by T. A. Pratt
“Oh, yes,” Gregor said. “Trying to predict someone else’s divination does lead to great uncertainty. But I have you, my dear, to draw that uncertainty away, dump it somewhere unimportant, and replace it with certainty. Yes?”
“That’s…” She was going to say that was too difficult for her, the equivalent of making the falling rocks in an avalanche land to form an exact scale replica of Buckingham Palace, but was it really beyond her?
“You’re stronger than me now,” Gregor said, matter-of-factly. “You’re rising up on the madness in this city like you’re riding a geyser. You have the power.”
“Yeah,” she said. “Yeah, I can do that.”
“Do what?” Reave said, appearing, as he did, from nowhere.
“Is Marla dead?” Gregor asked. He was getting cabin fever, Nicolette supposed, and was tired of staying in his building, where he was safe. She glanced at his bare knee. Well, relatively safe.
“Not yet,” Reave said, flicking his hand as if the issue was of no consequence. “What is it you said you can do?”
“We can find Genevieve before Marla does. Tomorrow afternoon.” Gregor’s voice was weary, and Nicolette felt an unexpected pang of pity for him. She shoved it away. There was no room in her life for pity right now.
“Good,” Reave said. “I’m going to try storming her castle now.”
“Why?” Nicolette said. “We told you, we can get her tomorrow, and you know you’ll never break into her palace.”
“I will not answer a woman,” Reave said. “Dare to question me again and I’ll skewer you, however useful Gregor thinks you are.”
Nicolette regarded him coldly. If this was the new world order, it did not agree with her.
“I’m curious, too,” Gregor said. “Why waste your energies on a fruitless attack?”
“I attack her every night,” Reave said. “Why let her know anything has changed? Besides, I don’t waste my energies. Every time I assault her palace, she becomes more afraid of me, and I grow more powerful. When I have her locked up in a room, to torment at my leisure…” He shivered, clearly delighted by anticipation, and Nicolette shuddered in disgust. “My power will only grow, and the world will be made over in my image.”
“All cheesy dark towers and nightmare armies like a little kid would be afraid of?” Nicolette said, incredulous. “You’re going to rule the world? What kind of economic system are you going to implement? How are you going to deal with sewage? Road maintenance? Health care for your slaves? What are you going to do for food? I know you’re bringing your dream stuff into this world, but this world isn’t going to turn into the dream world completely. There’s practical matters to—”
“Silence!” Reave roared, but Nicolette only fell silent when Gregor put his hand on her shoulder.
“I will have her head on a pike,” Reave said.
“No you won’t,” Gregor said. “Behave yourself. You need us.” To Nicolette he said, “You have a point, of course, but it’s something we’ve considered. He needs me to help him run things, Nicolette, and I need you. All right? You’ll always have a place with me.”
Reave spat and turned away.
“The feeling’s mutual, asshole,” Nicolette said, and Reave vanished into the shadows.
14
Z ealand woke on a white daybed in a room filled with yellow light. He smelled oranges. Genevieve sat beside him, her hands clasped in her lap, her head cocked to the side, watching him.
“I’m not dead,” Zealand said, reaching tentatively to touch the place on his back where Reave’s knives had gone in. The wounds felt…strange.
“The mold saved you,” St. John Austen said, coming in through a doorway Zealand hadn’t noticed before (perhaps it hadn’t existed before). “It filled in your wounds. For all I know it took over the function of your kidneys. The stuff is part of you now, not just armor, but flesh.”
Zealand considered that. Perhaps it should have repulsed him, but it didn’t. He was merely glad to be alive. “Then I owe Genevieve a great debt for giving me such a gift.”
“You fought him,” she said, eyes wide. “You really fought him.”
Zealand sat up and swung his legs over the side of the bed. He felt fine, really, a bit tired, a bit sore, but not at all as if he’d been skewered through both kidneys. “For all the good it did. I’m afraid I couldn’t do much to him on his own ground, he controlled the rules of reality there, and—”
“You fought him,” Genevieve said again, and reached out, as if to touch his face, though she let her hand fall before making contact.
“Genevieve is still a bit astonished at the notion that Reave can be fought, that you were brave enough to face him,” Austen explained.
Zealand shrugged. “He’s only a man. Not even a man, I realize now, just an idea of a man with delusions of independent reality.” He remembered. “Good Lord, did he hurt Marla? We were supposed to work together to stop him, but I was attacked before the plan could go into effect.” He grimaced. “She’ll think I deserted her for sure.”
“You were trying to help Marla Mason?” Mr. Austen was alarmed, and Genevieve stood up and backed away.
“You misunderstand her,” Zealand said. “She has had a change of heart. She no longer wishes Genevieve’s death. I don’t believe she ever wished it—she just thought it might be unavoidable. She wants to help you now, Genevieve, and stop Reave, and all the terrible things happening in her city. That’s what she told me, and I believe her. She swore an unbreakable oath.”
St. John Austen frowned. “She wants to lock Genevieve up again, you mean, sedate her, keep her in this dream world forever.”
Zealand spread his hands helplessly. “Isn’t that what Genevieve wants? I thought she was only vulnerable when she woke up in the real world? Here, she can hold him off indefinitely, yes?”
“That’s no way to live, Zealand, cowering here in her palace,” Austen said. “She wants Reave gone. She wants her life back, but she never believed that was possible until she saw you attack him.”
Genevieve wandered away, leaving them alone. Zealand sighed. “No offense—I’m rather fond of her—but she’s mad, Austen. Isn’t it best if she’s confined someplace where she can’t hurt herself, or others? Because Reave attacking her…in a way, that’s just her hurting herself. He only has the power she gives him.”
Austen shook his head. “She can’t bear it anymore. Something shocked her, woke her up in that hospital, but she could have stayed, could have let the doctor come and give her a shot to calm her down. But she chose to act, to try to effect a change. She doesn’t even know how long she was in that hospital. I don’t know. Seeing you actually fight Reave…it had a great impact on her. You don’t spend time with her like I do, but I see the change, she’s more lucid, more interested, more hopeful. She thinks of him as an unstoppable nightmare, but if we can chip away at that image, let her know Reave can be beaten, it may help her finally purge his presence from her mind.”
“Marla could help with fighting Reave, assuming he hasn’t killed her already,” Zealand said. “She’s very formidable.”
Austen shook his head. “Genevieve doesn’t trust her. She tried to trust Marla Mason, tried to enlist her as a champion, but Marla had murder on her mind…you must understand, Genevieve doesn’t trust easily. She saw something in you, I don’t know what, something in the shape of your dreams, something that made her believe you might put her needs first. But Marla would never put Genevieve’s needs first. If Genevieve had wandered to Cleveland or Pittsburgh or Milwaukee instead of Felport, Marla wouldn’t care in the slightest.”
“I can’t argue with that. But circumstance makes strange allies, Austen. I think we should meet with Marla.”
“Try convincing Genevieve,” he said with a shrug. “In the meantime, she’d like you to stay here, to protect her against Reave. He’ll be attacking soon.”
“How do you know?”
Austen looked at him strangely. “He attacks every n
ight, Zealand. He’s the king of her nightmares.”
At the club, Marla checked in with Langford one more time—Zealand had vanished again, he said, but things were on track with finding Genevieve—and made Rondeau and Ted eat something. She sat on the couch in her office and listened to the radio, filled with late-night advisories for the oncoming blizzard, which the border wardens were even now whipping up magically. The things at the borders were not human, but were imbued with minds, and drew power from Marla’s own energies to protect the city—they weren’t some great magic of hers personally, but rather a protection set up long ago that came with her job. Even so, the weight of their work made her tired, and as the snow fell thicker and heavier and snowplows on the edge of town suffered mysterious breakdowns and phone lines fell under the weight of sudden icicles, she slumped deeper and deeper into the cushions. She had to sleep. Sleeping here was not ideal. She should, at the very least, fold the sofa out into a bed. But getting up was too much trouble.
Tonight had gone badly. She knew “plan” was just a four-letter word for something that doesn’t work, but she’d been hopeful. Maybe Zealand’s presence would have tipped the scales in their favor, and they could have taken Reave apart. Now Zealand had run away, or betrayed her, or been killed by Nicolette and Gregor—who knew?
Someone entered the room, and Marla opened her eyes. It was Joshua, cheeks red from the cold, smile warm as a hearth. She reached out to him and pulled him down to the couch with her, and they nestled together, snugly, for a few moments.
“Did I do good tonight?” he asked, and Marla knew she’d been playing this right all along—because who else in the world would Joshua ever feel the need to ask approval from? She was opposed to playing games in relationships, both on principle and because it seemed like a waste of time, but if aloofness was the only way to make Joshua see her as more than another toy to use and send on her way, she’d keep it up.
She kissed his forehead. “You did really good.” Deep down, though, part of her rankled at her own retreat. Maybe she could have reached Reave and cut him down. It might have been pointless—maybe he had a whole mushroom-grove of new bodies waiting for him to put on like fresh clothes—but it might have bought them some time. The meat-golems and Rondeau had been holding his monsters back. She could have killed Reave, she thought. But Joshua had seen her fall, and come to save her, and she could hardly fault him for that. “So you, what, professed your love for him?”
“Oh, I just told him I saw which way the wind was blowing, that I thought it was clear his side was going to win, and that he shouldn’t even worry about you, that you weren’t important, he could deal with you later. I get the feeling he doesn’t have a very high opinion of women. I told him I’d join him after he won.”
“Wow,” Marla said. “And he believed you. I wasn’t sure something like him would be susceptible to your charms.”
“Oh, all men and women love me, Marla,” he said, snuggling in closer. “Being mostly imaginary is no defense.”
“I can’t imagine what it must be like to have your power. Some of the most important formative relationships in my life are based on hatred. Hamil says that pride is my engine, that I’m just too proud to fail, but before I had anything to be proud of, it was hate that drove me. Hate that let me leave my fucked-up family, hate that made me take a job waitressing in a topless bar—I hated men back then, so it pleased me to pretend to like them and take their money.” She shook her head. “I don’t know how I would have lived a life of love, love, love.”
“Well, just because everyone loves me doesn’t mean I love everyone, Marla. I can hate as well as the next man, I imagine, though admittedly I have less cause.” His hand slid down to her hip, fingers tucked into the waistband of her pants, a casual intimacy that almost made tears come to her eyes. She hadn’t been this unguarded with anyone for years, except for the incubus, and that hardly counted.
“A lot of what I do is because people hate me,” Marla said. “I went to San Francisco last month because someone was trying to kill me, and the only thing that could save me was hidden on the other side of the country. At least this mess with Genevieve doesn’t feel personal that way, though it’s getting there. It’s kind of funny that Genevieve hates me and her sworn enemy hates me. The enemy of my enemy is my enemy, too, apparently.”
“You could use a love potion and make everyone adore you.”
“That only works for a little while, and there are diminishing returns—it’s less effective with each application. Besides, that kind of stuff, that mind-and-emotion control, it’s immoral.”
He chuckled. “You think I’m immoral.”
“You didn’t choose to become what you are, Joshua. You didn’t decide you wanted to control people and then work magic to make that happen. A hammer can be a tool to build something, or a weapon to kill something. Your power is the same way. Motive is what matters, and so far as I can tell, you’re mostly on the side of the angels.”
“I’m not entirely unselfish. I am used to getting what I want.”
“Sure. But you don’t do so at the expense of others.”
“I’ve never considered my power an excuse to be cruel. I can see what you mean, though. Better if you go on as you have.”
“Feared by many, hated by some, loved by few.”
“It will all work out,” he said, and leaned in to kiss her cheek, her chin, the tip of her nose, finally her lips. He looked into her eyes, his own just inches away. “You have me. Let’s take you home, and get some rest. Tomorrow is a big day, yes?”
“Yeah,” Marla said. “I’d like you to come with us tomorrow. I’ve got tranquilizer guns and stuff like that, but the best way to get Genevieve might be to have you stand up and say ‘Come here, sweetheart,’ you know?”
“Of course. Should I go get the car?”
“I think I’m too wiped out to leave, and it’s probably better if I’m here first thing, in case Langford calls earlier than expected. The couch folds out into a bed. It’s not too comfortable—it’s a little like sleeping in an iron maiden—but for one night it might not be so bad.”
“As long as you’re sleeping with me,” Joshua said, and rose to help her make their bed.
Zealand dragged himself to the library, sore, exhausted, knowing he’d be bleeding from a dozen places if not for the mold acting as a natural bandage. St. John Austen opened the door for him, ushered him in, and offered him water.
“That was the most bizarre fight I’ve ever had in my life,” Zealand said, sinking into the armchair, grateful for the rest. He wasn’t sure what he’d expected, but he hadn’t been prepared for the reality—or surreality—of the battle. Reave’s black tower had appeared on the horizon and approached over the sea of clouds like a pirate ship, black banners flapping. Genevieve had stood beside Zealand on the highest balcony, and he’d watched as she closed her eyes and mustered her defenses, people and creatures appearing on the balconies all down the length of the palace, weapons at ready. The defenders of her castle were a bizarre mishmash of pop-cultural references and the plainly surreal. There were familiar super-heroes in capes and tights; an archer who might have been Robin Hood; a Cheshire Cat as big as a tiger, with a grin like a scythe; a black stallion with flaming hooves; a titanic, ten-foot-tall version of St. John Austen clothed in shining plate armor; angels riding astride enormous locusts; and more, all conjured from her subconscious, things she’d imagined as protectors or heroes. And the attackers from Reave’s tower, throwing grappling lines from their balconies to Genevieve’s or buzzing the parapets, were equally strange: hordes of literally faceless men with flashing silver knives, riding astride monstrous blackbirds; things like the marriage of squids and spiders and crabs; babies with gigantic heads and needle-sharp teeth; women in bloody wedding dresses armed with razor-edged cake knives.
The defenders on the balconies drove back the attackers again and again, and Zealand was happy to stay out of the bloody battle and beside Genevieve as h
er personal bodyguard. The towers rocked a little, like ships at sea, and Robin Hood fell from a window and spiraled down through the clouds. A giant blackbird snapped a giant locust in half with its beak. The faceless men hurled the needle-toothed babies across the gulf like projectiles, and they landed biting. St. John Austen’s giant counterpart swung a warhammer and knocked down a dozen enemies at a stroke. The battle was an even match, with neither side gaining, and Zealand began to see how this could happen every night with no decisive result. Of course, Genevieve’s side wasn’t trying to gain ground, just hold it, which he thought was a tactical mistake. If he was going to be here for a while, he might try to talk a little strategy with Genevieve, get her to put her men on the offensive. It was possible she’d just sing a snatch of song at him, or ignore him entirely, but if he repeated himself enough it might penetrate. At any rate, the battle was almost boring once you got past the bizarreness of the fighters—
Until Reave appeared on the balcony directly opposite theirs. The two towers were separated by a gulf of only a few yards, just a bit too far for a normal man to leap, and so they could see each other clearly. Zealand stepped forward with his best grin. Reave looked stunned. “I killed you—”
Zealand didn’t chitchat, though the urge for banter had never gripped him more strongly. Instead he flung out a dozen ropes of twisting vegetation, tangled Reave up, and jerked him off his balcony. Genevieve gasped, then clapped her hands like a little girl who’s just seen a magic trick. Zealand twisted his hands around the vegetation to get a surer grip, then leaned out a little, looking over the edge of their balcony, where Reave dangled, knives in his hands.
“Go ahead and cut yourself free, then,” Zealand said, swinging the vines a little, starting a pendulum motion that set Reave swaying and spinning. The man wasn’t very heavy, really, and the fungus gave Zealand’s muscles extra power anyway, so he was in no danger of being pulled off himself. “Go ahead, I don’t mind.” Genevieve came, hesitantly, to stand beside him, looking down at her enemy. “See, he’s just a stupid little yo-yo at the end of a string,” Zealand said. “Nothing to be frightened of.”
