Killing Rocks

by DD Barant

He falls backward, hits the floor with a very solid thump. He doesn’t move.

  “Charlie?” I say. My voice doesn’t sound like me. “Charlie?”

  “Jace.” My heart jumps—but it’s not Charlie’s voice, it’s Azura’s. She’s standing in the door to the kitchen. Maybe she’s hungry.

  “Jace, we have to go. Other lems are on their way. Jace, please.”

  It’s just noise. I stare at Charlie’s body, waiting for him to get up and glare at me for putting holes in his new suit. No, he’s not wearing a suit. What is that thing he’s wearing? Boy, am I going to give him a hard time about that.

  As soon as he gets up.

  Azura’s tugging at my arm. I’d shoot her, too—hey, I’m in Vegas and I’m on a roll—but I don’t seem to have my gun anymore. Azura seems to have it. Tricky, that girl. Wonder why she’s so agitated? Guess she’s never seen someone shoot their partner before.

  “Jace, we have to go.” Yeah. Yeah, she’s right. Charlie is not going to be happy when he wakes up, and he’ll probably blame the whole thing on me. Best thing I can do right now is go find a whole lot of duct tape, then come back with a sheepish expression on my face and help patch him up. He’ll forgive me, eventually.

  That’s what a good partner does.

  * * *

  The next little while is kind of a blur.

  I remember thinking that I sure was running a lot lately. Ever since I got to Vegas, that’s all I seem to do: run toward one thing, then run away from something else. Maybe I should get a bike. Or a skateboard.

  I don’t know how far we run, or for how long. Azura eventually picks another house with the door standing open and we go inside. “We should be safe here for the moment,” she says. “I think he tracked us through the mercenaries.”

  “He?” I say. “Oh, yeah. Charlie.”

  Things get kind of dark right around there.

  * * *

  I wake up crying.

  It’s a weird sensation. I must have been dreaming, but when I try to remember my brain refuses to let me. Maybe that’s a good thing.

  I killed Charlie.

  I can’t process that for a minute. I mean, it just refuses to compute. The thought begins, it bounces around in my head for a while, but nothing comes out.

  I try another approach. Did I kill Charlie?

  Better results with this one, as a whole swarm of rationalizations surge into being. Maybe the damage didn’t look as bad I thought. Maybe he was only unconscious. Maybe there was a lem team right behind him and they had a medic with them. Maybe that wasn’t even Charlie.

  I huddle around these possibilities like a woman freezing to death crouching over the ashes of a fire. For the first time since I was a child, there’s no trace of sarcasm or irony in any of my thoughts. I want one of them, any of them, to be true so bad it hurts. It hurts a lot.

  But deep inside, I know better.

  Azura walks in from the other room, holding a mug of something steaming. She looks concerned. I sit up on the couch I’m lying on, and take it without a word. Tea. I take a long swallow, not caring if I burn my mouth.

  No, that’s not true, either. I want it to burn.

  She perches on the arm of an overstuffed chair across from me, but doesn’t say anything. I look around for the first time, taking in my surroundings. Bigger, better house than the last one, with more expensive furnishings and art on the walls. Guess we’ve moved up in the fugitive world.

  “Where are we?”

  “Swenson Street. About seven blocks from the last place.”

  “Think they’ll find us again?”

  “No. Not unless they start doing door-to-door searches, and they don’t have the manpower for that right now.”

  “But they will.” Every lem in the world will be at Asher’s beck and call pretty soon, and that’s 19 percent of the overall population. They can run the whole city through a sieve and sift us out if they want.

  I drink more tea. It has whiskey in it. Funny I didn’t notice that before. I wonder if it’s drugged, too, and sort of hope it is. Nice little chemical vacation to no-thought island. But then she probably wouldn’t have bothered with the whiskey. Damn.

  We just sit there for a while, not saying anything. She doesn’t ask about Charlie. She doesn’t ask how I’m doing. She just sits there, waiting, and when I’m done with my tea she gets up and gets me some more. There’s more whiskey in it, this time.

  “If you’re going to get me drunk,” I say at last, “at least have the decency to join me.”

  “One of us should stay sober.”

  “Why? If they do find us again, they’ll bring a squad. Sober or not won’t make much difference, then.”

  She shrugs, gets up and gets the bottle. No glass. Guess she’s a traditionalist at heart.

  We sit and drink. When I’ve finished the second cup of tea, she passes me the bottle.

  “How long have you been doing this?” I ask her at last. “The spy-slash-stripper-slash-magician thing?”

  “A long time,” she says. “Since I was eighteen or so. It’s all I ever wanted to be.”

  I nod. “Yeah. I graduated the Academy at twenty-six, but I was in school before that. Always working toward the same thing, the whole time. Wanted to catch bad guys.” I take a swig from the bottle, then correct myself. “No. Wanted to stop bad guys. Catching them was incidental.”

  “Bad guys. Doesn’t matter which reality you’re from, there’s always too many of them. And not enough of the other kind.”

  “Yeah. Ain’t that the truth.” I study her for a second. “You ever have a partner?”

  “Me? Astonishers have to be independent. You never know where you’ll be sent, or what role you’ll have to play. It doesn’t leave a lot of room for … allies.”

  “You didn’t answer the question.”

  “I—no, I guess I didn’t. I suppose I did have a partner, once. Someone I trusted, someone that meant a great deal to me. His name was Brunt.”

  “The zombie from the myth?”

  She nods. “The very same. He was … more than he appeared. Not the monster that Asher’s made him out to be, not at all. And I don’t understand how he could be the last of his kind, either—as you saw in the morgoleum, the underdead are not in short supply.”

  “Just because we saw it doesn’t mean it was real. We’re talking about myths, right? By definition, they’re not real.”

  She shakes her head. “All myths have some truth to them, or they wouldn’t have the power they do. But it’s possible—even likely—that Asher is bending those truths to suit his purposes.”

  “Like Tair did when he killed the last wolf. That was pretty smart, actually.”

  “I get the feeling Tair’s not one to pass up an opportunity.”

  “He’s a killer.” I grab the bottle, take another drink. “But then, so am I.”

  She doesn’t contradict me, for which I’m grateful. “How about you? Ever kill anyone?”

  “Yes.”

  She doesn’t elaborate, and I don’t push.

  “You know, I bet one part of that myth’s true,” I say. “The part about Brunt fathering the golem race. That sounds more like the Brunt you describe than a monster.”

  “It does,” she says softly.

  “Then I guess I have him to thank for the best partner I ever had,” I say. I pour a little of the whiskey into my mug, then hand the bottle to her. “To Brunt.”

  She raises the bottle and I raise my mug. “To Charlie,” she says.

  We drink.

  Things get a little blurry after that.

  * * *

  I wake up in the bathtub, fully clothed. Whiskey must have been magicked up to let it affect pires and thropes—I have a tendency to head for the tub when I drink it, though I have no idea why. Beats waking up with my head in the toilet, I guess.

  I haul myself out, body stiff and complaining. “Azura?” I call. No answer.

  I find her in the living room, passed out on th
e couch, cradling the empty whiskey bottle under her chin. The ungodly noise coming from her mouth tells me she’s still alive, though I wouldn’t call her healthy—people who tell me I snore should listen to her. If the real Tinker Bell had sounded like that, Peter Pan would have smothered her with a marshmallow.

  I stumble to the kitchen and find that there’s no coffee, only tea. Fine. I put the kettle on, then turn on the small TV on the counter. Nothing, just a blank blue screen. Lems must have disabled the cable system, or maybe they’re disrupting broadcasts. I wonder how long the power will stay on.

  I do my best not to think about Charlie. I focus on the hangover instead, concentrating on how bad my body feels as opposed to my heart. It works, kind of.

  My turn to show up with a hot beverage and a kind word. “HEY!” I yell.

  She sits bolt upright and says, “Whazzafug?”

  “Morning, Tink. Time to rise and be shiny.”

  She favors me with a bleary, red-eyed expression. “I whuffa nod.”

  “Thanks for sharing,” I say with a big, sunny smile. “No idea what that means, though. Here.” I offer her the tea. She squints at it, more in befuddlement than suspicion. Poor girl, I forgot she masses at least twenty pounds less than I do. Guess all those Astonisher poison immunities don’t extend to alcohol.

  “Pardon me,” she says carefully, then bolts off the couch and for the bathroom.

  “Astonishing,” I murmur, and take a sip of the tea myself.

  She comes out a few minutes later, looking less like a plague victim and more like herself. “You,” she says, “are a bad influence.”

  “So I’ve been told. We need to strategize.”

  “Can it wait until I reattach my head to my body? I might need it later.”

  “Nope. We need to find Cassius.”

  “Your superior.”

  “I wouldn’t go that far. But yeah, him.”

  She totters into the kitchen, and I follow. She finds a glass and fills it with water from the tap.

  “We’re outgunned and outmanned,” I say. “Or outlemmed, which is the same thing.”

  She takes a sip of water and makes a face. I don’t blame her—I’ve tasted the water in Vegas. “That’s what you were saying before we were attacked.”

  “And I’m still saying it. If we’re going to go after Asher, we’re going to need backup. Cassius can lay his hands on all kinds of NSA resources that could help.”

  “And you can’t?”

  “He’s a general—I’m only a grunt. Well, maybe a sergeant. But I can’t call down the lightning the way he can.”

  Azura finishes her water, pours herself another glass. “He may not be able to, either. Every military and police organization relies heavily on lems, which means they’re all about to be plunged into chaos. What does he have that can counter that?”

  Well, there’s his membership in a secret society that pretty much runs the planet, and an ancient suit of gladiator armor powered by sunlight—but neither of those will help much at the moment, especially when I don’t even know where he is.

  “I’m not sure,” I admit. “But Cassius is always prepared. He’s someone we want onside, believe me.”

  Which means the first order of business is to locate him. The NSA likes to keep track of its agents, and that includes GPS emitters in their cell phones. Mine got trashed early on, but if Cassius still has his—

  I stride out of the kitchen.

  “Jace? What are you thinking?” Azura follows me.

  I find what I’m looking for in one of the bedrooms. A laptop. I open it up and it comes to life, still online and apparently unencrypted. Excellent. I sit down and start tapping.

  “Should have thought of this before,” I mutter.

  “What are you doing?” Azura asks.

  “Contacting a friend. The lems have already killed the TV stations, and the phone system will no doubt be next. Fortunately, this is exactly the kind of situation the Internet was designed for in the first place, to enable communications during a military emergency … ah. Here we go.”

  Damon Eisfanger’s wide, ruddy face fills the screen. “Jace!” he says. “Are you all right?”

  “No. Where’s Gretch?”

  “She’s a little busy—the lems have all just gone on strike. The office is at half strength and I’m here helping to fill in the gaps. Is Cassius there?”

  “That’s why I’m calling—I need you to find him for me. Use the GPS in his phone.”

  “I can do that.” He starts tapping furiously at his keyboard. “Listen, Jace, things are getting really bad here. I don’t know what kind of intel you have access to, but this general strike isn’t the worst of it. There are protests happening in every major city in the world. Riots are starting to break out in some of the larger centers—Sao Paulo, Paris, Tokyo.”

  “It’s going global,” Azura murmurs behind me.

  “Damon, listen. This is the result of a spell that’s being generated here, by Asher.” I hesitate, but what I know is too important to keep to myself anymore. “Damon, Asher is Ahaseurus. Understand?”

  “We—we know, Jace.” He looks deeply disturbed. “Listen, I’m not supposed to tell you this, but there’s something you should probably—”

  The screen freezes.

  I try refreshing the page, and now I’m getting a message that I’m no longer online. Damn it. Looks like the lems are moving faster than I thought.

  And what the hell was Damon about to tell me?

  * * *

  We decide that the best thing to do is have breakfast. Okay, maybe not the best thing—according to my stomach, not even really a good thing—but at least it’s something we can actually accomplish. Thankfully, the people who live here are thropes and not pires, because the last thing I want to be faced with now is a fridge full of blood.

  Azura opens a can of soup, and I find some oatmeal. But when I try to turn on the stove, nothing happens. At first I think the lems have finally gotten around to cutting the power, but then I notice the stove’s gas, not electric. Gas is still flowing, too—it’s the pilot light that’s gone out. I dig through a drawer and find a pack of matches, but the damn things must be wet or something; I can’t get one to do anything more than spark.

  After the third one, Azura says, “Oh, no.”

  “These are useless. Maybe there’s a lighter around here somewhere—help me look, will you?”

  “Jace, do you know why I didn’t take your gun with me when I posed as you?”

  I’ve found a lighter, but I can’t get it to work, either. “I wondered about that, actually.”

  “It’s because I don’t like using any weapon that relies on fire. Or even having one around, really. See, where I come from—”

  “—Fyre is an actual, evil entity,” I finish. “Yeah, I got that—had it drilled into my head, remember? So what?”

  “So there’s an enchantment in my land that prevents fire from existing there.”

  “Yeah, but we’re not—”

  I stop. I stare at her. Both of us walk over to the window and look out.

  No matter where you are in Vegas, you usually have a pretty good view of the mountains. Same here.

  Except these aren’t the same mountains.

  “I don’t think we’re in Vegas anymore,” Azura says.

  THIRTEEN

  It’s twilight, once more. The mountains are a lot closer and a lot taller, and the sun behind them turns them into a sharp-edged, red-tinged line of jagged black. Somewhere in those peaks is a mountain pass littered with the bones of an army of werewolves.

  Or so the story goes.

  “Asher’s done it,” Azura says. “He’s pulled the entire city into Nightshadow. Which means Night’s Shining Jewel is now in your world.”

  “But we’re not trapped inside a myth. Are we?”

  “This is no myth. This is my home.”

  I glance around the kitchen. “Oh? Nice microwave. That a Sears model?”

&nb
sp; “Well, it’s not literally my home. Clearly, physical structures have been transposed.”

  “But the microwave’s still working. Why hasn’t the electricity gone out?”

  “Good question. Electricity wouldn’t be bothered by the spell, but it’s being generated on your world. The two must still be connected.”

  “No fire,” I say. “That means no cars, no planes. And my gun’s useless.”

  “We need to see exactly what’s been switched over and what hasn’t. Come on.” She heads for the door, me right behind her.

  * * *

  We discover the neighborhood looks pretty much the same as it did when we first got here—streets and sidewalks lining deserted homes, with a few abandoned cars still in the driveways. It’s getting darker, and the constellations overhead aren’t the ones I know.

  We don’t see any lems or thropes, but there are plenty of were creatures wandering around, looking puzzled or nervous or just plain freaked out. A guy with the head of an elephant and a build like the Incredible Hulk is working out his frustration on a ’99 Dodge, smashing his giant gray fists into the roof over and over. The car alarm screeching at him just seems to make him angrier, and we give him a wide berth; he’s hammered the roof down to the level of the dashboard. A thing that looks like a cross between a rat and a ten-year-old kid darts from under a hedge and grabs handfuls of glittering safety-glass shards from the ground, stuffing them into a leather pouch around his neck.

  No jets screaming by, but that doesn’t mean the skies are empty; I see large, winged shapes outlined overhead, some of them clearly large birds, some of them—much higher, mostly—the triangular shape of hang gliders.

  “Looks like a few tourists got sucked in here beside us,” I say, pointing them out to Azura.

  “Those aren’t tourists, they’re Lyrastoi,” she says. “Nightgliders from the Royal Keep. No doubt trying to figure out what’s going on, and what to tell the king.”

  We also see more than one underdead, blank-eyed zombies with grayish skin, usually just standing in one place and staring straight ahead. They look like robots that are waiting to be told what to do.

  The one thing we don’t see are human beings—or, as Azura calls them, trues. Every were has shifted into half- or full-animal form out of panic, and more than a few seem to be stampeding for the city limits. We try to stay out of their way—being trampled to death by a herd of fleeing were boars is not how I want to be remembered.