The Legend of the Red Specter (The Adventures of the Red Specter Book 1)

by M. A. Wisniewski

  It wasn’t a great meal, but it was free (or rather, she’d already paid for it—same difference) and it didn’t taste awful. Most days, it didn’t. The monotony was the real issue. Her standard budget meal wasn’t something to look forward to, but she’d found that waiting until she was really, really hungry before starting mealtime helped flavor her food like nothing else would. So by saving money and not eating now, she’d be making her dinner that much more awesome, ha ha.

  Hahhh…

  Gods curse it all to the coldest reaches of the Abyss—she had really been looking forward to some fucking pancakes today.

  Joy shook herself and started rifling through her purse until she found her notebook. None of her bellyaching was going to solve any of her problems. She needed to focus. She found her notes flipped to the contacts she’d transcribed from Garai’s mess into her own neat, precise handwriting. That was a key skill—there was nothing worse than losing a key piece of data because it was too messy to read. Who was closest? Joy found an address that, given the street name and house number, was an estimated ten-minute walk from here, listed as... Madame Zenovia, Medium Extraordinaire!

  Joy sighed. Just reading the name caused an image to pop into her head: of a certain type of insistently credulous evidence-resistant person, a type that she’d come to know quite well after two months of working for the Gazette. It was exactly the sort of person she really didn’t want to deal with today.

  But no, she shouldn’t think like that. That was pre-judging. Maybe this Zenovia person would be full of insights, and her story would be really interesting, and give her some solid ideas for her fake interview. That’d be fantastic, as Joy sure didn’t have any ideas for that now. And maybe, just maybe, Madame Zenovia might have actually seen something real—something that could make a legitimately interesting story. It wasn’t impossible, after all—just highly unlikely. As a reporter, keeping an open mind was important—but not so open that you let your brain fall out. Listen to everything, but try to verify everything.

  Or, that would be the correct approach for a regular news story. This case was different. This time she’d be writing fiction.

  Joy felt her spirits sink as she trudged past all the festive holiday decorations, feeling weirdly disconnected from the world around her. It felt surreal, this victory celebration. Maybe it was because, technically speaking, the war had never ended.

  Granted, the remnants of Albion’s grand army hadn’t been seen in years, but Emperor Oberon had never issued a surrender, either.

  Blame the 13th and their botched capture mission for that. They’d been ordered not to damage the palace, which was so ancient it pre-dated the Sidhe empire, and was one of the most iconic and treasured structures of the world. And they were not to harm the royal family, either. They were to be taken hostage and used to force a surrender from Emperor Oberon. That was the plan.

  With the Terrestrial Royal Family dead, General Yagcha had lost the leverage he’d needed to force a surrender, and the remainder of the Albion troops began an organized retreat on a massive scale, fleeing to the northwest Nokomis coast, crossing the treacherous northern straits on huge naval transports to reach safety in the Hybrassil Islands, the ancestral home of the Sidhe and Emperor Oberon. What’s more, the sea lanes going into Hybrassil were subject to horrifically violent and unpredictable weather. Albion mariners had some secret knowledge of dealing with this, which the KIB had spent years failing to discover. Without that knowledge, any naval invasion of Hybrassil was impossible.

  So, instead of a decisive end to the war, the world was left with a stalemate. The Emperor never surrendered, vowing vengeance instead, both sides either unwilling or unable to continue the fight. Technically, the war was still going on even now, though President-Dictator Hardwicke had declared victory after the last Albion soldier had fled across the sea, and neither army had fired a shot at each other since then.

  General Yagcha had retired his commission after the cease-fire, and removed himself from public life, refusing to give interviews.

  His seclusion was frustrating for Joy as a reporter, but as a person, she found it admirable, and for the thousandth time wished that the Kallistrate Plenum had appointed General Yagcha as Dictator, instead of Hardwicke. The founders of Kallistrate had clearly intended for the Dictator position to be temporary—to be used only in the direst possible situations, for emergencies that threatened the Republic’s very existence.

  Unlimited power could only be trusted in the hands of people who didn’t want it—people who’d drop it like a hot iron the very second it was no longer needed. It should never have been given to someone who was already President. What had the Plenum been thinking?

  And, since hostilities had never officially ended, Hardwicke had never relinquished his dictatorship, claiming the emergency had never ended. The hypocrisy of the triumphant banners snapping in the summer breeze galled her. How could you hold a victory holiday while simultaneously insisting that the war was still on and we hadn’t won yet? Make up your mind.

  But Joy bet Liberation Day would’ve felt strange regardless. It was an all-consuming holiday that hadn’t existed until three years ago. It had no traditions. Nobody had any warm Liberation Day memories from their childhood. Maybe it just needed time. Maybe in twenty years Liberation Day would be her favorite holiday. Not this year, though. This year she’d be skipping the parades and the street fairs. They’d only make her want to spend money she didn’t have. She should stay in, work on her Specter story, and heat up something from her pantry. Hey, she could have a meal of Victory Meat on Liberation Day—that’d make her extra-patriotic, right?

  Joy’s route to Madame Zenovia took her right past the entryway to The Golden Banquet, and she couldn’t stop herself from slowing down just a bit and glancing through the large windows separating the diners from the street. She could plainly see the waiters and waitresses wheeling their little carts around with the baskets of steamed dumplings and various other goodies. It reminded her of when her parents used to take the whole family on day trips to Varvara City, and all the fun she’d had.

  Varvara really had a way of leaving an impression. From the second you entered Rumi Janda Central Station, with it’s palatial, soaring marble columns, every corner of the city contained something amazing. There was the museum district, or the walking tour of the ancient city-state’s medieval fortifications, the famous aqueduct-fed fountain-gardens, the two-hundred-year-old original Xiatown district, and, best of all, the one month her parents had relented and taken them to Pika Island Fairgrounds, with the roller coasters, Ferris wheels, crane drops, haunted houses, and all.

  Unfortunately, she had never been able to appreciate these trips as much as she would’ve liked—she had to keep her attention on the rest of her siblings. There were six of them besides herself, and, as the eldest, it was her job to help her parents watch out for the younger ones, and make sure nobody got swept away in the crush of all the other people swarming all over RJ Central. Because heavens help her if she actually lost track of anybody—she’d get such an earful for it.

  But the finishing touch to any trip to Varvara City was dinner at the Imperial Plum. That was another order-off-the-cart-style restaurant, just like the Golden Banquet. Looking back, Joy knew it wasn’t super-elegant or anything, but it had felt like high-class fine dining at the time. The main hall was airy and open, with huge mirrors on opposing walls that made it seem like it stretched on forever. Once they’d wrangled everyone into their seats around one of the big round tables, everything else was so easy. There was no waiting, just flag down a cart and pick something out. There’d be something for everyone, no matter how picky anyone was feeling. They’d all worked up some serious appetites, but the carts just kept on coming until they’d all stuffed themselves silly. Herding everybody back to the train station after dinner was always much easier than it had been in the morning. They’d gorged like such greedy little butterballs hat they’d become docile sheep at the end
. Dad liked to joke he could just roll them all home if they got tired of walking. Most of them fell asleep on the train headed home to Gortyn. Those trips had been so much fun, despite some of the aggravation that came with being in charge of the younger kids.

  She wondered how they were all doing, her family. Mom’s last update letter had been a few months ago, and—well… she hadn’t replied to it yet. She really supposed she should. But—that would be such a hard letter to write. She would have to tell them about Quintus and getting fired. Just thinking about it made her nervous. Admitting that she’d gotten fired, even when it wasn’t her fault. It felt shameful, not like her. She was the eldest, the model for the rest of her siblings. She was the one who helped everyone else fix their problems. She wasn’t supposed to be the problem. And stressing over a letter home to Mom and Dad was always less productive than filling out another job application, or trying to turn one of her Gazette stories into something decent. It felt like this whole mess would be a lot easier to talk about after she’d already fixed on her own. There was no need to burden them with it, so she’d ended up not writing anything at all.

  And that really wasn’t acceptable—the bit about not writing anything. She should at least send a note or something. Letting them know she was still alive. Just a quick letter—it didn’t have to include much detail. She could do that. After she’d finished her Red Specter story. So she could pay rent. The note home would be the first thing after that.

  Lost in thought, Joy left the comforting scents of the Golden Banquet to fade away at her back as she trekked off to meet a witness to a phantom known as the Red Specter.

  Chapter 18

  Meet the Medium

  Madame Zenovia’s office was a tiny little hole in the wall, extremely easy to walk past, if not for the gaudy sandwich-board sign propped up on the sidewalk, which said “Madame Zenovia, Aetheric Medium Extraordinaire, Palmistry, Aura Readings, Divination, and More!” It did take Joy a while to decipher the sign, as the words had been painted dark green over a dark purple background, in an odd, swirly font that was supposed to look ‘cosmic’ or something, and the whole sign had been peppered with various mystical symbols from a dozen different religions, all outlined in gold, so they stood out more than the actual message of the sign.

  Joy knocked at the door, waited a minute or two, knocked again, still no response. Joy stared at the door another minute or two, looking up and down for some notice listing Madame Zenovia’s normal business hours, and finding nothing. Joy sighed and started checking her address list against her city map, trying to figure out if it’d be worth it to go to one of those and come back later, when she heard noises from inside. It sounded like footsteps.

  Joy swung the brass door-knocker a third time and called out, “Madame Zenovia? Are you there? Hello?”

  Finally, the door opened a crack and a suspicious brown eye glared out at her. “Who’s there? What do you want?”

  Joy switched on her friendliest, most inviting smile. “Hello, Madame Zenovia? I’m Joy Song Fan, from the Gazette. I’m here to listen to your story.”

  “What story?” The eye narrowed. “What are you talking about?”

  “Um, excuse me,” said Joy. “You are Madame Zenovia, correct?”

  “Says so on the sign, don’t it? Can’t you read?”

  Joy bit back a response about how it was possible for more than one person to live at the same address, and it was really hard to identify a person from just their eyeball. She needed to keep this on track.

  “Good, then you’re the one who saw the Red Specter down by the docks…” Joy took a quick glance down at her notes. “…Three nights ago.”

  The eye went wide. “How do you know about that? Have you been following me?”

  Joy checked her notes again. “Um, you wrote it in your letter to the Gazette. That’s why I’m here. I’m following up on that.” Joy tried to keep her smile as reassuring as she could, as it seemed like a single wrong word or gesture could spook the woman into slamming the door. This was surreal. Joy was not used to having anyone act afraid of her. She was five-foot-two and on the thin side—thinner than she liked, partially thanks to her “tins n’ staples” diet—so the concept of Scary Joy was ridiculous. Just a tiny, inoffensive Xia girl come to see you—nothing to worry about here.

  “Yes, I know the Gazette. Only paper in this town worth reading. That's why I picked them to get my letter. Still full of gossip and lies, though. Just last week, they had some idiot claiming that the Weeping Mithras was just a leaky drain. Can you believe that?”

  “Really?” Joy said, grateful that she hadn’t let Garai run her picture along with her article, like a lot of the regular contributors to the Gazette did. Score one for journalistic integrity. “Oh, I remember that story now,” she said. “I’m pretty sure they fired that guy.”

  “Well, good.” The eye seemed mollified by this, but didn’t move.

  “So…” Joy said. “Would you like to tell me about what you saw?”

  “Saw what?”

  “Three nights ago, down by the docks. Did you see something strange?”

  The eye turned hard again. “I’m not crazy!”

  Joy kept her smile in place as best she could and took a long, deep breath, wondering if she was wasting her time here. And why would Madame Zenovia be so suspicious of anyone knocking on her door? Wasn't this a storefront? How did she run a business like this? Shouldn't she be greeting customers...

  Ah! Joy got a flash of inspiration. "Crazy? Of course you're not. You're Madame Zenovia, the medium, aren't you? You have... special powers of insight, isn't that right?"

  "Madame Zenovia sees much that is hidden." Was the voice a bit less wary? Joy thought so.

  "Oh, that's great. You see, I'm in a real pickle and I could really use your help. I've been working on this Red Specter story and I'm completely stuck, as I don't really understand this, uh... aetherology or spirit world stuff at all. I really need some expert advice, from someone who really knows what they're talking about. Madame Zenovia, could you help me, please?"

  The door clicked shut, and Joy's heart sunk for a second, until she heard the rattling of a door-chain to see Madame Zenovia's weathered tan face in full, as it peered her over speculatively.

  "Not just stuck on your story," she said. "You're stuck in your whole life. Your aetheric aura is way out of balance. All green-shifted."

  "Oh dear, it's green-shifted? Is that bad? And I really have been feeling stuck in my life lately. How did you know that?"

  “Madame Zenovia sees much that is hidden. Your aura needs a full cleansing and rebalancing. I can take care of that. Come on in.”

  The rest of the interview proceeded on much more friendly terms, but not with any more coherence. This wasn’t the first time she’d gone to see a fortune-teller. Aetherology was big in vogue, and had been for a while, so nearly every fair or festival would have at least one occult-ish divination booth or spirit channeler somewhere, and they usually had long lines in front.

  Back when she was still attending Dodona University, one of her investigative journalism speakers had invited a guest speaker, the stage magician known as the The Great Phantasmo. When the class started she’d wondered what a stage magician could have to do with journalism. At the start of the class, he met with each student privately and gave them each a “crystal reading,” meaning he waved a piece of blue quartz over her head while humming for a minute. Then he told them the results of the reading while they wrote it down. Joy didn’t remember all the details of her reading, just the feeling of shock at its accuracy. Stuff like: “At times you are extroverted, affable, sociable, while at other times you are introverted, wary and reserved,” which fit her pretty well. One bit stuck out in her mind: “Your sexual adjustment caused you some difficulty,” which was a weird thing to have some strange man tell you, though it was true.

  Her parents hadn’t told her anything about sex, other than she was going to a good college—so she’d better
not ruin that by getting pregnant. She had her future to think of, and she needed to set a positive example to all her younger sisters, who all looked up to her.

  So she’d taken that advice—really, it was nothing she hadn’t already decided for herself. But she hadn’t counted on how difficult sticking to that resolution would be. She didn’t date often, but now and then she’d get into situations where things got…heated, and remembering all that other stuff got difficult. There’d been one relationship she’d cut off entirely, because she’d gotten to the point where she couldn’t trust herself. That had felt awful. Inessa had found her sobbing into her pillow in frustration, and when Joy had explained why, she’d given her a look like she’d sprouted another head. Inessa sat her down, and patiently explained to her that there were multiple forms of safe birth control, and the campus had a clinic that would hand them out to students for free.

  Joy had been floored, All that stress and worrying and agonizing—over something that had such easy solutions, if only she’d known about them.

  Anyway, Joy had been amazed that the Great Phantasmo could tell all that from a crystal reading. When the class lecture started up, Professor Gelfland asked everyone if they thought their crystal reading was accurate. Most hands went up, including hers. The Professor then asked for a volunteer to recite their reading to the class, and one young man, much braver than her, did so. When he did, Joy couldn’t stop herself from bursting out laughing, for his “personal” crystal reading was word-for-word identical to hers, and to everyone else in the class. Everyone could be “extroverted, affable, and sociable” sometimes, while being introverted at other times. And, apparently, everyone thought they had problems with their sexual adjustment, even the guys. The trick was to use language that sounded specific, or deeply personal, but was actually vague as hell, and most people would fill in the actual details themselves.