Undead to the World

by DD Barant

  But according to Azura, this world doesn’t have its own thropes. Or pires.

  I get to the end of the booths. Isamu, as I expected, keeps pace with me. We’re in the corner now, where there’s a little alcove formed by the dead jukebox and the far wall.

  “I’m going to turn you into what you fear and hate most,” Isamu growls. “A monster, just like me.”

  “Yeah? Cross your heart?”

  I bring the two sticks together into a very familiar shape. Isamu’s reaction is everything I hoped for: he howls, throws his arms up as if blinded and staggers backward into the little alcove. “Noooo!” he screeches. “What—what are you doing? What is that? Keep it away from me!”

  I hop down from the table, forcing him even farther back. I know that the instant my two sticks stop forming a crucifix he’s going to attack. I know he’s about to shove the jukebox out of his way or try to leapfrog right over me. I know he’s much faster than me.

  And because I know all these things, I don’t hesitate.

  The jagged end of the first stick goes into his right eye. The other stabs into his chest, sliding under the breastbone and directly through his heart.

  On Thropirelem, a pire’s body instantly becomes its true age, either rotting away or crumbling into dust. I’m not sure how things work here, but I’m a little surprised when Isamu bursts into flames. I step back, leaving my improvised escrima sticks where they are.

  “Escrima,” I say to myself softly as I watch Isamu’s burning corpse slump to the floor. “Not screaming eskimo. Escrima.”

  Then I get a fire extinguisher and put out the flaming heap of bones that used to be my boss. I consider making a bad pun about him being the one getting fired, and decide I’m above that sort of thing.

  Besides, Charlie isn’t here.

  * * *

  I remember Thropirelem. Not everything, but …

  I remember watching crowds of drunken thropes partying in the streets during their monthly celebration while I drank scotch on a rooftop patio under a full moon.

  I remember babysitting a three-month-old pire baby and feeding her bottles of pink milk.

  I remember swing dancing with a golem in a pin striped suit and stealing his fedora halfway through.

  I remember pire businessmen wearing smoked goggles, calfskin gloves, and full face masks as they strolled through the financial district at high noon.

  I remember when my dog-were would turn into a paunchy, middle-aged man when the sun went down, and how he still liked to lick people’s faces.

  I remember all the people who have tried to kill me, or worse.

  I remember my partner.

  I remember the man who loves me.

  And I decide I should really go see him before I do anything else.

  * * *

  Jimmy Zhang is still lurking out there somewhere, and it’s full dark now. I don’t care. I find a broom in the back and do the same thing to it I did to the mop, then hide the pieces in the sleeves of my jacket. If Zhang jumps me, he’s in for a big surprise.

  It’s strange how empty the place is. This time of day I’d expect to find Mayor Leo, Joe Silver, or Don Prince here, at the very least. I wonder where Therese is.

  I wonder where everyone is.

  The streets are empty, too. I look up into the sky and realize that a huge, dark mass of clouds has bloomed there like a malignant growth. Kansas thunderstorms can be loud, drenching, violent things, and I really don’t want to get caught outside in one.

  Sure. Except I’ve never been in one before, have I?

  I stop for a second, dizzy with cognitive dissonance. I can clearly remember many such storms, the sound of the rain hammering at the roof and walls, the ear-splitting crack of the thunder, the veins of lightning sparking across the sky. I’ll bet those memories are real enough; they’re just not mine. Stolen by Ahaseurus from some other Jace, I’ll bet, and stuck in my head to convince me I was someone I wasn’t. If Ahaseurus weren’t already dead, I’d kill him all over again.

  I hurry toward the B&B, keeping a wary eye out for Zhang. When I knew him, he was the head of a Chinese Triad based out of Vancouver and a powerful shaman; I had no idea what abilities, if any, he retained in this world.

  I charge into the house without knocking and sprint up the stairs. The door to Cassiar’s room is closed; I pause, then knock. “Dav—Cassiar? Are you there?”

  “Just a moment.” There’s the sound of a lock disengaging and the door opens. Cassiar looks at me quizzically. “Ah, Ms. Valchek. How are you—”

  I grab him and kiss him.

  When you do that to someone, there’s always a moment of shock. Most people freeze up. Then they respond, either negatively or positively.

  Cassiar’s reaction is … cautious. Willing, but tentative. More polite than passionate.

  I break the kiss, pull back, and study his face. He blinks at me, clearly nonplussed. I sigh and slip past him into the room.

  “That was … unexpected,” he says, closing the door. “Jace, are you—”

  “I’m fine,” I say. “The question is, how are you? Or rather, who are you?”

  “I’m exactly who I said I am: David Cassiar. I can show you identification—”

  “Your name isn’t Cassiar, it’s Cassius. Your memories have been tampered with, just like mine. You’re not a monster-hunter, you’re the head of the National Security Agency on an alternate world. And a centuries-old vampire.”

  To his credit, he doesn’t try to edge closer to the door. But he doesn’t abruptly straighten up with a surge of realization, either. Instead, he studies me carefully, then glances to the side with a look of consideration on his face. “That’s an intriguing scenario,” he says. “Can you provide me with some hard data for corroboration?”

  Damn it, that’s exactly what Cassius would say.

  “We had a relationship?” he asks.

  “Yes! What do you remember—”

  “That’s deduction, not recall. Attractive women rarely show up at my door and throw themselves into my arms without good reason.” He smiles. “Tell me more.”

  “Okay. Here goes.” I sit down on the edge of the bed, hoping he’ll join me, but he stays on his feet. Not a good sign. I take a deep breath, and then try to sum it up for him in a way that won’t sound completely schizophrenic. “You and I are from a parallel world. You’re my boss and my lover. The head of the cult you’re tracking? He’s actually a sorcerer named Ahaseurus. He kidnapped both of us and brought us here, mainly to torture me. Everything you said about the Gallowsman is still true, but the reason Longinus—Ahaseurus, I mean—picked me as his victim is because he well and truly hates me.”

  “I see. And why am I here?”

  “Bait. See, you were on Ahaseurus’s trail when he captured you. He wanted me to come after you, which I did—but I didn’t have any more luck than you did. He tampered with our memories, so we’re not even aware of the cage he’s put us in.”

  He nods. “If I were the head of the NSA, I would have access to considerable resources, wouldn’t I? It’s difficult to believe I would let myself be trapped like that.”

  “You were off the grid. Hunting Ahaseurus for me, not the NSA. He was the only one who could get me back to my native reality—I’m not from the same world as you are. I started having weird dreams, which were you trying to contact me from this reality. That’s the last clear memory I have. I don’t remember what I did to find you, or how Ahaseurus captured me. But I do know that most of my memories of this town are false; I didn’t grow up here, I’m not even from Kansas.”

  “And you know this how?”

  I tell him about Azura. And my magic TV. And my fry cook boss who’s really a vampire yakuza gangster, or was until I killed him with a mop handle. It sounds crazier and crazier, until even I’m having a hard time believing it. “Look, I know how it sounds. I know that the simplest and easiest explanation is that I’m just nuts, a delusional woman with an elaborate fantasy. But you
know the Gallowsman is real. You said you’ve seen evidence that pires and thropes—sorry, vampires and werewolves—used to exist on this world. Is it so hard to believe someone might have found a way to bring them back?”

  He’s quiet for a moment. Thinking. “No, it isn’t,” he finally says. “Until now, I suppose I’ve always thought of the supernatural in terms of less physical dimensions, like the astral plane or spiritual realms. But actual, concrete, alternate realities … It’s a lot to take in. I’m willing to consider that what you say is accurate, but there’s one point I’m having trouble with.”

  My heart sinks. “Which is?”

  “You say you’ve recovered your true memories—”

  “Some. Not all.”

  “Why haven’t I?” He shakes his head. “I’m sorry, Jace. I don’t feel as if my life has been a lie, or that I’ve ever been anyone other than myself. A life which includes, by the way, a considerable amount of time spent in direct sunlight. If I were truly an ancient ‘pire,’ as you say, how could that be? Wouldn’t a being as old and presumably experienced as that be harder to fool?”

  I hate to admit it, but he’s got some good points. And so far, none of them are on the ends of his teeth. “I needed a powerful emotional shock to wake me up; I thought the same might apply to you.”

  “Ergo the kiss.”

  “Yeah. It was worth a shot—believe it or not, I used the same trick to save your life once. And as far as the sunlight thing goes…” I touch the back of my head and wince. “Both the pires I’ve encountered so far seem to have been human until recently. Maybe that’s my unreliable memory, too—but I don’t think so. They both acted like newbies, like they weren’t used to their new abilities and limitations yet. But at the same time, they were clearly recovering older, suppressed memories.”

  “An interesting contradiction.”

  It’s not the only one, either. What I don’t tell him is that Azura claimed Ahaseurus only brought a single pire and a single thrope across the dimensional divide with him: the master vampire and the alpha wolf, supposedly to create more like them.

  Which suggests the master vampire is Cassius.

  He’s definitely masterly, and I know he was in Ahaseurus’s clutches. But that’s actually a vote against the idea—because, as Cassiar himself just said, a pire as old and cunning as he supposedly is would be difficult to brainwash. I’ve been inside Cassius’s mind, and I know how formidable his mental prowess is; the only reason I was ever able to slip past his defenses was due to highly unusual circumstances.

  “I don’t know what the answer is,” I admit. “The rules seem to be different here, too. On the real Thropirelem, there’s no such thing as a ‘master’ vampire. I guess after centuries of propagation, whatever control the first pire exerted over those he turned got so attentuated it just faded away. But this place seems to have different supernatural restrictions.…”

  An idea occurs to me. A very simple, obvious idea. I let my hands droop down, so both my improvised stakes fall out of my sleeves and into my hands. “Tell me, Mr. Cassiar, what do you think of … this!”

  I bring both sticks up sharply, one across the other in a cross shape.

  Cassiar stares at them. At me. Then he takes a step closer—and makes the same sign with his own arms.

  “I think,” he says gently, “that I’m not a vampire.”

  I sigh and lower the stakes. “Well, the lack of horrified screaming would seem to support that point of view.…”

  He lowers his arms. “Your theory has some holes in it, it would seem.”

  “It’s not a theory. It’s like—” Something Azura said comes back to me. “Illusion spells. Azura said I was surrounded by illusion spells. Which means everything is suspect. Maybe you’re not Cassius after all. You could be some kind of decoy.”

  “That makes it even more difficult—if not impossible—to prove what you’re saying. If you can’t trust your memory or your senses, what’s left?”

  “Thanks,” I say bitterly. “I really needed to hear that right now. Of course, that doesn’t mean there’s any actual connection between what I’m hearing and what’s actually being said. Or done. Or anything. For all I know, I’m just a brain in a jar, watching movies through the wires stuck in my cerebral cortex.”

  “In that case, I must be in the jar next to you.”

  “Terrific. Maybe we can admire each other’s lobes.”

  I press my palms against my forehead. “No. No, I’m not going down that path again. Reality is more than just a concept. I’m here, I’m me, and I’m going to figure a way out of this mess.”

  “I’m sure you will. I’ll help in any way I can.”

  I look up. “Charlie. I need Charlie. I left him with you—did he say where he was going?”

  “To his bar. But Jace…” Cassiar pauses. “If I’m not who you think I am, then who is Charlie supposed to be?”

  “My partner,” I say as I stand. “Come hell, high water, or the apocalypse.”

  I stride toward the door. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back.”

  * * *

  I’ve got a little time to think as I walk from the bed and breakfast to the Quarry. About the cage I’m trapped in, and how many levels it might have.

  Level One: Insanity. If I think I’m crazy, it makes me doubt everything I do, every decision I make. Slows me down, makes me less effective.

  Level Two: False Memories. Everything I thought I knew about myself, my surroundings, my friends and enemies: all suspect. Hard to make deductions based on false data.

  Level Three: Illusion. A combination of Levels One and Two. Can’t trust appearances or events; more doubt, more unreliability, more confusion.

  Level Four: Deliberate Manipulation. This is the level where Ahaseurus was going to get all his jollies. He could tweak any situation, any encounter, for maximum effect. Make me think my enemies were my friends, my friends my enemies. Fire up my paranoia, press down on my despair, and take my psyche out for a spin. He could have constructed all sorts of scenarios designed to hammer my emotions into any shape he wanted.

  But not anymore.

  I’m starting to think he must really be dead. If there’s one thing the organized type of serial killer needs, it’s control: control over his victim, control over the media, control over those hunting him. I can’t see any reason for Ahaseurus to give that up—yet here I am, in more-or-less full possession of my faculties once more.

  But then I think of what Isamu said to me: I want you to perish cursing my name, Bloodhound. To die as the warrior you are, not some pathetic waitress. Is that what’s going on? Is Ahaseurus going to pull some last-minute switch, let me have some sort of carefully planned artificial victory, then step out of the shadows and laugh at me?

  An even worse thought follows that one. Has he already done that? How many times? Am I just trotting through the maze for the hundredth go-round, my memories wiped each time I get to the exit? Groundhog Day as psychological torture porn?

  It doesn’t matter. Even if the game is rigged, I still have to play; I still have to win. There’s no other option. The real question is: Who are the other players?

  Who is Charlie Allen?

  Charlie Aleph, I know. He’s my partner, my enforcer, my best friend. He’s three hundred pounds of black volcanic sand poured into a human-shaped plastic bag and animated by the spirit of a long-dead Tyrannosaurus rex. He’s a street-wise, sarcastic war vet with a gift for police work, a lethal throwing arm, and a love for the clothing styles of the 1940s. He’s a hell of a dancer.

  But that’s the Charlie of Thropirelem-the-World. The Charlie I know here is … what?

  Human, for one thing. Sarcastic, definitely. Also a war veteran. His sense of style is drastically different from the lem I know, and I have no idea if he dances like Fred Astaire or Pee-wee Herman.

  But I trust him. And Azura. Again, I’m going on nothing but gut instinct … but right now, that seems to be the most reliable source of i
nformation I’ve got. And if I’m wrong, I am so totally, completely hooped that nothing else really matters.

  I get to the Quarry. I pause outside, looking around. I haven’t seen anybody on the streets. Maybe they’re all inside, dressed in black robes, with a big banner that reads SURPRISE! adorned with bunches of skull-shaped balloons. Sure, why not.

  I open the door and step inside.

  The place looks the same as it always does. It’s not completely empty—there are a few farmers at a back table, and the local plumber at the bar nursing a beer—but no crowds of bad guys lying in wait. Charlie’s behind the bar, talking to Bob, his relief bartender. Bob’s nodding and grinning, and Charlie’s shrugging while he talks, a “what are you gonna do?” look on his face.

  I walk up and take a seat. Bob spares me a slightly curious glance, nods, then walks to the far end of the bar and starts slicing up some limes.

  “You all right?” Charlie asks in a low voice. “I thought you were going to hole up at home.”

  “And I thought I was going to grow up to be a ballerina who lived on the moon. Life’s full of disappointment.”

  “Seriously, Jace, you’re in real danger out on the street—”

  “Oh, you have no idea. And don’t ever, ever let me catch you using the phrase ‘at least things can’t get any worse.’”

  I bring him up to speed. Stoker’s interrogation. Isamu’s attack. Me realizing who I really am. Cassiar and what I told him.

  When I’m finished, he reaches under the bar and pulls out a bottle. No label, more dirty than dusty, metal screw top. He slides two shotglasses over, opens the bottle, and fills each of them to the top. Whatever it is, it looks like water and smells like tractor fuel. He downs his with a grimace.

  “Is the other one for me?”

  “No.” He downs the second shot, then refills both glasses. “These are.”