Neither Shaw nor I join in, though. “It’s happened, Robert,” Shaw says with a sigh. “I wasn’t submitting for approval. I was submitting for reimbursement.”
Robert turns a dangerous shade of purple. The word, “What?” manages to hiss out from between his quivering lips. And who is this man? What sort of game does he think we’re playing? What sort of stakes does he think there are? I’m tempted to give him several large pieces of my mind.
“I submitted the forms Robert, expedited. I ticked all the boxes. But I didn’t have weeks to wait for an approval. I needed a rapid retrieval.”
“Look, Felicity,” Robert says Shaw’s name as if it were a curse. “I thought I had made the financial situation plain to you.” He clips each of his words, keeping them separate from the others, giving him an odd stilted tone. “The budget is not there. You can hardly afford maintenance of another old book, let alone the price of going after it.”
“Well, Robert,” Shaw’s tone is barely any more civil, “then we shall have to investigate new methods of finding the money.”
“Maybe we’ll have to cut some of the higher-paid staff.”
It’s a vicious little thing to say from a vicious little man. And before I know it my mouth is open and I have my own vicious things to say.
“How much do you get paid?” I ask.
His head snaps around. “What?”
I pause a moment. Because this is not the sort of thing I do. Or not the sort of thing I did. But it’s the sort of thing Kurt Russell would do, goddamn it. And I have faced down bigger monsters than this guy in the past few days. And I think I can take him.
“Well,” I shrug, “if we’re cutting people, shouldn’t we evaluate each individual’s salary? Try and work out what it is they bring to the team?” While he splutters, I let a frown crease my forehead. “What is it exactly that you’re bringing to the team?”
It is only there for an instant, but I swear I see Shaw smile.
“Can you not even control your staff, Felicity?” Robert hisses.
Shaw feigns confusion. “You seem to assume I disagree with Agent Wallace.”
I almost reach over and high five Shaw.
He swings his gaze on me, eyes black and flaring. “Director Shaw cannot offer you protection for long. Too many black marks and you will not enjoy the benefits of this organization. There are things out there that I would not like to meet without backup.”
“Oh shut up, Robert,” Shaw says, and I could almost hug her for it. Instead I swallow the ball of laughter and clamp it down in my stomach.
Robert turns, stalks out of the room. As he does so, I, for a moment, glimpse the woman who was standing there, who laughed at the little man’s little joke. I manage to get a glimpse of blond hair, red dress, and curves that would make the tires of a race-car squeal. And then she is gone.
And she laughed at his joke? There is no justice in the world. And I used to be a policeman. I should know.
I pull myself back together and turn back to Shaw, who’s looking at her watch. “OK,” she says, “now I could definitely use a drink.” She pushes against her forehead with her hands. “Too long a week by half.” She sighs, looks up. “Thank you. Robert is... manageable, but it’s always nice to have...” she pauses, lets the smile creep out for a moment again, “...backup.”
“I want you to know you can trust me.”
She lets out something that’s almost a laugh. Then she’s serious again. “Look, Arthur,” she says, “I don’t know how much help I’ve been. The Dreamers concern me, but I can’t tell you much more than you can figure out on your own. But you were a detective. Do some detecting. Try talking to the Twins. When we’re confused they’re often our best resource.”
“Sounds like a plan for the morning.”
“Indeed.” She opens a closet, pulls out a coat. I hold the door. She pauses there.
“Would you—” she looks awkward— “want to join me for the drink?”
My eyebrows bounce up and I immediately pull the irresponsible little buggers right down. “Sure,” I say, hoping she didn’t notice.
We step out into the corridor and see Clyde coming toward us. He’s still wearing the mask from Peru around his shoulder.
“Oh,” he says, “not too late am I? Just wanted to talk about the book we found, about the Dreamers and such.”
I look at Shaw, who looks tired.
“No,” she says, “not too late.” She turns back to her office.
“How about we do it down the pub,” I say. “Easier to talk with a pint in our hands.”
Clyde looks at me as if I’ve committed blasphemy. Shaw pulls the same eyebrow bounce I just did. And apparently this is an office culture faux pas I’m still too new to really grasp.
Then Shaw shrugs. “Yes,” she says. “Yes, that would be easier.”
I don’t think Clyde would look more shocked if a Feeder punched through reality right here and now and started dancing the two-step.
37
We head over to the Turf, which is a charmer of a pub, tucked away near a few of the colleges. It’s a bit of a trek from the office, but utterly worth it as I sag into an oak chair, and Clyde, who is decent enough to buy the first round, sets an amber pint down in front of me.
“So, this book,” Shaw says to Clyde, “tell us about it.”
“It’s reality magic,” Clyde says, “all of it.” His fingers bounce on the table. He’s excited. Has been ever since the flight landed.
So has Tabitha.
“I think this could be as big as the book about the Feeders. Just, well... less traumatic to read.”
More pint sipping quickly ensues all around the table as we all briefly relive the horrors of that experience.
“I mean,” Clyde continues, “I’m only just scratching the surface, Tabby’s doing the real work...”
And there’s that boyish grin again. It’s a little bit infectious. I wonder if Shaw knows, if I should tell her. Or maybe I should let it alone. Reality will impinge on the relationship soon enough. Devon will impinge on it. My smile slips. I wouldn’t want to be in Clyde’s shoes for that one.
“I mean... using this—” Clyde is struggling to find words to describe the enormity of his vision “—we could probably plot out other realities. I mean, the whole thing is basically a guidebook for creating your own spells. And I know, I know, I know...” He holds up a palm to Shaw. “The whole Chernobyl thing. But they didn’t have this book. We could do the experiments in Wales. Who’d miss Wales?”
I snort into my pint. Shaw clucks slightly.
“I’m sorry.” Clyde rubs his hands. “But this is so exciting. Like getting the girl of your... well, you know, just, very exciting. And even if we can’t... even if it doesn’t do all it seems to be promising to do, I still think this is a genuine break. This gives us some real insight into what the Progeny might actually be doing, how they think they can bring the Feeders through.”
Something clicks in my brain. Perhaps it’s the beer finally unknotting some of the kinks I’ve had in my thoughts since starting this job. Maybe I’m just not thinking straight and I needed to go at a lateral angle, but events start collating in my head.
Something to do with unwelcome guests.
And throwing Robert out of Shaw’s office.
Something about the Dreamers coming, entering our reality.
“Can we throw them out?” I say.
Shaw and Clyde both look at me.
“I mean...” I say, hesitate, almost lose the thought, then, “the Progeny. Out of people’s heads. I mean that’s the problem, right? And we’ve tried to get the Progeny out of our entire reality, and instead we pulled Dreamers in. But maybe we don’t have to be that dramatic. Instead of getting them out of reality, we just get them out of people’s heads. Because... well, if the Progeny don’t have a nest what can they do? They can’t breed. They can’t operate. Is there something in the book that can help with that?”
They both star
e at me. I feel like I just spoke in tongues at them. Then Shaw’s head swivels and suddenly it’s me and her staring at Clyde.
“Err...” he says, looks down at his pint, goes for the sip to put some alcohol between him and the collective stare. “Maybe?” He sips again. Then more enthusiastically. “Maybe. Yeah maybe. I mean, I’d have to read more. A lot more.” He looks excited at that prospect. “But perhaps there’s something in there.”
“Read,” Shaw says. “Find out.” She pats me on the arm. “Good thought, Arthur.”
We both look at the hand. Almost sheepishly, she pulls it away. We both look up at Clyde, who takes a very, very long sip.
38
THE NEXT DAY
There is, I admit, a decent chance my vision of magical research was overly influenced by Harry Potter. I was pretty sure test tubes would be involved. Jars of unnameable fluids. Bits of mythological creatures. Probably a cauldron. And, I was rather hoping, the occasional explosion.
In reality there is a table and a large pile of very old books with colored plates. Though, in defense of young Master Potter, there are two people making eyes at each other over the book pile when they think no one else is looking.
As much as I like Tabitha and Clyde, it’s a relief when I remember Shaw’s advice, and excuse myself to go and see if the Twins can shed any light on matters.
The elevator doors slide open. The familiar sea-salt smell. Familiar shapes in the water and shadows on the walls. One of the girls is leaning on the side of the pool, wet hair draped over the tiles around it. The other slips through the water around her, bobbing up and down, barely disturbing the water as tentacles wave around her— the Loch Ness monster in miniature.
What happened to them? What was done that made them into these aquatic, prophetic creatures? And what’s going to happen to them? Am I really going to be able to stop anything?
More than ever I am reminded about what colossal bastards the Progeny really are.
“Hello, Agent Wallace,” says one of the girls. I am too far away to count freckles and know which one.
“Can we call you Arthur?” says the other, surfacing and swimming to the edge.
“Agent Wallace is more polite,” says the first.
“Arthur is what Shaw calls him,” says the second.
“Director Shaw,” corrects her sister.
Swann would have liked the girls. The thought strikes me suddenly, unexpectedly.
Ouch.
“You can call me Arthur,” I say, smiling through the mental confusion.
“We’re sorry about Alison,” Ophelia says. I’m close enough now to see it’s her. The first speaker.
“Time makes it better,” says Ephie.
Ophelia nods. “We’ve seen it before.”
Ouch again.
“Sorry,” says Ephie. Ophelia just shrugs with the certainty of youth—this was something I apparently needed to hear. She’s probably right.
“It’ll hurt for a while,” Ephie says. “But then less.”
“Yes,” I say. And then, “I’m not going to let them get you.” I’m surprised by how fiercely I feel it.
“We know you’ll try your best,” says Ophelia.
I don’t really know what to say to that. Not a ringing endorsement. But not a condemnation. Still, I mean what I say. I will do everything I can to stop the Progeny. Anything.
“You wanted to ask us something,” Ophelia says. She’s more serious than her sister. The difference is more pronounced between them than the last time I was here. Though there’s a decent chance I’d get grumpy if I were living with a death sentence over my head.
Man, it’s hard to have a happy thought in this place.
“Yes,” I say. “I wanted to ask you about—”
I cut myself off. Something has caught my eye. Something red in the water. Black dots floating in the center of a red haze. Something shifting beneath the surface of the pool.
Blood. It looks like blood in the water. Clots at its heart slowly dissolving away.
Blood. Why would there be blood in the water?
Unthinking I reach out to touch it. The girls stare at me, uncomprehending. Then, with my fingers a fraction of an inch above the water, they seem to understand fully what I am about to do.
“No!” Ephemera shrieks.
Ophelia releases a high-pitched scream.
And I turn, but I don’t stop, because I don’t understand, and I don’t remember Shaw’s warning, and my fingers touch the water.
The pool turns black. A great flood of ink. Every animal in it releasing in one massive expulsion. My finger drips ink. And then I remember Shaw’s words. I remember her using the word “psychotropic” as a strange tingling sensation creeps up my arm. And the tingling is burning, is crushing, each sensation coming faster up my arm, battering against my skull, thundering over my chest, making my legs kick and spasm. I flinch backwards, wrenching my stained fingers away far, far too late, because already I am—
THEN AND WHEN AND IN-BETWEEN
Ouch.
I’m not totally sure why I always end up in this alley face down... I need to work out a better way of getting here. Talk to a travel agent or something.
I push myself up and over, the smell of wet concrete still in my nose. And I realize—this is a new alleyway. I can hear the sound of traffic at its end, oddly muted, but undeniably present. The sky has clouds. The trash smells a little worse.
But the princess is there still. Still in the same dress. I watch her hands. I don’t want my arm to go all silly putty on me again.
“You’re—” I start. Her brow creases, her finger goes to her lips.
“You’re one of the Dreamers,” I whisper, my voice barely audible over the sound of my own breathing.
She nods as I push myself up to stand.
“You’re here,” I whispered. “On Earth.”
“We always were,” she says. “Only a part few see.” There is something lyrical and sing-song to her voice.
“But now we can all see you,” I whisper.
She turns from me, takes a step away, then she looks over her shoulder. A white finger beckons me on.
Our destination isn’t far. Just a fire escape door without a handle on our side halfway down the alley. It opens without her even touching it. A minor trick for her, I suppose.
The corridor beyond the door is dark and musty. There is a paint-spattered ladder leaning against one wall. On it is balanced a branching candlestick. Five candles drip wax down its bronze surface. The princess picks the candlestick up and, in its pool of light, makes her way down the corridor. Old newspapers and candy wrappers rustle as her dress sweeps over them.
She opens another nondescript door and we step into a dusty, shabby room.
Except the door opens onto more than that one room. There’s another one as well. I blink at the hallucination, but it won’t clear. There are two rooms here, layered one over the other. Like a picture developed from a double negative. In one version of reality this room is just a large storage room for something like a theater. Large flats lean against one wall. There are power tools and paint cans in odd piles. A rack of dresses. A make-up table with a broken mirror.
Then over or beneath or beyond this there is a second room. It has higher ceilings, and walls with plaster wainscoting that curls in great golden twists over blood-red paint, with massive oil canvases hanging heavily, glimmering slightly in the glow of massive chandeliers pregnant with glass and light.
The Dreamers swirl about in both rooms, avoiding piles of old magazines and picking at hors d’oeuvres scattered on gleaming mahogany cocktail tables.
Not all of the room’s occupants are as ethereal as my guide. Not all are beautiful even. One has heavy jowls that wobble as he sprays crumbs over a crumpled silver waistcoat. Another woman has a face that appears to have been badly burned, white ragged flesh sagging around her eyes and mouth, lending a permanently melancholy expression. A third seems to have virtually no muscle o
r fat to his face, the skin stretched tight over the skull, eyes large and red-rimmed, teeth pressing clearly against the paper-thin lips. His massive eyes follow me as I step across the room and I can feel mine watering at the sight. I start sympathy blinking.
I stop in the middle of the room looking around, turning slowly on the spot, trying to take it all in—the squalor and the glamour. My princess moves away from me back into the crowd that mills around me. Only the skull-faced man keeps staring, working his jaw, the skin stretching out, cheeks almost purple with each of his movements.
“Why are you here?” I say. My voice is less than a whisper.
Instantly, movement in the room stops. The Dreamers stand icily still. The princess raises a finger to her lips.
“Why are you all here? Why am I here?” I’m so quiet even I can’t hear the words. The Dreamers all stare at me.
“Tell me something,” I breathe. “Give me some clue. A break. Something. Someone.”
They turn to each other. I hear the quietest of susurrations, a hint of a breeze almost as they talk.
“Come on,” I plead. “Please. Come on.”
The skull-faced one stalks forward suddenly. All eyes follow him as he crosses to stand in front of me. He stops a pace away. Sweeps an arm at one wall. Like the ringmaster at a nightmare circus. Gives me the shivers.
The wall shimmers, like a sheet of silk suddenly exposed then pulled away. I stare into a room beyond, dusty and dirty. Cobwebs seem to fill the space, to blur its edges, packed almost as tight as cotton balls. At the center, hemmed in on all sides, sit two girls. It takes me a moment to recognize them. I am not used to seeing them with their hair bushy and pinned in place, with their dresses plump and carefully arranged.
The Twins sit in the filthy room, slowly laying down tarot cards.
“Keep them safe,” the skull-faced Dreamer speaks. “Keep them safe.”
“But that’s...” I press my hands to my temple. Because I’m back at the beginning. I’m here over and over and over... And I think the Dreamers are trying to be helpful. But, God, they’re bad at it.
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