by DD Barant
I start to think that maybe Tanaka will be okay. That maybe he can actually survive this.
Dagon roars again; this time there’s more pain in it than fury. He’s not used to his snacks biting back. But then, Tanaka is more like a nasty virus than a meal, a bad case of food poisoning with a lethal agenda. I can just imagine him in there, chopping though the soft flesh of the gullet, escaping into the thoracic cavity where he can wreak some real havoc …
Dagon claws at his own chest. Scales rip loose and fly through the air like fishy Frisbees. “Awwww,” I say. “Got a little indigestion, big guy? Should have stuck with that all-seafood diet.”
I hear heavy footsteps behind me and turn to see Charlie rushing toward me. His suit is wet and ripped in many places, and he’s got a few branches sticking out of him, but other than that he looks okay. “What’d I miss?” he growls.
“Just the appetizer,” I say. “Main course is coming right up.”
Dagon seems to have forgotten all about me. He’s pounding on his own torso like someone trying to get a stuck candy bar out of a vending machine. I wonder which way he’s going to fall when he finally keels over.
But that doesn’t happen. I’m forgetting that Dagon is, after all, more than a giant, two-legged amphibian—he’s a deity, an otherworldly being from a different dimension with different rules. If explosive decompression can’t kill him from the inside, what can one thrope with a sword do?
Just enough to save my life.
In the end, Dagon places both his hands flat against his chest and utters something—actual words, though they sound nothing like any language I’ve ever heard—and his whole body glows with an eldritch blue light. He drops his hands to his sides, opens his mouth, and exhales a small puff of black vapor.
I watch it disperse in the breeze. Sayonara, Tanaka.
I almost expect Dagon to spit out the katana as an afterthought, but that doesn’t happen. Instead, the monster turns back to the ocean and strides into it, not looking back. In a minute he’s completely submerged, gone like he was never here.
And so is Tanaka.
TWENTY
Charlie and I leave before the local cops show up. Lots of rubberneckers pull over to gawk, but everybody’s attention is focused on the not-so-jolly Green Giant; Charlie might have been spotted, but I doubt anyone noticed me at all.
Except Tanaka.
“We must have hurt him some,” Charlie says as we walk through the lobby of the Clarion. “Either that, or that blue zap he used took a lot out of him. Either way, we got the job done—”
I give him a look that could cut glass. “We got the job done? We lost one of our own today, Charlie. That’s not an accomplishment, it’s a major screwup.”
“I know. I’m sorry—”
“Sorry? What have you got to be sorry about? That Tanaka was the one who got to sacrifice himself for my sake, instead of you?”
Charlie doesn’t answer.
We’ve reached the elevator doors. I punch the UP button with my thumb. “That stupid, selfish bastard. So goddamn concerned with his honor he went and got himself killed for it.”
Charlie doesn’t say a word.
“I mean, what the hell is honor, anyway? A million different things to a million different people, and none of them understands any of the others. It’s not a word, it’s an excuse—people make it mean whatever they want it to mean.”
Charlie stays silent. I push the button again, harder.
“You know what it meant to Tanaka? It meant he had to live up to some impossible ideal—one he probably didn’t even fully understand himself—and when he couldn’t, he had to pay for not being perfect. With his life.”
I jab savagely at the button several more times. “What about my life, huh? Screw my honor, what about the huge load of guilt he just added to the never-ending fun ride that makes up my day-to-day existence? What is with this goddamn fucking elevator?”
I punch the UP key, with my fist this time. That hurts so much I decide to do it again. And again. And again.
The fourth punch hits the solid, sand-packed resistance of a golem’s open palm, as Charlie keeps me from breaking every bone in my hand by putting his in the way. The elevator doors start opening around punch three, but I’m way past caring. I get a brief glimpse out of the corner of my eye of a pair of wide-eyed tourists, who stand completely still while the crazy woman screams and attacks the wall. They’re still standing there when the doors slide shut, a moment later.
Charlie’s gotten in front of me by then, and I’m hitting his chest instead of the elevator panel. It’s a lot like working out with a heavy bag at the gym. Charlie just stands there and takes it, hands at his sides, face expressionless. His eyes are closed.
He waits until I’ve run out of steam and I’m panting like a racehorse. “You done?”
“I—huh, huh—I guess.”
He opens his eyes. “Good. Break any bones?”
“Don’t think so.”
“Too bad. Would have helped with the guilt.”
I glare. “Not funny.”
“Not trying to be. Only two ways to deal with pain. You and Tanaka both seem to like the first.”
I slump against the wall and cross my arms. “Swallow it whole. Beat ourselves up from the inside.”
“Yeah. Never turns out well, but when you’ve got a talent for destruction to begin with? One-way ticket to Doomsville.”
I look at him and raise an eyebrow. “Doomsville?”
“I try to stay hip. It’s why I’m so popular with the kids.”
“Yeah, you and the monster that sleeps in their closet.”
“Hey, I know that guy. He’s not all bad.”
“What’s the second way?”
Charlie straightens his tie meticulously. “Pass it along to someone else. Someone who deserves it more than you do.”
“Like Isamu?”
“Like Isamu. And his stooges at Hemo. And anyone else involved in their dirty little business.”
I manage half a smile. “Think it’s too late for me to change tactics?”
Charlie shrugs. “Better them than me.” He goes to press the elevator button, frowns at the wreckage dangling from the wall, and says, “Maybe we should take the stairs.”
* * *
I sit on my hotel bed and think about Tanaka.
It’s funny. There’s some part of you that never lets go of an ex-lover. No matter how brief it was or how long ago, there’s always a little corner of your mind that wonders what if. What if I would have stayed with him, what if we had met earlier or later or under different circumstances. And even past that, to what if we eventually wind up together, sometime in the future.
But when that person dies, that’s not possible anymore. And that little part of you, that little piece of hopeful fantasy, it dies, too.
Tanaka didn’t deserve what happened to him. He was put in a place where it was impossible to do the right thing, and he was someone who couldn’t live with himself after doing the wrong thing. He was a good man in a flawed world, just trying to do his best. I owe him my life.
“Good-bye, Tanaka,” I whisper. “Honor is yours, once more. Whatever that means.”
Too much has happened, too fast.
Most people, when that happens, throw their hands in the air and moan about how unlucky they are or how unfair the universe is. More philosophical types will mutter aphorisms like When it rains it pours, and the stoic ones will just put their heads down and try to slog through.
Me, I start asking questions.
I believe in coincidence in the same way I believe in quantum physics or chaos theory. It’s observable phenomena. I may not understand exactly why events are grouping together, but I know that they are. Incidents are happening together, ergo: Co-Incidents.
First the attack of the bargain-basement skeleton. Followed closely by Isamu banning me from his designer Heaven, Stoker making the worst-timed pass in the history of relationships, and Dagon mistak
ing me for Tokyo. Bookended by Tanaka’s death.
Too many things, happening too fast.
Somebody’s playing me. I can feel their fingers plucking my strings, making me run one way, making me run another. Look at Jace. See Jace run. See Jace jump through hoops. Look out, Jace! That hoop is on fire!
See Jace start to figure things out.
I’m holed up in my hotel room with my laptop. Charlie’s slumped in a chair, fedora over his eyes, catching a few zzzs. Eisfanger’s in his own room, working on some kind of protective enchantment—because of the Dagon attack he’s now acting more nervous than usual.
I’m doing a little mythology research, myself. Not a lot of stuff about Elder Gods on the Net—it’s all restricted material, classified for high-level government use only—but there’s plenty on the more mundane spirits, including a long and detailed list of Kami. I do a visual search on temple imagery, looking for one thing in particular, and when I find it I read everything the site has to say. The links it provides to other pages prove illuminating, too.
When I’m done I call Gretch. “Hey, Boss Lady. Got a minute?”
“If it’s important.” She sounds tense.
“You heard about Dagon’s little rampage?”
“It’s international news. The media, as usual, is rife with speculation; popular opinion is leaning heavily toward a rogue shaman and an invocation stolen from a government facility.”
“He was there for me.” I give her a quick summary of my day so far.
“I see.” She sighs. “I suppose you still require the information you requested earlier?”
“It would help, Gretch. A lot.”
“Very well. You’re not really cleared for this level of disclosure, but as acting director I can waive that. Dagon is connected to Yog-Sothoth; in fact, he’s Yog-Sothoth’s offspring.”
I nod, even though Gretch can’t see it. “So maybe this is a family affair. Who’s the Unspeakable Horror slash Mommy?”
Gretch hesitates, then says, “Shub-Niggurath.”
And now it all starts to come together. Shub-Niggurath is the Big Bad the pires made a deal with at the end of World War II, the one that let pires reproduce. Makes sense; Shubby’s a fertility god, after all. And a fertility god—or goddess—always has a brood of her own.
“That’s how Isamu is getting away with this,” I say. “Good old-fashioned nepotism. Family connections. Mom’s got herself a nice little sideline business in another dimension, and Dad decides he’d like to do the same. Junior’s more than happy to help out the folks, because who doesn’t like getting out in the fresh air and stomping around for a while? And—somehow—the old Yakuza thug managed to insert himself into the mix.”
“That’s a pretty big leap, Jace. For one thing, these other-dimensional beings don’t relate to one another the way normal families do; Yog-Sothoth, Dagon, and Shub-Niggurath may all be bitter enemies.”
“I thought you said they didn’t relate to each other the way normal families do.”
She ignores that. “Also, we have no proof of anyone other than Dagon being involved. A cryptic message in a dream is not precisely hard evidence.”
“It was a message from Cassius, Gretch. I know it was. You know where he is and what he’s doing, right? Tell me that you know for sure I’m wrong.”
A long pause. “I can’t,” she admits. “Not for certain.”
“Then I’m going to operate on the assumption that I’m right.”
“Don’t you always? No, don’t answer that. Very well, the Yakuza are collaborating with not one, not two, but three of the most powerful entities we know of—one of whom tried to kill you. How do you plan to proceed?”
“I figured I’d charm them with my winning personality and dazzling wit.”
“Excellent. Would you prefer cremation, a closed-coffin ceremony, or burial at sea?”
I think back to that pathetic little puff of black smoke that escaped from Dagon’s mouth. “Oh, I wouldn’t worry too much about details. Those tend to take care of themselves…”
* * *
I know exactly where to go. I brief Eisfanger and Charlie first, and Damon has some very helpful suggestions. Charlie thinks my plan is far-fetched, dangerous, and probably a waste of time, but he doesn’t have anything to offer as an alternative.
Then we all go out for sushi.
Charlie doesn’t eat, of course, so he just sits there looking bored and playing with a pair of chopsticks. Eisfanger’s never had sushi before, so I spend most of the meal teaching him all the little rituals: mixing the soy sauce and wasabi, folding the slender paper envelope the chopsticks were packaged in into a rest for them, filling everyone’s teacup but your own.
It’s a good feed, though I eat most of it. I order some to go as well, and then we leave the restaurant and walk down the street to Blood Alley.
“What if he’s not there?” Eisfanger whispers.
“Then I’ll wait.” I hold up the plastic container with the sushi inside. “He’ll show up, sooner or later. That’s how these things work, right?”
“You’re the expert,” Charlie says. “Oh, no, wait. You’re the other thing. The one that’s the opposite of that.”
“I’m not a newbie anymore, Charlie. I’m getting the hang of this.”
“Yeah, that’s what the guy on the bicycle said just before he turned onto the freeway.”
“Stop worrying. I’ll have you two as backup, right?”
Charlie sighs and nods. Eisfanger swallows and says, “Sure, sure. Absolutely.”
I leave them at the mouth of the alley and walk down to the temple. I almost expect it to be gone, like one of those mysterious secondhand stores that only stick around long enough to sell you a monkey’s paw and then disappear before the warranty expires.
But it’s still there. I stop in front of one of the statues and study it critically. Now that I know what it represents, I can recognize the pointed ears, the long, bushy tail. I open the container of sushi, take out a small bundle of fried bean curd and rice, and place it carefully at the fox’s feet. I repeat this with each of the statues, and then go inside.
The temple is empty. I go up to the shrine at the front and light some incense. Then I drop into a comfortable position on the floor, and wait.
I don’t have to wait long. The old pire monk I talked to last time limps in, smiling benevolently. “Ah! You have returned. Was your quest successful?”
I smile at him. “Which one? I have so many I lose track.”
“I believe you were seeking assistance for your weapon.”
“Oh, that. Nah. Turns out I do just fine without it. How’s the leg?”
“Still tender—” He stops. His eyes twinkle. That’s the thing about tricksters; as much fun as they have fooling people, the part they really enjoy is when they can reveal how clever they’ve been. It’s a trait, oddly enough, that they share with serial killers.
“I know how much you love fun and games,” I say. “But every game has to end, right? So let’s just lay our cards on the table. I know who—and what—you are. You’re a kitsune, a trickster spirit. You often take the form of a fox, but you can pretty much look like anything you want: an old monk, a giant dumbass skeleton, or even a human sociopath. You noticed me when I got dragged into Yomi the first time, and you’ve been playing with me ever since.”
The monk chuckles. “I see it would be foolish to waste time denying these charges. Very well.” Changes ripple through his appearance and in a moment the man who called himself Zevon stands there with a smirk on his face. “It’s been a while since I ran into someone clever enough to make an interesting dance partner. Thank you.”
“You really had me chasing my own tail for a while. Well done.”
“You’re not angry?” He sounds surprised. “I was expecting an eruption of the legendary Mount Valchek.”
I smile. “Well, life’s full of surprises, isn’t it? It’s what keeps it interesting.”
He looks
puzzled, then thoughtful, and finally he laughs. “Ha! It does, indeed! Jace Valchek, you are a most delightful human being.”
“Oh, I’m a barrel of laughing monkeys.”
“What gave me away, might I ask?”
“I’ll answer that question if you answer one of mine.”
He nods. “Certainly.”
“Pacing. Things were happening a little too quickly, with a few too many coincidences thrown in: Dagon showing up right after Stoker told me about him. The dirty cops showing up at the graveyard. Stoker’s kiss. Oh, and the whole ‘fishies’ thing was entirely too cute.”
He shrugs, but looks pleased with himself. “You work with what you have. The sushi angle was too good to pass up.”
“Of course it was. And you knew about Dagon and his folks because that’s the kind of company you keep. You think of yourself as a professional trickster, but the truth is that it’s really a part-time gig. You’ve still got your day job, right?”
Now he seems a little deflated. “Well, yes. But it’s only temporary. I’m working on some great new material, and when it’s ready—”
I roll my eyes. “Uh-huh. Listen, Seinfeld, you promised you’d answer a question of mine. Here goes: What was the deal you made with Stoker to get us out of Yomi?”
He shakes his head. “Sorry. You only get one question, and you already asked it. That little dig about my day job, remember?”
“What? Come on, that was rhetorical—”
“Rhetorical, shmetorical. If it’s got a little upside-down fishhook over a dot at the end, it’s a question. Asked and answered.”
I sigh. “Okay, you got me. You win, you’re clearly more devious than I’ll ever be. But speaking of your day job…”
And now he looks a little nervous.
“You don’t just hang around temples to Inari looking for people to screw with. You’re one of her messengers, charged with doing her work. Correct?”
“Well, yes…”
“Oops, that was another question. Wasn’t it?” I grin, and keep going. “And I’m thinking she may not be too happy with you goofing around when you’re supposed to be on the job. You got away with it the first time I showed up because I didn’t really know what I was doing. But not this time. I brought the offerings, I lit the incense, and I’m doing my best to put myself in a devout frame of mind. Because, hey, I think Inari and I will hit it off just fine; she’s a goddess of warriors, after all.”