by James Hunter
Really though, the how didn’t matter a whole helluva a lot. What did matter was this: the Rakshasa who’d thrown the illusion up was now somewhere else.
Probably behind me.
I felt something—the equivalent of a living monster truck—collide into my lower back, sending a thunder-crack of sensation along my spine and into my neck.
Yep, behind me.
Excellent, the crap-alanche had officially commenced. Wouldn’t want things to get too easy—I like to stay sharp. I went down in a heap, tucking my head beneath my jacket while simultaneously drawing my arms and legs in toward my stomach. While the fetal position may not be the most heroic of fighting postures, it is an absolute lifesaver if you’re about to be on the end of a serious pummeling.
Generally, the backside of the body is tough; it can take a substantial amount of punishment without suffering serious long-term effects. Ask the hedgehog or porcupine. But the same cannot be said for the soft underbelly, which houses all of your fragile, gooey, and highly critical organs, like your heart, spleen, liver, or kidneys. These things are essential for living—and also drinking (thank you, liver), which makes them even more crucial—and thus they should be protected at all costs.
And let’s not forget that I’m not a hero, just a pragmatist. The fetal position is highly pragmatic.
The first series of blows landed in the vicinity of my shoulders—felt like a couple of enthusiastic construction workers were giving me the business with a pair of sledge hammers. It was actually an okay thing. Sure my shoulders felt like over tenderized beef-slabs, but at least the Rakshasa had missed my head. Small victories, right … the next few blows impacted across my ribs, while a wild kick crashed into my belly and lifted me momentarily off the ground. I tried to stay curled up tight, but it was an arduous chore. The world blurred, and all of the oxygen I’d been enjoying suddenly left me without so much as a Dear John letter.
Noise filled my ears. Screaming maybe, but not mine since I had lost that ability, along with the air in my lungs.
More hammer falls crashed into my body. My jacket absorbed a portion of the tremendous violence, enough to keep my bones from exploding from the strikes. This thing was going ape-shit on me—it was going to beat me to death. There was no doubt in my mind. And I couldn’t do a damn thing about it. I’d been too careless, too overconfident, and now I was out of options and paying the price. I couldn’t think, couldn’t focus, couldn’t muster the necessary concentration to pull out a working.
That sound again. Not screaming, something else, and getting closer. Gunfire and … sirens. Yeah, that was the sound. Honest to goodness police sirens.
The Rakshasa yowled—a hateful trumpet blast of sound—and then the heavy fist falls ceased. The sudden absence was startling, even overwhelming. I was going to survive? Bullshit. The idea was absurd. The sirens were so close now. A set of hands pried themselves into the space beneath my armpits. I fought this new invader, clenching my biceps ever tighter into my sides, wanting to survive.
“Yancy!” It was Greg. “Loosen up your damn arms son, we got to get to the car, the cops are gonna roll up here in about thirty seconds.”
I let him help me to my feet. My body didn’t want to function properly and my limbs seemed to be wrapped in wet blankets, but somehow I got my legs moving, though Greg was obviously carrying the majority of my bulk. My weight returned to me for a moment as Greg pulled open the passenger-side door and unceremoniously shoved me in like an oversized bag of dog food, which was exactly how I felt: pulverized and processed meat in a bag.
The sirens were too close—no friggin’ way we’d get out of the neighborhood unhindered. We’d be stopped, questioned, and searched. Then? Then we’d be arrested. Greg and I were both packing some serious heat and there were bullet casings and a variety of fluids littering the street, not to mention a garage full of dead bodies.
I’d been saved from the Rakshasa, but the cops would cause a metric shit-ton of trouble all their own. I am a wanted man, after all.
“We need something here, Yancy,” Greg hollered, trying to get his words to penetrate my addled brain. He was right, we couldn’t get caught here like this, it would be far too difficult to sort out and we didn’t have time for that shit. I could barely think, but I didn’t need to think, because I could feel the Vis waiting for me just out of reach. I let go of my pain, drawing in sweet life, pushing the agony away, insulating my body so I could work, so I could pull our collective asses out of this sling.
On a better day, I would have tried to throw up an illusion to cover the scene. Today was not a good day. It was a terrible day. So instead, I went with a quick and dirty glamour. Now, in some circles the term glamour and illusion are used interchangeably, and understandably so because they achieve nearly the same effect: they deceive.
They are not, however, the same thing even if they bring about similar results. Illusions, or veils, fool people by actually creating a different image, which is projected over a person, object, or scene. Illusions exist, in a manner of speaking, in real time and space; they work by tricking the optical nerves in the eye.
Glamours, on the other hand, deceive not by tricking the eye, but by tricking the mind. A glamour doesn’t create an image that the eye sees and sends back to the brain. Instead, a glamour suggests directly to the brain that something appears to be different than it is in actuality. Most low-level glamours—like my jacket, say—are basically amped up suggestions planted in the brain, these are not the bots you’re looking for. You get the idea. But heavy duty glamours are not so much suggestions as they are commands.
Most magi avoid doing stuff like that. It’s not exactly illegal, but compelling the freewill of thinking beings is taboo and there are lots of folks who don’t look kindly on that sort of thing. If a glamour is too heavy duty, it can actually enthrall people—enslave them to your will—which is a serious no-no. Go around enthralling people and you’re guar-an-teed to get your mug plastered on The Guild’s most wanted list.
Like I said, today wasn’t a good day, I wasn’t in a good way, and I didn’t have the time or energy to whip up a fancy illusion. So instead I pushed out a glamour with the force of a bomb blast:
EVERYTHING IS NORMAL HERE, MOVE ALONG. My command must have encompassed two or three blocks, though I formed a small bubble around Greg to prevent him from being unduly affected. It was a powerful working—maybe even powerful enough to enthrall—but spread over such a broad area, no one person would be harmed. Still, tiptoeing along the edge of some serious gray area shit …
I opened my eyes in time to see a pair of black and whites pull by, theirs flashers winking off. Greg pulled the car out behind them.
“You survived,” he said, cruising along without looking at me.
“Humph,” I grunted—sure didn’t feel like I’d survived.
“Congratulations. You should’ve waited out the fifteen minutes like I said. Pays to listen to your gut.”
“Duly noted,” I replied, as I closed my eyes and drifted off to a sleepy playland, devoid of pain, cockroaches, heart-eating monsters, or stupid know-it-all friends.
NINETEEN:
Brainstorm
“Arjun,” Greg said.
“Yep,” I confirmed from my place within the bathtub full of ice. My torso looked like something Van Gogh might’ve painted on a dark day: black and blues swirled and intermingled across my ribs, chest, and shoulders, blending with the faded yellowing bruises from my encounter with the Rakshasa in Las Cruces. Looked a little like Starry Night, which was both cool and esthetically pleasing. Also asstastic, did I mention that?
“What’s the end game?” Greg asked. “Long term, where is this thing going?”
“Like I’ve got a clue.” I shrugged my shoulders and immediately regretted doing so. “Greg, I’ve been playing some hunches and following a few leads, but mostly I’ve been bluffing so far. You know that planning and forethought aren’t my strong suits.”
“You’
re right—better to give the dyslexic kid the road map than ask you for insight and direction.”
“Why are we friends again?” I splashed some water at him, drawing minutely on the Vis to make sure he got a face full of freezing human-soup. “I have to admit, though,” I said after a moment, “Arjun struck me as sincere—whatever the hell he’s playin’ at, he sure thinks he’s doing good. He’s crazy as a horse in a tuxedo, but he’s got good intentions.” The sound of slushing water filled the quiet of the room.
“We better kill him quick,” Greg said, mopping the water from his face absentmindedly with a hand towel.
“Yeah” I agreed. “He’s the most dangerous kind of bad guy—one with a good cause. The quicker the better.”
“So how are we gonna get him into his pine box?” Greg asked.
“I don’t know. But we’re not going to be able to do it alone. I don’t have a clue where he’s holed up—he’s somewhere in L.A. but L.A. is a big friggin place. Might as well be operating in some fallout shelter in Pakistan.”
“And he’s got a small army of monsters standing in our way,” Greg added.
“Right. So even if we get to Arjun, there’s no way we can handle nine Rakshasa popping out of the walls. Let’s not forget that he also has some serious hoodoo to fling around and a pet Hindu demon in his pocket.”
“You’re a real well of hope and optimism,” Greg said, unamused. “Now how’s about you stop whining and start thinking about solutions, princess.”
“How about you grow up a little, Greg. Name calling? We’re senior citizens, it’s … well frankly, it’s beneath us. So, if you could please just give me a friggin’ minute you crotchety, old, backed-up-well-of-septic-waste, I’ll sort this all out. Okay?”
“Whatever,” he grunted noncommittally, which I took as his assent. I closed my eyes and let the water sluice over my body, let my arms relax and float upwards, clearing my mind of the pain, worry and anxiety. Feeding all those unhelpful emotions into the fire of the Vis, letting energy and life fill me, while I floated in the coolness of the water. I always did my best thinking in the water, there’s something primal and inherently creative about water. I also needed the liquid buffer for the small construct I was preparing.
In the black, empty space that my thoughts, hurts, and emotions had previously occupied, a picture coalesced. But to call it a picture is somewhat inadequate because this place is, at least to me, more real than anywhere that exists on earth. Plush carpet, dark wood-wall paneling, and mahogany furniture—all old, finely made, and smelling of lemon oil and leather. A padded leather chaise sat against one wall, a hulking desk framed in the back wall. An antique globe—which also served as a flip open liquor cabinet—sat in between a pair of burnt-leather club chairs. On the wall in front of the paired chairs sat a ginormous wall-mounted flat screen, which I used to review memories when the need arose.
I’d created this private space long ago as sort of a safe haven for my mind to go to in times of stress and trouble. A place I could go to be alone, to think, to work through my issues … and boy do I have some sumo-sized issues to work through. Shit, I have a convention center full of sumo-sized problems, so you can probably imagine the amount of time I hang out here.
I took a seat in one of the club chairs—a scotch with water appeared in my hand. I didn’t drink, but let it just sit while I waited for my guest to arrive.
“Don’t let that scotch go to waste,” said a voice from my left, “you look like a month-old-jock-strap: stretched, sweaty, and terribly abused. You could use the drink.” The man who was insulting me so casually—and doing it well, might I add—occupied the second club chair. The newly arrived guest was … me. Or maybe me as I’d looked ten years ago, with skin the color of seawater, and without all the bruises and lacerations.
He was my instinct, my subconscious, a living being, of sorts, permanently bound by the Vis with an Undine: a water-elemental from of the Endless Wood, just outside of Glimmer-Tir—the golden city of the High Fae of Summer. I’d saved the spirit as a young, naïve mage, and it had taken up residency in my head. It’s kind of hard to explain actually. Our relationship is … complicated, I guess. But that’s a whole other story.
Now this is pretty out there, I confess, but most people talk to themselves right? Sure, usually it’s a bit more of a monologue than a dialogue, but let’s not sweat the details here folks. The important thing to take away is that my subconscious partner in crime is great for all kinds of things, and allows me the perfect springboard for a solid brainstorming session.
He’s kind of like a DVR for my life—he helps me to remember things I’ve forgotten, points out details my waking mind might overlook, and helps me to find connections that the more rational part of my brain would never make. He also has a sharp tongue, which he feels free to unleash on me whenever I go against his advice and get us into trouble.
“This whole mess is a real shit-storm, you never should have gotten us into this business.”
“Well we’re involved, that ship has sailed” I said. “What I need now is advice not your general smart-assery, so stow it.”
“Look, the best advice I can give you is to jump back into the Camino and drive for Vegas. We don’t need this kind of trouble and we sure as hell don’t need all this publicity. We’ve been doing a good job of staying under The Guild’s radar—but this is going to remind them you exist and that you threatened to blow them all to the moon last time you were around.”
“Not going to happen,” I said. “We’re committed. We’re going to make things right here.”
“We can’t make things right here,” he said. “We can’t bring all those people back.” He rubbed a hand through short hair, a look of pure exasperation on his face. “Look, this thing is a friggin’ amputation operation—maybe we can stop the bleeding, but we’re not gonna be able to save the leg.”
“You’re not going to convince me. Better start giving me something to work with or else we’re both going to wind up in Al’s garage as Rakshasa food.”
A whiskey appeared in his hand, a double, neat. He drained the thing in one long pull and put his head back, eyes squeezed shut. “No talkin’ you outta this?”
“Nope. We’re staying on till the end.”
“Stubborn.” He shook his head. “Alright, let’s review the tapes.” The lights in the room dimmed and the wide-screen TV blinked to life. Two men appeared on the screen, Morse on the left and H & R Block, representing Yraeta, on the right.
“Let’s start here,” my instinct directed. “Morse has lost a lot of men and has a damn good reason to want to deal Arjun a little payback, right? But he’s not your only ally. Yratea’s also taken a helluva hit. At this point, it’s safe to assume that doppelganger Detective Al fed Yratea the bad info on you, which cost him manpower, and this mess is likely going to cost him a profitable business alliance with the Saints. Yraeta’s pissed and that’s good for us. We can use that. He might be annoyed with you—who wouldn’t be? I’m annoyed with you—but it’s a safe wager that he’d rather settle the bill with Arjun.”
All good points, though that didn’t actually solve the problem for us—Morse and Yratea might be weapons, but I didn’t have a target for them.
“Okay,” I said, “let’s say we can use Morse and Yratea. Then what? Still doesn’t give us Arjun. We don’t know where he is or have a way to get at him.”
“No, but Greg was right. Ailia could find out for us … ”
“No,” I said, the iron in my voice unyielding. “There’s a reason I’m in the driver’s seat and you’re not—I make better decisions.” He cast me a speculative glance that said then why are you here asking for my help. “Usually I make better decisions … sometimes,” I amended. “But I’m not setting up a meeting with Ailia. It’s a bad idea, like Chernobyl bad.” Though I’m occasionally prone to bouts of over-exaggeration, this was not one of those times. Setting up a meet with Ailia was about as smart as skinny-dipping with Great-W
hites.
Ailia and I were a serious item, once upon a time. Really, she was the only serious relationship I’d had since my ex-wife. But that had been a lifetime ago and I knew things wouldn’t end well if I called her up out of the blue. Ailia could help me, sure—or rather the Morrigan, Irish goddess and general badass, who currently had possession of her body could—but the cost would be might hefty. Too friggin’ hefty. I just didn’t think my heart could handle seeing her again, hearing her voice, smelling the sweet lilac scent of her skin. Even if I could use Ailia to find Arjun, the emotional trauma of being with her again wasn’t worth it. Ailia was a closed door and I needed to remember that if I wanted to stay alive.
“No, there’s got to be better options. What am I even keeping you around for if that’s all the originality you’ve got?” I asked.
“First, I am a part of you—”
“Apparently the incompetent part,” I muttered, though he kept right on going as if I hadn’t said a thing.
“So you’d better watch where you cast your accusations. Second, it’s not like you’ve got a load of options—you burn bridges faster than a chain-smoking arsonist—and lastly, I am the one that comes up with ninety percent of the plans that keep us breathing.”
“All I’m hearing is a bunch of whining. When are you going to get to the part where you come up with something useful or insightful or whatever?” I asked.
His shoulders slumped, the cast of his face told me he was about a second away from throwing something at me before disappearing like a wraith, abandoning me to my fate. But I knew he wouldn’t. This was our fate, he’d stick it out as an act of self-preservation.
