by T. A. Pratt
Gary started for the counter, knife raised high. Arlene was pretty clearly his next target. He went through the pass-through behind the counter, and Arlene surprised me by vaulting right over the counter before he could get to her, knocking salt shakers and coffee cups out of the way in the process. Gary wasn’t impressed by her athletic prowess. He just changed course, came back around to our side of the counter, and lifted his blade. Arlene moved past me, toward the booth where the family was sitting, but there was nowhere for her to go after that, and Gary was advancing. Lucky for Arlene, he’d have to pass by me to get to her.
I’ve been trained by some of the best knife fighters in the world. I know about the advantages of the reverse grip, hammer grip, icepick grip, and fencer’s grip. I know the uses of biomechanical cutting – slashing at your opponent’s muscles to disable them – and I’ve been in my share of actual trying-to-kill-somebody fights. Plus, I’ve got a dagger so sharp it can cut through ghosts.
But I didn’t pull my knife and tussle with Gary. The thing about knife fighting is, it’s ugly. The only time you get to use fancy moves is in a formal duel or a demonstration bout between masters. If you want to win a knife fight in the real world, the best way is to strike before the other person even knows they’re in a knife fight – just rush them and stab them as hard and fast as you can, prison-yard style. A surprise blitz attack is almost impossible for any knife fighter to defend against, no matter how well trained they are. Going at Gary, when he was jacked up on who knew what exciting substances and clearly had no particular concern for long-term consequences or self-preservation, would be a good way for me to get cut, and getting cut hurts.
So instead I picked up my full coffee cup, took aim, and threw it at Gary’s head as hard as I could. The side of the heavy porcelain mug struck him right in the middle of the forehead, staggering him and splashing hot coffee across his face and scalp, and all down his front as the cup tumbled. He didn’t fall down, but he wobbled, and the arm holding the knife hung loose at his side.
I knew he was seeing stars, but depending on what he was on, he wouldn’t be staggered for long. I slid out of the booth, the plate in my hand, and took a few quick steps toward him. His eyes finally focused on me, but before he could bring the knife up, I smashed him across the face with my plate, getting scrambled eggs in his eyes. Too bad for him I like my eggs with lots of hot sauce.
He screamed and fell backwards, and when I saw my chance, I stomped on his wrist. I hadn’t had the chance to work any nasty inertial charms into the boots yet, but a heel with all my weight on top of it was sufficient to make his hand fall open, releasing the knife. I kicked the blade away, knelt down, flipped him over on his belly, and jerked his hands up behind his back. I had zip ties in one of my coat pockets – among other useful things – so I bound his wrists, then grabbed the tie and used it as a handle to drag him across the floor. I don’t think I dislocated his shoulders, but he hollered like I did. I left him in the entryway, shoved off to one side by the bubble gum machine and not blocking the door, on account of fire safety, and also because I knew I’d better be leaving soon.
Gary groaned, and I didn’t even kick him, because I’m trying to Do Better.
I stood up, and the whole diner was staring at me. The cook, an old fat guy, had finally emerged, and was pressing a wad of paper towels against the trucker’s bleeding bicep. Arlene’s mouth hung open, and the other diners were all on their feet. One of the truckers clapped, and someone else cheered.
The only person not looking at me was the little boy, and his behavior went unnoticed by his parents, since they were focused on my selfless act of violence. He was crouched by my booth, lifting up the edge of the cover over Nicolette’s bird cage. His eyes were wide, and he was nodding, as if agreeing with someone.
“I’d better be going,” I said, and shoved through the crowd, which parted for me the way they usually do for someone whose shown a capacity for mayhem, only with more of an air of gratitude. The boy let the cover drop and backed away hurriedly, trying to look innocent and failing. I started to pick up the birdcage, then swore and reached into my pocket for some money.
“Honey, your meal is on the house,” Arlene said.
“I should really be going.” I said.
She chewed her lip. “The police will want to –”
“I’m not a big fan of the police.”
Arlene nodded like she understood. “Which way are you headed?”
I hesitated. “South.”
“Is that true, or what you want us to tell the cops?”
“It’s true.”
“Then if anybody asks me I’ll say you headed north.”
Despite myself, I smiled. “That’d be fine. Thanks, Arlene.”
“Honey, thank you. Gary Singer’s always had a mean streak, but he’s never been mean and armed before.”
“Yeah. People change.” I picked up the bird cage.
“Now tell me the truth,” Arlene said. “Is there a bird in that?”
“No,” the little boy said.
“Squawk,” Nicolette said, sounding pleased with herself.
I got out and got on my bike and got clear.
SMALL ROOMS
I came out of the motel bathroom, drying my hair. Like I said, I’d gotten a real taste for showers since dragging myself up out of the dirt. Plus beating up guys in diners makes you sweaty. Nicolette’s uncovered cage rested on a little desk in the corner, where she was watching some horrible reality show.
I picked up the remote and turned off the TV, to her annoyance.
“What did you say to that little kid?” I asked.
“What little kid?”
“In the diner. I saw him talking to you.”
“What can I say? I’m approachable. People love me.”
I growled. “Unless you want to spend the night outside strapped to the motorcycle –”
“Oh, fine. I just told him that if he ate the heart of a parrot and drank the blood of a sea turtle he’d live more than a hundred years.”
“You’re sick.” That explained the glimpse I’d had of the boy wreathed in magic, though – seeing Nicolette’s living head, hearing her speak, had opened up a possible future path that led him toward the secret world.
“What? Those are legitimate components in a spell to increase longevity. Obviously I didn’t have time to give him ritual instructions, but he seemed like a smart kid. He’ll figure it out.” She snickered.
I tossed my towel across a chair and got dressed, ignoring Nicolette’s gagging sounds. She said, “I do not need to see you in all your naked glory. How many more scars are you planning to collect?”
“At least I’ve still got a body, Orpheus. What the hell was that supposed to be this afternoon? You’re supposed to find evil, and you lead me into the path of some meth-head with a knife?”
“You asked for chaos. I obliged.”
“I was thinking more something supernatural. Something a little better suited to my skills. Which you know.”
“Sure, and when I smell something like that, I’ll tell you. What, you want me to ignore ordinary people knifing other ordinary people? Okay, that’s fine with me. It’s not like I give a shit.”
“You are a very frustrating traveling companion,” I said, showing off the gift with understatement for which I’m so widely known.
“You’re frustrated? I’m a head, in a cage, draped in darkness at your whim, strapped on the back of a motorcycle, only given a glimpse of daylight when it suits you. If I had hands, I’d strangle you.”
“If you had a neck, I’d strangle you. So we’re both out of luck.”
“This is some Gift of the Magi type shit right here.”
I couldn’t help it. I started laughing, then turned the TV back on to keep Nicolette entertained. I retreated back into the bathroom for some relative privacy and fiddled with my phone until I figured out how to call Pelham.
He picked up before the first ring even finished.
“Mrs. Mason? Are you all right?”
“Sure, I’m fine.”
“Are you still on the road?”
I sat down on the toilet and propped my feet up on the edge of predictably water-stained tub. “Nah, decided to stop early today. I’m in a motel. I smashed a guy in the face with a cup and a plate earlier, which was fun, but I figured I’d rest up after all the excitement.”
“I am pleased to hear you’re finding a pleasant routine. How may I assist you?”
“I brought some of my basic tools with me, but I’m in need of a couple of specialty items. I could use a handful of bombyx mori – alive or dead, doesn’t matter – and a noctuid moth. A tiger moth would work in a pinch, though.”
“I will get in touch with one of our entomological suppliers,” Pelham said. “Silkworms and moths? May I ask what sort of enchantment you’re planning?”
“I’m tired of Nicolette screaming at me from the back of my motorcycle, so we need a better way to communicate. You can probably get the stuff without much trouble, but the problem is getting it to me. You could make a reservation for me at some motel along tomorrow’s route and overnight the package there, so it’ll be waiting for me –”
“I think I can do better than that. Where are you now?”
I told him the name of the motel, then said, “Any other news of note?”
“I haven’t heard anything from the cultists. But they’re deep in the caves below Death Valley by now, where, I imagine, phone reception is unreliable.” He sighed. “I do hope they emerge safely from their explorations.”
“We might be better off if they just stay down there. They can form a new society, eat blind lizards, stuff like that.”
“Hmm. More likely they’ll die. And if that happens, won’t they just show up in the underworld, and pursue their devotions for you there instead?”
I grunted. “I hadn’t thought about that. My memory of the afterlife is too messed up for me to know if that’s going to be an issue. But my suspicion is that the underworld is a big place, and I can probably avoid them.” I sighed. “I don’t want to be responsible for them, Pelham, I didn’t ask them to worship me –”
“And yet, they do,” he said gently.
“Fine. If they don’t crawl out in few days, maybe send somebody with subterranean magic experience down to look for them?” Then I winced. “Shit. It’s like somewhere in the back of my head I still think I’m running a city, with all kinds of specialists at my disposal –”
“We can hire someone appropriate, Mrs. Mason. Rondeau’s funds are not literally inexhaustible, but they might as well be, and he assures me it is difficult to lose money operating a casino – at least when you’re a psychic. In any case, you’re running something much more important than a city, now. Co-regent of the underworld...”
“I’m glad you’re so proud, Pelly, but it’s just a part-time seasonal gig, really. I’m basically like an apple-picker. Talk to you soon.”
•
I put a couple of protective wards on the door – a few more scratches in the doorframe would hardly be noticeable – and went out to get some dinner, leaving Nicolette behind. My options were a Waffle House or an International House of Pancakes or gas station hot dogs or a local diner, and picked the latter. I wondered if diners were going to be bad luck for me, but I got through a chicken-fried steak and mashed potatoes without having to bust any heads.
There wasn’t a lot of nightlife to be had around that particular freeway exit, but I stopped by the gas station/convenience store to rifle through their cheap jewelry rack, finding most of what I needed. I checked my phone and discovered there was a tattoo parlor just a few miles away, in what passed for the outskirts of what passed for this town. I drove there, went inside, made some demands that confused the owner, then dispelled his confusion with a large wad of cash, part of the riding-around money Rondeau had given me. I got the owner to give me a demonstration – luckily someone had an appointment for the right procedure around that time anyway – then bought some tools and went on my merry way.
When I returned to the motel, Nicolette ignored me, staring at the television. I didn’t mind.
Eventually the drone of the TV turned to white noise in my ears, and I tried reading a copy of Zen and the Art of Motorcycle Maintenance that Rondeau had slipped into my saddlebags. Of course, once she saw me trying to read, Nicolette interrupted me.
“Is that any good?”
I shrugged. “I could live without the Zen bits. The motorcycle maintenance parts are okay.”
Someone knocked at the door. I frowned, tossed the cover over Nicolette’s cage, and drew my dagger. The motel door didn’t have a peephole, which was fine. I’ve never trusted those, anyway. I knew a guy who got stabbed in the eye right through a peephole once, with a metal shish kebab skewer. I twitched aside the curtain, and saw a young man in black motorcycle leathers, holding a cooler marked with a caduceus symbol.
I opened the door. “Can I help you?”
“Marla Mason?”
“I am.”
“I’ve got a delivery for you.”
I looked at him blankly, then laughed. “That was quick.”
“I usually deliver organs to hospitals. I drive fast. But you’re not far from Phoenix anyway.”
Ah. That explained how Pelham had organized things this neatly without bending time. He hadn’t sourced my bugs from Las Vegas, but from a city closer to my position. I took the cooler. “Do I, like, tip you, or –”
“I’m not the pizza guy,” he said, affronted, and put his helmet on before striding away.
“Okay then.” I shut the door, put the cooler on the table, and opened it up.
“Do you mind,” Nicolette said.
I took the cover off her cage and tossed it aside.
She looked at the cooler. “What’s in there? Human heart? Fried up with a little butter, those are delicious –”
“Silkworms.” I reached in and removing a little baggie full of dead bugs. “And a tiger moth.” Vividly striped, in another plastic bag. I retrieved my sack from the convenience store and pulled out some ugly Southwestern-style earrings, all turquoise and fake silver, and a simple black leather necklace with a dangling turquoise pendant. I got my tool bag and took out a mortar and pestle and a small pair of scissors and some assorted tinctures and essences in little glass bottles. Nicolette watched with interest as I crushed up the tiger moth with various other substances, said the right words, and then applied the resulting clear fluid to the earrings. The stones sucked in the fluid like they were made of sponge instead of turquoise.
“You’re a decent enchanter,” Nicolette said, with grudging appreciation. “Why tiger moth?”
“They have some of the best hearing of any animal. Bat ears, or the lower jaw of a dolphin – those pick up sound transmitted through the water – would work, too, but they’re less portable and harder to find.”
“Huh. I thought you were crap at all the kinds of magic that didn’t involve beating people up.”
“I am a woman of many talents.” Actually, not that many. I’m not even that great at magic – or, to be fair to myself, magic didn’t come naturally to me. But enchanting is something anyone can do, if they learn how, and if they do it exactly right. It’s no harder than neurosurgery, I’m told. I fucked up a lot in the learning process, but I seldom made the same mistake twice, and an enchantment of hearing-and-listening isn’t that hard. Most sorcerers don’t bother learning to do this kind of enchantment – because we have these little things called phones now – but they’re useful in places where there’s no phone service, or, for instance, when you need to communicate with someone who doesn’t have the appendages necessary to operate a phone.
She said, “So that’s the listening. How are you going to handle the talking?”
I showed Nicolette the silkworms. “They can communicate over incredible distances. I’m not convinced they have anything all that interesting to say, but they can say it to ot
her worms a long ways away.” I prepared the specimens, working meticulously and slowly, and applied the resulting shimmering oil to the necklace’s pendant, where the stone soaked up the fluid, just like the earrings had.
“So, a necklace for you to talk through. What about me? We’ve already discussed my lack of a neck.”
I opened the bag of things I’d gotten at the tattoo parlor: forceps, a 14 gauge tongue stud, and a 14 gauge needle. I hadn’t bothered with getting any ointment. Infection wasn’t a concern.
“What’s all that for?” Nicolette said.
“To improve our communication.” I lifted off the cage lid. “Stick out your tongue.”
She eyed the tools on the table. “Oh, hell, no.”
“Like you’ve never had a piercing. You’ve got like eight holes in each ear.”
“I’ve never had my tongue pierced. Or anything pierced by someone I hate.”
“There’s a first time for everything. Look, I can get some dental tools, and some c-clamps, and fix your head to the table, and force your mouth open –”
“Kinky,” Nicolette said.
“– or we can skip all the trouble and you can just stick out your damn tongue.”
“Marla. If I could shake my head right now, I would. When have you ever known me to avoid trouble? Bring it on. I bet I can bite off one of your fingers at least.”
I rubbed my eyes. I’d been enchanting for two hours, and it takes a lot out of you. “Look. Can I bribe you instead?”
“I am always open to bribes.”
We haggled, and I finally got her to agree to something I was willing to give, so she stuck out her tongue, and I grabbed it with the forceps. After lifting up her tongue and looking to make sure I wouldn’t tear the webbing underneath, or hit the big vein running through the tongue – which probably wouldn’t hurt her, but I was following the procedure the guy at the tattoo shop showed me – I jabbed down with the needle, piercing straight through. “You’re drooling,” I said.
“Uck oo,” Nicolette replied.
“Here comes the stud.” I positioned the barbell tongue stud, pushing it into the new hole as I slid the needle down and out. Then I twisted the ball onto the underside of the stud, making it secure. “Voila,” I said.
