by Kevin Hearne
“Did you…? Forgive me for asking, but after the accident, did you spend some time adrift? Unmoored, purposeless, and just, I don’t know, unsure how to get under way again?”
[I did. Months of grieving and depression. It comes back and flattens me from time to time, years later.]
“So it’s normal.”
[Very normal.] She had frozen, staring at me, her eyes welling a little bit. I nudged the full box to her and a tear spilled out of her right eye, which she dashed away before clasping her arms around the box.
“Right. Work to do.”
She was off, because she knew how to work and it had doubtless been what had gotten her through the intervening years, but I knew she’d be back with another question.
“Does it get easier?” she said when she returned.
[Grief is never easy. But it gets softer around the edges, smoothed over like a river rock given time enough and water. It’s still a rock and it’s heavy and dangerous and capable of hurting you. Just not immediately to the touch, if that makes sense.]
She sniffled and curled her arms around the new box like she was hugging something important. “That sounds like a true thing,” she murmured. “Thank you.”
I nodded and busied myself with clearing off the last of the items from the grey metal shelves bolted to the interior of the van, because it was a true thing I knew too well. It was odd how someone’s absence could feel so heavy. Some days I missed Josephine so much I could barely walk, and if I dwelled on her now, I might lose track of what needed to be done today. With the shelves emptied, I realized that they were an obstacle in themselves. Getting those out would be a hassle.
A loud but muffled clanking of glass alerted me that someone had returned. That, and ragged breathing.
“Gods below, ol’ man!” Buck said, sagging next to a pair of very full shopping carts. “Is this what it feels like tae be old?”
[No,] I said. [It’s mostly low-level joint pain and unwelcome ear hair.]
“Aw, man, I don’t—” he gasped. “Don’t know. How I can finish this. Must…fortify!” He plucked a bottle of whisky out of one cart and popped it open, pouring some down his throat. He choked, coughed, and laughed. “Ah ha! Ha ha haaa! Fire in the hole! Yeah. That’ll do it. Some more would be good.” He repeated the exercise and spat out half of it, but he was able to stand up straight afterward. “Awright. Way I see it, the major difficulty we have left are those shelves and that wall separating the cargo area from the cab. We gotta get them outta there.”
He raised his hand, and with a spung! and scream of sheared metal, the shelves were abruptly gone, as was the panel separating the cab from the cargo space. A crash from the neighbor’s yard a moment later announced where he had teleported them. He wobbled and fell on his back after that.
[Buck!]
“Oh, my gods, did you seriously dump shelves in the neighbor’s yard? Like that’s not going to attract attention?” Ya-ping grumbled.
“Just get the whole shebang in the back and we’ll go. Fix it on the road,” Buck said. “Rugs first.”
He had several rolled-up lengths of carpet stashed in the shopping carts, and we spread those on the floor of the van before maneuvering the loveseat in there and then simply piling the rest of his ill-gotten goods inside. He was passed out on the loveseat when we got rolling in the general direction of the dead drop Ya-ping had mentioned. The apprentice brought her weapons, a few sigils, and some essentials, but she said we could stop to buy whatever else we needed on the way.
She turned in her seat to look back at the snoring hobgoblin, who was surrounded by a mess of fabric, scrap metal, tools, and a black metal bistro table on its side, as well as far more whisky than we could reasonably expect to consume in the next few days. Her eyes narrowed.
“I dislike drunken stupors,” she said, and held up a hand when I reached for my phone in an attempt to reply. “No need to comment. I’m sure you understand why. Just…maybe you can tell him, when you feel the time is right, that there are monsters lurking in that darkness he’s sleeping through. They’re waiting for their moment. And they’ll follow him into his waking hours and consume him if they can.”
I nodded. It was an easy promise to make, and to keep.
The drive to the dead drop would take a small amount of time, but we had a significant stop to make first.
[Where do I go to get some clothing more appropriate to this climate and what we’re walking into?] I asked Ya-ping.
“Kathmandu—I mean, not the actual city in Nepal, but a chain store that sells outdoor gear down here. It’s in Knox City. I’ll give you directions.”
It was a pleasant drive there, and while it was the sort of modern western suburbia one finds in many places, I cannot express how wildly different Melbourne was from Glasgow in every shred of affect. The sandstone tenements were missing, the pavements looked strange without cigarette butts mashed into them, and simply existing outdoors felt like being put inside a kiln that could bake my bodily clay to a dry ceramic if it wanted to, but it was too relaxed right now to put in the effort.
The establishment itself was located in a business zone with a strip of stores on either side. It had large floor-to-ceiling windows with painted bits in a pink-grapefruit color shouting about what else shoppers might find if they just walked through the door, but you could spy some fit mannequins modeling clothes inside and figure there would be more of the same. We got plenty of stares when we exited the van, which Buck appreciated.
“That’s right, Aussies,” he said. “Ma wizard van is the dug’s bollocks.”
“Bollocks is a good word,” Ya-ping agreed, and entered the store ahead of Buck’s retort. It was an open space with racks of merchandise, circular racks of poufy jackets and rugged shirts, and a wall full of hiking boots opposite the checkout, which was backed by a panoramic photo of a likely rock-climbing site beneath a deep-blue sky. If you bought some gear, the photo suggested, why, you could just go jump around on those rocks like you’ve always wanted. We were there to do as the photo suggested.
Buck was disappointed that the children’s section didn’t have anything in black, but I didn’t know why he expected anything else.
[Goths don’t hike very much, Buck,] I said.
“How could ye possibly know that?”
[I’ve known Nadia a good long while. The only hiking she does is around the necropolis. She drapes herself artfully over tombstones for Instagram photos and wears platform shoes with unnecessary buckles on them. That’s a nice day outdoors for her. Now, what you see here are brightly colored clothes for children so that their parents can spot them easily in the bush when they wander off. The only black clothing you’ll find here is for men who like to think it’s tactical.]
“Gods below, ye don’t have tae be so smug about it.”
He was probably correct, but I went ahead and felt smug anyway.
We got outfitted for a walkabout, with field jackets and khakis and boots and thick socks and so on. I basically asked an employee how I could leave the store with as many pockets as possible and bought items accordingly. Ya-ping did the same, but she also asked to know where the mozzy gear was, which completely bewildered Buck and me.
“Which gear?” my hobgoblin asked.
“Mosquitoes,” she explained. “Shorten a noun, put a y or an o at the end of it, and you’ll understand most of Aussie slang.”
We caused a raised eyebrow by asking to leave the store wearing our new purchases but were allowed to do so, and we spent a few minutes secreting sigils, pens, and inkpots in our clothing before moving on. I carefully folded then rolled my topcoat into my new pack, for while I wouldn’t be wearing the coat in this heat, I couldn’t bear to part with it. Buck spent the time grousing that khaki should be illegal, looking down despondently at his muted outfit. I cheered him up by walking him down a few doors to a p
lace called Gami Chicken & Beer. We got some Korean fried chicken to go, and he sounded pleased again until he fell asleep on the loveseat in the back, exhausted by his exertions on the van thus far and the enervating effects of consumerism.
The paved expanse of the suburbs dwindled to narrower roads as we hit wine country, and then it got greener and livelier as we hit farmland and pollinators chirped and buzzed in robust health. Cattle lowed in pastures, and occasionally there were some goats or alpacas ruminating on this and that.
Buck awoke from his power nap before we reached Healesville, and we tried to ignore the sounds of grunting, pounding, and clanking coming from the rear as he began to work on his wizard interior.
“I cannae match the glory of that altarpiece Nadia has in hers, but I’m gonnay have a run at this and make it the finest I can on short notice,” he said. “Ye know, MacBharrais, I bet we could start a profitable side business in wizard vans if ye wanted. Think about it, awright? Because I bet ye can launder a suitcase or ten fulla cash through a business like that.”
I blinked in surprise, because he had a point. We could indeed launder money effectively through a garage. Parts and labor and custom alterations were ripe for exploitation. I’d have to run the concept by Nadia.
A bright-green field dotted with contented cows beckoned to me to come rest with them, like the lotus-eaters of the Odyssey, who encouraged Odysseus to sigh and be satisfied. A hitchhiker on the side of the road ahead caused me to check oncoming traffic to see if I could stray over the dividing line to give them a wide berth, but then I took a closer look at who had their thumb out into the wind. It wasn’t a typical hitchhiker, whose fashion landed somewhere on the scale from forgotten dog-chew-toy to Army surplus. It was a well-groomed middle-aged woman in sensible tweed. She wore heels, stockings, a feathered bonnet, and large sunglasses with thick white rims. And she was on my payroll.
It was Gladys Who Has Seen Some Shite.
I pulled over shortly after passing her location and caught her smirking in the rearview mirror as she began to walk to catch up.
Snatching up my phone, I typed, [How the hell did Gladys Who Has Seen Some Shite get here so fast?] There was absolutely no way an international flight from Scotland could have made it to Melbourne in two hours, allowing my receptionist to mysteriously appear to hitch a ride on the precise road we were traveling. I twisted around in my seat to let Buck know my question was really addressed to him. The hobgoblin looked bewildered, as if the answer should be obvious.
“Ye mean ye don’t know what she is?”
[I thought she was my Canadian receptionist.]
“Aye, sure, that’s the truth, ol’ man, but she’s more than that. She’s also a Canadian receptionist.”
[What else is she, then?]
The hobgoblin shrank back, clutching a stolen whisky bottle in one hand and placing the other over his heart. He replied in a subdued tone, “It’s no ma place tae say. Either she tells ye or no one does. But this isnae good.”
[Why not?]
“The only reason Gladys Who Has Seen Some Shite would bother tae come here is tae see some more shite. And I don’t mean scenery, awright? Sumhin’s gonnay happen. This might be why she’s been slumming it in yer office all this while.”
Slumming it? I didn’t get a chance to inquire further, because three smart raps on the back door announced her arrival. Buck opened the rear door and my receptionist beamed at him. “G’day, Mr. Foi. Kind of you to stop.”
He bowed briefly and extended a hand to help her up into the back, then gestured grandly to the stolen showroom loveseat.
“Thank you,” she said. “Hello, Mr. MacBharrais. And hello to you,” she added, nodding at Ya-ping. “I’m Gladys.”
“I’m Ya-ping. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Gladys.”
She smiled beatifically and crossed her legs, adjusting the hem of her skirt over her knees. “It’s all mine.”
“Can I get ye a dram?” Buck asked, his tone solicitous. “I have many fine whiskies here.”
“That sounds wonderful. Something Speyside if you have it, please, but don’t worry if you don’t. I’ll drink whatever you think is best.”
“Right ye are!” My hobgoblin immediately dove into his hoard of purloined whiskies to find the perfect dram for my receptionist, giving me an opportunity to ask a question.
[Gladys, how did you get here so quickly?]
“Well, sir, I was motivated, don’tcha know. I’ve been wanting to take a vacation for ever so long.”
[But getting here that fast is impossible.]
“Oh, surely not, Mr. MacBharrais. I mean, here we all are. Isn’t this cozy?”
A cold thrill of fear radiated from the base of my skull, where the lizard brain had woken in response to a surprise. It was the sensation one gets of suddenly spying something that has been in a blind spot for a long while, and its abrupt appearance was threat enough to pump adrenaline into the system and speed up the heart.
[Who are you really, Gladys? Buck tells me it’s more accurate to say you’re also Canadian.]
My receptionist turned her face to Buck, the pleasant expression briefly turning to steel, a flash of warning in her dark eyes. “I hope for your sake, hobgoblin, that you did not tell him what I am.”
“Naw, miss, nae danger! I know it’s for you tae say or no as ye please.” His politeness in the face of such a direct challenge chilled me more than anything else thus far. It occurred to me that Buck had not once tried to mess with Gladys since he’d come to be in my service. I had thought in passing it was because she wasn’t enough of a challenge, but now I saw that I was mistaken. She obviously was going to dodge any direct questions about her true identity, but this deference my hobgoblin paid to her was similar to what he would reserve for a god, so that made me wonder.
[Tell me, Gladys: Are you the one who cursed me?]
She smiled. “Oh, no, sir. I don’t even dabble in such things as curses.”
I wanted to ask what she did dabble in but supposed she’d say something vague in reply, and I had a specific follow-up in any case: [Do you know who did, then?]
“No, sir. I’m truly curious about that myself. I’m waiting to see what happens when you find out who it is. Ah, thank you, Mr. Foi,” she said, as Buck handed her a finger of Balvenie DoubleWood neat in a stolen rocks glass he’d torn from a swaddling of bubble wrap.
She took a sip and sighed appreciatively while I typed. [Whenever you’re ready to tell me what else you are in addition to Canadian, I’m ready to hear it.]
“Understood. I’m not ready for that yet, sir. I’ll understand if you want to fire me now.”
[I do not want that. I want you to be safe. What we’re heading into could be dangerous.]
“Ha! I certainly hope so. It’s an awfully long way to come if it’s no more interesting than running out for groceries.”
[I might not be able to protect you,] I said, aware that I probably sounded unnecessarily patriarchal.
Gladys tittered. “There’s absolutely no need for that, Mr. MacBharrais. Let me put your mind at ease: Once we get to this place you’re going, I’ll get out and disappear and you won’t give me another thought. I’m very Canadian in that regard.”
[Wait: You’ll disappear?]
“I’m not sure you’ll see me again until you’re back at the office, eh? If you get back.”
Buck stopped breathing and I said, [Gods below, that was an ominous afterthought.]
“Oh? Oh! I’m sorry, Mr. MacBharrais. You’re right, that wasn’t a very sensitive thing for me to say, was it? I’d buy you a maple-frosted apology donut right now if I could. Or a can of Moosehead if you weren’t driving. I’m sure it’ll be—I mean I’m certain that you’ll be—well. You might be fine.”
[I might be?]
“Yes, I’m absolutely positive that you mi
ght. But if you dwell on how you might not, then that could affect your readiness to meet the mortal peril ahead.”
[What?]
“It’s why I showed up on the road to get a ride. Didn’t want to land smack in the middle of an abattoir. Best to approach that mess from the outside.”
[What kind of mess?]
“A deadly one. You know what Canadians do to take their minds off mortal peril? They talk about hockey. We could do that.”
My enigmatic receptionist clearly wanted to steer the conversation elsewhere, so I put the van in gear and steered us back onto the road to Healesville.
Buck said, “But aren’t Canadians always talking about hockey?”
“Well, there’s a lot of mortal peril in Canada, so it works out, doesn’t it? I’ll tell you what isn’t working out: the Toronto Maple Leafs’ second and third lines. Am I right? There’s just no balance to their roster, and they don’t have a decent forecheck. If they’re ever gonna beat the degens from the States, they gotta get that figured out.”
“Degens?” Buck asked.
“Degenerates, Mr. Foi. Like your mother.”
We all gasped aloud in surprise, including Buck, but then the hobgoblin laughed until he had tears streaming down his cheeks.
“Tits and biscuits, ol’ man, we have tae talk hockey with Gladys more often!”
Ya-ping wasn’t laughing, and my hobgoblin noticed.
“Wot? Did I say sumhin wrong? Was it the tits or the biscuits?”
“No, it’s just that I don’t think I can talk about hockey very well,” she said. “I haven’t studied that game yet. But I agree that sports are an excellent distraction that allows people to avoid talking about anything real. I can pretend to care about footy if you want. I can drape the words around me like social camouflage and seem cool while concealing my tender nerd feelings. Here, I’ll show you: What do you guys think about the Hawks’ prospects next season? I think it’s obvious they’ve got to find a decent small forward somewhere, and it’d be nice if someone taught the back line what pressure means; otherwise…Nope, sorry, I’ve already lost interest.”