“So much for doing this the quiet, easy way,” growled Jennifer.
I don’t know the precise order of things that happened. Jennifer shot at us, I took a bullet through my arm, and Griselda leaped over the edge of the rail with me, to what I assumed was my certain death. But she apparently managed to grab a line attached to a banner reading 11 YEARS OF ZOTH, which had been strung across the main floor. Suddenly there I was, in the arms of a harpy with black wings spread, swooping Douglas Fairbanks–style, in a graceful arc toward crowds of astonished, terrified, and amazed onlookers.
Bullets were flying at me, the ground was coming toward me, and blood was spraying out of my arm and into the crowd below. It was, impossibly, at this point that I knew everything would be all right. I was shouting—I suppose I wanted to get out some last words before I died—“I never thought my life would end this way.”
But I didn’t say that. I said, “I never thought my life would be this way.” (Or: I nwevah thwoth my wifth thwod be thith thway.) It was the old Moss family line, the overwrought one that my dad would use for undersalted pastas or the post office taking an extra two minutes before they opened after lunch. The one that I had once used, back before my life had been become a horrible landslide of ex-boyfriends and failed job interviews. Again: It may have been the drugs, but the suddenly serendipity of the family line pouring out of me made me unspeakably happy. It was like going to your high school reunion—and having, against all expectations—a really good time. I was being shot at by a crazy woman in a tree costume and I thought it was, well, a little humorous. A small victory for Dahlia Moss.
As we arced toward the ground, we of course managed to fly directly into the enormous inflatable phoenix in the middle of the room, because why not? The phoenix was totally destroyed, hemorrhaging helium and flame-y bits of orange fabric. Although insurance agents later determined that this was the result of gunfire, not harpy impact.
There are a lot of competing theories as to what was actually yelled as we flew off the balcony and into the phoenix. The prevailing one is that Griselda yelled, “Death to the Boar Runners of the Third Age!” This should give you some idea of the psychological makeup of the people below. Another is that Griselda was announcing the name of next year’s expansion to the game. What can I say? Even with the gunfire and the spray of blood, there was a general sense that this was all somehow part of the show. Or there was, until Jennifer—still intent on somehow completing the kill—attempted the same trick and leaped onto another banner, which promptly broke and sent her crashing to the ground.
She was fine. Not fine in the way of a horror-movie monster that was going to get up and start pursuing us again, but fine in the way of having only two broken legs and no serious head trauma. And also being a complete psychopath. Also that.
CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX
So I was wrong about the poison. You might have surmised that already, given that I survived to write this account. It’s a bit strange—I feel like I owe Jennifer Ebel an apology for not taking her at her word about it? And yet she did try to shoot me, which would generally suggest that she owes me an apology. Let’s say we’re even?
I can’t speak much to the immediate aftermath at the Games Summit, other than to say that, Usune bless them, they actually went on with the thing. Jennifer was taken into custody, and I went to the ER and had my stomach pumped. Because they thought I was drunk.
The thing that kills me is that none of the Horizons actually came to see me. I mean: really. I had had these sorts of experiences with gamer folk before—I drove my damned self to the ER when I broke my toe once, while Erik was raiding in the other room and shouting out unhelpful advice like “Put some ice on it!” But this was really a bridge too far. I was the freaking hero; I caught a murderer. I had been reading detective novels since Jonah hired me, and there were rules for how this is supposed to go down. The detective catches the killer, and everyone is supposed to be amazed. There are occasionally drinks. There is generally a sunset and someone walks into it. Occasionally, lovers snog. But never is the successful detective taken to the hospital to have her stomach pumped while everyone else goes to a panel about the upcoming plague of the spider demon.
That sort of thing is not supposed to happen.
I recognize now that you may have some questions of your own here, and I will try to anticipate them now. Where was Charice? I’m sure you are asking. Yes, where was Charice? Where indeed? The answer was certainly not at my bedside. She participated in a costume parade and won fifth prize—which was an unspeakably tacky bronze medallion that she continues to wear around the apartment. Afterward, she went out drinking. I am not shitting you. She does claim, in her pitiful defense, that she made phone calls to make sure that I was okay, but come on. Oh—shit!
Hello, darlings.
This is Charice. Dahlia has been reading this part aloud to me, because she is a tyrant. She tells me that this is the part of the book where she will “wreak terrible vengeance upon those who have wronged her.” Dahlia says things like that, as I’m sure you know by now. I’ll give her back to you in just a second, but I want to clear up a few things before she drones on any more.
1) I did not know anything about her being poisoned. Which she wasn’t. I thought she had just fallen into an inflatable phoenix. Isn’t that enough? Yes, I was worried about her in the moment, but I had a long conversation with very dashing paramedic who assured me that she was fine.
2) Her speech was slurred, but I assumed that she was drunk. You’ve read this far, so you know that’s not out of character.
3) Dahlia herself told me that I should march in the parade. She also told me to not go to the hospital and that I had beautiful hair. It was things like that made me think: drunk.
4) I visited later but she was asleep.
That is all. Now return to the rantings of this otherwise delightful madwoman!
Hugs,
Charice
Hmph, as Ophelia would say. I reluctantly concede to some of Charice’s points, but honestly, it was very disquieting. That hospital room was lonely, and I didn’t have even my iPhone to entertain me. The other question you might have had (she said, moving awkwardly away from Charice’s requisition of my narrative) is what happened to Clemency? Surely kindhearted Clemency would visit you?
The answer is no. But she gets a pass. Amid all the gunfire, Clemency started experiencing some hard-core contractions. She was rushed to the hospital on her own—the same hospital, different ambulance, and—after what was described to me as six hours of hell—gave birth to freaking twins. Apparently the whole experience was a nightmare, because twins Prudence Zxlyphxix and Justus Threadwork were born very, very premature. And yes, she gave one of her daughters a middle name based on an imaginary spider demon. But the twins are fine, aside from the silly names. I think Clem and her husband did not experience the first month of parenthood the way they had dreamed it, with the first month of their children’s lives spent under a heating table. But what happens the way that you imagined?
I did get one visitor. I woke from sleep to find a mummy staring at me. Remember, the one who watched me palm my iPhone into Jennifer’s knoll? At first I thought I was being stared at by some disoriented burn victim, but I remembered the way the bandages were falling off around his belly.
“You’re the tubby mummy,” I said dreamily. “Are you really here?”
“You did not just call me tubby,” said the mummy, whose voice sounded eerily familiar. “Dahlia Moss, you are the worst.”
I sat up in bed, suddenly. I knew what voice. It was Anson Shuler.
“What the hell?” I said. “Are you just standing in here with a mask on? What kind of creeper are you?” Although I was glad to see him. Honestly, I was glad to see anyone. I was glad to be alive.
“I was going to surprise you,” said Shuler.
I was trying not to look too critically at Shuler’s belly, which was peeking at me through torn bandages. The trouble with mummy
costumes is that wear and tear on them eventually leaves you naked. “Tubby” was maybe too harsh a word; Shuler wasn’t really fat so much as puffy around the middle, like a man made of dough. My tastes in fellas generally ran toward the emaciated, but I felt like squeezing him now, regardless.
“Are you naked under that costume, Detective Shuler?”
“Everyone is naked under their costumes, Dahlia. And call me Anson—I’m not on duty.”
That wasn’t at all what I meant, and the question largely answered itself, as I could clearly see Detective Shuler’s underwear, which was a vivid shade of blue. Royal blue is a poor color selection for undies when one is dressing in white bandages. Shuler was going to be a real fixer-upper.
“So you’re not here to protect me?”
“Nope,” said Detective Shuler. (I could never get the hang of calling him Anson.) “This is another example of why you are the worst, Dahlia.”
“The worst at what?”
“I told you to be careful around Jonah’s friends!”
“I was careful,” I said. I’d squeezed out some whoppers in the past couple days—and I was getting better at them as I went—but that line was too incredible to get out in an even voice.
“You got shot in the arm. You were drugged! You jumped off a balcony!”
“I was pushed,” I corrected him.
“By a woman I told you to avoid,” said Anson.
“You didn’t tell me to avoid that woman particularly. You offered me a vague description of people to avoid, which happened to include her.”
“You. Are. The. Worst.”
I think I felt a little like Charice—I was being reprimanded, but I was glowing with happiness at the same time. “Worst” is a kind of superlative, after all. And there was a half-dressed mummy in my room who was happy I was alive. Not so bad, really.
I took a second to bask, as Charice would have, and then asked: “So why were you at the convention?”
“I’m on vacation,” said Shuler.
“You play Zoth?”
“I’m just getting started,” said Shuler, which was almost certainly a lie.
“You certainly seemed to have jumped into it with a lot of drive.”
“Well,” said Shuler, “and I thought it couldn’t hurt to keep an eye on Jennifer Ebel.”
“So you were chasing after her while she was shooting at me?”
Shuler looked unhappy to have walked into this. “I was actually over at a merch table when that happened.”
I gave him a look, and he tossed a T-shirt to me; it was bright blue (like his underwear) and said: “I Survived the Gamers Summit.”
“That’s the real reason I came by,” said Shuler. “You earned it more than me.”
Charice and I flew back on the same plane, and it was a lot like coming back from a good spring vacation. I was exhausted and maybe a little sad that the case was over. But a good sad, a satisfied sad. You can probably guess the first phone call I made (on Charice’s phone, since my own was evidence).
“Stephen?”
“Who is this?”
“It’s Dahlia Moss. How’s my favorite music librarian?”
“How’s my lyre?”
I always felt that Stephen was wasted on librarianship. He could ask questions in this angry Morpheus voice that seemed better suited to law, or perhaps thaumaturgy. I was hoping that we could have done introductions before we got to death questions. I gave him my best Sydney Greenstreet impression, which I hoped would lighten the mood. “Here’s to plain speaking and clear understanding,” I told him. “By all means, let’s talk about the black bird.”
“Bad impressions will not help you now,” said Stephen flatly. “Do you have my lyre?”
“Well,” I said. “Some police have your lyre.”
Stephen sighed. “I suppose you’re going to tell me the story of how that happened.”
“I was thinking I would. Should I tell you now, or should I tell you over lunch?”
“Do you think that you’ll be safer in a crowd?”
“Oh, come on,” I told him. “I’ll tell you my adventures, and you can tell me who you’ve been catting around with lately. We’ll have mixed drinks with umbrellas and ridiculous names. It will be like old times.”
And he bit. I knew he would. I had him at drinks with umbrellas.
My next phone call was to Nathan. The path had been cleared, and now I could date with impunity. If that’s what I wanted.
“Hello there, Nathan.”
“Dahlia, you minx. How was your plane flight?”
I wasn’t sure why Nathan was calling me a minx, but I couldn’t believe that after the cliff-hanger I’d left him on, his first question was about the plane flight. “The flight? That’s what we’re leading with?”
“What would you prefer I ask you about?”
“My adventure? Whether or not I was killed? What happened to me in the hospital?”
“Clearly, you have not been killed. Besides, I’ve already spoken to you about that.”
“What?!”
“You were very drugged at the time.”
“Oh dear,” I told Nathan. “What did I say?”
“You wanted me to ***** ****** your *****, while ******** *******. On a *******.”
“I said that?”
“Repeatedly. I’m just a guy who likes to ****** and *****, so I didn’t know what to make of it.”
I wanted to steer the conversation away from this, so I tried veering things back to the case.
“What did I tell you about my adventure?”
“Just the bare bones. Mostly it was just ****** ****** in the *******. And ****** ******.”
“That doesn’t sound like me at all,” I said. Although it sounded entirely like me. Honestly, looking over these paragraphs, I’m worried that I haven’t redacted enough.
“I thought you might say that,” said Nathan. “Which is why I made a recording of you. I’ve even Auto-Tuned it. I was thinking of using it as a ringtone. Listen!”
I listened. The ringtone literally was a booty call. I had to meet with Nathan now, if for no other purpose than to destroy that ringtone. It was probably about to start ringing at me from under the floorboards of our apartment, like in “The Tell-Tale Heart,” only much smuttier.
“Do you want to have lunch with me? We’re going to have a little party. And be sure to bring that phone with you.”
My final call was to Beth, of all people. Remember Beth?
“I can’t believe you hired me!”
“Who is this?” Beth’s tone was naturally one of suspicion. She probably interviews lots of people, and so a phone call that opens with this sort of thing could potentially be dangerous.
“It’s Dahlia Moss. The insane detective. Although, speaking of insane, are you out of your fucking mind?”
And Beth’s tone brightened when she heard it was me. I can’t tell you how much that cheered me. “I’m not insane. Just desperate. All the other applicants turned down the position.”
“What strange new economy is this?”
“I know, right? So, do you want in? Accounts payable for a tractor manufacturer?”
“I do not want in, no. Amazingly, no. I think I have a job.”
“Did you find your spear?”
“I found the spear, caught the woman who murdered my client, took a bullet to my arm, and—I know you’re going to think I am making this part up—jumped off a three-story balcony while being held by a woman dressed as a harpy.”
“So I’ll put you down as no, then? I should say that this position comes with three days’ vacation annually.”
“A respectful no. Very respectful, in fact. You can tell the employers that the job offer may have saved my life.”
“Are we speaking metaphorically?”
“No. You called to offer me the position at the very moment that I was being shot at.”
“That was helpful?”
“It was, given that I had planted my pho
ne in a knoll on the murderesss. But listen, that’s not actually why I’m calling.”
“You’re not calling to thank me for saving your life or to turn down this very fine job offer?” You had to admire Beth’s powerful skills at restatement.
“I’m calling to ask you to lunch. With friends. How do you feel about cheap sushi?”
“I don’t like sushi.”
“But this is cheap sushi. It’s really not even that similar. And there will be silly mixed drinks.”
“When?”
I don’t know what the waiters at I Love Mr. Sushi thought of our party. I don’t even know what I thought of our party. But we must have made a pretty picture. Jesus was there, too, appropriately enough in the middle of the table, but without his wig and robe, he just looked charming and roguish and did not give the effect of the Last Supper. Charice sat to his left and kept trying to order unusual dishes they did not have. Quail egg sushi! Monkfish liver sushi! Sponge! Beth was next to her, initially skeptical at the whole thing, but was soon won over by the ordering, which quickly became a kind of Mad Lib of unusual sea creatures.
Stephen not only told me who he was catting around with, he actually brought the cat and proceeded to paw him at our table. Very unlike Stephen, but then, I hadn’t been keeping up with him as of late. His boyfriend was utterly improbable—this tall ginger guy named Osric Whiteleaf, which I feel is the sort of name that belongs on a level-seven druid and not a computer programmer in madras pants. But Osric was cool; I liked him. A little hipster-y, maybe, but who am I to judge? He also kept the topic off lyres, so yay. Masako was good for that too, alternatively frowning at food and smiling at everyone else. I don’t know what I was thinking before—she had a great smile, on those occasions that she wheeled it out. Nathan and Shuler were both dressed to the nines, in their own respective ways, and were geeking out to each other about prog rock, of all things.
The Unfortunate Decisions of Dahlia Moss Page 26