Lightspeed Magazine - September 2016

by John Joseph Adams [Ed. ]

  I hit play and Sally started screaming again. It takes too long for the crew to recognise the difference between her fake cries and the real ones. I could hear them muttering, a blur of voices behind the camera. I got up, knocking over my chair. The horn forced its way deeper; squelching. The unicorn raised its head, lifting Sally. More memories that don’t go away. She bounces, impaled, a china doll taped to the head of a hobby-horse. The computer speakers fill with screaming; a deep voice yelling directions, ordering the unicorn to stop; someone else calling for a tranquiliser, anything to put the unicorn down. Sally Crown screams and screams and screams, tears flowing. She’s caught. The unicorn bobs and thrusts. Sally flails, trying to push free. The horn too deep for her to escape.

  It all ends with a wet pop, and Sally Crown is a dead balloon. The unicorn lowers its head, scrapes her limp form free, holds its bloody horn high in triumph. A gunshot, a feathered dart in its flank, the quick spin as it glares at someone standing behind the camera. The unicorn lowers its head and charges. The camera-shot spins, rushing past the crew. I see a flash of familiar, too-white teeth before it tumbles to the floor. Somewhere behind the lens there’s screaming, a director yelling orders, the sound of another gunshot. The camera fixed, at its odd fallen angle, on the blank face of Sally Crown. I stare at the screen, willing her to move, ignoring the muffled thump of hooves. Then the shot dissolves, disappearing into a cloud of static. Eventually I got up and ejected the DVD, snapping the shiny plastic in two. I contemplated the bathroom, but rage ran roughshod over the desire to throw up. I called Kesey.

  “You watched it? Heath’s movie?”

  “Yes.”

  “I want in,” I said. “When you’re taking the bastard down, I want in.”

  “You’re a consultant, Aster. You don’t take people down, not on something as big as this.”

  “Tim—” I said. He cut me off.

  “No. You advised, you got paid, now you leave this to the professionals. We let you handle things your way last time, Miriam. I can’t afford to let you do it again. We can take him on normal charges, the unicorn won’t be mentioned.”

  “You can make it stick?”

  “We’ll have to.” Kesey’s voice was cold and serious. “This goes down clean and legal, Aster. No favours for your friends, no letting things slide, no hiding the truth when someone gets shot resisting arrest.”

  “I can help. I want to help.”

  “You’re not a cop, Miriam,” Kesey said. “If you were, I’d let you handle this in a second, but you made that call ten years ago. There’s no way in hell you’re coming in on this.”

  I told him to go fuck himself and hung up. Then I drove over to Westbury, a gun in my jacket pocket.

  • • • •

  She was standing in her doorway as I hit the top of the stairs, a scarecrow in a black jacket that didn’t quite fit her shoulders anymore. I stormed towards her, trying to look threatening. She knew it was bullshit immediately; if I hadn’t hit her during our breakup, I wasn’t going to start now.

  “Come in,” Anya said. “I’ll make tea.”

  She looked withered, dishevelled in a way I’d never seen her. I looked just as bad; I’d been crying on the way over, but the tears were gone, only the salt smear on my cheeks remained. “You look like shit,” I said.

  She gave me a wan smile. “Thanks. Sit.”

  I sat and watched her go through the fastidious ritual of making tea, the slow accumulation of loose leaves and a copper kettle and stove-boiled water. She moved slower now, her gestures less precise. Magic, I guessed. It would’ve taken a lot out of her, bringing me back. There were rules about it, big ones. “The unicorn’s dead,” I said. “They found it by the river.”

  She paused, hands on the side of the stove. The kettle sat on the hotplate, steam rising out of its spout. “Who did it?”

  I shrugged. “I don’t know for sure, but there was a guy named Drabble. He was behind it, working with Hobb. They took the horn after it was dead.”

  Anya’s face twisted. She coughed, covering her mouth with one hand. “I’m sorry,” she said. She didn’t turn around. “Was it bad?”

  I said nothing, waiting for her to look at me. When she gave in, I nodded. “It was bad.”

  “But you stopped it?” Her voice was a whisper, her eyes wide. Anya tended to play sorrow like a pantomime actor, but I knew her well enough to know that part of this was real.

  “No,” I said. “I haven’t.”

  The kettle whistled while she stared at me, trying to read my expression. I closed myself down, kept the anger huddled below the surface, waiting. We were in familiar ground now, just like old times. She removed the kettle without looking at it, her eyes locked on mine.

  “I want answers,” I said. “The right ones, this time. Did you know?”

  “Know?”

  “The unicorn. What they were doing.”

  She had the grace to blush, her cheeks turning a dusty rose, but she didn’t look away. Anya didn’t do contrition any better than she did sorrow. “No.”

  “But you knew it was here?”

  “Yes.”

  “And you helped Hobb get it here, from the other side?” She busied herself with the tea, refusing to answer. I shook my head. “Figures.”

  Anya looked up at me, hands still, her face calm. “So what happens now?”

  “The law,” I said. “Kesey’s got a warrant and a hard on to take Drabble down. It’ll probably happen, if the State lawyers are any good.”

  “Probably?” Anya cocked her head to one side, staring at me like a bird. She lifted the kettle onto a wooden tray, arranged cups from the row on her windowsill.

  “The unicorn presents a problem,” I said. “Kesey wants to take Drabble down for underage porn, but there’s nothing on the books about unicorns and minors, and Drabble has good lawyers. He’ll go away, but there’s no chance it’ll be for as long as he deserves.”

  Anya sat the tray down on the coffee table, pouring tea. “You’re not happy.”

  “No,” I said. “I’m not. The fucker should be dead.”

  She handed me a cup and dropped two sugar cubes into the brown liquid. “Aster, do you still love me?”

  “Does it matter?”

  “Sometimes.” She blinked, her eyes misting up. “Sometimes it matters more than anything.”

  “Why?”

  Anya stood up, letting her long hair flare out behind her like a pair of wings. She stared down at me, eyes bright with urgent desire. She’d gotten herself exiled for me, way back when, that first time she brought me back from the dead. It took a lot more out of her this time, but she was still too damn pretty. Still too fucking beautiful. “You’re a virgin,” she said.

  I shook my head. “That’s a stupid rule.”

  “We didn’t make it.” Anya stared at me, her eyes blazing. “It’s all about belief for my kind, Aster, and men made the rules when they took over the culture. It’s never meant that much to us, gender, but your people think otherwise.”

  “It’s a technicality,” I said. “You know that better than anyone.”

  “You’re a virgin,” she repeated. “In every way that matters to the magic of my kind. We can destroy him, if you wish it. Annihilate him and make him pay. The curse of a fey is a powerful thing, even when it’s uttered by an exile like me. Ask me, and I can do it.”

  I blinked. We’d gone that route before, and it hadn’t worked out. Anya stood, waiting, her body thrumming with power. “You knew,” I said. “You were lying before. You knew what he was doing.”

  Anya nodded. “Not at first, but eventually. I moved to stop it.”

  I lit a cigarette, watched the irritation flash across her face. “A girl died. Sally Crown. You could have stopped it earlier.”

  “It’s not like it was, Aster. I don’t have that kind of power, not without—”

  “Bullshit.”

  “It’s true,” she said. “Hobb did what he did. I want him to pay for it.
But it takes time, now. I can’t just give an order.”

  “You asked for me, when Heath called about the girl. You wanted me on this.” This time she paused, face caught in a flicker of hesitation, but she nodded.

  “I needed help.” Anya reached out, put her hand on my arm. “Love is a powerful thing, in the hands of the fey.”

  I grabbed her hand and lifted it off my forearm. I didn’t trust myself to leave it there. I leaned in, close enough that my cigarette smoke rose up into her face. “You don’t love me, Anya. You use me.”

  She withdrew, stung, and I checked my watch. “Here’s how it will go from here,” I said. “Kesey will have raids stationed to hit every warehouse and club on Drabble’s books. They’ll hit them simultaneously, right on dawn. Whole teams of heavily armed, shotgun-wielding cops will go through everything Drabble owns with fine-toothed combs looking for the concrete proof they need to put Drabble away. Kesey will play it by the book. He’ll keep the unicorn out of it. Tony Drabble will be tried by a jury of his peers and rot in jail. Eventually he’ll die, old and lonely and behind bars. You’ll be safe. Hobb too, probably, if he’s smart enough to clear out once the cops move in.”

  Anya picked up her teacup and stared into it. “That’s not enough, is it?”

  “No. It never is.”

  “I’m sorry, Miriam.” It was her first apology. The first I remembered, anyway.

  “I don’t want you to be sorry.” I stubbed my cigarette out on my saucer. “I want you to be useful.”

  “You know the price,” Anya said. She touched me again, hand on my chest. Her fingers traced the ridge of the autopsy scar under my shirt. “All you need to do is ask.”

  “I don’t love you,” I said.

  “Yes,” she whispered. “You do.”

  “I don’t want to.”

  She smiled at me. “That’s not the same thing.”

  “No.” I took a deep breath and stared into her eyes, one gold and the other green. I thought about Sally Crown, just ashes in the morgue furnace now, another missing persons case that no one will ever solve. “I guess it’s not. But I heard it was close enough.”

  Anya’s smile was eager and terrible. “I could destroy them for you,” she said. “It doesn’t have to be like last time. They hurt you, and I could curse them. If you say you love me, I could demand vengeance for your wounds.”

  “I don’t want you to curse them, I just want you to find them. Give me a location and let me handle the destruction.” For a moment Anya’s expression was blank. Then it wasn’t. Something hungry showed up in her eyes; hell hath no fury like a queen-in-exile scorned. She’d expected it to be like the old days and it hurt bad now she’d realised it wasn’t. I clenched my fist, ready to play hardball.

  “Just do it,” I said. “I’m still a fucking virgin and I’m fucking compelling you. Fucking do it. Do your thing and tell me where.”

  She dipped her finger in her tea, face twisted up in anger. Damp fingertips traced a sign across my forehead, and she leant forward to kiss my eyes. The touch of her lips was far from pleasant. “I make you my instrument and give you the gift of vengeance,” she said, her words winding around me, tight and powerful. “Until you find the man who slew you, and the man who gave the order. Fare thee well, beloved.”

  I closed my eyes and I could feel them, Slick and Drabble. They were a weight in the corner of my mind, a presence as easy to read as a compass point. I could feel an echo of Anya’s anger too, her burning need to hurt Hobb and Drabble and anyone else in my way. It pushed against me, hungry for blood. I pushed back, taking steady breaths until the rage was bottled up and corked, ready to explode when I needed it.

  “Miriam.” Anya’s breath brushed my face. I opened my eyes and looked at her. “When you find them … I need the horn,” she said.

  I rolled my eyes. “Of course you do.”

  “It’s too dangerous to leave out there.” Anya pulled back. “There’s too many things it can be used for, none of them good. It should be returned back where it belongs. I don’t know if you can get it, but if you can—”

  “Don’t.” I stepped in and kissed her, long and slow. “Just wish me luck.”

  Anya nodded, eyes shining. I went downstairs and climbed into the Sigma. I pulled the spare gun from my jacket pocket and checked the clip. Ordinary bullets for this one, but they’d do the job nicely on a sleaze like Drabble. They were to the north, out past the suburbs. I could feel the distance like a sixth sense, a twenty-minute drive. I checked my watch. It’d take them another hour to get the warrants signed, even longer before the raids were in place. Even if Kesey and his men knew where to find them, it’d be enough time to get there before them.

  I gunned the engine and drove, disappearing into the night.

  Nine

  I drove north, following the highway out into the hinterlands, up into the smaller estates where the rich folks used to live before the hills were filled with roaming fey and people abandoned the area for less temperamental dwellings. We may have burned the permanent paths between Earth and Faerie, but there were still enough woods out here to ensure fairy circles grew in the light of the full moon. There were still ways through, if you were willing to look for them. Anya’s kiss lay heavy on my eyelids, pulling me forward. I took a turnoff onto a narrow country road, threading through small estates and villas that overlooked the city. I looked behind me using the rear view, watching the city sparkle in the crisp night air, a shadowy mass lit up by twinkling streetlights. My gut said I shouldn’t be out here, so far from the light and backup and the cops Kesey had working the case. I ignored it and followed the pull, turning down a poorly paved driveway that cut through the woods.

  When my gut said I was getting close, I killed the engine and continued on foot, following the curve of the long driveway from the edge of the woods. The night air smelled of pine trees and I could hear small things scampering in the undergrowth. I wrote most of them off as insects and vermin, but odds were some of them weren’t, this far out. It was a full moon, light enough to see by. There was a ditch between the driveway and the tree line, a narrow gulch full of shadows. The gun in my hand felt heavy, but it was a comfortable weight. I followed the ditch until I found Drabble’s place, a decaying husk of a faux-Tuscan villa in stained white brick and terracotta tile. Slick and Vin were standing guard at the front gate and an eager need to hurt them leapt up inside me, urging me to lead with the gun. I kept to the shadows, forcing myself to stay calm. I crept forward, sneakers squelching against the damp grass. Slick was smoking, looking idle. Vin scanned the road, watching for headlights, but he didn’t seem to have noticed me skulking along in the darkness.

  I stepped out, gun held steady in a standing grip. I had to breathe steady, force myself not to pull the trigger. “Hi,” I said. “Do me a favour, boys; fish the armaments out of your pockets, one after the other, and toss them towards the trees. You aren’t my favourite people right now, so don’t think I won’t shoot you if I have to.”

  It was a stupid move when faced with two shooters, but people who think you’re dead tend to hesitate when they see you again, especially when you’ve got a gun. Anya’s vengeance was like a drug. It made me reckless.

  Vin gaped at me, his eyes darting wildly as he tried to process my presence. Slick just smiled. “Welcome back, Miss Aster,” he said. “Did you find your white horse?”

  “She a ghost, Slick?” Vin whispered, sotto voce, as though I might not hear. I fired a warning shot and he got the idea, reaching inside his jacket and pulling out a heavy .45 that thumped into the grass when he threw it aside. Slick didn’t make a move, didn’t even give Vin an answer.

  “I was meaning to ask, Miss Aster, last time we met. What’s it like to be dead?”

  “Cold,” I said. “My turn: Where’s my revolver?”

  “Inside,” Slick said. “Mister Drabble has it, along with the horn. Some kind of insurance policy, I think, while he works out what to do with the little runt.” He
cocked his head to one side, his eyes cold and flat in the moonlight. “You planning on shooting me?”

  “Can’t say I haven’t thought about it,” I said. “You planning on giving me a reason to?”

  “Like I said, Miss Aster, I’m a pragmatist. The boss says do a job, I do it. Questions just get in the way.”

  “You coming back from the dead if I shoot you, Slick?”

  “It’s a neat trick.” He shook himself, loosening his shoulders. “Not to my taste. I don’t like the cold.”

  Vin lost his nerve at that, roaring towards me with an ugly expression. I could hear his heavy boots crunching against the tiled drive as I fired and caught him twice in the chest. It did nothing to slow him down and Vin crashed over me like a wave, crushing me to the ground. I kept hold of my .38 as I went, tried to fight my way free by slamming the butt of the gun against the side of Vin’s head. I could hear the steady huff of his breath as he swung at me, meaty fists hammering at my face, but he didn’t have the angle for a solid strike. I knew Slick was armed without even looking at him, the tingling sixth sense of Anya’s vengeance marking him, making him as easy to sense as a spare appendage. I kicked free of Vin and rolled away just before Slick started shooting. Vin screamed as I scrambled for the cover of the ditch, the pain of the gunshots finally hitting him. He staggered to his feet and caught a stray bullet from Slick, blood fountaining out of his right arm. Slick kept shooting, bullets sliding past me and cracking as they impacted wood. I fired blind as I scrambled, loose shots over my shoulder that were guided by vengeance and instinct. Slick rewarded me with a long hiss of pain and a soft clank as he fell back against the bars of the gate. I took a peek over my shoulder, saw Slick pushing himself upright, bleeding from a wound to the hip. The Beretta in his fist wove a lazy arc as he scanned the darkness. Vin whimpered, a quivering mess of muscle and blood loss on the ground between us.

  I stood up. Slick snapped off a wild shot and I caught him in the stomach, leaving him to scream while I took deep breaths and watched the gun spill out of his hand. I walked over, lowered my weapon, pushed his Beretta away with my toe. Vin whimpered as I kicked down with my heel, snapping his skull into the tiled driveway with enough force to shut him up. Slick’s breathing was ragged, blood flecking his lip in the moonlight.