by T. A. Pratt
We took the elevator down to some sub-basement, and Rondeau led me through dark corridors to a locked storage room. He undid a padlock and pulled open the doors, doing a full game-show-host “ta da!” flourish, to reveal a pale motorcycle with a whole lot of gleaming engine tucked under the seat.
“That,” Rondeau said, “is a Vincent White Shadow, from 1949.”
“Okay,” I said. “So it’s an old motorcycle. Did Captain America ride it when he punched out Stalin or something?”
“It is a rare old motorcycle,” Pelham said. “It is essentially the same model as the Vincent Black Shadow – there were only seventeen thousand of those made, all hand-assembled – but they were, as the name implies, painted entirely black, even the engine. Fewer than twenty of them were produced with the engine in an aluminum finish – hence, White Shadow, instead of Black.”
Rondeau patted the handlebars. “These things sell for six figures, easy, when they come up for sale at all. This one’s been customized – the seats are white leather, and the rest of it’s finished in mother-of-pearl, or something like that, anyway. Pretty, whatever it is. I’m no gearhead, and I’d rather straddle a man than a machine anytime, but this thing even gets my motor running.”
“That is excessive information,” I said.
“It’s a gift from your husband,” Pelham said. “Or so the spectral face in the mirror told me, the day it was delivered.”
I nodded. “Huh. Sweet of him, I guess, though I’ve never been all that heavily into bikes. I prefer the bus.”
“She doesn’t get the joke,” Rondeau said.
“To be fair, it isn’t a very good joke,” Pelham said.
“Oh, I get the joke.” I climbed onto the bike, settling onto the soft seat and gripping the handlebars. “I’m an avatar of death. In the immortal parlance of Bon Jovi, motorcycles are steel horses. So I get to ride a pale horse. ‘White Shadow,’ though, really. It sounds like the name of a racist ninja.”
Pelham took a step back, as if worried I’d crank it up and run them down. “Do you know how to drive one of these?”
“Please,” I said. “My ethnic heritage is white trash. Of course I can ride a motorcycle. I just haven’t in a while. I’m good at lots of things I don’t give a crap about.”
“They’re very dangerous. Motorcycle accidents result in a disproportionate number of fatalities.” Pelham clearly thought he was giving me new and vital information.
I laughed. “My new job description is traveling the world murdering monsters. And you think riding a bike is dangerous?”
“It’s an additional danger,” he said primly.
“I’m not too worried about dying in a motorcycle accident. I mean, if I do, it would suck, but I don’t think the death would be all that permanent – I know a guy who can fix stuff like that.” It did make me wonder what would happen, though, if some monster caught me by surprise and tore my head off. Would I become a head in a jar like Nicolette? Would Pelly have to sew my head on my shoulders, Herbert West, Re-Animator style? Or would I just get whisked off the underworld, get a talking-to from my dear husband about taking better care of my mortal carcass, and then catch an elevator back to the surface? Might be good to figure that out.
I ran my finger along the pearlescent finish on the gas tank. I’m not made of stone. I can appreciate something beautiful and well-made, even if it’s not necessarily my favorite kind of thing, and the bike was a beauty. “This is all right. I’d rather have my old Bentley back, though.”
“The Bentley was a fine machine,” Pelham said. Back when I was chief sorcerer of my own city, I’d had a company car, and Pelham had been my chauffeur. I’d never much liked driving under any circumstances, and hadn’t spent much time on motorcycles, honestly. I remember feeling kind of unprotected whenever I got on a motorcycle – like an exposed nerve. But America was a big place. I couldn’t exactly walk across it. Or, I could, but I wouldn’t get too far, and apex predator monsters tend to be sort of spread-out.
Still. A motorcycle. Why? All for the “pale horse” pun? My Dead Husband has a weird sense of humor, but in his defense, he isn’t human. “I understand my DH wanted to get me something rare and fancy, because romance, but he couldn’t have sprung for, I don’t know, a Rolls Royce Wraith? A Tucker Talisman? And maybe a golem driver who doesn’t mind working weird hours?”
“Isn’t your new gig riding into little towns and ridding them of hidden evil?” Rondeau said. “It’s hard to imagine an avenging angel-type rolling up in a vintage luxury car.”
I leaned forward and put my forehead against the handlebars. “What am I doing? Walking the Earth, doing good? Is that really my plan? What the fuck was I thinking? I mean that question seriously, because I don’t remember.”
“To be fair, you tried being idle and sitting on a beach for a while, and you were miserable,” Rondeau said. “Politics isn’t really good for you, either – I mean, you got exiled from your last city-running gig, so you probably aren’t going to get hired to run another one. I guess you could assassinate the head of New York or something and seize power, but you’re not usually that bloodthirsty.”
“I’m plenty bloodthirsty,” I muttered. “If they made blood-flavored Gatorade I’d be all over that shit.”
He ignored me. “You weren’t much good at being an occult detective, either.” I glared at him. He shrugged. “What? You’ve got a lot of strengths, nobody admires you like I do, but Sherlock Holmes meets Carnacki the Ghost-Finder? Not your thing. You could be a mercenary again, you were the best ever at that kind of stuff, but you don’t need the money – even if your best friend wasn’t rich and didn’t owe you his life, you’re a sorcerer, you can always get money. Hell, you’re a goddess, you can just tap your cultists for a loan. Plus, you hate working for other people. This way, you get to make your own hours, beat up monsters, leave any given town whenever you bored, answer to no one, be your own boss... It’s not how I’d choose to spend my six months on Earth every year, that would involve more cocktails and massage oil, but it seems like a good fit for you. Anyway, nobody’s forcing you. If you find a nice ostrich farm or something on your travels you want to run, you can always settle down.”
I lifted my head from the handlebars. “Ha. Sure. Well, whatever. It’ll pass the time, anyway. You have my weapons?”
“Your dagger is safe, yes.”
“And the axe?”
Pelham blinked. “The one that belonged to Nicolette?”
“It never belonged to her, except insofar as she looted it from a dead wizard’s vault, but yeah, that’s the one, it’s got a blade that shines like a shard of moonlight.”
“Yes, we have it,” Pelham said. “Locked up, under heavy wards. We aren’t even sure what it does, exactly.”
I shrugged. “It’s sharp enough to cut off somebody’s arm, I know that much. As for its magical possibilities, maybe Nicolette knows. It’s a powerful weapon, anyway, and I could use as many of those as I can lay my hands on. I don’t have a lot of resources anymore.”
Rondeau whistled. “Riding a motorcycle, with a dagger in one hand and a silver hatchet in the other? That’s an image. Modern valkyrie stuff. You’re going to make me hetero if you’re not careful.”
“If she had a hatchet in one hand and a dagger in the other, how would she steer?” Pelham objected.
“With her boobs,” Rondeau said. “Or knees, I don’t know, she’s resourceful. He looked me up and down. You just need a trench coat. Cowboy boots, of course. Definitely a hat –”
“If I had a hat, I’d make you eat it,” I said. “Be happy I don’t have a hat.”
“Perhaps we could get Nicolette a hat,” Pelham said. “Since it’s really the only accessory she’s capable of wearing at the moment.”
And then we all giggled. It was the first really nice moment I’d had since waking up.
GODSDAMNIT
Looking back over the pages I’ve written so far, this is turning into more than a “just the
facts” primer for brain-damaged future versions of myself. I’m afraid it might be turning into therapy or something.
Turns out it’s easier to figure out what I think about things when I write them down. It’s pretty late in my life to realize something like that. I’ve been through some heavy shit in the past couple years – hell, even just since I woke up – and writing is clearing my head a little, helping me turn disorderly things into neat lines. It’s probably a false sense of order, but I’ll take it.
I know, I’m just as embarrassed as you are. At least I’m not actually talking to a psychiatrist. So if you’re impatient with all the digressions and stuff, Future Me, I hope it makes you feel better to know that I’m impatient, too. I didn’t mean to go on like this. But this is the way it’s coming out, so I’m going to move out of the way and let the words roll on.
At least sitting here and writing keeps me from having to make small talk with Nicolette. She’s not the most fun person in the world to share a shitty motel room with.
GIFTS
After I checked out the motorcycle and Pelham and Rondeau trundled off to bed, I didn’t want to sleep – in a sense I’d been sleeping all month – and as you know I stayed up for a while writing. I had this idea of waiting up to see the sun rise, but my body had other plans.
While there are many magics that can keep you going without rest indefinitely, they all have a wicked backlash eventually, and I figured I should save such measures for when I really needed them, in one of the life-or-death situations I was likely to encounter soon. I bunked down in the spare bedroom, half-expecting Nicolette to keep me awake all night just to be bitchy, but she kept remarkably quiet, apart from crowing like a cartoon rooster around seven a.m.
So my second day on Earth I showered – wake up buried in dirt and you’ll find a new appreciation for showers – and went out into the living area of the suite, where Pelham was laying out a big room-service breakfast, full of bagels and lox and scrambled eggs and rashers of bacon and hash browns and waffles; I was surprised he didn’t have a chef manning a portable omelet station. I grunted a good morning and ate, sticking with black coffee and a couple of doughnuts, because I am a simple woman, and anyway I was basically still full from the previous night’s gorge-fest.
“You’ll stay a few days and rest up, won’t you?” Pelham asked.
I shook my head. “I’ve only got a month, and if I’m going to ‘do better,’ or whatever, I’d better get started soon. I’m planning to light out as I finish my coffee, basically. Maybe even kill a couple of monsters before they wake up and get ready for work.” I had no idea how likely that was, really. In my city, when I was in charge, most of the monsters knew to behave themselves, or at least make themselves useful. But out here, in the Southwest – or the heartland or wherever I was going to end up – with all those empty spaces and little towns? Who knew what I’d find?
(I mean, now I kind of know. And it was worse than I’d expected.)
“Would you like me to accompany you? I could follow in the RV. I hate to think of you out on the road, alone with just Nicolette for company...”
I patted his hand. “I appreciate the concern, Pelly. But you’d be better off making sure the cultists leave me alone – I don’t want to wake up one morning and find them camped in the parking lot outside the Motel 6, having backtraced my aura or something. Anyway, I’m going out to be a freelance monster hunter, and if you came along, I’d just worry about you.” I held up my hands before he could object. “I know you can hold your own in a monster fight, I’ve seen it, that’s not what I’m saying – I just don’t have that many friends left, and I’d like to keep you out of harm’s way. That’s not a concern I have when it comes to the disembodied head of Nicolette. She can have all the harm the world’s got in store for her. But you, stick to High Priesting. Consider that a goddess-given edict from on high. Or down low.”
He scowled. “Technically you are not a goddess just now, but I will accede to your wishes. I ask only that you call us, occasionally, to let us know how you’re faring, and let us know if you need any assistance.”
“I’ll see what I can do.” To my astonishment, Rondeau came into the suite carrying a couple of shopping bags. “This can’t be real. Rondeau. It’s not even noon. How are you awake?”
“You make the mistake of assuming I went to sleep.” He dropped the bags on the table and said, “I come bearing gifts.”
“Weaponry?”
“Nah, I know better than to try and buy weapons for a woman. You always get the wrong thing. I took the safer route and bought you clothes.” He drew a long sand-colored coat from the bag, and I wrinkled my nose.
“That’s a little bit trench coat mafia, don’t you think?”
Rondeau sniffed. “It’s not like it’s black. And, look, I know you used to go around wearing a cloak, and that was fine when you were chief sorcerer – when you’re powerful that kind of fashion choice is just a fascinating eccentricity – but you’d get a lot of weird looks tooling around the highway with a hooded cape. Besides, a cloak would get stuck in the wheels of the motorcycle and strangle you to death, probably. Wearing a duster is way more normal, and you’re so weird, disguising you as normal is a good idea. Besides, just for you, this coat has got about a zillion pockets on the inside, big enough to hold your knives and vials and charms and whatever. It’ll provide some protection when you dump the bike and go sliding along the asphalt too.”
I rose and took the coat. It was pretty nice – brown leather, bronze buttons, slit up the back to hip-level to make riding easier, and with little hidden leg straps so you could secure the back flaps to your body when riding a horse (or motorcycle, in my case).
“It’s made of buffalo leather,” Rondeau said. “Because, who the fuck knows, we’re in the West.”
I tried on the coat, and it felt good – gave me the same armored-up feeling I used to get from wearing an enchanted cloak. “All right. This is an acceptable gift.”
“Check these out.” He lifted a pair of deep red cowboy boots from the bag, and I snorted.
“No way. Not my style. My old stomping boots are fine.”
He shook his head. “I had a cobbler I know make these. Yes, I’m the kind of guy who knows cobblers now. This is some bespoke artisanal footwear here. You just... try them on. Seriously.”
I’ve never been more dubious, but I slid my foot into one of the boots... and couldn’t help letting out an involuntary sigh. They were the most comfortable things I’d ever had on my feet – warm and soft and solid all at once. Rondeau handed me the other boot. “Check out the detail work.”
At first glance the leather was just stitched in swirling patterns... but when I looked closer I saw the shapes of scythes, skulls, wings, and swords embroidered in the leather. “Ha. They’re custom, I’ll give them that.”
“I figure you can enchant them so you can kick your way through cinderblock walls, like you did with your steel-toed boots back in the day.”
“All right. I’m officially touched. I look forward to scraping monster brains off the heels.”
Pelham slipped away while I was trying on the boots, and returned carrying leather motorcycle saddlebags that contained my truly potent tools: my old dagger of office, a blade capable of cutting through just about anything (including ghosts and astral tethers), and the silver-bladed hatchet that Nicolette carried around back when she had arms. I had no idea what the little axe’s powers were, particularly, but it had to be good for something. If nothing else, I could use it to chop firewood if I got stuck sleeping under the stars.
“This is great, Pelham. Both of you. I appreciate it.” I’m not always about thanking people for things. Mostly because I don’t like to admit that I ever need help from anybody with anything at all – but I was trying to do better. “Guess I’d better load up Nicolette and get on the road.”
“There’s a cell phone in the saddlebag too,” Pelham said. “With two numbers programmed in it: mine and Rond
eau’s. If you need anything, call.”
“You know me,” I said. “I never hesitate to call for help.”
TALK TO THE HEAD
“I thought you’d fight me more on this whole cage thing.” I settled Nicolette into the old-fashioned bell-shaped birdcage Rondeau had acquired for me. The bars were bronzey-golden, and it looked more like a theater prop than something you’d actually use to house a tiny feathered dinosaur-descendant. Nicolette didn’t even try to bite me as I lowed the cage down over her head and secured it to the base.
“Who doesn’t want to live in a gilded cage?” She frowned as I flipped the latches that attached base to the bars. “Anyway, I gave it some thought last night, and I’ve decided this is better than the alternative.”
“Which is?”
“Being dead. You do know every other enemy you’ve ever had a beef with is worm food now, right?”
“Not true,” I said. “Some of them just decided it wasn’t worth the trouble of trying to fight me anymore.”
“Then they were never really your enemies. They were just people you had disagreements with. That’s just politics. All the real implacable hardcore foes you’ve faced, they’ve been shuffled right off this mortal coil, whether by your hand directly or as a roundabout consequence of something you did. I was pissed to wake up all disembodied in that fish pond, but I don’t really want to join the roll call of the damned, so for now I’m playing nice. This is a lousy kind of quasi-life, but at least I can still have some fun – eat some chaos, annoy the shit out of you, watch monsters try to unspool your intestines.”
I lifted the cage. An adult human head weighs ten or twelve pounds – don’t ask me why I know that – and the cage added a bit more. Hardly an impossible weight, but I’d get tired lugging her around all the time. Maybe I could rig up some kind of backpack. “So you’re going to be my loyal guide and just hope passively for entertaining misfortunes to befall me? Right. I don’t trust you.”
