Last Best Day

by Jeff Somers

  When Mr. Fallon pulls aside the plywood to reveal a door into one of the warehouses, I’m surprised. I didn’t even notice a Ward. Lem says I’m dumb with stuff like noticing things.

  We follow Mr. Fallon into the building. It’s a big space. Dust, damp, something else I’ve never smelled before. Our footsteps echo. I look at Fallon’s back. He’s old. But he’s smart. And his suit is expensive. He doesn’t have any dust on his shoes, somehow. And everyone is afraid of him. Even Beatrice, who looks like everyone ought to be afraid of her. I wish people were afraid of me. Or of Lem. Then they wouldn’t kidnap us.

  “Why are people afraid of you?”

  The moment I ask, I know. I stumble and hit the floor. I bark my knees, and tears spring to my eyes. I blink them away and hurry up to my feet.

  “All mages fear one another, Mr. Mageshkumar,” Mr. Fallon says, looking sideways at Beatrice. She doesn’t react. Behind her wraparound sunglasses she could have any sort of expression. “That is natural. You never know when one of our order will raise the rest against you. Lord knows many have tried against me.”

  I can see people in the jungle. In cages. Soldiers. And Mr. Fallon. In uniform.

  I get light-headed.

  “I suppose I am feared in particular,” Fallon goes on, “because I am not aligned with anyone. I have no partners. No associates. No friends. And because I am one of the last Fabricators. My peers lack the talent and patience for such work, and the mysterious baffles and alarms them.”

  “Oh, lord, Evvy, go fuck yourself,” Beatrice mutters. Her Bleeder and I look at each other and the girl smiles, a little. I look away.

  “You experimented on people.” I swallow. “Children.”

  Fallon stiffens, and I’m afraid.

  “Did I?” he says softly. “Well, if your spell tells you so, it must be true.”

  His voice sounds dangerous. I remember being in Mrs. Lawson’s house. The foster house. All of us in the Small Room. Me the biggest. And Hiram came.

  I am looking for Bleeders, madam; these are children.

  They bleed. Child’s blood is good for certain spells.

  It is not. That is ignorant horseshit, madam.

  This one.

  I am pulled forward. I am almost as tall as Hiram. His eyebrows are so white and huge they terrify me. And when Hiram speaks, his voice is soft and dangerous just like Fallon’s is now.

  I seek volunteers, madam.

  He’ll volunteer. You’re a volunteer, ain’t you, Petey?

  Hiram, looking at me. This boy is clearly an idiot. He cannot volunteer for anything, you despicable woman.

  When we were walking away, Hiram was still stiff and angry, but his voice had become less scary.

  Are you my new father?

  No. But if you turn out to be halfway bright, I might be your gasam.

  Mr. Fallon’s voice, though, stays soft and scary. “Truth is more than facts, Mr. Mageshkumar. Please make a note of that.”

  I don’t have any paper to make a note with. Mr. Fallon walks toward the middle of the room, which is basically the whole building. A metal desk and a sloping table are there. Both are covered with paper and equipment. Tools and mugs filled with mystery liquids. Tiny plastic figures I want to pick up and touch. A wizard. A square green man with googly eyes. A green plastic army man. A robot.

  Mr. Fallon turns and looks at me. He is stern. “Mr. Mageshkumar, I must stress this: Do not touch anything. And in your present condition, do not think about anything you see here. This may be crucial to your still being alive later on for me to collect my reward, yes?”

  I don’t know the answer, so I just nod. With Lem and Hiram, just nodding usually works okay.

  “I will be back in a moment. Remember! Touch nothing. Think of nothing.”

  I watch Mr. Fallon as he walks away. He heads toward a metal door that has been chained shut. He waves a hand and speaks a Word and the lock snaps open and the chain moves like a snake, and then Mr. Fallon is through the door and I am alone with Beatrice and her Bleeder in his creepy, empty workshop.

  Beatrice nods at the girl, and the girl walks over to the desk, grabs one of the rolling chairs, and pushes it over to the old woman. Beatrice sits, crosses her legs, and goes very still.

  The girl stands next to the chair and looks at me. “Yo, burro, what’s your name?”

  I look at my shoes. They are dirty and one sole is peeling off. “Pitr. Everyone calls me Mags.”

  “I am Larissa,” she says. “You bleed for him? The old man?”

  I like her accent. I shake my head. “No.” I want to say something else. Something smart. But I have no smart things to say.

  “You bleed for someone, though,” she says, confident. “Everyone does. Someone tried to make me bleed for nothing. Now at least I bleed for myself.”

  I nod. “No. Lem says we don’t bleed other people.”

  I think of the old man, Kempfer, and flush with shame.

  She purses her lips but doesn’t say anything, and I turn away, embarrassed. I try to think of nothing. I am tired. My head aches. I sit down on the dusty floor. I lie down so I can look at the ceiling. I almost think of Lem, wondering if he is okay, but stop myself just in time. I close my eyes.

  “MR. MAGESHKUMAR.”

  I open my eyes. I fell asleep. My face flushes. Lem always makes fun of me when I do that. Hiram used to yell at me. I scramble up, flinching, but Mr. Fallon just hands me a square machine that looks like a typewriter. Except it has only four keys, and they’re really big, the size of my hands. It’s heavy, too. The keys are each connected to some intricate machinery inside the case.

  “Do not,” Mr. Fallon says, “touch the buttons.” He winks at me. “You will have regrets. Also”—he twists around to point at Beatrice—“do not, ever, let her touch it. And Beatrice, if I find you have done so, you will have regrets, yes?”

  Beatrice, her face expressionless behind her glasses, nods once. Next to her, Larissa is staring at the ground as if afraid to look at Fallon. I don’t blame her.

  “Now!” Mr. Fallon says. “The cover. And earplugs. And reinforcements.”

  He walks over to the desk and begins rummaging. He picks up some of the little figurines and pushes them into his coat pockets. “If you would be so kind,” he says, “to look for a metal cover about the size of the Fabrication you are holding? It might be on the shelves over there.”

  I glance down at the machine. “This is a Fabrication?”

  “Of my own design. It is called the Gisgudi Huldim, and it must be covered during transport to prevent accidental activation.” He looks up at me. “Must I remind you not to wonder what it does, in your present condition?”

  I stare at him and try to think of anything else. I spend so much time wondering about things. It isn’t easy to stop. Everything is so mysterious. And then this mysterious box: a real live Fabrication! I don’t know if there are any other living Fabricators. Aside from Mr. Fallon. I don’t really know what a Fabricator does. Except they make things. Like this box with the four colored buttons: red, orange, yellow, blue.

  I wish Lem was here. Lem knew everything.

  I go over to the shelves. They are packed with stuff, random pieces of junk. I look at the thing and then look at the stuff on the shelves. I look at the Fabrication and think, If I knew what it did, I’d find the cover faster, and then I wonder what it does.

  And then I know.

  The pain in my head gets so bad my vision goes black. Gravity goes all wonky, and I barely stay on my feet. I finally catch hold of the shelves and hang on. When it passes, I’m sweaty and tired. I haven’t dropped the Fabrication, but I wish I had. I can see people with blood streaming from their eyes, their ears. People on their knees, hands clamped over their mouths, vomit running between their fingers. People on their knees, gouging their own eyes out, biting their
tongues.

  I want to put the Fabrication down. But I know that will make Mr. Fallon angry. And I suddenly don’t want to make Mr. Fallon angry.

  I find the cover, and it slips onto the machine perfectly. It seems to move under my hands. To fit itself. But I’ve done it! I turn, grinning, to show Mr. Fallon that I’ve done as he asked.

  He nods at me, then looks at Beatrice.

  “I am watching you, old woman,” he says. “Remember your obligations.”

  Beatrice stands with effort, grimacing. “After this, we are square, you son of a bitch.”

  Mr. Fallon nods gravely. “Do as I say through this, and we are, as you say, square.”

  Beatrice sniffs. “Very well. Why am I here? What is my last obligation to you?”

  “Pell,” Mr. Fallon says softly, in that scary, soft voice again. “Mycroft Pell.”

  Beatrice rolls her narrow, bony shoulders. “Fucking hell, Evvy. You’re putting me against one of our own? The Mudsub, of all fucking people?”

  Mudsub. I can’t help myself. I wonder what the Word means, and with a wave of dizziness, I know: vampire, bloodsucker.

  Mr. Fallon shrugs. “You did not place restrictions on your service at the time, Beatrice,” he says casually. “A lesson for the next contract, yes?”

  “Vampire?” I startle. I didn’t mean to say it out loud.

  Mr. Fallon looks at me. “Mycroft Pell, the Mudsub, yes. The Vampire. That is how he is known among our order.” Fallon sighs. “To save you from yourself, Mr. Mageshkumar, he is called this because he is overfond of a biludha called Gibil Tesgu. The Ritual of Devouring. He absorbs the skills, knowledge, and memories of those he consumes. It is a powerful ritual, requiring a lot of blood. Pell is mad for it.”

  I swallow. “Consumes?”

  “Eats, Mr. Mageshkumar,” Mr. Fallon says, almost smiling. “The ritual requires that he eat his subject. Pell has often told us it is not as bad as it sounds.”

  My heart is pounding. Lem! “He’s going to . . . to eat Lem?”

  Fallon cocks his head. “Does our Lemuel have skill or knowledge Pell would desire? Perhaps. Your Lemuel is, as you say, good with the Words, yes? Quite skilled. A war talent, some would say, being able to construct spells from scraps, to hear a spell once and be able to deconstruct it. Yes, it is possible Pell would consider this valuable enough to spend the blood to cast the Gibil Tesgu.” Fallon shrugs. “Possible. And all the more reason for haste, yes?”

  I stare at him. He is smiling. Lem will be eaten, and he is smiling. I feel my heart beating, I feel the old energy pouring into me. Hiram and Lem, they always tell me, Do not get angry. Watch it, Mags. Calm down, Mags. They say I shouldn’t get angry. I know I get into trouble when I do. I break things. I am always sad afterward. But I feel it building inside me because Lem is going to be eaten and Mr. Fallon is smiling.

  Then I look at Beatrice, and her blank face makes me angrier and I squeeze the Fabrication against my chest.

  And then I look at Larissa. Her face is beautiful. She has tears in her eyes. And she is looking at me in horror and sadness, and I feel the anger leaking away. Big fat tears come to my eyes, and I am about to blubber and I don’t want to in front of her, so I turn away.

  “Let’s go,” I say.

  5.

  WE DRIVE BACK INTO THE CITY. I have the Fabrication in my lap, and it feels hot. It feels heavy. I know what it will do to people and I don’t want to touch it. But I know if I let it slide off my lap, if I drop it, Mr. Fallon will be angry with me.

  I try not to think about anything. Every random thought leaves me tired. And I’m already forgetting things the spell told me earlier.

  “Have you told the others?” Beatrice says suddenly. Her voice is thin and shaky.

  “Bah,” Mr. Fallon says. “Why? To invite an audience? To encourage those who view Pell as a valuable member of our precious order to rush to his assistance?” Mr. Fallon makes a face like he’s tasting something awful. I know that face. “They will only insist on gathering together and bleeding dozens to stage a party all in the name of hemming and hawing and then holding a vote, after which I will do as I wish regardless, and they will go muttering home, pleased to have once again condemned me in public.”

  Beatrice shrugs. “Without support from at least some of the enustari, Evvy, you risk serious fucking blowback. Pell is an ass, but he’s one of us.”

  Fallon waves a hand and says, “Bah,” again. I like how he says it. It’s fun. “Mycroft Pell has no friends, Bea. He has burned his bridges. I will get nothing more than a few nasty looks and some rudeness. In private, I will be thanked if I make Pell hurt a little.”

  Beatrice shrugs again and looks out the window. “You’re forgetting the spectacle, Evvy. A good old-fashioned battle between Archmages? The much-disliked Mudsub and the irritable, intimidating Fabricator?” She snorts. “Once word spreads, they will come with popcorn to watch. And then they will blame you for the publicity, and the endless cleanup it will require.”

  Mr. Fallon shrugs. The car pulls over and stops.

  I recognize the building we’ve arrived at. It’s dark, but I know it. It’s an old building on Fifty-Seventh Street, with two little nubby towers at the very top with light green roofs, green awnings. The park is two blocks away, with the zoo. I like the zoo. Lem took me once. He said he would take me again, but he hasn’t.

  We all get out and stand on the sidewalk. People walk by, not paying us any attention.

  “Come,” Mr. Fallon says. “The building is empty. Pell owns all six hundred apartments. His staff live in some. Getting in will be easy.” Mr. Fallon looks at us. “Getting up will be difficult. Once Pell realizes he is under attack, he will make things difficult for us.”

  I look up at the building. It’s two buildings, really, though they look the same. “Lem is here?”

  Mr. Fallon nods. “I believe he is, Mr. Mageshkumar. Pell does not like to leave his fortress for long. He has worked hard over the years to layer on spells and Wards to make himself invisible. An empty building in Manhattan! A block from Columbus Circle! And no one notices. He has . . . customized the place considerably. This is where the mighty Mycroft Pell lives and works, Mr. Mageshkumar. Mr. Vonnegan will be here.”

  “What can we expect?” Beatrice asks. We are all standing in a line on the sidewalk, looking up at the building. I can’t believe just one person lives here. It’s enormous. But then I think it would be nice to have so much space. When Lem and me find a place to sleep, I am always crushed. I wake up at night and feel like I am in a coffin, being lowered into the ground. There is never enough room.

  This reminds me of Lem, and my heart starts to pound again. Lem is in there. Lem is going to be eaten. I have to save Lem because Lem is my friend. And he would save me if I got kidnapped.

  “Come,” Mr. Fallon says. “The first step is easy.”

  We follow Mr. Fallon as he walks to the entrance under a big green awning. A short, dark-skinned man in a fancy green uniform opens the door for us, smiling and touching his cap. He has so many gold braids on his shoulder I assume he is very important and I am nervous walking past him.

  A little man who looks much like the man in the uniform is standing behind a podium. He is short and dark and has a mustache. I stare at the mustache. It’s huge. It extends out past his face and curls up at the ends. I want a mustache.

  “May I help you?” The little man has an accent, and I want to stay here and listen to him.

  “We are here to see Mr. Pell,” Mr. Fallon says. “It is quite urgent.”

  The little man does not move. “I am afraid I have no authorized visitors on the list tonight, sir.”

  Mr. Fallon smiles. “Perhaps you would be so kind as to check again.” He reaches into his pocket and pulls out something small and shiny. It’s a charm, a metal heart, silver and plain.

  The litt
le man with the mustache looks down at his tablet computer and then pauses, a dreamy smile settling over his face. He looks up at Mr. Fallon and the grin gets wider.

  “Oh, never mind.” The little man’s voice stretches out. “It’s fine. Go on up.” He leans in close. “It would do Mr. Pell good to see some friends. Come. Come! I will key the elevator for you.”

  Chuckling, the little man comes out from behind the podium and takes Mr. Fallon by the elbow, leading him almost gently toward the elevators. The little heart—it’s a Fabrication that puts out a powerful Charm spell. A Charm charm. I wonder how Mr. Fallon casts these spells without bleeding.

  And then I know how.

  My legs stop working and I fall to the floor. At the last minute I twist myself to protect the machine, and I bounce when I hit the green carpet. I bite my tongue. Everything goes gray and wavy for a moment. Then everyone is leaning over me.

  I can hear Mr. Fallon saying something from a great distance, even though he isn’t saying anything right now. If you wish to cast without bleeding, first you must bleed a great deal.

  I see Mr. Fallon bleeding. Every day. He sits in a special chair that is like a dentist’s chair, with a basin attached to one arm. And as he bleeds, the blood runs into a drain, and I wonder where the blood goes and then I know.

  Everything goes black, and my heart lurches in my chest.

  I can see the Fabrication. I know how it was made. I know how Mr. Fallon bent and twisted the metal. How he fitted the gears. How he wrote the spells, the Words he chose. The Wards he embedded in each part, how they link together to form a chain of ideas that push into each other. How he fed it, every day, sitting in the chair and opening a vein. How he bled, so he wouldn’t have to bleed.

  I blink. I am soaked in sweat. I am lying on the green carpet. The little man with the huge mustache is leaning over me, his face a mask of concern.

  “He is awake!”

  I’m embarrassed. Mr. Fallon is irritated with me. The girl, Beatrice’s bleeder, is there watching me, and I wish she hadn’t seen me faint like a girl. I am shaking and covered in sweat.