Geekomancy
Page 29
The displaced adventurer looked much less dashing in a hospital gown, his goggles and other accoutrements gone.
“Drake?” she asked, unsure if he was awake.
Drake shifted, murmuring a wordless response.
Ree reached into the slot at the base of the bed and pulled out Drake’s chart. She studied it for a few moments, wishing she’d watched ER or something on the way over. Since she lacked any real medical knowledge, it didn’t tell her anything she didn’t already know.
Please be all right, okay? Ree walked around to Drake’s right, moving slowly and trying to avoid provoking a panicked response from the hero-out-of-time. She’d startled her dad once when she was fifteen, and ended up pinned on the floor.
“Drake?” she asked again, a tad louder.
Drake blinked, then opened his eyes wide, looking up at Ree.“Ms. Ree?”
Ree nodded. “Do you know where you are?”
Drake looked around the room. He spoke with some difficulty, still looking a bit groggy. “A hospital, I presume.”
“Yep. How do you feel?”
He managed a weak smile. “Somewhat surprised that Eastwood was strong enough to deliver a blow that puissant.”
Ree nodded, sighing inside. He should be fine. If she’d sacrificed Drake by going off after Aidan . . . She shuddered, rubbing her arms at the wave of thwarted guilt that washed over her. “He’s full of surprises, it turns out. Aidan is safe, and Eastwood is about as repentant as I think he can get without shaving his head and taking orders.”
“I am afraid I do not take him for the praying type, Ms. Ree.”
“Not unless it’s praying for an ultra-rare in a card game booster pack, no. Can I get you anything, maybe something from your apartment?”
Drake looked up at the ceiling. Then he looked at Ree and said, “I will be fine. Have the doctors said when I can depart?”
Ree walked back over to the foot of the bed and pulled out the chart, flipping through it again as much to have something to do with her hands as to read the notes. “Looks like you’re free to go whenever you like. Shall we?”
Drake smiled wider, his eyes bright. “Certainly. But first, do tell me what happened.”
“Anything you need. I mean, you barely knew who I was and dropped everything to dive into ridiculous amounts of danger without so much as a grumble.”
“I cannot refuse a lady in need,” Drake said with a grin that would be rakish, were Drake not so pure of heart.
Ree did her best to keep from blushing, but she felt the blood rush to her cheeks. “That’s going to get you into trouble. Especially in this town.”
“It has done so many times already and will do so many times yet to come. But each time my folly has been justified by the adventure that follows, so I see no reason to stop now.”
You are too much, Ree thought, shaking her head with a bemused smile.
Ree took a seat and gave Drake the rundown of what had happened after Eastwood left the park. She dropped into script pitch mode, filling in dialogue with voices, getting up to pace around and act out some of the choreography. It felt good to take control of the story, make it her own and something she could be proud of, instead of the nightmare it had felt like while she lived it.
As far as audiences went, Drake was attentive and supportive, far more than the producers and filmmakers she’d pitched to in L.A. But he was quite a bit more invested to begin with, and it was harder to be too cool for school when you were wearing a hospital gown instead of designer denim and an untucked-unbuttoned collared shirt that cost more than a reasonable person’s rent.
Ree briefly entertained the idea of taking the story that was this past week and turning it into a screenplay. However, everything she knew about hidden-society stories told her that would be crazy talk. But no one could stop her from plucking out details here and there and sprinkling them into her fiction efforts.
When the story was done, Ree fetched Drake some more water. “Shall we?” she asked, offering a hand.
Drake sat up, then reached a hand to his head, swooning. Ree caught him as he dropped back to the bed.
“Perhaps I should stay the night,” he said, a hint of shame in his voice.
She squeezed his shoulder. “Of course. I’ll see you tomorrow morning, then?” she said.
Drake nodded. “Marvelous. Sleep well, Ms. Ree.”
Ree faked offense. “Ree. Just Ree. We’ve been through more than enough to put a nail in the coffin of formality, haven’t we?”
Drake smiled, looking up at her beside his bed. “My manners are nearly all I have left of my time. Please leave me them, idiosyncratic though they may be.”
Ree leaned down and kissed him on the cheek. “As you wish,” she said without thinking. When she stood up, she turned away a bit quicker than she’d planned, as her ears went hot.
Don’t get ahead of yourself, now. Thou shall not trampage, okay? she told herself. But she didn’t stop the smile on her face as she walked out of the room, a spring in her step.
• • •
After a gloriously normal dinner at the Blins’, Ree took stock of the imminent clusterfuck that was Her Finances. Even with her dad’s deposit, she was going to be in trouble real soon.
Ree picked up her phone and dialed Eastwood. She was too tired to make another trip out into the world, and she figured she was more likely to punch the old geek if she saw him in person, which wouldn’t solve her problem.
The phone rang four times and went to voicemail. Eastwood’s recorded voice said, “You’ve reached Eastwood’s Memorabilia and Collectibles. I’m not available right now . . .”
“Hello?” a live Eastwood said, sounding half asleep.
I know the feeling. “It’s Ree.”
A beat. “Hey. How are you doing?”
“Do you usually pass out for thirty hours after a big case or whatever?” she asked.
“At least. I woke up from sheer hunger this morning, then went back to bed.”
“So. I’m still pissed off at you, and you have a big karmic debt to pay off. Here’s your first task, Hercules: You get to pay for Drake’s hospital visit.”
Eastwood hrmed. “That’s more than fair. What else?”
“Well, I find myself in soon-to-be-desperate need of employment . . .”
Eastwood sighed, long and tired. “Yeah. Do you want to come and work for me? I could use someone to organize things around here.”
“How much do you pay?”
“A little,” Eastwood said.
Ree shook her head. “My bills are more than little. They’re between Large- and Huge-sized—lots of hit dice.”
Eastwood sighed. “I’m sorry, but chances are good that I lost more than fifty grand of stuff in the big fight. I don’t think I can pay more than a little for a while.”
Ree nodded to herself, unsurprised. “You could just owe me. But I was thinking of something else: What would Grognard say to getting himself his very own magically-clued-in, nostalgia-artifact-wielding, genre-emulating Geek Girl to work his bar and hawk merch?”
Eastwood laughed. “I hope you can hold your Jäger.”
“I can drink a three-hundred-pound Neubauten fanboy under the table and still remember all the words to ‘99 Luftballons.’ Make that shit happen.”
Ree hung up, a twinge of hope flickering amid the feelings of doom. At least she hoped it was hope and not her back spasming again.
• • •
At noon the next day, Ree walked into Grognard’s in a black partner-beater, her working jeans, and a Superman belt buckle. She had her hair tied back in a ponytail and had made up her face as Death from Sandman. It was a different Gamer Girl look than for Café Xombi, going more for clued-in badass than geek girl next door.
The store was mostly empty. A thirtysomething woman with a souped-up laptop sipped whiskey in a booth, and a couple of familiar-looking faces mingled by the miniatures.
“All right, Grognard, where do you need me?”
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From behind the bar, the big man smiled. He reached under the table, pulled out a bottle of Jägermeister, then lined up two shot glasses.
“First, have a drink with me. There’s a lot I have to explain about this place, and it is boring to talk without drinking.”
Ree strode up to the bar, and by the time she reached the shot glass, it was full. She raised the glass, and Grognard met her, saying, “Welcome to Grognard’s. Hope you survive the experience.”
Ree clinked glasses, then threw back her drink. It burned like woah, but she smiled, slamming the glass onto the bar facedown.
I’ve had worse. I’ve stared down demons, werewolves, and rorikon strega, and outtalked the nerdiest, most obstinate, opinionated geeks Pearson has to offer. Hell, I’ve saved lives. I’ve saved lives from hell.
“I just hope you can keep up, Grognard. You don’t know the half of what I can do.”
Grognard nodded appreciatively and poured another shot for each of them.
He lifted his glass again. “To finding out what we can do.”
Acknowledgments
It takes a village to raise a child. It takes several more to help a young writer publish their first novel. Thank you one and all.
To all of my teachers, who helped me discover and interrogate the world until it yielded its awesomeness.
To the staff and denizens of The Game Preserve, for showing me how great the geek community could be. Special thanks to Bryan Roberts, Andrew Reyes, James McWilliams, and to my fellow flunkies.
To my first critique group, Scat Hardcore, for taking in a newb and showing him the ropes. Special thanks to Marie Brennan, Von Carr, Darja Malcolm-Clarke, and Alyc Helms.
To the classmates, instructors, and staff of the 2007 Clarion West Writers Workshop. You all helped me learn how to walk the path. Good Unicorn says you’re the best critiquers ever. Bad Unicorn says you need to write more!
To the baristas of the Barnes & Noble café in Bloomington, IN, for teaching me the Dao of the all-black outfit and the perfect shot of espresso. Special thanks to Christia Osborne, my café Yoda.
To the Codex Writers Group, my geographically-distributed writing lifeline. Special thanks to Elle Van Hensbergen, Beth Cato, Rebecca Roland, Anaea Lay, Kenneth Kao, Gary Kloster, Vylar Kaftan, Steven R. Stewart, Rachel Marks, Jeff Lyman, and Randy Henderson, for the great comments on my first draft.
To Lothair Biederman, for being my last-minute military/medical research consultant.
To the awesome community of Book Country, who provided the venue that made this all possible. Colleen Lindsay, Danielle Poiesz, and Molly Barton: You’ve helped dreams come true.
To my agent, Sara Megibow, for being my champion and my advocate. May this be the first of many awesome projects together.
To my editor, Adam Wilson, and his team at Pocket Books. Adam, thank you for venturing into Book Country and for believing in Ree, her story, and in me. You helped me power-level the novel so it could be ready to see the world.
Saving the best for last: to Meg White, for her unending support. Thank you with all my heart.
I know I’ve forgotten some, and I apologize. But that’s what sequels are for: things left undone, stories left untold.
About the Author
Michael R. Underwood is a speculative fiction writer and independent publishers’ representative. He holds a B.A. in creative mythology and East Asian studies from Indiana University and an M.A. in folklore studies from the University of Oregon. He has worked as a fiction reader for Fantasy Magazine, as well as writing for PopMatters.com as a DVD reviewer and essayist. Geekomancy is his first novel. Follow him at www.MichaelRUnderwood.com or on Twitter at @MikeRUnderwood.
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