Before the phone could finish a full ring, Stephanie picked up. “Malcolm where the hell are you?” Stephanie barked into the phone.
“I’m back in Chicago. I fucked up, okay.”
“No, it's not okay. What the hell happened?”
“I had a target.”
“What?” she screamed into the phone. “Unbelievable. Before Caelieus arrived?”
“Yes. Have you heard from him?"
“Hell, no. What the fuck has happened?”
As he drained the last dregs of the syrup, he pulled out his only pot, sat it in the sink, and turned on the faucet to let it fill with water. He fired up his espresso machine. While the machine kicked on, he started making simple syrup by adding copious amounts of sugar to the pot of water and set it to boil, and poured himself a massive cup of espresso while he told her everything: everything from how he couldn't call her back to stall the regeneration because he'd lost signal, to only getting half of the target, all the way to losing his cell.
He left out his shame of getting drunk. He also left out his actions in the bar and his confessions to Debbie. From her note, he figured she'd pegged him for a crazy drunk. He’d have to deal with that later—he had bigger problems now.
“Oh my God. Oh my God. Oh my God,” she exclaimed when he’d finished.
“I know. What do we do?"
She sighed. “Sit down. Now! Write down everything you remember. Document it as fast as you can. It's time for damage control. I’ll notify the others. We have to find out what happened to Caelieus and how we can stop what’s coming.”
“Right.” The guilt swarmed like a storm of angry bees. He’d royally fucked up this time. “I only got half. The pieces of the dream are floating around my head. It’s giving me a pounding headache, but they aren’t integrating. I don’t know what I’ll get out.”
“Never mind that. When you start to let it out, if the pieces are jumbled, we might be able to figure out what we’re up against. That’s not the biggest problem.”
“Seriously? What the fuck could be worse than this?”
“The internal alarm. The lower one.”
“Yeah what about it?”
“It’s the end game. Can’t you sense it?”
He’d never gotten a sense that the new sub-alarm was the end game. What end game? “What are you talking about?”
“You don’t know? When a target has been missed in the past, the agent has always known when the pieces started falling into place. Hitler would have wiped out the world as we know it, but Zari was able to infiltrate the military and use the information to guide the hunt to bring him down. We weren’t able to prevent everything, so many atrocities, but that sense of the agent has always been a backup system.”
He’d never heard of such a thing. “How is that possible if the target was missed? Who set up a backup plan?”
She sighed as if talking to a small child. “You’ve never been Librarian and have never missed a target. All I know from the scrolls is what has been reported. At some point, the agent who missed the call gets a sense of what was missed. As to who sets up the backup plan, my guess is the same gods or devils that sent us here to begin with.”
The nausea and worry that settled into his belly since yesterday morning abated a fraction, and hope crept in to replace it. There might still be a chance. “Okay, I’ll write down what I can remember.”
“No, write anything and everything that pops into your head. Don’t think. Might not be a bad idea to get some alcohol.”
“Umm, yeah about that.”
“What?” Stephanie snapped as if she couldn’t take any more bad news.
“I sort of already did that.”
She laughed, genuinely. “Of course you did. The alcohol dulls the pain and aids the images to get in the proper order.”
“Oh.” He knew that already, but still felt like a loser.
She laughed a breathy sound. “Just follow your instincts. If that’s getting drunk, then get more alcohol.”
Shit, Debbie took all of his booze. He’d have to get more. “Is it too late?”
“Let’s hope not. Get to work.”
“Yes, boss,” he said into the phone, but Stephanie had already clicked off.
He decided not to use the private entrance in the back via his elevator. He finished the rest of his espresso, refilled the syrup bottles, and took the steps two at a time down to Eye of the Beholder. The bell chimed as he opened the hallway entrance.
“Welcome to Eye of the Beholder, be right with you,” Debbie said, without looking up. She happily chatted away about the various books a thirty-something–year–old customer was buying and placed them in a bag. Malcolm walked in at the end of their conversation and could only hear Debbie say, “Yes, we only sell antique books. I’ve told my boss a hundred times we should expand the shop, but he never listens.”
He smiled at her antics and stepped away toward the large street-level window. Malcolm adored living in Lincoln Square. He had chosen to stay here three lifetimes as the little store on the corner of Lincoln and Leland had constant movement and a fluidity that other places lacked. The brick-lined streets with small shops reminded him of earlier times, but with newer cars and Wi-Fi hot spots everywhere. It had become a perfect blend of new and old with none of the torture that came with a stagnant life.
The large painted eye on the shop peered out over the street like a watchful mother, always looking for trouble. He related to it. He didn’t want to leave this shop, despite having plenty of others just like it. He loved the way the sun shone through that front window, gently warming the store. The old but still polished hardwood floors creaked as customers walked around the large mahogany bookshelves that were lined row after row with leather-bound books. His beloved store boasted floor-to-ceiling shelves lined along the walls with rolling ladders to reach the higher shelves. The second floor looked much the same, but included an overlook to the bottom of the store. The only room without the overlook was the one locked room for the rarest and most valuable books. The air carried the scents of printed paper, bound leather, and a mix of whatever incense Debbie burned that day.
A customer walked toward him, bag in hand, and he opened the door for her.
“Oh, thank you.” The blush ran from her cheeks and spread down her neck.
His good looks must have returned. The two almost back-to-back targets hadn’t drained him to the point of emaciation. He flashed the customer his best smile, and her cheeks darkened farther. He watched her disappear down the sidewalk when Debbie spoke from behind him.
“You really shouldn’t do that. It’s cheating.” Debbie had braided her hair, letting it hang down the left side of her chest over a pastel pink peasant blouse that matched her flowing floral skirt.
The sound of her gentle teasing rushed through him, dampening the negativity of his current state of affairs for a moment. “Do what exactly?”
“Giving her that smile. Getting her all flustered. It’s really unfair.” Hands on her hips, Debbie tried her best to look stern, but she couldn’t pull it off.
“So you’d rather I scowl at her and make her feel ugly and rejected instead of being a hospitable store owner?”
She rolled her eyes. “There is a way to be hospitable and not a big old flirt with those bedroom eyes and wicked smile.”
“Really?” He raised one eyebrow. Reaching behind him without looking, he swung the open sign to closed and locked the door.
Debbie’s mouth formed a perfect O and paled at the action. He glided past her, sleek like a predator, and did the same to the hallway door. She turned in a circle, watching him like the gazelle watches the lion. The weight on his shoulders lifted as he played this game of cat and mouse. His heart pounded, eyes narrowed, and breathing sped. He crossed the distance between them in seconds and gathered her in his arms. She yielded to him, soft and exquisite, as he cupped the back of her head and brought his lips down on hers. Their breath mingled as his kiss deepened. She ope
ned her mouth to his and shuddered when his tongue grazed hers. His body burned, wanting more, needing more, but it had no way to ever get more. He broke their connection, not looking at her, and took her by the shoulders, distancing the two of them. Their heavy panting mingled.
Debbie backed away “I know what you’re trying to do.”
His head raised in a flash, meeting her eyes, searching for her meaning. When he didn’t answer, she said, “You’re trying to distract me. You have real problems, boss man, and I want to help you, so no more of that okay?”
He certainly had problems, but not the ones she thought he had. Those were nothing compared to the truth.
Malcolm tasted her on his lips, a mixture of cherry lip gloss and chocolate coffee. “You’ve got it wrong, you know.”
In a second, her face changed from worried and caring to pissed off. “Have I now? So you didn’t lie and say you were going to Rome? You weren’t having some love affair with someone named Stephanie? You aren’t an alcoholic that has nothing in his apartment but tea, coffee, and alcohol? I mean, Jesus. Malcolm, you didn’t even have ketchup in your fridge.”
He considered her words. She made an easy assumption, not that she’d ever guess at the truth, but the lack of food was an oversight on his part. He’d put in the kitchen to throw people off, but never thought he’d have to put in fake food he’d never eat. “It’s not what you think.”
She stared at him, doubt clouding her eyes as if she desperately wanted to believe him. “What is it then?”
He flashed back two millennia ago to the eyes of the woman he loved, like now, and the battle of what to tell her raged inside him. “You’ll think I’m crazy.” The words slipped out of his mouth before he could stop them.
“Try me.”
“I’m not an alcoholic. I really did travel to Rome, but not because of my aunt.” He scoffed, thinking how ridiculous it would be to have a real family.
“Why did you go to Rome then?” She took a seat on the leather couch in one of the side areas of the store. She placed her feet on the coffee table, carefully avoiding the porcelain lamps she usually turned on to read during quiet hours. She scooted around, making herself comfortable as if preparing for a long conversation. She had no idea.
“I work for an agency. We had an emergency and were called in.”
Her eyes opened wide, and she flung her arms out. “Wait. Wait. Wait. Are you seriously trying to tell me you’re a secret agent? I mean come on. How lame can you get?”
He took a seat opposite her in the large straight-backed Queen Anne chair. “It gets better. I don’t work for any government organization. We are in charge of saving the world, and…” he leaned closer, putting his elbows on his knees, “we’re immortal.”
In response to his motions, she had leaned in close, but when he said the last bit, she straightened up and barked with laughter. He cocked his head. “See, I told you that you wouldn’t believe me.” The disappointment settled in him like a stone. “I need my whiskey back now. It’s important. It’s for work.”
Her laughter halted, and her eyes narrowed in suspicion. “Please. What are you going to do? MacGyver it up. Use the whiskey and a paperclip to rig up a bomb to blow up some terrorists?”
He sighed. “I can go buy more, but time is of the essence, and I have wasted too much of it already. I would appreciate it if you would give it back to me.”
She shook her head, emotions battling across her face. “Malcolm, I can help you. If you let me. Let’s get you something to eat.”
“No,” he said.
“Why not?” She pouted, and he wanted to bite that bottom lip. He shook his head, clearing away the thought and ignoring the pain building in his temples.
“Because I can’t eat.”
“Can’t. You mean won’t.”
Malcolm vaulted from the Queen Anne chair and marched behind the counter. He grabbed a letter opener and returned to her side. “No. I can’t eat because I’m not human. I cannot eat or drink anything with any kind of protein in it. I don’t pee or go to the bathroom or…” He stopped, unable to go on. He sighed, stabbing the letter opener deep into his arm, piercing through to the other side. It hurt like hell, but he suppressed a grimace. The letter opener pierced his arm in one clean cut. Blood dripped, and, to Debbie’s credit, she didn’t scream but instead sat staring, mesmerized as his body healed and pushed the blade out of his arm.
He could’ve slapped himself in the face. What the hell was wrong with him? He had been keeping this secret for centuries and in the last few days had been blabbing his big fat mouth all over the place, and he missed half his target!
Debbie met his eyes, caution lining every feature. “You’re not kidding.”
“No.”
On her feet, she ran a finger down his arm, slow and calculating, as if checking to make sure it was real. She met his eyes. “What are you?”
He intended to say it didn’t matter, he needed the whiskey, and she didn’t need to worry about it. He meant to tell her to get out of his way, but when he opened his mouth, more truth spilled out. She stood before him, enthralled with the tale, not interrupting, not disbelieving—just like his first love. When he finished, she wrapped her arms around him for a moment, then slid behind the counter and brought out the brown paper bag. “Do you need more?”
Malcolm clasped the bottles in his hands, grateful, and caressed her hands before taking the bag. “Maybe.”
“I’ll get more. You go on upstairs. Do what you have to do.”
“Thank you.” He leaned in, and the bag crinkled between them as he inhaled the scent of her hair.
She moved away from him, scooted behind the counter, and returned, purse in hand. “I’ll be back.” Without another word, she unlocked the side door, used her key to lock it behind her, and disappeared.
He breathed a sigh of relief as regret churned deep in his belly and the internal alarm kept humming. He downed the first bottle before his private elevator opened inside his living room. The alcohol hit him hard and fast. He logged into the Cos’s website, pulled up the tab to enter a new target, and began writing:
I received the alarm late and urgent. Caelieus had transported to Cos headquarters a few days prior. He was unable to speak, nose bleeding non-stop, and wasting away. The Librarian brought all of the agents together to review the archives, but no one found anything to help him. We put it to a vote to let him potentially die or to force a regeneration. The vote for regeneration won out, and I agreed to travel to his regen site to report in and disclose his condition. While awaiting his arrival, the alarm came in. A last-minute urgent call. I stalled as long as I could but had to transport. While there I established the mind connection and removed parts of the dream, but the target’s child interrupted us. The little boy’s scream woke her up. Her name is Dharma Knight, and she lives in Chicago, my current city of residence. I had to fight her husband and escape.
The dream: The target, Dharma Knight, medium brown haired, blue eyes, in lab coat leaning over top of a microscope. The next image: a name in front of a computer screen. Triticum aestivum. Then a chemical formula. The next, a field of flowers with the sunset behind, making the plant life shine golden.
Note: I am not sure which order the dream should have been in. It isn’t connecting the way they are supposed to.
Transition of events: This is less than usual. I see the target winning an award of some kind. Then various newspaper articles boasting the end to starvation. Finally, the main catastrophe, I see a report from the CDC and WHO, birthing rates plummeting steadily starting about fifteen years from now over the next twenty. Unclear cause.
Note: My interpretation of events is that the target will make something that the world thinks is amazing, probably with food, that will lead to humanity losing the ability to procreate. They won’t notice until the damage has already been done.
Malcolm made his way through the second bottle to loosen his thoughts enough to get that much out. He wasn’t su
re if there could be more or not. He emptied the final bottle. His doorbell rang. It had to be Debbie bringing him more whiskey, maybe she’d sprung for bourbon. He saved the file and hit send. He could always log in and add more if anything else came together.
Downing two fifths of liquor that fast slowed his usual speed, so he took care with each step, almost tripping when his foot hit a kitchen stool.
“Thank God you’re here. I’m out of whiskey.” His words slurred while opening the door. Two men wearing medical scrubs stood in the doorway, faces grim, and Debbie hid behind them, looking away with red eyes.
“What’s going on?” Malcolm asked.
“Mr. Jones?” The tall black guy on the left asked. He either benched pressed a Buick or had been one hell of a defensive lineman.
“Yes?” Malcolm answered, stretching the word out like a question.
“We’re with Hartgrove Behavioral Health System. You need to come with us,” the second one said. He had a white, shaved head and intense blue eyes that creeped Malcolm out.
“Debbie, what’s this about?”
She wiped at a tear. “I’m sorry.”
“Sir.” Mr. Super Bowl’s body tensed as if anticipating a fight.
Malcolm jerked to bolt, but the liquor still coursed through his veins. The men caught him, and one of them stabbed a needle in his neck. He heard Debbie scream before the blackness took him.
10
Malcolm opened his eyes. Completely sober, he took a quick stock of his surroundings. A metal roof loomed over his head mere feet above his supine body. Two metal benches sat on either side, and overhead compartments filled with medical supplies lined the walls. He felt a gentle rocking from an engine and the steady thrum of traffic: an ambulance. Bars covered the opening to the front so he couldn’t tear his way through to the driver. There were no windows, only the filter of overhead lights. The ambulance slowed to a stop. It had to be at a light. He’d be damned if he allowed himself to be taken to a mental hospital.
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