A Dream of Stone & Shadow

by Marjorie M. Liu

  It was a terrible thing to see, and it did not feel like fate. There were no probabilities dancing. All the images inside her head were the same—exactly, precisely the same. Which was impossible. Variation was the game of the universe, the future built upon chaos, shifting constantly, affected by as little as one wrong turn, or a thought gone bad. It was true what they said, that something like the flap of a butterfly wing could set off a storm in Texas—except, here it was not the weather being meddled with, but lives.

  This isn’t the future, Aggie told herself. This is a summons.

  But a summons to what? To help the child? And who in the world would be able to summon her?

  Roland could, she thought. And there were several other telepaths employed by Dirk & Steele who might have a similar ability. But she trusted her friends. They were family. And no one at the agency would risk betraying those bonds by something so silly and wasteful.

  So. This was from someone else. Maybe. Could be she was finally going crazy—the lock-her-up kind—and that her brain was giving out under the stress of having to keep straight the infinite possibilities engaged by every living creature Aggie encountered. It was a hard task for one mushy piece of gray matter, and today had been very stressful. Sometimes she could turn it off—sometimes her brain did it for her—but always, always, the gift waited, lingered.

  No, stop it. Don’t think like that.

  It was too frightening. Insanity was a distinct possibility; there was precedent amongst some members of the agency’s recent past. The human body was capable of handling only so much, and the horror for those born different—wired with a few more bells and whistles than the rest of the world—was that psychological help was nonexistent. If you got sick in the head, you took care of it yourself—or relied on a friend to talk you through. You pulled yourself up by the bootstraps; that was the only way to survive.

  And even amongst the agents at Dirk & Steele, some were more different than others. Aggie wondered what it was like for the shape-shifters when they got sick. There was no science to account for men who turned into animals, who could sprout wings and fur. None at all; only magic, true miracles, through and through. And to see it, to know and believe it…

  Nothing was sacred. Anything was possible. Aggie could no longer take her world for granted. Which was far more disturbing than it should have been, considering all that she could do.

  Aggie forced herself to stand. There was a reason she never had visions of her future self—she realized that now. It placed her in a peculiar kind of paradox she had no explanation for—a trap of being bound by a future she had not contemplated, might never have considered, had she not been witness to such a forceful invasion of her mind. She felt like a serpent eating its own tail.

  She returned to the living room. There was another X-Files episode on—a marathon of them. This time, baseball players. Aliens in love. The weird was different from her reality, but equal in terms of off-the-wall intensity.

  And you wouldn’t trade it for a thing. Weird is what keeps you going, what lets you help people in ways others can only dream of. Like today. You saved a life. No matter how you feel, you rescued a little boy.

  One boy out of thousands, maybe millions. Bad numbers, worse odds.

  But if she tried hard enough, if she wished long enough, perhaps she could pretend that it was not the number of rescues that mattered, but only that a child was safe, that in a world where there was so much suffering, one act of goodness could mean everything. That she was making a difference.

  And now another child needed her help.

  I need to find that photograph. A hard copy of it, or a scan on the Internet. It was not enough to view the girl inside her head. There had to be a physical connection. It was the same for many of the other agents at Dirk & Steele; like Roland, who could only see across great distances if there was a telephone involved. E-mail did not cut it. Strange, yes, but those were the breaks. You simply had to take what was offered, no matter the form or shape, and run with it. Make do.

  So Aggie went to her computer, swallowed hard before typing in her search parameters, and did just that.

  Aggie found the girl in the wee hours of morning, after an exhaustive search that left her sick and tired, hand aching from clutching a pen as she made notes on the children she did find, and who gave her terrible visions of futures to come. At least three of them would be easy to locate by the authorities, and Aggie sent Roland a note with the information, flagging the e-mail red for priority. She knew him; by morning all of her research would be passed on to a paid-to-be-anonymous tipster—a man who had a good reputation with the police, and who could not be traced back to the agency. It had to be that way. No one wanted questions asked. The public jobs Dirk & Steele did were public only because there was no alternative. Most of the agency’s work was much more subtle.

  But the little girl in question—a new memory, to replace Rujul—finally appeared on a Web site that advertised itself as a forum dedicated to the “visual exploration of the human form.” Innocent enough, but when she dug deeper—as the blogs of certain self-assured “child lovers” suggested—she found something far darker than a simple exploration of the human body.

  She found children. Lots of children. Hidden beneath layers of links and code, nestled deep inside the core of a site that on the surface was hideously innocuous.

  The girl was located on one of the last pages Aggie looked at. It was the same photograph, the same ghostly gaze. Aggie stared, pouring herself into those eyes, hunting for the truth, the future, some shining light she could follow. She wanted to know why this one life was so important that the probabilities fell away, why for once she was the victim of her own unpredictable mind.

  Her vision split, curling around the present and future. She saw darkness, utter and complete, a future of darkness that was not the grave, but worse, a living tomb, damp and cold and filled with something more than rodents and insects and other creepy-crawlies of the imagination. She heard movement, saw a flash of light—

  And the outline of a man, or the semblance of a man, because at first Aggie thought he was wrapped in a black stocking that covered him from head to foot, but then she realized that no such thing existed, and that what she gazed upon was a shadow. A man. A force, maybe. A presence that in all probable futures whispered Emma, don’t be afraid, and, Emma, I came back with help. And Aggie could see that the girl crouched inside the darkness was not afraid of the shadow, the man. Aggie was not afraid, either. She sensed no premonition of terrible things, just a warmth that sank into her bones…

  Aggie blinked hard, pulling out. She remembered the heat that had fallen upon the back of her neck at the crime scene, and touched herself again. Her skin felt ordinary. No caresses, this time.

  She swallowed hard and forced herself to look at the girl’s photo again. Emma, she thought, and bright lights dragged across her eyes as she stared into the face of a narrow man whose hair gelled into dagger spikes, and whose gaze held a hunger that made Aggie think drugs, but worse, because all the probabilities pointed to another kind of taste. Variations of this man appeared to her—in a room with long blinds, and behind him an old woman rubbing her hands down the back of his neck.

  Aggie looked hard across the veil of possibilities, but found no clues as to where the little girl was hidden away. Nothing at all, not a vision of the outside, not a bill on a table, no words. No one talked inside her head except to say, Look at this, do this, hold yourself just so, you little shit. And then, quieter, gentler, Emma.

  Even softer, Agatha.

  Aggie sucked in her breath, hearing her name reverberate across the future probabilities of the child in the picture. Her name, spoken not by the girl, but by the presence, the faceless shadow-man.

  Future set, future promised. Aggie had no idea what it all meant, but it made her nervous. She rubbed her arms and gazed around her bedroom. Nothing bounced back at her as out of the ordinary. She looked at the computer screen and tou
ched the little girl’s face.

  I’ll find you. You’re alive and I’ll find you.

  One child out of so many that needed to be saved. But Aggie, looking at Emma’s picture, thought she could live with that. Slow but steady. One was not such a lonely number. One was everything when it came to saving lives. Roland was right. Despite the odds, that was nothing to get depressed about.

  Aggie printed out Emma’s picture. She laid it down on her desk, tasting the future. There was a ninety percent chance the girl would not be physically abused tonight, and there was no danger at all of her dying. Which did not ease the pressure, but it did mean Aggie could rest for an hour or two before continuing her research.

  She stripped off her clothes and slipped into bed. Shut her eyes.

  Sleep did not come easy, and when it did, a deeper darkness mirrored her thoughts and dreams, a basement, a cave, a place of damp wet things and fear, so much fear.

  Until, again, that warmth, that sunlight in shadow that reached down into her bones and blood, right through her heart into her soul—and with it a comfort that stripped away fear, the horror of loneliness. A presence that was solid in that most profound sense that had nothing to do with physicality, but home—heart home, soul home, all those homes that were not walls, but thoughts, feelings, passion.

  I am home, Aggie thought, curled up within that darkness. Wherever I am, I am home.

  Warmth. She became aware of it slowly. Like a charm in her head, seeping through her body as a slow-moving river; sunlight, blinding. It was delicious.

  But not right. Part of her, even unconscious, knew that. Recognized the heat.

  Aggie opened her eyes.

  Her bedroom was dark; through the window blinds, the streetlight outside cast a serrated glow on her ceiling. Nothing moved. She was alone.

  “No,” said a strange voice. “You’re not.”

  A gasp escaped her—almost a scream—but Aggie clamped her mouth shut and reached for the gun on her nightstand. No one stopped her, but that was no consolation. Nor did she feel better with a weapon in her hand.

  She recognized that strong low voice. Remembered it from the future. The heat lingered, oozing through her, and that, too, was familiar: a ghost from her afternoon, standing on that street with Quinn.

  “I know you,” she said, searching the shadows of her bedroom, trying to keep her voice steady as she found only walls and furniture and piles of laundry on the floor. “I know you.”

  “No.” One word, so close she could almost feel the air tremble in front of her face. Aggie leaned backwards, sweeping her hand through the spot. Heat collided with her skin.

  “No, my ass,” Aggie said, trying not to shake. “You have something to do with a little girl I’m investigating. I heard you inside my head. I saw you with her.” Never mind revealing her gift. This was already weird. The thing inside her room could not possibly be shocked by anything she could do.

  “You might be surprised,” he said, and then, quieter, “I need your help. I need you to help her.”

  “And I need you to show yourself. Right now.”

  For a moment she thought he would not do it—had to wonder, even, if the very male presence in her room was even capable of it—but just as she began to give it up as a lost cause, a shadow materialized; a figure darker than the air around her, gathering together to form the shape of a large man. He looked solid enough, but Aggie did not take that for granted. He did not have a face.

  She tried to see his future, but her gift stalled. He said, “I don’t think I have a future.”

  Aggie gritted her teeth. “You’re a mind reader.”

  “Sometimes.”

  “Sometimes,” she repeated. “My theory on mind readers is that you are or you aren’t. It’s like being pregnant.”

  “Then at the moment, I guess you could say I’m having triplets.”

  “Funny,” she muttered, and really it was, though she was damned if she was going to crack a smile and encourage the source of that fine heady sound of irritation and sarcasm floating through her room.

  You’re forgetting that thing is a mind reader. Pretense is a waste of time.

  The shadow grunted. “You can call me Charlie, Agatha. And yes, that really is my name, and no, I’m not a thing, which you should be ashamed of thinking.”

  “Anything else?” she asked, unnerved.

  “Just that you’re right. It is a waste of time to pretend with me. I do, however, completely understand your desire to try. Really.”

  “Gee, that’s nice,” Aggie said. “You’re freaking the hell out of me, but still, I appreciate the honesty. Maybe you can answer another question.”

  “I did not manipulate you,” Charlie said, with a speed that Aggie found truly annoying. “Sorry. But that was what you were going to ask. I did not put that…that initial vision of Emma in your head. I’ve never seen that photograph.”

  “But you’ve been with her.”

  “I was called to her. She was afraid. Desperately afraid. I would have rescued her myself, but…” He held up his shadowy hands. “I’m not good with the physical at the moment.”

  “You’re physical enough,” she thought, recalling the heat, the warmth spreading through her body. “Maybe a little too touchy-feely.”

  Body language was all she had to read Charlie. It could have been difficult, but he made it easy. His shoulders slumped, straightened, twitched—an odd little dance of discomfort. This time Aggie did smile, though she doubted it was a particularly pleasant expression.

  “It’s not,” he affirmed.

  “Cry me a river,” she said, but her annoyance began to fade. It was strange, having a conversation that required no artifice or bumbling, but it was—if she could admit it—almost as fun as it was unnerving. She had a thought; Charlie answered. It was very efficient. She liked that. Except for the strong possibility he could hear and see all her most personal secrets. Yikes.

  Don’t think about that. Focus. Focus on the why and how. And remember Emma.

  Remember Emma. Yes. She could do that with absolutely no effort at all. The girl was part of her now—lodged like a knife in her brain.

  “So you need my help,” Aggie said, “You, who are so obviously gifted in your own remarkable way. Forgive me if I call you a big fat stinkin’ liar.”

  Charlie made a sound of disgust. “What you can do and what I can do are two very different things. But does it even matter? You know the girl is in trouble.”

  No denying that, but Aggie was not satisfied with easy answers—or attempts to deflect her from the truth. “Why me?” she asked, still trying to wrap her head around the situation, to decide whether or not this was some dangerous elaborate hallucinogenic hoax. “Of all the people in the world, why the hell show up in my bedroom?”

  “Because you’re perfect,” he said. “In your mind, your heart. I was there today when you went after that child molester. You were unstoppable, willing to do anything. Emma needs that.”

  Aggie remembered heat on her neck, heat spiraling into her body. “Emma needs the police, Charlie. Emma needs more than me.”

  “If the police were enough, I wouldn’t be here. And if you…if you weren’t enough, I wouldn’t be here, either.”

  “Picky, aren’t you?”

  Aggie saw no eyes, but he tilted his head, and she had the distinct impression that he was giving her a Look.

  “Emma’s mother is dead,” he said, and the change in his voice from soft to hard was chilling, dangerous. “Her kidnappers shot the woman in the face. They’re ruthless people. I needed someone who wouldn’t care about the danger.”

  “And you think that’s me.” Anger curled through her gut—not at Charlie, but at Emma’s captors. Aggie did not doubt the truth of what he told her; somewhere deep, she knew how bad those people were. She had looked into their eyes, and she knew.

  “Yes,” whispered Charlie. “It’s as bad as you think.”

  Aggie thought of Rujul, the film stu
dio, the bed, those men with their hard eyes and hard hands. Twelve years old and already he had lived through a nightmare.

  “Emma is only ten,” Charlie said. “And her nightmare is just beginning.”

  Aggie blew out her breath. “And you? What do you get out of this?”

  “Nothing,” he said. “Just my soul. And no, I don’t mean that literally.”

  “I had to wonder,” she said. “Seeing as how I can’t take anything for granted, anymore.”

  “I’m sorry for that.” His response was cryptic, but also, in a strange way, kind. He stepped toward her, graceful and weightless; he did not walk, but floated.

  “What are you?” asked Aggie.

  He stopped moving. “I’m me. Just…a man.”

  Bullshit, she thought.

  “I don’t want to talk about it,” he said.

  “But this isn’t your real body.”

  “No. My physical self is…some distance away. This is just a projection.”

  A projection with a touch that made me hot.

  Oh, bad wording, bad thought. Aggie’s cheeks felt red. Charlie twitched, but instead of commenting, he said, “Will you help me? Will you help Emma?”

  Aggie put down her gun. There no longer seemed to be any reason to hold it on him. “You already know the answer to that.”

  “I was trying to be polite.”

  Aggie briefly closed her eyes. “This is bizarre. I can’t believe I’m not screaming yet.”

  “Neither can I,” he agreed, and Aggie cracked another smile. Her smile disappeared when he said, “But you’re already used to strange things, so maybe that helps. All your friends, the people you work with…” He stopped, looking at her, and Aggie wondered what her face must look like, what he was feeling from her heart, because he said, very softly, like a fireman trying to talk down a kitten, “I won’t tell anyone.”