Freak City

by Saje Williams

  The whole time she was thinking, I need an ally, someone loyal to only me ... a spirit bound to me and no one else. Please.

  The thread gave in so suddenly she almost lost her grasp on the rune as it slammed into place, a blue shimmer traversing its many curves, knots, and curlicues. She felt a tingle shoot up her arm as she stretched out her other hand to grab the fifth and final strand. She moved quickly this time, not wanting to give it the chance to struggle. She slammed her two hands together, felt the spell form as a burst of fire directly in the center of her forehead.

  She shrieked and tossed the sigil out, speaking the words again. “Give me an ally, a friend, a spirit bound to me and no one else."

  A whistling screech tore through her brain as the sigil flashed into the center of the room, spinning, drawing to it more and more threads. Somewhere in the distance she heard an angry yell. The spell seemed to explode in slow motion, hurling blue light in every direction. She turned her head away as an eerie wind plucked at her hair and clothes.

  As it died away she shifted her eyes back to the center of the room. And nearly fell off her bed. A short, naked, round-bodied humanoid creature stood there, peering intently at its tiny, four-fingered hands. “Well, what do you know about that?” it squeaked. A broad grin spread across its wide face as it lifted its gaze to her. “Hiya, Boss.” Five dangling appendages, looking like the tassels on a jester's cap, hung from the top of its skull.

  Boss?

  "What can I get ya, Boss? You want something?” Despite the high pitched voice, Jaz found herself starting to think of it as a male. Even though, naked, it had no sexual characteristics. It was as bare as a child's doll. “Want something to drink? I do.” Then, before she could actually respond, it—he?—vanished with a loud pop.

  Someone pounded on her door hard enough to make it shudder. It jerked her to her feet. “Who is it?"

  "What are you doing in there? Goddamit, Jaz, you've got this place going apeshit!"

  Baraz. Shit. She glanced around, seeing nothing incriminating. Her heart slammed against her chest. “It's not locked!"

  He flung the door open and surged into the room. Thoth entered on his heels, eyes cold and hard. “What have you been up to?” he growled, focusing a stony glare directly at Jaz. He gave a sniff. “The whole floor stinks of magic."

  She shrugged. She didn't really expect him to buy her innocent act, but to throw it out at him was second nature. He swept his gaze around the room and sniffed again. “What is that?"

  She shot a curious glance at Baraz, who grimaced in response. “You never told us you could smell magic, sir."

  Thoth's lip curled into a semi-smile. “Don't be a wise-ass, girl,” he snapped back. “I repeat—what have you been up to?"

  "Nothing much.” Her feigned nonchalance hit a sour note even she could hear.

  "Uh-huh. Talk to the girl, Baraz. She's been up here juggling live grenades."

  Baraz's look had a few razors attached. “I don't know magic from microwaves, kid. Is he telling the truth here?"

  She suddenly found something of great interest in the opposite corner of the room. “I guess. I just wanted to—"

  "—see what would happen?” Thoth interrupted. “Yeah, that's what Loki always says."

  Baraz snorted. “Well, she's in good company, I suppose."

  "I'm not sure I'd put it that way,” Thoth retorted with a wry grin. “Try to talk some sense into her, will you?"

  Baraz nodded.

  Thoth spun on a heel and stalked out, pulling the door closed behind him.

  Jaz looked up at Baraz and offered a hesitant smile. He crossed his thick forearms over his chest and glared down at her. “What did you do?"

  So she spun him the story of her little venture into the world of mirrors, the ritual she'd witnessed in the park, and what she'd just done. When she was finished, all he could do was look at her in shocked disbelief and ask, “why?"

  He didn't give her a chance to answer, though. He grunted something she didn't quite catch and let out a short, barking laugh. “Because you wanted to see what would happen.” He then sighed. “Remind me not to introduce you to Loki,” he said. “The two of you together would make quite a mess."

  She didn't reply.

  A dull rushing sound like a sudden windstorm swept through the room as the blue creature reappeared, his arms full of articles of various size and description. A one liter pop bottle rolled out of his grasp and hit the floor with a thud, then continued its travels until stopped by Baraz's bare foot.

  "Where have you been?” she asked him.

  He grinned, apparently his normal response to just about everything. “Exploring. This is an amazing world you live in. Not far from here there's a little building filled with bright lights and all these items on shelves and in glass-covered cases—things to eat, drink, and all sorts of stuff I have no idea what to do with."

  "You went shopping."

  "It went shoplifting,” Baraz muttered darkly. “Great. You've created a menace to shopkeepers everywhere."

  The creature's irises were pure black, floating within a sea of polished copper rather than the white one would see in a human's eye. They danced with a merry, mischievous light as he started to juggle the rest of the items he'd brought back with him. “There was a man from Nantucket, who carried his—"

  Baraz reached down and snatched him up by his ... ears. Or what she assumed were his ears. He dangled there in the big man's grasp, apparently not discomfited in the slightest. “Can you get rid of this thing?"

  Jaz shook her head. “I don't think so."

  "Well, what is it?"

  "I don't know. What are you?” he asked the creature.

  The little blue entity looked up at him with an innocent expression that somehow didn't fit him at all. “I'm me,” he answered bluntly.

  Baraz chuckled. “Little imp."

  "Answered your own question, I'd say,” Jaz murmured. “It's an imp."

  The newly christened imp peeled off the lid to an ice cream container and dipped a finger in, pulling out a glistening glob and shoving it in his mouth. “Yum. Want some?” he asked Jaz.

  "Uh ... no. But thanks."

  "Welcome. How ‘bout you?"

  Baraz made a face. “No thanks."

  The imp dropped the ice cream bucket and ripped open a bag of tortilla chips. He shoved a whole handful in his mouth and chomped noisily. “Not bad.” Then, twisting his incredibly mobile face into a disgusted expression, proceeded to spew the glob of partially masticated matter across the room. “Not good either."

  "I've had enough,” Baraz grunted. “He's yours,” he told Jaz. “You figure out how to keep him in line."

  "Gee, thanks."

  "Not a problem.” He turned around and slipped out the door, leaving her there staring at her new roommate as he proceeded to taste-test his way through his mound of snack foods. By the time he was finished a puddle of half-melted ice cream slowly spread across the hardwood floor; an expanding sea of white, its surface littered with an assortment of chips like tiny ships caught in a frozen harbor.

  Jaz let out a groan and sank back down on her bed. This was going to be a big problem. She could see it now. “Well, I suppose you're going to need a name,” she sighed. “I can't just be calling you ‘hey, you.’”

  The creature paused, a handful of cheese puffs halfway to his mouth. “A name?"

  "Yeah. I think I'll call you Quickfingers. I know most of the shopkeepers around here. If you managed to snatch all of that before one of them caught up with you, you have to have quick hands."

  "Quickfingers it is!” The imp threw the bag of cheese puffs into the air, sending bits of crumbly orange fluff flying across the room, and jumped into her lap. He planted a big sloppy kiss on her cheek, leaving a soggy trail of crumbs on her face as he bounded away again. “Woo-hoo!"

  Someone banged on the floor. “Knock it off!” she heard someone yell.

  Oh, great. That's all I need.

&
nbsp; Fourteen

  Amanda looked around the boardroom consumed by a feeling of sheer ennui. If she had to listen to another stuffed shirt expounding on profit/loss statements and the tactics of hostile takeovers, she was going to scream.

  She knew, deep down, that all this stuff made the world's economy go ‘round, but, compared to tracking down dangerous monsters and metahuman criminals, this whole thing was about as interesting as watching paint dry.

  They should call it the ‘bored-room,' she thought disgustedly.

  She sat on the far end of the long table from her grandfather, who eyed her suspiciously as she stifled yet another yawn. She knew she'd already earned another lecture when they got home. He'd been trying to pound home the value of what they did and, on an intellectual level, she got it. But she had to grab her attention span by the scruff and give it a good shake every so often or she'd doze off at the table.

  The woman to her right, one of the corporate lawyers on the staff, stood and delivered a mind-numbing commentary on some product liability suit being pressed against one of GreyCorp's many subsidiaries, a toy manufacturer that had, in Amanda's opinion, skirted the line between profit and good taste.

  Maybe she just had a prejudice against toy guns of any kind, but this particular line of toys—dressed up to look exactly like military weapons—grated against her sense of propriety. It smacked of war mongering and the way she figured it, the world had enough problems without encouraging that sort of thing in young children.

  The suit had been pressed by an ultra-liberal parents’ group opposed to any kind of toy weapons, basically for the same reasons. According to their initial statement, weapons such as the ‘Honor Guard,’ line encouraged war-like behavior and violence in general. Amanda wasn't sure she'd go that far, but she still found the line of toys distasteful.

  She didn't hide her relief particularly well when the meeting finally ended. As they were filing out of the room one of the suits—a smarmy creature who worked in the marketing department—tried a little harmless flirting. She shot him down like a wounded duck.

  She missed Ben, she realized suddenly. Being stuck in this world of corporate double-speak was driving her mad. She needed someone sane to hold on to and Ben fit the bill better than just about anyone she knew. He, of all people, wouldn't let all this bullshit get to him.

  One of the things that she couldn't quite grasp was why GreyCorp seemed to operate on a twenty-four hour schedule. This meeting started at eight at night, and ran almost to eleven. She'd always thought these places kept bankers’ hours, but she'd soon learned differently. At least where GreyCorp was concerned. A lot of its resources were off-shore, so her grandfather seemed to forgo sleeping more than a few hours at time. She wasn't exactly getting a lot of rest herself—she'd wake up in the middle of the night and wander into the kitchen to find him on his cell phone, or tied into the household computer on his portable, giving last minute orders or trying to undercut a competitor overseas by offering someone else a special deal.

  She had to admit, as much as she secretly loathed the old bastard, that he was a genius when it came to stuff like that.

  So far she hadn't stumbled upon anything obviously illegal, though her gut told her that he was involved in some pretty nasty stuff. She just hadn't seen any proof of it. She didn't really expect him to fall all over himself trying to prove he trusted her. Near as she could tell, he didn't trust anyone.

  The size of the damned house didn't help either. Unless she wanted to lay transit lines all over the place there was no way for her to sneak around to spy on her grandfather and his cronies. She was getting to the point she just might have to. She'd run out of options. If he was up to anything dirty—and she was certain he was—she wanted to catch him at it and get back to life as usual.

  The limo ride back to the estate was as uncomfortable as always. She sat in the seat across from Thomas and his current bodyguard, a thick-necked, shaven head bully boy with massively muscled shoulders and the slack expression of the brain-damaged.

  "You embarrassed me in there,” Grey hissed at her.

  "I'm sorry,” she murmured, lowering her eyes, knowing that if she met his gaze he'd see the lie in her eyes. She wasn't sorry. She didn't care. But I have to play like I do.

  This is one of the reasons she would never have made a real cop. At least none that had to work undercover. Deception wasn't something she'd ever felt all too comfortable with. She liked to make straight-on attacks.

  Unfortunately that wasn't the game plan here.

  Grey snorted derisively. “I thought you had a spine, girl. Maybe I was wrong. Maybe I was wrong about everything."

  Now that was a surprising admission. Not like it gained her anything. The wheels spun beneath them as they journeyed home in uncomfortable silence. She retired to her room immediately upon entering the house. She couldn't deal with him any more tonight, she decided. Enough was enough.

  * * * *

  The interior of Dr. Coyote's wagon was far larger than the exterior. Somehow Ben didn't find this all that surprising. The Thorne Academy was full of what the mages called ‘extra-dimensional space.’ The inside of this wagon seemed much the same. Unless somehow they'd shrank, become incredibly thin to the point of two-dimensionalism themselves, the good doctor had positively loaded this rickety shack on wheels with said additional space.

  The walls were hung with various tapestries, except for the left-hand wall, which was covered with shelves and row upon row of strange bottle filled with a hazy green liquid. He leaned forward to scan the label. Dr. Coyote's Magical Mystery Elixir. It'll Cure What Ails You.

  Ben felt a sense of disquiet just looking at them. He wasn't sure why.

  The ceiling was a good ten feet above their heads. Just thinking about that made him a little dizzy, so he quickly switched his attention to Dr. Coyote, who'd settled into a rocking chair and was peering at them intently, but at none more than his doppelganger. He gestured for them to sit and they did so, taking seats in the other chairs strewn about the living space.

  "So,” he said, “it appears that the ways between the worlds have been opened,” he mused, more to himself than to any one of them in particular.

  Loki nodded impatiently. If anything this particular version of him seemed more laid back than the one Ben knew, as if one had learned to come to terms with things the other had not. The long, beaded hair gave him a distinct hippy look. “Yeah—we popped a hole and squirted through,” Loki said with a grimace. “Chaz here is a wonder with machines."

  Dr. Coyote shifted his gaze to regarded the young engineer. “Impressive. I take it you weren't working backward from some piece of enemy technology?"

  Chaz shook his head. “Nope. Just forward from theory."

  "Amazing.” He sighed. “Your world must have advanced faster than mine did,” he said in a tone of mild regret. A twinge of guilt shot through his eyes a half second later but Ben wasn't sure anyone else caught it.

  "So what's the story here?” Loki asked. “What happened to your technology?"

  Dr. Coyote smiled wryly. “The Witch Wars happened.” He sighed. “In all fairness, they didn't start the war. The Witchfinders did. When they started the whole ‘we're going to burn you at the stake for fornicating with the devil’ thing—the bastards—the witches started banding together and fighting back.

  "The Church sent in mercenaries, who more or less got their asses handed to them. The witches were Celts, and the Celts never learned to roll over for anyone. Their men stood up with them, and some of them were witches too, but those who weren't, were warriors.

  "From the Highlands they came, and across the water from Ireland, and they took Briton, driving the Christians into the sea with their arms and their magic. Then, once they'd taken the Isles, they gathered their forces and fled across the ocean to the New World, leaving behind a warning—'follow at your own risk.’”

  His dry delivery was interrupted by a knock at the door behind them. He stood, crossing the
red carpet to the door in three long strides. “Who is it?” he called out suspiciously.

  "Mandy,” came the reply. Ben frowned and swiveled to look as the door was thrown open. A small shape entered in a hooded cloak, throwing back the cloak as the door swung shut behind her. He let out an involuntary gasp. It was Amanda. But not. He knew that instantly. She looked so much like his Amanda he wanted to cry out to her. But he restrained himself with great effort. This one looked a little wild, her hair windblown and tousled further by its time inside the hood, her eyes glittering in the lamplight.

  She scraped the room with an iron gaze and visibly flinched when her eyes passed over Loki. She shot a puzzled look at Dr. Coyote, who gave her a tentative smile. “I'll explain later,” he told her. “What are you doing here this late?"

  "Raiders coming. A band of sixty, from the south."

  "Of course they had to contend with the Spanish and French who were already here in numbers. The Spanish own the lower half of the country, the French the entire Northeast Coast, and the British have title to the Northern Territories. The Russians have claimed the Alaska Territory,” he added with a shrug. “They are out of favor with the Church. No one will support their claim.” He turned back to Mandy. “How far out?"

  "Five minutes?” she said, chewing on her lower lip as she continued to look around the wagon's interior.

  "This territory is claimed and held by the Witch's Council and the Salish Tribes, but the Dons to the south regularly send raiding parties. We're negotiating with some of the more warlike eastern tribes but, for the moment, we're pretty much alone out here."

  "We? You include yourself among them?” Loki asked curiously.

  "I do,” Dr. Coyote replied. “You should be safe enough inside the wag—"

  "We're not staying in here,” Ben cut him off. “We'll help."

  "It could be dangerous. Often they come in and burn down a hut or two and take a few prisoners, but we manage to hide the majority of our people and homes with magic."