by VK Fox
Carpeaux was still speaking, “...list you mentioned. I understand wanting to keep it in your back pocket.” He paused, his hard eyes softening slightly, “You can trust me, son. I’m not going to hang you out to dry when we have all the information. We’re in this together, and the sooner we can move the better.”
Everest shook his head, “I do trust you, sir, but I’ll sit on it for now. We’re only a couple days out, and you’ll need to test a sample of the information first. I’m prepared to give you three names to investigate. Once you’re finished, I should be done with my part of the mission and we can settle up.”
Carpeaux nodded with a quick jerk, opened the desk drawer, and took out a notepad and pen. Everest rattled off the names of three people he had grown up with, who had been to parties and promotions, who he’d passed in the hall and sat with for lunch. Who had dreams and wants and needs like he did. Only he’d snitched first. Then he went outside to watch which young man would replace Adam to everyone else.
Everest smoothed the front of his dress jacket, scrutinizing the gold brocade laced between two dozen gleaming buttons. A piece somewhere wasn’t stitched correctly and always tried to twist. He stopped himself before smoothing his hair. The glossy black dress gloves would make a staticky mess of his French braid if he touched it. Without a mirror he couldn’t assess the full effect, but it hardly mattered. With a firm strategy of keeping his glass inverted the whole day, he would be too plastered to care inside of an hour. This was a linking ceremony for an Irish folk hero, so quite a few of the attendees would be sloppy drunk in cultural homage. No one would be scrutinizing his dress blacks. The difference was they’d be festive drunk, and he’d be desperate drunk. He couldn’t face the handshake sober. He wouldn’t.
The black tent was up: simple, tall, and imposing, with firewood stacked crisscross in an adjacent ring of stones. Heavy chemicals wafted off the pile while twin torches blazed merrily in ornate free-standing holders. Everest wrinkled his nose. They’d really doused the wood. Hopefully the fumes in the air wouldn’t catch.
After fifteen minutes of discreetly testing his wire with Jarret on the other end, Everest was given the go-ahead to act natural, mingle, and generally be about his business as if his conversations were not being recorded. He had a drink in his hand as the festivities commenced. Everest made his food selections based on what he wouldn’t mind vomiting later. Mostly boxty pancakes.
The next few hours were a blur of tedious socializing and increasing intoxication. Speculating about the attempt on the vault was everyone’s favorite hobby, and Everest had no interest. Sana Baba had released zero details, and hearsay without any real information was just noise. The bands played. One of them included a fiddle, and it made Everest want to smash things. Steinbeck was dressed in a champagne-colored sheath supporting a hundred pounds of tassels and sequins on her ninety-pound frame. She made inane, nervous small talk, and Everest didn’t listen to a word she spoke. Her name was first on the list, and his stomach hadn’t twisted when he’d given her up. Everest probably should prompt her to say something incriminating, as Jarret was listening in, but why should he do their job for them and risk suspicion? Mordred was his target. If they couldn’t figure out Steinbeck was guilty on their own, then Sana Baba was doomed no matter what action he took.
As the sun declined over the horizon, Mordred arrived. He was making the rounds, smiling, drinking, and joking with his stolen laugh. Everest knew he was staring, and he didn’t care. How could Mordred fool them with ease? Did they think this was just how Dahl was sometimes? The tilt of his head was off. The length of his stride clipped. His eyes eager at all the wrong moments. He was right-hand dominant and he was wearing a distinctly not-black dress shirt. Why did no one see the ruse?
Mordred strolled over and with indecent, lingering familiarity tucked a flyaway back into Everest’s French braid. He let his hand idle by the back of his neck, his body firmly inside the boundaries of personal space. People were acting acutely disinterested. Ian was. Judy from Social Architecture was. Jarret on the other end of the wire was probably stealing intensely disinterested glances at the garden security camera and scribbling copious notes.
“I have something for you.” Mordred purred, “It’s long and hard and changes colors.”
Everest frowned, “You should have that checked. I hear early diagnosis is key to recovery.”
“Let’s go to the Neon Museum Thursday. Eight o’clock. I’ll show you mine if you show me yours.” The Neon. Somewhere in the twisting boneyard of retired signs must be a sculpture of a huge skull. He couldn’t pull his gaze away from Mordred’s eyes. Dahl was still in there, somewhere.
A profoundly horrible sensation unfurled in Everest’s guts. He’d lost. Even if he won, he’d lost. This close to the end he could see beyond, and the chance of them being friends—let alone anything else—was minuscule. In practicality, it didn’t matter. This was the only way Dahl would make it out the other end. Everest was about to accomplish the impossible: give Dahl back his life. Maybe that would be comfort on the far side. Mordred was still lingering. People were still not noticing. Everest was unsteady. He dropped his head to whisper in Mordred’s ear, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome?”
“Not you. Shut it for a moment. Thank you, Dahl. For the games. For coming over after you didn’t have to. For finding something to like about me. It mattered. You matter.” Everest pulled away before Mordred could mock the sentiment and stumbled off. Mordred chuckled behind him.
String lights twinkled and tuxedoed attendants lit more torches around the gardens. Sana Baba’s finest reclined in small groups on little clusters of lawn chairs under the stars or fluttering, winding decorations. Many of the ladies wearing heels had shed them at this point in the evening, and a few couples were dancing on carefully cultivated and irrigated postage stamps of grass. Impeccably dressed caterers made the rounds with finger food and drinks. Giddy, hyper pledges tried to steal flutes of champagne. The black tent stood ominous: a smear of shadow in flickering torchlight. Nervous young men filed in one at a time as disappointed young men filed out.
Everest knew the routine. A hopeful pledge would enter, recite his oaths of loyalty, honor, and fidelity. Something official would be read by the attending high officer and the honor guard would stand still and silent in their ceremonial robes. His eyes and hands would be anointed. Then the pledge would read the linked volume, and everyone would hold their breath and wait for the magic to happen. He didn’t know what followed if it didn’t. The pledge must be given some kind of consolation speech and excused from the tent. Most of the young men entering the tent would exit knowing the goal they’d trained for, hoped for, dreamed for since their earliest memories would never materialize. Everest swallowed the rest of his drink in a single pull.
Someone touched his elbow, and Everest found he wasn’t yet intoxicated enough not the startle at the contact. Were they watering down the drinks? He inspected the inside of his glass dubiously and thoroughly before lifting his eyes. Allison Card cocked a wonderfully arched eyebrow at his glass before switching it out for a full one.
“Don’t let the end trouble you, boss. There’s more where that came from.” She settled in next to him with natural grace; her long curvy body close but not too close: together but professional. The hem of her shimmering silver, slit-to-the-thigh dress brushed the ground next to bare feet adorned with toe rings and anklets. The fabric was almost exactly the shade of her prematurely gray hair that fell long over one eye and shaved on the sides. Everest wobbled slightly and stared at the fresh drink. Card nodded at it. “Bottoms up, I’ll make sure you get home alright.” She tapped the edge of his glass with her own. Everest drained it.
The next thing Everest focused on was standing beside a blazing fire. They must have lit it at some point, signaling the link was successful. Card was maneuvering him into a line with the other linked agents while the group of hopeful pledges who had not even had a chance to try w
as dispersed.
“Issa Frost is Cú Chulainn!” An amplified voice boomed across the gardens, splitting the silence like a peal of thunder.
Clapping and enthusiastic cheers, “Ati me peta babka!” (Gatekeeper, open your gate for me!) erupted in response from the crowd gathered around the black tent. Several pledges who were probably the most adept in champagne theft whooped and yelled. The new agent would process down the line, shaking hands. Then there would be cake. Only two more things to get through, and he could go home and hope he didn’t remember much of this tomorrow. Everest closed his eyes, his body rigid. Issa Frost, whoever he was, now held Adam’s link, and Everest was expected to congratulate him. He couldn’t do this. Even drunk. Card’s hand rested on his back.
“One step at a time.” She intoned softly. Everest tried to breathe through the knot in his chest, sweat prickling along the back of his neck and under his dress coat. The tent flap opened and out stepped Issa Frost. Everest’s swimming vision gave him the impression of short, dark hair and youthful beauty. Denial caved to acceptance: he was going to be sick. A desperate glance cast at Card was received with a nod as she murmured apologies on his behalf to the agents on their left and right while Everest turned and left the line with long strides.
Boxty pancakes and champagne had been solid choices. Five minutes later Everest was rinsing his mouth and spitting on the ground while Card stood by, making sure their private corner stayed private. All the action was at the tent, anyway. Everest tried to mind his shoes as he finished rinsing and slumped into a chair, damp and shivering with sweat and exhaustion. Card pressed another water bottle into his hands. Everest closed his eyes and thanked every god he could think of for her. Surely there were more than he could call to mind right now—the list seemed short tonight. Oh well.
Card shook him gently awake. “Someone’s coming. Do you want me to tell them to get lost?”
“Use your best judgment.” Everest’s voice was still raw with stomach acid. He took a grimacing sip from his water bottle.
Card stood and strode to the choke point where the path wound between two yuccas. Indistinct voices exchanged words. “Hey boss,” Her voice was soft and full of something. It made him a little teary-eyed. “It’s Issa. He’d really like to talk with you.”
Everest nodded. He couldn’t stand the sight of Issa, but that was hardly his fault. He should be given a chance to speak. The man who pulled up a chair in front of him was easily shy of eighteen. Dark hair, a strong jaw, and broad shoulders. Everest noted with alcohol-detached realization he held himself the way Adam had: poised but tightly wound. A lovely bear trap; the focal point for survival instinct. Issa cleared his throat as he sat opposite Everest, folding his hands and leaning forward, like he was telling a secret, “I hope it’s alright; I requested you as my commander.”
Everest blinked a few times, trying to absorb the declaration. Issa tried again, “I requested to serve under you. I’m sure it was forward, but I couldn’t not. I… um… well you probably don’t remember me, but we met a long time ago.”
Everest sat straighter, mentally replaying the words. Issa was gazing up at him. They were eye to eye but his posture, his expression, his careful voice put Everest on a pedestal. Issa fished in his pocket for a half-second, producing a worn black rabbit’s foot. “You gave this to me years ago. I’ve been following your career ever since. I thought I’d bring it tonight for luck. I think it helped.”
A tingle hummed in Everest skin. He didn’t remember Issa, but that wasn’t important. Everest forced himself to reach out and shake his hand. He smelled of anointing oil: olive and something spicy and archaic. “I’d be honored. Thank you for requesting me.” A pang of loss resonated in Everest’s chest. He was leaving this. No more agents would serve under him, but he’d had a good run. Issa dominated the handshake, but his eyes remained full of admiration. Everest tried not to slur his words, “Adam would have liked you. Two peas in a pod.” Issa grinned, and just like that it was over. He would leave happy. Card would drive him home. He would sleep one of his last nights on his own bed.
Chapter Twenty-Five
Jane made herself as small as possible. Staying out of sight was easy: the evening light and the jumble of enormous metal and glass signs in the Neon boneyard cast deep, friendly shadows, creating dozens of easy hiding places. The trick wasn’t being hidden, but being hidden and able to see.
Two men were conversing on top of an enormous plaster skull. The twenty-five-foot-long sculpture with its face tipped skyward rose above the majority of the artifacts in the yard. Excalibur was a gash of shadow in Dahl’s right hand, a tear in the fabric of the universe. His body language was strange. Forward and aggressive, tightly wound with little tremors running through him.
The tall, thin man next to him held an astonishingly beautiful sword. For a few seconds Jane was mesmerized by the color-shifting metal. Somewhere deep in her bones she could feel it singing. Its bearer, Lovecraft by Ian’s description, was oozing tension, and he gripped the gorgeous weapon without ceremony or reverence.
Dahl’s left hand was unbraiding Lovecraft’s waist-length hair with grossly misplaced intimacy. Jane’s stomach twisted. What was he doing? Lovecraft looked like a man in the twenty-third mile of a marathon: every line of his body screamed the desire to be anywhere else doing anything else. His lips moved, but Jane couldn’t figure any of the words.
The boneyard came to life. The light of dozens of still functional neon signs buzzed on as the hour changed. Jane knew it was on the hour exactly because the alarm on Ian’s watch was trumpeting out, demanding immediate attention at a volume and intensity sufficient to alert the population of the hemisphere. Jane rolled, hoping to muffle the noise with her body, but when she glanced up all eyes were staring in the direction of her hiding place. Fuckity fuck. She jammed her index finger on the off button repeatedly trying to get the damn thing quiet, but it kept insistently, ferociously notifying Jane her protein shake needed attention. Finally, she managed to depress the button for the requisite amount of time to make the migraine-inducing alarm cease.
Dahl’s tenor voice bounced around the irregular metal surfaces, “Will whoever is hiding in the boneyard please come join us?” Ian appeared, winding along a tourist path. Jane could see him about to turn the corner and come face to face with the men on top of the skull. Jane squeezed her eyes shut. Shit. He was trying to cover for her. It probably wasn’t the entrance he wanted. Jane wiggled closer, army crawling along the ground so she would have a better chance of hearing.
The exchange was quiet: although words were a lost cause, the tone was formal and strange. Jane let her cheek rest on her arm. Ian thrust both of his arms forward as if offering them for inspection, and Dahl quit messing creepily with Lovecraft’s hair and rolled his head and shoulders in body language that would look natural on a sixteen-year-old girl.
“Will whoever else is hiding in the boneyard please come and join us. Lively now!”
They had been checking for the watch. Crap. Ian had tried to step in for her and they knew he wasn’t the right person because he didn’t have the ever-loving watch. Jane could run for it and leave Ian and odds were she’d get caught anyway, or she could go face up and hope things would be alright. She could do this. She was here with her trusted friends, her secret keepers. She was safe in her cave. It would work out.
Making a futile effort to brush the dust from her clothing, Jane stood and hurried up the twisting path among the neon signs. The night was still and warm as the final glow of sun-faded behind bare rock mountains. In a few seconds Jane was next to Ian, glancing up at him. How should she act? His eyes were locked on Dahl and the set of his jaw rang an alarm in Jane’s mind. She followed his gaze up, up, up to the top of the dais.
It wasn’t Dahl. Someone else was wearing his body, gripping Excalibur and glowering through mocking eyes. All of their talk about possession and Mordred did not drive the concept home like this. Jane frantically glanced at Lovecraft. One e
ye was large, dark, and twitching slightly at the corner. The other was entirely opal white and glowing faintly, like his own weird bit of neon. What was she supposed to do?
Lovecraft’s forehead creased. He leaned forward, peering at Jane. “Who’s that?”
Ian’s voice was clear and definitive, “She has no business here.”
“Ian, you know her?” Those mismatched eyes were so confused, his body rigid.
“She’s with me.” Ian didn’t offer additional details, “I’d like her to leave before we speak.”
Mordred twitched, shadow blade in hand, blood dripping from the corner of his mouth. He looked awful, his face changing from leering to vacant to agonized. Ian and Lovecraft both stared at him. He was obviously calling the shots. Dahl’s wet, red mouth opened. His voice was saturated with pain, “He’s… not…” For a minute he was himself. Exhausted, haunted, but Dahl. The words came in a rush, “He’s not telling you something. Last year, when we were on assignment—” Dahl’s free hand grasped his face with enough force to bloody his nose. His body twisted.
Lovecraft smoothed a shaking hand over loose hair. He said something low to Dahl.
Dahl took a deep, gasping breath and gritted out, “we found a healer!” before convulsing again, doubling over and almost impaling himself on his own sword.
“What?” Lovecraft went white as a sheet. He turned to Dahl, who was too occupied dry heaving to give any kind of response. Black smoke was pouring from his mouth and his nose like someone flipped a pressurized release valve. Ian was moving forward, his eyes darting over the skull structure, planning his assent.
Lovecraft’s wide, glowing eye fell on Ian, and his body stilled in a sort of trance. “It’s true. You found a healer. A woman who saved your life last year. A wild talent capable of reversing trauma.” He trembled so violently that falling was a real possibility. Tears tracked down both cheeks at the same time. “Ian, why? Why didn’t you tell me? Why didn’t you bring the healer back?”
