by Jeff Somers
“Where are we going?”
“To my gasam’s home,” he said easily, smiling.
“How old is that old bat, anyway?”
“Ninety-four,” he said immediately.
“Where’s Claire?”
He nodded, still calm. Pushed along by the pattern, he didn’t even hesitate. “She’s slot one. At the bottom. The final sacrifice!”
I pictured the design Fallon had shown me. The horrific corkscrew tunneling under the house. All the blood and suffering flowing down there, where Renar would be weaving the biludha.
“Where does Fallon store the blood?”
I shook my head. “I don’t know. I didn’t see that much. Why not ask your little green stone?”
The Udug. My hands twitched as I thought about it.
“I am not foolish enough to touch that Artifact,” he snapped.
I felt a slight tension in the spell: Amir displeased. Without thinking, I rushed to fill the gap. “There’s a secret room in the basement. He’s got all his designs and specs filed there, if he didn’t destroy it.”
Amir nodded gleefully. “I will search for it.”
“When will Renar begin casting?” When will the world end?
He nodded as if agreeing with something I couldn’t hear. “Tonight. Assuming we are done with you.”
Alarm spiked inside me. Ridiculous. I’d been captured—again—and was heading to Renar’s death machine of a house—again. I was wearing alarm as a coat.
“What are you doing with me?”
Amir winked at the road. “We have to be sure you didn’t try to undo the marking. That you didn’t use one of your fucking little tricks to set some clever trap for us. We have to be sure.”
He shrugged. “So we’re going to have to hurt you.”
25. THE WORST PART WAS THE tape.
It was white duct tape. Thick. Sticky. Wrapped from one cheek to the other, covering my mouth. To keep me from speaking, from mouthing any of the Words. Casting spells. Simple and effective.
It wasn’t the fact that I couldn’t breathe well through my nose. It wasn’t the painful tug of the tape on my whiskers. It wasn’t the fact that my hands were bound behind me or that my ankles were tied to the chair legs. It wasn’t the way I could smell myself, days without a shower, days of sweat and worry. It wasn’t that I was at Renar’s house again. It was the knowledge that at some point Amir or Renar or a fucking dimma—hey, why the fuck not—was going to march in here, and the first thing they were going to do was tear off the fucking tape with one mighty flourish. Taking my face with it.
It was coming. And knowing it was coming was terrible.
I kept tasting the air for the biludha. I would feel it. Long before it crested and started feeding on the world, I’d know it. It would be invisible electricity in the air. Only those of us with the art would feel it. Any of us who didn’t know what was happening—those of us not powerful enough to be invited to the party and too far away to have heard through the rumor mill—would go nuts. They’d feel it, this immense spell, and go nuts trying to figure out what was happening.
I was going to die in this fucking room.
It was a very nice room. The sort of room your grandmother kept for guests, with a layer of dust on the flowered bedspread, a vague smell of potpourri in the air.
It was a tomb. I imagined dozens of rooms just like it throughout the mansion, which would be, of course, larger on the inside than the outside. Of course. Naturally. And in each of these rooms was the rotting corpse of another Prince of the Assholes, another moron who’d thought he might test his will against the gods.
I steadied myself and exploded into a constrained tantrum, shaking and jerking and trying to smash the rope, the chair, anything.
The chair was nailed to the floor.
Or maybe glued there via spell. It didn’t matter. I didn’t gain any momentum. I was stuck like a beetle tied to a pin. Walking in tighter circles, endlessly. I breathed hard through my nose, trying to push against the tape with my tongue. If I could get the tape off, I could cast some tiny Cantrip. It would be enough to get me out of the chair. I didn’t doubt there was some deep magic on the door, so getting out of the room might not be easy, but losing the tape would be a start.
I sagged down and relaxed. Felt the sweat pouring down my back. I was going to die in this fucking room shortly before everyone else in the world died, wherever they happened to be.
A key in the lock. A whisper. The door swung inward on silent, greased hinges, and Cal Amir entered. Sauntered in like a cat with its tail in the air. A Bleeder trailed after him. Bald and fat, as Bleeders tended to be. Wearing a black suit. A big woman with no curves, a beaklike nose. Looking a little peaked already, with a fresh scar on her forehead. Like Renar and Amir had been forced to use their Bleeders more than usual. Run them down a little.
Amir glided about, silent, with that terrible grace rich, powerful people had. The Bleeder stepped back against the door, pushing it shut. There was no click. I had the impression of an airtight seal. I wondered how much air the three of us had.
With a nod from Amir, the Bleeder stepped forward with her blade and sliced one of my arms free from the chair. Thrust a pen into my hand and stepped back to hold a pad of paper up to me.
“You cast on her,” Amir said flatly. “What did you cast? Be specific.”
I rolled my eyes in their sockets. Looked at Amir. Looked back at the Bleeder. I studied her fleshy face. Got the feeling she was hoping intently that she wouldn’t have to roll up a sleeve and give Amir the gas.
I looked back at Amir. He was standing with his back to me. Studying the wallpaper. Hands easy behind him. As I watched, he turned. Raised his eyebrows. “What was it?”
I just stared. Thought about the runes on Claire. How they deflected magic. Every action had a reaction. Amir and Renar seemed worried that one of our tricks might have skewed their careful markings.
He nodded and stepped back towards me. “You see, the ritual is very complex. Each link in the chain must be very carefully prepared. Magic leaves a residue of sorts. Easy enough to detect, using more magic. But you see the problem, then? We can’t use magic on her to check if magic has been used. That would only worsen the problem. But we must know. The markings twist energy. They deflect, distort—they are designed to route energy a certain precise way. If they are already routing one of your idiotic mu, the results of the biludha will be . . . unpredictable. We must know exactly what was cast so we can check for problems, make adjustments. Otherwise, weeks of work. Very disappointing. We’d prefer to spend ten minutes making you hurt, and then perhaps we can avoid that small hell.
“So the question: What did you cast on her? She’s an attractive girl, Trickster. Perhaps a bit of Charm to spread those long white legs at night? Perhaps she did not trust you. A bit of magic smooths all waters. Perhaps she ran from you. Resisted your help. A Cantrip just to calm her down.”
I thought of Hiram. Claire in his bathroom. Hope flushed through me, soured by fear for Claire. But at least if something we did queered the biludha, we weren’t taking the whole world down with us.
“You see, we cannot take your word for it, Mr. Vonnegan,” Amir purred. “It would be worthless. You would tell us you cast something complex and unbelievable on her in order to interrupt our plans. Or you would tell us you did not cast on her, hoping that at the last moment we would be ruined. This, I admit, is our largest concern.”
He extracted his black leather gloves from his jacket pocket and began pulling them on. Stepped closer to me.
“The conversation will be one-sided.” He leaned in close to me. He smelled like good, old leather and the beach. “It will be no impediment to my questioning.”
A moment of silence between us. Ruined by the low whistle of my breathing. He squatted down in front of me. “Tell me, something, Mr. Vonnegan: Do you know how I came to apprentice to Mika Renar?”
I shook my head. I wondered if I’d been Charmed, som
ehow, subtly. Amir was like a shining thing, creepy and gorgeous all at once. Captivating. I wanted to look at him.
“I was apprenticed to another gasam when I was very young. He was very cautious. Suspicious of me. He in turn was in service to Renar. She was young then, beautiful. But already horrified that she was no longer as young as she’d once been. It was just a few years later she created herself in Glamour, just a few years. I urged her to find a new shell, to learn the art or purchase an Artifact, but she would never consider that solution, to live in a lesser form.” He paused, looking distant and pained, as if remembering something awful. Then he focused on me again. “My gasam had a particular spell I wished to know. A simple thing, really. A nice trick. Nothing more. You perhaps already know something like it. He kept telling me I was not ready. I was not ready to learn his trick. This silly spell, this trifle.”
He smiled down at me, cocking his head. “We are alone here. The other enustari have agreed to stay away, as the biludha is a fragile thing. My mistress is cruel, but she is honorable, else it would have been impossible to come to this agreement in the first place. Also, there is no one here to have second thoughts. No one of any ability to hear or see something that discomfits them. So we are alone, Mr. Vonnegan. Will you answer?” He waited a moment, then turned and shrugged at the Bleeder. She stepped back, dropping the pad, and began rolling up her sleeve.
“I went to Renar to ask for advice. She admired my impatience. She suggested I become her apprentice, as she had none. She told me to do so, I would have to kill my gasam, but that my reward would be her solemn oath to teach me everything she knew, without exception.” He smiled. “So far, as we have discussed, she has kept this oath save one last thing. And I have kept faith with her because of that. You see, Mr. Vonnegan, I am very good at discovery. I find out the things I wish to know.”
He let that hang in the air. Kept smiling at me. His lips were smooth and glossy.
“This,” he said without moving or changing expression, “is going to hurt tremendously.”
The Bleeder slashed a professional cut onto her arm. Blood welled up, dark. Amir whispered three Words. Agony bloomed deep inside me.
Someone had teleported a double-edged blade deep inside my bowels. And then applied a magnet, slowly drawing it out, hot and wet. I bit down on my tongue. Blood flooded my mouth. Air exploded from my nostrils and I leaned forward, straining against the bonds. But I didn’t make any other noise.
The pain stopped.
“What did you cast on her?”
I sucked in breath. Exhaled. Blew snot all over him. He flinched. Pulled his handkerchief from his jacket breast pocket. Wiped his face. Whispered three Words.
I jerked back as the knife reappeared. It felt like something living and covered in sharp scales was wriggling inside me. Tearing me apart. I kept my mouth shut tight behind the tape. Three seconds, the pain disappeared. Not even a lingering burn.
“What did you cast on her?”
Before I could even contemplate a response, Amir spoke three Words.
Before he finished the final syllable, I clenched my body tight and shut my eyes, drawing in and holding a deep breath. The pain sliced up from within anyway. It was all illusion, magic directly attacking my nervous system. Nothing I did physically was going to stop it or alter it. It was like a recording being played and rewound and played again. Always exactly the same.
The pain vanished, and I sagged down, limp.
“What,” he said as mildly as before, “did you cast on her?” The Bleeder picked up the pad of paper and held it up to my hand, a thick line of blood marring the white surface. “Specifics, Mr. Vonnegan. As specific as possible.”
I wondered if the stupid Charm we’d cast—the stupid Charm that was still tugging Daryl Houy by the cock days after it should have faded—was enough to queer the ritual. Amir and Renar were clearly afraid of even the smallest interference. That all that blood and magic would hit Claire precisely the way it was supposed to . . . and then would squeak out of control, a tiny miscalculation, and then who the fuck knew: magical force suddenly burning through everything in sight, uncontrolled. So we would all die, but at least the world would be safe.
Or I would break and write it out for him, and Renar would be able to make adjustments, and I would get to appreciate that at least no one was going to tear this tape off my mouth.
I didn’t like either option.
With a heavy sigh theatrically conveying his disappointment in me, Amir spoke three Words.
I tried to surge upward again, every muscle in my body straining like boiled leather. Then it was gone. I collapsed back into my own sweat.
“I do not trust other mages,” Amir said conversationally, still squatting there. Still beautiful. “Especially idimustari. You are crafty. If I cast a spell on you to ensure truthfulness, will you know a way to subvert it? I once caught one of you lifting my wallet. Poor fellow did not know who I was. Who I was apprenticed to. I decided to have a bit of fun with him and cast something similar to what I’m using now. A prank, really. He added a Word. A syllable. Just whispered it as I spoke the spell, inserting it perfectly, transforming my little Cantrip and pushing it back on me.” He shrugged. “So, you cannot speak. You cannot be trusted. You are not quality, Mr. Vonnegan. And you wonder why you are being left behind while the rest of us go onward forever.”
He tilted his head. Reached into his jacket. “So, Mr. Vonnegan, magic will not help you here. Your tricks will not prevail against your betters.” He produced a pack of cigarettes. “Tell me: What did you cast on her?”
I pushed my swollen tongue against the tape. There was enough blood in the air, just being wasted, I could cast a dozen fucking spells to my benefit. If I could make the Words. Sweat ran into my eyes. I willed it down my face, willed it to loosen the glue. I needed two seconds. Then I’d show this smug asshole what a Trickster could do.
I thought of the Udug, and in my hunger almost felt it. I wanted it to tell me some secret, something that would help. How did people figure things out without it? How had I lived without that flat voice telling me everything I needed to know, everything I didn’t need to know, everything, in one endless rush of confusion?
Amir smiled, shaking out a cigarette. Held it between two gloved fingers. “Very well, Mr. Vonnegan.”
I shut my eyes. Clenched my jaw.
Amir spoke three Words.
26. I DRIFTED UP TOWARDS THE dim, milky light. Flinched away from it and sank.
Rose up again.
Opened my eyes. Still in the chair. Still damp. Sweat and urine. I felt certain there would be some blood, but the pain had been imaginary. Real enough. Real enough to bruise where I was bound; every muscle ached from hours of strain. Hours of Amir whispering in my ear, hours of an invisible knife slicing up my insides.
Every breath hurt. Razor blades.
I tried to focus. There wasn’t much light. It had gotten dark. I tried to remember the hours with Amir. Had I said anything? I wasn’t entirely sure. Did it matter? I wasn’t sure of that, either.
I became aware of a noise. I became aware of the invisible sizzling of magic in the air. Blood burning off. Huge amounts of it. More than I’d ever felt in my life. Closer than I’d ever felt. Like a nuclear bomb had gone off five feet away in an alternate universe.
The biludha. Renar had started the Rite.
I focused on the noise.
The noise was right outside the door. Shouting. Heavy thuds. A mix of voices. As I sat there staring at the door, it shuddered, leaping a little as something crashed into it.
I thought of the Udug, of it telling me what was coming. Found I could almost still feel it in my hand, like it had been amputated instead of lost.
Something crashed into the door again. There was a distinct cracking sound. I tried to strain against my bonds again. I tried to shift the chair again. My whole body convulsed. Every muscle seized painfully. I slowly relaxed, breathing hard through my nose. My head hanging dow
n. Eyes closed. I’d become so used to the thick tape across my mouth, I’d almost forgotten about it.
I opened my eyes. Looked down past my own feet at the floor. Tendrils of smoke, white and dissolving, crept up between the floorboards.
First I thought, Good, someone is burning the place down. Then I thought, Shit, someone is burning the place down.
The door exploded in, spraying the room with splinters. It smacked against the wall and hung off of one hinge. A man appeared where the door had been, sailing through the air. He hit the floor a foot or two away from me and rolled to an ungentle stop. He was bald and pale and fat. Had once been well dressed. One of Renar and Amir’s Bleeders. He looked like he’d been doing a lot of bleeding.
I looked up. The doorway was empty. I blinked. Pitr Mags filled the doorway, his hot, rapid breathing thunderous. His jacket and shirt had been torn open as if an animal with claws had attacked him. He was bloody and dirty. Framed in the doorway, he looked like a wild animal. Eyes flashing. Feral mouth hanging open. Hands curled into fists.
“Lem,” he hissed, charging in and sinking to his knees at my feet. He reached around me and started working on the knots binding my hands, his face pressed against my chest. It burned painfully, my shredded muscles tender. “Me and Ketterly and Fallon came,” he whispered. “No one else would. I think Renar was still expecting an army, not a couple of guys. Fallon cast something and we slipped right in. No trouble. No one’s here, anyway. A bunch of Bleeders. No Renar, no Amir!”
He laughed. It was a pure, spontaneous sound. Mags thought he was winning. I wanted to tell him that when you showed up for a fight and no one was there to fight you, you’d already lost.
My hands slid free from the rope and fell heavily at my side. I felt like I’d been chewed.
“There’s gas in the air, huh, Lem? You can feel it, huh? Someone’s got the spigot open.”
He was excited. Affection for Mags and his stupidity flooded me. For a moment, I couldn’t feel anything else. No pain. No weakness. Just a pure love for Pitr Mageshkumar, my nonsexual crush, the child I’d never had, the pet dog I’d never had.
