I caught up with him, and both of us caught up with Brand. I only stepped on three twigs, though each of them made a sound like a finger snap.
The air was rich with the scent of wet earth, heavy with mineral and chemical nutrients. The season was set at autumn. The foliage was different from Nantucket’s blaze of New England colors—the oversized trees here were mostly shades of orange—but no less beautiful for it.
“This is a simulacrum of Italy,” Addam said. “Piedmont region. You mentioned the Hanged Man farmed truffles?”
“Truffles cost a lot of money,” I said, remembering that much from watching The Smurfs when I was a kid.
“The price goes up exponentially the larger the whole mushroom. That must be why everything here is on a large scale. You can do that with a biosphere. He would make well over ten thousand American dollars for a mushroom over two pounds.”
“Have you eaten ghost caterpillar mushrooms?” Brand accused.
“I know you well enough to avoid questions asked in that tone of voice,” Addam said. “Rune will simply say scion and scoff. You will say fucking scion and roll your eyes.”
Brand rolled his eyes anyway.
“There,” I whispered, and pointed. A flagstone path led from the northern wall to the apparent center of the massive atrium. The flagstones, from my perspective, were streaked with glowing, violet patterns that alternated between footprints and drag marks. “The signal is strong. That’s good. Layne has been taken through here within the last day or two, maybe? They go that way.”
As we walked, Brand ejected one cartridge from his gun, chose another, and slapped it into the stock. He was wearing his special ammo holster, lined with gun cartridges marked with different chalk symbols.
He aimed the gun upwards and pulled the trigger. There was a barely audible, pneumatic hsss, but no powder flash. He pulled out his phone, opened an app, and grunted. “About eleven stories.”
“That makes sense,” I said. “Quinn and Max said there would be at least three different biospheres.”
“I wonder if they are all human habitats?” Addam asked. “There were some rather . . . odd types of fungi in Atlantis. Not unlike those in the Westlands.”
“That means they’re going to try to fucking eat us,” Brand said. “Heads up. Look ahead.”
I spotted glass through the foliage, which reflected the dull, fake sunshine. We made our way toward it until the outline of a round glass room came into focus. Through the window, I saw racks of clothing and gear, including helmets with mosquito netting, fur coats, and thin, blouse-like lab coats made of wicking material.
The flagstone path led to a sliding door. There was a heavy concentration of violet images here, including clear fingerprints along the rim. Layne had been taken past that door.
Calling on my willpower, I gathered the Tracking spell in my mind and pumped it with more energy. The violet path flared brighter: splotches appeared inside the glass room, and trailed upwards into thin air, vanishing into the mist.
“This is an elevator,” I said in surprise. “It’s an elevator.”
Addam pressed a button by the side of the door, and a panel slid open with a sci-fi whoosh.
“How good is your Tracking spell?” Brand asked. “We don’t have time to search every floor—or jungle or swamp or whatever the hell is above us.”
“I should be able to tell the exit point where Layne left the elevator.”
Brand walked into the elevator, and we followed. The lift controls were in the exact center of the glass room, like the bridge of a ship. Brass tubes and glass-faced dials gave it a decidedly steampunk vibe, which was puffed-up artifice, because the spell-work powering the elevator was as basic as mass levitation.
I pulled a lever toward me, and the elevator grinded like I was stripping the gears of a stick shift. I reversed the direction, and the elevator shuddered again, but with the buoyancy of ascension.
We began to rise.
We passed into the cloudbank at about the ninth story, which turned out to be a thinner layer than I’d expected. In a moment we’d breached it, and were close to a cement ceiling. It was dominated by a burning glass orb filled with the energy of nuclear fusion. We shielded our eyes against it as, above us, an aperture opened like an iris.
The elevator slid upwards into the space between floors. It was about two stories in height, and filled with the same sort of cylinders and pipework we’d seen in the basement level. The violet streaks of Layne’s passing continued upwards, so I didn’t slow our ascent.
Another hole spun open above us, and we passed into the second biosphere.
Even in the sterile air-conditioning, the raw force of desert heat pressed in on us. This biosphere was a wasteland—a blistering furnace of land where the distant walls shimmered with mirage heat. The terrain was studded with sand dunes and rocks, and interspersed with stands of spiny trees fighting for survival among the inhospitality.
“Please tell me Layne isn’t out there,” Brand said.
Above us were three glass suns. It was almost impossible to make out the purple tracers through the furious brightness, so I had to close my eyes and feel the trail with other senses.
“He isn’t. Up,” I finally said.
“Small fucking favors,” Brand sighed.
We rose toward the scorching suns. Shielding our eyes wasn’t enough by then—we had to throw our arms around our heads and hope the elevator was smart enough to carry us through the next hatch. I felt it when we passed into the next machinery level. Darkness pulled across our faces like ice on a sunburn.
I blinked away sundogs. The purple trail was back, and rose above our heads, so I didn’t slow the elevator.
Until the elevator slowed itself.
“What’s happening?” Brand asked.
“I don’t know. I didn’t touch anything.”
The lights dimmed. We heard a gas-like hiss. Our Night Vision readjusted to the darkness. I hovered a hand above one of my sigils, ready to blast our way through one of the glass walls.
“Not gas,” Addam murmured from a bank of equipment in a corner of the room. “I believe . . . I know this. Lord Chariot has a deep-sea vessel that uses something similar. We’re pressurizing.”
The hissing stopped, and the ceiling iris opened. We ascended through a layer of metal—much thicker than the flooring between the last two biospheres. For the briefest of moments I heard the crash of water against the roof of the elevator, and then we were completely submerged.
“I can’t see anything,” Brand swore.
“Night Vision requires some light,” Addam said. “This biosphere mimics the deep places in our oceans.”
“Tell me this isn’t the stupidest thing I’ve ever let you do,” Brand said to me.
“You should feel free to use the I voice sometimes. Like, I was the first person to step on the elevator.”
“Whatever,” Brand said. “Are we stopping here? I don’t want to stop here.”
“Don’t worry. Still up.”
Brand swore under his breath, a grateful sound. The elevator rose at least five more stories, then there was a chunk as we came abreast of another structure. Reflexively, I pulled the elevator to a stop, and whispered a light cantrip.
We had docked with a small facility, a clear glass room not unlike the elevator itself. It contained diving suits embroidered with runes and rows of special tools. There was a short hallway attached to the facility that may have been an airlock, because attached to the other end was a small submarine. An actual bloody submarine, big enough for four people.
“I thought you said Lord Tower and other Arcana forced the Hanged Man into reduced circumstances,” Brand said.
“He did.”
“If this is what the Tower calls poor, we need to invite him over to Half House for a fucking sleepover. He can sleep on the floor, between the broken washing machine and the milk crates I use for shelves.” Brand came over and pulled the lever for me, sending us toward the
next ceiling. As it had below, the elevator ground to a halt before connecting with the aperture. There was another hiss of gas as the pressurization rebalanced us to sea level.
The next biosphere was a murky swamp so choked with massive, steaming megaflora that it brushed the glass walls, leaving sticky trails of sap. “Still up,” I said, as we rose toward a six-story canopy.
“There can’t be more than one biosphere left,” Addam said. “The building was under sixty floors, yes?”
“There was a dome structure on the roof, too,” Brand added. He shook his head. “We need to start looking in the last place more often.”
“But don’t the villains rarely make their lair in penthouses?” Addam asked, too innocently to completely hide the little needle.
Brand cut a dirty look at Addam as we passed into another machinery level. Above it, the ceiling yawned open to a strange blue sky—more like a child’s watercolor version of a summer day than actual atmosphere.
“Here!” I said sharply, and pulled on the lever. The elevator ignored my command for a second, as it sought alignment with the floor of the biosphere.
Around us was a grassy slope surrounded by that fake blue sky. A single false sun was a marble-sized dot above us. The purple Tracking spell left the elevator, thick and fresh, into the rough grass outside.
“Cold,” Addam said, touching the wall of the elevator. “This would be the biosphere for the ghost caterpillar mushrooms. High altitude.”
“Fuck me,” Brand said, squeezing his eyes closed. “I didn’t even think—we’ll be at a disadvantage. Oxygen levels.”
“The Tracking spell is a straight shot up that slope,” I said. “I think there’s a building there. The Hanged Man’s people would be just as much at a physical disadvantage as we would—I bet that building has better air.”
I went over to the door and pressed the button. It hissed into its recessed slot, and cold air tripped over itself in a rush to freeze the tip of my nose.
The fake mountaintop was desolate—just scrubby grass and trees; false blue sky; distant, cool sunlight. The deep breath I took felt like I was inhaling through a straw. It barely filled my lungs.
Brand was facing the other direction. He said, “Fucking unicorn my ass.”
I turned and saw . . . not a unicorn. Grazing at the bottom of the slope was a creature not unlike a fur-covered castle siege engine with a massive, sharp tusk jutting from its head. The tusk alone was the size of a small automobile.
“What is it?” Addam breathed.
“I’m fairly sure it’s a dinosaur,” I said. I decided, since it was a uniquely new sentence in the history of all my sentences, to repeat, “It’s a dinosaur.”
“Did we know dinosaurs still exist?” Brand asked.
“Only the ones with magic. Unless . . . Maybe it was summoned? Or it could be a—”
Brand’s pocket began vibrating. He pulled out his phone, glanced at the screen, and swiped a thumb over the speaker button. “Corinne,” he said.
“We’re coming up,” she said. “There’s—”
“No,” Addam insisted immediately. “Do not go through the biospheres. You are not warded with spells like we are.”
“There’s a private elevator in the corner. Quinn says we’ll be okay if we take it. It goes straight to the roof, and he says he thinks Layne is there. You need to be careful, though—you’re being st—”
A flurry of sparks shot out of the phone. Brand tossed it away just as actual flames licked up the side of it. Thin smoke and the stench of burning plastic hung in the air.
“Defensive or offensive?” Brand demanded, looking at me. Shorthand for whether we’d blundered into a defense ward, or whether something or someone had us in its crosshairs.
“Don’t know,” I said, doing a 360. “We’re being stuh. Stuh? What do you think she was saying?”
“I do not want Quinn and Max in this building,” Addam said anxiously. “We must call them back.”
I started to reach into my pocket for my phone. The air above me swirled with thick smoke, and I was lifted off the ground. Coarse, wiry arms pinched my own arms to my side. The world flashed dark and then light, striated with a vibrancy that felt like it was supposed to be color, a rainbow on an old black-and-white television set.
The arms let me go. I crashed back onto grass—not the sparse mountain covering, but a rich, carpet-like lawn. I rolled onto my back while shaking my sabre loose. It transformed into hilt shape so fast that the metal burned dully in my palms.
Nothing.
The Night Vision was gone—I was far enough away from Addam that the source of the spell had snapped loose.
I scrambled to my feet, swinging my sabre in a W-shape, trying to catch all the cardinal points. All I could see was the lawn beneath me, and a crown of stars that stretched from horizon to heaven. They were slightly blurred—a hairline refraction that made me think of a Shield spell. Brand had mentioned a dome on the rooftop.
I whispered a new light cantrip, and sent the single ball of light spinning away at enough of a distance to minimize the target it presented. I counted out thirty Mississippis, then made the light cantrip fly around in a wide circle. Its path drew shapes out of shadows, revealing a marble pavilion to my extreme left.
“At ease, Brand, at ease,” I whispered, feeling his panic through our bond. It wasn’t telepathy, but if he calmed down enough he’d know I wasn’t in immediate danger. I stood there like that for just a minute, taking measured breaths, until I felt our Companion bond go frosty with Brand’s resolve. He and Addam would come after me.
Since having a roof over my head would reduce points of ambush, I moved toward it. The pavilion was a solid twenty feet in diameter, with walls that alternated between open windows and stone wall space. Paintings, encased in plastic, hung at eye level.
I summoned a second light cantrip, gliding it across wicker furniture, a potted plant, thin tapestry serving as a floor covering.
The encased paintings looked like a child’s finger paints, only the redbrown brushstrokes were bodily fluids, not paint. It was called plague art. Viral imagery done in blood, shit, pus, and semen. A plaque at the bottom of one read Ebola, a second said Marburg.
The pulverized pebbles in the potted plant were not decorative stone, either; they were bone. I was certain the rug was woven from human hair.
This, then, would be the Hanged Man’s personal space.
I heard a snap of displaced air—the sound of large, beating wings— followed by a soft susurrating glide.
For a moment, my brain whirred like a slot machine, until magic aligned with physical form and prehistoric familiars formed a winning, clattering combination.
I stalked back into the open, gathering the two light cantrips and sending them spinning above my head. I whispered a few more cantrips, and created lenses of air that I set in the air around me. Then I slowly leaned my head back until I was staring into the stars.
At the edge—by the hazy refraction of the force field—I spotted something large and hovering.
“You’re just the pet monster of a monster,” I said. “Too scared to take me on directly. You think you’re boxing me in a corner? I’ve lived in corners since I was fifteen years old.”
I gathered my light cantrips while summoning two more, and then lined all four with the lenses. Addam’s little trick, fattened with my own magical ability. The resulting effect sent searchlights in four separate directions, an expanding nova, clear and white.
The creature flying at the apex of the invisible dome was older than sentience, which is probably why it had a penchant for prehistoric guardians. Raw magic ran through its veins, with a special affinity for air. It was humanoid, but covered in brown fur. Its wings were thick and fleshy, covered with sable like the arm membranes of gliding rodents.
“I haven’t seen an ifrit in a dog’s age,” I said. “You must have messed up pretty bad to be accepting the commands of someone like the Hanged Man.”
&nb
sp; The ifrit chittered and hissed at me. It glided out of sight, ducking behind a structure to the north of the lawn. I lowered my eyes to follow its progress, which is when I felt the tug of magic in the back of my brain. The Tracking spell.
I looked at the lawn and saw a torrent of violet lines—a tangled skein of running footsteps, and short staggers, and drag marks. And in the center of all that purple, I saw . . .
“Oh,” I said, but softly, less a gasp than a gut punch.
I waved away the bright lenslights and stretched Shield over me— it’d buy me seconds if the ifrit attacked. I sent the light cantrips ahead, lighting up the path between me and the body I now saw lying on the lawn.
I walked toward it. It was probably the most peaceful minute of the night. Cool autumn air; a sky jammed with stars; half a football field’s worth of grass as thick as moss.
But each stepped robbed me of denial, until finally I was staring down at the ruined body of Layne Dawncreek.
His clothes were shredded. He had red, swollen gash marks on his face. A rusty stain on his shirt hinted at a horrific chest wound. His hair was greasy and clumped with dirt and grass. He smelled like vomit and shit.
I looked over my shoulder, at the railing of the pavilion. I imagined the Hanged Man watching as Layne was harried across the lawn by summoned beasts.
Behind me, something chimed—the sanitized sound of department stores and office buildings. The darkness parted as a recessed elevator opened in the wall. Brand was the first one off, gun pointed down. His eyes unerringly found mine. He led the group to me, which now included the boys and Corinne.
“Brand, no,” I called out. “You should stay there. Keep everyone there.”
But Corinne was staring at the ground past me. She did not stop walking.
Brand whispered something to Addam and the others, and they maintained a distance. I met Corinne before she could get too close, but adrenaline had turned her strides into steel. She pushed past me and kept her eyes fixed on the body.
“There’s an ifrit in the vicinity,” I told her.
She nodded, but didn’t hear me.
The Hanged Man Page 22