by Jim Butcher
"What?"
"Renfield Dex," I said.
"Who?"
"He was Morlun's little buddy. Human. Took care of details for him. He was there when Morlun died." I shivered. "Morlun hadn't treated him well.
When I beat Morlun down, Dex took a gun off an unconscious guard and emptied the whole thing into Morlun's chest."
Felicia's eyes widened. "There were two people there when Morlun died,"
she said. "Dex and you."
"Yeah."
"Then I guess we need to talk to Dex." She frowned. "What's the rest of his name? Where is he?"
"I don't know," I said. "But when the cops got to the reactor, they found the gun in the aftermath. I'm sure they lifted prints from it. If we can get the prints, maybe we can identify him. The police should have them on file, even if the weapon went back to its owner."
"Wouldn't they have done that already?"
"I doubt it," I said. "That kind of thing could take a lot of man-hours, and it isn't as though they'd found a murder weapon. What was left of Morlun when they got there couldn't have filled a thermos. The only crimes had been in trespassing and the assault on the guard."
She narrowed her eyes in thought. "That would put it a pretty good way down their priority list, wouldn't it. But they don't exactly leave the evidence room open to the public," she said.
"Felicia," I said. "I'm sure that if anyone can find a way to get them, it's you."
She beamed at me. "It's sweet of you to say that. Even if it makes the air smell just a little bit like hypocrisy, O great defender of the law."
I glowered at her. "Don't start with me." She smiled, pleased to have needled me. "What are you going to do?"
"What I should have done last night," I said. "I was just hoping to avoid it, because every time I go there, I get the crap beat out of me by something, or shipped off to some funky dimension to get the crap beat out of me, or my astral self gets projected away from my body so that I'm getting the crap beaten out of me in two dimensions at once. It's bad.
It's always bad. Every time it happens I swear to myself that I'm never going down Bleecker Street ever again."
"Ohhh," Felicia said. "Him."
"Time's a-wasting," I said. She nodded, rising. "I'll call the office, and we'll see what we can do about finding Dex. Quick description, please?"
"White male, twenty-five to thirty-five, about five-eight, straight brown hair, one of those shaggy goatees, hazel eyes. Real thin face, long nose."
She nodded. "Got it."
I put a hand on her shoulder. "Watch your back," I said.
"Always," she said, smiling. She touched my hand lightly and then vanished into the subway.
I slipped into an empty alley, put on my mask, and set off to visit Doctor Stephen Strange, Sorcerer Supreme.
Chapter 13
I HEADED OVER TO STRANGE'S PLACE on
Bleecker Street. It's easy to find from above. All I have to do is look for the funky round window with its oddly shaped panes. I didn't go in through the window, though. You don't just sidle into a sorcerer's place through the windows or the vents. Guys like Strange tend to protect themselves against that sort of thing. It's safest to go in through the front door.
I had my hand raised to knock when Wong opened the door and gave me a small bow. "Spider-Man."
Wong is tall for a native Tibetan and can look me right in the eye. He had a little piece of tissue paper stuck to a spot where he'd nicked himself shaving, on the top of his head. He wore trousers and a shirt of green silk with black embroidery, accented with threads the color of polished bronze. His expression was what it usually was - serene. To me at least.
Wong's poker face was so good, it nearly qualified as a superpower.
"Wong," I said. "You busted up my groove."
"Did I?"
"Big time. I was going to do the Bugs Bunny routine on the Doc. I brought a carrot and everything."
Wong nodded, his expression serious. "My soul is impoverished by the sin of... busting up your groove? Additionally, I mourn my master's disappointment in being unable to properly experience your doubtlessly flawless impersonation of a cartoon rabbit."
I looked at him for a second. "Nobody likes a wise-ass, Wong."
Wong's mouth twitched at one corner, though he came nowhere close to actually smiling. "My master is expecting you. Please come in. May I take your... carrot?"
I'd picked it up from a vendor at a street market on the way. "No thanks," I said. I pulled up my mask enough to bunch over my nose. I swear, one of these days I'm going to get a mask that leaves my mouth free. I crunched into the carrot because it was good for me. And because I hadn't had lunch.
Wong watched me soberly, then nodded and led me to the doctor's office.
It was a big room, the size of a large study, packed full of books, scrolls, tablets, and oddities, all in neat order, all terribly well organized and clean, all set around an enormous mahogany desk. Though the ceilings were high and arched, the lighting there was always subdued, and lent it a cavelike mien. There was a fire crackling in a fireplace, and the air smelled of incense and cinnamon.
Stephen Strange sat behind the desk. He's a tall, slender man. He's got a neatly trimmed mustache and dark hair, with those perfect silver streaks at the temples that some men seem lucky enough to develop. He looks like an extremely fit man in his mid-thirties, though he's got to be older than that, judging from the sheepskin he keeps on the wall behind him.
Neurology. He was wearing a very normal-looking outfit, especially for him: a pale blue golf shirt and khakis. I was much more used to the electric blue tunic and Shakespearean tights, plus the big red disco cloak.
"Spider-Man, master," Wong said in calm, formal tones.
"Thank you, Wong," Strange said. He had a resonant voice. "Our guest has not had lunch. Do you think you could find something appropriate?"
"Eminently so, master."
"Thank you," he said, and Wong departed. Strange leaned his elbows on his desk and made a steeple of his fingers. "Good day to you, Spider-Man. I thought you'd be by today."
"Saw me coming with the old mystical Eye of Ag-amotto, eh, Doc?"
He moved one finger, pointing at a flat-screen plasma TV on the wall beside his desk. "On the Channel Seven news." He moved his hand and picked up a copy of that day's Bugle.
There was a picture of the wreckage in Times Square next to the headline Spider-man Runs Wild in Times Square.
"You may not be the most subtle man in New York."
I pointed at the newspaper with my partly gnawed carrot. "That wasn't my fault."
"Of course it wasn't." Strange sighed. "Ignorance is part of the tragedy of the human condition. It is in the nature of man to fear what he does not know or cannot control. The average human being is no more comfortable in contemplation of his inner being than he is contemplating magic itself."
"You sound like Ezekiel," I said. "He was always trying to tell me my powers had come from some kind of mystic spider-god entity."
"Are you so sure they did not?"
"I was bitten by a radioactive spider. Period."
Strange smiled at me. "And who is to say that said spider was not the theoretical entity's choice as emissary? One does not necessarily preclude the other."
I looked at him. Then I sat down without being asked. "I was pretty sure I was done dealing with all this mystical muckety-muck."
Strange nodded. "Indeed, you are. The onus of that entire business has been appeased, the obligations completed, the balance restored, the necessities observed."
I tilted my head, like a dog who has suddenly heard a new sound.
"Your account ledger is cleared," he clarified. "That particular business is done."
"Well, it ain't, Doc. I take it you've heard of beings calling themselves the Ancients?"
Strange shrugged his shoulders. "Many claim such a sobriquet. Few deserve it."
"Morlun," I said. "Mortia. Thanis. Malos."
Strange hissed. "Ah. Them."
"Them," I said. "Morlun tried to eat me. He wound up dead. Now his siblings are looking to return the compliment."
Strange lifted his eyebrows. "You defeated Morlun?"
"Yeah. With freaking radioactive material not unlike the radioactive freaking spider that gave me my freaking powers," I retorted. "No freaking mystical juju at all."
"Interesting," he mused. "Then their motive is not a factor of mystic balance, but one far older and more primal."
"Yeah," I said. "Payback. I need your help."
"Help?"
"Aid. Assistance. Advice."
Strange stared at me for a moment. Then he closed his eyes, settled back in his chair, and murmured, "Absolutely not."
Which made me blink. "What?"
"I cannot interfere in what passes between you and the Ancients."
"Why not?" I demanded.
He leaned back in his chair, frowning, his expression genuinely disturbed. "You understand, of course, that all forces in the universe act in balance. In a harmony of sorts."
"That's kind of Newtonian, but let's assume that you know what you're talking about," I said.
"Thank you," he said, his voice serious. "The powers at my command are part and parcel of that balance. I am not free to simply employ them on a whim without serious consequences resulting - and in fact, it would be dangerous to do so around one of the Ancients you face."
"Oh," I said. "I guess they deserve the name?"
"Indeed. They are older than mountains, older than the seas. Since life first graced this sphere, and since that life called out to the mystic realms, echoing in harmony and sympathy, these beings, these Ancients, have been there to feed upon it."
"Really, you could have said, Yes, they're old,' and it would have been enough."
"My apologies," Strange said. "I occasionally forget the limitations of your attention span."
"Thank you."
"Yes. They are old."
"And you can't do anything to them?"
Strange frowned. "It is a complex issue, and does not lend itself to monosyllabic explanation."
I cupped my hands to either side of my head. "Okay. These are my listening ears. I've got my listening ears on."
"Let me know if you experience any discomfort."
Strange said, his voice dryly amused. Then he made a steeple of his fingers. "What you call 'magic' is a complex weaving of natural forces -
life energy, elemental power, cosmic energies. And, like more familiar physical forces such as thermal energy, electricity, or gravity, they abide by a set of governing laws. They do not simply obey the whims of those who employ them. They have limitations and foibles. Do you understand that much?"
"Yes," I said brightly. "And I didn't get a nosebleed or anything."
"The nature of my access to these powers determines how I might employ them," he said. "I cannot simply randomly choose anything in my repertoire to counter any given situation, just as you could not expect to mix random chemicals and attain the desired results."
"So far, so good," I said.
He nodded. "The Ancients are predators, as you are doubtless aware. And while they are not a particularly pleasant part of the natural world, they are, nonetheless, a part of it. My powers are meant to defend and protect that world from those who would attempt to damage or destroy it.
Were I to turn my powers against the Ancients it would be" - he actually turned a little green - "an abuse of that which is entrusted to me. A corruption of the energies in my charge. A most abominable blasphemy of the primal forces of our world."
"And what? The magic wand police would give you a ticket?"
"You speak lightly," Strange said. "But you are well aware of the evils that can be wrought with the abuse of power. Were I to turn the energies with which I work against the Ancients, the repercussions could be severe."
"Why?" I asked.
"Because of what and who the Ancients are. They are some of the eldest predators upon this sphere, creatures of enormous mystic strength -
though they do not refine and utilize that energy in the way I do. It is, however, consciously focused by their force of will to give them enormous resilience, strength, and speed."
"Yeah. They're magically malicious. I figured that part out already."
"Their formidable physical attributes are minor compared to the enormous potential that dwells within them. Should I wield my powers directly against them, the results could be catastrophic."
"Uh-huh," I said, lowering my hands. "When you say 'severe,' and
'catastrophic,' you mean..."
"The end of all life upon this sphere."
"Right." I took a deep breath. "Couldn't you at least give me some more information about them? Anything would help."
"My personal knowledge of them is limited. And even were I to employ my arts to learn more, I would be constrained to tell you nothing."
"What? Why?"
"Knowledge is power - a fact with which I suspect you are intimately familiar. If I used my power to gain knowledge, and then shared that knowledge with you to affect the outcome of this situation, it would be as disruptive as if I had done so myself. It would upset certain critical natural balances and as a result, the eldritch portals would open in order to create a redressing of the forces so unbalanced."
"Which would be... ?" I asked. "A series of confrontations like those you experienced a few months ago - beginning with Morlun and continuing through Morwen's incursion and confrontation with Loki, your battle with Shathra, all of which culminated in Dormmamu's attempted destruction of this reality on your birthday. You would again be a critical variable in the equation. It would expose both you and uncounted innocents to enormous peril. And so I must do nothing. Even having this conversation at all is potentially dangerous."
I shuddered. Then I slumped in my chair. My head suddenly felt really heavy on my neck. What was the point? For crying out loud, it had been nothing short of a miracle that I had survived Morlun, much less the rest of that mess. I wasn't asking Strange to make them go poof. I just wanted him to help me. Just a little.
Strange spoke quietly, and his voice was strained with regret and compassion. "I am sorry that I cannot aid you in this battle, as you have so often aided me in mine. It is unjust. Unfair."
"Since when has life been fair?" I asked. Strange smiled. "In the long view, I think it might be worse if life was fair, and each of us received every-thing he deserved. My mistakes would have earned me torments to disturb the dreams of Dante himself."
"Amen," I said quietly, having pulled some epic blunders of my own.
"I wish you luck in your struggle," Strange said. He rose and offered me his hand. "But you should know that I believe you have the necessary potential to overcome this foe. Do not lose heart. There is more strength in you than even you know. I am truly sorry that I cannot do more."
I thought about just storming out, but Aunt May didn't raise me to be rude. Besides, if Strange said he couldn't help, he couldn't help, period. He might be weird, wordy, and unsettling, but he's not a coward or a liar. If he could have helped me, he would have. I believed that.
"S'okay, Doc." I shook his hand, and he walked me to the door of his office. "I never got the chance to thank you for that birthday present."
Strange inclined his head, a solemn gesture. "It was my pleasure and honor to be able to bestow it. Even so, it in no way lessens my gratitude and obligation to you for times gone by."
"Don't worry about me. I'm used to going it alone."
"Which is the problem," he said.
I stopped, blinked, and looked up at him. "Hey. Did you just - "
Strange smiled, very slightly, and quietly shut the door in my face.
Strange said he couldn't share information, but had he just tried to slip me something? If he was going to do that, why not just come out and say it? Why the heck does everything have to be so confusing when he's involved?
&n
bsp; Freaking sorcerers. Freaking mystic muckety-mucks.
Wong entered the room on nearly soundless feet, carrying a paper lunch bag. I turned to face him.
"I have always found," Wong said, "that the master quite often is able to say something important without ever coming anywhere near it in conversation. I would humbly suggest that you consider his words singly, collectively and most carefully."
"Why does it always have to be twenty questions with him?"
"Because he is the master. Did your talk go well?"
I grunted. "Not really. I was hoping for a little good luck this time around."
Wong bowed his head, then offered me the lunch bag. "I regret that the outcome of your visit did not please you. I hope that ham on wheat will satisfy."
I accepted the bag as we walked to the door. "It's my favorite."
"Really? Then one might say that you found a little good luck after all."
I blinked at him. "Wait. Wong, did you just - " Wong bowed politely and shut the door in my face.
I looked at the door.
I looked at the lunch bag.
"Their weakness is ham on wheat?" I asked the door.
The door was almost as informative as Strange and Wong.
"This is why I don't like messing around in this magic stuff!" I hollered at Strange's mansion.
People on the sidewalks stopped to stare at me.
I scowled. "I swear, one of these days I'm going to snap and throw a garbage truck through that stupid window." I shook my head, muttered some things I'd never say around Aunt May, and opened the lunch bag.
Ham-on-wheat sandwiches, two of them, in plastic bags.
An apple.
And a black-lacquered square box as wide as my hand, maybe half an inch thick.
Interesting.
It reminded me of a jewelry case. I opened it. Inside were three small, black stones, along with a folded piece of paper that looked like a page torn from a book.
I read over it.
Very interesting.
For the first time that day, I felt something almost like real hope.
I closed the lunch bag, tied it to my belt with a bit of webbing, and swung for home.
Chapter 14