by DD Barant
I slam the first one down. It’s sort of like setting yourself on fire, then jumping into the Arctic ocean. Intense pain, then everything goes numb. I take advantage of the anesthetic effect to down the second one which makes it all the way to my stomach before detonating. By then the first one has eaten through my throat and most of my spinal column, so the pain never makes it to my brain.
“Ack-Ack-ACK,” I say.
“Yeah, that’s the usual reaction.” He stares at me moodily. I don’t know which mood, exactly, but there’s definitely a mood going on. “So. You’re not … you.”
“Sure I am. In fact, I’m more me. The me you know? That’s me, except less neurotic and more homicidal.”
“I’m not sure that’s an improvement.”
“Okay, badly phrased. Let me put it this way: I have the same values, the same sense of humor, the same temper—but more confidence. Less self-doubt. I know who I am and what I can do, and I don’t give a damn what other people think.”
“You never did,” Charlie says softly. “No matter what they said about you. Even when you were doubting yourself, you didn’t pay much attention to other people’s opinions. One of the things about you I always found … I dunno. Intriguing, I guess. How you could be so strong willed but so paranoid at the same time.”
“Well, now you know the answer. Congratulations—you’re at least a thousand points and a bonus round ahead of me.”
He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I’ve been keeping up so far, but—what exactly are you saying? That the whole town isn’t real? That none of us are? ’Cause I gotta tell you, I don’t feel like an illusion.”
“That’s not it,” I say wearily. “It wouldn’t be as satisfying to Ahaseurus if it wasn’t real. It’s just that some things have been … altered, I guess. Changed to fit whatever twisted script he’s written for me.”
“Okay, so how do we figure out what’s been changed?”
I think about that. “I’m … not sure it’s we, Charlie. I think it’s just I. I can recognize parts of my own history that have been woven into this place, but you don’t have anything to compare against. Except—well, apparently, with Ahaseurus dead, the spells are going to start unravelling.”
“Unravelling? Like a sweater?”
“Yeah, like a sweater. A big, magical memory sweater, knitted by pure evil.”
He frowns. “Knitted by pure evil? I’m having a hard time with that concept.”
I sigh, and put my head down on my arms. “I know. Not one of my best.”
“I mean, I know this is a bad situation. I know it’s serious. But knitted by pure evil? My brain doesn’t know how to interpret that. It’s trying, but—”
“Knitting. Grandmothers. Rocking chairs.”
“And kittens, playing with yarn. You ever try to imagine evil kittens? Or evil yarn? I think I’m getting a headache.”
“You’ve already got one. Its name is Jace Valchek.”
“That’s funny,” says a voice behind me. “I’ve got a pain with the same name, only it’s not in my head.”
I glance over my shoulder. Terrance. Just what I need. He’s wearing a leather motorcycle jacket over a grease-stained T-shirt, but—despite what he just said—he doesn’t seem as cocky as usual. “Hey, Valchek,” he says. “Got a minute?”
“Got a whole bunch. You can’t have any.”
“Geez, lighten up, okay? I just need to ask you a quick question. In private?” He gives me an “aw, c’mon” look; I’m always amazed at how many jerks think they can just flip a switch and suddenly you’re supposed to forget all the times they abused you.
But right now, I need all the information I can get, and Terrance coming to me for help is an interesting development in and of itself. I slide off my bar stool and walk over to a table. “Sit,” I say.
He does. Now he looks troubled, and more than a little unsure. “It’s about my brother,” he says.
“The doc? What about him?”
“Well—”
And that’s as far as he gets, because the door opens and Sheriff Stoker strides in. He heads straight for Terrance.
“Terrance Adams,” the sheriff snaps. “On your feet, son. You’re under arrest.”
Terrance is staring at Stoker in complete confusion. “What? What for?”
“Suspicion of murder, Mr. Adams. Now are you getting to your feet or am I going to help you?”
Terrance gets up. Stoker handcuffs him briskly and professionally, then marches him outside.
Charlie and I stare at each other.
“You know, you’re bad for business, too,” Charlie says.
TEN
I figure it’s time to gather the troops—such as they are.
Right now, the only person I really trust is Charlie, but I can’t afford to turn down Casssiar’s offer of help. Charlie’s already arranged for Bob to fill in for him. We jump in Charlie’s car, drive over to the B&B, and get Cassiar. Then we head for Charlie’s place.
We pass the diner on the way. The lights are out, the closed sign on the door. With a chill, I realize that someone must have found the burned corpse that used to be my boss—and instead of calling the cops, had shut down and locked up the diner instead. Was Zhang in there right now, red eyes peering out from between the blinds at us? Or had someone else cleaned up, the same way Charlie and I had cleaned up at the Longinus house?
I glance at Charlie, who gives me a grim look in return. He’s thinking the same thing I am, but he isn’t sure what to say in front of Cassiar.
Charlie’s place is a double-wide trailer at the end of Third Street, with a gravel pad for a yard. I’ve been here before, but never really felt comfortable inside; Charlie keeps the place to a military standard of cleanliness and order, which seems unnatural to me. The kitchen and bathroom are so clean it’s like he’s never used them …
I didn’t tell Charlie who he was to me. Or what. It seemed easier to leave that part out, somehow—along with all the myriad details of life in a world where only one percent of the population was human. It’d just be information overload.
We weren’t there, anyway; we were here. And here had enough problems of its own, thank you.
Charlie’s living room is sparse and utilitarian: a sofa, a coffee table, two armchairs. Two walls are taken up by bookcases, and he has an ancient stereo with a working turntable and numerous stacked milk crates filled with records: jazz and blues, mostly, with some Latin stuff, too. That fits neatly with the memories of my Charlie—only the music of Thropirelem rarely matched up with the music of my world. Different species might produce similar technologies, but cultural variance guaranteed their art would be highly divergent.
I realize I’m lecturing myself, a habit from my early days as a federal agent—a trick I used to pump up my confidence. It was an activity that corroded over time, becoming less about recalling information and more about making cynical observations, but I guess I feel the need for the reassurance of hard facts; in some ways, this is just like getting out of the academy. I have to prove myself all over again.
Charlie offers us beers; Cassiar politely declines, and I gratefully accept. Charlie gets them while Cassiar and I choose seats. He opts for the end of the couch, and I take an armchair. Charlie hands me my beer and picks the other armchair.
We study one another in silence for a moment.
“Okay,” I say. “Here it is in a nutshell. This town is going to do its best to try to kill us. Oh, it might only cripple me, since its ultimate purpose is more about making me suffer than expire, but you two are definitely going to die. Charlie, you were my partner. Cassiar, you were my lover. I’m not stupid; I can practically see the bull’s-eyes painted on your foreheads. I say we get in Charlie’s car, right now, and get as far away from this place as we can. Sound good?”
“And then what?” Charlie says. “I live here, Jace. I own a business. I can’t just … run away.”
“Sure you can. And Cassiar, you’ve only been in town
for a few days. There’s nothing stopping you from leaving, right? Why don’t we just relocate to wherever it is you live and consider this problem from a safe distance?”
Cassiar nods. “That would seem to be the most prudent course of action,” he says. “But before we leave, I have to ask you one question.”
“Go ahead.”
He spreads his hands. “What good is a trap with an open door?”
“You don’t think we can leave?”
“I think we need to find out.”
“He’s right,” Charlie says. “There’s only one road in and out of town. Should be easy enough to check.”
“Then let’s do that,” I say. “Right now.”
“I’m not sure that would be wise,” Cassiar says. “What if the safeguards that prevent you from leaving are lethal to those close to you?”
Damn it, he’s right again. Just like Cassius—always two steps ahead. “So trying to escape with either of you could result in your death? Yeah, that sounds like exactly the kind of nastiness Ahaseurus would have set up. Which means I go alone.”
“No way,” says Charlie. “Not safe. Jimmy Zhang’s still out there, remember?”
“Oh, I’m not going alone,” I say. “But you two are staying here. You still got that streetsweeper?”
Charlie nods. “Yeah, but I don’t see it doing much good against a vampire.”
“Oh, it won’t. In my experience, guns are useless against the supernatural. Ammunition, on the other hand…”
Charlie leaves the room. He comes back with a shotgun in his hands—specifically, a Mossberg Over/Under and a box of shells. I ask him for some tools, a funnel, and a few other odds and ends.
“This has to be the strangest load I’ve ever assembled,” I mutter as I tinker. I put Charlie to work helping prepare the contents, while Cassiar watches from across the room.
“Something’s just occurred to me,” Cassiar says, getting to his feet. “This local boy you told me about on the way over, the one that’s just been arrested. He can’t possibly be the Gallowsman—and since Stoker is a member of the cult, he knows that. So why arrest him at all?”
“Good point,” I say as I work. “But I don’t see how it’s relevant. Terrance seems to be a proxy for someone in my life named Tair, a homicidal thrope I helped put behind bars. His being arrested here mirrors what happened on Thropirelem.”
“But it still makes no sense,” Cassiar insists. “I think we should investigate further.”
“Go right ahead,” I say. “But me, I’m getting the hell out of Dodge.”
“If you can,” Charlie says.
“If I can,” I admit. “But I won’t be gone for long, Charlie. I’ll come back. Azura and I will figure some way to defuse this. I’m not—”
“Abandoning me?” He shrugs. “I should be so lucky.…”
* * *
Charlie lets me use his car. I bring the shotgun with me.
There’s only one road out of town, the one that connects to the highway. I take it. I see a few people on the streets as I drive, though most folks seem to be indoors; it’s not that late, but Thropirelem tends to be pretty quiet after dark. The thunderstorm overhead is still threatening to break loose.
Dark, empty fields on either side. Two-lane blacktop, the occasional flash of lightning, and me. I think less about where I’m going than where I’ve been.
So I’m Alice, and this is the other side of the looking-glass. A distorted, warped version of my life, with familiar faces playing new roles. A remake, I guess. Can’t say I’m a fan, so far.
Certain patterns seem to hold true, though. Charlie’s my main ally. My dog’s really smart. Cassius is an authority figure with vital information at his fingertips, and Tair’s a jerk in trouble with the law.
Those are my friends—all the friends I can remember, anyway—and Tair’s more of a part-time ally than a friend.
Then there are my enemies.
Isamu. Zhang. Maureen Selkirk, whom I knew as Maureen Selkie, an Irish witch with a talent for shapeshifting magic and a member of the terrorist group called the Free Human Resistance. Father Stone, whom I encountered as Brother Stone, a suspect in a series of bizarre murders.
I suddenly realize something. My clearest recollections are of people who are now dead: Stone, Isamu, Selkirk. My memories of Zhang are murkier, almost dreamlike. Must be Ahaseurus’s spells, eroding. Makes sense, I guess; with the subject of the illusion gone—and no one to reinforce it—the spells are dissipating on their own.
That’s not why I remember Charlie and Cassius and Tair and Galahad, though. It’s because they’re all important parts of my life, in ways both good and bad. Bad guys come and go, but some people will always stick around. Whether you want them to or not.
Patterns, patterns, patterns … what else holds true? Well, both Zhang and Isamu were pires, and both of them became neckbiters here. But Cassiar’s not a pire, and Charlie’s not a lem. Is Terrance a werewolf? Possible, but unknown. Maybe that’s what he wanted to talk to me about—
There’s a flashing orange light in the middle of the road. I slow down, then stop. A traffic barricade straddles the blacktop, and on the other side there’s a two-foot drop onto rough gravel. I can see the hulking shapes of roadwork equipment, backhoes and steamrollers and dumptrucks, plus a number of construction trailers. The sign on the barricade reads ROAD CLOSED just to make sure I get the point.
I park and get out of the truck. Study the situation. As I’m standing there, a door opens in the nearest trailer and a man walks out. Big guy, dressed in dirty orange coveralls, work boots, and a yellow hardhat. He’s got a large mug in one hand, giving off steam, and he carries it carefully so as not to spill it.
He walks over and stops just short of the barricade. Looks at me with about as much expression as a prison guard.
“Evening,” I say.
“Evening.” He doesn’t sound happy to see me. He’s got a square, blocky face and the name JOE stitched over his right breast.
“Didn’t know there was any roadwork going on out here,” I say.
“Yes, ma’am. For some time now.”
“Looks extensive.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
“Is there an alternate route to get to the highway?”
“Not that I’m aware of.”
“Kind of inconvenient.”
“I suppose.”
“I guess I could just walk across the fields.”
“That’s not a good idea, ma’am.”
I smile. “Why not?”
“Storm coming. Lightning strikes are a definite hazard.”
At that precise moment, an immense blue-white bolt rips out of the sky. It smashes into an oak tree with a sound like the Jolly Green Giant hitting a home run with a telephone pole and a bowling ball, splitting the tree in two; both sides crash to the ground a few seconds later. The afterimage of the strike is burned into my retinas, a jagged glowing ghost I try to blink away; flames flicker redly at the base of the tree.
Joe takes a sip from his mug. “See?”
I nod. “Uh-huh. Yes, yes, I do. Think I’ll head back into town, now.”
“Probably a good idea.”
I head back toward the truck, then turn back. Joe’s still watching me, over the rim of his steaming mug. “You always wear a hard hat after hours, Joe?”
“Safety first,” Joe says.
* * *
Looks like leaving isn’t an option. I spend a minute wondering if that applies only to me, or if other people can come and go, then drop it—it doesn’t really matter. There’s nobody else on this world I can go to for help, anyway. This is my fight.
But at least I have allies.
My phone lets me know I have a call. It’s Cassiar. “Jace, are you still within town limits?”
“Yeah. And for the forseeable future.”
“Then you should come down to the police station. I’ve talked to a deputy here, Mr. Silver, and he has some interesting inform
ation.”
“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”
I pull up in front of the police station, but don’t go in right away. I’m still thinking about patterns; they’re always—always—the most important factor in solving a case. What’s bothering me right now are all the ways things are almost-but-not-quite matching up.
If Azura is right and the only other people Ahaseurus brought to this dimension with him—other than me—are one pire and one thrope, then who are all these other people that seem to be from my life?
Fakes, I think. Real people, but not supernatural ones. Human beings with implanted memories hidden inside their heads, little ticking time bombs. Until they get bitten by the genuine article—at which point they become incredibly strong, very hard to kill, and remember just how much they hate me.
Except some of them don’t, right? Some might be potential allies. But I don’t know which are which … and therein lies the fun.
But the worst part of all, the part I don’t want to think about, is the single, most obvious, glaring fact of all.
Charlie Aleph, my partner, is a golem. Not a pire, not a thrope. Ahaseurus didn’t bring any lems with him—so this Charlie is just another fake. And knowing Ahaseurus, he’s probably the most dangerous trap of all.
So why do I still feel like I can trust him?
I shake my head, then get out of the truck. I can’t explain why I feel this way, I just know that I do. And at this point, I have to trust someone.
Deputy Silver must have been waiting for me, because he steps out and hurries down the steps to meet me. “Jace,” he says. “Hi. I think we should talk.”
I let him steer me down the sidewalk, away from the station. “Where’s Cassiar?”
“He left. Said he had some things to get. Said you’d understand.”
I probably do. I’ve got a shotgun, but I’m sure a monster-hunter like Cassiar must have a few survival strategies of his own up his sleeve. “What’s going on, Quinn?”
Silver looks troubled. “I don’t know, Jace. Two deaths in twenty-four hours is bad enough, but … things are getting worse. You heard we arrested Terrance Adams for murder?”
