by T. A. Pratt
“Making good progress, then?” Jason stepped in past him. Rondeau followed suit, nodding at the other man, who regarded him without comment or greeting. The inside of the building was dark and dirty, an oil-stained concrete floor littered with bits of broken machinery, and a huge crate squatted in the middle of the space. The thing was easily three feet to a side, square, made of wood so old it looked petrified, and studded all over with rusty steel bolts. There were no hinges or other obvious means to open it, and the impression of permanent closure was enhanced by the black iron chains wrapped all around it, the links big enough to support an anchor for a medium-sized boat. Various mystical symbols were hacked into the wood beneath the chains, though they were oddly generic-looking, pentagrams and the sort of runes you could find etched on polished rocks at New Age bookstores.
“Good God!” Jason said. “We're gonna need a fork-lift to move that thing!”
“Eh, it's only about a hundred and fifty pounds. You said make it big and solid. And watch it with taking the Lord's name in vain, you asshole.” The sweaty man scowled.
“Sorry, Danny.” Jason walked around the crate, nodding appreciatively, prodding it with his toe. “This is good work. You came through again.” He glanced over at Rondeau. “Ronnie, this is Danny Two Saints. Danny, this is Ronnie. He works for my sister.”
“Oh, yeah? You a big spooky magician, too?”
“Just a humble tavern keeper.” Rondeau cocked his head. “Danny Two Saints? Funny name.”
“I never stop laughing,” Danny said.
“Why do they call you that?”
“Because I'm so motherfucking pious.”
Jason laughed. “Don't give him a hard time, Danny, he's good people. Danny got that name because when he was born, his head came out a few seconds before midnight, and the rest of him came out a few seconds after midnight, so his mom couldn't figure out which saint's day he'd actually been born on. Eventually she said he split the difference, and that means he's watched over by two saints. Given some of the shit he's gotten away with, she might've been right.”
“Nothing compared to the shit Jason's pulled.” Danny seemed to warm up a little—because Jason had vouched for Rondeau? “Having a couple of saints looking over your shoulder's nice, but Jason's got the devil's own luck.”
“Which two saints?” Rondeau asked.
Danny laughed. “Most folks don't ask that. Peter Chrysologus and Ignatius of Loyola. Why, you Catholic?”
“Only in the sense of having broad tastes. I'm just nosy. Which is why I'm wondering—what's in the box?”
Jason crouched by the box and thumped it with his knuckles. “The Borrichius spores.”
Rondeau waited, but nothing more was forthcoming. “What are those?”
“I thought you were into this whole fake mystical magical woo-woo shit,” Danny said.
Rondeau shrugged. “I play along, but I've never heard of the…. whatever spores.”
“That's okay,” Jason said, “because Cam-Cam will have heard of them. I'll make sure of it. And once he does hear about them, he'll be desperate to get his filthy-rich hands on them. Not for the spores themselves, but for the corridors of power they'll open to him. They're a very sought-after commodity, you know, rare and expensive, and big-shot wizards will fall at his feet once they're in his possession.”
“So where'd you get them?”
Danny laughed. “Get what? Imaginary magic shit? From the imaginary magic-shit store. And from the sweat of my brow. That box, which I built from scrap and scratch, has got a welded metal box inside it, and inside that there's nothing but a ton of padding and a sealed bucket full of sand and seawater, plus a lead pipe.”
Jason stood up, grinning like a wolf in a Tex Avery cartoon. “The sand and pipe and water are an homage to a scam some guys pulled in France during the Cold War, the bonbonne d'uranium. They sold a box of rocks and sand and water to a baron who thought he was buying nuclear material to help fight the communists. It was kind of my inspiration for this.” He kicked the box.
“Now we just have to make Cam-Cam want to buy them.”
“So, what, we arrange a meeting, let him know we've got them for sale, and… ?”
Danny Two Saints clucked his tongue. “Jason, what'd you bring this amateur in here for? He's going to blow the whole thing.”
Jason shook his head. “Nah, Ronnie's all right, he's got the grift sense, I can tell. He just needs a few pointers. See, Ronnie, you never try to sell a mark anything. You make the mark come begging to buy it. If somebody calls you up and says, ‘Have I got a deal for you,’ you hang up the phone. But if you hear about some amazing deal, and you try to chase it down, and they say, ‘Oh, sorry, this is very exclusive, you don't qualify,’ pretty soon you start shoving wads of cash at them, begging for the privilege to buy in. That's basic salesmanship. Like, at your nightclub, don't you keep a guy out front to let people in, and make sure he turns some people away?”
“Of course.” Rondeau nodded, seeing the connection. “Nothing attracts a crowd like a crowd. A nightclub without a long line in front, a club anybody can get into, probably isn't worth getting into, right? Being all-inclusive is bad for business.”
“See, Danny?” Jason beamed. “I told you he's got a natural sense for these things.”
“How do you make Cam-Cam beg for it, then?”
Jason shrugged. “Word got around I was in town, and that I'm Marla Mason's brother. Maybe I hinted I'm doing a little work in the family business. Turns out Cam-Cam is a big fan of my sister, but she won't give him the time of day, won't acknowledge he exists—hell, he's never even seen her up close. He's been trying to arrange a meeting with me for days, and I keep ducking his calls. He's pretty eager at this point, so I dropped him a note telling him I'd come around his place this afternoon if I've got a minute. How'd you like to come with me?”
“Ah.” Rondeau sighed. “Marla said it was going to be like that. That I'd pretty much be a prop to make your scam more convincing.”
“I won't deny you'll be useful to me, Ronnie. But I wouldn't have brought you in on this if I didn't think highly of your potential. I've got other means of convincing Cam-Cam, believe me. After all, I just have to make him believe I'm Marla Mason's brother, and I am—I don't even have to make him believe a lie.”
“Quit being offended and start getting rich,” Danny Two Saints said, lighting a cigar with a welding torch. “We're gonna cut you in.”
He'd get paid, just for being himself? Rondeau was good at being himself—better than anybody else in the world. “Sure. You really just want me to stand around looking like an associate of Marla's?”
“That's the main thing,” Jason said. “But how about I give you a couple of lines to slip into the conversation, just to make sure you don't get bored?”
“Welcome to the Heights.” Marla got out of the Bentley and gestured at the Chamberlain's mansion. Though the Chamberlain would insist it wasn't her mansion—she was merely a servant to the ghosts of the founding families of Felport who dwelled there.
B whistled. “I've spent a fair bit of time in mansions—for a while there, I even lived in one—but nothing like this.”
“It was an English country house, brought over here and reassembled brick by brick.” She paused. “I never understood that expression. How else are you going to reassemble a giant-ass house? Look at those gables. And the columns! I hate this place.” She sighed. “Come on, we'd better go in.” Marla led B up to the door and kicked it in lieu of knocking, as was her custom. She knew it was passive-aggressive, but didn't care. The Chamberlain and Marla had an uneasy relationship. They would have been enemies, maybe, if their goals weren't so complementary—of all the city's leading sorcerers, they were the two most concerned about preserving the prosperity and integrity of Felport itself. The city wasn't just a place they lived; it was a life's work. And, like two women in love with the same man, they inevitably clashed, despite—even because of—their shared passion.
The Chamberlain's butler opened the door and ushered Marla and B inside, leading them to the great house's library, a dark-paneled room crammed with orderly rows of volumes. Any existing windows had long since been sacrificed to make room for more shelving, which was for the best. Most of the books in the library were rare, and many were so old they shouldn't be exposed to sunlight anyway The high ceiling kept the space from feeling claustrophobic, and there was more than adequate lighting in the form of tall antique lamps on the floor and short ones on the tables. The Chamberlain wore an elegant black-and-white dress, practically casual-wear by her usual standards. Though when the woman rose from a wooden chair to greet them, Marla noted she was wearing high heels, as always. That alone illustrated the yawning chasm that existed between them. A sorcerer in heels. How could she run, kick, fight? She didn't. She had people do those sorts of things for her.
The Chamberlain was beautiful, but she was so sophisticated it wouldn't have mattered much if she were homely. “Marla, how nice to see you.” She glided in and air-kissed both Marla's cheeks. “Who's your friend?”
“My new apprentice, Bradley Bowman.”
A tiny line appeared in the Chamberlain's smooth forehead. “Forgive me. I must have made a scheduling error. I understood you were bringing him for his magic lesson two days from now. Unless you've brought him today for a lesson in… sartorial matters? I'm sure one of the valets would be happy to counsel him.”
She sounded so sweet, it was hard to take offense, but Marla always managed. “Okay, okay, we're filthy and disreputable. B doesn't get magic lessons today, you're right, he's just tagging along in an observational capacity, to learn how I handle the delicate act of negotiation.” Marla thought of punctuating that with a nice hearty belch, but decided it would be too juvenile.
“He isn't a lovetalker like your last apprentice, is he, brought to sway me into agreeing with your ridiculous plans?”
Crap. Marla hadn't realized the Chamberlain knew her last “apprentice” was one of the supernaturally charismatic types who could make people agree to anything. Joshua had been her secret weapon in delicate negotiations. Shame he'd turned out to be such an evil bastard. Marla tried for an airy tone. “Why, does B make your heart go pitter-pat and your panties melt? I practically had to pry the Bay Witch off him this morning, but no, he's not a lovetalker.”
“I understand he is a psychic. Some such have powers of mental domination, a skill that's in short supply in Felport these days. I am… understandably suspicious.” She turned to B, who'd been doing an admirable job of standing there quietly, a fine quality in an apprentice. “You used to be a film actor, isn't that right?”
B nodded affably “A lifetime ago.”
“Mmm. And you reached your modest level of fame through non-magical means? No… special charms?”
“No, ma'am. My charisma, such as it is, is strictly natural. Supernatural things kind of ruined my career—when I started seeing ghosts and monsters, it messed up my life. Hard to run your lines on set when you can see a parasitic demon sucking life energy from your director… and when you actually try to get rid of it and everybody thinks you were trying to choke your director to death, it suddenly becomes a lot harder to get more jobs. Even in commercials.”
“I see. Very well, he can join us in the discussion. Come along to my office.”
They followed the Chamberlain down a marble-floored hallway, her heels clicking as they went. B, bringing up the rear, tapped Marla on the shoulder. “Uh, Marla? There are some ghosts back here.”
“I should think so.” The Chamberlain didn't slow down or look back. “The ghosts of Felport's founding families all dwell here, and I am their servant. The fact that you sense their presence is some proof of your psychic abilities.”
“No, ah… They're here. Lots of them. Behind us. And what they're doing… What I mean to say is…”
Marla turned around, surveyed the scene in the hallway, and blinked. “They're fucking, Chamberlain. I'm surprised at you. Don't you know throwing orgies in the morning is gauche?”
A crowd of ghosts—who didn't look like ghosts at all, but like living people—were tearing off one another's garments and setting hungrily upon one another, their pale bodies filling the corridor from wall to wall, their thrashings knocking over a couple of tables and shattering doubtless priceless vases.
The Chamberlain gasped. “Ghosts! What is the meaning of this?”
One muttonchopped old lech in an unbuttoned waistcoat looked up from the two women beneath him and said, “I don't know how you're doing this, Chamberlain, but keep it up. Care to join us? We've been wondering about you for ages.”
Marla looked closely, but the Chamberlain's skin was too dark to show a blush. “How do they have enough substance for this?” Marla said. “I know they're more coherent than most ghosts, and they can even get a little corporeal on Founders’ Day, but having enough substance to push a glass off a table once in a while is a far cry from being… ah… solid enough to manage penetration. They look a lot more like flesh than ectoplasm, too.”
“I have no idea.” The Chamberlain fluttered her hands, and Marla was amazed to see Miss Perfect Poise at a total loss. “The founding families have always expressed a longing to enjoy the gratification of certain appetites denied them by death, but this is the first time they've managed to do it.”
The three of them regarded the grunting, heaving mass of ghostflesh for a moment. “It's a hell of a sight,” Marla said at length.
“I, ah, think it might be my fault.” B stared at his feet.
“Oh, right,” Marla said. “B here is an oracle generator, you know, bringing the potential into actuality? His presence tends to, hmm, excite any nearby supernatural particles. He's a signal booster for magic. It's never been quite this dramatic before, but then, he's never been around this many really coherent ghosties at once. I don't think we could've predicted it.” Though if I could have, I would've brought him here even sooner.
“In that case, I'm afraid I'll have to ask him to leave.” The Chamberlain's glower encompassed B, and Marla, and the disporting horde of horny ghosts. “I'll give him his magic lesson at some neutral location, where he won't be so likely to disrupt my household.”
Marla thought about digging her heels in, but in truth, a bunch of naked ghosts grunting and groping in the hallway did constitute a pretty serious distraction, and there was no telling what mischief the founding families would get into if they remained embodied—what long-suppressed appetites would they seek to satisfy next? “Be a little bitchier about it, why don't you,” Marla said. “It's not B's fault that he's bubbling over with power. Look at him bubble!”
“You might consider teaching him how to pop those bubbles, or at least keep them under control. Until then, he should go.” The Chamberlain stalked away toward her office.
“Sorry, you've gotta take a powder.” Marla patted B's shoulder. “Don't worry about it. Hell, seeing the look on her face was priceless. You can find your own way out? Feel free to take the car and drive around awhile. I'll call when I need a pickup. I wanted you to get acquainted with the city anyway.”
B nodded glumly. “I'm sorry. I keep fucking up. If I knew how to turn it off, I would, but this stuff just happens.”
Marla glanced after the Chamberlain. If Marla kept her waiting much longer, the negotiations would be a real bitch. “Don't sweat it, we'll work on it later.” She regretted giving B the quick brush-off—the guy was having a hard time, with his powers going haywire last night, and now this—but if he was going to be her apprentice, he'd have to get used to it. She wasn't the hand-holding type.
“You're the boss.” He walked away, and the ghosts cried out complaints as their temporary fleshiness subsided, leaving them with nothing but their old forms of airy nothing.
“Quit your bitching,” Marla said, and the founding fathers scowled at her while the founding mothers rearranged their spectral skirts. “If you guys behave yourselves, maybe I'll brin
g him back next Founders’ Day, okay?” The ghosts cheered her in their thin voices, and Marla went toward the Chamberlain's office.
B started the Bentley and began the long trek down the Chamberlain's winding driveway. “Well, you suck,” he told the reflection of his eyes in the rearview mirror. Being able to call up ghosts and monsters was undeniably useful under certain circumstances, but the Chamberlain was right—why didn't he have more control? Control had always been his problem. His lover had died overdosing on drugs B gave him, and if his psychic awakening hadn't ended his acting career, his self-destructive partying would have done the job eventually Since he'd become aware of the twilight world, he'd exerted a lot more willpower, eschewing even such mild stimulants as coffee in order to spare his oversensitive nerves, but sometimes he felt he was barely holding it together. That was why he'd wanted to be Marla's apprentice—she was made of control, and he wanted to learn how she'd gained such mastery of herself. But what if such mastery was inborn? What if B just didn't have it, and would never be more than an apprentice? He'd spent months under the tutelage of the legendary sorcerer Sanford Cole, but he still couldn't bring on his prophetic dreams at will, or make himself less attractive to ghosts, or read minds with any reliability He couldn't even summon oracles effectively anymore, it seemed, not since coming to Felport. His magic still controlled him.
B knew from his time as an actor that talent alone could only take you so far. Eventually, you had to back the talent up with more practical capabilities. But he'd only been Marla's student for a few days. If anyone could whip him into shape, it was her. He just hoped she wouldn't resort to actual whips.
B turned the car down the first major street he reached, thinking he might check out the outdoor Market Street Market Marla had told him about, when the landscape abruptly shifted around him. Buildings and traffic lights and other cars were replaced by a dense forest of sick-looking trees, dark and parasite-ridden. Every trunk was riddled with mushrooms in white, green, and yellow, clinging to the bark like a thousand leeches on a hundred bodies. B braked the Bentley hard, slamming to a stop, and heard blaring and horns and the crunch of metal around him, though he saw nothing but trees leaning under their fungal burdens. A vision. Somewhere around him there were other cars, shouting drivers, but this vivid hallucination hid them from view. Worst of all, it showed no signs of subsiding, and second-worst, he had no idea what the vision meant—he'd always needed an oracle to interpret those dreams, and now his oracles were malfunctioning.