by Garon Whited
Mary slid into the passenger seat. I slid in behind the wheel.
“I hate to ask the obvious question,” Mary began.
“The ghost of Bronze—or her spirit, or something—is possessing the car.” The engine revved, the car dropped into gear, and we roared off down the road. I fastened my seat belt. I trust Bronze to drive, but I don’t trust other drivers.
“Oh. Well, that tells me everything I could possibly want to know.”
“Sarcasm. Don’t think I didn’t notice.” I patted the dashboard. “How are you? I see bullet holes. Did you have fun playing chase with the police?”
The radio clicked, switching to Survivor’s Eye of the Tiger. She had an amazingly good time. Studying all those videos of car chases paid off. She can do some of the Hollywood stunts and still keep the car reasonably intact.
As we rolled down the road, I saw the cracks in the windshield un-cracking themselves, vanishing inward toward the bullet hole. The occasional metallic ping! of dents popping into shape told me she was becoming less damaged by the minute.
“That’s my girl.” I turned to Mary. “The wreckage of the escort cars should be just up ahead. If we’ve beaten the emergency responders there, we can look for our equipment. My truck driver said our things would be with a specialist group, but I’m hoping he meant they were in the process of delivery. If our things left for points unknown straight from the car dealership, the problem becomes more complicated. All we can do is check the wreckage and hope.”
“When you’re around, I’m good at hoping. By the way, how is it Bronze is deus ex machina?”
“She’s a possessing spirit, not a god,” I corrected. “Animus ex machina, maybe? No, that’s not right, either…”
“Back to the important part of the question. How is it Bronze is presently possessing a car?”
“Excellent question, and I’ll be sure to look a gift horse in the grill later. Right now, I’m simply accepting it as a fact. Okay?”
“Okay. You’re sure it’s Bronze?”
“Do you have both your hands?”
“What? Yes.”
“Are you sure?”
“Of course I’m—ah,” she finished, nodding. “Yes, you’re sure. Sorry.”
“No problem,” I agreed, while a fan belt laughed at us.
We pulled over near the wreckage of one car. Mary and I went through the remains. I searched for her stuff while she sucked blood out of corpses. I settled for whatever blood already leaked out. I’m a miracle-worker at crime scene cleanup. I can get bloodstains out of anything.
“Find anything?”
“Not in this car, but if you’ll hold these pants and this shirt for a minute, they’ll be clean enough for me to wear.”
I did so, leaching the last of the blood out of them. Mary put them on, cinching the belt tight and rolling up the cuffs. None of the shoes were small enough for her, though.
“Let’s look at the other one.”
Bronze drove us to the other wreck. It was easy to find: it was still on fire.
“Not much help here,” I noted. Mary sighed.
“I was kind of attached to those knives. And the magic amulet thingy you enchanted for me was incredibly useful.”
“We don’t know our stuff was in there. It might already be in the clutches of whatever passes for their analytical and forensics team. Besides, I’m not detecting any residual magic. I would, if our things had been destroyed.”
“The things may not be irreplaceable, but I’m still disappointed.”
“Yeah. Diogenes can rebuild all the physical objects, but I’ll have to enchant everything by hand.”
“Maybe we should have spares.”
“Oh, now you tell me.”
“Just beating you to it, Captain Obvious. It’s never been an issue until today.”
“Let’s go back to L.A. and reintroduce Bronze and Diogenes.”
“Suits me.”
Bronze wasn’t entirely sure where we needed to go. I gave her directions and she gunned herself in a squealing half-circle to head for Los Angeles.
On the drive over, Mary told the tale of her initial capture. She was in the motel shower for the sunrise. No sooner had she stepped out and started toweling off when someone started unlocking her door. She hit the call button on her Diogephone bracelet and picked up her knives. About that point, the lock went click and a heavy boot kicked the door, snapping the chain free. One guy rolled around the hinged side of the door and kept it from bouncing back—the mark of experience, in my opinion—and the rest of them charged straight in.
If the motel room had a back window, or if they’d tried it at night, things wouldn’t have gone well for them. As it was, Mary was wearing nothing but a pair of knives. She killed two, mortally wounded at least one more, seriously injured another four, and rendered one man sterile. Unfortunately, there were a dozen men involved, not just eight. In the cramped space of the motel room, they got in each other’s way as much as they helped, but the cannon fodder in front hindered her enough so the last four could bring her down.
Personally, I think they were lucky.
They were not well-briefed, however. Instead of immediately staking her or beheading her, they searched her room and her car for “the vampire,” and didn’t find one. While the injured men were taken elsewhere for treatment, the four I briefly met transported her to Gulch and Middle-Of-Nowhere Used Cars. They wanted to know more about her “vampire master” and what he was doing in Las Vegas.
“I gave you up immediately,” she admitted. “They didn’t believe me when I said I didn’t have the foggiest notion what you wanted, though,” she pouted. “I was really sincere, too!”
“I bet you were. At least we know they weren’t working with Salvatore Castiglione.”
“We do?”
“Salvatore knows you’re a vampire. These jokers must work for—or with—Lorenzo. We also know Salvatore hasn’t had a vampire conversation with Lorenzo or the hunting types would have been better informed.”
“Hmm. Good point. I was lumping all the vampire-hostile people under one heading. This means we have at least two different organizations after us, if Salvatore and Lorenzo count separately.”
“I’m not sure Salvatore is an organization, as such, but we have to assume he’s independent, yes. There might even be more. Lorenzo’s goombahs seem to be organized, at least, using a resistance-movement sort of cell structure—groups of three to five, I’d guess. They may have some relations as independent groups, but I don’t know if all their work goes through Lorenzo or if they operate semi-independently. There’s no way to tell, at present. You’ll get used to it.”
“Says the man who has a whole religion after him. Okay. I’m starting to feel as though this world is full of vampire-hunting lunatics falling all over each other in a race to see who can kill us first!”
“If the world has vampires—and they all seem to—it has to have vampire killers,” I pointed out. “It’s an ecological necessity, I think. And the locals were going to get around to us sooner or later.”
“Yeah, but that doesn’t mean I have to like it.”
“But you do.”
“I do?”
“Imagine the adventure.”
Mary pursed her lips, thoughtfully, and slowly nodded.
“There is that.”
“See? It’s not all bad. But go on. You were sincere about not knowing stuff about your vampire master and suchlike. Continue.”
“Yes. Mostly because I don’t have the foggiest notion what you do want, other than to be left alone.”
“Really? I’m sorry.”
“I think they believed me about that part, at least. Still, these jokers were convinced I was a servant of some sort. They know individual vampires often have unique powers around here. They thought my ‘master’ had the ability to feed me blood and make my mortal form stronger.”
“What’s the default? I take it most of the locals can’t do that.”
“Got it.”
“One of them had the bright idea it might be a dosage thing. Instead of drinking a glass of vampire juice, or however much they have to choke down to start the vampire transformation process, it could be a single drop—or licking a little smear of it—it might not be lethal. Over time, a tolerance could develop, as well as exceptional strength and speed, maybe even other powers.”
“Good explanation.”
“Most of the rest you already know. Were you awake enough to see your jacket strangle the guy?”
“No, but I had a suspicion. What happened?”
“My captors called someone while I was being questioned. The second squad arrived after our pileup in the junkyard. When they dug us out from under the wrecks—and I plan to thank you properly for being my shelter amid the hailstorm of cars—they stripped you. The guy who peeled off your jacket couldn’t let go of it. It doesn’t move too fast during the day, and especially not in direct sunlight, but it latched on to him and didn’t quit. They didn’t like it at all! No, sir! They were so scared of it, they dragged their friend into an open, sunny spot, staked him and the jacket to the ground, and burned everything.” She plucked at my jumpsuit sleeve. “I take it your cloak-thing survived it handily.”
“It seems so. It flapped over to me later.”
“Flapped? As in flew?”
“Like a bat.”
“Oddly appropriate,” she nodded. “Anyway, they left you to die—you were more badly damaged, probably dying anyway. Crucifying a vampire servant is one way to prevent them from rising from the grave, according to them.”
“I had the impression they thought I could rise anyway, although they did plan to set me on fire after I died. Either way, I’ll try to avoid it in the future.”
“Same here. They decided to take me for further interrogation and headed to some other spot. I’m not sure where. All I know for sure is it’s within a few miles and still pretty isolated. I couldn’t tell much else. I had a sack over my head and was tied up in the trunk on the way there.
“And,” she added, as an aside, “it was not the way I prefer to be tied up, just so you know.”
“I’m well aware.”
“Once I was tied to a chair, they took off the sack. I think it’s someone’s house, but the room I saw was old, dusty, and probably not lived in. After a few hours of further discussion, I didn’t quite know how to tell them to get me out of the sunlight. The windows had shutters—no curtains—so light still got in. I didn’t want to explain. One of them caught on fairly quickly, though, when I started giving off smoke. They hustled me out of the chair, into a coffin, and slammed the lid. I could probably have got away during the transfer, but I didn’t.”
“Not the best of times, sunset.”
“No kidding. I might have killed all of them, but I would have fried. Incidentally, the coffin wasn’t strong enough to hold me. It was just wood, but I couldn’t break it. I examined it closely and there was magic on it, but I didn’t recognize it. A local charm?”
“Probably.”
“Figures. Shortly thereafter, I was loaded, coffin and all, into the metal cylinder, the cylinder sealed, and gasoline added. I didn’t know how to get out of the coffin and decided, because of the fuel smell, I didn’t want to. I dislike being set on fire or exploding.”
“Gasoline doesn’t explode easily. There’s a pretty narrow window of fuel-to-air mixture. Catching fire? Making a nice whump noise? Sure. But producing an explosion is problematic.”
“Thanks. I’m sure the fact will be a comfort if I ever do get blown up in a gasoline-vapor explosion.”
“I’m just saying—”
“I know, I know,” she said, patting my leg.
Bronze interrupted by pulling off the highway.
“What’s the matter?” I asked. I ran an eye over the dashboard and the fuel gauge caught it. “Ah. Of course.”
“What is it?” Mary asked.
“Bronze is thirsty.”
“Thirsty? How can—Oh,” Mary finished, sheepishly. “I’m sorry, Bronze. Shall I pump gas while he checks the oil?”
The Beatles’ With A Little Help From My Friends came on the radio. I had the distinct impression she appreciated it.
“Yes, let’s do that.”
We pulled up to the pumps and Mary started the gas. Bronze popped her hood, the car equivalent of saying “Ah!” The bumper, fenders, grill, and windshield were all perfectly intact.
When the attendant came out to see if he could help, I realized we were a little short on money. Oops. I let him talk to Mary while I checked the glove box.
Aside from the usual—cigarettes, maps, registration, and insurance stuff—there was a revolver and some sort of kit. I pulled it out and opened it. Inside were candles, chalk, incense, a silver knife, garlic, condoms, change, a flask of holy water, a crucifix, and, yes, some cash. I checked the revolver. It was loaded with silver bullets.
This raised questions in my mind, but I didn’t have anyone to ask.
I paid the attendant once Mary finished with the gas. After he went inside, I checked the trunk. Nothing too outré, really. A mallet, wooden stakes, four rolls of heavy-duty tape, a spool of insulated wire, three road flares, a machete, a box of bullets—yes, silver bullets—and two boxes of bibles. Individually, not even worth comment. Taken together, somewhat suspicious. Although, I suppose, not unexpected.
I climbed back in. The Impala rumbled to life and cruised out on the highway again. In moments, Bronze was cruising at a hundred and thirty. I thought I detected a faint downhill feeling and wondered if she was doing something. I went to the trouble of a couple of spells to hide us from routine police pestering and she turned her lights off.
I still wonder how she sees where she’s going. When she was a horse, at least she had eyes. As a car?
I don’t know everything. I don’t even know most of the things I don’t know. Sometimes I think all learning is merely discovering the depth of our ignorance.
Mary and I discussed my own encounter with the hunters. She had a number of questions. How did Bronze come back? Why didn’t the corpsified energy-being just kill me? Why didn’t it simply possess a live person? Why was it so concerned about chaos and what did it mean by chaos in my flesh and blood? More to the point, did we need to be on guard against angels, living or dead, showing up unexpectedly?
We have a number of questions and maybe we can find answers to some of them.
“How are we going to do that?” Mary wanted to know.
“I’m thinking we’ll summon one of these glowing things and ask.”
Mary was silent for about two miles after my comment.
“Before I say anything silly, Ancient Master of the Mystic Arts, could you tell me what makes you think you can summon an angel?”
“Well, these things, whatever they are, they’re incorporeal, energy-state beings. From what I’ve gathered just by looking at them, they have definite, fixed patterns, kind of like the golems built by the magicians of Arondael. Much more complicated, much more intricate, yes, but still rigidly defined. Sliding planes, angular construction, very mechanistic, rather than the more foamy, biological sort.” I patted the dashboard again and the exhaust momentarily rumbled louder, like a giant cat purring. “They’re less of a person and more of a robot, if you follow the metaphor.
“They can come to this plane of existence,” I continued, “and they can interact with the physical world, even to the point of possessing bodies, living or dead—although I suspect they don’t or can’t animate a corpse if it’s sufficiently mangled.”
The exhaust chuckled. I patted the dashboard again.
“Taken together, that makes them spirits. Spirits can be conjured and contained and questioned. I don’t know how, exactly, because there are so many different kinds of spirits—which it so say, there are many different sorts of energy-state beings. Still, the basics are well-established. Some of the spells to summon and contain the more powerful demons use symbols and glyphs in what may be an appropriate magical script. They might be altered and combined to work on an angel.”
“You say summon and contain, but how about control?” she asked. I rubbed my temples for a moment, thinking.
“Okay, a bit of postgraduate specialty work. Ready?”
“Hit me, Master of the Dark Arts. Use small words, though.”
“Demon-summoning spells—of which there are, pardon me, one hell of a lot—come in two major flavors. There are demonic summoning spells to call up whatever happens to be available. Different spells look for different characteristics, of course. You can get something big and strong to move heavy things, or something sleek and fast if you need a temporary steed, or something dripping acidic slime if you’re into that sort of thing.
“The other type is for summoning Big Things. Smart Things. Powerful, wish-granting, Mephistophelean Things. Devils, if you like, rather than demons. Those spells are for Things you can summon to you, but might be better off not bothering—Things you might not be able to send back. There’s a reason for the First Rule of Summoning: Never call up what you cannot put down.”
“I thought it was ‘Never summon anything bigger than your head.’”
“Also a good rule,” I agreed. “Now, the second type of spell—summoning devils, rather than demons—is normally written in specific symbols, rather than the usual magical diagrams. There’s a whole alphabet of stuff specifically for summoning, binding, and banishing these sorts of creatures. Diogenes has collected magical lore from every world that has any, and I’ve brought back a respectable amount of information from worlds with no internet, interweb, cybernet, or variation thereof. He’s done most of the legwork in correlating and sorting out the common elements of all of that.”
“So that’s why he has a mystic library!”