Whiskey Ginger

by Shayne Silvers

  I only wanted her to hurt.

  “How do we stop her?” I growled.

  We don’t. Get out of here, while you still can.

  I shifted, swinging the barrel of Jimmy’s gun until it rested against Sun’s temple. He raised an eyebrow.

  I’m a god, remember?

  “Then act like one,” I replied, which sounded cool, even though I had no idea what that actually meant; he was the first god I’d ever met, after all. I drew the gun back to my side—I was out of ammunition, anyway. I slid the handguns into the pockets of Jimmy’s jacket where they hung, awkwardly, butts protruding, then I slipped out of the jacket itself.

  I knew I’d run out of ammo eventually, so I’d brought along another option—a thick coil of rope that I’d cut free after I escaped. I swung it a few times to test out the balance. Sun sighed and retrieved his staff, twirling the broken ends in each hand.

  As soon as she gets up, take her left.

  “Fuck that,” I said.

  I took two steps forward and swung the rope as hard as I could. It collided with her face and sent her sprawling onto her side. I brought it down, over and over again, whipping her with it until her tongue finally grew back and I could hear her screams of outrage and pain.

  This isn’t a fight.

  “No. It. Isn’t.” I brought the rope down on her with each word.

  It isn’t honorable.

  “Eat shit, monkey,” I said, through gritted teeth. In my head, all I could see was Jimmy’s face. The feel of his still chest beneath my hands. I screamed wordlessly, lashing out with all my hate at the creature who’d killed someone I’d care about.

  And it wasn’t enough.

  Enough.

  Suddenly, everything went white.

  Chapter 54

  The first thing I heard was the ocean.

  I stood, panting, clutching a rope soaked in blood, completely alone on a black sand beach. I pivoted on my heel, scanning the horizon. Ocean waves frothed and crashed against the shore while storm clouds gathered in the distance. Behind me loomed tree-covered mountains.

  Despite the gloomy weather, I had to look away from the glare of those vibrant green slopes, my eyes watering. That’s when I noticed the man in the ocean, paddling hard towards the shore in a flimsy rowboat.

  He is destined to drown.

  The voice, the same one that had spoken in my head before I arrived here, did not belong to the Monkey King; it was harder, somehow, edged with authority. I scanned the beach, searching for the speaker, but saw no one. Which meant I was either going crazy—at this point a distinct possibility—or someone else had been hijacking my mind and body for a one-on-one. Part of me wondered whether telepaths had to tune in to other people’s minds, like you would a radio, and whether there was a way to change frequencies.

  Because I was over these little chats.

  The man in the rowboat drew closer, although each wave threatened to capsize his tiny vessel. I found myself rooting for him, inexplicably, the way you so often do when you see someone taking on the elements. It’s that defiant streak we all have, I think—that urge to stand in the pouring rain and listen to thunder pound so hard against the sky that you feel its vibrations in your bones.

  A single wave, larger than the others, emerged. The man saw it, too, and angled the prow of his boat to cut through the wave. But he was too late, and the wave too big.

  His boat snapped in half.

  The man disappeared beneath the surface, and the rogue wave slammed against the shore a few minutes later, pitching the snapped handles of his oars onto the sand.

  An elderly man I hadn’t seen until now fetched one of the broken oars and studied it before tossing it back out to sea. He didn’t seem to mind the biting chill of the wind, wearing a corduroy jacket and tattered slacks, his face deeply wrinkled, but cleanshaven. He prowled the sand until he found and did the same with the other oar, and soon both disappeared beneath the surf.

  “Who are ye?” I asked.

  The elderly man stared out at the ocean but said nothing.

  “I asked ye a question. Who are ye?” I repeated. “And, where am I?”

  “Do you think he regretted anything?”

  “What?”

  The elderly man pointed with his chin and tucked his hands into the pockets of his jacket. “That man who died out there. It was quick, you know. Hit his head and drowned. But I think about this a lot. Whether all mortals perish with some tiny regret in their hearts. Not those frivolous bucket lists with their skydiving and travel, but real regrets—people they wish they didn’t have to leave behind, stories they never got to tell, versions of themselves they never got to be.”

  I frowned, considering his question. I felt more than a little crazy, standing on a beach in the middle of nowhere, bantering about philosophy after everything I’d been through; I ached, and the salty air burned where it licked my skin, but—beyond those sensations—I felt raw and exposed, emotionally drained. “What does that have to do with—” I started to ask.

  “Would you like to know what James Collins’ regret was, the moment he died?” The elderly man faced me, his eyes full of pity. “He regretted not being able to save everyone. And I do mean everyone. Can you imagine? The sheer ambition of that regret.”

  “Shut up,” I whispered.

  “Did you know he kept a list by his bedside table? A list of everyone he believed he failed. Friends, even enemies, in some cases. Some of the names weren’t even names at all, only what he remembered. Brown Jacket. Kid with the Red Scarf. Some part of him was relieved, I think, to die. To let go.”

  “Shut up!” I screamed.

  “I’m not saying this to hurt you. I’m saying this because you have a choice to make. The balance has been tampered with, and I wish to set things right.”

  What the hell did that even mean?

  It means he can return.

  The man smiled, gently, at my floored expression. “But,” he said, out loud this time, “I cannot interfere directly. It must be your decision. You are his friend. You will have to take responsibility for bringing him back. You—”

  “I’ll do it,” I said. “Tell me how.”

  The elderly man looked as though he wanted to say something else, but nodded, instead.

  Chapter 55

  I wrapped the rope around Foxy’s throat and tied the best knot I could, which was less than stellar given how thick it was and how little function remained in my hands. But when I yanked, it held fast, allowing me to draw her towards Jimmy’s body, which lay thirty feet away at least.

  What are you doing?

  Sun’s voice cut through my head. I glanced back over my shoulder at the Monkey King. “I’m bringin’ me friend back.”

  That is not—

  “And you’re goin’ to help me,” I said. “Grab her feet.”

  I do not think—

  I dropped Foxy, whose hands were recovering enough to grip the rope and claw at it, and shoved my finger into the Monkey King’s densely muscled chest. “Ye owe me,” I said. “I know what ye told Jimmy when he got here. Ye didn’t tell him to run, like ye claimed. Ye told him that, if he stayed, I would end up free, but he would end up dead.”

  Sun bowed his head but didn’t deny it.

  I snatched the rope and began dragging Foxy once more, speaking through gritted teeth. “As if that idgit would ever leave me to die in a place like this or pass up a chance to be the hero. But I don’t care what that bastard wants, I’m not leavin’ him here, either. Now, grab her fuckin’ feet.”

  The Monkey King grabbed her fucking feet.

  Together, the two of us managed to lay Foxy beside Jimmy’s body. He was on his back where I’d left him after retrieving his jacket and pistols. Foxy—the lacerations from the rope closing much slower than her other wounds had—struggled to rise.

  I kicked her in the face, sending her sprawling. “Tie up her legs,” I instructed Sun. The Monkey King snatched a rope and tied a much more sec
ure knot around her lower half, the rope looking almost dainty in his overlarge hands.

  Now what?

  “Now we follow directions,” I said, peering over Sun’s shoulder at the elderly man from the beach. He clucked his tongue. “She should have known better than to consume a holy man in your temple, Sun.”

  Sun whirled around, his uninjured eye wide, and immediately dropped to one knee, chattering in Chinese. My brain didn’t pick up on any of it, this time.

  I guess it was a private conversation.

  The elderly man waved a hand. “It’s not your fault. Neither is it hers. We all act according to our natures.” He stepped forward and leveled a hand at Foxy, whose eyes—completely regrown—shone with hatred, then despair.

  “What are ye goin’ to do?” I asked.

  The elderly man snorted. “Have you ever tried to balance on the edge of a sidewalk with someone pushing you from behind?”

  I shook my head.

  “Because it would be really hard to do, yes?”

  I shrugged. “Sure.”

  “Well, quit pushing me and stand back. I have work to do.”

  Chapter 56

  I hefted Jimmy, hooking his arm over my shoulder, and half-carried, half-dragged him through the portal. He was semi-conscious, able to shuffle his feet and little else, but his wounds were gone—the blood stains on his shirt crusted over. On the other side, I nearly slipped in a pool of liquid that turned out to be Jacob’s pooling blood.

  I cursed.

  To be honest, I’d almost forgotten he was there; it felt like everything that had happened on this side of the portal had taken place a long time ago—like waking up from one of those long naps after which everything seems disjointed and unreal.

  A wordless shriek echoed behind us and the portal snapped shut. Beneath the dim florescence I could make out Gladstone’s bloody shoeprints, and decided to follow them, both relieved and upset to find he’d fled. As we were, Jimmy and I would prove easy targets, but Gladstone knew things—like where to find me and those I cared about. Maybe Ryan was right, and it was time to take an extended vacation; I didn’t want to spend the rest of my life looking over my shoulder, after all.

  Before I could decide either way, I noticed the tell-tale pulse of red and blue lights through the windows. “A little late,” I muttered as I readjusted Jimmy’s weight. The shoddy door lay in shambles—no doubt thanks to Jimmy’s overzealous entrance. I gingerly stepped out onto the porch, only to be greeted by a series of surprised shouts and a few very bright flashlights.

  “Don’t move!”

  “Freeze!”

  “Move and I’ll shoot!”

  A woman’s voice I recognized interrupted the shouting officers, her authority shutting them all up at once, “Guns down, you morons! That’s my partner!”

  Detective Maria Machado rushed up the steps, gun in hand, but pointed at the ground, finger off the trigger. She looked frazzled; strands of hair poked out from her usually tidy, no-nonsense bun, and the small lines around her eyes seemed deeper, somehow. I wondered how we looked, Jimmy, covered in blood, and me, beaten half to death.

  “Jimmy!” she cursed, under her breath.

  “He’s alright,” I said. “Took a blow to the head, that’s all.”

  “But ma’am,” one of the uniformed officers behind Maria said, before she could respond, “we did a sweep of that house. There was no one in it! Where did they come from?”

  I frowned. Come to think of it, how the hell had they missed the gaping portal in the middle of the back bedroom? And what about the dead man who lay inside? I searched Maria’s face, but saw no ready answers there; she looked at us like we were ghosts—our existence both implausible and inescapable. I was about to reassure her that we were, in fact, real, when I saw one of the officers leaning against the side of police cruiser, smoking a cigarette. I narrowed my eyes, staring at his nondescript face. There was something there. A shimmer as he turned to look at us, standing out like a sore thumb compared to the seamless illusions I’d seen Ryan pull off.

  Suddenly, I realized who and what I was looking at.

  Gladstone, his face obscured by second-rate illusion magic.

  “Maria,” I said, “that officer over there—”

  “It’s Detective Machado, MacKenna, how many times do I have to tell you?” Maria snapped.

  “Listen! This is important,” I urged. “That man over there—no, don’t look—have ye ever seen him before?”

  Maria took a step forward as if peering into the house over my shoulder, but instead used her peripheral vision to look back towards the squad cars. She grunted. “He was here when we got here, but now that you mention it, no,” she replied. “He could be a rookie? I don’t know everyone in our precinct.”

  “He’s not,” I replied, then cursed. Maria was one of those Regulars who refused to believe in the unbelievable; I couldn’t tell her there was a wizard impersonating a cop not thirty feet away.

  “Listen,” Maria said, taking a good long look at me for the first time since she’d approached, “you look like you may have taken a beating of your own. Why don’t you let us get you to the hospital? You and James, both.”

  Too late, I realized Maria thought I was out of it, to the point where she wouldn’t take me seriously no matter what I said. I didn’t blame her, not for this, anyway; hell, I probably was in shock. But that didn’t mean I was wrong. At this point, my only option was to force Maria to listen to me—to accuse Gladstone of something she’d have to investigate. Unfortunately, only one thing came to mind…

  And it wasn’t going to be pretty.

  “He’s got a bomb strapped to him,” I insisted, my voice a low whisper. “That’s the man who attacked us, and he has a bomb.”

  “A what?” Maria asked, too thrown by my accusation to freak out.

  In hindsight, I knew how it sounded. But, as far as I could tell, it was the only way to get her attention and make sure she didn’t do anything reckless. I’d seen Gladstone throw fireballs around all night long, which meant if the cops tried to corral and question him directly, he’d simply end up roasting them alive. This way, at least, they’d be on their toes.

  “Listen, he stuck around, waitin’ to finish the job. But he only wants me. If ye can get me close enough,” I implored, “I can take him down.”

  “You can disarm a bomb?” Maria asked, her face incredulous.

  “He showed me how it works,” I lied. I didn’t bother mentioning that my plan to disarm it was to get close enough to Gladstone that he’d be rendered powerless, including the illusion he still wore making him look like a cop. Once exposed, maybe I’d get a chance to put him down for good. But either way, I wanted to end this here and now.

  “Alright, well we should call in backup. The bomb squad, in case—”

  “There’s no time!” I hissed. “If he t’inks you’re waitin’ for no reason, he’ll get suspicious. Ye can’t risk it.”

  “If you die,” Maria said, finally, “I’ll lose my badge.”

  “Aye,” I said, “but then at least you’ll be rid of me?”

  Maria snorted. Her eyes lingered over the blood on Jimmy’s shirt, visible beneath his jacket, and the bruises and scrapes that I’m sure covered every inch of my body. “What the hell happened in there, anyway?” she asked, shaking her head.

  “I’ll fill ye in later,” I said. “Or, better yet, Jimmy will. For now, ye need to get him somewhere safe.”

  Maria looked skeptical but didn’t have any reason to argue with at least that part of my plan. “Alright. Officer Hanson, come over here!”

  Hanson approached, holstering his weapon. Maria leaned in as he approached. “Get him out of here. We have a 10-79. Follow procedure,” she whispered.

  Hanson gulped, but took Jimmy—who groaned a little as I transferred him to the smaller, but easily more muscular, officer—without another word. I fought the urge to rub my aching neck and shoulders. My lower back ached from the strain of hold
ing Jimmy up, so I arched it a little. “Guess it’s your lucky day, Maria,” I said.

  Maria glanced warily at me. “How so?”

  “Ye finally get to put me in handcuffs.”

  She snorted.

  Then she arrested me.

  Chapter 57

  Maria marched me down the porch steps toward the patrol car Gladstone leaned against as if taking me into custody. Jimmy was already in the back of Hanson’s vehicle and on his way to the nearest hospital, which meant no matter how this played out, at least Jimmy would be safe.

  Gladstone seemed surprised to see Jimmy in the back of a squad car instead of in a body bag, but clearly wasn’t concerned about the detective’s well-being, at least not enough to break the illusion. Meanwhile, I had to consciously remind myself not to glare in his direction.

  Now that Maria knew he was there also, she’d be under the same strain, but I knew she could handle it; I’d seen her keep her cool in tougher situations than this. Still, I could sense she was worried for the other officers present. I couldn’t blame her; if things went sideways, a lot of her people could get hurt, or killed.

  If I was being honest with myself, however, I didn’t care as much about that as I did making sure Gladstone died here and now. Sure, my priorities might have seemed a little mixed up, but if I wanted to keep my friends and family safe, it was a risk I had to take.

  In the end, I’d rather play fast and loose with the lives of strangers than the lives of people I cared about.

  Gladstone seemed content to wait for me; he finished his cigarette, drawing one last pull from it before flicking the burning cherry into the street. I wondered what his plan was, and why he hadn’t simply run when he’d had the chance. Unfinished business, maybe? Maybe he’d stuck around to keep an eye on Foxy, assuming she’d try to follow through on her promise to kill him, or maybe he was the cautious type in general?