by DD Barant
And then I’m going to get drunk, and pass out in my own warm, safe bed, and try not to feel guilty as all hell.
* * *
Gretch is right about the Canadians’ reaction. They’re more than happy to assist in the capture of an international terrorist, less thrilled that it was done by an American working without an official government liaison, and downright nervous about the involvement of corrupt Vancouver police officers with the local branch of the Yakuza. Gretch does some admirable negotiating of her own, and when the dust settles the Canadians get to take a little public credit for the bust in exchange for getting Stoker into American custody.
But part of the deal is that this won’t happen until we’re already across the border. Until then we’ll maintain a low profile, for security reasons. The Free Human Resistance is still out there, and they won’t be too happy that we have their most prominent ex-member in our hands.
It’s never as harrowing crossing a border when you’re returning to your own country—not unless you’re trying to smuggle something in, that is. All we have is an international fugitive, wanted worldwide for acts of mayhem, but at least we’re armed with the proper paperwork.
I let Charlie and Eisfanger take Stoker across. I go alone, on foot, and about an hour before they do.
Officer Delta is working the counter for foot travelers today. What a coincidence. I wait my turn, and then walk up.
“Hi,” I say.
Officer Delta looks at my visa and grunts. “Miss Valchek,” he says. “I see you don’t have any baggage.”
“Oh, I’ve got plenty of baggage—mostly emotional. I thought I’d unload some of it here, actually. You okay with that?”
He frowns at me. “Why don’t you have any baggage?”
“It’s being brought across later, by my associate. He’ll declare everything then. His name is Charlie Aleph.”
Everything by the book. I wait. He studies my paperwork and says, “I can’t let you in.”
“Why not?”
“You’re not a citizen. You arrived in America from somewhere else, then left the country. We have rules about that. If you want to reenter America, you’ll have to apply to Immigration. Next.”
I pretend to look shocked. “Oh, my. But this form I have here is a specific exemption.” I point.
He picks it up, glances at it. “I don’t know this form. You’ll have to take it up with Immigration.”
“I have to talk to someone else because of your ignorance?”
He gives me a hard look, but I see something else beneath it—glee. He’s managed to provoke me into a confrontation, which is what he really wants. “Are you making trouble, ma’am?”
“No. I’m pointing out an error that you’ve made. My forms are in order, and I’d like to cross the border.”
He tosses the paper down on the counter. “You don’t get to tell me what to do. I tell you what to do. Now, unless you’d like to be strip-searched and to spend the next few hours in a windowless room, get your ass out of this office and back to wherever you came from.”
“Uh-huh. I’d like to talk to your supervisor, please.”
“No. You’re dealing with me. If and when you decide to come back here and try again, you’ll be dealing with me then, too. I’ve flagged your file. You think you can come in here and give me attitude? Lady, you picked the wrong guy.”
“The only one doing any picking is you,” I say. “And boy, did you make a mistake.” I pull out my cell phone. “You know what? You don’t need to get your supervisor. I’ll call him myself.” I hit a single button.
Officer Delta shakes his head. “That’s it. You just bought yourself some time in detention.” He signals to another officer in uniform, who stalks toward me.
“Yes, Captain Iota?” I say loudly.
The look on Officer Delta’s face changes. He holds up a hand and the lem approaching us stops.
“Would you mind coming out to the front counter for a minute, please?” I say. “Thank you.”
A door opens behind the counter. An ebony-hued enforcement lem in uniform walks out and stands just behind Officer Delta. “Agent Valchek,” he says. “I understand the NSA has a problem. How can I help?”
“You can inform Officer Delta that I outrank him, for starters.”
“Officer Delta?” Captain Iota says. “You heard that?”
“I … yes.”
“Second, I’m invoking National Security Agency protocols for dealing with a possible threat. This office is now under my direct command until such time as I deem the threat has passed.” I wave the other border guard over. “Handcuff Mr. Delta. Now.”
The guard looks to the captain, who nods.
“Wait,” Delta says, looking confused. “What’s going on?”
“Shut up,” I say pleasantly. “It’s my turn to play. Escort Mr. Delta to a detention room, please. I’ll be in shortly.”
* * *
When I get back to Seattle, I feel a lot better.
It doesn’t last.
I knew Yog-Sothoth was coming to collect on his part of the deal. I knew it wasn’t going to be pleasant. What I didn’t know was when, or how long it was going to last.
It happens while I’m asleep, which I suppose is a good thing—kind of like anesthesia before an operation. Unfortunately, my brain won’t let me hide behind the comforting illusion that this is a dream; as soon as Tawil At-U’mr appears, I know exactly what’s going on.
We’re standing on the same rocky oval hanging in space, with alien constellations glinting in the blackness. There’s no conference table this time—and no door. I’m naked, but not cold.
“It is time,” the shimmering silhouette says. “Look within me.”
I do.
I fall into the brightness. It swirls around me, through me, a cosmic wind blowing in the empty spaces between my atoms. It caresses every single part of my being and knows it, completely, totally, utterly. But there’s more to it than that; it reaches out from me, throughout space and time, following some invisible network of connections to everything I’ve ever done, everyone I’ve ever met, every thought and memory and dream I’ve ever had. Jace Valchek, the boxed set—now with everything, including unreleased B-sides of adolescent fantasies and a rare demo version of her first kiss.
It should feel like an invasion, like something being stolen—but it doesn’t. Because, unlike human beings with their own sets of experiences and prejudices, Yog-Sothoth doesn’t judge any of it; he simply devours it all, adding it to the vast store of knowledge he already possesses.
But that’s not to say it doesn’t affect him. I get a feeling of—well, appreciation. All the good I’ve done and all the bad, all the things I regret and all the things I cherish; he appreciates it all. My life, if nothing else, is at least entertaining. A person could do worse.
And then he ebbs away, leaving me feeling not violated, but validated.
“Wow,” I say. “That went a lot better than it could have.” I look around, and realize two things.
One, I’m sitting in Cassius’s office, looking at Cassius behind his desk. He’s wearing a suit and seems very happy to see me.
Two, I’m still dreaming. I know this because I’m perched on Cassius’s leather couch wearing nothing but an oversize T-shirt with a panda on it, just like when I was first brought over the dimensional divide.
“Jace!” Cassius says. He vaults over his desk and rushes to my side. “At last—I thought I’d never be able to reach you.”
“Well, I’m here,” I say. “Kind of. You know this is a dream, right?”
“It’s more than that. I’ve been sending you messages for some time, but I wasn’t sure how much of my communication was getting through.”
“The dreams. That was you. They were kind of garbled.”
“Cross-dimensional interference. For some reason the channel seems wide open now.”
“Yeah, probably the aftereffects of divine bandwidth. Where are you?”
“In another reality. It’s where Ahaseurus has been hiding. I thought I could track him down and capture him myself—but I was wrong.”
“You went after Ahaseurus by yourself?”
“I’m his prisoner. Jace, you have to be careful. It’s a trap—”
The door to Cassius’s study flies open. There’s a blinding white light on the other side, like we’re on the surface of the sun. Cassius screams.
And then I wake up.
Read on for an excerpt from DD Barant’s next book
UNDEAD TO THE WORLD
Coming soon from St. Martin’s Paperbacks
The hours plod by. People come and go. I take orders, bring food, clear away empty plates. I catch Phil giving me dark looks more than once, though I have no idea what I’ve done to piss him off.
And I can’t stop thinking about what happened last night.
It’s not just the TV thing, either. It’s that story Terrance told. I know he was just trying to spook me, but he did a good job. I keep fixating on that one little detail about the suicide’s shoes dropping when the body goes limp. What if they were wearing boots? Gumboots might fall off, but anything with laces wouldn’t. And how about beforehand, when the body was kicking and twitching—hell, a shoe could go flying, land in the bushes where no one would find it. Then you’d have a corpse with a shoe missing, and that would probably confuse the hell out of anyone investigating the case.
Except there is no case. Just a head case, named Jace. Who is losing the race to keep her sanity in place. Whee.
By the end of my shift I know I have to do something—anything—to get this out of my brain before it burrows in so deep it turns white and its eyes fall out. Unfortunately, about the only plan I can come up with is to give in and go see Old Man Longinus, who by all accounts is as receptive to visitors as an irritable whale is to a harpoon.
I go home first to walk Galahad and try to figure out my approach. “Hi, Mr. Longinus? I’m the local loon. I understand you’re the local crank, and I was wondering if we could get together and maybe discuss mutual areas of interest.”
Mmm. Needs work.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Longinus. A woman on TV with a sword informed me you have some answers, and I was hoping you might be willing to share them. No, I don’t know what the questions are. Oh, that’s down the street, under the big neon sign reading Crazy Motel—Rubber Rooms available, free dry-cleaning of straitjackets included? Thank you so much, I’ll be right back.”
Big improvement. Should be tweaked a bit.
“MWAH-HA-HA-HA! My tin-foil hat pointed at your house! I like frogs! Would you like to floopa-floopa my gazinga-ding? No, sir, I am not phantasmagorical! Look, Ernest Hemingway eating a cupcake!”
Much better. Or at least more accurate.
I’m on our regular route, down to the end of the street and then through a little patch of woods next to the grocery store, so lost in thought I’m not really paying attention. That’s how I wind up getting trapped.
“Hello, Jace,” says a raspy voice.
I blink and look up. Father Stone stands in front of me.
I’m not really sure what denomination he represents—the United Reformed Methodist Presbyterian Baptist Something, I think. He looks like a midget linebacker with a bad haircut and only seems to have one expression, like a robot that skimped on the options. That expression is supposed to be a friendly smile, but seems about as genuine as something assembled by a taxidermist. He never wears anything but solid black with a little white collar, and it wouldn’t surprise me to learn he sleeps in the same outfit.
“Uh, hello, Father,” I say. “I’m just out walking my dog.” It’s a lame and obvious thing to say, but the man makes me nervous. He doesn’t blink often enough.
“I see,” he says, smiling. “How have you been, Jace? How are things?” He puts just the barest emphasis on the last word, but it makes it sound like he’s enquiring about a family of monsters living in my basement.
“Things are fine,” I say inanely. No, no, they’re not. Things are moaning and squelching and waving their tentacles like a squid trying to signal a waitress. And those are just the ones in my basement, not my brain.
“We haven’t seen you in church lately,” says a voice behind me. My eyes widen and my heart sinks. Never let them surround you.
“Oh, hi, Miss Selkirk,” I say, turning. Miss Selkirk is a collection of wrinkles wrapped around a skeleton, with bright blue eyes and a mouth that wouldn’t know what to do with a smile if one ever showed up—maybe she sold hers to Father Stone. That would explain a lot; it was probably a bad fit but he just jammed it in there anyway and now he can’t get the damn thing to budge—
Shut up, brain.
“I’ve been … busy,” I say. Actually, I’ve never been to Stone’s church, but it seems unwise to bring that up now. They might insist on marching me down there for an inspection. “You know, with … stuff.”
“Your soul is important,” Miss Selkirk says. She’s dressed in lime-green pants held up with an orange belt, purple-and-pink-striped blouse, white gloves, and a black hat with what appears to be a dead crow stuck in the band. “You should take care of it.” She squints at me like a raccoon sizing up a garbage can.
“I do,” I say. “I have it sent out and cleaned regularly.”
Neither of them react to this little gem in the slightest. “Come by anytime,” says Father Stone. Smiling.
“We’d love to have you,” says Miss Selkirk. She sounds hungry.
“I’ll think about it,” I say. “But I just remembered—Galahad did his business back there and I forget to bring a plastic bag with me. Gotta go get one.” I spin around and march away quickly, before one of them magically produces said item from under a hat or maybe a metal hatch in their chest.
I take Gally back home and consider my next move. I finally decide to just wing it—I’ll march up to Longinus’s house, knock on the door, and just talk to the guy. Feel him out. If nothing else, I can always invite him to church.
I change my clothes first. Not sure why. Stretchy black pants, sneakers, black top. Your basic breaking-and-entering outfit, though I have no intention of burgling the place—all I want is to have a conversation. I tell myself that, over and over, the whole way there.
Which doesn’t take long. The Longinus place is on the edge of town, but Thropirelem isn’t a big place—maybe a few hundred people, all told. Small towns are like islands, little pockets of habitation separated by plains or forests or mountains instead of water—but mostly just separated by distance. People say that distance has dwindled in the twenty-first century, shrunk by modern transportation and telecommunications into a single global village, but there are still plenty of places where you can expect to drive for an hour or more before you see another human face. That distance always has been—and always will be—a factor in how people who live there act and think; isolation always is.
Here that distance is mostly filled with wheat instead of water, vast rippling fields of pale yellow. The Longinus house perches at the edge of that grassy ocean like a rotting seaside warehouse, huge and ancient and dark. It’s only three stories tall, but it seems taller. The wood is that rough gray that unpainted lumber turns into under the hot prairie sun, like petrified elephant hide. The windows are all shrouded by dark curtains, and the front porch has a tumbleweed stuck in one corner beside an old wooden chair; I can help but think about the Gallowsman.
I force myself to mount the creaking steps. The front door is a huge slab of oak with a panel of stained glass at head height. The designs worked into the glass are disturbing, but I’m not sure why; there’s just something about the angles that seems subtly off, like an optical illusion you don’t quite get.
And it’s ajar.
Just a few inches, enough to show a narrow slit of darkness between the frame and door. I freeze with my hand up to knock, then rap gently on the glass. “Hello?” I say softly.
Stupid. What’s the point in
knocking and calling out if you do it quietly? I say in a louder voice, “Hello! Mr. Longinus?” and knock again, harder this time. Hard enough, in fact, that the door swings open wider.
Dark hallway. No sound. I see an old oval mirror in a silver frame on one wall, and faded wallpaper in some kind of floral pattern behind it. A shapeless dark coat hangs from a peg beside the door, and a worn pair of boots sit underneath it.
I take a step inside. My nerves are screaming at me to just turn around and leave, but some other part of my brain has taken over; I find myself checking the edges of the door, looking down for footprints, even glancing toward the ceiling at the cracked and dirty light fixture. My right hand keeps drifting toward my left shoulder, like I’m going to pull something out of a breast pocket.
No, not a pocket. A holster.
“Cut it out, Jace,” I mutter. “You read too many police procedurals.” I don’t even own a gun, let alone a holster.
But apparently deep down inside I’m convinced I have cop DNA, because instead of leaving and closing the door behind me—or calling a real police officer—I move further down the hallway.
There’s another door ajar at the end of the corridor.
When I peer through it, I see stairs leading down. Basement, of course. No trail of blood on the steps, but that would be overkill. Creepy old house, door open, basement. I’d have to be some kind of idiot to go down there, right?
I throw myself on the mercy of the court. About the only excuse I have is possible mental illness, which in retrospect is probably closer to an explanation than an excuse. Also convenient and less insulting.
Down I go. The staircase is well-lit and doesn’t creak. The stairs go down and end at another door, which is kind of strange. This one looks like it was forged out of cast iron about two hundred years ago, and it’s open, too. There’s an orangey, flickering light coming from inside; I peer cautiously into the room.
I don’t know what I expect to see, but it isn’t this.
First impressions: big room, lots of black draperies hanging down. More candles than the bedroom of a teenage goth girl, all of them lit. Lots of cushions on the floor, but no other furniture except for a big-ass table at the far end of the room.