by Garon Whited
“I think we’ll still try to avoid using them,” I mused.
“I agree. We don’t need to put anything more into the information systems than absolutely necessary.”
Once we had the trailer hitched, Mary drove us back to her place. Bronze was not happy to see the trailer, but suffered it with good grace. It was a good thing the trailer was made mostly of composites. If it had been made of metal, she might have expressed her displeasure by taking a bite out of it.
I stroked her neck and promised she would spend as much time as possible outside the trailer.
“I might even be able to put an Ascension Stall on it,” I told her. She cocked her head and swiveled an ear doubtfully. I understood her doubts. A separate spell could charge up independently, but when she got in, her own Ascension spell would drain everything the Stall built up and cause it to collapse.
Enchanting the thing might take a while, but it could be worth it in the long run. I’ll have to see how it develops. I assured her I would think of something. She accepted that and, stepping carefully, climbed up into the trailer. It creaked a bit, but it was built for heavy loads.
I could feel how much she hated it. On the other hand, she did appreciate the windows. I had clear plates installed in the hull at eye-level for her. At least she could watch the scenery go by. The lack of a video screen didn’t bother her, but I was already thinking of how to mount one.
That night, Mary and I parked, took the bus, walked a bit, and hit the hospitals, highway overpasses, and alleyways. We focused on finding people who were ready to move on from life. In a city this size, there’s no shortage of those. Finding them is the only tricky part. That, at least, is something for which I have a talent. It’s almost as though I can smell them, or hear them, or something. I always know.
We didn’t turn down anyone who volunteered for dinner in a more crude and unpleasant manner, but we didn’t go looking for them, either. After last night’s fracas, neither of us were about to turn down a free meal.
In the morning, we discovered the windows’ variable darkening feature was almost good enough. A blanket sufficed for the rest. Awkward, but we could arrange something more elegant later. We tested the shower; it worked, but the electric heater that took the place of a hot-water tank needed to be upgraded by about a couple hundred watts. Still, in a limited space like that, you can’t have everything. Having a dedicated shower space at all was a luxury beyond price.
Mary picked California as a destination. It seemed as good a direction as any. My big concern was finding a large, empty place where we could camp out, Bronze could run, and I could sketch spells in the dirt.
Wednesday, November 25th
For the past three days, I’ve tried to find the Obsidian Orb. When I didn’t find it on the first try, I figured it was a question of distance, preparedness, and power. I’ve been taking longer and trying harder since then.
Earlier today, we were in the Texas panhandle, west of some tiny place called Adrian, near the border of New Mexico. There was such a nice-looking spot beside the road we pulled over and stayed for the day. After sundown, I went into a lovely stretch of flat ground and started my most serious job of spellcasting since I arrived in this world.
Somebody is going to have one hell of a shock when they see their field. Maybe it’ll rain before then. Or maybe they’ll think it’s a variation on crop circles. I don’t know.
What I do know is someone took my ball and doesn’t want to give it back. There are serious defenses hiding it, and I do mean serious. Whoever it is knows I want it back—there is no way they didn’t feel my attempt. If the Black Ball was on Mars, I would have found it. If someone is actively guarding it from detection, he’s lying on the floor with a nosebleed and his eyes rolled back in his head.
Do the local magi have a spell adequate to hide my ball? I doubt it. All they seem to have are the remnants of an ancient and powerful magical culture—the archaeological remains, not the real thing. On the outside chance a suitable spell has survived down through the ages, it’s got to be something the magi tied into their house nexus—and they’re not using it for anything else. I launched the locator spell so hard random people around the world spontaneously found their keys, the missing sock in the dryer, and their turn signal.
Still no ball.
This is unimaginably frustrating.
On the other hand, Mary and I have spoken to a couple of people about legal matters. It’s expensive to buy an identity; buying a set of two does not get you a discount. On the other hand, BitRate is pleased I like his artistry. I like it so much, in fact, I want to buy more of it—at least, that’s what I said over the phone. He understood perfectly and promised he could provide something for an “art show”… say, shortly after the Thanksgiving holidays? I said that would be fine—oh, and can we have some of the previous artwork re-framed? Of course, I’d be happy to pay the fee for that…
I gave him a lot of money. I’m sure he’s not in it for the money; it’s the way to keep score. He does it because it’s what he does well, and because it’s challenging. I can understand that.
Meanwhile, we’re on a slow road-cruise westward. It’s not like we have anywhere in particular to be. We stay in the manual-drive lanes and try to enjoy the trip. It’s a little weird to be driving a vehicle with an electric motor for each wheel. It’s strangely quiet to humans, but has an eerie, four-part almost-harmony hum to us. Mary says it always makes that sound, whether we’re on a power road or using the batteries to get to a campsite. The trailer’s wheels are a more distant noise, like backup singers behind the lead vocalists. Altogether, it’s almost like the choir can’t quite get together on the same note. I guess I can live with it. I guess I’ll have to.
I’m getting practice driving the RV and trailer; I need it. The thing is a cumbersome, slow, awkward rig and it takes getting used to.
Mary is enjoying doing the tourist thing. She didn’t get to enjoy much of it as a night-breed vampire. Most tourist stops are open after dark, of course, but not all night long. Not that there are many actual tourist attractions, but we’re on the Interstate, and it used to be the famous Route 66. There are lots of little things to stop and see—what I’d call tourist traps. So what? I’m not in a hurry to get anywhere, and they usually sell something to eat.
Some of the trivia in these little shops is interesting. For example, they changed the flow of Route 66 in 1937. As a result, there’s an intersection in downtown Albuquerque where Route 66 crosses itself. At Central Avenue and 4th Street, you can stand on the corner of Route 66 and Route 66. If we go through Albuquerque, we’re going to stop and see it.
We also stop at every casino we pass. We kill some time in there with the usual “win-a-little, lose-a-little, win-a-little, quit” pattern. Typically, we see if we can win honestly for a while, lose most of it, then make a “lucky” bet and call it a day. We walk out with a modest profit and, if we do get lucky, lose enough to stay under the limit for on-the-spot tax forms. So far, we haven’t needed to dip into our savings for our traveling expenses.
I’m still grumpy about being burned out of my home and abandoning… well, everyone and everything. I don’t like it. I don’t like it one little bit. I miss the Four and wonder how they’re doing. I miss Francine. I even miss flirting with Susan. I really miss the way Olivia would grab my leg, sit on my foot, and pretend I was an amusement-park ride. Heck, I miss my martial arts classes. And I was really looking forward to introducing the medievalists to my version of live-action chess!
Worst of all, I don’t dare call anybody, or even write to see how they’re doing. This makes me sad. Of course, I’ve always been planning to go back to Karvalen and to Tort, so this was inevitable. I would have liked to end it better, though. I didn’t even get to say goodbye.
That seems to happen with depressing regularity.
Am I going to have to get used to this? Do vampires always settle down, have nice homes, enjoy their quiet lifestyle, and get cha
sed out? Whether it’s religious zealots or angry neighbors or blood-sucking competition, are we always run out of town? That is, if we don’t see it coming and decide to move on voluntarily. If so, is it because we’re vampires? Or because we’re immortal? If we didn’t feed on blood, would people find us as objectionable? What if I was just the immortal guy who lives up the street? Would I be as hated and feared? I’d still be different, but maybe not offensive. Then again, different is often offensive.
Or is Mary right about power? I’m personally powerful, therefore I have problems. Is that the way it works? Would I still have problems if I hid the fact I have power? Is it the perception of power, rather than actually having it?
Mary does a pretty good job of cheering me up, though. She seems to feel she’s been deprived of physical affection for the last few decades and is making up for lost time. I’m not complaining. Well, not about that. She does need to file her nails down, though. She’s bought a case of first-aid sprays, enough to treat a whole week’s worth of playground accidents. I can tell there’s more to come. So to speak.
So, anyway, I finished my big divination spell tonight and watched the ground vibrate, shaking the sandy soil into wavy patterns. No images formed; no direction was indicated. It simply didn’t find anything. It was as though the thing I sought simply didn’t exist.
Could it have been moved outside the universe? Could someone in Karvalen have found it while looking for me? I really don’t like that idea. The Church of Light—or just some magicians—could have the thing in some sort of laboratory, poking it and prodding it. If the Church has it, I don’t doubt it’s locked in some underground vault with a lot of light sources. If magicians have it, either they’re trying to figure out how to use it or it’s trying to figure out how to use them. Possibly both.
I stalked out of the field and back to the van. Mary gathered some deadwood and debris for Bronze.
As an aside, wood is okay, but Bronze rather enjoys fragments of tires. The rubber is chewy and combustible; the steel inside the tires is delicious. Her equivalent of chocolate-covered candies, I suppose. We pull over to pick up any large pieces during the day. I try to grab any smaller pieces with my psychic movement trick as we go by, flipping them in through the open window of the trailer. The highway is cleaner because of us, and I’m getting good at it even during the day. At night, we don’t even bother to slow down for pieces of shredded tire; I flip them back into the trailer with a thought. It’s good practice.
“Any luck?” Mary asked, as I tromped up on to the shoulder of the road.
“Yes. All bad.”
“Any idea who did it?”
“No. Oh, I suppose I can limit my suspicions to local magi or Rethven magicians. They’re the only ones likely to have the resources to steal it without me noticing and to keep it hidden from a spell of this magnitude,” I told her, gesturing out into the field. “If there’s another supernatural organization around, I’d like to know, though. Do you know of any?”
“Let’s talk about it while we roll,” she suggested. “We’ve been parked here for too long and we’re trespassing.”
“Of course.”
She drove. I sat in the passenger seat, slightly forward of the walk-in door.
“I don’t know of anyone supernatural,” she began, taking us up behind a tractor-trailer rig and engaging the radar-controlled cruise. It would control our speed to keep us at a fixed distance from the leading vehicle; all Mary had to do was steer. “Around here, aside from the magi, whom you already suspect, there’s only the vampires. I’ve heard rumors there may be other things—ghosts, forest spirits, secret saints or descendants of angels—but I’ve never met any. Well, except for the ghost you actually called up, of course.”
“That’s not really a ghost,” I told her, absently. “That’s a conjured spirit. A ghost is an quasi-independent spirit that continues to exist without physical form and without other intervention.”
“The difference being…?”
“A conjured spirit shows up because you grab it and force it to be there. You interfere with its journey to whatever afterlife it has. If you let it go, it goes back where it came from. After a while, they get where they’re going and you can’t really call them back, so there’s a variable window of opportunity.
“In contrast, a ghost isn’t going anywhere. It’s here, it stays here, and if you summon it and then let it go, it doesn’t necessarily leave. It’s kind of like the difference between a phone call and an interview. I call the spirit, talk to it, and then hang up—it’s over. I have a ghost for an interview and when I’m done I have to ask it to leave or throw it out.”
“I think I get it.” She paused for a moment. “Would it be out of line to ask if you could teach me some of this? I don’t know if it I can learn much of this magic stuff, or if it would be more trouble than it’s worth.”
“I’d be happy to.”
“Thank you. I feel a little insecure not understanding what’s going on half the time.”
“Strange. I know the feeling from somewhere,” I admitted. Mary chuckled.
“So, what’s our priority, here? Do we have something we’re trying to accomplish, aside from not being found? Find the thing—the demon ball thing. I got that. What else? I’m trying to plan my calendar.”
“Priorities aren’t the same as importance,” I mused. “Breathing is more important than money, but you can hold your breath to get money off the bottom of a pool.”
“True. So, what’s important? And what’s a priority?”
“The ball is important. Over and above anything else, it’s the big thing. It has an entity inside it as unpleasant, dangerous, and evil as anything I’ve ever encountered. More dangerous than most, because it’s also not stupid. Demons usually aren’t all that smart. This thing is. It has to be found, and it has to be destroyed.” I brooded for a moment on the trouble Tort went through to lock it in a mirror. “Assuming it can be. If not, it has to be contained.”
“Got it. You have a goal in life, and that’s it.”
“Pretty much.”
“Do we have a secondary objective? Aside from surviving long enough to make it happen?”
“I’d like to punch the Elders’ noses out the back of their heads.”
“Seems fair, but impractical. We might want to save that plan until after we deal with whoever stole your ball.”
I thought about it for a while, occasionally flipping a bit of steel-belted snack through the trailer window. Gesturing helped. It was probably a focus thing, rather than an actual direction of power. Still, if it helps, it helps.
“I have some things to work on,” I reflected. “I need to work on some spells for us. I need to call my daughter and granddaughter; I need to see how they are and have a discussion with my daughter. I want to continue working on my gate experiments—that’s kind of a prerequisite to calling anyone back home. That’s going to be difficult in a camper van thing… Of course, we also have the obvious stuff. Survive. Find the ball. Kill everyone involved in taking it. Kill everyone who has it. Kill everyone who’s heard about it.”
“Got it. Kill them all. Moving on?”
“Right. Add to the kill list the Elders. Find them first, of course. Maybe use one of the fingers in the freezer to trace back along a bloodline…” I thought for a minute.
“That might be doable. But as for other stuff, I don’t know. I think that covers most of it. Oh, I’d like to find a way to check on Mark and Gary and the neighborhood in general. Maybe I should look in on them with a scrying mirror, but I don’t know if that will attract attention to them. I would like to know if I have to go back and murder a few dozen crime bosses.” I sat up straight and tried to look dignified. “I have a reputation as a guardian demon to uphold,” I added, mock-serious. Mary snorted and I relaxed, smiling. I thought some more.
“There are some blatantly obvious, day-to-day things I’m skipping,” I said, finally, “but I think I hit the high points of the
big picture goals.”
“Good. I’d hate to think you were failing to mention me.”
“You’re omnipresent,” I countered. “If I fail to mention you, it’s for the same reason fish fail to mention water.”
“I feel strangely flattered,” Mary admitted. “So, we seem to have our continued survival handled for at least the next few hours. Is there anything we can do toward any of the other goals during this time?”
“Hmm. I suppose I could put a spell on the van,” I mused. “I want to put an Ascension Sphere on it. Well, not really a sphere, and it’s not for ascension… I really need a new name for it.”
“Okay. What for?”
“Anything inside one is unlikely to be harmed by magic. They’re also hard to track. I’ve got an amulet, but there are other ways magic-working people could trace me. Basically, with the Sphere, you have to actually lay eyes on the spell to tell it’s there. Spells get sucked in, kind of like an electric charge encountering a grounding rod. I suppose you could send out a specialized seeking spell to detect how far it went before it fizzled. A couple of triangulation points later, you’d have a point where all the circles crossed, telling you—”
“You could triangulate it if you knew what you were looking for. Got it. Moving on.”
“Um. Right. Sorry. The big thing is it also contains power inside, building up a magical charge. That could be useful, since I can force power into a prepared crystal and store it for later.
“Why not?”
“When she gets into the trailer, she’ll absorb all the power inside it and the spell will collapse. Then I’ll have to cast it again when she gets out.”
“Oh. Can you put the spell on the van from the inside?”
“I don’t see why not. I did it with the stalls in the barn.”
“Do I need to pull over?”
“Not unless you want to help.”
