Geekomancy

by Michael R. Underwood

  Uncertain, she spoke aloud to the room. “Angela, if you’re here, I’m doing what I can to understand what happened to you, so you can move on . . . or whatever the ghosts of suicides do.”

  She waited but received no response.

  “And don’t ask me for answers. I’m new at this.”

  She turned her attention to the desk and the girl’s computer and started the creepy process of learning about someone’s life from the inside, scrolling through status updates and friends lists.

  Note to self: Better passwords so that people can’t snoop through my life when I die.

  While the creepy-intruder feeling didn’t go away, Ree did manage to pull up some information that gave her leads on Angela’s emotional state. She’d seemed fairly happy and teenager-in-super-mega-greatest-love-ever, though “teenager” automatically indicated “hot mess.” The hormonal soup of adolescence was vicious, viscous crap, and even skimming it through someone else’s perspective was enough to give Ree flashbacks to being the skinny nerdy girl with the big glasses and no friends except a circle of a half-dozen geeky boys. Every last one of whom wanted to date her and would eventually reveal that in their own marvelously clumsy ways.

  Ah, memories.

  Reaching her digital-voyeur limit, Ree left the computer behind and took another look through the room, making sure she hadn’t missed anything. She treaded lightly through the house, returning to the main floor, as if it were 2 AM and she was returning from a late party.

  Fuck, this place is depressing.

  She promised herself a solid evening of goofing off once this was done, which would have to come at some imagined future after laundry, cooking, cleaning, and paying bills (which was its own kind of magic, trying to stretch a tiny wage across all those bills each month without letting her life collapse while simultaneously walking the tightrope of Sandra’s goodwill). At times she felt like the lost member of the Flying Graysons—and then wondered whether that story line had already been done.

  Chewing on that bone of Bat-trivia, she found Angela’s father at a desk, hunched over a computer. Still no sign of Alexandra.

  Her smooth-talking mojo was failing her, and it was rapidly becoming food-o’-clock, as Ree’s blood sugar was plummeting. Her stomach grumbled in agreement in a most unprofessional fashion. She waited for another half hour, her stomach protesting all the while, but eventually, Alexandra Moorely returned.

  Alexandra’s telling of the story took several minutes, as she broke down into sobbing repeatedly—she’d tried to keep the sight from her husband and failed, though the police had come quickly when called. Alexandra gave William’s phone number to Ree, and Ree took the opportunity to excuse herself and try not to look too obvious in fleeing from the downtrodden site of tremendous emotional anguish.

  Outside, she made the first turn available and then stopped to sit on a bench and clear her head, shivering for every reason except the cold. The blood, gods, the blood. And her parents.

  Caught in a gut-wrenching thought loop, Ree popped in her earbuds to mainline happy-bouncy music until she could close her eyes and not imagine Angela on the floor of the room amid a pool of blood.

  Rocking to Florence + the Machine, Ree walked back home to change and call Eastwood to figure out the next step. Could she quit now—would that even be allowed? This shit was too real by half. But it never worked that way in the movies, did it? At least that’s how it was in the (Narrative) World According to Joseph Campbell. But why her? She didn’t have to do this. There were real cops and feds, and she was thoroughly out of her depth.

  Trying to keep herself in a loop of pleasant thoughts as insulation from the nasty reality, she reflected on the fact that there was no case of sad in the world that could stand up to a pint of ice cream and a few hours of Super Mario Bros. She’d once made a pie chart to prove it. And by pie chart, she meant a pie. Which she’d eaten.

  Perhaps another pie was in order. Pumpkin. No, maybe apple. Bit by bit, she shook off the feeling of the Moorelys’ house.

  As Ree walked down the empty street pondering what pie to make, she was, as a result of such pleasant thoughts, left woefully unprepared to make a Perception Check and thus avoid surprise.

  As a result, she was completely blindsided by the furry paw that slammed into her shoulder, sending her crashing to the ground. She heard the mystery thing howl as it leaped after her, blocking out the early-evening vestiges of twilight.

  Just what I wanted, was all she had time to think, an ambush.

  Chapter Five

  Blood and Cocoa

  Ree hit the ground hard but then rolled with the shot as her training kicked in. Pain flashed up her arm like a grease fire, and her vision clouded.

  She wished she’d kept Eastwood’s lightsaber, realizing that the closest thing she had to a weapon was a pen in her pocket.

  Turning to face her attacker, Ree was instantly split between an impulse to scream and one to burst out laughing.

  Her attacker was a werewolf. But not a CGI werewolf or a good-FX werewolf. This was a crappy-body-suit-with-a-super-fake-headpiece werewolf.

  For all its ridiculousness, the damned thing managed to climb a brick wall to about ten feet up and then jump at her, which put some more fuel into the scream impulse.

  Instead, she pushed off with one foot and leaped to the side, throwing a jumping roundhouse kick as the Hammer reject landed.

  Ree expected a yelp, maybe a snarl or a growl. Instead, she got an oof. Huh?

  Ree hopped back when she heard the all-too-human sound, and asked, “Who the hell are you?”

  The response began as a guy’s impression of a growl, but a moment into the sound, an animalistic voice joined the human one, then drowned it out as the wolfman charged her again, its jaw opening wide.

  Okay, not funny anymore. She snapped out a front kick that caught the werewolf in the jaw but sent the left shoe of her Respectable Person outfit flying up and out of her line of vision. Where are the witnesses? Fuck the Doubt, right in its ear.

  If she weren’t alone, it wouldn’t be jumping her. Going with that totally shaky but reassuring logic, she decided to try shouting.

  “Fire! Fire! Fire in the alley!” She’d read that shouting “Fire!” was more likely to get a response than anything else, though that was a while ago, and maybe “Terrorist!” would do the job just as well.

  Looking back out of the alley into the street, she saw a frustrating lack of passersby and turned her attention to the decreasingly laughable werewolf as it swiped at her with claws that Ree could have sworn looked more fake a second ago. It was tall, tall enough that she didn’t have a reach advantage with her kicks. Infighting would be stupid, since, y’know, claws and teeth. To prove her point, the weresuit’s claws tore at her blouse, leaving three gashes just under the bust.

  Eastwood better pay to have this shit replaced.

  Ree circled back and around, trying to get clear enough to make a break for it. The beast’s next dive was telegraphed Western Union, so she was able to grab its left arm with both hands, step aside, and swing it into the side of a Dumpster, headfirst. There was a most gratifying thud, but no crack or crunch that would have signaled a serious blow.

  In fact, her attacker pushed the Dumpster aside with ease—disconcerting, given the fact that it was full and should have weighed the better portion of a ton.

  When the weresuit howled this time, the sound was pure wolfman. Ree’s skin broke out in goose bumps, riding a wave of real fear. The thing snapped at her, jaws throwing more spittle than her retriever. Also, Booster never tried to bite her head off, though he did occasionally seem to be trying to lick her face to the bone.

  She caught the weresuit across the temple with an elbow as she zigged, then wrapped up its near arm, trying for an arm bar while guiding the creature’s forward momentum into a downward spin; she needed to end the fight or get herself the lead time to run. The weresuit pawed at her, but with her leverage on its arm, she didn’t take
anything more than a few shallow scratches.

  “Down, boy!” she said through gritted teeth, adjusting the hold as the furry beast squirmed and huffed. She cranked the arm even farther and heard a satisfying crack. There. The weresuit yowled in pain, and Ree slammed it into the ground to compound said pain, then sprang up to run.

  Sweet Muppety Hermes, please grant me speed so I can run the hell away.

  In the third of the five long paces it took to get out of the alley, Ree lost her other shoe, but she turned to head home, banking that the calluses on her feet from martial arts would protect her enough from the nasty street detritus and any potential tetanus. If she were lucky, a broken arm would be enough of a deterrent to make Weresuit-man-thing reconsider its ambush.

  Adam Baldwin’s line echoed in her mind. I’m smelling a lotta “if” coming off this plan.

  Not now, Jayne, she told the voice.

  Not that she knew why it had attacked her to begin with, or how exactly a guy in a wolfman outfit could climb walls or make a rubber suit strong enough to cut through silk. It had looked more real at the end of the fight than the start, not the other way around. What the hell kind of magic would do that? This being-in-the-dark thing is getting tired really fast.

  Ree bolted down the street, thankful now for the sparseness of the traffic, fewer people to slow her down. Would the wolfsuit follow her if she ducked into a store? An apartment? She wracked her brain trying to remember what exactly Eastwood had said about the Doubt, what she’d need to do to be safe. Ree didn’t hear anything chasing her, so she ducked her head back to check.

  No one on the street, on the walls, or atop roofs—as far as she could tell.

  She kept running.

  She ran until her side threatened to secede and start its own sovereign abdominal nation. Checking over her shoulder again—and satisfied with the lack of weresuits—she slowed and ducked into the nearest store, which turned out to be McDonald’s.

  She went straight for the bathroom to get a sense of how preposterous she looked. Her shirt hadn’t frayed any more, thanks to the tight weave of the silk. She had scrapes and cuts over her torso and arms but nothing on the face. And she didn’t have any bite marks, which was a relief in case the world was so insane that getting bitten by a guy in a wolfman suit could spread Lycanthrubbery.

  Ree did what she could to fix her hair, then found a stall and called Eastwood. He didn’t pick up, so she left a stream-of-scared-consciousness message on his voicemail.

  “This is Ree I was just attacked by some guy in a rubber wolfman suit but as the fight went on he looked more like a real wolfman and I lost my only good businessy shoes and this is all bullshit and on top of that but before it so underneath that but on top of it the Moorelys were so depressing I want to take a shower for a week and you seriously need to tell me more about how this all works because I am seriously freaking out—okay?”

  Ree took a breath, then said, “I’m going home now for that shower. Call me.” She hung up and just focused on her breathing, trying to calm down.

  Then she walked out of McDonald’s as if having claw gashes in your shirt and no shoes were the most fashionable thing one could possibly do.

  Taking stock at the next intersection, Ree saw that she was only a few blocks from home. She walked the rest of the way, frequently checking over her shoulder and doing her best to ignore the strange looks people gave her for her barefootedness. It was way late in the day for a walk of shame, and she didn’t even have the shoes to carry in-hand to pull off that look. At least if the cops came, she could probably wave them off with the psychic paper. She checked her coat and sighed; it, at least, was still there.

  As she approached the U-District, the streets got more crowded, the city more lively. People dashed here and there to their fabulous Friday nights, and Ree felt strangely apart from them, the reality of the Strange like a one-way glass that kept her separated from the normal world while allowing her to see in.

  Crap, too much emo.

  When she reached her building, it was all she could do to drag herself up the stairs and stumble inside, praying that Sandra would miraculously be out and she wouldn’t have to explain things. Thankfully, she was greeted by an empty apartment and no keys on the table. Ree closed the door behind her, and after securing each of the five locks, she allowed herself a moment of stillness.

  It could still come after me, she thought, time to get ready.

  Ree went to the kitchen and pulled out the biggest knife she could find. Then she went to the fridge and pulled out a beer, taking them both to the shower. She set the knife in the far back lip of the tub and listened. No way in hell am I going down like Marion Crane. I have the knife this time.

  • • •

  Naturally, the hot-water heater gave out before she was done calming down, so Ree finished her shower and headed for her room, peeking out from the bathroom to check the apartment first.

  She took Eastwood’s advice and popped in an episode of Buffy as she changed into a fresh set of clothes. She would have gone with “Once More, with Feeling,” like she usually did to cheer up, but since she didn’t want her life to become a musical right then, she settled on “Band Candy.”

  Ree quoted lines to get in the groove as she watched, settling into a comfortable (and defensible!) position on her bed, the knife beside her. She felt an energy buzzing in her head, like she’d downed a Red Bull made out of quippiness.

  A few minutes after the episode ended, Eastwood called.

  Ree picked up and launched right in, the nervousness back in force with the ringing. “Thanks for calling me back. Have you seen that thing? What do I do to fight it? Will it track me?”

  “First, calm down. Keeping your head is the best way to stay safe.”

  Ree nodded to herself. “Got it. Easier said than done, of course.”

  “Tell me what happened, all of it.”

  Ree replayed the episode, the details scary-clear in her brain. The scratches itched as she talked. “Are they contagious?”

  Eastwood huffed. “Never that I’ve seen. And you didn’t get bitten, did you?”

  “No . . .” Ree said, uncertain.

  “Oh, that’s good. Did you watch something invincible-y?” he asked.

  “I watched some Buffy.”

  Eastwood murmured something that sounded affirmative. “Good. I can buzz by the neighborhood and try to run it off. Best thing you can do come nightfall is be in public, with several people, and carrying a weapon. When they’re in hunting mode, Furrymancers avoid crowds, pick on lone prey. Make sure you’re powered up when you leave home, stay in public, and I’ll shadow you on the way home, in case he’s persistent.”

  “Wait. Furrymancers?” Ree asked, her chuckle like warm water melting the ice-cold fear.

  Eastwood hrmed. “That’s what most everyone else calls them. Officially, they’re Atavists. They can usually only channel their beast for a short time each day, like 3rd ed. D&D Barbarian Rage. If it can’t find you or any other prey, it’ll go back to being someone in a suit.”

  “So it really was a killer furry?”

  “Ish. Furrymancers are weird ones. Pretty rare, thankfully. But if it couldn’t run you down and gut you, it wasn’t that strong.”

  Ree wasn’t sure whether to be offended or relieved. “Um, good?” she volunteered.

  “Oh. What did you find at the Moorelys’?” he asked.

  Ree laughed to herself. He’s really got the absentminded-professor vibe going.

  A shiver went down her body as she recounted the scene and her conversations with the Moorelys. The cops on TV were always so calm; they could maintain distance from the dead while empathizing with the living. Ree wondered if they taught that in the police academy and if she could audit. It hadn’t been too bad when she was there, with the Sherlock mojo on, but afterward . . . Ree shuddered again as she finished up.

  “Does that help?” she asked, hoping for answers.

  Eastwood murmured i
n the affirmative again. She heard typing through the phone.

  “I’ll add this to the files I have and see if anything shakes out. Then I’ll swing by to deal with the Atavist. Go out with friends, maybe those friends from yesterday. And bring a weapon, but nothing conspicuous. Unless you watch Highlander so you can hide it in a trench coat.” Eastwood started another sentence, then cut himself off. “. . . sorry, rambling.”

  Ree smiled. “No prob. My Highlander tapes are worn to nothing. Methos was my TV boyfriend for several years.”

  “Yeah, right. Just keep your eyes open. And you don’t have to keep doing this, you know.”

  Ree took a breath, a bit of her mind tugging on her to take the out. She shook her head. “To hell with that. I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, buddy.”

  “It’s only going to get more dangerous,” he said.

  “Good thing I’m not going to be alone, then.”

  Eastwood started to say something, then hung up.

  Ree looked at the phone. “Weird.”

  She searched her bedroom, trying to decide what she could bring, since a butcher’s knife didn’t go with dinner wear, at least not at any restaurant she’d want to visit.

  Ree turned out her closet and found a pair of dusty arnis canes, a training sword from her dalliance with tai chi, some boffer weapons, and the super-tacky Fantasy Sword that she’d bought on a lark at a ren faire three years ago. Her bedside table held a switchblade, which at least was a real weapon.

  However, she looked at the Force FX lightsaber she’d placed on her bed and regarded it like a puzzle.

  I did the genre thing; does that mean I can use you? And if I can, do I have to cart the whole thing around, or can I just take the hilt?

  She replaced the leaning tower of miscellany in her closet, mulling over the lightsaber.

  “Can’t hurt to bring,” she said, unscrewing the plastic blade and slipping the hilt into her coat, keeping an eye on the activation button to make sure she didn’t accidentally turn it on. Ree thought it’d take more than an errant bump to make the thing get all glowy, but she wasn’t willing to risk a foot on her shaky understanding of Geekomancy. She could feel the quippy energy of Buffy in the back of her brain, fainter than Sherlock had been.