Black City (The Lark Case Files)

by Christian Read

  She whispers, do it. I can feel her wishes.

  Oh fuck no.

  Seventy-Two

  All you need is to give in, the scroll whispers. Let me in and I'll make you Queen of the City. You'll stand beside me in glory forever. I'll reach back in time, tear my captors from Procession and Chronology, then use up this world, crack it open, then return to the true place and war upon my brothers forever. And you'll always be a part of me. A little mortal voice, witness to things none of her ape species can ever imagine. Just let me in.

  Wick doesn't want that. She just wants to tag the city and maybe make sure her mum is okay, one day. (No. Wait. Her mum...) She just wants a little respect and the guys to treat her equal. She can feel the scroll and it's not lying, whatever it is. It can do that for her. Will do that for her.

  'What if I free you another way?'

  No other way, It hisses.

  Wick looks at the crippled, vicious old bastard and sees one face of power. Thinks of all the people she's hurt and that's another face of power. Maybe the same but it surely looks better when you're the one doling out the hurt. Thinks of Deenate. That was sweet, taking back from him, but he was dead now. Just dead. He'd never look at her work, not even to hate it.

  And that's all she wants. Just for people to look at the work and have an opinion.

  'I don't think I can be what you want.'

  Are you sure? It whispers. Let me show you a cost.

  It stops leaking Its might into the world and the Old Man is on her as quick as a housecat. Rolling his chair over the tops of her fingers, laughing and giggling, giggling. Rolls back.

  You'll never paint again . Not if he keeps this up.

  He rolls forward. She yells. Shit it hurts.

  Wick looks up. The guy from before steps up to the dorm room, hovering behind the crip, although someone's handed him a beating. He looks like shit.

  He liked her work. Yeah, that's him.

  At least, one time, someone did. This way, someone else might.

  Do it, she says, not sure if it's aloud.

  Then. 'Oh fuck no!'

  Seventy-Three

  Because this is what the Old Man's waiting for.

  A hundred years of more of trying not to die. Now, the scroll, a prisoned Archon trying to manifest. It's perfect. He's waited so long for an opportunity like this.

  And with every inch of strength in him, he casts his final spell. Severing his connections to mortality, he throws his soul at the Archon, not looking to match strength but determination. He tries to corral the Archon into his body, making them one. The Archon's power, his mind, his personality, his body grown metropolitan. It's thrown Its will outside the scroll but not It's power. It's offered up Its throat.

  And the Archon is weak.

  And the Archon is already bound to the scroll.

  And the Archon is already halfway between scroll and Wick.

  And the Old Man has risked his ancient life, the symbolic sacrifice he has never made.

  He enters into a consciousness no human ever has before. Visualises himself in an infinite blackness, passing into a creature's body that is geometric and mad and vast. Sees himself slicing ganglions and dendrites that are long as chasms, drinking down living chemicals like a drunk. The Archon is too huge an entity to fight him. Like slapping a bacteria.

  The Old Man is winning. A helpless God, he casts his final spells, fuelled by death, severing the Archon's faint identity and sense of self. A helpless hulk the Old Man can ravage and possess.

  He gurgles in glee.

  Seventy-Four

  The guy pushes the Old Man out of the chair and sits on it.

  'Lark. Remember me?'

  'Sure. You gonna kill him?' she asks, clutching her broken fingers.

  Lark looks down at the gnarled form of the Old Man. 'Do no good now. Besides, do you want to be the kind of girl, kills an old guy pushed out of his chair?'

  'Nah.'

  'Me either.'

  Wick is fading into nothingness.

  'He's going to take It away from me. Then I'll be alone.'

  'Worse things than being alone.' He stops, says it again. 'And that's true.' Says it like it means something to him as well as her.

  'Yeah but, with the scroll, the dude in the scroll, I got to paint like never before.'

  The guy, Lark, whatever, gives her a smoke like he did a few hours before.

  'There's blood on this, man.'

  'Yeah, but it's a prick's blood. Makes 'em taste like victory. Besides, it's dry blood. And I've only got one left after this, so be grateful.'

  They light up. Lark helps her because her hand doesn't really work, her fingers.

  He talks.

  'So listen. Some dude just beat me down. Not too sharp right now. But listen. The old dude. Bad dude.' Her fingers agree with Lark's character judgement

  'He's hurting the scroll thing. Which would normally be impossible, but he's breaking rules, taking advantage of it like a snail out it's shell.'

  'Sure.'

  'Listen. The scroll, what's in it, It's marked you. Marked the city. This is the important bit, so pay attention. You've marked it back. Your work, your tags, your effort. You're in It as much as It's in you. If you want It, you can take It back. Tag the scroll thing, tag the Archon, and the Old Man will never take It from you.'

  She frowns. This dude, who is this dude to tell her this stuff. She's not fucking stupid enough to trust him.

  'Yeah, I'm not done telling it. There's always a price. You and It, you'll be one. But in the city forever.'

  She frowns all over again.

  'Is that bad? Someone like me?'

  'Keep up the good tags, I don't see why you'd be so bad.'

  She throws the cigarette over her shoulder.

  'That's cool.'

  And she's in.

  Seventy-Five

  It is easy. She enters into the Scroll and she's painted the Archon's letters and shapes and Its patterns so many times before. That has changed her, and she follows the cripple into his construct-hallucination. And the Old Man is about his vandalism.

  Fuck that. How many times has she seen her work vandalised and smeared by some bastard? Not this time. And though Wick doesn't know it, it's this rage at seeing just one more beautiful thing marred that strengthens her, and magic knows and responds.

  In her head, she paints the Primal Sigil onto the Primal Sigil. Her and It, linked together. Forever, now. Her art, her words, her magic. City-magic. Art-magic. The magic of a young woman who just can't take another person fucking with her.

  She joins the Archon, giving up her body.

  And she's not as big as the scroll-god. She never can be. But she's still a lot bigger than an old bastard who likes to trample on people, just so they'll be scared.

  They join, then. She lets it fill her utterly and then beyond the borders of human might, bounded by human outrage and ambition.

  Wick rotates her new deific form around and with her thirty thousand gleaming, jewelled eyes stares at the vandal.

  'I hate it when people mess my work up.'

  The Old Man starts to shake his head.

  Seventy-Six

  He screams with rage, the ancient bastard, even in his abyss-deep meditation. His voice snarls obscenities, biting them off with his broken green teeth.

  I watch Wick. Slowly, some stigmata, something, marks this apotheosis. Face and mangled fingers are all I can see until she throws back her hood and they form under her scalp but I have no doubt it's everywhere. Tattooing her. You can guess with what.

  The Old Man sobs with a frustration I hope to never feel. All for nothing, failure at the very end.

  Then something goes out of his fucked-up, evil eyes. But he's still breathing. Which is too much of a shame.

  Everything goes still and I can feel a surge in the city. But no time for contemplation. Even now, I can feel her stirring.

  I look through his clothes, but there's no wallet. His watch looks like
ten dollars' worth of tin. You'd think a man with his money would carry cash.

  Ludo might have something on him, but I'm not checking. Shame, that idea-eater is sweet.

  I put Wick's body, stilled now forever, into the wheelchair. Someone will take care of her. If I played this right, there'll be people here soon. Mully will find a place for her. I'll take her to him. One more stray in a house full of strays.

  Then, carefully, I take the scroll from her hands. She's clutching it, but not tight. I find a good, low-rez meditation, keyed in to shallow breath. Look at the scroll carefully. But there's nothing there, now. Just a strange story in a made-up language, telling a weird story from long ago. Still, I have a plan to deal with it.

  Look at her. Still. Breathing so slow. Fight away sadness.

  The Primal Sigils are losing their strength, their malice potency. Becoming something new. The people whose body she climbed in? They'll regain themselves, but I'd bet the last cigarette in my pack that there's a new cult already forming.

  I push the Old Man's body away. He won't die and I'm not murdering a catatonic. He'll have people come for him to put him on machines. But I don't have to help him.

  Attention back to Wick, I bow down in front of the new god. Smear some of the dried blood from my cut lip onto her broken hand. A little sacrifice. A little message from mere human up to the divine, supernal world of deities.

  City-God, manifesting in all the hidden prayers and lonely messages written down on stone and metal, any rogue decoration or sutra or glyph.

  I limp my way out, pushing her, using the chair to help me.

  Bettina is waiting.

  'All done.'

  'Not quite.'

  She points. On the street, two new flashy town cars.

  People. One in the car who I can't see. Then, on the street, armed with tools and one with a gun.

  Carma, Rosengarten, Raj, Connor. And look, Viniter, whose gotten a promotion, so it seems. I push through the door. There she is, getting out of the car, looking like a million bucks.

  Scarlet.

  'Hey baby.'

  Seventy-Seven

  So angry she's luminous, dressed all in white for some damn reason, her hair dyed platinum now.

  Not sure she's angry at me. At least, specifically.

  'What. the fuck. has been going on?'

  'I'm fine.'

  'We'll take care your medical issues later. Right now, every occultist and sensitive in this city is half-mad, with a lot of them tipping over that edge. My phone is ringing off the hook and we've had a rash of suicides. Not to mention the spillover onto the citizens.'

  She stole saying citizens from me.

  'I'll explain it all later. What you have to know is. One, the Old Man is laying in a pool of his own spittle inside. You're welcome. Two, I'll have a full report in a few days for you on why the Bleak Elect went for Gallowglass. And an invoice, which you'll have a month to pay. My expenses are a bastard. And three, this young woman is pretty important now. You'll take her to Mully.'

  The sun finally sticks its tongue out through the gaps in the city's teeth.

  'But right now, I'm hurt and I'm exhausted. So why don't you take the Famous Five here and piss off. I didn't get a lick of assistance from you in there.'

  That gets her, I see. 'We didn't know what the hell was going on.'

  'Yeah.'

  I look at them all.

  Viniter steps forward. Looks me up and down. 'What the hell did you do? This place is cracked wide open. I told you things were bad. You're only making it worse! How the hell can we keep up with this?'

  She's angry. She's also doing what none of the others are. Looking carefully at more than just me.

  I lean in. Whisper to her. 'Watch this place. Clean it up. Burn it down. But watch it.'

  Viniter looks at me carefully. Looks past me being just her dick ex-teacher and sees what I'm telling her. Knows I'm not playing. That I'm sharing something real with her. Nods, once, meaning it.

  Good girl. Maybe there's hope for at least one of the slackers.

  I step back. Smile through blood for Scarlet.

  'See ya.'

  I start to move off. Rosengarten's improved in the last few years. The pimples have mostly gone, the hair is cut short and the specs are cool. Still fat.

  'No. No we don't think so. That young woman is clearly no longer human. You've obviously been through something of significance to the city's occult security. And we want answers. We want you to come with us.'

  Don't even bother breaking stride. He steps in front of me.

  I look at him. Jesus. This is my replacement? He's so in love with the bully-boy of it all. I wonder when was the last time he looked at a grimoire that didn't have some lame-ass hurt-conjure he can make into a truncheon and perspex helmet.

  'You don't understand,' he says. Tries to put badness in his voice but he's just a poser to me. 'We want to talk to you.'

  I light the last one. Half to look cool, I admit. Also to give me a second to get myself together. I'm tired and I can't let them see how little I want to fight.

  I've got enough juice for this. Like the Hollow said, if you're gonna get into it, get into it. I say the words quickly and he realises too late. Reacts slow, letting it show over his face before he brings up his hands to gesture. By then, it's too late and he's fallen back, bee stings in his head.

  'Rosengarten. Son. Fuck off.'

  Is there anything more patronising than 'son'?

  Raj comes forward and Bettina steps out of her shadows. She doesn't say anything. She's got a gut full of meat and a skimpy singlet, soaked in blood too thick to dry. Her face, her stink, her stare all say it. Step up and I will motherfuck you.

  But something's wrong. He used to like a fight, but now he seems keen on a suicide. He breaks pace, then keeps it coming.

  'Raj!' Scarlet commands, but the tension doesn't break.

  'Baby, them new kids aren't really cutting it. Now let me walk out of here.'

  'Firstly,' she says, 'I'm not baby. Secondly, Rosengarten didn't mean it like that.'

  I look at him, getting rid of my curse slowly, badly.

  'Thank God. I don't think I'm ready for such an epic battle against a worthy foe.'

  Maybe, just maybe a smile pricks her lips.

  'We want to make sure you're alright and we want to talk to you about making you a long-term consultant. Like Mully. We don't know what happened here yet but, well, we're grateful.'

  She's lying. I think they came here to strong-arm me. I hope I'm wrong. But even if they're not -

  'Hey, that's great. Me and Jon accept.'

  'Umn... Jon. Jon's not involved with this.'

  'That's right.'

  I walk on.

  My leg hurts.

  'I'll call you later, Scarlet.'

  Bettina and I walk away.

  Seventy-Eight

  Scarlet slides into the front seat. Everett is there, sipping chai from a cardboard cup.

  'Jesus Christ. Covered in blood and beat the hell up. He looks a horror.'

  'Yep,' she lies. 'He looked like hell.' Covered in blood and dangerous. Being the magician he should have been, all along. He's put on weight and he needs a haircut, but she can feel how he intimidated them all. She's reminded of the old days for a while when he was all badness grins and hex.

  But in service to nothing now.

  Scarlet realises that Lark has taken out the Old Man and done what none of them could. Alone and with few allies. A shiver passes through her. Covered in blood and dangerous.

  'Think he'll take the job? We could really use him back.'

  That's true. But Scarlet can't believe Everett would risk their relationship, no matter how useful Lark could be. She understands the stakes and the usefulness of a man like Lark. Still, you'd think Everett would at the very least show something other than an earnest belief they'd work it out. Everett never seems jealous, but she shuts that down and talks to him.

  'No. He won'
t take the job. Not yet.'

  She smiles at her man. 'But I think I know a way to pressure him.'

  But she's lying.

  Seventy-Nine

  Later.

  Bettina and I get home. Wash up. Change. I ask her to take care of the girl and I sleep for nine hours. Wake up. Bettina has ordered in beers, Mexican food and two packs of smokes. She cleaned herself up and she's wearing my shirt. It'd be sexy if she didn't have a tooth she'd chipped on a big man's bones. My knee is in bad shape and I swallow painkillers. I limp. The face in the mirror is not pretty.

  'You look like hell,' she says and I nod.

  'It's a masculine look, Bettina. Don't be afraid of my rugged machismo.' She raises an eyebrow and threatens a zombie smile.

  'What now?'

  'First, you're going to take that girl off to Mully. I can't take care of her and she's going to need it constantly for a while. She might not ever come back to her body. I don't know how to go about that, but he might. Besides, he'll want to look at her before anyone else.'

  'Who is she?'

  'That?' I point at the skinny little girl, covered in tattoos from the inside out. 'That's nothing for now. That's an empty room. But it once housed a God. There's a new divinity loose, and we'll have to deal with her soon enough.'

  'OK.'

  'And listen. You came back for me. That guy, he had me. No doubt. You're free of all debt to me, you have to know that.'

  She nods. Drinking my beer.

  'I won't raise you again without your say.'

  She frowns. 'You don't get it. I didn't come back because I owed you.'

  I don't say anything about that. I don't know how to talk to people about anything that isn't in a book. She waits and when it's clear I'm not talking, she moves.

  'I'm going down in the dirt again.'

  I nod, sort of sad.

  She takes the girl. Picks her up chair and all like it ain't a thing.