Geekomancy

by Michael R. Underwood

  Too risky. Try that sometime when there aren’t lives on the line.

  Star Wars could give her a clairvoyant Hail Mary, and a Marauder’s Map could tell her where Eastwood was, but for that, she’d need a prop. A replica might not even work. She scanned the DVD racks: LOST, Indiana Jones, Monty Python, Angel, Buffy, Babylon 5, Star Trek, and nothing came to mind. She checked her watch, glad that she kept wearing one as a fashion piece even though her smartphone told the time.

  10:17. That didn’t leave much time for any kind of media power-up.

  Ree got to her feet, seeing that the Blins were moving to their big couch. Bryan went to the kitchen and looked like he was preparing hot chocolate, firing up the restaurant-grade espresso machine that took up a good third of their counter space. Benefit of family in the restaurant biz.

  “I should get going,” Ree said, though no one was looking at her. Bryan turned from the machine and waved her over. The twins kept playing, and Aidan slowly sobbed on the couch.

  “We’re going to be fine now. What about you?” Bryan asked when she got into the kitchen, just loud enough to be audible over the sound of steaming milk.

  “I have to go after Eastwood. He’s . . .” Ree sighed. “He’s not really a bad guy, he’s just gone off the deep end for this woman. He’s got himself convinced that he has to do it.”

  Bryan put a hand on Ree’s shoulder. “Do what you feel you have to, Ree. Your instincts have served you pretty damned well today, from where I’m standing.”

  Ree hugged Bryan delicately, leaving his hands free to deal with the machine. She squeezed Aidan’s shoulder and collected a round of hugs from the twins on her way out, nodding to a thankful Amy.

  “You’ll come over for dinner soon?” Amy asked.

  Ree nodded. “Of course. Got to go, sorry.”

  All right. First stop, Dorkcave. Maybe my luck will hold out after all.

  • • •

  With her phone partially charged thanks to fifteen minutes at the Blins’, Ree watched fifteen minutes of X2 on the bus back to the U-District, hoping for some mutant powers, though she skipped past the Cyclops-centric scenes, as she was fresh out of ruby quartz to contain optic blasts.

  Dear Legba and the League of Liminal Holiday Gods,

  Please give me a mutant healing factor and rad claws, minus the pain and the wonky haircut. I will accept a cigar-chomping habit in return.

  Love,

  Ree

  She stepped off of the bus in the U-District just after 11:10, watching her phone wavering at 5% charge when she stopped the video and booked it for Eastwood’s as fast as her beat-ass leg could handle.

  She felt the tingle of a genre emulation but wasn’t sure what it meant. She found herself checking out only women as she walked for a block; then she turned her head at the gorgeously lanky African-American boy in the Michael Jackson Thriller outfit.

  I get it. Metaphor. Thanks, Stan.

  Ree still felt the tingle of power when she reached the stairs heading down to Eastwood’s lair.

  All right. I might have to power up to open this door, if he’s put up the moat.

  Ree tried the door. Locked. Duh.

  She could go around the side and see if the window she busted was open, but she’d be completely compromised as she entered, and she’d either have to climb down the stacks or jump down if they were sealed. No good.

  “Okay, so how do I do this?” Ree asked herself. She threw her hands open and to the sides, but no claws popped out. She raised a hand to her temple and took off her glasses, staring at the door. No blast.

  She closed her eyes and tried to see inside the door, hoping for some telepathy so she could lock on to Eastwood’s thoughts and see what was happening—think what was happening?

  Again nothing.

  Ree stepped back onto the bottom step, took a breath, then ran forward two steps to shoulder into the door, hoping for superstrength.

  THUD. Ow. Well, that was a terrible idea.

  “Next time, I watch Superman,” she promised herself.

  She slumped forward against the door, catching her breath. As she exhaled, she heard a familiarly odd sound.

  BAMF!

  And with a noseful of sulfur, she found herself inside the Dorkcave, a blue-black cloud dissipating around her.

  “Sweet,” Ree said in a whisper. She stood still for a moment, watching and listening.

  The stacks were open, a panoply of merchandise, memorabilia, and various libraries open to the air. The room was lit by the side runners along the walls and the LEDs Eastwood had rigged along the edges of the shelves. At the other end of the room, there was a circle of lights around Eastwood’s big-ass cauldron.

  “Oh, man.” He was going through with it, or doing something to avoid the deal, or something else. Whatever it was, it was big. The last time she’d seen the cauldron active, she’d almost died of psychic shock and then nearly killed a man who she thought was her friend. Not great associations, overall.

  Ree stepped down the metal stairs as softly as she could, thinking, Ninja, ninja, ninja. Teleporting again wouldn’t help except for surprise, and she wasn’t sure she wanted to startle Eastwood right now. Her wealth of fictional experience told her that startling magicians during demon summonings didn’t tend to yield positive results for anyone.

  She tiptoed up to the edge of one of the lines of shelves. Peeking around the side to look at the cauldron, she saw Eastwood standing opposite, his hands up and out to the ceiling. He was chanting in some language distinctly not English. Ree stepped to the far side of the shelf and crept across the room, feeling the tingling in her mind fade.

  No more BAMF. Time to go shopping, Supermarket Sweep–style.

  Ree picked out a Glaive from Krull, a replica of Sting from The Lord of the Rings, and a Captain America shield that looked like it had been on the shelf since the 1990 film. Well armed with nerd artifacts, she reached the edge of the stack as the older geek’s chanting approached a climax.

  There was light emitting from the cauldron in a dark luminescent purple. Bubbles popped up and out, and Ree felt the ground start to shake. That can’t be good, she thought.

  Holding the shield strapped to her left arm and Sting slung at her belt, Ree lifted the Glaive and stepped out into the open, facing Eastwood. “Stop this!”

  For a moment, Eastwood didn’t even register her. It took a beat, and then he turned to face her, eyes wide.

  “I can’t! It’s too late.” Eastwood’s arms dropped, and Ree noticed a foldout table behind him, with five Pokéballs in a tidy row.

  The souls? she wondered. And if they are, what has he got in the fifth?

  The earth shook again, and the bubbling in the cauldron reached a violent boil.

  “What does that mean?” she asked.

  “It means he’s coming and that you should run. There are a million things that could go wrong now.”

  “Then why did you do it?” Ree asked.

  Eastwood’s face dropped. “I had to. This deal was my last chance. Not just to get Branwen back but for me. It was more than a trade. This was supposed to be me settling my debt. Unless he takes the offering, he’s going to take me with him.”

  Ree took a sharp breath. Idiot. “Why didn’t you tell me this earlier?”

  Eastwood stepped back and behind the table, a lightsaber at his side and the quilted T-shirt under his jacket. “This is my mess, not yours, Ree. Go now, while there’s a chance.”

  The earth shook again, and Ree heard the rumbles of laughter coming from everywhere and nowhere. Her arms broke out in gooseflesh as she steadied herself on the shelf.

  “I can help,” she said, but her voice broke.

  A purple cloud exploded out of the cauldron, and the laughing crescendoed until Ree dropped her head and covered her ears.

  After the cloud had faded, she saw a seven-foot-tall figure in a suit standing beside the cauldron, arms crossed. The Thrice-Retconned Duke of Pwn wore a trench coat over an expe
nsive brand-name-she-was-too-poor-to-identify suit, and he had long, thin hair slicked back into a ponytail. He was pale, wan, but his skin had a red cast. When he smiled, his teeth were yellow, stained, and cracked.

  When he spoke, his voice was smooth but booming, like that of a lounge singer talking into a mike rigged for a metal concert. “Good evening, Eastwood.” The Duke turned to Ree, holding out one hand, fingers tipped with long and jagged nails. “Who is this lovely young thing?”

  Eastwood took a step forward and waved his hand, dismissive. “She just delivered me some components for the summoning. She’s on her way out.”

  Ree scoffed. “The hell I am,” she said. “I’m here to make sure you deliver the goods.”

  The Duke grinned, showing extra rows of teeth, like a shark. “A backbone. How exciting. And how do you intend to do that, little one? With those trinkets?” The Duke walked toward her, the concrete sizzling with each step his Gucci shoes made. “Do you know how many copies of Sting there are in the world? There’s barely enough nostalgia in that thing to use it as a night-light in a goblin orphanage.”

  Ree’s stomach dropped down to her ankles. Play it cool. Let Eastwood run his con before you decide to throw down.

  Eastwood interposed himself between Ree and the Duke. “You’re here to deal with me, Your Grace.”

  Ree heard the disdain in Eastwood’s last words, which put her a bit at ease. He’s the one with the ax to grind. Let him take the heat.

  Eastwood stepped back to the table, drawing the Duke after him. Ree realized he was containing his nerves by moving slowly, deliberately, waving a hand over the five Pokéballs.

  “Five souls of brokenhearted virgin suicides, to order. Now show me Branwen.”

  The Duke grinned again. He turned back to the cauldron, which had returned to a simmer.

  Damn pleased with himself, isn’t he? Ree thought.

  The Duke snapped his fingers, and a plume of smoke shot up from the cauldron. Inside it floated Sionnan Reyes, dressed in her Jedi ensemble. Her clothes were ragged, burned, and dirty, and her hair had been shorn close to the scalp, with cuts and bruises visible everywhere her skin was showing. The left side of her face was a mass of welts.

  Sympathetic pain hit Ree like a jackhammer, and she covered her mouth with one hand, eyes wide.

  It was even worse than the cube’s hologram; her mother looked haunted, strung out. But Ree’s heart soared as much as it hurt. Could she reach out and touch her after all that time? Just pull her mother back into her life?

  Sionnan didn’t seem to be able to see them, as if the Duke had opened a window instead of conjuring Ree’s mother to the room.

  “Mom?” she whispered.

  At that, the Duke’s attention slid toward her, his bushy eyebrows raised, and he smiled. “So this is Rhiannon. How pleasant to have the family back together.” He casually waved in Sionnan’s direction. “She speaks of you often. Between the screams.”

  Ree’s lips curled into a snarl, but Eastwood drew the Duke’s attention by handing him a Pokéball. “Smell them yourself. They’re all fresh, less than a month old.”

  The Duke took the Pokéball and sniffed at it like it was a rare wine. “Sixteen-year-old female. Homeschooled. And she was so very much in love. Exquisite. Give me another.”

  Eastwood offered the Pokéballs one by one, and the Duke sampled each of them, noting its qualities like a spiritual sommelier.

  When Eastwood handed the Duke the fifth and last ball, Ree’s teeth clenched. Do-or-die time. Eastwood wouldn’t have thrown down in the park if he didn’t need the last soul. So whatever he did here, it either has to be crappy enough to risk a fight over or tossed together at the last second.

  The Duke sniffed the last Pokéball, eyes closed. “Sixteen-year-old male. Second-generation geek. Espresso and tomato notes. He loved his food and drink. He thought he was worthless. Quite magnificent.”

  Ree froze for a moment. No. How? She looked to Eastwood, who met her eyes, then nodded to the Duke and winked at Ree. The Duke was still lost in thought, eyes shut.

  You son of a bitch, Ree thought. She wasn’t sure whether she meant it with anger or admiration. How did Eastwood do it? Did he take an imprint in the park? Maybe something in the bottle took something from Aidan, and that was what had a hold on him? Did he only have to take Aidan to the edge? Or was it an olfactory illusion, misdirection pulled off with enough audacity and aplomb to be believable?

  “I must have this one right away. You don’t mind, do you? Of course not.” The Duke pushed the center button with a jagged nail, and a rush of white light leaped out of the ball and into the Duke’s mouth.

  The Duke took a deep breath, seeming to savor the . . . whatever Eastwood had put together. Ree watched Eastwood. He was putting on a brave face, but worry crept into his eyes, however slowly.

  The Duke stretched his fingers, dropping the Pokéball as he rolled his head back and around, the cracking sounds as loud as shattering bones.

  The Duke licked his lips, then raised an eyebrow. “Something’s off.” His eyes narrowed as he looked at Eastwood. He sniffed, then snarled at the magician, “Did you think you could fool me, whelp?”

  Eastwood took a step back, hand up, placating. “The others are all real, I promise. I was so close to the fifth, but I couldn’t get it. The Muse was dead, and I couldn’t find another. There just weren’t any more, and I couldn’t kill them myself, right?”

  The Chief of the Dork Lords of Hell pulled himself up to his full height, and the lights in the room flickered. With the wave of one hand, the vision of Sionnan vanished. In her place was a trio of shadowed creatures who jumped down and flanked the Duke.

  All three were dressed in tattered T-shirts and ratty jeans. They looked like a perp walk of Geekdom’s Worst Hits. One man was tall and skeleton-thin, with a face made more of acne than skin and with hair so thin it was translucent. The other man was literally round, with hands that looked like balloons and an underbeard that failed to cover three chins. The third was a woman with tangled and matted hair down to her ankles and a body shape more Weeble-wobble than pear.

  “These three are the last of your kind to try to weasel out of a deal, Eastwood. If you give up quietly, I might even let you see Branwen once before I start your torture. And I will parade you both through your apprentice’s dreams every single night.”

  Eastwood reached for his lightsaber and clicked it on with the signature whoosh.

  Ree raised her shield and the sword. She left the Glaive on the ground since she didn’t know how a real person could use it without hurting themself. Mojo or not, Sting was still a weapon. Right?

  She suddenly understood better why everyone in the magic underground seemed to walk around armed to the teeth.

  The Duke took several steps back as Ree circled around the trio. Faced by weapons, the three hissed, their eyes turning red. The geeky servitors’ hands bled. Instead of just hitting the floor, the blood solidified into dripping claws.

  Eeuch. Ree stood with her right leg forward, the shield up and forward at an angle. “Time to get my Spartan on, then,” she said. Eastwood nodded at her, spinning his lightsaber in slow arcs around himself as the trio spread out to encircle the older geek.

  “Hey, uglies. What about me?” Ree advanced on the tall, thin man and reached out with a jab. Her opponent folded over on himself, bending backward and blocking her shot with his blood-encrusted hands. The block knocked her arm all the way over her head, and she stepped back.

  Bugger’s strong for being made out of skin and bones. Fucking nerd-demon mojo.

  The rail-thin man flipped his head backward and righted himself, facing Ree as he lashed out with bloody claws on elastic arms.

  Ree took the slash on the shield, ducking under it and rising with an upward cut to his leg. He took the cut, but the gushing blood hardened almost instantly, looking like a plate greave.

  “Frak me.”

  Turned into a bloody whirlwind, the man beg
an raining blow after blow down on her with spindly, sharp limbs. Ree turtled underneath her shield; it was all she could do to keep from being overwhelmed. She caught a few small cuts along the ankle and shifted to keep her bad leg back, praying that the painkillers would hold out.

  “How you doing, Eastwood?” she shouted, unable to see him in the melee.

  “They’re cheating! Blood is not supposed to be proof versus lightsabers!”

  Ree threw a wide slash, trying to push the tall man back. “Uhm, I don’t think their boss cares if they cheat. Any tips?” The tall man grabbed at her shield with one bloody hand, so Ree pushed into him and wrapped a cut around, slicing into his back. She felt the blood hardening around her sword as she pulled the blade back.

  Now I have a chunk of solid blood on my sword. Marvelous.

  Eastwood said, “Highlander or Terminator, most likely.”

  “Got any pipe bombs?” Ree asked.

  “Fresh out, sorry.”

  The Duke interrupted them, saying, his voice again all around them, “You can still give up, children. Spare yourself at least some pain.”

  “Could you monologue some, maybe?” Ree held the shield forward and took the offensive, confidence building with her snark. “Call off your mooks and explain to us in painful detail the intricacies of your brilliance? Pretty please?”

  Spindly grabbed her shield with both clawed hands and yanked. Ree felt her arm pop out of its socket, and the shield slipped off into his grasp. He grinned wide, his teeth bloody.

  “No such luck, my little pet,” said the Duke. “In a past life, perhaps. But I am not called Thrice-Retconned without reason.”

  Ree wanted to give another pithy response, but she was busy writhing in pain. Her left arm hung limper than an overdone noodle, and it was all she could do to keep her eyes open. She scurried away from her dance partner, who spun his elongated arms in circles. The clawed hands pulled air past her face as she kept barely ahead of the blows.