by Pratt, Tim
The dog howled as a great rip appeared in its spirit, spilling darkness like a cloud of ink expelled into water. The dog turned around quickly, snapping at its own flanks—and disappeared, with no fanfare.
Marla had wounded it, and driven it away.
She had little doubt that it would return, and that it would be angry.
Marla finished cutting the ghost off Rondeau intently, quickly. She felt certain she was being watched.
Rondeau wore a bathrobe and sat sipping tea from a white porcelain cup. He'd been in the shower for nearly an hour, cleaning away the stink from his body. “I feel normal,” he said. “But then, I felt normal when I had the suit on, too, so who knows? But I feel like me.” The suit was on the floor in the corner, a wrinkled pile of purple and gold.
“Good,” Marla said. They would have to wait to see how much of the ghost was left, and how much of Rondeau she might have accidentally cut away.
The door opened and Hamil rushed in. “Homunculi!” he said triumphantly. “Duplicate bodies, grown in great yeasty vats of meat!"
“No shit?” Marla said. “So those bodies weren't Sweeney at all? Just decoys, copies?"
Hamil shook his head. “Copies, yes, but not the usual sort, not just stupid doppelgangers. Sweeney's been moving his mind, his soul, from one body to another."
Marla whistled. “That's insane."
“There are dangers and repercussions, yes. The soul can be lost in transit. But even if the transfer goes perfectly, there's wear. Attrition of the soul. The edges get ground away, the substance of the spirit thins out. Every time Sweeney switches bodies, he loses a little of his humanity. He'll become more and more monstrous, until one day the thing looking out of Sweeney's eyes isn't really Sweeney at all—isn't even human. But it's one of the paths to immortality, if you're stupid enough to follow it."
“Doesn't he need a charm, something to loosen his mind from his body? I didn't see anything like that on him..."
Hamil cleared his throat. “Well, yes. The herbs he bought at the brujeria are used to make that charm, actually. To be effective, the charm must touch skin. Normally such a thing would be worn as a medallion, against the chest, but that's risky, of course—the medallion can be snatched away, torn off. Sweeney found a more clever place to put his. He wore the charm on the inside."
Marla looked at Hamil blankly. “He ate it? Aren't those herbs poisonous?"
Rondeau laughed. “I think what Hamil means is, Sweeney shoved the charm up his ass, like a mule taking cocaine across the border."
Marla shook her head. “The things people do to live forever. So. He has a freely migrating spirit. But he can't just hop from body to body at will, can he?"
“His current body has to die, before he can relocate. But he doesn't seem to have much trouble dying at will. He probably has poison and razor blades secreted on his person, things he can use to kill himself, in a pinch."
“So we knock him out, get the herbs out of him, and cut his throat, right?"
Hamil nodded. “Hardly glamorous work, but that seems to be the only course of action."
“Okay,” Marla said. “Let's find him. I bet he's at the best table in the best restaurant in town."
“Bastard's probably a terrible tipper, too,” Rondeau said.
“Todd Sweeney, sleeping the sleep of the wicked,” Rondeau said. He wore a powder-blue tuxedo jacket over a black t-shirt and faded corduroy jeans. Marla almost found his attire refreshing, after the horrible monotony of the zoot suit.
Sweeney lolled in a wingback chair, his hair disarrayed, his jaw agape, quite unconscious. “What did you give him?” Marla asked.
“Some cocktail of Hamil's. One whiff of a soaked handkerchief, and he passed out. Hamil says he'll be down for hours yet.” Rondeau grinned. “You should have seen me. I crept up behind him in the men's room at the Chatterly Club, and I dragged him out the window. Slick as can be. Nobody saw a thing."
“I don't suppose you, ah, removed his talisman, did you?"
Rondeau wrinkled his nose. “Look, I fetched kidney stones out of a toilet, yes, but I have my limits. I'm not going butt-fishing in Todd Sweeney."
Marla sighed and pulled on a latex glove. “This is what being chief-of-chiefs leads to, Rondeau. The dirtiest of dirty work. But once we get that charm out of his bottom, he'll be as mortal as you and me. Assuming we can get every sprig of leaf out of there. I don't look forward to the process.” She took a step toward Sweeney, then paused. Slowly, she smiled. “But then again, maybe there's another way ... Strip him for me."
Rondeau began to protest.
“No, no,” Marla said. “I just need you to make sure he doesn't have poison, or anything he can kill himself with."
Rondeau stripped the body, finding a vial of blue liquid and numerous razor blades.
“Now get some rope,” Marla said. “We're taking him to Langford's clinic. There are observation rooms there, places where we can keep Sweeney, where he won't do any harm to himself."
“You're a fiendish bitch,” Rondeau said with admiration. He leaned against the unbreakable glass, watching Sweeney begin to stir. Sweeney had been in the bare white cell for several hours already, his hands cuffed behind him, lying unconscious on his side. “But what if the dog doesn't come?"
“It'll come,” Marla said. “It's been to Langford's clinic before. It knows the way."
Sweeney opened his eyes, blinking stupidly at the light. He squinted toward the wide window, then nodded. “Hello, Marla,” he said, his voice transmitted to a speaker on Marla's side of the glass. “You've caught me again. You're certainly persistent.” He looked down at himself, frowning, then lifted his gaze to Marla, somehow meeting her eyes through the one-way glass. “Imprisonment is one thing. But why have you dressed me in this hideous gold and purple suit?"
“Is it a good fit?” Marla asked.
Sweeney glanced up at the speaker in the ceiling, where Marla's voice emerged. “It fits all right, yes. But it smells terribly of body odor. And it's ... itchy. Almost as if the suit is moving against me."
“That's how it starts,” Rondeau said with authority.
“There's been enough time for the ghost to get its hooks into him, don't you think?” Marla said.
Rondeau shrugged. “Hamil said it doesn't take long to get started. So now ... we wait for the dog."
Sweeney struggled to his feet, leaning against and sliding up the wall. “Well,” he said. “It's been a pleasure. But I have other engagements.” Sweeney lowered his head and ran toward the far wall, hitting his head with such force that the crack of collision was transmitted clearly through the speaker.
“Shit!” Marla shouted, and ran for the door. “Why didn't we tie his feet?"
“We were too busy being pleased with ourselves,” Rondeau said.
Marla wrenched open the door while Sweeney sat, dazed, on the floor. “Bugger,” he muttered, and tried to stand up so he could make another suicidal run. Marla reached for him—then stopped as the sound of claws on tile came from behind her.
She turned. The dog stood in the doorway, its tail wagging like a metronome. Curls of blackness wisped away from its pale back. Its eyes were as dark and unreflective as lumps of coal. Its adorable form was coming apart at the edges.
Marla backed away, holding her hands before her, palms out. “Nice doggie,” she said softly.
Rondeau was backed all the way up against the window, flattened out, unmoving, his eyes fixed on the dog. “I should be terrified,” he said, hardly moving his mouth. “But it's still cute, black eyes and all."
“I know,” Marla said.
The dog sniffed the air, its head swinging toward Sweeney.
Sweeney blinked at it, still dazed from his collision with the wall. “Dog,” he said. “White dog. Care to sic me, doggie? Put those pretty teeth of yours in my throat, so I can get on with my evening?” He laughed. “But you're a nice doggie, aren't you? You wouldn't kill me, no matter how I—"
The do
g jumped, landing on Sweeney's chest, driving him to the ground. It snapped its jaws at his throat and began pulling.
The ghost in the suit came out, eyes wide and empty of intelligence. The traumas the ghost had recently experienced—the first assault by the dog, the sharpness of Marla's dagger—had ruined its vestige of a mind.
But even with its sense wholly removed, the ghost had tried to take over Sweeney's body. Its hands disappeared into Sweeney's chest, as if gripping his ethereal heart. As the dog dragged the ghost out, Sweeney's spirit came with it. The spirit-Sweeney looked around, bewildered, the face of a man who has been living high, unable to comprehend that the good life has come to an end. That life has come to an end.
The spirit-Sweeney mouthed a single word—"Bugger"—and then both of them, the ghost and Sweeney's spirit, were torn from the body and the suit.
Marla expected the dog to drag them away. Instead, it began to gobble the ghost, taking great bites and swallowing the spiritual substance. It swallowed Sweeney, too, unable to—or uninterested in—telling the difference between the two. Marla and Rondeau watched in sick fascination as the spirits were consumed.
The dog finished eating and licked its chops. It trotted toward the door, and Marla and Rondeau both relaxed.
Then the dog stopped. It turned its head to look at Marla, its black eyes terribly intent. It trotted toward her, and Marla swallowed. She wanted to whimper, but if this was the end, she wanted to go with some dignity. “I'm sorry I kicked you—” she began.
The dog growled, and Marla stopped talking.
With great deliberation, the dog lifted its leg, and pissed all over Marla's boots. It pissed for a very long time, looking at Marla all the while, as if daring her to move, daring her to kick. Marla simply stood, glad she'd waterproofed the boots.
When the dog finished, it walked out of the room without another glance.
Rondeau exhaled. “I thought you were dead for sure."
“I am dead for sure.” She gestured toward the puddle around her feet. “Dogs piss to mark their territory. I've been marked."
Rondeau's eyes widened. “Oh, shit."
Marla shrugged. “I didn't expect to live forever.” Then she smiled. “But I kicked the hell out of that dog once already, and I'm not afraid to do it again. No matter how cute it is."
Rondeau laughed. He went to Sweeney's body and crouched. “I wonder how much I can get for this zoot suit at the vintage clothing store?” he asked.
The Heart, a Chambered Nautilus
(For Heather)
Because the night is old, and she's alone now, wearing a little black dress for no good reason anymore, Lynne surrenders to impulse and drops a dime in the strange unmarked machine, a squat thing like a dorm fridge, gray, no words or symbols adorning it at all, just a coin slot too small for a quarter. The dime rattles down inside, and Lynne waits, crouched in the space below the stairway in the empty train station, expecting nothing, but hopeful all the same.
With a pop of air escaping, the front of the machine swings open on secret hinges, revealing a man inside, folded in an impossible yoga pose. His eyes are the color of burnished copper, and he holds Lynne's dime between his smiling teeth. He eases himself out of the box in half a dozen slow moves, unfolding before her like a Japanese fan. He takes her dime from his mouth, wipes it carefully on his sleeve, and offers it to her.
Lynne stands from her crouch and says “No, keep it."
He nods and places the coin in his pocket. “How may I serve?” he asks, and Lynne comprehends instantly, completely; this is not so different from stories she has heard, and yet it is a disappointment, this impersonal genie, fey spirit available for ownership by anyone with a dime, not special, not just-for-her.
“What can you do?” she asks.
He counts on his fingers (long, neatly manicured, ringless): “I can make wine of memories. I can fold the space in small closets and make them open into cathedral vastness. I know the source of all potions, and the binding of uncertainties into chosen shapes. I sup with owls and learn their stories; I gather the mist and mend magical garments; I served as cobbler for twelve dancing princesses. I designed the nautilus shell and furnished the heavens with their constellations.” He spread his hands.
“Can you interpret dreams?” she asks.
“Of a certainty."
“I have dreamed this dream a hundred times. I sit in a soft chair, with my feet up, in a small, airless room. The walls are aquariums, filled with prehistoric fish, all long snouts and protruding teeth, claws and spines and eyes that bulge, lashing through the murky water, watching me. I sip a drink, good Scotch, but it doesn't soothe me. I know the glass will break, the aquariums will shatter, and I'm just waiting to drown or be devoured. Then I notice that my footrest is actually a wooden box—this surprises me, every time—and I try to open the lid. It is heavy, but I manage to lift it, and inside I find a staircase descending through the floor, down into the earth. Then I hear a door open below, and light spills out—"
“And a man steps onto the stairs,” he says, his voice nearly trembling. “And he calls to you, and asks you to join him, in a palace bigger inside than the whole of the world, a place full of gems and silks, but empty of love, of laughter, of you."
“Yes,” she says. “That's it exactly. And then I wake up. Can you tell me what it means?"
He closes the door on the gray box, turns it over onto its back, and when he sets it down it changes from metal to wood, cherry-red and rich. He opens the lid, and soft yellow light pours out. “It is, you know,” he says. “Bigger, inside, than out. It really is."
“Like a heart,” she says, and takes his hand. “Like all the empty rooms inside a heart."
They go down, inside, together.
* * *
Visit www.prime-books.com for information on additional titles by this and other authors.
