The Stars Were Right

by Alexander, K. M.

  Samantha nodded. "Transported anything massive lately?"

  EIGHTEEN

  The water from the tap ran amber from iron and it reminded me of blood. I pushed the thoughts from my mind. Lathering up my hands, I quickly rubbed the soap onto my face, working at the layers of sweat and grime. The discussion had left me feeling like I needed to cleanse myself.

  Lathering done, I brought up handfuls of the tepid water and splashed it against my face rinsing off the suds.

  I looked up at the mirror. Water dripped off my eyebrows and chin. I hardly recognized myself.

  My mother would be displeased. It was normal for me to come off the trail thin. Eating tack, the occasional small mammal and drinking stream water can only sustain a man for a time. Bell Caravans did all right but we didn't have the money to pay for a decent chuckwain. Downtime between caravan runs was when I would regain my weight. I'd eat and rest and store up reserves for the next run: my own form of hibernation. This trip, however, I had lost that opportunity.

  Shutting off the water, I hobbled my way out of the bathroom and back down the hall toward Samantha's office. The old crutch pressed into my armpit, but was more comfortable than the board the anur had given me on the Level Six rooftop. I was grateful for it. The crutch did little to ease the pain in my ribs, but less pain was preferable to the alternative.

  I moved slowly. The weight of the news Hagen and Samantha had given me made every step tedious. I felt like I was pushing through mud. Pieces had fallen together. The miles were behind me, my journey was almost complete. Peter Black. His act had distracted me from the truth, a magician waving one hand while the other works his illusion. He was the damned mastermind behind all of this.

  I shouldered my way through the office's door and guided myself back to one of Samantha's guest chairs. Hagen still sat in his sister's chair behind the ancient desk and Samantha had taken up residence in the guest chair next to mine. Neither moved. I could feel their eyes on me. The looks of concern, a flash of sadness, a small breath indicating pity. Ignoring them, I slumped into the chair.

  Silence hung in the air between us. The truth was there, palpable, tangible, and weighing us all down. None of us wanted to speak. If we did, that truth would become a reality, and we all knew it. It infuriated me.

  My mind ran through the ingredients required for Cybill's macabre ritual. I ignored the mark placed upon me, settling on another ingredient. Pipes of a newborn. I shuddered, my mind playing images of the scene. Seeing the assassin, with her straight razor and fiery gaze that brimmed with malevolence, bursting through the door. Ready and willing to murder a child. A child. A shudder tickled its way down my spine. I only knew of one child who was connected to me: Waldo dal Wensem. My business partner's newborn son.

  My head hurt. I tried to rub the pain away. Now I understood why Black was asking about Wensem. Why he feigned interest in Little Waldo.

  Glowing red eyes burning hot as coals flashed in my memory. The answer came before the question. I knew the truth. The umbra would have no qualms going after a child. She was a fanatic, a true believer.

  When I finally spoke my voice sounded like a bullhorn in the stillness of the room. "Black tricked me. He tricked me into being his Guardian." The word tasted like bile on my tongue and a disgusted laugh burst from my lips. "The son of a bitch."

  "You couldn't have known," Samantha said, leaning over and placing a hand on my arm. "Wal, you couldn't. It was a psychopath's plan. There's no doubt they selected you on a whim."

  "My partner," I said, staring toward the chair where Hagen sat but not really looking at anything. "My partner just had a child. A newborn. Named him after me. Waldo dal Wensem." My smile was weak, and the thought of the umbra assassin overwhelmed any warmth I got from the memory.

  "Didn't your partner head off into the wilds? Isn't he in the process of the Bonding?" asked Hagen. "If he's away, maybe it will buy us time."

  "He left the day we got back I think. I went to see him before I came to your shop for the last time. He wasn't home, but I was told by his neighbor he would be due back in a week. That was—" I thought about it, mentally calculating the days, "—about a week ago. Black asked about him. Asked when he was coming back."

  "Carter's cross," Hagen swore. The curse had an awful inevitableness to it.

  That heavy silence settled back between the three of us, thick as fog. The muted, ghostly sound of a clock and distant voices down the hall was the only noise. I shifted my body, careful not to jolt my right knee.

  I hated myself even as I asked, "Let's say they get what they need. Let's say they kill the last three of us. What happens then?"

  Hagen leaned on the desk with both his elbows. "Depends who you believe. Some say nothing. Others...well...."

  "Well?"

  "The legends say the Awakener knows where the silver key resides—whatever that is. With that silver key…she brings forth...wait..." Hagen paused, grabbing a piece of paper, "...I wrote this down, 'the opening of the gate. The awakening of the Firsts. The eventual re-Aligning. The blessed return.'" He looked up and saw me staring at him blankly. "In layman's terms, Cybill will unlock some metaphorical door that will awaken all of the Firsts—"

  Samantha interrupted, "—All hell will break loose. Literally. I'm sure you know the legends. Millions dying. The lands forever changing. All of that. Probably more. How accurate that all is...." Samantha shrugged. "The first Aligning was a long time ago."

  "We can't let it happen, Sam. Even if the ritual is bunk, we can't let them kill more people." Hagen looked at me, his face stalwart and serious. "We can't let it happen. The police won't do anything. By the Firsts, they have their hands full enough as it is."

  I agreed with a nod, "Staying here does no good. I need to see if Wensem and Little Waldo are okay. At the very least I need to warn them.

  "Black's a few steps ahead of us. He saw me coming and played me like his flute. He knows we're onto him. Knew I was coming, anticipated how to manipulate me." I paused, thinking through the last few weeks. "Suppose I've been easily manipulated from the start."

  "You aren't in any position to fight," said Samantha.

  I shrugged and gave a hollow chuckle. "What choice do I have? Call Bouchard?"

  "We have evidence."

  Shaking my head I said, "No, we don't. We have circumstantial evidence at best. Most of it from ancient tomes, connections made on paper. Bouchard isn't a scholar so he's not going to pay them any mind. What does he care about the stone avatar thing? From his perspective all I delivered was a big, old rock. He's not going to see this as some great battle. He doesn't even know the Children exist. Lovat Central has me at three of the crime scenes. Three. Fingerprints, hand prints, with connections to all the victims. If any commissioner looked at that evidence, he'd think it was solid police work. I'd be locked away and the key would be thrown in the Sunk." I paused. "If they didn't kill me first."

  Heavy silence—our old companion—settled back between us. I worried about Wensem, his wife Kitasha, and little Waldo. Horrific scenes played through my head, leaving me disgusted by my imagination. I felt sick. The pain in my body was a distant roar. I couldn't bear doing nothing. I was closer to Wensem and his family than anyone else from my crew. He was like a brother, his wife like a sister. Carter's cross, he named his son after me. Having their deaths—even one of their deaths—on my hands would be too much to endure.

  "I need a gun," I stated, my words carrying a bit of finality with them. Fishing into my jeans I pulled out what remaining lira I had left, counting it slowly. More than enough for one.

  "I beg pardon?" asked Samantha, looking at me, eyes wide.

  I didn't respond; instead I carefully folded my remaining bills and slipped them back into my pocket. I wondered if it would be enough to buy two guns and a few boxes of shells. I'd have to go deep. Find a place out from under Lovat Central's ever-watchful eye. The location of a merchant materialized from my memory.

  "I know a place," I
explained. "Level Two, below your shop, Hagen, in King's Station. Clean weapons. No trail, it'd be perfect. We can check on your shop on the way. Make sure it's okay."

  Hagen perked up at this. Clearly his concern for his business had been building, though he had been silent on the subject.

  "I can't believe you are actually thinking of arming yourself," Samantha crossed her arms defiantly. I didn't respond and she continued, "And you're just going along with this, Hagen? Father raised us better. Don't fall into the mistakes of the past. Remember the fighting between the Reunifieds and the Hasturians? It went on and on and on and never ended. Each side trading body for body, blood for blood."

  Hagen rose and I moved to follow suit.

  "This isn't a monochrome serial! In real life things don't always clean up so easily. What do you think you're going to do? You going to burst into Wilem, Black & Bright, guns blazing and get your revenge on Peter Black? There're hundreds of the Children. Maybe thousands! You kill one and they'll all be after you. Then what? Another and another? The more you kill, the more bodies in Lovat Central will lay at your feet! You may not be a killer now, Waldo Bell, but don't let Black turn you into one."

  "What do you want us to do? Lie low?" I shot back. "Wait for the assassin to come and visit? She seems more than capable of slipping past the monks guarding Saint Mark's. Do you expect me to watch her murder more of my friends? I've seen what she can do. I've seen how she behaves. She's a cold, bloodthirsty murderer. I'm sorry, but I can't just sit still surrounded by books. These won't protect us, Sam."

  Trying to rise, I lifted myself out of my chair. I moved too quickly and the pain from my leg sent me back down. Seeing my struggle, Samantha tried to use it against me.

  "Look at you. You can hardly walk. If the assassin comes and you're out on the street, she'll flay you alive. Rip your heart out of your chest and finish off the rest of the victims before you're done bleeding to death." She was almost pleading, "You can't run anymore, Wal. You can't fight! You're out of this. You're in serious need of medical treatment, more than what you can get from the cathedral or a second rate Bonesaw."

  The anger in her face was clear. She was concerned for her brother, maybe even concerned for me. A part of me wanted to give in—it really did—but something else drove me on. Stupidity? At the time I'd like to have thought it was selflessness.

  "You coming?" I asked Hagen, as I tried to ignore Samantha's dark gaze. I could feel her eyes burning into me. Hagen stepped around the desk. "Help me out of this damn chair."

  "I can't believe you're going along with this."

  "The man's right, Sam. We need something. The church won't provide us with weapons and if we hide here too long we'll bring the Children down on top of you all. So yeah, I'm going along with him."

  Samantha huffed angrily and returned to her own chair. I spared a glance and saw her staring at me, her eyes burning with fury.

  Hagen and I did our best to ignore her as he helped me to my feet, but her dark eyes continued to burn as the door to her office closed behind us.

  NINETEEN

  Hagen paid for our tickets on the monorail, which was good, because with our recent purchase of weaponry, I was out of lira. I kept my collar up and my hat pulled low as we boarded a crowded middle car that smelled like curry and wet dog. Finding a pair of empty seats I slumped and kept my head low like a snoozing passenger.

  When a conductor asked us for our tickets and inquired after me, Hagen did a bang up job, making up a story on the spot about me just getting out of the hospital and returning home to Reservoir. If the conductor was interested, she sure didn't show it; she nodded and punched our tickets, then moved on before Hagen was barely into his story.

  We had acquired two heavy .45s that the dauger who ran the shop referred to as "Judges." My gun hung in the pocket of my jacket making me feel off balance. I never liked carrying pistols, they made me nervous. There was something too personal about handguns—they were so in-your-face, so brutal. I much preferred a rifle, but in the tight enclosed spaces of the city a rifle doesn't do much good.

  Samantha had been less than happy. After we had checked in on Hagen's shop (it was fine), he had wanted to return to Saint Mark's before we headed north. It wasn't the best decision. Samantha had some time to dwell on our choice to buy the guns, and she was quite angry with the two of us. She refused to speak with me. I left Hagen to face her tirade, choosing to sit out in the hallway. I was doing my best to ignore the muffled argument coming through the walls. Get out of my head a little. Find a silver lining to this…whatever this was. It didn't help. My mind was still rattled with all that I had seen, all that I had experienced.

  A short while later Hagen emerged from the recesses of Samantha's lair looking the worse for wear. When I asked him how it went, he mumbled a few words, none of which I could make out. I figured it was better to let the moment pass, so we took a slow, winding path to the monorail station nearest Saint Mark's.

  The scenery out the monorail window changed as it had before. Buildings as tall as their level's ceiling gave way to small, plain houses with square roofs and stumpy porches broken up by cross streets and narrow alleyways.

  "Reservoir. Doors open on the left," said the announcement as the monorail's door rattled open.

  Hagen stood and helped me out of my seat, following me as I hobbled off the platform, leaning heavily on my crutch and trying not to put pressure on my damaged leg.

  Night was falling, and the lamps overhead had dimmed to their twilight setting, a few winking off altogether. I instinctively checked around for the maero woman who had recognized me before, but no one seemed to care about a human and a dimanian this late at night. The streets were quiet with only a few people milling about. We passed a few maero carrying jai alai equipment and a large dauger wrapped in the heavy coat of a welder, arms full of heavy shopping bags. He nodded at us as he passed, whistling a Saint Ellington tune.

  "It's quiet."

  I nodded. "Reservoir's a working class warren. Good, honest, blue-collar people. They need to be up early tomorrow. My guess is the loudest things around here are kids and pets."

  "Never made it up here before," said Hagen, turning to me. "How you doing?"

  "My knee hurts, my chest hurts, and my arm, which happens to have been shot, is actually feeling much better—except when I move it—oh, and I have a headache. That's new."

  Hagen frowned. "Need a hand?"

  "Nah, I got it. Just move slower, would you?"

  * * *

  Pausing at the corner of the street we took care to make sure the police hadn't set up a watch. No cops milled about, but we waited all the same. When we were sure the street was abandoned we made our way up to Wensem's front doorstep. No light poured out from the window, and the old codger from next door who had been rocking on his front porch during my last visit was absent from his chair.

  I laughed quietly to myself.

  "What is it?" Hagen asked.

  "This whole...I dunno, this whole thing. Whatever it is, I keep feeling like it's looping circles. From Bouchard to this; this is the second time I've stood on Wensem's porch."

  "Déjà vu?"

  "Something like that." I grinned, not really believing I was here yet again.

  After we knocked on the door a light flicked on inside. Something in my heart fluttered to life. Some glimmer of hope. I could hear movement, and the muffled crying of an infant spinning to life like a siren.

  The door opened and my partner stood before me, unchanged. Same dopey expression, same crooked jaw, same kind eyes, same towering frame with the hunched shoulders.

  "Wal! Wal? Carter's cross, you look like hell. Who's that with you?"

  "Hi, Wensem. Can we come in?"

  "Sure, sure, what time is it?"

  Hagen told him.

  "We aren't usually in bed this early, just with the little one and spending all day traveling home, we figured we'd take advantage of the lull and crash. Little Wal likes to wake
us up before dawn, figured we'd try to beat him to it." He smiled, then called over his shoulder. "Kit, it's just Wal and a friend of his."

  Kitasha emerged, a wide smile across her own long features, a small bundle in her arms. Pausing, she looked from me to Wensem and then back to me, shock playing across her face.

  "Wal, you look terrible," she said, her voice as soft and light as I remembered it. "And who is this?"

  I made the introductions, "This is my friend, Hagen Dubois. He sells religious artifacts out of his shop in King's Station. Offered to come with me when I said I wanted to visit you. Hagen, meet Wensem dal Ibble, and Kitasha wen Gresna, and their little son, Waldo dal Wensem."

  "What happened?" asked Kitasha.

  "I'll be okay. The leg, well it's just a little trouble that I should have sorted out soon."

  She frowned at me.

  "It's nothing," I assured her with my best smile. "Really. Honest. Now let me see that darling little maero who stole my name."

  Kitasha's frown flipped and she beamed a smile that only a mother can wear as she whisked to where I stood. She was lighter on her feet than my business partner. Where Wensem plodded, she was graceful; her lithe form and long limbs made her movements seem sure and confident, like a dancer.

  Kitasha placed the bundle in my arms before I could protest, and I hobbled back to one of the few chairs in the sparsely decorated central room. I stared down in wonder at Wensem's baby boy.

  Waldo dal Wensem—my namesake—stared up at me. The maero boy looked much like a human baby, only extended. Longer arms, longer legs: thinner than most human children with the slightly more narrow head and features of his race. He reached up with his seven-fingered hands and grabbed at my nose, giggling in a baby's babble. His bright blue eyes studied my foreign features.

  "By the Firsts—Wensem, Kit—he's beautiful."

  Wensem beamed and put his arm around his mate. Kitasha was slightly shorter than her husband, and far better looking. It was clear the Bonding had exhausted her, weariness had settled into her large blue eyes, and her normally pristine and sculpted hair was worn in a thick braid that hung halfway down her back. Yet, despite her exhaustion, her soft smile made clear how much pride she had in her little son. Seeing this baby in my arms and how happy she and Wensem were made me feel like an intruder.