Killing Rocks

by DD Barant

  And all those who lived there rejoiced, human and Were and Lyrastoi alike—but not the Underdead, for joy was something they could not feel. They had found their purpose in work, and now that purpose was done; and they were like seashells on a beach, filled with nothing. And so the people of Nightshadow promised to always find work to fill the endless hours of the Underdead, until the very end of time itself.

  And so a race was enslaved, out of gratitude. They toil to this very day, and they have done so for a long, long time.

  A long, long time.

  A long, long time.

  A long, long time ago, at the beginning of all things, there was Chaos. And Chaos gave birth to Order, for Chaos inevitably gives birth to all things. But Order was different, for Order resisted the destruction that Chaos also inevitably brings; and Order spread, until it was the equal of Chaos and could spread no more …

  I don’t know how many times I listened to it. I was in some kind of a zoned-out, bodiless daze—all I know for sure is that I found myself mumbling it in my sleep a week later.

  I can’t take any credit for snapping myself out of it, either—that was all Azura. She pulled some kind of mystical spell-breaker out of her bag of tricks and bam! we’re back in the real world, just outside the threshold of the morgoleum door.

  “You—you all right?” she gasps.

  “He was most unhappy,” I say groggily. “For he knew the children of Chaos would only spread more uncertainty and change in the world…”

  “Jace?”

  I put a hand to my forehead. “So he resolved to counter … to counter—Ah! Counter my ass!”

  “Uh—”

  “Supercalifragilisticexpiali—do—shus!” I shake my head violently. “Damn it, I need the mental equivalent of mouthwash … that makes the worst earworm I ever got stuck in my head seem like twenty minutes of brilliant improvisational jazz. Eeny, meeny, miny mo … Peter Piper poked a pie of pickled pork…”

  Azura looks a little dazed—and a lot less like John Wayne—but she’s no doubt had more experience in this department. “What is that you’re saying? Is that some kind of spell?”

  “No, I’m just trying to get my brain onto another track—Fee, fi, fo fum, I smell the blood of somebody dumb…”

  “Uh-oh,” says Azura. She’s looking back at the cop we fooled, and he’s talking into his radio and not looking happy. “Time to exit, Agent. I don’t think Mr. Wayne’s fan club is too thrilled with us anymore.”

  We bolt. I’m humming “Itsy Bitsy Spider” under my breath as we run.

  * * *

  We manage to disappear inside a casino. They’ll no doubt analyze images of us on the security feeds afterward, but that won’t help them now unless they’re a lot more organized than I think they are—which, if Gretch is anywhere near the operation, they might be.

  “What the hell was that?” I hiss under my breath as we stride between rows of slot machines.

  “A myth-spell.”

  “So, a spelling error yanked the two of us into storybook time?”

  “Myth-spell. A powerful enchantment that channels the power of an ancient story. In this case it was a creation myth, dealing with the origin of—”

  “I was there, I know what it dealt with. Here’s the part where you explain to me what it means and why it’s there.”

  “I … don’t know.”

  I grab her arm and yank her to a halt. “No. You might not have all the answers, but you know something about what our little trip down fairy-tale lane means. Spill.”

  “All I know is that the morgoleum we stepped into was focusing the enchantment, and that it came from Nightshadow itself.”

  “The spell?”

  “The building. It and the Flamingo were swapped, one for the other. The land around it is in a transitional state—here and there mixed together.”

  “Like Chaos and Order, in the myth. A borderland.”

  She nods, her face grim. “Both places have symbolic significance, too, with the morgoleum full of underdead representing Order—”

  “And the Flamingo—or flaming O—Chaos, as in Fyre.”

  “Yes. A casino is a powerful mystic focus, anyway—it’s where choice and chance come together, a man-made mix of elemental forces.”

  “So—does this mean a casino full of panicked thropes and pires are trapped in this Nightshadow?”

  She starts walking again. “No. Underdead magic is all about keeping things exactly as they are—the whole morgoleum was saturated with it, which is what the spellcaster is using to keep the enchantment running in a loop. More than likely the Flamingo and everyone in it is stuck in the same kind of thing—maybe modernized into a more accessible form.”

  “So we got the oral tradition and they got what—a PBS special?” I had visions of Leonard Nimoy intoning, “And now, in search of … the Underdead.”

  “Maybe. I don’t know. It all depends on what he’s trying to accomplish.”

  “Ahaseurus.”

  “We should really stop using his name—he could use it to track us. Call him Asher.”

  “It’s a little late for that,” a voice growls behind us.

  FIVE

  We spin around.

  Facing us are two of Stoker’s mercenaries: Heinrich Koltz and one of Koltz’s fellow Dobermans. Both Koltz and his comrade are in half-were form, meaning they’re close to seven feet of wolf-headed, clawed, and fanged hairy muscle. Koltz holds a kukri, which looks like a malformed machete, and the other one has a thrope bow—it has a maximum pull close to three times that of a human bow, and thrope speed means he can notch another arrow before the first one hits its target. He’s got a broadhead aimed straight at me.

  Thropes sign when in were form, because their mouths aren’t shaped right to talk. Which means that whoever spoke just now—

  Wanted us to turn. And isn’t there anymore.

  I hit the floor. I hear a sharp puff of air and something slices through the spot my neck had been an instant ago. Not an arrow—the Doberman still hasn’t released.

  Azura snaps her fingers and the bowstring breaks. I yank my gun out of the holster and fire a round to my right, where the attack came from. The bullet slams into a slot machine with a noise almost as loud as the gunshot itself.

  I catch a glimpse of Felicia Mbunte, the pire assassin, as she scrambles for better cover. She’s got a blowgun in her hand and a dart clenched between her teeth. I fire another shot to keep her moving then swing back to cover the thropes.

  Koltz leaps for Azura, his kukri poised to slash her in half. She jumps sideways, throwing a handful of glittery dust in the air as she leaves, does an elegant shoulder roll, and winds up in a battle-ready crouch. Koltz finds his blade passing through empty space, inhales a lungful of sparkles, and collapses to the casino floor in a spasm of retching.

  I’ve got the other Doberman—who does, in fact, resemble one; he’s got the black-and-tan coloration and a long, lean skull—dead to rights, but he doesn’t know that. He’s already yanking a sword out of a scabbard. I stop that by putting a silver-tipped teakwood round into his shoulder—it should have been his heart, but I haven’t been on a firing range since I got here and I’m a little rushed.

  That puts him on the ground, but I’ve lost Mbunte. Pires are fast, almost as fast as thropes, and with that blowgun she can take her time and pick me off as efficiently as any sniper.

  “Guhh,” Azura says.

  I glance over. Azura’s standing upright, but just barely. She’s swaying from side to side, and the look on her face is one of confusion.

  There’s a clump of bright blue feathers sticking out of her neck.

  She pulls the dart out and drops it, staggers down the aisle a few steps, leans drunkenly against a slot machine, and then begins to slide down its face. She never makes it to the floor; Felicia Mbunte steps out from behind it and grabs her by the hair, yanking her up and putting a knife to her throat.

  “Stop,” she says. “You’re coming
with us. Discard your weapon and your friend will live.”

  Damn it. A year ago I would have put a bullet right between her eyes, but I’m not nearly as sure of my aim now. Plus Mbunte’s not stupid—she’s shielding her body with Azura’s.

  “Not going to happen,” I say. “Let her go or I’ll execute both your friends.” I swing my weapon around to cover them—Koltz is still on his knees coughing up blood, while the archer has made it back to his feet.

  “With that? Don’t make me laugh.” Despite the fact that she’s seen firsthand what my gun can do, despite the fact that she just ordered me to throw it away, on a very deep and magic-imposed level Mbunte just doesn’t believe in the gun as a threat. She can’t. I’ve been in similar situations and used that to my advantage, but I don’t see how I can in this one.

  “You’re right, I’m bluffing,” I say, lowering the Ruger. I hold it casually at my side. “It only works for three shots, anyway.” Maybe I can get her to lower her guard …

  “Suh-silver,” Azura says. “Silver … tips.”

  “I’m surprised you’re even conscious,” Mbunte says. “Put enough neurotoxin in you to tranq an elephant.”

  “Your darts are silver-tipped,” Azura says, her voice slow but steady. “So they’ll penetrate thrope or pire skin.”

  “Ssssh, little human…”

  “I wonder what six will do?” Azura says, and then she rams a handful of them into Mbunte’s forearm, the one holding the knife. Clever hands, that girl.

  I half expect Mbunte to slice open her throat, but that doesn’t happen—instead, Azura slithers out of her reach, leaving a handful of hair in Mbunte’s grip and a surprised expression on her face. I’d love to put a bullet in it, but both Koltz and his buddy seem to have recovered enough to advance on me, fangs bared. I shoot Koltz square in the chest, the impact throwing him backward a good six feet, and he goes down for good; his body reverts to human as he hits the floor. The other Doberman’s been shot once already—spell or no spell, he knows enough to dive for cover. I get off one more shot, but miss.

  I’ve got one bullet left, and no time to reload.

  Mbunte collapses to the floor, holding her knife stiffly in front of her as if Azura were still a captive. Azura’s having trouble standing, so I put an arm around her for support. I stagger backward, keeping my gun up. “Come after us and die,” I say.

  I hear a growl from behind a row of slots, but the last were keeps his head down. I can only hope he stays with his buddies and doesn’t trail us.

  We make it through the casino and into the adjoining mall. It’s crowded and people seem to think we’re just another couple of die-hard partiers supporting each other.

  “That was stupid,” I say. “Could have gotten your head cut off.”

  “Nah,” she says sleepily. “Knew it had to be a fash-actin’ paralyddic. Froze her arm. Nodda problem.”

  “Yeah? So why aren’t you a human statue, instead of a surprisingly heavy sack of potatoes?”

  “M’Astonisher. Poison expert. Gots all kinda immule—immoon—immunitable—”

  “Immunities.”

  “Yesh.”

  Which is why she’s currently a half-conscious Astonisher instead of a fully paralyzed one. Must have surprised the hell out of Mbunte, too.

  Still no signs of pursuit, but Azura’s fading fast. I have no idea if this means she’s dying or just going into a coma, but I have to get as far away from here as possible. I leave the mall and flag down a cab.

  “She ain’t gonna puke, is she?” the driver, a lem in a plaid shirt, asks.

  “If she does, you’ll get one helluva tip, okay?”

  I manage to get her inside and tell the driver to take us to Miss Pointy’s. “Really? Y’ask me, she’s had enough,” he says.

  “Oh, she’ll be up and twirling her pasties in no time. This is just how she loosens up before a show.” I hope it’s true.

  When we get there I half carry, half drag her upstairs, find her keys, and get her inside. I wonder how she managed when our roles were reversed and she had to get me into that hotel room; I mass considerably more than she does.

  Sirens outside. I sneak a look out the window, but they’re not coming here. Wherever they are going, though, they’re doing it together and in a big hurry; I count at least a dozen radio cars roaring past at full speed.

  Maybe another casino vanished. People in Vegas hate that.

  I turn back to the couch where I dumped Azura. She’s still out, but her breathing is strong and regular; I don’t think she’s going to die, but I’m neither a doctor nor a shaman. I should get her to a hospital.

  Which means this partnership is over. She can’t help me if she’s unconscious—the smartest thing to do is to find Charlie, explain what’s going on, and regroup.

  Azura shifts and mutters something. I bend down and peer at her head; her hair is shorter now, but there’s no bald patch. I don’t know what she did to get free of Mbunte’s grip, but it wasn’t a wig the pire was left holding—it was as if Azura just told her hair to let go about six inches away from her skull and it did.

  “I don’t know much about magic,” I murmur, “but you could make a killing as a hairdresser.”

  * * *

  I can’t just leave her there—if Stoker’s mercenaries found us once they can do it again. Better to take her with me, stick her in a holding cell, and see if she’ll cooperate when she wakes up.

  I search her apartment, hoping to stumble across some vital piece of information she’s been holding back, but come up empty. She does seem to have a thing for Ding Dongs, though.

  No phone, either, so I have to haul her downstairs and try to flag down another cab. After fifteen minutes I’m almost ready to give up—no cabs are stopping. Neither are the police cars screaming past in both directions; I’m starting to get a really bad feeling about this.

  I finally manage to get a taxi to stop. The driver, a thrope in dreadlocks, looks nervous. “Where to?”

  I give him the address of the motel we were using as an ops center. “What’s going on with all the cops?” I ask as I get Azura inside.

  “I don’t know,” the driver says. “My dispatcher won’t answer. The airwaves are all messed up, too—all I get is this.” He turns a dial on his radio.

  What comes out is a low, almost subsonic rumbling noise—not static, more like distant thunder. It starts and stops, almost sounding like language.

  “Turn it off,” I say. I don’t know what it is, but it’s worrying.

  When we get to the motel, there are no police in sight. Plenty of debris in the parking lot of the chapel and all over the street, but no official presence at all—I expected the area to be sealed off with crime tape and Vegas cops, but there’s nobody here except a few stunned-looking tourists studying the damage to their rental cars. A wisp of smoke rises from the large hole in the roof of the chapel, but if any fire trucks were here they didn’t stick around.

  I pay the cabbie, haul Azura to my room, and dump her on the bed. No Charlie. I run over to the unit we were using as an ops center and knock—no answer. I use my key to let myself in.

  It’s more or less exactly the same as the last time I saw it. Coffee cups on the table, papers spread around, flatscreen TV turned off.

  TV. I turn it on, have to fumble with connections for a minute to get it hooked up to the cable, then find a local news show.

  “—do not attempt to leave Las Vegas by car. All roads into and out of the city have been blocked by LVPD police cars.” The newscaster is a young, attractive Latino pire, and she looks like she’s about to pass out or maybe start screaming. Her hands are shaking. “All flights to and from McCarran International Airport have been suspended. Do not attempt to approach Nellis Air Force Base, as this area has been declared off limits by … by the insurgents.” She pauses, clearly trying to get herself under control. “If you’re just joining us, this is what we know so far: the militant golem group known as the Mantle have—have
taken Las Vegas. They are an occupying force. All golems in the city—this includes the majority of police and army personnel—have seemingly declared their allegiance to the Mantle. They have barricaded all access to the city. No demands have been made yet. Lycanthrope and hemovore law officers have reportedly been killed or imprisoned—”

  “Hold it right there,” a voice says.

  I turn, slowly. Jake Wilson stands in the open door, a compound bow in his hands. He’s got an arrow nocked, the bowstring drawn back. He doesn’t look happy to see me.

  “Wilson,” I say. “Put the bow down. I can explain.”

  “Explain what? How you double-crossed us, or how much the lems paid you?”

  “That wasn’t me. That was a shaman named Azura using an illusion glamour—she’s in my room, unconscious.”

  “Uh-huh. Unstrap your holster and kick it under the table. And don’t touch your … magically goofy weapon while you’re doing it.”

  I do so. “What happened to the team? Is everyone all right?”

  “Well, let’s see. Wolosky’s in a coma, Brody and Gunderson are dead, every lem in the city’s gone crazy—so no, everyone’s not all right. Hope it was worth it.”

  Azura told me no one died and that Wolosky was hunting me. Did she lie? Or were the lems responsible for destroying my team? “Where’s Charlie?”

  “You tell me.”

  “Look, if I really did betray you like you think—why the hell would I come back here? And why would I be lugging a passed-out woman in red cowboy boots with me?”

  He thinks about it. “I’ll admit it don’t exactly make sense.” He lowers the point of the arrow to the floor, but keeps the tension on the string. “Let’s go take a look at your friend. Maybe she can give me a better explanation than the one you just did.”

  I doubt that, but it’s better than standing here and waiting for an arrow in the throat. “Okay, let’s—”