by James Hunter
And on either side of her head—where ears should have been—other faces protruded like cancerous growths: one a young woman with creamy skin, high cheekbones, and flawless lips. The other, a middle-aged woman, cheeks too thin and hollow, worry wrinkles sprouting across her forehead, around her eyes, and at the corners of her mouth. None of the faces had eyes, just empty sockets, dark as the grave and murky as the future.
She raised her hands, each wrapped in wispy white gauze, her fingers tipped with black talons. A hovering eye sat in the center of each palm—the irises were the color of shimmering rainbows, shifting from emerald to ruby to cerulean.
“Yancy,” she said, “Lady Fortuna, our handmaiden, is really quite taken with you, you know.” She smiled, which did absolutely nothing to brighten her overall demeanor. “We can see why, oh yes … if we were a younger woman, we might be taken with you too. A rogue, aye, but with a good heart we think… and none too hard on the eyes.” A sickening pop, and the old women’s head rotated, the face of the young woman peering out at me with empty eyes.
She fluttered her eyelashes for a moment, and then shot me a sly wink. “We could teach you a great many things, if you’d be bold enough to learn,” the young face said with a voice like silk. “A great many things indeed.” Another wink and her neck popped and the old woman’s face took center stage again.
Hit on by a three-faced hag, gross to the nth degree.
“And you.” She turned a bit in her rocking chair, looking right at Ferraro as though the younger face hadn’t spoken at all. “It really is a pleasure to meet you dear, so lovely. Your involvement was uncertain, but much appreciated. Putting this whole matter to bed would have been near impossible without your help. But pleasantries aside”—she paused, then sighed as though she lived for the pleasantries—“we really should talk shop, as you mortals say.”
“Okay,” I said, “you wanna talk shop—how about the fact that Cannibal Steve and Fast Hands Steve are really the same friggin’ guy. If you wanted to prevent this future from happening why in the world would you involve us? Our involvement with Fast Hands is partly what led to that future in the first place.”
She smiled and rocked back and forth in her chair, longs nails clicking against the wooden armrest. “It would seem that way to you, yes, but Fate is a funny thing, a tricky bit of work. You think we control Fate, but we do not. No, no. We are a servant of Fate—able to see it, yes, to influence it yes, but control it? No, no. To some extent, the intangible Fate, the tapestry of existence, is a Being in its own right, and we are its servant as much as it serves us. Fate—history past, present, and future—is obdurate, as stubborn and unyielding as an old mountain. And the Grail makes it more so. The future is unwritten, the freewill of humankind makes it thus, but some futures are more likely to happen than others. Aye, it is so.”
“Yeah, I got it. But if you wanted to prevent the future with Cannibal Steve, then you just should’ve recruited someone else. Or heck, you could’ve just had Lady Luck meet us somewhere other than the Hog’s Head. This doesn’t seem like rocket science here.”
“Aye,” she said, “but it is much more complicated than that. The Grail lends extra weight to whichever reality it stays in … as that reality locks into place, the past will begin to conform in order to fit the future that must be. In order for that future to occur, either you or Ferraro needed to wound Fast Hands, and in order for that to happen, we needed to involve you, and you needed to be at the Hog’s Head. By possessing the Grail, Fast Hands managed to compel us—as a servant of Fate—to involve you, thus bringing about a greater likelihood of that future taking hold.”
I frowned. Her answer made sense in a strange circular logic kind of way, but damn if it didn’t hurt my head. “Fine,” I conceded, “maybe it’s a little more complicated than I gave it credit for.”
She smiled, though only half her face raised—the other lay flat in a grimace. “Yes,” she said in a grandmotherly tone, “it is just a little more complicated than you gave it credit for. We think that is an accurate statement.”
“Since you feel like talking about the future,” I said, “care to tell me who in the hell the Savage Prophet is? Future Fast Hands told me that the Savage Prophet did me in, sure as shit got my attention.”
Lady Fate sat still and silent for a moment, hands moving up and waving through the air, fingers swishing back and forth like she was searching through a library card catalogue.
“Ah,” she said after a moment. “Sadly there are some things that may not be revealed. There are rules, you know. As we said, Fate is a delicate thing, which will only tolerate so much interference. And telling you this … could ruin a great many things.” She smiled again, but it was a sad look on her withered face. “Aye, a great many things. Besides, much of this future has been veiled, even from us, by a power we do not fully understand. Rest assured though, we will help as we are able.”
“This is all fascinating,” Ferraro said, “Fate. The Grail. All of it. But I still have a job to do. Look, I signed on in order to bring Randy Shelton—the man who murdered Maxim Kozlov, Larry Ravel, and Ray Harvey, two good officers—to justice. I’ve gone through a world of hurt to do that. I’ve had my whole life flipped upside down. And Shelton? He’s still a free man. It’s time to change that. We’ve done what you needed us to do, now it’s your turn to deliver us Shelton.”
“So you’ve backbone enough to speak? Good, good. We knew our homely appearance wouldn’t faze you for long. Be patient just a little while longer, dearie, and then we’ll give you what you need to handle Shelton. We are the Wyrd—it is our role to play, and we shall do it true. But before you go, we have three boons—past, present, and future—we must yet give to our servant.” She nodded to me.
She held out one hand, luminescent eye canted toward the ceiling. At first, light seeped into the air, then it coalesced into a picture, a miniature, semi-translucent hologram, like you might see in Star Wars. In the air hung a man: tall, thick with muscle across the chest and shoulders, wavy brown hair, and green eyes. I knew him. James, a fellow member of the Fist of the Staff—second in command—and maybe my only true friend in the Guild.
Lady Fate’s neck cracked, suddenly the maiden stared out at me with empty eyes. “Past,” she intoned, “this man is the key to your past. Your present. Your future. His role is clouded to us, obscured, and blocked from our sight, yet he is the center. You must seek him out.”
Crack, Lady Fate’s head swiveled again, the middle-aged matron now front and center, a disapproving scowl distorting her lips. The picture of James swirled, shifted, melted, and reformed: the Crook of Winter—the prize I’d taken from my rescue trip into Thurak-Tir—hung suspended in the air. “Present,” the Mother said. “The crook’s power is immense, and the Lich will stop at nothing to have it. You will beat him only with its aid, but only after the Lich holds victory in hand.”
“Damn,” I mumbled, “that’s not super vague and cryptic.”
Matronly Lady Fate frowned at me in disapproval before letting out a sigh. Crack, the Hag present once more. “Hush now, child,” she said as the image once again shifted into something new. An old timey set of scales, the world spinning merrily along on one end with me standing above it. On the other end, an identical globe burned with red flame, the shadowed silhouette of a man hanging over and above it.
“Future,” the Hag said. “There is a man seeking to make himself a god—a man who will unbalance the world in his passing. A man forging new alliances, and breaking old ones asunder, sowing chaos in his wake. A mage of the Guild with great power—he is responsible for unleashing the Lich, Koschei, upon the world. What’s more, the future you journeyed through to get here will be the future of his design. He must be stopped.”
She paused as though searching deeply into murky waters. “For a time,” she said at last, “you shall be a fulcrum.” The light faded away, pulling back into Lady Fate’s palm.
“Okay, back it up,” I said. “I
f this is some kind of ‘chosen one’ bullshit prophecy thing, I’m just gonna walk away. I didn’t sign up for this—I don’t want this. I want to be alone. I want to play my music and drink some beer. That’s it. I’m not interested in being anyone’s savior. I’m done being everybody’s errand boy. I’ll take out Randy—that was the deal—and he has some vengeance coming. But after that, I’m out.”
She chortled, a low grinding sound. “Have you ever heard of Frank Foley?” she asked.
I shook my head, unsure where she was headed.
“Frank Foley,” she continued, “was a member of the British secret service, working in Nazi Germany as a humble passport clerk during the Second World War. Through guile and courage—and at great personal risk to himself, might we add—he saved almost ten thousand Jews from execution or deportation to the concentration camps. At times, he even went into internment camps to help smuggle Jews to freedom. Would you say that Mr. Foley was a chosen one?”
The question hung in the air, but I couldn’t answer it. I didn’t know. Maybe. Yes. No.
“No, Yancy,” she answered after a time. “He was just a man. A man in a terrible situation who found himself with the power to save a great many people. He could have chosen not to, chosen the path of the irresponsible or the morally weak—Heaven knows most people in his position decided not to do anything—but instead he intervened because he was able and willing and brave.”
Her rocking ceased and she leaned forward in her chair. “So it is with you,” she said. “There is no prophecy, no compulsion, no obligation. Rather, you, like Mr. Foley, find yourself at a volatile point in history, and your choice to intervene—or not—may well tip the balance and save a great many people …”
“But”—she slumped back in her seat and shrugged her narrow shoulder—“it is your choice. Should you decide to act, there is no guarantee that you will succeed or even live. If you do nothing though—if you simply fade back to the bar, to your music, run away as you have always run away from responsibility—a very bad man will do very bad things of that we can assure you ... Don’t you humans have a saying? ‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.’”
Normally, I’d say something smart here, but I didn’t. Her words stung me right to the heart and to speak now would both cheapen the moment and validate her accusations. I could sense that there was a lot on the line here, and like it or not, I couldn’t walk away from that kind of thing. I’m an immature, selfish jerk, but I don’t like seeing people get hurt. There’s a reason I got saddled with the nickname The Fixer in the first place. Sometimes, I just don’t know when to keep my friggin’ head down.
I sighed. “I’m not making any promises. Let me just deal with Randy and … well, I guess we’ll see where things go from there. Hell, maybe by taking Randy out, I’ll even manage to get some info on the big bad pulling the strings and stirring the pot.”
Even though I hadn’t promised jack-shit, I could feel approval nearly oozing off the old woman.
“Now how the hell do we get out of here—I need something a damn bit stiffer than that awful tea.”
“Just ask, dearie,” she said. “From this place, we may send you anywhere you so desire.”
“You can send us anywhere?” I repeated.
“Not to a person, no. But to any place, yes.”
I thought for a moment, tapping a finger against my chin. The first image Lady Fate had shown me, James. Lady Fate said he was key, said to seek him out. If there was shady business going on with the Guild, he’d be able to tell me. And he would.
“Boston,” I said. “Drop us off at a bar called the Black Shamrock, near Tremont and Massachusetts Avenue in South End.” I glanced at Ferraro. “I’ve got to talk to an old friend,” I said to her, “so it looks like you’re going to get to meet some of the Guild after all.”
Lady Fate nodded her head. “But before you go, let us see you properly prepared.” Her hands shot into the air, fingers skimming back and forth as though working through the threads of some great and unseen tapestry. “Aye, there it is,” she said, more to herself than to us. She hooked a clawed finger and then carefully plucked something from the air. She held a thin strand of glimmering fabric, maybe half an inch long, between her thumb and index finger.
I looked down—my clothes were no longer covered in blood or urine, no longer sporting holes or tears. I wasn’t even dirty anymore—no stains, dirt, or even B.O.—as if I’d just popped out of the shower, all fresh and clean. I glanced at Ferraro; she too looked as fresh and pristine as when we’d first set out for the Hinterlands. Craziest of all, I hadn’t felt a thing, not the merest trickle of power. If this was a thing of the Vis, it was well beyond my understanding.
“Neat trick,” I said, sounding less awed than I actually felt. It was times like these that I got a firm reminder that there were a great many things that were far beyond my power.
“Yes,” Lady Fate bobbed her head. “Sadly, most such tricks only work here in our realm. Still, we are glad to serve. Before you depart—you have the stone my handmaiden gave you, yes?”
I shoved a hand into my pocket, dug around for a second, and liberated the smooth stone with the glittering rune on its surface.
“Good, good,” she said. “Take it as a final aid—twice more may it be used to bring you to this place. But use it wisely, for no man, not even our Hand, may see us more than thrice.” She held up three fingers to drive it home, “and live. Now, to Boston with you.” She snapped her withered fingers and the world collapsed beneath me.
TWENTY-NINE:
Jimmy
The Black Shamrock was an old-timers bar in Boston, occupying one of the brownstones dotting the roadside. Once upon a time, smoke and laughter would’ve filled this place up, but now it was little more than a snubbed-out-cigarette-butt of a bar. Sweet tobacco perfume no longer billowed here, new laws and health regulations had put an end to the old ways. And the clientele … well, there wasn’t a smiling soul among them. Mostly, they were world-weary construction workers—though I spotted a few off-duty cabbies—all beaten down by a lifetime of hard work.
The joint really used to be a hopping place, one of my favorites out this way, but I had an inkling it was on its way out. Now it was just a dark, dank spot filled with the clink of beer bottles and the chatter of TV sports casters, one jabbering hockey stats while on another TV someone talked football. The clack of billiards was at least familiar, though it was only a single pair of guys shooting an unenthusiastic round of Snooker in the corner. The damn place sure could’ve used some tunes. Dark, dank, and depressing aren’t so bad so long as you have the right soundtrack for it.
At least the food was still top-shelf.
I took another bite of ribs, tangy barbeque dancing across my tongue; after nearly a week of terrible meals—mostly MREs, military field chow, and granola bars—I was in taste bud heaven. Ferraro sat across the table from me, her back against the padded booth, a big burger half eaten on her plate. When I’d originally asked her out to dinner, I hadn’t thought it would be quite so soon after leaving the Hinterlands, but I really couldn’t complain.
I mean a couple of hours ago, I’d been in a parallel future, surrounded by freakishly mutated humans, sporting more than a few wounds. Shit, I’d had my kneecap obliterated, half my left hand blown away, one arm nearly torn off, and a bullet riding in my guts. And now? Now I was riding high and feeling good—my power back, my body whole and healthy, a nightmarish future temporarily prevented, and dinner with a good-looking woman. A dinner with ribs.
Yeah, there was still a killer out there possessed by an insanely powerful undead Lich, and yeah, there was some treacherous mage in the Guild, scheming and maneuvering to make himself a god. But that was for later. Right now was all about celebration—you can only dodge the big end so many times before you realize that the future really isn’t promised.
“God this tastes so good,” Ferraro mumbled through another chomp
of burger.
I set my ribs down for a second, picked up a mug full of Coors and gave her a nod. “Amen, sister. I’ll drink to that,” I took a long pull that wasn’t near as good as the living water from the Holy Grail, but which, in that moment, seemed pretty close.
“Well,” Ferraro said, setting down her burger and dusting her hands free from crumbs, “let it never be said that you aren’t a class act. I haven’t had a first date like this since my days back in Pendleton.” She offered a genuine smile that lit-up her face. Pendleton was the main Marine Corps base for the entire West Coast, nestled right in the lovely, rolling hills just outside Oceanside, California.
“It’s the almost dying that does it,” I said, “makes everything better.”
She grunted and took a sip of frosty Pilsner. “So how much longer before this friend of yours shows up?” she asked after a moment. “I’ve got a feeling that after the food’s gone, this place is going to lose its charm.”
“Shouldn’t be too long. But cut him some slack, he’s a busy guy, plus he has to commute all the way from Somerville and there’s half a foot of snow on the ground. If you get bored, you’re always welcome to go cool your heels out in Snowageddon while I wait in here drinking beer. Might even order a cup of hot coffee—the place makes a pretty mean apple pie too.”
She picked up her burger without comment, took another bite then set it back down, leaned back in her booth and undid the top button of her cargo pants. She was a thin woman, though not scrawny, with lots of long muscle, but the Black Shamrock served up some big burgers. Unbutton-your-pants big.
“I want no judgment,” she said, eyeing me as though she knew there was some smartassery on the way.
“Fine.” I smirked. “No judgment. Just not the kind of thing I expected.”
