Poison Sleep

by T. A. Pratt

  “Yeah. Thanks. And Zealand, too. He died trying to save you.”

  “Well,” Genevieve said. “As to that, I have something to show you.” She beckoned, and Marla followed her into a hallway lit with skylights.

  “You should rent this place out for corporate retreats,” Marla said, and Genevieve laughed—a sane, comfortable laugh, which did good things for Marla’s battered heart.

  Genevieve opened the door to her library, and there was St. John Austen, restored to life—and Zealand, his hands crawling with green, his face as lined and strong as ever.

  “Holy shit,” Marla said, and turned to Genevieve. “You—he—is it really him?”

  “I feel like me from the inside,” Zealand said, approaching and clasping her in a hug. “Though I’m not sure how I’d be able to tell the difference. Genevieve spent a lot of time inside my head, getting to know every snap and crackle of my neurons, and she managed to resurrect me here, just as she did with St. John Austen. I won’t be taking any trips to the world I knew, alas—I’m not quite that real. Such a provisional existence could be disturbing, I suppose, but I find such epistemological dilemmas irrelevant when the alternative is nonexistence.”

  “You sure sound like Zealand,” Marla said. “The slow assassins were pissed when I told them you’d died for a good cause, too.”

  “I wish I could have gotten to know your Ted better,” Genevieve said, “and given him a sort of life here, too.”

  “He was a good guy,” Marla said, but she’d save her memories for when she was alone, and could mourn him properly.

  Marla chatted a bit longer, and embraced St. John Austen, but declined the offer of a drink, even when Genevieve mischievously assured her it wouldn’t make her sleep for forty years or have any other fairy-food-like consequences. “I should really get back,” Marla said. “Everyone’s still a little freaked out, and I have to do some damage control. But, ah, before I go…”

  “I see what you’re thinking,” Genevieve said. “And, yes, of course I can do that. But you’re thinking it’s a boon, a gift I might deign to grant you. That’s not true at all. It’s the least I can do, after all you’ve done for me.”

  “So it’s not, you know, too big an undertaking? I mean, I don’t want you to strain yourself, after all you’ve been through….”

  “Consider it done,” Genevieve said, and draped the finished scarf around Marla’s neck. She grinned. “Even that last personal favor you want. And if you ever wish to see me, just call my name, all right? You’re always welcome here.”

  “I’ll send you a Christmas card next winter,” Marla said, and Genevieve sent her home.

  Rondeau and Marla sat at Smitty’s diner in a corner booth, the torn red vinyl seats mended with strips of black electrical tape. They ate their pancakes and hash browns and eggs without speaking for a while. “Ted’s funeral was nice,” Rondeau said finally. “Who was that cute girl with the glasses? His daughter? She wasn’t standing with the rest of his family.”

  “I don’t know,” Marla said. Ted had been ashamed of his liaison with the girl from the chess club, and there was no reason to embarrass him in death, though Marla had been a little surprised and pleased to see the girl at the funeral, along with Ted’s family. She’d been pissed, too, though. They’d all shut Ted out, made him live on the streets, but once he got knifed—in what was, officially, a random and unsolved bit of street violence during the chaos of the blizzard—they all came to his funeral. Ah, well. Loyalty these days wasn’t what it used to be. Look at the way Nicolette had turned on Gregor. Marla didn’t trust the chaos magician any more than she could eat the moon, but she didn’t trust most of the other sorcerers in Felport, either, so what did it matter? She’d rewarded Nicolette by giving her some of Gregor’s holdings, after divvying up the rest of his estate and Susan Wellstone’s more substantial assets among the sorcerers who’d helped her during the battle with Reave. Nobody was happy with what they’d received, everyone arguing that they deserved more for their service, and Marla hadn’t exactly been diplomatic, snapping that they were lucky to even have a city. Only the fact that she’d just saved Felport from destruction staved off open revolt, and there were a lot of simmering resentments toward her now. Marla had actually offered Langford the bulk of Susan’s assets, because he’d done so much to stop Reave, but he’d refused—he liked doing research, without any responsibilities beyond following his own interests. If he’d actually taken Marla up on her offer, the other sorcerers probably would have hollered for her head. She owed Langford a new laboratory in exchange for that drop of Gorgon blood, though.

  “So the rumor is you did some crazy giant magic damage control,” Rondeau said. “The common folk sure aren’t acting like they just saw the city overrun by monsters.”

  Marla shook a blob of ketchup onto her plate and stabbed a forkful of hash browns. “Well, I don’t mind if people give me the credit, but it’s all Genevieve’s doing. I asked her if she could smooth the waters. She’s a powerful psychic, after all. So she reached out to every ordinary citizen in Felport who saw something they couldn’t explain, and tweaked the experiences into short-term memory, so they faded like the memory of dreams. There are some state investigators here, responding to early reports, but the mayor’s chilling them out, telling them people just went a little nuts during the blizzard, and the witnesses don’t have much to say. It’ll blow over.”

  “Damn,” Rondeau said. “That’s big stuff. I’m glad Genevieve’s one of the good guys. Well, I mean, basically. Eventually.” He eyed Marla’s last uneaten strip of bacon, but apparently had the good sense not to reach for it. “So how are you handling, you know, the Joshua thing?”

  Marla shrugged, looking down at her plate. “It doesn’t make me eager to go out and start dating again, that’s for sure. But Genevieve helped me with that, too.”

  “How so?”

  “I didn’t want to forget about Joshua entirely. Getting betrayed by a guy because I was too besotted to be suspicious? That’s a valuable lesson. But Genevieve did help me forget one thing.”

  “What’s that?”

  “The experience of fucking him. Because they say when you sleep with a lovetalker, you can never really enjoy sex with anyone else again. They just don’t measure up. Why would I condemn myself to a life of disappointment? So I don’t remember a thing about sleeping with Joshua now. I don’t even remember enough to miss it.”

  Rondeau laughed. “If you ever want to, you know, make sure you can still enjoy sleeping with other people, my door is always open.”

  “In your dreams, Rondeau. Only in your dreams.”

  ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

  As always, I had a lot of help with this book. My first readers, who provided valuable advice and insight, were Jenn Reese, Sarah Prineas, Michael J. Jasper, John Sullivan, Greg van Eekhout, and, of course, my beloved partner, H. L. Shaw. My agent, Ginger Clark, gave great advice and encouragement, and Juliet Ulman is the best editor I could hope for. Thanks to Nick Mamatas for the Skatouioannis, and to my copy editor Pam Feinstein for keeping me from looking like an idiot. In terms of general support for my writing, I must thank my coworkers and boss at Locus, the best day job a writer could have, and my friends Scott and Lynne, who always give me a place to stay and provide great company when I need to get away from life for a weekend.

  ABOUT THE AUTHOR

  T. A. Pratt lives in Oakland, California, with partner H. L. Shaw and their son, and works as a senior editor for a trade publishing magazine. Learn more about your favorite slightly wicked sorceress at www.MarlaMason.net.

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  DEAD REIGN

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  Sic Semper Tyrranis…

  I know I say you ta
ke the warrior ascetic thing too far sometimes, Marla,” Rondeau said, strolling down the wide marble-floored hallway on their way out of the mansion. “But don’t you think hiring a manservant is a bit of an overcompensation?”

  “Shut up,” Marla muttered, keenly aware of the valet walking behind her. She didn’t like it when people walked behind her—years as a freelance mercenary made watching her back second nature—but Pelham wouldn’t walk alongside like an equal. Marla could have ordered him to walk in front of them, she supposed, but while she was no stranger to telling people what to do, telling a servant what to do was a weirdly distasteful idea. “He’s just coming along to help plan the Founder’s Ball, then I’ll send him back.”

  “Whatever you say, Lady Marla,” Rondeau said. “But your kind will be first against the wall when the revolution comes.”

  Pelham smoothly swooped around them to open the front door, and when they exited onto the front steps, he hurried down to open the back door of the Bentley, bowing as he did.

  “I ride up front, Pelham,” Marla said. “You can have the back.”

  “I…if Madam insists…” He sounded doubtful.

  Marla sighed. “Don’t call me ‘Madam.’”

  “Yeah,” Rondeau said. “A madam is somebody who runs a whorehouse. You have to watch out for the connotations.”

  Pelham blinked like a rabbit on his first trip out of the burrow. “Would you prefer…mistress?”

  Rondeau snorted. Marla glared at him. “Connotations again,” Rondeau said.

  “Ah,” Pelham said, clearly at a loss. “Then…ma’am?”

  “How about just Ms. Mason,” Marla said. She figured trying to get him to say “Marla” would be a lost cause.

  “Of course.” Pelham opened the passenger door for her.

  “I can open my own car door.” Pelham pretended convincingly not to hear her. She got in, and he closed the door before climbing in back.

  Rondeau got in the driver’s seat, glanced in the rearview, and said, “Buckle up there, Pelly. If we get in a wreck and you go flying into the back of Marla’s head, she’d never forgive me.”

  “Buckle?” Pelham said faintly. Marla turned around in her seat, frowning, and watched as he began fumbling with the seat belt straps, finally getting them latched. “I am secure,” Pelham said formally.

  “This is going to be fun,” Rondeau said. “Is he going to sleep on a little cot next to your bed?”

  “Shut up,” Marla said again, though without much heat. Rondeau was going to give her hell about this, no matter what she did. She couldn’t blame him. She’d do the same if their positions were reversed.

  Apparently satisfied with the level of mockery for now, Rondeau started the car, and the stereo blared to life, rap music pounding out of the speakers. Marla liked this music better than the stuff Rondeau played at his nightclub, but only just. Pelham made a noise of horror from the backseat, and when Marla looked over her shoulder, he was pressing his palms against his ears. Rondeau must have noticed, because he turned the music down to a tolerable level. “Sorry about that, Pelly,” he said. “That’s just how we roll around here.” He drove down the driveway and waited for the front gate to open. “So, this Founder’s Ball, do I get invited to that?” Rondeau said.

  “I guess, if you don’t piss me off too much,” Marla said.

  “How about Pelly there? Will he go, to carry the train on your evening gown?”

  “What did I just say about not pissing me off?”

  “Comment retracted.” Rondeau drove through the open gate. Glancing in his mirror, he frowned. “Hey, Marla,” he said, voice low. “Pelly’s back there all turned around in his seat. He’s practically got his nose pressed against the back window, like a sad little kid in a movie.”

  “It’s probably just sinking in that he has to work for me now.” Maybe this wouldn’t be so bad. Just think of him as an employee, not a valet or manservant, wash all that upper-class/lower-class crap out of her head—she had money, he needed money, he’d do some work for her. That was it. It was always nice to have another useful pair of hands. And she’d be able to quit worrying about the Founder’s Ball, which was nice.

  As they approached the bridge that spanned the Balsamo River, Pelham said, “I’ve seen that bridge from my window, but never crossed it. Thank you for this opportunity, Ms. Mason.”

  “What?” She turned around.

  His eyes widened. “Apologies if I spoke out of turn. I noticed that you allowed your driver to take a familiar tone, and thought such a mode of address might please you, but I will be more respectful in the future.”

  “Her driver?” Rondeau said.

  “No, I don’t care that you talked,” Marla said. “It’s what you said. You’ve never crossed this bridge before? What, you only ever took the east bridge? This one’s closer to the estate, though.”

  “I have never crossed any bridge, Ms. Mason,” Pelham said apologetically. “I am not well traveled.”

  Marla closed her eyes for a moment. “Tell me. Just how poorly traveled are you?”

  “I have never left the grounds of the estate before, Ms. Mason. I never had cause to do so.”

  Marla turned around, sank into her seat, and moaned.

  “This is your first time outside the walls?” Rondeau said. “Oh, Pelly. What time does your shift end? You’ve got a lot of life’s little pleasures to sample, my friend, and your tour guide’s name is Rondeau.”

  “I do not yet know my schedule,” Pelham said. “But I appreciate your willingness to allow me to join your society.”

  “Phone,” Marla said, and Rondeau passed her his cell. She snapped off the rap music, then called up the Chamberlain, shouting sufficiently that she had to talk to only three underlings before the lady herself answered.

  “Is there a problem, Marla?”

  “This guy Pelham has never left your house!” Marla shouted. “What are you trying to do to me here? What, I’m supposed to teach him about public restrooms and how to use the bus and go to the grocery store?”

  “He has left the house,” the Chamberlain said calmly. “He’s been all over the grounds. As for teaching him things, Pelham has an excellent theoretical grounding in all the tasks a valet might be expected to do. He knows how to deal with shopkeepers and tradesmen, fear not. I believe some of the household staff did training exercises with him starting from the time he was very young.”

  “Is this a joke? This guy’s been a prisoner?”

  “Never that. Pelham’s people have been servants of the founding families for generations. As you know, some years ago, the last scions of those families chose to leave the city to seek their fortunes elsewhere, much to the delight of myself and the ghosts I serve.”

  Marla grunted. Those spoiled rich brats had done nothing except party and dishonor their family names, and the Chamberlain had made life sufficiently unpleasant for them. They all lived abroad on their trust funds now, and didn’t even visit anymore. “Yeah, so?”

  “They all took their personal servants with them. Pelham’s family has…certain symbiotic tendencies. Through training and temperament and long tradition, they’re only happy when they have someone to personally tend to. The relationships can grow quite close. But Pelham, poor Pelham, was the odd man out. He had too many brothers and sisters. When the heirs to the founding families chose their valets and ladies’ maids, Pelham was left unchosen. He’s been at the house ever since, seeing no reason to leave, utterly unfulfilled, and I’ve been wondering for years how to settle him properly in an outside position. When I realized you had the makings of real aristocracy—the kind won by strength of arms and strategy, not accident of birth—I realized you’d be perfect.”

  “Me? Why not you? Gods, you’ve got dozens of servants already!”

  “Nonsense. I am a servant, Marla. Head of the servants, yes, and often the public face of the founding families, which requires me to affect a certain regal bearing on their behalf, but I never forget my true posi
tion. Besides, Pelham is more than a hired man. His connection to the one he serves is profound. He’s bonding to you even now. You’ll never find a more loyal or trustworthy employee. And, yes, he may need to adjust to the realities of the world outside a bit, but he’s been trained to cope with the unexpected, and he doesn’t bat an eyelash at magic. I’m sure he’ll work out fine.”

  “Look, you said we could break this arrangement any time, and now you’re telling me he’s a parasite?”

  “Symbiote,” the Chamberlain said sternly. “And yes, you could send him away, though it would tear him apart to be rejected, and I suspect he’d wind up utterly despondent, sleeping under a bridge somewhere. And he’s certainly free to leave your service whenever he chooses. It’s just highly unlikely he would ever so choose.”

  “Wonderful. I won’t forget this.”

  “It is a boon, Marla, not a treacherous gift, I assure you. You’ll see. Pelham will make your life easier in a thousand little ways. You’ll have cause to thank me.”

  “Right. I’m sure.” Marla flipped the phone closed and drummed her fingers on the dashboard.

  “Hey, Marla,” Rondeau said quietly. “The guy’s back there crying.”

  Marla sank lower in her seat. She felt like shit, but she hadn’t asked for this. Then again, she was no stranger to unwanted responsibility. She took a breath. The world was what it was. “Hey, Pelham. Sorry about all that…parasite business. I was just taken by surprise.”

  “You need never apologize to me, Ms. Mason.”

  She turned around in her seat again. “Hey. I don’t apologize all that often. Just when I actually make mistakes, which Rondeau can tell you is pretty much never.”

  “To hear her tell it, anyway,” Rondeau said.

  “If you’re going to work for me, you can’t be afraid to speak up. I’m not saying I won’t smack you down occasionally, but don’t let that discourage you. I realize there’s a lot of stuff you don’t know. But you can learn. And there’s plenty of stuff you do know, that I need to learn. Like how to throw a party for a hundred or so of Felport’s best and brightest and meanest and most dangerous. Think you can help me do that?”