by J. C. Nelson
I ran to where it had risen and tried to brush the dust away, but no matter how much I scraped, the layer never changed, sifting like water back onto the ground. I tried the same thing on the polished counter top, trying to get enough reflection to contact Grimm. He could at least call the cops.
“That won’t work, princess.” This time the voice came from a few feet away. I ran to the wall and backed up to it, gun out, ready. Three times more the ash erupted in explosions as my harakathin tried to break through.
Then the dust began to gather, running together into a mound, and the mound took form. A man rose from the pile, like he was climbing a staircase, until he stood a few feet away. “Do you know who I am, princess?”
And to my horror, I did. Kingdom may be what you think of when you think of fairy tales, but the folks in Kingdom have their own legends. Their own myths, and ghost stories, and boogeymen. The actual boogeymen were nice, assuming you didn’t get all violent with a flashlight. On the other hand, I knew exactly who I was looking at. Kingdom’s own boogeyman, the name royals threatened their kids with if they wouldn’t polish their crown. “You’re the Gray Man.”
He wore coveralls, like a farmer, with a plaid flannel shirt that I think was red where it wasn’t covered in dust. It covered him like he’d rolled in a fireplace, white ash over pale skin. He took a few steps toward me. “You know what I’m called, but not my name. I am Rip Van Winkle.” He held out his palm and blew at me, a cloud of white and gray that billowed out and enveloped me.
I clamped my hand over my mouth a second too late. Like a fist in my face, the cloud forced my jaws open. With each breath, I sucked in more and more of that infernal gray. It moved inside me like he’d shoved a hand down my throat and started tearing out my lungs. I collapsed on the floor, unable to breathe as he advanced.
Then he stood over me and took a small notebook from his coveralls. “I make an effort to keep track of who I dispose of. Princess, what is your title? Princess of Wind? Earth? I know you are special. She could have bought a dozen assassins for what she paid me.”
The dust in my throat let loose, and with a wheezing cough I choked it out, looking less like a person and more like Liam the one time he tried smoking a pipe. Van Winkle grabbed me by the shirt and slung me to my feet. “Now. What exactly is your title? Tell me and I’ll make it quick.”
I sagged against a shelf and knocked over a box of toasters. “Mfffammmmfammham,” I said. Again the magic drew back, allowing me to spit out another clump of dust.
“I’m sorry. I couldn’t quite make that out.”
“I said small kitchen appliances.”
“Sad.” He noted it in his book, clicked the pen, and put it away. “You royals have got to stop breeding so much.”
That is the point at which I clocked him with a blender. And again, and again until the pitcher smashed over his head. I’m no idiot. I hit him with every single thing I found on the shelves, up to and including a fondue set. Then I went for my gun.
When I turned, he was already on his feet. I shot him three times, dead center of the torso. Perfect for perforating intestines, severing arteries, and generally making it hard to breathe. And still he stood. He ran his hand along his stomach and picked something off. “Now, little lady, that’s not polite.”
“How in Kingdom did you . . . ?” I trailed off as he dropped a spent bullet to the ground.
The dust swirled around him, covering him and making him look almost muddy.
“I reckon you’ll find out soon enough, miss. See, from dust you came, and to dust you shall return. So when you’re dead, I’ll take your bones and grind them up and add them to my collection.”
I looked around at the layers that covered everything in the store. More dust than a single body could supply.
He watched my gaze with a toothless grin. “I been killing royalty for centuries.”
I ran.
Down the aisles, straight for the front of the store I ran, leaving a cloud of bone dust in my wake. A layer of dust so thick it looked like volcanic ash covered the front, jamming the door. I slammed into it, kicked at the glass, and hurled a stool from a checkout stand.
Over and over, mountains of ash burst up in the dust as my harakathin tried to break through, but the shield of bone held them away.
“Now, princess, that’s enough,” said Rip Van Winkle as he approached. “I hear the fairy’s been training you. Not half-bad job.” He limped toward me, dragging one foot.
“You have the wrong girl,” I said, looking for something to use against him. The dust grew thick in the air as I searched. At any moment he could bring it back to choke me to death.
“Nope. Heard that one a few times before.” He fished a knife from one pocket and clicked the blade open. He held one hand to his head where I’d hit him. Ash clumped on the wound, but sloughed away where the blood ran. “Normally, I’d make this easy on y’all. But seein’ as you want to play rough, I can do that too.”
I advanced on him, shoving my gun into a side pocket and trying to relax as I moved toward a legend’s legend and a nightmare’s nightmare. Grimm had other agents who were deadly in hand-to-hand combat before me. Some could move into a crowd of attackers and break and bend, and others used knives. I’d never been quite that type, but knife defense I’d had drilled into me for over eight years.
He nodded as I approached. “Good girl. Come here and die.”
I’m only five foot eight. He stood a good five inches taller than me, looking like a farmer dumped in bone-meal flour. That certainly explained the legends about him. How ashes fell like snow, and the ghost of the Gray Man came for you. How the only thing left would be a pile of meat and a pool of blood.
From my hands, which almost shook, to my shoulder muscles knotted like iron, it took all my training to keep my body under control. I’d get one shot at this, since I couldn’t defend against the dust thing. Oxygen was my weakness, along with most other creatures on the planet. So I went to him.
“Night-night, princess.” Rip Van Winkle flipped the knife over so that the simple lock blade pointed downward, and held out his arms like he wanted to give me a great big hug. One that would end with a knife blade driven into my spine.
I waited until the last possible moment, let those dusty white arms come within an inch of me, and as his muscles tensed for the strike I spun. Just like I’d trained. The blade came down like a streak of silver, and I let it.
I turned as it did, using my forearm to force his to the side. I didn’t try to stop the swing. He was too strong. I changed it. Enough to miss me. Then I grabbed his wrist and threw myself against him, driving the knife right into his thigh.
He fell backwards, a short cry of pain escaping him along with all the air in his lungs, and I didn’t give him a chance to get up. I’d learned a lot about fighting. One of the key rules was never fight fair. Always kick a man when he’s down. So I did, driving that knife farther into his leg and then stomping his head as he rolled, trying to keep his arms in front of him.
As I swung my foot at his temple the dust covering him bunched together, solidifying. I might as well have kicked a statue. Something cracked in my foot and I fell, pain like bursts of lightning up my leg. I rolled away from him as fast as I could, but he grabbed my leg with an iron grip, squeezing the foot I’d broken like a vice.
I screamed into the dust.
“Now you done made me angry.” He rose, a specter of gray and white, his face contorted with rage. Blood ran from his thigh, causing clumps of ash to thicken and drop from him. When Ari does magic, there’s this moment when you feel like you are standing in a stream with water running over your skin. Rip Van Winkle did the total opposite.
No, this was more like Rip Van Winkle set off a bomb targeting only magic. A fine layer of frost covered me as magic rushed away from him. I had no control over magic, but that didn’t mean I couldn’t sense it. Feel it. Every bit of light and warmth fled before him. The force pushed me like a blow, thro
wing me backwards. In the silence, my ears rang.
“Long ’fore I did bone magic, I was killing,” said Rip Van Winkle. Now he shuffled with both feet when he walked. “How’s it feel, princess? To be stripped of any magic at all? If you can’t breathe, that ain’t the dust. Big ol’ princes. Feisty princesses. Even killed myself a king or two at times. Just can’t quite function without magic.”
About then the ground under his feet exploded. Strictly speaking, the ash under his feet leaped upward as my harakathin attempted once more to punch a way through the layer of bones, but this time they’d grown smarter. The eruption threw Rip Van Winkle off to the side, straight into a cash register.
Then as he slumped toward the ground, it exploded upward again, bashing him in the head. I struggled to my feet, unable to put any weight on my broken foot, but as I approached him I took the gun out.
He rolled over and started to laugh. “You done tried that already.”
I pointed with the gun, and shot him twice. “You made a clean spot.” Right where his own blood had washed away the dust, I put two bullets.
He rolled over, clutching his thigh in an attempt to quell the rush of red. And he laughed. Not just giggled. Deep-throated laughter that bent him over so that he curled up in a ball, even as he convulsed in pain. “You ain’t no princess.”
I knelt, putting my knee on his chest and shoving my gun in his face. “No. Who paid you to kill Ari?” I pressed down on him, driving the air that kept him laughing out. Instead, his body shook and a wild grin spread across his face.
“What’s so funny?”
“You best be calling the police. Taking me to jail or somet’n.”
I stopped for a moment, thinking about how Ari would have reacted to a void spot in the magic. Wondered if she could even breathe. Wondered if she’d die from the lack of it. “You aren’t going to jail.”
He nodded in acceptance. He’d killed so many people, I suppose death was natural for him. Maybe even normal. “I didn’t figure you for a killer.”
“Some gnomes stole my cell phone, and I can’t call Grimm with your bone dust in the way. Not that it would matter. There are a couple of furious harakathin who will come through the first crack in your spell. I don’t know what they can or will do, but I know I won’t be able to stop them.”
I put the gun to his head. “Then there’s Ari. I don’t believe a jail cell would hold you for a minute, and she’d spend the rest of her life wondering when you would show up. I’m not normally a killer, but I do have my limits.”
He stared at the gun, then his eyes got wider, and I realized he wasn’t looking at it anymore. He was staring at my hand, where the Black Queen’s emblem darkened my skin. “Handmaiden. You think I’m evil ’cause I kill girls and grind up their bones. You got the mark of real evil.”
“How do you know?” I took his face in my hands and made him look at me.
He gasped for breath, the blood loss killing him. “I been sleeping and killing for centuries, but I do it honest, with my own two hands. The Black Queen, she killed her handmaidens by killing others. When you die inside, you’ll do whatever she wants.” He closed his eyes. “I was jes’ wonderin’, handmaiden. Wondering what got sent after you.” Then he shuddered and the dust exploded in a cloud as it fell from the ceilings and walls.
Bursts of ash signaled the final arrival of my harakathin. The hair on my skin stood up as they passed by. “Blessing, curse, you did good. Extra treats tonight.”
Rip Van Winkle was dead.
I took his head with me in a box. Not because I like heads in boxes. It’s very rare that you get in a situation where you’ll say, “You know what I need? A severed head in a box.” I took it because I figured that people wouldn’t believe me otherwise. Also, if he’d really been killing that long, there might be a reward on his head. In Kingdom, people tended to be literal. I packed it in bone dust and sealed it in the largest salad-fresh container I could find. Then I put the container in a Christmas gift bag I got from under a register.
As soon as I was outside, I called Grimm. No answer, though I had enough bone dust on me to cancel almost any form of magic. From my cell phone I ordered a package pickup for the head, having it shipped to myself. Then, as fast as I could limp to a cab, I ordered the driver to take me to the college. I continued to try to call Grimm all the way there, but he still didn’t answer. That didn’t worry me. Grimm was a big boy, a fairy of near limitless power. Ari, on the other hand, might be in trouble.
Twelve
IN THE MIDDLE of a completely average Monday, I arrived at the college. Students packed the front sidewalk, expressing how little they liked being up before noon. Some of them lumbered about like zombies. I’d never understood the fear of zombies. Sure, they’re dead. Sure, they’re hungry. But the ones I’d seen aren’t hungry for brains. Corn chips, on the other hand, can get you killed. Particularly nacho-cheese-flavored ones.
I stopped a zombie/pre-med student and asked him the way to the drama department. He mumbled, pointed, and otherwise provided an answer that was completely unsatisfactory. I shook him a bit and got a much better answer. The drama department was on the fourth floor, east end.
Regardless of what you might have seen in movies, you do not run around with a gun drawn to every door and hallway. In fact, if you have the choice, you don’t take out a gun around other people at all. College kids filled the halls, shuffling their way toward algebra, English, and other mundane horrors.
The city’s supply of waitresses and burger flippers would be severely damaged if I caused a massacre here. So I carefully climbed the stairs and headed to the drama department. The sign said “Closed,” which didn’t bother me a bit, and “No Admittance,” which meant “Come Right On In.” I wasn’t dyslexic. I’d made a career out of ignoring signs.
Right before I opened the door, I had a thought. Grimm still hadn’t answered, and normally I’d ask him to call for backup. Today, I needed backup of a different kind. I slipped my nine millimeter out of my purse. Inside the purse, it was hidden from metal detectors and masked by a cheap illusion I bought that made it look like a box of tampons. Aiming with care at the brick wall, I squeezed off three shots.
I’d definitely found the drama department, judging from the screams. I mean, I’d put the bullets into a wall for a reason—I didn’t want to hurt anyone. Soon enough, the entire college would be swarming with cops. Then I headed into the theater.
First off, let me say that if you are performing on a stage that small, the only way you will end up on Broadway is by taking a cab. Contrary to what the sign said, the theater wasn’t closed. A single stage light lit up one edge, either stage left or stage right. I had a hard enough time with normal left and right.
From the back, an angry woman yelled. Not Ari, but odds were I was going to get the drop on whoever had come after her. I ran down the aisle, vaulted onto the stage, and dashed to the back curtain. Behind it, the dressing rooms split off to the left and the right. The women’s dressing room door was shut.
Well, mostly shut. The top half of the door was torn off the hinges. An older woman, dark skin, Haitian jewelry, and a flower-print dress stood in the hall, tossing lightning bolts into the door. She stopped for a moment, and a flash of red hair lit up the door as Ari peeked out.
From a display cabinet on the wall, I slipped a trophy out. A cheap imitation of the Golden Globe Award, the figure looked a lot like her left hand was ringing up a cash register and her right hand was offering a box of fries. Either way, the enchantress never saw me coming.
I smashed the trophy right into her kidney, waited until she collapsed, then repeated it on the other kidney. Then I thought about awarding the enchantress her first “bloody red temple,” but decided against it. The cops would be here soon enough. “Ari? You okay?”
She stuck her head out the dressing room door. “M!”
I ignored the sweat dripping from her hair, focusing instead on the fact that as I hugged her, she hummed
, her skin buzzing like a nest of wasps. “You okay? You don’t feel right.”
She glanced about, eyes wide, with exhaustion or adrenaline, I couldn’t say. “I’ll be okay. They were waiting for me when I walked through the doors. The thugs with guns were easy. I just drunked them. The spell slinger, on the other hand . . .” She trailed off, looking at the woman collapsed on the floor. That’s when I realized the ground and walls behind the woman were scorched. Ari had returned fire.
“I sort of sent a distress signal before I came in. Cops will be here soon enough. Why didn’t you leave after you figured out it was an ambush?” I tried to keep the worry in my heart out of my voice. This was common sense.
“She came in behind me.” Ari slumped against the door. “I was barely able to block her first spell, and then I ran. My bag’s out in the aisle somewhere, or I’d have shot her through the wall.” Ari carried a shopping bag almost everywhere with her Desert Eagle hidden by a similar spell. I believe hers showed up as a vampire romance novel.
“How much magic did you use?” I started to think there might be a good reason for her situation. Grimm had been quite clear about limiting her magic. Ari had run the equivalent of a marathon on bad knees.
She rubbed her fingertips together, and I guessed she could feel it too. “A lot. Mostly shields, but I might have thrown a lightning bolt or two.”
Right then I made up my mind. Priority one was getting Ari back to the Agency so I could make Grimm take care of her. “We’re going back to the Agency, and we’re doing it now. Someone meant to kill both of us. I was supposed to get the enchantress.”
Her eyes locked with mine. “What did they send after me?”
I helped her along the hallway backstage, supporting her each time she stumbled. Through the walls, the wail of approaching sirens rose. I’d get the paramedics and tell them that a drama student had collapsed under the pressure of a spelling quiz. “You ever heard of the Gray Man?”
