Ryk E. Spoor's Blog, page 56

Polychrome: Chapter 11

 

Our Hero’s got a long way to go before he’s ready to go hero-ing…

 

 

—–

 

Chapter 11.

 

Three blows hammered against my sword, trying to deflect it from its path, and just about succeeding; instead of smashing directly into the Storm Legionnaire currently trying to take my head off, the massive blade glanced off his scaled mail. Even so, the impact was enough to send him spinning away like a pinball.

Two more figures were streaking in from both sides, and this guy had delayed me just a split-second too long. I knew that dodging was out of the question, even with the practice I’d gotten in the past couple of weeks, so I whipped my blade around in a circular, flat arc; its six-foot length combined with my arm length forced the two Faerie warriors to pull up more than nine feet short, their own swords nowhere near long enough to reach me unless they wanted to try timing their rush to be faster than my swing.

I caught the sound of a third set of footsteps, but they were still a little farther off – and something slammed me between my shoulderblades, sending a spike of pain through my spine despite my thick padded armor. Bastard’s using a polearm! I have to remember they can make up for reach in a dozen ways!

I tried to recover, but the jolt had distracted me, and the two swordsmen had closed the distance. I was forced to drop my sword and surrender, or they’d have beaten me black and blue in seconds.

“Stop!” Nimbus commanded, and the others immediately brought their weapons to guard position. The massive commander strode forward, shaking his head. “Five exchanges, FIVE, and you’re already down? And only two of my men downed in the process? You may be facing a legion on your own, and this is the best you can do, with all your formidable capabilities? Do you want to fail?”

“It’s been two goddamn weeks! What the hell do you expect?” I was standing despite the pain, which I happened to feel was something of an achievement; I wasn’t used to people beating on me yet. “You’ve been training these people for years!”

He snorted. “Yes, years, but none of them are capable of picking up my other men and throwing them aside like dolls, or breaking weapons or armor in their bare hands. You have talent, mortal. I’ve seen you measure an opponent, judge an opening. You’re not altogether terrible in your ability to learn the handling of a blade, and you’ve become a passable swordsman for so short a time, and I’d expect you to be doing much better by now. I’m not sure what it is that’s stopping you, but we’ll have to find a way to get you past it.” He shook his head dolefully. “If only Cirrus were here, perhaps he’d know where we’re going wrong.”

He’d mentioned that name before; Cirrus had been his right-hand man, second in command, tactical advisor, and – most importantly for our current issues – had been in charge of training new recruits for something like five hundred years. Cirrus had gone missing – on a patrol to watch the borders of the Rainbow Lord’s domain – around the time I’d arrived. Not surprising with the stepped-up activity of the opposition, but a serious blow to Nimbus’ ability to lead the Legion while also training a clueless mortal… not to mention the loss of his best friend, if the way he spoke about Cirrus was any clue.

I wanted to argue with Nimbus about his pretty harsh assessment of how well I was NOT doing, but I had to admit that in his position I’d pobably be saying the same thing. If your recruit’s effectively superhuman, he shouldn’t NEED to be nearly as well trained as the others to start kicking their asses. Besides, I was feeling a little ache in my chest and felt more inclined to save my breath for whatever he was about. Or maybe for buying time. “Look, something’s been bothering me about this super-strength of mine. It doesn’t seem… well, consistent.”

He looked at me sharply. “How do you mean?”

“Well… If I’m as much stronger than you as I seemed that one time, and as it seems when I hit these guys, well, I didn’t even bark my knuckles on your armor. So… your swords and such shouldn’t be able to cut me, and your swings should feel something like a toddler beating on me with a padded pole – that is, not even very noticeable. But that jab I just took HURT and it felt like someone pretty beefy hitting me, too. Okay, maybe not as beefy as I’d have expected before, but it sure wasn’t a toddler. And those weights you’ve had me lifting and walking around in don’t seem to be much heavier than the ones your soldiers practice with – lighter, in a lot of cases. Plus if I was really that much stronger, Polychrome herself shouldn’t have been able to lift much more than a teacup, but she seems strong enough to lift at least as much as I’d expect a girl her size to handle – maybe more. So none of this makes sense.”

“Ha!” He grinned. “You are correct, Erik Medon. It is a more complex matter than simple increase of strength. In essence, your mortal nature reacts against the power of Faerie, or causes Faerie to react strongly against your presence – but this is driven by the focus of your soul.

“Now, when you strike against one of us, your soul is directing your blow, focusing the … anti-power, if you will, of your nature against your target, negating our strength and pushing us away from that which is the antithesis of our power. Except when you perform a powerful and conscious block of an attack, however, your nature is not so strongly directed in your defense, and thus you feel our blows much more as you would feel those of your own kind.”

I nodded slowly. “Okay… so I could break a Faerie door down or something without much trouble, but if a Faerie roof fell on me without warning, it could squash me pretty much as easily as it would you?”

“A good general statement, yes.” He straightened. “Enough talking, however. You’ve got a long way to go before you can be the hero.”

In his tone, I heard the unspoken if. Parts of the other pieces of the Prophecy that Iris Mirabilis had been slowly feeding to me passed through my mind… struck through the heart and silent… Across the sky and sea, wisdom he shall seek; That which he sought shall he refuse, and by rejecting wisdom gains he strength… burns his soul away…

It was always that last verse that kept coming back to haunt me. I picked up my sword again and began running through exercises, but I was still worrying at the dozens of lines of cryptic verse, and always returning to the endgame. Even though both the Lord of Rainbows and Nimbus Thunderstroke had agreed that it didn’t necessarily mean I would have to die – that Ozma’s power could save me – it was pretty clear that death was very much in the cards. And if using her power was going to burn my soul, that meant that there wouldn’t be any of me left to go to the afterlife I was just now suspecting might really exist.

“Enough, you idiot!” Nimbus’ voice broke through my reverie. “You’ve gone off again into your night-damned contemplations and your practice isn’t even worth the sweat of my worst recruit’s brow! Time for some real work! We’ll do the dragging weights this time, all the way around the arena, five times!”

Oh, what I wouldn’t give for the power of montage…

 

Paradigms Lost: Chapter 29

 

… and Jason is on his way to save Sylvie…

 

—–

 

 

Chapter 29: Intensive Combat Unit

The hospital was quiet; at three-thirty only the emergency crews were around. I parked, checked my gun, and put the viewer on. I looked weird but that didn’t worry me; the only thing I was worried about was that the werewolves would be able to hide from anything technology could think up. I didn’t believe that… but what if I was wrong?

I went in through the side entrance; I got some strange looks but no one got the courage to ask me just what I was doing before I was past them. I’ve often noticed that if you look like you know where you’re going and why, people just don’t ask questions. And once you get past them, they’re too embarrassed by their hesitation to go after you.

I got to the fifth floor, where the ICU was set up. Outside sat a familiar figure.

Renee raised her head, looked, and looked again, a startled expression on her face. Then she smiled. “Hello, Wood. I thought you’d be home getting some shuteye.”

“I thought the same about you. Why are you here?”

“Winthrope and I both agreed she should have some kind of watch over her. I took this shift.” Renee glanced inside; Sylvie was sleeping. Renee turned back to me. “What the hell is that on your head?”

“An idea that doesn’t seem to be working out.” I’d looked at everyone I’d passed through it, and even glanced at the patients. I could tell when someone had a fever, but if there were any werewolves around the viewer didn’t seem to be able to spot them. I looked at the magnetic indicator and the radio meter; none showed anything helpful; hell, with the MRI unit in this building neither one would be likely to pick up anything.

“Well, it’s been quiet as hell here. You might as well go home. I’ll call you if there’s any change.” She gave my shoulder a tentative pat.

I noticed a movement behind her.

Sylvie’s eyes had opened suddenly. Her head turned weakly towards me; her eyes widened, and it felt like icewater was running down my spine as I saw her face: her “feeling” face.

I nodded my head sharply; the viewer dropped down, and I looked through it.

Renee Reisman’s face sparkled in infra-red, a network of tiny sparks and lines rippling across it.

Everything froze. I had never looked at anyone through the viewer at this range; it could be just what moving muscle looked like close up. If I was wrong, I’d be killing a police lieutenant and a friend.

But if I was right…

It only seemed to take a long time; my body made the decision even as I glanced down. The 10mm fired twice before I was quite sure what I should do.

Renee staggered back, shock written on every line of her face, and I realized I’d made a horrible mistake; it wasn’t a werewolf at all! I started forward… just as claws and fangs sprouted like deadly weeds from her twisting form. But the werewolf was dead even as it lunged for me; only one claw caught me, leaving a thin red trail across my left cheek.

Screams and shouts echoed through the hospital. Three figures appeared around the corner. When they saw my gun out, they dodged back. “Who are you?” one called out. “What do you want? This is a hospital, for Christ’s sake!”

“I’m not here to hurt anyone,” I said, realizing how utterly asinine that sounded coming from a man holding a pistol in front of the ICU. “I’m just trying to protect my friend in here.” I could just imagine their thoughts: a homicidal paranoid is holding ICU patients as hostages.

“Look,” one said very quietly, reasonably, “I’m going to just step around the corner, okay? I just want to talk with you, is that all right?”

I heard another voice mutter something in a heated undertone; it sounded like “Are you nuts? Don’t do it!”

“Sure.” I said. “Just do it slowly.”

A young orderly, my age or a little younger, eased carefully around the corner. He had his hands raised. “See, I’m not going to hurt you.”

“I know what you’re thinking, but I’m really not crazy.” I gestured to the body. “Just look at that; you’ll see what I’m up against.”

He walked forward slowly, hands over his head.

As he got closer, the viewer image slowly started to sparkle.

“Hold it right there. You’re one of them.”

The expression of sudden terror, the pleading look, they were perfect. I had another attack of doubt.

The claws almost took my head off before I fired. The werewolf howled in agony and died quickly. I saw two pairs of eyes staring widely in shock as the creature that had been playing their friend expired. “Friggin’ Nightmare on Elm Street, man! What is going down here?”

“Werewolves,” I answered, “and if you’re smart you’ll get out of the hospital.”

“I’m history,” one said, “But I’ve gotta go through where you are.”

“If you aren’t one of them, go ahead. Otherwise you’ll be number one with a bullet.”

He had more guts than I would have. He just walked out, crossed the hallway to the nearer door, and started down the stairs. Once his friend had gotten across safely, the other one walked across with his hands up, then bolted down the stairs.

Just then I heard the hall window shatter. A tall blond man, rather like a young Robert Redford, dropped lithely into the hall from outside. He straightened and looked at me. “You are most extraordinarily annoying, Mr. Wood. I have been considering how best to kill you.” The deep, warm, yet strangely resonant voice was chillingly familiar.

I raised the pistol, centered it on his jacket. “Virigar, I presume.”

He bowed. “At your service.”

If Virigar was here… God, had he already killed Verne? “What are you doing here? I thought—”

“Yes, you thought I would be at the warehouse.” For a moment the good-humored mask dropped. My blood seemed to freeze at the sheer malevolence in his face; had he attacked then, I couldn’t have moved a muscle to stop him. Then he regained control. “In point of fact I was; then that thrice-damned vampire began his attack and I knew precisely what you had planned. I, also, believe in keeping my word, so I came to make sure the young lady was killed.” He glanced around at the two bodies. “A wise choice, it would seem.”

He inclined his head. “You have been lucky and resourceful so far. I look forward to tasting your soul; it should be a strong and, ah, heady vintage. Then I will finish with Domingo. Your interference has been really quite intolerable.”

“Aren’t you overlooking something?” I asked.

“Such as… ?”

“The fact that I’m going to blow you away in the next two steps?”

He laughed. “I doubt you could hit me. I am not one of these younglings.”

I wasn’t going to dick around with him. Before he could react, I put three shots in the bulls-eye where most people keep their hearts.

His eyes flew wide; he stared at me, then down at the three neat holes in his suit. He sank to his knees, muttered something like “Impressive aim …” and then his eyes rolled and he fell.

I waited a few minutes, keeping the gun on him; he didn’t move. I went forward a few feet just to check.

Something hit my hand so hard it went numb, picked me up and hurled me down the hallway. I fetched up against the far wall, disoriented. When I focused my eyes again, I saw Virigar standing there with my gun dangling from his hand. Grinning pleasantly, he shrugged off his coat, revealing the bulletproof vest beneath.

“I should have blown your head off.” I shook my hand, trying to get feeling back into it.

He nodded cheerfully. “Yes indeed, but I depended both on legend and training. The legend of three silver bullets to the heart for a Great Werewolf, and the fact that most people are taught to shoot for the body rather than the smaller target of the head.” He tossed the gun aside. “Your friend Renee lasted for a few minutes, Mr. Wood. Let us see how well you do.”

He began to change. I froze. I had seen another werewolf change… but this was not another werewolf.

This was Virigar.

This was no transformation like a morphing, but more; a manifestation of the truth behind the facade. The air thickened and condensed, becoming black-brown shaggy fur. The eyes blazed with ravenous malevolence, flickering between blood-red and poison yellow. The head reared up, seven feet, eight, nine towering, hideous feet above the floor, the marble sheeting cracking and spitting powder from the energies that crackled about Virigar like black lightning. It drew a breath and roared, a shrieking, bellowing, rumbling impossible sound that shattered every window on the floor and deafened me. The head wasn’t really wolflike… wasn’t like anything that had ever lived. Dominating it was the terrible mouth, opening to a cavernous diameter, unhinging like a snake’s, wide enough to sever a man in one bite, armed with impossibly long, sparkling diamond fangs like an array of razor-sharp knives…

For a moment all thought fled; all I had was terror. I ran.

Virigar let me get some distance ahead before he began following; I remembered what Verne had told me, that they fed on fear; obviously Virigar wanted a square meal. I ran down the steps, taking them two, three at a time… but I could hear his clawed footsteps closing in on me.

I remembered a trick I’d first read about in the Stainless Steel Rat series. If I could do it I might gain a few seconds.

I jumped as I reached the next flight of stairs and hit them sideways, one foot raised above and behind the other, both slightly tilted. My ankles protested as the stairs hammered by underneath me like a giant washboard; I hit the landing, spun, and repeated it, then banged out the doorway, sprinted down the hall, ignoring the ache in my feet. It worked!

My heart jumped in panic as Virigar smashed out of the stairwell fifty feet behind me, the metal fire door tearing from its hinges and embedding itself in the opposite wall. Nurses and orderlies scattered before us, screaming. Oh, the bastard must be gorging himself now.

Somewhere in the distance I thought I heard gunshots. Too far away to make any difference now, though…

Around the corner, trying to find another stairwell. Oh, Christ, I’d found the pediatric wing!

A young girl with dark hair in two ponytails blinked bright blue eyes at me in surprise as I raced past her wheelchair, her attention to her late-night sundae momentarily distracted. With horror I recognized her: Star Hashima, Sky’s daughter, just recovering from double surgery. Virigar skidded around the corner after me, growling in a grotesquely cheerful way. I faltered momentarily, realizing that the monster was already trailing blood; he wouldn’t hesitate to kill again.

Her face paled, but at the same time I could swear there was almost an interested expression on her face as she saw the huge thing bearing down on her. Then Star calmly and accurately pitched her sundae into the King Wolf’s face.

The laughter in its growl transformed instantly into startled rage and agony; blinded, Virigar stumbled and cannonballed into a wall, smashing a hole halfway through and clawing at its face. Star spun her chair around and rolled into one of the rooms, slamming the door behind her.

Virigar roared again, shaking the floor. “Bitch! I’ll have your soul for that!”

I ran, praying this was the right decision. Would Virigar waste the time taking care of Star right now, or would he chase me first because of what I knew? And what in the name of God had that girl done? As I half ran, half fell down the back stairs, I suddenly remembered a faint sparkle from the ice-cream bowl. Silver-coated decorations.

No, Virigar couldn’t afford to waste his time now. If I got out to Mjolnir, I could draw him off, outrun him probably, and then too many people would know too much. I shoved open a door, ran out.

Oh no. I’d come down one floor too many. This was the basement! Ammonia and other chemical smells from the labs filled the air. Above me I heard the stairwell door smashed open.

I ran.

Technicians and maintenance gaped at me. Signs flashed by, Hematology, Micro Lab, Urinalysis, Radiology…

At Radiology I scrambled to a halt, dove inside. A last-chance plan was forming. Behind me screams sounded as Virigar charged after me.

I shoved the technician there aside. “Get the hell out of here!”

Hearing the screams, and the approaching snarls, the tech didn’t argue; he split. I ducked into the next room, grabbing a bucket that stood nearby, slammed and locked the door. I worked fast.

Heavy breathing suddenly sounded from the other side of the door. “Dear me, Jason; you seem to have cornered yourself.”

I didn’t have to fake terror; I knew my chances were hanging on a thread.

The door disappeared, ripped to splinters. “It’s over, Mr. Wood!” Virigar leapt for me.

That leap almost finished me; but the door had slowed him just enough. With all the strength in my arms, I slung the contents of the pail straight into Virigar’s open mouth. The sharp-smelling liquid splashed down the monster’s throat, over his face, across his body, soaking the fur. Even as that pailful struck, I was plunging the bucket into the tank for a second load.

Virigar bellowed, a ragged-sounding gurgling noise of equal parts incredulity and agony. He was still moving too fast to stop; one shaggy arm brushed me as I leapt aside and he smashed into the tank itself, tripping and going to his knees, one arm plunging into the liquid. The metal bent, but then tore as he scrabbled blindly at the thing he’d run into, disgorging its remaining contents in a wave across his thighs and lower legs. Momentarily behind him, I doused him with my second pailful, soaking him from head to toe.

The Werewolf King’s second scream was a steam-whistle shriek that pierced my head, but lacked the awesome force of the roar that had shivered hospital windows to splinters. Foul vapors like smoke were pouring from him, obscuring the hideous bubbling, dissolving effects the liquid was causing. The monstrous form staggered past me, mewling and screaming; incredibly, I felt the earth itself heave as Virigar wailed wetly, and a flash of yellow-green light followed. Lamplight poured through a ragged gap in the far wall and was momentary eclipsed by the horrific silhouette of something half-eaten away as Virigar clawed his way to the outside… and disappeared into the night.

Cautiously, a patch of light approached. The flashlight ranged across me, then went to the tank, broken into pieces and leaving its sharp-smelling contents flowing harmlessly across the floor. The light showed me the way out, its beam illuminating the wall just enough to show the sign painted there:

X-Ray: Developer, Fixer, Silver Recovery 

 

Paradigms Lost: Chapter 28

Jason had been presented with a nasty offer…

 

—–

 

 

Chapter 28: A Nice Evening Drive, With Gunfire

“Why the hell not?”

I gestured at the ornate gold ring. “Why not, Verne? If he’s going to be satisfied with the ring, just give it to him! Then we hit him later.”

Verne rubbed the ring gently, turning it about his finger and making the ruby send out sparks of crimson. “The reason he would be satisfied with the ring, Jason, is because he knows that I will never remove this ring. Never. I gave my word many, many years ago, to one who meant more than life itself to me, that I would wear her ring until the final death claimed me.” He looked up; his eyes were black ice, cold and hard. “I value my honor, Jason. Nothing, not even God himself, shall compel me to break my word.”

“That’s asinine, Verne! We’re talking Sylvie’s life here, and you’re worried about honor! Whoever your lady was, I’m sure she’d understand!”

“You are probably right,” Verne said, his eyes unchanged. “But I cannot decide on the basis of what might be. She and she alone could release me from my vow, and she cannot, unless she be born again and regain that which she was. I do not expect you to understand; honor is not valued here as it was when I was young.”

“Where is the honor in letting a friend die?” I hurled the question at him.

He closed his eyes, drew one of his rare deep breaths. “There is none in that, my friend. I have no intention to let Sylvia be killed; did I not also give my word that she would not die?” He opened one of my drawers, looked inside.

“Then you are going to give me the ring,” I said, relieved.

“No,” he said, taking something out of the drawer and handing it to me. “You will take it from me.”

I looked down. In my hand was a magazine for my automatic; one loaded with wooden bullets; a vampire special.

It took a minute for that to sink in. Then I threw the magazine against the wall so hard it left a dent. “Christ, no! Kill you?”

“It seems the only way. I would rather die by your hand than his, and only my death will satisfy him; else Sylvia dies.”

“Look,” I said, glancing back at the pistol magazine, “Maybe if… well, I could shoot your finger off, I guess.”

He made the dismissing gesture I’d come to know so well. “Impossible. It matters not how the ring leaves my possession, my word will still have been broken if it leaves my possession with my connivance and I yet live.”

I couldn’t believe this. “You want to die?”

“Of course not, Jason! I have spent many centuries trying to ensure my safety. But I will not break my word to her whose ring I wear, nor shall I break my word to you. That leaves me little choice.”

“Bull! ” I couldn’t really understand this; how the hell could anyone take promises that seriously? But I could see he was deadly serious. “You only made that promise to make me feel better. Forget it, okay? I release you from that obligation. Whatever the formula is. You know as well as I do that Virigar has no intention of letting any of us go. For all I know, he’s got a hit squad waiting outside.”

He relaxed slightly. “I thank you, my friend. Yes, I also doubt Virigar’s benign intent; but I had to make the offer. None of you would be imperiled were I not here… and were you not my friends.”

“Bull,” I said again. “Maybe we wouldn’t be on today’s hit list, but we’d sure as hell be on tomorrow’s menu.” I looked at him again. “Is this the same Verne Domingo who sent me out to take on Elias Klein with nothing more than a mental shield and moral support?”

For the first time I saw his features soften, and his smile for once held nothing unsettling. “No, my friend. For you are my friend now. I have had no true friends, save those in my household, since… well, since before your country was born. In the past few months, you have shown me what a precious thing I was missing. More; you have given back to me the faith I lost, oh… more centuries ago than I care to remember. That, Jason, is a debt I shall be long in repaying.”

I couldn’t think of anything to say; I guess I didn’t need to.

As quickly as it had come, Verne’s gentle expression faded and his face returned to its usual aristocratic detachment. “We are agreed that Virigar’s offer is without honor; thus we cannot follow that course of action. So what do you suggest?”

I stared at the ring again. “Well, even if he isn’t trustworthy, if I did deliver the ring it might give us some advantage.”

“I have already explained to you that I cannot—”

“I know that.” I said, cutting off his protest, “I’m not saying take it off.”

“Then just what do you mean?”

“For guys rich as you, jewelers make housecalls. Surely one could make a duplicate in a few hours?”

That stopped him. He looked very thoughtful for several minutes, but then shook his head. “I’m afraid it would never work. The time element aside—and we would be cutting it extremely close—you are underestimating Virigar. He would undoubtedly check the authenticity of the ring; I would not be surprised if he were himself an expert in jewelry. Moreover, we have no way of ascertaining if he has watchers about our residences; a visiting jeweler would tell him all he needed to know.” He shrugged. “In any case, it is irrelevant. He would know that ring in an instant, for it is more than mere jewelry.”

“Seriously, Verne, could he really spare that many to watch us? I mean, we killed one and injured another; how many more could there be?”

He gave me a look reserved for idiots. “You are the expert in mathematics, my friend. Calculate how many descendants a single pair could have in one hundred years, assuming a twenty-year maturity age.”

I winced. “Sorry, so I’m slow. That’d be eighty from the original pair alone that’d be full-grown.”

“That, of course,” Verne admitted, “assumes that they maintain normal human birthrates and take no ‘breaks,’ so to speak, from parenting. In reality this will not be the case, but even so, I would be surprised if there were less than a hundred or so all told.”

A hundred! Christ! I didn’t even have that many silver bullets! “Outnumbered and outgunned …” Suddenly one of my favorite, if crazy, quotes came to mind: “It’s you and me against the world… When do we attack?”

I put the viewer’s headband on, fitted the straps, then took it off and packed it carefully in a foam-lined bag. “We’re both targets as it is; the only chance we have is to attack. Get him off-balance, surprise the crap out of him. I’ve got to hope that one of the gadgets I’ve got can spot the buggers; I’m going to get to the hospital and protect Syl.”

“And I… ?”

I grinned nastily, remembering what Verne had done to a drug-lord’s estate and his thugs. I pulled out another drawer, and handed him the rings inside. “All silver rings; I got them because I liked the looks but I just never wear any of them. You are going to put those on and go down and beat Virigar’s door in. Any werewolf that jumps at you then, just give him a left hook and keep going.”

He put the rings on slowly. “I cannot enter a dwelling without permission of the residents, you remember.”

“I didn’t say enter; I said beat his door in… and his walls, and everything else. We have to disorganize him.”

Now he smiled coldly, the fangs lending it the right predatory look. “Precisely so. Shall we… ?”

“After you.”

We left by the back door; Mjolnir was parked in that alley.

I got into the car, locked the doors, and nodded to Verne; he faded into a cloud of mist, and then disappeared. I still stared at that; I don’t think I’ll ever get used to vampires. I started the engine, put Mjolnir in gear, began to pull out of the alley.

With a shuddering thump a shaggy, glittering-fanged nightmare landed on the car’s hood. Then the car jolted to a stop; in my mirror I could see a werewolf that had grabbed the rear bumper and lifted the wheels clear of the ground. I swear my heart stopped for a second; then it gave a huge leap and tried to pound its way out of my chest. I yanked the gun out and pointed it at the one on the hood; the glass was bulletproof but hopefully it didn’t know that.

It didn’t; the werewolf rolled off the hood and to the side. I shoved the pistol into the gunport the previous owner had thoughtfully installed and fired twice. Neither shot hit it, but the werewolf decided that retreat was a good idea. I hit the hidden release and part of the dashboard flopped out and locked, revealing the small control panel. As the one in back began to yank harder on the bumper, trying to tip the car over, I pressed the second button.

Mjolnir’s engine revs rose to a thundering shriek as the nitro supercharger kicked in; blue flame shot two feet from the tailpipe, and what I’d hoped for happened; the werewolf yipped in startlement and pain, and dropped the bumper.

I mashed the pedal to the floor; the V8-318 engine spun the wheels, throwing rubber smoke in the things’ faces, and Mjolnir hurtled onto the street. By the time I passed Denny’s I was doing fifty. A glance in the rearview almost made me lose control; three hairy killers were in hot pursuit, and they were closing in!

I searched the panel for any other tricks I might play, wishing I had James Bond’s armamentarium… or even Maxwell Smart’s. I triggered the rear spotlight, blinding them momentarily and gaining me maybe a hundred feet before they recovered.

Mjolnir shuddered as I hit a series of potholes at sixty-two miles an hour. I wrenched the wheel around, skidded onto the interstate entrance ramp. Behind me, I could see my pursuers catching up fast. On the straightaway I hammered the gas again, watched the speedometer climb towards triple digits. I heard myself talking: “That’s right, come on, come on you little bastards, let’s see how fast you really are!”

At seventy-five they started to fall back; the largest made a final desperate dive and hooked onto the rear bumper. I tried to bounce it off by running off and on the shoulder, but the creature just snarled and held on tighter. It started to claw its way up the back.

If Mjolnir had been an ordinary car, those crystal claws would’ve torn straight through and the thing would’ve climbed right into my lap. Instead, its talons made long gouges in the armor but failed to get any real purchase as I swerved the car back and forth. The werewolf scrabbled desperately at the trunk, but there was nothing for it to grab; with an indignant glare it pitched off the rear bumper and somersaulted to a defeated halt. I gave it a salute with my middle finger as it disappeared in the darkness. Then I turned down an off-ramp and headed Mjolnir towards St. Michael’s Hospital.

 

 

 

 

Polychrome: Chapter 10

 

Well, Our Hero needed a bit of training (or maybe more than a bit…)

 

 

—–

 

 

Chapter 10.

     “So, Captain Thunderstroke –”

“Hah!” His laugh was as abrupt as his last name. “Nimbus, please. Or ‘sir’ when I’m training you. But if the Rainbow Lord has decreed that I, personally, train you, we are equals. Say on, then.”

I grinned back at him. I was probably going to hate this guy at times during our training, but I kinda liked him already. “How much do you know about the Prophecy? Is there anything I can’t talk about with you?”

“Nothing is there so vital to our defense that the Rainbow Lord would have failed to tell me, and yet have told you, when you would be unable to fully comprehend it.” He said this with a simple, matter-of-fact tone. While I could see he was a man very proud of his skill and position, there was no ego in that statement. And it made sense; if this guy was the head of his defenses, the Rainbow Lord had BETTER trust him.

“Okay, got it.” I said. “So when we were talking, he said my nature as a true Mortal wasn’t just a neat advantage, but was necessary.” I associated the way Iris Mirabilis had said that word with the way that Mentor of Arisia would have used it. “What did he mean by that?”

“You cut to the heart of the matter. Let us hope you are so swift with weapons as well.” Nimbus rubbed his hand through his already-wild (though short) dark-violet hair. “You are familiar with Oz through the distorted retellings in your world, yes?”

“Very familiar. And I’m quite aware that there were a lot of … liberties taken with the reality.”

He grunted. “Even so.” We turned down a cross-corridor, and I was struck anew by the sheer size of the place. This palace couldn’t be less than a mile, a mile and a half, across. Maybe a lot more. The translucent blue-prismatic crystal of the walls was like marble mined from some petrified ocean, and stretched on forever, it seemed. “The first and most obvious answer is that your adversaries are both mighty magicians indeed, and all of their greatest weapons are things of fell enchantment and dark faerie power. As a True Mortal, you can stand before them with a greater hope of victory than any others among us, perhaps even than the Rainbow Lord himself, perhaps even than the Above.” At the last word he raised his head, nodding upward. “But there is a far more specific reason. Many things in the books were, as you say, not precisely what was written. The Deadly Desert was and is, however, quite real, as was the enchantment enacted by Glinda the High Sorceress to seal off Oz from the mortal world.

“The Usurpers Ugu and Amanita have taken control of that barrier and transformed it. The shield about Oz now excludes all but the most minute traces of Faerie power, save that which they permit to travel through; their spies and agents, in other words.” I nodded to show that I understood. “A being such as yourself can pass through that barrier when none of us may do so.”

“You are not telling me that I have to go charging into an enemy-occupied Oz all by myself?”

He laughed. I wasn’t sure I liked the laugh. “We will leave that discussion for later, mortal. For here,” he shoved open a huge portal, “we are.”

The room inside was roughly the size of Iris’ throneroom, but instead of a dramatic seat of power, this was an indoor drilling field, a dojo on steroids; hundreds of men with the same undefinably exotic air that surrounded Nimbus (and was much stronger around Polychrome and her father) were practicing – swinging swords, maces, blocking with shields, ducking, parrying, leaping in impossibly high arcs to evade and returning to ground to cut and jab and lunge. “This is the palace guard?”

“A small number of them, yes. Understand that for a ruler such as Iris Mirabilis, the security of the castle and his people is the security of the entire realm. One could call us his army and be just as accurate. Ten thousand and more do I command… and,” he fixed me with a heavy stare, “all ten thousand will I commit to the war if need be and if my Lord orders it. And no choice will we have in this, if you fail.”

“Sure, sure, load me up with the responsibility.” I tried to sound casual. At his sudden glare, I swallowed. “Sorry.”

He sighed and looked regretful. “My apologies. Perhaps you do not realize just how long it has been, that we have been preparing and waiting. It wears on us just as it would on you, my friend.”

“I did get the idea that time went by a lot faster here than back home.”

“As you measure time, it was nigh on fifty years ago that Oz fell. Here, it was three centuries and more agone.”

Six to one time ratio. Well, that has some advantages for me. Still…! “You’ve been just waiting around for three hundred years for this prophecy to come due? They’ve had that long to lock it all down? Jesus, man, is it really that hopeless without me?”

He gave a bitter laugh as he led me into an alcove about as large as a ballroom. “It strikes me as improbable as well, Erik Medon, but yes, it is exactly that hopeless.

“Oz is the center, the very core of Faerie. That power is in the hands of beings who understand how to wield it and who have chosen to do so in a manner directly contrary to its normal nature. Not only does this affect all of us in one way or another, it is something virtually impossible for us, alone, to combat. As well lead your people’s armies against the Sun. Assembled all together, the other Faerie realms might, possibly, equal the forces that the Warlock and the Yookoohoo command. But even leaving aside how difficult it would be to convince all of those squabbling little realms to unite against such a foe, the barrier they have made from Glinda’s is an absolute and impenetrable defense, through which only one thing can pass.”

“A true Mortal who is, by his nature, completely unaffected by magic, howsoever powerful.” I finished.

“Exactly.” He gestured to the lefthand wall; I saw, arranged in glittering, expectant ranks, dozens upon dozens of weapons: gladius-like shortswords, daggers, spears, clubs, staves, titanic two-handed swords, barbed nets, tridents, crescent-shaped blades like sickles, katana-like longswords, and more exotic offerings. “Choose a weapon, mortal. We’ll test your instincts first before we begin the training in earnest.”

“Just be careful not to kill me in your testing. As Iris pointed out, I’m not immune to sharp pointy things in my gut.”

He gave another snort of laughter as I surveyed the wall of death-dealing implements, and drew his own weapon, something like a green-blue claymore; he leaned on it as he waited.

He’s a lot bigger than me, clearly one hell of a lot stronger if he’s using something THAT size. I’m never going to beat him, but I need to play to what strengths I’ve got. I finally selected a long, twin-edged rapier. I’ve done a little swordwork with things like this, and it’s fast. My only chance to even look halfway good is to use speed – stick and move and stick again, and not in any way, shape, or form try to match him one to one.

I took a breath and turned to him. “I guess I’m as ready as I’ll ever be.”

A tiny smile curled one corner of his mouth. He brought his huge sword up in a salute and then stood there, waiting.

“Yeah, I figured you’d wait.” I circled slowly, watching him turn easily in place. A fast lunge in, then retreat immediately.

I did several feints, trying to make it difficult to know when I was committing to the attack. He did unlimber his sword from the salute, watching my movements narrowly.

I gathered myself as if to commit, then pulled back, then did the real lunge forward. Extend and –

A baseball bat wielded by Hercules took me in the side of my head, spinning me sideways and sending me skidding prone on the floor, the useless rapier skittering away from my hand.

“Are you all right?” I looked up blearily to see Nimbus’ huge hand extended.

I forced myself to grasp it and tried to grin. “Sure, never better.”

“I saw your line of thinking. You noted our differential in height, my weapon choice, and so on. You elected to try to match my strength with speed and guile. A logical strategy.”

Without warning, he suddenly bellowed, “AND COMPLETELY WRONG!”

Those words, shouted loudly enough to make my ears ring, certainly helped clear my head. “What? What other strategy WAS there, short of running away and hoping I could find a hole you wouldn’t fit through?”

He grinned coldly. “Hit me, mortal.”

“What?”

“Hit me. Here.” He pointed to the center of his armored breastplate.

“You want me to break my hand? I –”

“I said hit me, you idiotic overweight soft-gutted pathetic excuse for a hero! Or aren’t you able to follow even a simple command?”

I didn’t see the point, but I set my jaw, drew my fist back, and punched.

There was a crunch and for an instant I was sure I’d broken my knuckles. But to my utter astonishment, Nimbus Thunderstroke literally flew backwards from the force of my blow, tumbling end over end as though he’d been hit by a truck, fetching up with an audible thud against the far wall. What the hell…?

He coughed, a pain-wracked sound, and slowly came to his hands and knees, then forced himself to stand. As he did, I saw that his gray-blue armor was cracked where I’d struck it, the metal scales crushed like eggshell. “Well… struck, Erik Medon. And yet I think you pulled that punch.”

I did. A lot. I don’t like hitting people, and even with practice, well… I didn’t want to hurt my hand, either…

“What the hell’s going on? I can’t hit like that. No one can –” I suddenly stopped, mouth half-open, as understanding began to break through.

He smiled painfully. “I see you may begin to understand, Erik.”

“It’s… that difference in our basic natures again.” I said slowly. “I’m… mostly material. Solid matter. You’re… a being of spirit, with just a moderate connection to the solid world. So if I’m resisting you instead of going along… it’s like, what, I’m made of steel or something?”

A nod. “Close enough, though not so alike that my swords will not cut you. And so – though your logic was perfectly reasonable – it led you to precisely the wrong conclusion.” He pulled a vial from his belt and drank. I could see the color return to his face, and he straightened. “Alas that my mail will not be so easily mended. Now, can you tell me the other side of your new realization?”

I thought a moment. “Even someone your size will be faster than me. Less real mass but more mystical power, you’ll be very quick. I didn’t even see you move that sword.”

“Partly that is your lack of training and mortal age. Some of that we can overcome with training and practice. But again you have the essence correct. So your proper strategy against us is –”

I suddenly burst out laughing. “To act as though I’m something more the size of Iris Mirabilis – you can outmove me, but all I need to do is hit most of you ONCE and you don’t get up.”

“Exactly so.” He smiled at my incredulity. “A man of your… condition obviously never would have expected to need to use such tactics.” The smile suddenly turned predatory. “Which means that we will need to work much harder to make you able to properly take advantage of this.”

Oh, boy.

 

 

Paradigms Lost: Chapter 27

 

Something bad had happened to Syl…

 

——

 

Chapter 27: Empathy and Electronics

“Jason, you need your rest. It’s been twenty-seven hours. Go to bed.”

I was too tired to jump at the sudden voice from a formerly empty space. “Verne, I’ve got work to do. I’m going to find that bastard and silver him like a goddam mirror. I don’t have time to sleep. You heard what Winthrope told me.”

“About her assistant being found dead? Yes.”

“Then don’t talk to me about sleep. Every hour I sleep could get someone else killed.” I rubbed my throbbing forehead. “Besides, every time I close my eyes, I see Syl getting slashed by that other werewolf.” Fury took over. “That other werewolf, dammit!” I shouted at Verne, feeling my eyes sting. “You said there was only one, the last one, and all of a sudden it’s The Howling III around here!”

Suddenly Verne looked tired himself, tired and very, very old. “I know, my friend. It was my arrogance and stupidity that lead to that mistake. I should have realized that to exterminate an intelligent race is well-nigh impossible; these are not passenger pigeons or dodos. Virigar must have survived and sought out the few that remained, perhaps only a single female, and for the past century they have increased their numbers, awaiting the time of revenge.”

My anger evaporated. “Damn. Sorry, Verne. I shouldn’t have taken it out on you. We all should have realized that where there was one there might be more.” I wiped my eyes, half-noticing how damp they were. “It’s just that Syl… Syl of all of us should have been the last to be hurt. She saved Renee and me—did you know that?”

He bowed his head. “I had not known. But I would have expected no less from her.”

“She did. Then the last one got her. Now …”

“She will make it, Jason. I give you my word on that. Sylvia will not die for my mistakes.” His dark eyes held mine, lent his words conviction.

“Thanks,” I said, and meant it. “I hope you’re right.”

“I have never broken my word yet.”

“Why didn’t you go after Shirrith when he ran?”

“Because …” He hesitated, staring down at his hands. “Because, I am ashamed to admit, my past centuries of soft existence have made me slow and not as adept in combat as I was in years past, and even the small strikes they managed had caused me pain to my soul, and with weakness and pain come fear. I must remedy that. And, alas, it would have done no good. He would never have led me to Virigar, unless that was his plan… in which case I would be dead.” He sighed, and glanced at the odd tubular object on my workbench. “Since you will not rest, perhaps you can explain what you are doing?”

“Sure.” I picked the tube up, showing the lens at one end with the eyepiece on the other. “This viewer fits onto this little headband, like this.”

“I see that, yes. But what function does this device perform?”

“Well, it …” I broke off, thinking for a minute. “How well versed are you in the sciences?”

He made a modest gesture. “I am sufficiently educated that I consider myself a well-read layman.”

“Good enough. Then you know that visible light is just one small part of the electromagnetic spectrum, right?” He nodded. “Well, I thought for a long time about how to find a hiding werewolf. Normal methods can’t work. Their physical imitation seems to be so perfect that they may even be duplicating the DNA of the subject. But if that was true, then they must be more than merely material beings—you follow me?”

He thought for a moment, then nodded again. “I believe so. You are saying that if they were purely physical beings, once they assumed a perfect duplicate form, they would then become that person… and lose all their special powers.”

“You’ve got it. So if they aren’t just matter, that leaves some additional energy component. A werewolf has to be surrounded, permeated, with a special energy field.” I locked the viewer into the holder, checked the fit. “That’s where this comes in. That field has to radiate somehow, in some wavelengths outside the visible.”

He raised an eyebrow. “I see. But what wavelengths? And would psychic powers, or mystic ones if you prefer, radiate in such mundane ways?”

“At some point I’d think they would,” I answered, clipping on a power lead. “If these fields interact with matter, matter will produce certain emissions. As to what wavelengths, I’m betting on infrared. In the end, all energy decays to waste heat, you see. But I’ve also added an ultraviolet switch to this viewer, and these two little gadgets cover other areas—magnetic fields and radio waves, respectively.”

He smiled. “I am impressed, Jason. I had thought you were only proficient with your computers and databases; I had no idea you were adept with the technical devices as well.”

“Any real hacker has to have some skill with a soldering iron and circuitry,” I answered. “But I just happen to like gadgets. The Edmund Scientific catalog is some of my favorite bedtime reading. Heck, most people think I named my car Mjolnir just because I’m weird. Actually, I’ve put thousands of dollars into gadgetizing the hell out of it. Mjolnir doesn’t fly and if you drive it into water it just stalls like any other car, but it’s got some optional features that no major manufacturer never thought of installing.” The phone rang; I grabbed it fast.

“Hello? Doctor Millson?” I said.

“No.” The voice was deep and resonant in a peculiar way; it sounded like a man in a tin closet. “We met earlier, though you did not realize it at the time. I am Virigar, Mr. Wood.”

Adrenaline stabbed my chest with icy slivers. “What do you want?”

“To deliver an ultimatum, Mr. Wood. You know why I am here. I presume that you care for the young lady, Sylvia? If you wish her to survive the night, you will do one of two things: either you kill Verne Domingo for me… or you deliver him to me, that I might kill him myself. Do this, and my people—who even now walk that hospital’s corridors—shall spare the lady’s life.”

“You bastard.” I barely recognized my own voice. “If I’d known—”

“Yes, well, we all have things we’d have done differently ‘if only,’ do we not, Mr. Wood? You are worthy prey; it makes the chase and the kill sweeter. But for Domingo I will let you and your mortal friends live. Bring him, or the ruby ring he wears, to the old warehouse on Lovell Avenue within the next six hours. Any trickery or failure on your part, and the lady shall die… painfully.” The line went dead.

I put the phone down slowly and looked up. Verne looked grimly back at me.

“I heard it all, my friend,” he said softly.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Paradigms Lost: Chapter 26

 

Jason had revealed some secrets…

 

 

—–

 

 

Chapter 26: Special Guest Appearance By…

“What was her reaction?”

“About what you’d expect.” Verne raised an eyebrow. “Well, she didn’t believe me, that’s for sure. But she also wasn’t comfortable not believing, either; the stuff Gorthaur’s been up to has already got them spooked.”

“And she let you go rather than have you examined by a specialist? Isn’t that a bit odd?”

“Not really. She’d already admitted she knew I hadn’t killed Jerome, and she wanted to trace me and find out who I met with and who I knew.”

“How do you know that, Jason?” asked Syl; her high boots with shining metal inlay rapped loudly on the wood as she crossed the floor with the coffeepot for herself and Renee.

“Simple.” I held up a small, silvery object that looked like a fat button. “She’d stuck this inside Mjolnir’s front bumper.” I dropped a few other tiny gadgets of varying color on the kitchen table where we were all seated. “And these were planted around the house.”

Verne reached out and picked one up, examining it carefully. “Monitoring devices? How very rude. I presume you have deactivated them?”

“No.”

They all stared at me. “Why in the world not?”

“Because I’ve already told Winthrope everything we know, so I don’t have a thing to hide from her, and if I shut these off she could just put in some more that I’d never find. Right, Winthrope?” I said, addressing my words to the audio bug I’d removed from the business phone. “Besides, if Gorthaur tries to nail me, he’ll be doing it on prime-time with the NSA watching. That should make the bastard think twice.”

“Perhaps,” conceded Verne. “But perhaps not. Have you not realized the most important part of your latest adventure?”

I thought for a moment. “I guess not. What is it?”

“Our opponent was able to imitate you perfectly. While his powers are vast, they still do have certain limitations. In order to imitate anyone, he must at least have seen them at close range. That means that you have been close to him in the past few days.”

That made my skin prickle. “How close?”

Verne considered. “I would say no more than five feet. Werewolves can assume any form they can visualize, but to pick up on details as explicit as fingerprints would require them to be close enough for their aura to interact with yours.”

“And the Demon’s death shows he’s aware of your involvement,” Renee added.

I frowned. “So who… no, that question won’t work either. He doesn’t have to be a single person. He could have been a hacker watching the local boards and that’s how he got on to me; then all he had to do was be someone on the street bumping into me, or even a customer.”

The doorbell rang. I went to the door, looked out the peephole. “Agent Winthrope? Come in. I’ve been expecting you.”

“I rather thought so,” she said, her assistant Steve following her in. “Since you made it clear you wanted us to hear things, it seemed a waste of comfortable seating to hang around in a van trying to listen that way.” She glanced at Renee. “I thought we told you to stay out of this, along with the entire police department. Oh, never mind. I’ve been known to ignore orders on occasion myself.”

With two more people my house was too crowded; we all moved next door to Sylvie’s shop, which had a big conference-room style table in one room; Syl rented the room to various groups, usually psychic types for seances.

“So all of you people are in on this? What in hell happened to security, Lieutenant Reisman?” Winthrope demanded, the faint smile taking some of the edge off her question.

“Wood showed up before you classified the operation, ma’am,” she answered. “And the only way to get him to drop anything is to put him in jail, or shoot him.”

“Not practical solutions as a general rule, I’ll admit.” she said. “Okay. I know why you’re in on this, Domingo. I’m not sure I believe in it, but I know why. And I see why Jason had to brief Ms. Stake—”

“Sylvia, or Syl, please,” she broke in. “You understand why.”

“Hm. Yes.” She shifted in her chair, glancing around at the dark-panelled walls. “The important question is, how many others know about all this?”

Verne spoke first. “I assure you that I, at least, have told no one else. It would be a generally futile effort, and I need no advice on this subject.”

Renee gave Winthrope a look. “I’d like to continue a career. If I mentioned this to anyone else my only career’d be inside padded walls.”

“I’ve consulted with the Wizard—you remember him, don’t you, Jason?—on how to deal with werewolves,” Sylvie said.

“Really? And what did he say?” Winthrope asked. Her assistant Steve looked uncomfortable, probably either bored or wondering if he was trapped in a room of lunatics.

Syl made a face. “Not much. He said that most spirits can be controlled only if you know their origin, that is, what religious or spiritual discipline they belong to; otherwise you’re limited to whatever their classic weaknesses are.”

Verne agreed. “It is true. Vampires who believe in the Christian faith can perhaps be turned away by crosses and faith, or bound by a daemonic pentacle; but an enlightened nosferatu cares little for such things. There are certain mystical methods which work on all such… but even those are of no use against a Great Wolf. Silver, and silver alone, will suffice.”

“Just what did you tell this Wizard character?”

“Actually not that much; I didn’t want to get him involved, so I just asked about werewolves.”

“And you, Mr. Wood?”

I shrugged. “No one outside of this room knows any of the weird stuff. A couple of the BBS users know I’m poking around in a classified investigation, but no more.”

Steve smiled suddenly. “Thanks. That’s all we needed to know.”

His teeth glinted sharply as he lunged.

Winthrope moved faster than anyone I’d ever seen, even Elias Klein. Her hand blurred and came up holding a 9mm automatic. Before she could fire, though, the werewolf’s hand grabbed her arm and pitched her like a horseshoe straight into Verne Domingo. “Steve” was no longer human at all, but a shaggy, lupine nightmare with crystal-sharp claws and razor fangs. If the monster hadn’t been delayed by its quick attack on the agent, it would have got us all in the momentary paralysis of shock. Chairs crashed to the floor as we all rolled, sprang, or ducked away from the huge, monstrous thing that had appeared in the place of Steve Dellarocca.

Verne caught Winthrope, set her aside. “You must be a fool, Virigar. Though this mortal was not prepared for you, the rest of us have expected to deal with your sort. And our prior duel seems to have rendered you less than what you were. Against us you stand little chance.”

It smiled, showing glittering rows of crystal teeth. “Not so. My name is Shirrith. I am honored that you mistake me, even for a moment, for the Great King, yet I am but His servant. And we are not unprepared ourselves.” It gave an eerie howl.

In a shower of glass, two more werewolves crashed in through the large windows. One sank claws into Verne’s shoulder, but Verne smashed it aside with a tremendous backhand blow that sent it back through the wall into the night. Verne shoved Winthrope towards me. “Run!” he shouted. His face showed shock and, chillingly, the same fear I’d seen before.

Shirrith began to dash after us, but Verne Domingo dove across the room and caught him. The third werewolf almost reached Renee, but she had her gun out and pumped three shots into him. The .357 magnum slugs drove the creature back enough for her to jump out and slam the door between the conference room and the Silver Stake’s main floor. The werewolf tore the door off its hinges and threw it at us. The impact knocked me and Renee down, sending my 10mm with its silver bullets skittering out of my hand. The creature lashed out, caught Sylvie, and bent its muzzle towards her throat.

Silver inlay flashed as the toe of her right boot slammed into the werewolf’s groin. Its eyes bulged; a ludicrously tiny whine escaped its lips, and it staggered back a step. As it folded in pain, Sylvie grabbed a large silver candlestick from a shelf and clobbered the werewolf over the head; it crumpled to the floor.

A tremendous crash shook the building as the battle in the conference room escalated. The second werewolf came flying out of the broken doorway; it rolled and came up, slashing at Sylvie. She swung the candlestick but it just glanced off the thing’s arm; the claws left long trails of crimson across her dress. I had the pistol now; before the creature could lunge again, I put three shots into it. The wolflike face snapped back, glaring at me in astonishment. Then it sagged and fell.

“Syl! Jesus, are you okay?” I ran to her. Blood was soaking her dress, spreading quickly.

“I’m fine,” she said weakly. “Help Verne!”

I hesitated, looking around. Renee had hit her head when the door got us; she was still dazed. Winthrope was just backed up against the wall, staring at the two bodies and repeating, “Oh crap… oh crap …” She cradled her right arm, which hung limply; Shirrith’s grip had crushed it like a paper cup.

Another crash echoed through the Silver Stake. I heard Verne cursing in some Central European tongue. With one more agonized look at Sylvie, I charged back into the conference room.

I had the gun ready; then I stopped. “Son of a bitch!”

Verne Domingo looked back at me… Twice.

Two Vernes were locked together, straining against each other. They were identical, down to the tears on their clothing. The damn thing could even emulate clothing? That really sucks. There was simply no way to tell them apart; their curses sounded the same, and both were calling each other “Shirrith.” One was faking… but which?

I could have kicked myself. How stupid can you get? I raised the gun and fired twice.

The one on the left twitched as the bullet hit; the one on the right screamed and tore itself away from the real Verne Domingo, its disguise fading away.

There was a clack as the gun jammed, trying to eject the last shell. “You bugger!” I said, as the werewolf dove out the window, a perfect target if I could only have fired.

I cleared the jam, but it was too late. Shirrith was long gone.

Verne gazed out the broken window, then turned away.

I shoved past Winthrope, who was coming in muttering apologies, ran to Syl. “How’re you doing, Syl?”

She tried to smile; she failed miserably. “Not so good.”

Blood was pooling on the floor.

“Verne, call the hospital, quick! Get an ambulance!”

 

 

 

Polychrome: Chapter 9

We were in the middle of a discussion…

 

—–

 

 

Chapter 9.

 

For a minute I thought he wasn’t going to answer me directly. His storm-violet eyes started to turn away; then they closed, reopened, looked back down at me.

“Erik Medon, this is one of the great uncertainties. Your precise fate… lies beyond any prophecy. The prophecy, in fact, ends at the moment you confront our true enemies. And as I have already told you, even the path to that confrontation is fraught with uncertainty. Die you may, and that well before we have reached even a chance for victory. Or you may fail in some less dramatic but no less final manner.” He held up a hand as I was about to speak. “But I know that you mean to ask about the ultimate end of this adventure, and to that I can say… you may well die then.”

He reached down beside his throne and lifted up a little pink stuffed bear with a crank protruding from its side. The crank began to turn of its own accord, and the little head turned jerkily and one paw came up. “Hail, Erik Medon!” the Pink Bear said in a high-pitched, semi-mechanical voice.

“Hail, Pink Bear.” I kept my expression grave, though I did have a momentary impulse to giggle; the poor thing looked so absurd. “My condolences on your losses.”

“My thanks.” The Pink Bear moved with clumsy dignity from the arm of the throne to the Rainbow Lord and took a seat on one massive knee, gazing down at me from button eyes that still, somehow, seemed alive. “My condolences on what you are to suffer.”

“Don’t,” I said. “I’ve already had two lifelong dreams granted.”

“Tell him of the ending,” said Iris Mirabilis firmly. “He desires to know what will be, if past all the perils set between now and the end he has travelled.”

“As the Lord desires,” the Pink Bear said quietly; he then turned to me and spoke, in childish verse appropriate to a stuffed prophet:

Now he comes to the end, few his friends, alone

     Held by words and chains before the Warlock’s throne.

     Sorely wounded shall he be, and then his fate be known;

     If struck through the heart and silent,

unable he to call

then Ozma’s power sealed forever

and darkness shall rule all;

     Bathed in his heart’s blood but still with voice

          Ozma’s name he calls;

     Her power lifts him up, burns his soul away

But in those final moments he may win the day.

It was silent in the throne room for several moments as I assimilated all of that. “Okay, that could have been better for me, I guess. I’m not sure what all of it means – par for the course with a prophecy, I guess. Either way it sounds like I die.” I tried to say it lightly. It was, after all, a set of verses, and I didn’t have the capacity to see it as my final doom quite yet – though it might sink in later. “What’s the bit about Ozma’s power burning away my soul? Any idea?”

The Rainbow Lord gently set the Bear back down and stood; his pacing showed that he didn’t find this discussion much more pleasant than I did. “More than an idea, Erik Medon. It is possible – if you permit it, given that you are a true mortal – for a Faerie ruler such as Ozma, or myself for that matter, to place our power, our very essence of self, within you and allow you to use it.

“But since you are, in fact, mortal, and we are beings of spirit, your soul must be the channel and director of that spirit. It takes a tremendous effort of will to do this, for it will be very painful – although, at the same time, it would be as the Bear says uplifting, transcendant. The passage of such pure spiritual power through a mortal soul wears it away swiftly.”

I nodded slowly. “Like… channeling hot water through a pipe of ice. The pipe can handle it, can even handle a LOT of it… for a little while. But eventually it’s going to go to pieces. So I die either way.”

“Not necessarily.” Iris stopped and dropped to one knee, gazing at me earnestly. “Princess Ozma’s powers are vast, and if you can defeat your opponents swiftly enough, she may be able to return to her true self and heal you.”

“But she’s … sealed away. What’s the bit about my calling her name?”

The Rainbow Lord looked even more grim. “I have spent many years in this research – perilous research, for merely delving into certain things could have warned Ugu and Amanita of what I sought – and I believe that these verses speak of a dark ritual which takes advantage of a true mortal’s nature. Performed correctly, they would be able to simultaneously break the seal on Ozma while shattering her basic connection to Oz.”

“And that would mean,” I said, guessing, “that they would have permanent access to Oz’ power – and she’d just be another sacrifice or slave for them at that point.”

“Precisely so,” he affirmed. “All such great rituals require some form of sacrifice – of a mortal or of a faerie of some considerable power. No power is attained without price, no change in the Great Order permitted without great effort. A true Mortal’s blood is of great significance, as you might guess, as significant in its own way as that of a Faerie such as Ozma. But all such rituals are also very delicate things.”

“And so if I, the object of the sacrifice, call out to her, I’d… what? Bind her to me, in a way?”

“Give her the opportunity to escape into you, if you allowed it, and allow you to use her power against her enemies in ways she simply cannot, while still being defended in great part by the nature of your mortality.”

Now that made sense, in this weird mystical way. I’d be sort of null-magic powered armor for her spirit to wear. “And if I finished it quickly enough, there might be enough of her left to be able to fix the damage done to me?”

“That is my belief, yes.” His gaze was steady when he said that, so I thought he meant it; he wasn’t just trying to give me a forlorn hope.

“But if I push it too much, I’d burn myself out – destroy my soul.” A paraphrase of Disney’s Aladdin zipped through my mind: “Phenomenal cosmic power… itty-bitty circuit breaker.”

Iris Mirabilis looked at me sympathetically. “And along the way you will have to gain some idea of how you actually might wield this power. As you cannot wield magic in any other way, nor – in fact – allow yourself to be the subject of much significant magic without imperiling your protection – you will have to use her power with instinct and whatever insight you will have gained in your travels, for no one shall be able to train you.”

Of course. I’ll have to travel through numberless perils just to get to the point where someone stabs me through the heart, and then if I can manage to choke out the right word, use a Faerie Princess’ power – that I don’t know how to wield – to defeat two centuries-old, trained, super-powerful mages and all their minions, and do it really fast, but without burning myself up to a cinder. Piece of cake, really.

But I remembered Polychrome, and realized it didn’t matter. I was, like they said in Babylon 5, their “last, best hope”. I looked up. “Okay, Milord. But we’re getting a long way ahead of ourselves. What’s our actual next step? What can you tell me of the prophecies that come BEFORE that?”

“You accept all these risks?”

I chuckled, even though part of me did feel a cold touch of fear. “How the hell could I even explain it to you, Rainbow Lord? Maybe, being immortal, it’s really hard for you to understand what it’s like to know, every day, every week, every year, is bringing you closer and closer to the day you won’t open up your eyes ever again. I don’t believe… well, I DIDN’T believe… in any gods or afterlife, though I might have to reconsider that now. But the cold fact is that most of us live out our lives of a few decades – seventy, eighty, maybe a hundred or so years tops – and see almost none of our dreams come true. We make do. We settle for the best we can get. We dream and fantasize, and then go back to reality.

“So now Polychrome appears to me out of a rainbow, tells me I may be the key to rescuing Oz, takes me dancing through the clouds, and brings me here, to the Fortress of the Rainbow. And you say that I MIGHT die when it comes to the end, to a final throwdown with villains as black as any I’ve ever read about?” I couldn’t help but laugh again. “I will die living a dream that most of us won’t ever even conceive. So yes, I accept them, happily and cheerfully and with a right will, sir!”

He stood and echoed my laugh with his own. “Well said, mortal. Well said. Very well, then, know that all the prophecy says for these moments is that the hero must be prepared to face the perils of his journey. How that preparation should proceed has been left to me.” His smile now had a hard edge to it. “Unused I think you are to effort, a stranger to real discipline, and you will face many adversaries before the end. Time for you to be properly trained, I think.”

It didn’t take a genius to guess what he meant by that.”Oh, great. Boot camp.”

“Your idiom is a bit obscure, but I believe you have grasped precisely my meaning. It is not seemly for the prophesied Hero to rely on my daughter for protection in his journey, and in fact she will not always be able to accompany you.” He clapped his hands together, and the far doors opened instantly.

In strode a tall figure, perhaps seven feet high, armored in gray-blue steel like a metal lizard’s scale’s. The warrior’s frame was truly heroic, proportionately even more massive than the Rainbow Lord’s, and over his shoulder the hilt of a mighty two-handed blade. “My Lord?”

Iris Mirabilis looked slightly surprised, as though he had expected someone else.”Precisely who I was going to send for. Nimbus Thunderstroke, Captain of my Storm Legions, Erik Medon, mortal of the Prophecy. It is my wish that you make of him a warrior at least capable of defending himself in emergency.”

Nimbus’ face was hard and scarred, clearly a veteran of many battles. He looked me up and down, then grabbed one of my hands, looked at it, shook his head. “A tall order, My Lord.”

Mirabilis laughed. “But not beyond your capacity, I think. He is a true Mortal, so remember this in your training.”

“As my Lord wishes.” He turned and bowed to the Rainbow Lord; I did the same. “Follow me, Erik Medon.”

I did, suspecting that the Rainbow Lord was grinning behind my back as we left.

 

 

 

Paradigms Lost: Chapter 25

Jason had gotten himself into a spot of trouble…

 

 

—–

 

 

Chapter 25: Ways to Make You Talk

I looked up as the cell door opened. Renee entered. She walked over and took my hand without a word. After a moment, she said, “You okay?”

“I guess,” I said finally. “Am I getting out of here?”

“Hell if I know,” Renee said. “Jason, what were you doing over at Jerome Sumner’s?”

“Bending over and getting screwed by the bastard who killed him.” The fury overwhelmed me for a moment; I slammed my fist into the wall, then nursed my bruised hand. “I was set up perfectly. He was killed by this ‘Vlad’ guy you’re looking for, and I’m supposed to take the fall.”

She might have been in uniform, but she was here as a friend. Her hand on my shoulder told me that. “You won’t. No one who knows you will believe it.”

“But the NSA doesn’t know me. How does the evidence look?”

Renee Reisman screwed up her face. “Not good. You were found there. Your fingerprints were all over the place, including on the keyboard… on just the keys necessary to put up that banner.”

Jesus Christ. Of course they were. The bastard was imitating me! “But the way he was killed—I don’t even think I could do that, even if I wanted to.”

She shook her head. “You know the answer to that. Besides, you’re a smart guy, Jase. Always were. Prosecution wouldn’t have any problem convincing people that you could figure out how to do it.” She hugged me suddenly. “I just came to let you know I’m with you. I could pull strings and get myself here. Sylvie’s pulling for you too.”

I hugged her back, feeling suddenly scared. If the NSA followed the evidence… and Gorthaur was as good at this as he seemed to be… I could end up put away for life. “Thanks, Renee. I mean it.”

“We should get together more often. Not in a jail cell, either.” She smiled faintly, and for a moment she looked like the same girl I’d first met in junior high. “You aren’t going to prison. I promise you.”

“Exceeding our authority a bit, Lieutenant?” a precise voice said from the doorway.

We both jumped slightly. The woman who entered was in her mid to late thirties, sharp-featured, with red hair and a tall, athletic frame. She was followed by a sandy-haired, somewhat younger man carrying a brown paper sack and a briefcase. The woman continued, “Fortunately, I don’t like to make liars out of my professional associates. You aren’t going to prison, Mr. Wood. Jeri Winthrope, Special Agent, at your service; this is my assistant and second pair of hands, Agent Steve Dellarocca.” She extended her hand.

I shook it, then waited while Steve put down the stuff he was carrying and shook his, too. “Thanks. Glad to meet you. These have been the longest hours I’ve ever spent waiting anywhere.”

“Couldn’t be helped, I’m afraid. We didn’t think you were the responsible party, but the evidence didn’t look good. We had to check everything out thoroughly.” She looked at Renee. “I’ll have to talk to Mr. Wood alone now, Lieutenant Reisman.”

Renee nodded. I gave her a smile and said, “Thanks, Renee.”

“Don’t mention it.” The door closed behind her.

“Me, too, Jeri?” asked Steve.

“For now,” Jeri said. “I want you to keep tabs on the rest of the operation.”

“Gotcha. You know where to find me.”

I became aware of the aroma of Chinese food coming from the bag Dellarocca had brought with him.

“Hope you like pork lo mein.” Jeri said. “I thought you’d be hungry, and lord knows I never get a chance to eat in this job.”

“Thanks.” I started unpacking the food. “How did you people get there so fast, anyway? I only ended up there out of sheer luck.”

“We got a call. Person said he heard screams from that house and saw a car pulling out fast.”

“You got a call? That sounds more like police business.”

She nodded. “We’re manning the police phones. Mostly we just pass the stuff on, but it gives us the chance to keep sensitive material to ourselves.”

“But what made that call sensitive?”

“The address. Your friend Jerome, the Demon, was on our little list of people who were potential targets of Gorthaur.”

So she wasn’t going to pretend I didn’t know what was going on. That made it easier. “Why did he go after the Demon?”

“Several reasons. The major one is that Gorthaur hates to be laughed at or threatened; he’s an utter psycho when it comes to insults. The Demon had thrown Gorthaur off his board and threatened him with exposure.”

Nodding, I started to dig into the pork lo mein. Poor Demon. An image of him hanging head-down flashed in my mind; I put my fork down quickly; all of a sudden I wasn’t hungry. “Okay; you seem to assume Gorthaur did him in. So what in the evidence keeps me from being Gorthaur?”

Winthrope gave a snort I interpreted as a chuckle. “Gorthaur may be able to do a lot of things we don’t understand, but he’s not omnipotent or omniscient. He’s good at planting evidence, but apparently he either doesn’t understand or neglected to remember what modern technology can do. Despite the caller’s description matching your car, we were able to determine that your vehicle hadn’t been there previously. We could tell how long it had been standing there—not long at all. Also, if you were calm enough to put up the banner program, you were very unlikely to have forgotten anything… and thus you’d never have come back.” She smiled. “Interesting car, by the way. In your profession I suppose the electronic gadgetry should be expected, but I don’t recall ever seeing an armored Dodge Dart before. Made us wonder if you were in our line of work for real, except that most of the other work seemed homemade rather than professional.”

I grinned back. “Picked it up at one of those seized-property auctions; I think it belonged to a mid-level drug-runner. It was the silver-and-black color that caught my attention. That and the fact that I’d been shot at twice recently made an armored car sound like a good investment.”

“I can understand that.” She finished off an egg roll, then sat back. “Okay, let’s get working. Everything here’s being recorded, of course. We’ve got some questions for you and I hope you’ll cooperate.”

“Hey, I want this twit caught as much as you do. Maybe more; he killed my friend and tried to get me sent up.”

“Right.” She pulled out a laptop computer from a case slung over her shoulder, and opened it up. “First, tell me how you got into this and what you know so far.”

I told the whole story, leaving out certain small points—like vampires and werewolves—starting with my arriving on the scene in the woods, and finishing up with finding Jerome dead. “That’s about it.”

“I don’t suppose you’d like to tell me who your contact was that spilled the beans on Gorthaur and his particularly annoying technique?”

“Don’t even think about it. Confidentiality is a large part of my business. If the police can’t trust me to keep my mouth shut, they wouldn’t hire me. Nor would a lot of other people.”

“Thought not.” She glanced at a few papers. “Okay, Mr. Wood, now let’s have the whole story, shall we?”

Oh-oh. “What do you mean?”

“Give me some credit for brains, please. Interrogation is my business. I’ve been doing this for sixteen years now, and I assure you I know when I’m not getting everything. So far you haven’t lied to me once… but I know damn well that you’re hiding something. So let’s try specific questions and answers, shall we?”

“Go ahead,” I said, trying to look confused. “I’ll tell you what I can.”

“First, tell me: just what was your part in the death of Elias Klein.”

What the hell had put her on that track? “He was trying to kill me and accidentally electrocuted himself; you can look that up in the records.”

“Funny thing about those records,” Winthrope said with a nasty smile. “I find the entire thing written up as you describe it… but the coroner’s report is about as vague as I’ve ever seen. In fact, our analysis department gives a ninety-percent certainty that the report was totally fabricated.”

Oh crap. “I’m not the coroner; you’d have to ask him.”

“Oh, I intend to. But let’s go on. What was Elias Klein working on before his unfortunate demise?”

“I’m not exactly sure. Sometimes I wasn’t kept up on everything he did.”

“Now, that’s very odd, Mr. Wood, since he appears by this receipt to have used your services just days prior to his death. What is also very odd indeed is that Klein’s files for his last investigation are not to be found.”

Damn, damn, damn! Renee must’ve forgotten the accounting office files. Either that or, more likely, some of the stuff had been misfiled and was found and properly filed some months later.

“And finally, it is very interesting that neither of Mr. Klein’s partners can give a detailed account of his investigations. However, we are fortunate in that the wife of one recalled a name that her husband had mentioned during the time in question: Verne Domingo.”

That tore it. The great vampire coverup was full of more holes than a colander. “Okay, Ms. Winthrope. I’d like to tell you a story. But I can’t do it without permission—it affects a lot more people than just me, and like I said, confidentiality is my business.”

She studied me a moment. “Sure. Here, use my phone. I’ll be sitting right here, of course.”

I grimaced. “Naturally.” I took her cell phone and punched in Verne’s number.

“Domingo residence, Morgan speaking.”

“Hey, Morgan, this is Jason. I have to talk to Verne.”

“Of course sir.” A few moments went by, and then that well-known deep voice came on the line. “Jason! I heard you were arrested! Are you all right?”

“Physically I’m fine, but we have a serious issue. I’m being interrogated by an NSA agent named Jeri Winthrope, and she’s been asking some really pretty pointed questions. In particular, she’s been looking into the past history of certain people, and she wants the truth about Elias Klein.”

Verne was silent for a few moments. “You do not believe you can, as you would put it, ‘scam’ her?”

“I wouldn’t want to try. I tried tapdancing around the whole subject and she yanked my chain but good. They’ve found some remaining files and gotten a few comments that give them you as a lead.”

I could sense the consternation on the other end. Finally he sighed. “Jason, I trust you. I have to, in this instance, for you have had it in your power to bring me down for months now, had you wished, and instead you have proven to be a friend. Tell her what you must. I will prepare my household to move, if things become impossible.”

“I don’t want you to—”

“I know. But also, if you do not tell her the truth—about myself and about what is behind this entire series of murders—we may be condemning her to death. Do as you must.”

I swallowed. “Thanks, Verne. Maybe it won’t come to that. Bye.”

I turned back to the agent. “Okay, Ms. Winthrope, you win. I’ll tell you everything. But I’m not going to argue it out with you. If you don’t believe what I tell you, it’s going to be your loss, not mine.”

 

 

 

 

 

Paradigms Lost: Chapter 24

 

Investigations require you to check back with your sources once in a while…

 

 

—–

 

 

Chapter 24: Gone and Dead

I logged on and checked; I had a secured e-mail waiting. I pulled it up onscreen.

The message decoded just as though Manuel had sent it… but it wasn’t from Mannie at all. That was so close to impossible that for a moment I couldn’t do anything except gape. Then I reread the signature at the bottom, and understood.

* * *

Mentor (or should I say, Jason?): I’m sorry to tell you that Manuel has gotten himself into a bit of trouble by poking his nose into this. He doesn’t have nearly the clearance necessary. He’s being debriefed right now, but I’d suggest you not contact him for a while; not only is he more than slightly peeved at you, but any more contact from the outside might be taken seriously amiss by his superiors.

Since he emphatically assured me that you’re too stubborn to be frightened off, and because we happen to be kindred spirits in a way, I’ll give you what information I can. But let me warn you: this is dangerous. You and everyone you know could get killed if you play these games. So give serious consideration to just dropping it.

“Vlad Dracul” is apparently another alias being used by an independent operator called “Gorthaur.” Gorthaur plays no favorites; he’s been bypassing security and penetrating installations on five continents. Very rarely does he take direct credit for his actions except for those which he perpetrates on the Net—that’s where he gets his name.

What tells us that Gorthaur’s involved is the sheer perfection of his work. In every case, Gorthaur penetrates the installation in the guise of a high-clearance individual who is well known to the personnel. Fingerprints, retinals, passwords, everything checks out perfectly. These individuals vary in age, height, weight, and even sex to such a degree that we are utterly unable to imagine how one person can be doing all of these impersonations. Yet other subtle indicators tell us that it is just one person.

So far, three agents have been killed in particularly savage ways while trying to locate Gorthaur. The one found in Morgantown thought he had found a hot trail. Apparently he had. Gorthaur exhibits psychopathic strength and savagery, and has killed several other people who apparently offended him at one point or another. Our best psych profile makes him out to be a complete sociopath with a megalomanic complex, but there are enough anomalies that we can’t even begin to classify him. He’s unique.

Watch your back. If he can disguise himself this well, he could be anyone.

The JAMMER

* * *

The Jammer; hacker legend, thief, one of the few completely nonviolent criminals to make the ten-most-wanted list, and probably the only one who never had a picture to go with the wanted poster. No one knew anything about him—even the “him” was in question. He’d disappeared a couple of years ago, and everyone had thought he’d retired, having made far more money than he’d ever need. Now it was clear that he’d been caught and recruited. But someone with his talents couldn’t be forced to work, so they must have shown him something so important that he chose to work for them rather than against them.

I erased the message and sat back, sweating. Who knew what this werewolf wanted, really? Vengeance against Verne Domingo I knew about, but that would hardly drive him to go breaking into top secret vaults here and in other countries. He had to have some other, larger agenda. And how in the name of God could you catch something that could change sex, fingerprints, and genetics at will?

There wasn’t any way, I realized. The only chance to catch Gorthaur was to get him to come to us, and only one thing was keeping him here: Verne Domingo. Once he settled with Verne, he’d vanish forever.

I logged off that system, got on to the Demon’s board. He didn’t respond to my query; probably at dinner, which was where I should be. Then I noticed one of my status tags:

Email: Waiting: 0 Old: 3

The last time I’d been on, there’d only been two old messages. I called up the last one:

* * *

>>From System Operator DEMON<

(____)
  \* */
   \#/

* * *

What the hell? I hadn’t written him in mail at all lately! Who… ?

Suddenly it hit me. If even the Jammer couldn’t catch this guy… I shut the computer off and sprinted for Mjolnir.

I had a sickening feeling I was too late.

I’d been there once before, but that had been important enough that I remembered every turn; the lights were with me, and it was only fourteen minutes before I slammed the brakes on and skidded into place in front of the Demon’s house. I was out the door before the engine finished dying out, my S&W 10mm out and ready. I rang the bell. No answer. I tried the door.

The door swung open quietly at my touch; it was already unlatched. The hallway was dim and silent. “Yo! Demon!” I called.

No answer.

My heart was hammering too damn fast; I’d swear it was audible a hundred feet away. I stepped slowly into the house. In the faint light I could see the hallway and the stairs going to the second floor, and two entryways; I knew that one led to his living room, the one on the left, and past that was the den where his computer was. I took my coat off slowly and threw it through the entry. It hit the rug; nothing else moved. I dove into the living room, rolled as I hit, came up with my back to the far corner, gun up.

Nothing. Just furniture.

A faint creaking noise came from ahead of me. I stood stock- still, listening. The wind outside moaned. The creak came again. It was emanating from the den. The den door was ajar; I could see the white glow of his monitor screen leaking from the room.

I went forward one step at a time, trying to watch all directions at once; my ears would have pricked up if they could. The only sounds I heard were the whistle of the wind and that faint, periodic creaking.

I reached the door. Taking a deep, shaky breath, I flung the door wide.

A horrid red-splotched face swung toward me; I almost fired, then stopped and lowered the gun. “Jesus Christ …” I muttered.

Jerome Sumner, aka the Demon, hung head-down from one of the big beams of his old house. The rope that was tied around his ankles creaked as he swung slowly in the wind from the open window. His eyes stared blankly at me; his mouth was jammed open with a crumpled floppy disk. The place was filled with the faint metallic scent of the blood on his face, his clothes, the floor. I glanced away, saw his computer.

It was covered with spatters of blood; lying on top of the keyboard was a shapeless dark object. I moved closer.

It was the Demon’s tongue. I swallowed bile, looked at the screen.

The BBS was off; instead there was a banner-making program on. Four giant words blazed on the screen:

He Talked Too Much

I was still staring a few minutes later when the NSA arrived.

 

 

Polychrome: Chapter 8

 

And now we return to see what happened to our hero…

 

 

Chapter 8.

     He gazed tensely at the smoke and dust before him. The detonation had been even greater than he had expected, a blast that had cracked the nearest columns and left a choking cloud obscuring the area of impact entirely. Have I ended it even as it began? Or…

A figure was becoming visible. The smoke suddenly cleared, and his gaze was caught and held by ice-blue eyes, filled with anger and shock, staring furiously from a salt-white face. The glare from those eyes was of startling intensity, and Iris Mirabilis found himself momentarily siezed by an impulse to step back, even as a great tide of relief washed through him. He remembered how he had brought down the lightnings; fear had galvanized the smaller figure, but instead of fleeing, this Erik Medon had merely thrown up one hand to protect his face, the rest of his body poised in stubborn, unyielding resistance. “Before destruction he will stand unbowed…”

“Well done,” he said as the last of the smoke dissipated. “Faced by danger, you do not turn your back upon it, showing that for you fear is weakness. You stand, you face that which would destroy you.”

The mortal was breathing hard, but the glare – while slightly lessened – was not withdrawn. “You hit me with a goddamned lightning ball just to find out if I run or not? This was just some stupid special-effect test?” The man’s voice, raised in anger, was surprisingly powerful; no match for the Rainbow Lord’s own, but nonetheless sending resonant echoes of outrage chasing themselves around the throne room.

Iris shook his head. “Vastly more than that, mortal man, and vastly more important, important enough that I had no choice but to risk ending our hope in the moment it arrived. Look you down.”

Now the anger in the face changed, yielding to astonishment and shock as the blond man realized that he stood on a narrow pinnacle of marble, barely wider than his own body, in the center of a still-smoldering crater sixty feet wide and reaching nearly ten feet in depth. “W… what the hell?”

The Rainbow Lord gestured; iridescent light coalesced in the hole, solidified to marble, leaving no trace of the devastation save the smell of scorched stone and the scarred columns on either side. “Come, Erik Medon. Sit with me,and I will explain. And in that explanation, I hope, you will come to understand that my actions were necessary.”

He caused a chair to appear near the throne, and seated himself on the throne as his guest – still clearly shaky from the sudden attack – lowered himself into the newly-formed seat.

“Okay,” Erik said finally, “Explain.”

“I have no doubt my daughter explained to you that it was our expectation that the hero she sought must be a mortal. But there is mortal, and then there is mortal.”

The blond head, with its somewhat receding hair, nodded. “Yes. She mentioned that most of the so-called mortals in Oz had at least some small amount of fairy blood, which was why they could end up finding their way here.”

Iris nodded. “Precisely. Moreover, those which appear mortal here in the realms of Faerie are themselves descended of such mixed blood. They are perhaps not possessed, for the most part, of any of the powers of the more pure of blood, but the key part is that the existence of that blood makes it possible for them to connect with the realms of faerie… and for the power of faerie to connect to them.”

The mortal’s understanding was swift; he saw the blue eyes flick back to the place where the crater had been, the brows draw close, then raise. “But one of truly pure mortal blood…” he began, slowly.

“I see you have the essence of it. Your mortal blood denies you any chance to have found Oz through the random events that brought others here. But it also denies faerie power any chance to affect you without your direct and willing cooperation.” Iris gazed outward as he continued. “Mortals live in the world of the physical, of the solid. The essence of your soul is there purely as the structure of life, the necessary spark that differentiates you from the base materials of which you are made. Contrariwise, the Faerie are beings of energy, of spirit, with a far slighter connection to the world of mundane matter.”

“So what you’re saying is that you faerie types can’t hurt me.”

He laughed. “Do not make that mistake, my would-be hero. We cannot hurt you with magic – we cannot impress the pure will of our souls and powers on you. But I assure you, a hard-driven blade wielded by my hand, or that of any warrior of Oz or other faerie realm, will kill you as surely as if it were wielded by mortal hands. You are not invulnerable, merely protected from certain forces in a way that no faerie can be.”

Erik Medon nodded. “I understand. Still, that’s a pretty big advantage.”

“A necessary one, in fact.”

“Necessary?”

The Rainbow Lord leaned forward. “Understand me well, Erik Medon. You have passed the tests of prophecy, and now we step beyond the point where another might be chosen. If you cannot do what must be done… we shall fail, or at least be forced into a long and bitter war whose effects shall recoil upon the mortal world as well.

“Yet the prophecies of the Bear give neither you, nor I, certain paths to victory. Today I will tell you what I may – and what I must. But it will be still up to you to make the right choices. Some actions are clear. Some are not.” He sighed, and for a moment he could not keep the worry from his face. “And the best of paths will still not be easy.”

He looked down, to see the blue eyes meeting his with a surprising understanding. The mortal’s mouth quirked upwards in a sad smile, and he spoke.

“I’m going to die, aren’t I?”