity in Channeler circles. Like so many kids before her, she’d moved to Hollywood and become famous—albeit in an unorthodox way and with a very niche crowd. Henaghan remained polite but she did her best to steer Truitt away from the subject of her recent exploits. She deflected by saying, “How did you feel about the late, great Reginald Verbic?”
The doctor grinned, knowing full well she was baiting him. “I’ve been here for three years,” he said. “For the first two, I didn’t even know we were owned by Fleur-de-lys and, after I found out, I still wouldn’t have been able to pick Mr. Verbic out of a line-up. If you’re asking me do I have legacy attachments you should be aware of, the answer is ‘no’. To be cavalier about it, I don’t care who owns me as long as the funding doesn’t stop. And Mr. Olkin has assured me the funding won’t stop.”
David’s eyes flicked to Henaghan and then back to the doctor. “Tell her why the funding won’t stop.”
Truitt nodded. “Why don’t you come back with me to my office. It’s weird having this conversation in the lobby.”
The newcomers agreed and followed the young doctor back to his cluttered office. Truitt sat and indicated Quinn and Olkin should do the same. The huge framed picture of Albert Schweitzer behind Truitt distracted the redhead for a moment. “This has always been a clinic dedicated to Channelers. We magic-users sometimes need the help of physicians with specialized knowledge.”
Quinn thought for a moment of her recent night terrors but remained mum on the subject.
The doctor went on. “Of late—in the last six to nine months—we’ve become more specialized. Not out of inclination but out of necessity. The epidemic has hit this office pretty hard. Nearly all our resources now go toward it.”
The redhead looked at David. “Epidemic?” she said.
Truitt picked up a pen and twiddled it between his fingers. “I’m not surprised you’re unaware,” he said. “It’s not like there’s a CNN for Channelers. Or even a FOX. Unfortunately, we’ve got our very own version of the opioid crisis that’s hitting the mundanes so badly. There’s a drug on the street now that affects us in particular. It’s like fentanyl for wizards. Fast-acting and potent even in small doses. Like so much of our nomenclature, the drug’s real name is Sanskrit. ‘Lāḍana’. It means fondling, caressing, cherishing. Most folks call it ‘Caress’. Unfortunately, like fentanyl, Caress had a high rate of addiction and a high rate of mortality amongst abusers.”
Quinn sat back, bowled over by what she was hearing. “No shit,” she said. “Can you be more specific? How does it affect us?”
The doctor stood. “I think it’d be a lot easier to show you,” he said.
Terry Truitt ushered Olkin and Henaghan out of his office and back into the clinic proper. They were passed in the halls by a couple of dour nurses.
The main space was segregated into the sort of examination rooms one would typically find in a facility of its type. It was further subdivided by cloth partitions on metal racks making it very cramped. “I apologize,” Truitt said. “There’s barely any room to get around back here. And barely any room to do the typical, garden variety work we were built to do. I’ve got so many people on Caress at any given moment, I can’t do much of anything else.” He paused to survey his domain. “You understand that, were you not who you are, I wouldn’t be trotting you back here. There’re ethical concerns. Privacy concerns. Still, I think it’s important that you see this.” He seemed to reach a decision. “Liam. Let’s visit with Liam.” He led them to one of the cloth “rooms” and poked in his head. Quinn and David could hear him speak but they couldn’t see the person he addressed. “Liam?” he said. “May I introduce you to some friends?” The answer was yes, and Truitt threw the curtain wider and stood aside so Olkin and Henaghan could proceed him into the little space. The two visitors looked at one another nervously and then entered Liam’s tiny room.
Liam was sixteen or seventeen and definitely weighed less than a hundred pounds (despite his average height). He wore a hospital gown and an olive drab blanket covered him. He wasn’t lying in a proper bed but rather a cot. When Quinn first looked at the boy, she tried not to look away. Liam’s condition appalled her, but she did not want to appear rude. Her deep emotional reaction manifested as quiet tears.
Truitt entered and closed the curtain behind him. “How are you today, Liam?”
The boy rubbed his dry lips with two dry fingers. “I was gonna eat today, Dr. Terry. I wanted to eat today, but then I didn’t.” When he spoke, Henaghan could see that Liam was missing a few teeth.
“Tomorrow then,” the doctor said kindly. “Did you think any more about telling me the thing we talked about? Remember the thing we talked about yesterday and the day before?”
“I thought about it,” Liam said, but he did not elaborate.
Truitt turned to Quinn and Olkin and said in a whisper, “When Liam came here, he didn’t have any I.D. We’re fairly certain he’s a minor but he won’t tell us anything about his parents. Also, Liam’s the name he gave us, but we’re not even sure it’s his real name. Anyway, Liam is a big question mark.” He turned back to the boy. “Liam, how’re your eyes? Are they clear today?”
Liam nodded. “Can I have a drink?”
Henaghan immediately picked up a plastic pitcher and poured water into a paper cup. She helped Liam hold the beverage until the boy finished drinking.
“I’m glad your eyes are clear. Do you see my two guests?”
Liam nodded again and thanked Quinn for the water.
“This is David, and this is Quinn,” Truitt said.
Liam looked back at his green-eyed visitor. “‘Quinn?’ Like ‘Quinn Henaghan’?”
Once again, Quinn’s reputation had proceeded her. The doctor looked at her, seeking her permission. Quinn nodded. “Yes, like Quinn Henaghan. In fact, this is Quinn Henaghan.”
For a moment, the teenaged addict looked back and forth between his doctor and his female visitor. Then he started to cry. “Why would you do that?” he said to Truitt. “You know I can’t understand things. You know I see things. Why would you lie to me?”
Henaghan immediately knelt next to Liam’s cot. She hadn’t expected the boy’s reaction. Apparently, he’d been suffering from delusions. She took his left hand and soothed him. “Shh, shh, shh. Dr. Terry’s not lying to you. I am Quinn Henaghan. But you know what? That doesn’t matter. You can believe me or not, I won’t be hurt. I just wanna know something… Why’re you here, Liam? What happened to you?”
Liam focused his full attention on Quinn. “I… It was my friend. He gave me… He can do magic, too. It’s how we hooked up. Back in the second grade. We were always together. Always. But then he started using, and he got me using too. Why— why do you think he did that? He was supposed to be my bud.”
“What’s your friend’s name, Liam?” Henaghan asked, her tears starting up again.
“Rick.”
“Where is Rick?”
The teenager thought for a long moment. “He’s not anywhere. Not anymore.”
Quinn nodded. “I see. Will you tell—?” But she was cut off when Liam arched his back and cried out. The boy squeezed Henaghan’s hand so hard that Quinn cried out too. Then Liam’s eyes popped open wide with a sudden sense of realization. He cast the older woman’s hand aside and disappeared from the cot.
The redhead knew what had happened right off and she pursued Liam into the Astral Plane. Ahead of her, falling, turning in space, was the emaciated boy. Quinn dove and gathered him up in her arms. Though she shouldn’t have been, she was shocked how light Liam was. With the teenager against her body, Henaghan returned to the clinic and laid him back down on his bed. By that time, Liam was either asleep or unconscious.
Dr. Truitt looked down as Quinn replaced Liam’s blanket on top of him. “Before you ask,” he said. “Yes, that sort of thing happens all the time. The drug attacks their control centers. They can’t help it. That’s why all the staff here are Channelers. We all have to be ready at a moment’s notice for nearly anything.”
Without replying, Quinn stood and walked by the two men through the curtain. Olkin and Truitt looked at one another and followed the redhead. They had to follow her all the way back to the lobby. When she was there, she stopped and turned to speak to the doctor. “What’s his prognosis, doctor? What can he expect?”
Truitt sighed. “I wish it were good news. Eventually, the addiction pushes them into a state of continuous, involuntary Channeling. If you know your Channeling—and I suspect you do—you know what that means. Eventually, the Vidyaadhara come for them and the results aren’t pretty.”
The Vidyaadhara. Quinn called them phantasms. They were creatures from the Astral Plane and they were a clear and present danger to Channelers everywhere. Whenever a caster maintained a spell for too long, the phantasms came and fed on him like a swarm of piranhas. “Fuck,” Quinn said.
“Fuck indeed,” the doctor agreed.
Henaghan looked at Olkin. “Let’s make sure this guy’s getting whatever he needs.”
David nodded. “Absolutely.”
The woman turned back to the physician. “Take care of him, Dr. Terry. Would it be alright if I came back and visited?”
“Yes, of course.”
Quinn nodded her goodbye and tromped off into the parking lot. When she realized her former boss was behind her, she said, “Well. That fucking sucked.”
Olkin agreed. “Fortunately, we only have one other stop to make.”
Quinn and David didn’t speak during the short drive south to Panorama City, another small town in the San Fernando Valley. They went to another shitty mid-century building, this one marked with a sign: “Arista Laboratories - No Solicitors”.
Once inside, Donald Gilstrap, their guide for the day, met them. Quinn and Olkin put on lab coats and fixed blue booties over their shoes and Gilstrap led them down a dingy hallway.
The lab had been in active operation since the nineteen fifties. None of its neighbors knew what went on inside, though the rumors flowed for more than sixty years. The two visitors were there to meet one of those rumors face to face.
Donald had been with the facility since the eighties and was one of the few survivors of Olkin’s recent purge. As the executor of Fleur-de-lys, David had the power to hire and fire. Before he axed most of the staff at Arista, he described the men working there as “overly passionate”. At least until he figured out what to do with the things inside, he had the place running on a skeleton crew.
Quinn took a deep breath as they walked. “You okay?” Olkin said to his former assistant.
Henaghan nodded. She’d already met one lost child that day. Another wouldn’t kill her.
“At least we’re just here to see… who we’re here to see,” David said. “I’m not going to subject you to the r
est of it. I saw it all in one day. I can’t recommend the experience.”
Gilstrap was an amiable man. A resident and native from the surrounding town. “It’ll be fine,” he said. “In fact, she’s in a good mood.”
Quinn and David followed their guide down the hallway into the facility proper. The place looked exactly the way Henaghan expected it to look. “Institutional Drab” was the only name for the light green walls and cream-colored linoleum. Doors with opaque windows. The smell of ammonia.
Finally, the trio came to a particular door. It was marked with a black plaque with stark white lettering. The plaque read “7C”. Gilstrap had a keyring at his hip. The ring was attached to a clip on his belt via an extensible cable. The cable made a peculiar whir as the caretaker pulled the keys away from his body. He extended a key and opened the door. They went inside.
The room had a window looking out onto a courtyard in the center of the lab complex. A view of some trees and a lackluster sky. The decor was immaculate. A bed, freshly-made, with hospital corners. A desk with legal pads and a jar of pens. A couch against one wall. On either side of the couch were floor-to-ceiling bookcases loaded with books. Books broken down by category and alphabetized by author. Sitting on the couch was a woman. She wore surgeon’s scrubs and had small reading glasses perched on the tip of her nose. She was reading a book. Hero with a Thousand Faces by mythologist Joseph Campbell. She looked up from it when she saw Gilstrap and the two newcomers.
“Sam, this is David. You’ve met him before. And this is Miss Henaghan.”
Sam took off her reading glasses, laid down the book on the couch and stood to shake hands. When she touched Sam’s skin, Quinn felt a mild electric charge.
Sam looked at Gilstrap and said, her voice hoarse, “Will you fetch chairs, Mr. Gilstrap? Please.”
Gilstrap left to fetch chairs and Quinn took a better look at Sam. She tried not to stare but Sam was the most remarkable creature she’d ever seen. The woman was six and a half feet tall, hairless and her skin was a mottled gray. At the top of her head was a fan-shaped crest of bone. Another crest, this one much smaller, protruded from her chin. Her eyes were bright orange and slightly luminous. Henaghan knew what Sam was as soon as she laid eyes on her. She was a human-Asura hybrid.
