by Jeff Somers
“Be careful, Mr. Mageshkumar,” Mr. Fallon says, his eyes on the machine I still have in my hands. “You must stop thinking so much.”
This is new advice for me.
The Mustache Man crowds us into an elevator, and I am crushed, unable to breathe. Sweat drips into my eyes, but I have the machine in my hands. I begin to twitch. Mustache Man inserts a key into the panel and presses a button. Then he stands serenely, humming to himself as the elevator rises. At every floor, a soft ding fills the air. After the third ding, the elevator suddenly stops.
Mustache Man frowns. “That is incorrect.”
Mr. Fallon fishes in his pocket and pulls out a small figurine: he looks like an astronaut but he isn’t. After a moment, I realize he is an old-fashioned deep-sea diver with an enormous round helmet, a plump white backpack on his shoulders. Mr. Fallon brings the diver close to his mouth and whispers something, and the diver wakes up. The tiny little man salutes Mr. Fallon crisply, and Fallon reaches over and holds his hand near the elevator’s button panel. The diver leaps from Fallon’s hand and catches hold of the edge of the panel.
I stare. This is the best thing I have ever seen. I wonder how many tiny men Mr. Fallon has in his pockets. Then I know, with a spike in my headache: thirteen. I stop myself before wondering what they are.
The diver pulls a tiny tool from his backpack and begins working on one of the buttons, popping the plastic off. Then he worms his way into the panel itself, his tiny feet disappearing as he pulls himself the last few centimeters. I want to clap. I will ask Lem to teach me how to make little men for myself. I am careful not to wonder about it, though.
Mr. Fallon turns to us. “It will be but a moment.”
I am sleepy and my stomach is upset. My arms are trembling. Sweat keeps dripping into my eyes. I wish music was playing. They play music in elevators sometimes. I wish they did in this one.
The doors slide silently open. The floor is six inches too high. Mustache Man hesitates, then climbs up and out. He turns to offer his hand to Beatrice, who stares at him before climbing out unassisted. The Bleeder follows. Then I set the machine on the floor and climb out, shaky, and bend to pick it up again. I sway as if I’m about to fall over. But I don’t.
“My apologies,” Mustache Man says.
“Do not worry,” Mr. Fallon says. “We thank you for your service. You should return to your post.”
Mustache Man nods, smiling, and bows deeply. Then he turns and bows to the rest of us. Perhaps I should bow to him. I watch everyone carefully. I’m worried if I have to bow I might pass out. Or throw up; the pounding in my head is making me nauseous.
As Mustache Man climbs back into the elevator, Fallon rubs his hands together. “We have been discovered. This was unavoidable. Pell is many things, but stupid is not one of them. It would have been unlikely if we would have been able to enter his private chambers above easily.”
The elevator doors slide shut.
Beatrice looks up at the ceiling. “How many floors up we got to go?”
Mr. Fallon shrugs. “Seven.”
Beatrice nods, pursing her lips. “Evvy, tell me we ain’t taking the fucking stairs.”
Mr. Fallon walks over to the elevators. He pulls a small, jeweled box from his pocket and holds it carefully in one hand. “Of course not.”
“Then how do we get up there?”
Mr. Fallon speaks a few Words. I can’t sense any gas in the air, but the elevator dings and the number 3 lights up.
“How did you expect, Beatrice?” he says. “We fight.”
The elevator doors slide open, and something black and fast and howling slams into Mr. Fallon, knocking him into the wall.
II.
6.
I BLINK. Mr. Fallon is sitting on the floor, but nothing is on top of him. He is breathing hard, looking everywhere. We all are.
The elevator doors slide shut.
“Fasz,” Mr. Fallon mutters. He winces as he gets to his feet. He brushes himself off and steps up to the elevator again. “Dirty pool, Mycroft.” I am curious if Mr. Pell can hear him. You never know with enustari. My headache pulses with my heartbeat. I can even see it in my vision. Like a ripple every time my heart beats. I think of Lem being torn apart, being bled. My heart beats faster and I want to charge the elevator. I want to break down the doors. I just want to hit things. Anything.
This is where Lem would say, Calm down, Magsie. I tell myself, Calm down, Magsie. It isn’t the same. And I’m not calm.
Mr. Fallon suddenly turns to look to his left. We all look, too, following his gaze. Someone is standing at the end of the hallway. It’s an older black woman. She’s short, and she has short white hair. She’s wearing a backpack or something on her back. I can suddenly sense gas in the air.
“Really, Evelyn?” she shouts, angry. “This piece of shit idimustari is worth this? This is our home!”
Idimustari. Lem doesn’t like the word. He says it’s an insult. He says we should always say Trickster because at least then we’re choosing what we’re called.
The woman starts walking toward us. Mr. Fallon turns toward her, pushing his hands into his pockets.
“Mycella, your brother has overstepped.”
“Oh, bullshit, Evelyn!” she snarls. “The boy is not bonded. No one protects him. If you found him valuable, you could have claimed him. You are the one overstepping.”
As she nears, I take a step back. Then I stop myself. Lem would tell me I was being a scaredy-cat. Except Lem would say fucking pain in the ass instead of scaredy-cat. But it means the same thing.
I wonder what’s in the backpack Mycella’s wearing. Then my eyes flutter as my head gets light and achy, and I know. And I wish I didn’t. Because it’s not a backpack. It’s a person. Her name is Dorothy McGill and she’s twenty-five years old and only two and a half feet tall and Mycella Pell wears her everywhere. She’s Mycella’s Bleeder. I can sense her gas in the air. It’s just like anyone else’s, which is surprising because she’s so small.
Mr. Fallon pulls his hand from his pocket. He has the little green army man in his hand. The moment she sees it, Mycella begins to hiss out the Words of a spell, fast. Superfast. Just as she finishes, Mr. Fallon kneels down and puts the little army man on the floor, and there is a ripple in the air. Something . . . appears in front of Mycella. It’s the same vague black shape that leaped out of the elevator at Mr. Fallon. You can see through it. It’s shaped sort of like an animal. A wolf. Or a bear. It comes together from a million tiny pieces, like it’s pulling dust from the air. And then it leaps toward Mr. Fallon. Mr. Fallon stands up just as the black shape crashes into something. An invisible wall. The shape rolls away and gets back on its feet. Then it starts prowling up and down. Its snout is pointed at the little green army man as it does.
I wonder what the army man is.
“MR. MAGESHKUMAR!”
My face hurts. I open my eyes. Mr. Fallon is leaning over me. He slaps me with one hand.
“Stop it!” I say.
Mr. Fallon leans back on his heels. I sit up a little. My headache is making me sick to my stomach. Behind Mr. Fallon the thing Mycella created is still prowling back and forth in front of the army man. Behind it, Mycella is casting. I can see her lips move. I can see Dorothy as Mycella paces, mirroring her creature. Dorothy is very small and very pale. One tiny arm has a fresh red gash stretching from the elbow to the wrist. She looks sad.
“Mr. Mageshkumar,” Mr. Fallon snaps as I struggle to my feet. The machine is on the floor. I am terrified. I dropped Mr. Fallon’s machine. He’s going to kill me. Then Mr. Fallon grabs me by the shoulders. Behind him, I can see the . . . thing Mycella has summoned. And Mycella.
“Mr. Mageshkumar,” Mr. Fallon repeats. Then he slaps me and I look at him, tears in my eyes. But I will not blubber. “Mr. Mageshkumar, you understand we are here to save your friend Mr. Vonnegan?�
�
Lem! I nod.
“You understand that every time you ask a question, the broken idiot spell that has been placed on you takes blood from inside you to feed itself and give you the answer?”
I nod.
“You understand that if you die because you ask this spell too many questions, I will not get the information you promised me as part of my agreement to assist you? That if you die because of this broken idiot spell, I will not get this information, and therefore I will not help your friend?”
I stare at Mr. Fallon. “But it’s Lem.” Without Lem I am done. Without Lem there is nothing for me. He’s my friend.
“Ya. And if you die, he dies, yes? You understand?”
I nod. I hate Mr. Fallon. He’s mean. He’s the meanest man I’ve ever known, and I know Hiram Bosch.
“Good. Beatrice,” he says without looking at the other Archmage. “The girl. What is her name?”
The old woman scowls. “Larissa.”
“Mr. Mageshkumar, take Larissa as a Bleeder.”
I freeze. Panic. The taste of metal in my mouth.
Beatrice wheels on Mr. Fallon. “This girl is—”
“Not bonded to you,” Mr. Fallon snaps. “She bleeds for you. Loan her to Mr. Mageshkumar.”
“And bleed myself?” Beatrice says, her face a mask of shock. “Like some . . . some Trickster?”
Mr. Fallon closes his eyes and takes a deep breath. “There is no shame in bleeding, you pampered spider of a woman.”
Beatrice is angry. “This deal gets worse and worse every moment, Evelyn. As do all deals made with you.”
Mr. Fallon’s face is blank. “Then make future arrangements with others, Beatrice. For the moment, tell your bleeder to accompany Pitr.”
I shake my head. “No!”
This is different. This is not Volker bleeding an old man, which is bad enough, but I wasn’t actively casting the spell. This would be me directly taking blood from someone else. And even to save his life I’m not sure Lem would ever forgive me. Lem always says, We don’t bleed others. Lem always says, We do it with our own gas. Lem always says, Ustari are parasites.
Mr. Fallon glances over his shoulder at Mycella and her . . . thing as it prowls the invisible barrier between us. Then he looks up at me and puts his hands on my shoulders. “Mr. Mageshkumar! You are dying. You are being killed by this awful, incredible spell. Once again—if you die, you will not be able to give the information you promised me, and thus I will cease to intervene for Mr. Vonnegan, do you understand?”
I stare at him. Nothing makes sense. None of it. Not help Lem? Of course we have to help Lem. We have to save Lem. And time is running out. And I am standing here. I curl my hands into fists. Enustari or not, I will make Mr. Fallon understand.
Suddenly another hand is on my arm. It’s the girl, Larissa. “Pitr,” she says. “I don’t mind. The bleeding. I volunteer.”
I let my hands relax. I have to save Lem. I have to do something. And I know I need Mr. Fallon, because the spell told me so. I tell myself it’s okay because she’s a volunteer. Lem will say, It’s okay, Magsie, she was a volunteer.
I nod. I can feel tears in my eyes again. But Larissa is looking at me and I will not blubber.
“Very good,” Mr. Fallon says, and turns to Larissa. “Girl, you have been trained?”
Beatrice snorts. “Of course she been trained, Evvy. What kind of shop you think I’m running?”
Mr. Fallon nods. “A shallow bleed,” he says to Larissa. She nods and pulls a simple razor blade in a piece of white paper from her pocket. She takes a deep breath and slices her arm carefully, a thick line of red blood welling up, the air filling with gas.
“You will have to move faster than that if you wish to be useful,” Mr. Fallon says, sounding irritated. Then he casts a spell, fast, the Words slurring together. I can’t make them out. Larissa winces a little, and then I feel . . . better. Stronger.
“The spell will sip, yes?” Mr. Fallon says to Larissa. Then he looks at me. “It will take only what is necessary to keep you alive. But be careful, Mr. Mageshkumar. When your mind wanders and you ask questions, you will now be bleeding her, you understand this?”
I nod. I think of Lem, and I flush. He will understand. Mr. Fallon said it was necessary, and Mr. Fallon is smart. And scary.
Behind him, the thing Mycella has created begins to hurl itself against the invisible barrier, screeching. The little army man on the floor wobbles each time.
“Now,” Mr. Fallon says, picking up the machine and looking it over. “You must take this and go, Mr. Mageshkumar.”
I frown. I feel yards better. My headache has faded, and I don’t feel like I’m about to fall down anymore. I take the machine back from Mr. Fallon. “Go where?”
“Up, Mr. Mageshkumar! Up—to the penthouse. I will meet you there. But if I do not—which is to say, if I cannot, you must then use this to knock Mycroft down, yes?”
I look at the machine, then back at Mr. Fallon. “How?”
“It is a complex lesson, and we have no time. If I am not there, ask your spell.” He looks at Larissa. “Do not ask him questions.”
Behind him, the vague shape slams against the barrier, and the army man wobbles and falls over. A warm wind blows back over us. Fallon straightens up.
“Go!” he shouts. “Up!”
He whirls, reaching into his pocket just as the vague shape launches itself at him. I can hear Mycella casting, and then Beatrice, as another slender line of gas hits the air.
“Come on, burro!” Larissa shouts, tugging at my sleeve. “When enustari say to go, you go!”
As we turn, I can feel the floor vibrating under us, and for a moment something bright throws our shadows against the doorway we’re running toward. It’s marked EXIT. We’re almost there when the floor bucks under my feet. I stagger, struggling to stop myself from dropping the machine one more time.
In front of me, Larissa glances back and her face goes white. “Run, Pitr! Run!”
I run as fast as I can. She’s faster. Behind us, there’s a terrible sound, like a million pianos being smashed to pieces all at once. I don’t like it. I want to stop up my ears. The floor trembles under us. The sound gets louder. And louder. Larissa doesn’t look back at me. She’s just running. She’s just trying to be somewhere else before that sound catches up with us.
The door marked EXIT has a crash bar on it. Larissa crashes it. I follow a second later. As I put my foot on the first step leading up, there is an explosion. The whole building seems to shake. I take the stairs two at a time. Below us, the EXIT door blows inward off its hinges and smashes into the wall opposite.
“Keep running, burro!” Larissa shouts. “You want to save your friend?”
Lem!
“Then keep running!”
7.
“THERE HAS TO BE another flight.”
I want to wipe the sweat out of my eyes, but I am afraid to let Mr. Fallon’s machine out of my hands again.
“What?”
The building shakes under my feet again. I can feel the vibration in the stairs. Larissa takes a moment to catch her breath, pushing her sweaty hair out of her face. She points to the green door, marked NINE. “There should be another flight, up to the penthouse.”
Another explosion far below makes everything dance.
“How do you know?”
She makes a weird face at me. “Because I can count, burro.” She keeps looking at me. “Maybe you can cast a spell? Show us the way?”
I try to think of a spell. I can’t think of any spells. I am careful not to ask for spells. I look at Larissa. “Do you know any spells?”
She frowns. “No one has taught me anything yet.” She looks around as she slowly spins, searching for clues, I think. “I saw magica and it changed me, you understand, Pitr? I found myself in a bad p
lace, and I thought, ‘Well, Larissa, you are about to die,’ and I make my peace. Except there is no peace, and I am not ready to go. And then I was saved by a man who bled and spoke and moved things, unlocked doors, sent me sailing through the air.” She shrugs. “You know, Pitr? At first I was just happy to not be dead. But I couldn’t get it out of my head. So I went looking for a teacher.” She looks at me again. “I found Beatrice. She is . . . difficult. She tells me I must bleed for a year, two. And then she will teach me. The she will bond me. Are you bonded, Pitr?”
I don’t know how to answer. I thought Hiram had bonded me, but Lem says I am wrong. I thought Lem had bonded me, but Lem says I am wrong. She cocks her head.
“What did you see, Pitr? Why are you with these people? What inspired you?”
I shake my head. “I was adopted.”
She stares at me for a little bit, then her frown deepens. The whole building shudders again, and a loud groaning noise like some huge metal beam bending somewhere fills the air. Larissa looks around again.
“We should not be in the stairwell. We need to get you to the penthouse, as Mr. Fallon instructed.”
Lem. I have to think. I have to figure out a way up. I try to think how long it’s been since Lem got snatched. I can’t remember. It might be weeks or months. Or minutes. I can’t ever remember anything. I’m so stupid.
Then, with a shiver and a gasp from Larissa, I know. It’s been seven hours, forty-two minutes, and sixteen, seventeen seconds.
“I’m sorry!” I say as Larissa staggers a little. “I didn’t mean to!”
“It’s . . . okay, Pitr. It’s why I am here with you.” She even smiles a little. I look away, blushing. “Spells, Pitr? Any that might help us?”
I have an idea. I know Lem would be mad at me for it, but Lem isn’t here, and I need to save him and I don’t know what to do. “I could . . . I could ask the spell for a spell.”
I look at the floor. I brace myself for her to be angry. I don’t want Larissa to be angry. I don’t want anyone to be angry. Lem is the only person I know who doesn’t yell. I can tell he’s angry, sometimes. But he doesn’t yell.
