Killing Rocks

by DD Barant

  “Asher’s making a global power play. First Vegas, then Nevada, then the rest of the country, and finally the world. Basic strategy for any coup d’état: Control the army and you control the government. Asher controls the golems—because, believe it or not, he’s the one who wrote the spell that created them in the first place.

  “And he’s one of us, Jace. Human. He doesn’t want to slaughter pires or wipe out thropes—he just wants a world that human beings can live in without fear. A world that belongs to us again, instead of them.”

  He leans back, smiling ever so slightly. “You know, even though you’re not here, I can still hear your response. Oh, yeah? So now the human race is what, the landlords of the planet? Hey, sorry, I know Australia has a leaky basement but I can’t send a plumber until Tuesday. Or something like that, but more sarcastic.

  “Look, I know you have no reason to trust me. The last time we talked—well, I wasn’t exactly sane. I admit that, all right? The kind of magic I was exposing myself to, it affects your mind. I see now just how crazy my plan was, even though it made perfect sense at the time.”

  He shakes his head. “I’m not crazy anymore, Jace. I don’t want to destroy the world or kill all the supernaturals. You and I should be working together—or you’re going to wind up in the same position I used to be in. Leading a resistance against an occupying force, hunted by every law enforcement agency on the planet, forced to commit horrifying acts just to get your point across. That’s … that’s a terrible way to live, Jace. I know.”

  I’m sure he does. But the alternative seems even worse—taking the side of a world-conquering dictator who’s just turned the remnants of the human population into the world’s ultimate aristocracy. No way I could sign up to enforce that kind of status quo.

  Yeah, you’re a real rebel, my brain whispers. Look how long it took you to accept a paycheck to hunt your own kind on a world where they’re almost extinct.

  “Asher has both his and my people hunting you,” Stoker continues. “You’re probably wondering why he seems so obsessed with you. It’s because of your counterpart—the Jace Valchek of my world. It’s why you were targeted in the first place, why Asher brought you over. That’s all I can tell you for now, but believe me—you want me on your side in this. I can protect you; Asher needs me, needs my connections in the human community.”

  He holds up a piece of paper with a number on it. “Call me as soon as you get this. I can only broadcast for a limited time—Asher’s occupied at the moment, but I can’t risk him seeing this. I’m taking a huge risk as it is.”

  He stares at me from the screen. “Please, Jace. I’m trying to save your life.”

  The message stutters for a second, then starts all over again. I pick up the remote and shut the TV off. “Help me, Obi-Wan Kenobi—you’re my only hope,” I mutter.

  When I first arrived in thrope-pire-lem world—let’s just call it Thropirelem for brevity’s sake—I quickly came to detest magic. Magic is a detective’s worst enemy; it breaks all the rules you need to rely on, it’s contradictory and unreliable and frequently makes no damn sense whatsoever. However, over time, I’ve come to a grudging acceptance of the situation.

  My new favorite concept to hate is the multiverse.

  Parallel worlds, alternate realities, whatever you call them, it all boils down to the idea that there are other universes that exist right alongside our own. Each of these places is similar to the ones beside it, but the farther away from the original universe you get, the more differences there are. I started in my own, got yanked to Thropirelem, then wound up in Nightshadow.

  And how many of these worlds are there, you ask? Three, four, a dozen, a hundred? Well, according to what my übergeek friend Eisfanger tells me, they’re infinite. An all-you-can-eat cosmic buffet and salad bar, come back as often as you like. That is, if you’ve got the megapowered cross-universe mojo needed to hop from one to the other.

  Which, apparently, my good buddy and interdimensional stalker Ahaseurus aka Asher does. And what’s he using this power for, aside from overthrowing a planet here and there?

  To grab me. Not even because of who I am, but because of who I could have been. Or was. Or might be. Or am, but not exactly.

  You see why I hate this? Not only is it confusing, it makes me feel like a cheap bootleg of a more successful product. “I’m sorry, we couldn’t get the real Jane Velsheck Action Figure in, but this Jace Valchek doll is almost as good. Look, you can twist her head right off.”

  What I don’t know is what Asher wants with me, or what his relationship with my alternate is. Or was. They could be lovers, enemies, partners … I just don’t know. She could be alive or dead—maybe he’s got a whole dungeon full of them and just wants me to complete his set. It’s always hard to track down that last variant edition.

  I flop down on the bed and throw an arm over my eyes. I’m trapped in an alien dimension—a different one, hooray!—my gun’s a paperweight, my boss is doing an impromptu version of the Phantom of the Eiffel Tower, my one ally can’t decide if she’s James Bond, Harry Houdini, or Stripperella, I put a bullet in my own partner … and I could be overwhelmed by the waking equivalent of night terrors at any point. Oh, and the psycho killer I’m supposed to put away would really, really like to friend me. Sorry, I mean the two psycho killers; I’m such a popular girl.

  I just lie there until I fall asleep. Maybe if I’m lucky something will break down the door in the middle of the night and eat me.

  * * *

  No such luck. What I get is a knock at my door at Too Early o’clock.

  “Jace Valchek?” a deep voice calls out.

  “No housekeeping,” I mutter. “Sleeping.”

  Then reality seeps in and I sit bolt upright. Geez, I didn’t even get my shoes off before I passed out; I know waking up in Vegas is supposed to be a little disorienting, but this is ridiculous.

  “Who’s there?” I call out.

  “My name is Dariek Nightstorm. I come at the behest of Azura of the Hidden Clan.”

  Well, that certainly sounds official. I stick my eye up to the peephole and hope I don’t get an icepick through it. The man on the other side must be a Lyrastoi—he’s tall, thin, and pale, with jet-black hair and pointed ears; I know Lugosis who would kill for his bone structure. He has a pale gray cloak draped over his shoulders, and it looks like it’s the only thing he’s wearing that’s not made of leather—black boots and pants, a jacket of deep purple with white bone buttons.

  I open the door. He enters cautiously, eyeing me like a cat edging around a dog. “Gather your things. We must leave this place, and quickly.”

  “But checkout time isn’t until noon,” I say. This gets a blank stare, which is about what I was expecting. “Where’s Azura?”

  “She is waiting at our destination. Can you ride?”

  I don’t think he’s asking about a bike. “As long as it’s something resembling a horse, I think I can manage.” I grab the few things not already in my knapsack and stuff them inside. “Where are we going?”

  “Somewhere you’ll be safe.”

  “Really? That’ll be new. Listen, there’s a stop we have to make first.”

  “I was not told about any stop.” His tone lets me know he doesn’t like the idea. I don’t much care.

  “I’m telling you now. My superior, David Cassius, needs to come with us. He’s on top of that giant metal tower you passed on the way in.”

  “I cannot guarantee your safety should we do this—”

  “Do I look like I want a guarantee?” I snap. “You can wait at the bottom if you can’t hack the climb. Or did you bring the kind of ride that does stairs, too?”

  He gives me a cold glare. “I brought steeds for two. Your superior will have to find his own transportation.”

  “Come on, let’s take this argument on the road,” I say, heading for the door. He’s forced to follow me.

  “You are being hunted,” Nightstorm says. “Even now, there ar
e groups conducting an organized search of the new buildings. We cannot tarry—”

  “No tarrying, check,” I say. “Try to keep up, I’m in kind of a hurry.”

  That last comment either confuses him or pisses him off enough to make him shut up, which is good. I desperately want some coffee and know I’m not going to get any—how the hell would I heat the water? There’s probably bottles of iced coffee lurking somewhere in the bowels of this place, but I don’t have time to look.

  Outside the casino, two hostile-looking guys are waiting in the twilight. I can tell at a glance exactly what kind of were creature they are, because every inch of their skin—bare except for a little strategically placed pouch—is covered in alternating black-and-white stripes. Also, they have these six-inch-high mohawks that go all the way down the backs of their necks.

  “No saddles, of course,” I say. “Terrific. Bareback it is.”

  “I am Windrunner,” says the first one. “This is Trailbreaker. He will carry you.”

  “Not just yet, he won’t.” The entrance to the tower is just steps away; I head straight for it. “Wait here—I’ll be right back.”

  They don’t, though—all three trot along after me. “We were instructed to keep you safe,” Trailbreaker says. “We shall accompany you.”

  “Fine,” I say. “Uh—try to hang back once we get near the top, will you? My boss might think I’m bringing him lunch.”

  * * *

  But when we get to the top, Cassius isn’t there.

  “Damn it,” I say. No note, no sign of a struggle—though it might be hard to tell if one had happened. Pires don’t bleed as a rule, and there isn’t any furniture to be knocked over. The tourist kiosk is still in one piece, but that doesn’t mean much, either.

  “He may have been taken by the same forces searching for you,” Nightstorm says. “Which means—”

  “I know, I know. Time to go.” As much as I hate doing it, I’ll have to leave Cassius on his own; I can’t even risk a note, because there’s no telling who might find it.

  When we reach the base of the tower, the two zebra weres transform. I’ve seen plenty of thropes do that, but there’s a difference when the end result is three hundred pounds of hoofed stripes. It takes longer, for one thing, and there’s a lot of snorting that goes on at the same time. The little pouch, in case you’re wondering, winds up around the neck.

  Trailbreaker looks at me with big black eyes and twitches his head in a gesture that clearly means Jump on! Well, okay …

  Nightstorm does the same with Windrunner, and it’s happy trails for us.

  * * *

  The trails might be happy, but after the first half hour my tail definitely isn’t.

  Ahaseurus clearly doesn’t have NSJ under his control the way he does Vegas; there aren’t any lem patrols, just the occasional underdead wandering around. The other weres seem to have all cleared out—though we still see were hawks circling overhead, and at one point a band of what look like giant weasels with hands scurry across the road in front of us.

  It’s obvious when we get to the edge of the transplanted area: On one side there’s a run-down motel with a car on blocks in the parking lot, and on the other, jungle.

  Not like any jungle I’ve ever seen, though. The undergrowth is thick and tall and lush, but it isn’t made of plants; in a land with no direct sunlight, the only thing that flourishes is fungus. Not tiny little toadstools, either: There are mushrooms as tall as palm trees, with brilliant red undersides and blue streaks down their stalks; there are ’shrooms shaped like reefs of bright orange coral, like bells, like fuzzy brown brains; there are delicate, feathery molds that sway like grass in the breeze, bright white puffballs the size of dinosaur eggs, spiky-looking mounds tufted with crimson strands.

  “Wow,” I say. “My butt hurts.”

  The zebra-man I’m riding on lets out a long, complicated whinny, the meaning of which is probably along the lines of, You think your butt’s sore? My back’s killing me.

  There’s a path cut through the jungle, wide enough for two riders side by side. “This is Edenheart,” Nightstorm says. “We’re going into it, but not far.” He gallops off down the trail without waiting for my reply, and I follow. Well, Trailbreaker follows—I just hang on to his mane and try not to embarrass myself.

  After ten minutes or so, we turn off the main trail onto a mostly overgrown and much smaller track. It leads us deeper into the jungle, ending at last in a small cluster of huts, most of them falling apart. The place appears to be deserted.

  Nightstorm stops and dismounts, Windrunner shifting back into human form. I manage to get off my ride’s back without falling on my face, but it’s still not exactly graceful.

  “Where are we?” I ask.

  “This is Sporedrift,” Nightstorm answers. “Once a way station for travelers, but long abandoned.” He strides directly toward the one hut that still seems relatively intact, with a door made of spindly white twigs lashed together—dried mushroom stalks, I guess. He stops in front of the door, mutters a few words under his breath, and taps it lightly, twice. It swings open and he enters.

  Both Trailbreaker and Windrunner motion for me to follow, so I do. Inside the hut, Nightstorm is clearing aside a pile of the same kind of twigs in the middle of the floor. I pitch in and give him a hand.

  At the bottom of the pile is a trapdoor, with a heavy wooden ring set into a square of carved wood. The wood has a strange, swirly grain to it; I suspect it didn’t start life as a tree.

  Nightstorm produces a small, transparent globe on a thin leather strap from his cloak. He taps it a few times and whispers something to it, and suddenly the globe is alive with fireflies, shining with a flickering but bright light. He hands it to me. “Put this around your neck.”

  As I put it on, he grabs the ring and pulls it open. A rich, earthy smell drifts out—

  “Wait for the forensics team,” Krisfell tells me. I nod, too shaken to speak. He pulls away, Crown Vic spraying gravel from the tires. I wonder if he’ll get to the hospital in time, or if our suspect will bleed out in the backseat. I can’t say I care much either way.

  I walk around the side of the house and look at the cellar doors for a long, long time. They’re the kind that are set into the ground at a steep angle, with either steps or a ladder on the other side. They’re old, cracked white paint over splintery boards, held together with rusty nails.

  It’s not locked. I have the search warrant in my pocket. No one else is in there—no one alive, anyway. I should wait for the forensics team.

  I pull the doors open, one at a time, and let them bang all the way to either side. I take out my flashlight and climb down the short ladder.

  The walls and floor are made of dirt. There’s a water heater in the corner on a concrete pad, next to a furnace. Black metal pipes crisscross the ceiling, suspended from dusty rafters by strips of tin.

  A mound of fresh dirt is piled up in one corner, with a gardening trowel stuck in it.

  I approach it slowly. There’s an ancient set of wooden shelves against the wall on the other side, stacked with dusty mason jars that look like they’ve been there since the Civil War. Preserves: jam, pickles, fruit. Now they’re just something for spiders to string webs between.

  The air is rich and moist, that kind of heavy dampness that makes you feel like every inch of skin you own is sticky. And now I smell the odor of decay underneath it, the smell of something rotting just below the surface. Bodies give off all sorts of gases as they decompose, and they’re a lot harder to cover up than you might think; they’ll even seep through solid concrete.

  There’s a galvanized steel bucket standing beside the mound, half full of dirt. Nothing like a little compost spread around the garden.

  Out of the eight women in the area who’ve gone missing, we’ve only found two bodies. I think I know where the others are—or most of them, anyway …

  I come back to myself just as suddenly as I left, except now I’m lying f
lat on my back with Nightstorm hovering over me. At least I didn’t scream this time. I hope.

  “You have been cursed?” Nightstorm asks. His voice is matter-of-fact, as if he’d just asked how long I’d had that head cold.

  “So it seems,” I say, pushing myself to my feet. “Sorry. Smell kicked it off.”

  “Memory inducement,” Nightstorm says. “Scent is the usual trigger. I would advise plugging your nostrils, but that’s only a temporary solution; it will find another way to activate.”

  “Thanks for the advice. Any idea how I get rid of it?”

  “Several. Do you have access to the Book of Aether, the left lung of an Eldritch Bogg, or a jar of distilled Lethe water?”

  “Not so much.”

  “Then your prognosis is grim. Shall we go?” He motions to the dark opening in the floor.

  “Sure. But if I pass out again, you may wind up carrying me.”

  “The curse will not manifest again so soon. And if it does, then carry you I shall.”

  Even though I’m the one with the light, he goes first. I have a hunch that Lyrastoi do pretty well in the dark.

  We climb down a ladder about twenty or so feet, through a dirt tunnel shored up with boards. It widens out a little at the bottom, with three different tunnels branching out from that point.

  We take the tunnel to the right. “These are smugglers’ tunnels,” he says as we walk along. “Many of the denizens of Nightshadow are weres with a predisposition for living underground: were-badgers, were-voles, were-ferrets. Not all of them are criminals, but a large number seem to have a fascination with shiny trinkets they don’t necessarily own. There is an intricate system of passages that runs beneath both Night’s Shining Jewel and, to a lesser extent, the Edenheart Jungle. They are constantly being modified to frustrate the efforts of the authorities, with new tunnels being added and old ones collapsed. Traps are always a hazard.”

  “Thanks for taking the lead.”

  “The route we’re taking has recently been cleared. Stay close and stay alert, all the same.”

  Walking along behind him, I notice something for the first time: What I thought was a little batwing-shaped collar is in fact two tiny, vestigial batwings growing from the base of his neck. I wonder if his genetic heritage includes sonar, too.