Fierce Lessons (Ghosts & Demons Series Book 3)

by Chute, Robert Chazz

  Then Mr. Chang reminded me how big an asshole he really was.

  “I thought my wife would be around for a long time,” Mr. Chang said. “I had a dream that, when I was killed in the demon war, she would be waiting to help me make the transition to Elsewhere. I thought that would make my death easier. I suppose Chumele got that blessing, instead.”

  “Your wife was trapped,” I said.

  He shrugged. “I wished to fight for your mother in this life and go with my first wife into the next and…I have lost everything. Malta is furious with me. She always loved her mother more than me. Malta wishes me dead.”

  So, sometimes family stays enemies. I won’t call that a lesson. Anyone who isn’t alone in the world probably knows that already.

  Instead I give you Lesson 169: Don’t say, “None of your beeswax.” When I was fifteen that sounded sort of tough. Now it sounds stupid. Numb nuts still sounds pretty badass, though.

  Mr. Chang turned to me and bowed. “This mission and this command is yours, Iowa. I lost all of Medicament. I’m sure you’ll do better than I did.”

  “I relieve you, sir.”

  “I stand relieved.”

  I think he really was relieved, burden of command and all that. Mr. Chang walked to the helo that would return him to the Keep.

  I walked into my first command and worried for Stanford, Palo Alto and the West Coast of the United States. That was the first moment since Medicament that I hadn’t thought, I am a freak walking around with horns growing out of my head!

  That tiny good feeling lasted no longer than it took me to walk across the tarmac and step into the jet.

  13

  Spider Richardson sat in a chair by the hatch staring daggers at me. He had a cane by his side and I happened to know it wasn’t just there to conceal a blade. The last time I’d seen Spider, he had my arrow in his shin and was dropped into the icy, holy water by Magog, the big blue demon.

  Spider wore a red shirt from the original Star Trek series — literally. He struggled to his feet and pointed to his chest. “Do you know what this shirt means, girl?”

  Manny answered for me. “That you think this is a flight to a Trekkie convention?” She stuck a finger in the old man’s sternum and pushed gently to sit him back down. “Oh, I know! It means you lack subtlety. It means you’re on the away team and you’re doomed. Give Iowa any more shit and you’ll be dead before I come down the aisle with the pretzels and soda cart.”

  Spider looked out his window and rubbed his sore shin absently. “We might as well all be wearing red shirts with her in charge.”

  Apparently the old shaman was more adept at blessings than he was at handing out curses. If he could cast a nasty spell, I’d have four horns instead of two.

  “Shall I slay the seditionist for you, Madame Conductor?” Manny asked.

  “That won’t be necessary, Manhattan. A death sentence for one of our own might not start the mission on a cheery note.”

  She tilted her head to the side and looked thoughtful. “Mm. Perhaps on the way home, then. I’ll be your sunny flight attendant today. Just kidding about the snack cart. The galley’s back there. Get your own damn snacks, sir.”

  “Peachy,” I said. “Got the manifest?”

  “All present and accounted for. Malta’s up front with our pilot. She’s acting just as happy as gimpy over there.”

  “I haven’t known Malta long, but I’m sure she’ll come around,” I said.

  “Really?”

  “No.”

  Two seats had been removed from the jet to make room for more trunks of ordnance. That left eleven, plus the pilot, under my first command.

  I looked up and down the aisle. There was Spider, of course, still glowering at me. There were four sword singers I barely knew: Dallas, Austin, Detroit and Minnie (short for Minneapolis.) I didn’t expect to see Malta until we landed. Manny sat next to Wilmington and whispered in Wil’s ear. I didn’t mean to be a voyeur but my enhanced hearing allowed me to eavesdrop and what I heard made my cheeks turn pink.

  The two vegans — a husband and wife team named Paul and Polly — claimed to be able to slow time. They sat on the floor at the front, meditating in full lotus position. Paul and Polly wore saffron robes and matching pony tails. As the engines revved up, they didn’t move to their seats to buckle up. It looked like an ostentatious display for our benefit so I ignored them.

  That left the mind reader who looked like Patton Oswalt. Psymon peered around his seat to look at me. “I know what you’re thinking. You want your mommy.”

  I quickly sat beside Psymon, mostly to shut him up. I didn’t need him undermining my authority in front of everyone. I put a finger to my lips.

  “Sorry,” he said. “It will be a long flight and I was hoping to have some company to pass the time. Being a little obnoxious seemed the easy way to make sure you took the empty seat beside me.” His face fell. “And now you’re annoyed.”

  “I bet you get that a lot.”

  “Yeah. Sorry. And I’m sorry about your mom. But, you’re right, you should have said goodbye to her.”

  “I didn’t want her to worry.”

  “And?” Psymon raised his eyebrows, waiting for more confessions apparently.

  “Is there anything more pointless than having a conversation with a guy who can read your mind? You can entertain yourself by dipping into whoever is around you, right?”

  Psymon shook his head. “I could but it’s kind of isolating. Active minds are easier to read. Conversation solidifies the connections I make. It’s like the difference between looking at a work of art hanging in a museum behind a velvet rope versus watching a good TV show, at least when the telepathic juice is really flowing. But I prefer the interesting interaction to the interface.”

  “Telepathic juice?”

  He quirked an eyebrow as if I should know this already. “Telepathy is exhausting,” he said. “I don’t do it all the time. It wears out the neurotransmitters. Just like when you’re writing your books. You hit a wall, right?”

  “I guess. You can only write so many words in a day, though sometimes, when the words are really flowing, I can do a lot in one sitting.”

  “Yeah. Reading minds can be like that. I’ve been up all night worrying about this trip,” Psymon admitted. “I promise I won’t practice any more telepathy for the rest of this flight. I’m exhausted, anyway.”

  “Can I ask you a question?”

  “You mean can you ask another one?”

  “Yeah. When you read a mind, you’re — ”

  “It’s not like reading a book. It’s more like listening to a radio. With most people, that radio dial is spinning constantly. One minute they’ll make a reference to an older memory on another station and I don’t catch the connection between thoughts. Other times, they’re so obsessive, they think the same thoughts all the time. It’s unpleasant.”

  “Can you put thoughts in people’s heads?”

  “Yes, if the thought is powerful enough, but doing that sort of thing really makes me work hard and gives me a wicked headache. It’s a lot easier to put ideas in people’s heads through the power of suggestion or by limiting their education.”

  “Tell me about putting ideas in people’s heads.”

  Psymon sighed. “Well, like the old school prank. A bunch of people get together and one-by-one, they ask their victim if she’s feeling okay. Y’know, ‘You sure you’re okay? You look awfully pale.’ That sort of crap. Next thing you know, the mark is in the bathroom staring into the mirror and worrying herself into nausea and fever. That stuff is easy. I don’t recommend it but it’s really too easy. We’re social animals with sensitive nervous systems. It’s easy to manipulate people, really.”

  “I guess, what I’m asking is — ”

  “No,” he said. “Just as with hypnosis, even if I planted a memory or a thought in your brain, you wouldn’t act on it if it wasn’t consistent with your personality. Even if I told you to take a walk on the wing ov
er Nebraska, you wouldn’t do it unless you really wanted to kill yourself already.”

  The roar of the engines ramped up as we lurched and began to taxi toward the runway. The vegans swayed back and forth, but did not rise to buckle up.

  Psymon followed my gaze. “You know, maybe you don’t care for the vegans much, but if the plane crashes into a mountain the ponytail twins over there could make our horrifying deaths really slow down. They could make it stretch out and linger. I’m so glad they’re along for this mission.”

  I laughed. “I thought you said no more mind reading. How do you know they’re not my best friends?”

  “Oh, please! Spotting relationships between people doesn’t take a mind reader.” Psymon tilted his head back and forth to work out a kink in his neck. I heard a crack that seemed to please him. Psymon settled deeper into his chair. “There’s no special power to watching and listening. Most people are too wrapped up in their own thoughts to notice what’s really going on.”

  I looked out the window and watched the airport race past, enjoying the acceleration as it pushed me into the back of my seat. My stomach felt like it dropped a moment as the jet’s wheels left the ground and we climbed into the sky at a steep angle.

  “How much can you tell about people without being able to read their minds?”

  Psymon smiled. “Have you ever heard the term Shut Eye?”

  “You mean like sleeping? Sure — ”

  “No. A Shut Eye is an illusionist who gets so good at cold reading people that he begins to believe he can really read minds. I’ve known a couple of guys who were merely illusionists, but their acts were almost as good as mine. Better, because they had more flair. I should have been a professional poker player instead of doing a magic act but my personal ethics got in the way. That and a casino I bilked was owned by the mafia and they put a hit out on me.”

  “How could you not know?”

  “I’m psychic, not omniscient. I can’t know more than the dummies I read. The dealers just work in the casino. They don’t necessarily know the strong-arm tactics their bosses are willing to use.”

  We rose into cloud cover. That made me nervous so I focused on Psymon. “I’ve heard about cold reading. Tell me more about that. I could use it.”

  “For fighting, you mean, right?”

  “Yes.”

  “You’re probably already doing it, then,” he said. “We do a lot of body language reading every day, albeit unconsciously.”

  “I don’t think so.”

  “Oh, it’s not refined and trying to tell if someone is lying is much more complex than TV would have us believe. I think that’s because so many people think they’re telling the truth when they’re just lying to themselves.”

  “But anyone could learn it?”

  “Most people already have it and just have to pay more attention. Surely you’ve walked into an office or a classroom and felt the tension in the room after an argument?”

  I thought of Kelly Keegan, Mama’s store manager at the pharmacy. Kelly was a tyrant. I only remember her being nice to her dog, Mr. Whiskerton Buttersworth. The Airedale terrier slept under her desk at the back of the store and Kelly spoke to him in weird baby talk. “Would him like a treat? Yes! Yes! Him would! Mr. Whiskerton Q. Buttersworth is so hungry!”

  Kelly loved her dog but had nothing left over for people. The cashiers hated her mean ways. I once called in sick with a bad cold and Kelly asked for a doctor’s note.

  She gave a long sigh followed by a pregnant pause. Finally, Kelly asked, “Have you got a fever?”

  “No, I just feel awful.”

  “Then come on in. I don’t care if your Mama owns the store,” Kelly had said. “I’ll ride you harder because your Mama owns the store. You have to set an example for the others.”

  “But — ”

  “Be here or I’ll dock your pay and give you more shitty shifts. Don’t be a spoiled brat about this, Tammy.”

  I thought back to that phone call and how I spiked a fever and got walking pneumonia the day after I came to work. I thought of how Mama made Kelly apologize when I finally recovered.

  I’d looked Kelly in the eye and said, “Forgiven, of course, Mrs. Keegan. There is nothing more touching than your forced apology issued through gritted teeth.”

  Kelly Keegan was dead now. The demons killed her during the invasion of Medicament. They ate her while she was still alive until she wasn’t anymore. Mama saw the security footage before the town was evacuated. Kelly’s dog took care of the leftovers.

  Would him like a treat? Yes! Yes! Him would! Mr. Whiskerton Q. Buttersworth is so hungry!

  I smiled. “Yeah,” I told Psymon, “once or twice I guess I’ve experienced that tension you can cut with a buzz saw.”

  “Maybe it’s pheromones or micro-expressions, but many people pick up on that sort of thing quite easily. Watch out for those who can’t do it at all.”

  “Why?”

  “People who lack mirror neurons are dangerous. They see others as furniture and have no empathy.”

  “You’re talking serial killers.”

  “Nah, not necessarily. Psychopaths aren’t all killers. A bunch of them are successful CEOs with little or no fear response and unlimited confidence. I wouldn’t do business with them because they really don’t care about you. We’re talking about one percent of the population.”

  I wondered if my demon half was responsible for my smile at Kelly Keegan’s nasty end. One hundred percent of the staff who endured Kelly’s rule might have smiled at her vivisection, too. Maybe. I’m still not sure. I pushed that thought away. “Tell me about reading people, Psymon.”

  “Ninety percent of cold reading is pattern recognition. Some of it is manipulating people to where you want them to go. The rest is educated guesses based on age, clothing, language cues — ”

  “Language cues?”

  “Yeah, like distinguishing regional accents. It’s easy to amaze people if you just listen to them and watch carefully. They give up so much, you can pick up a lot in a glance.”

  “Give me an example, without the magic.”

  “Magic is just the gap between what we understand and what’s next, but I get you. First, you don’t want me to read you. I promised I wouldn’t and I won’t.” Psymon straightened and craned his neck to look behind us.

  “Okay, your best friend is Manhattan, obviously.”

  “Okay, but specifics. How do you know?”

  “I saw it at Command and Control last night. When questions come up, you answer, but you often glance at your friend for approval. You respect Manhattan’s opinion and she trusts your judgment. When you make a decision, she gives an almost imperceptible nod as you speak. She’s not even aware of it but it sets up a positive feedback loop between you two.”

  “What else?”

  “Manhattan is nervous about this mission.”

  I glanced back. Manny was laughing along with Wil. She didn’t look nervous to me.

  “I know your friend is nervous because of how much she’s clinging to Wilmington. This is a new fling, right? Like, within the last day or two?”

  “I think so, yes.”

  “When a guy puts his arm around his girlfriend he’s telling the world, this is my girlfriend and you can’t have her. It’s a possession thing. When a girl touches her hair during a conversation, she’s flirting. The way your friend is touching Wilmington’s hair, she’s looking for reassurance. We touch our own faces in grief. Manny keeps bringing Wilmington’s palm to her face. She’s seeking comfort. It only looks like it’s all foreplay until you look deeper.”

  “You sure?”

  “There isn’t always something deeper, but almost always,” Psymon said. “Wilmington is an imposing figure, walking around with a sword on each hip. Manny’s gestures are of a child and mother. Wilmington may be picking up on it, too. She doesn’t think this relationship will last.”

  At that moment, Wilmington burst into laughter.

 
“Maybe it’s just a budding romance that makes her look nervous,” I said.

  Psymon shook his head. “Wilmington is willing to hold hands but she’s self-conscious about the relationship. It’s probably her first relationship with a girl. Manhattan touches Wil’s hair, her cheek, her arm. Manhattan is desperate for connection and protection. She has doubts about this mission.”

  I was beginning to get annoyed with Psymon again.

  He shrugged. “Don’t be mad at me. The book is there. All you have to do is read it.”

  “I’m not absolutely positive you’re wrong,” I said. “It’s just that you sound way too sure of yourself.”

  “You don’t like the way I tell the truth?”

  “How do I know it’s the truth?”

  “You could ask her. I just asked by looking.”

  I looked back at Manny for a moment. It did seem to me that anyone as invested as she was in looking and acting cool at all times was jumping into the deep end of infatuation very quickly. Or maybe it was true love.

  Looking back now, I hope it wasn’t true love. I hope it was Manny’s fear that made her cling to Wil so. If it was true love, that would make what happened later even more tragic. Microscopically more tragic, but we take whatever solace we can find in the face of horror. That’s Lesson 170.

  14

  Nobody got off the plane when we refueled in Utah and I woke up at Moffett Federal Airfield. It was only the airport, but Manny was humming, Do you know the way to San Jose? and wouldn’t stop.

  Wil chose to find Manhattan’s obsession with the song cute. I had a headache. Or maybe the ache came from the horns growing again.

  I thought of them as the horns, not my horns. They were easier to abide that way, as if they were on some ambushed animal, hunted, shot, stuffed and mounted on some guy’s wall.

  The junior sword singers busied themselves with unloading the plane. Four vans with heavily tinted glass were parked on the tarmac when we arrived. There were no drivers and the keys were under the seats. No one watched from the terminal’s big glass windows. There wasn’t even a tech on the airfield anywhere near us. Victor Fuentes had apparently made a call to the Pentagon and our way past security was cleared.