The Edge of Ruin

by Melinda Snodgrass

  “Okay, I’m going to take your advice.”

  “Excellent.”

  “Starting with you.”

  “All right,” but she sounded uneasy. I wondered what she was seeing in my face.

  “So, it’s pretty clear to me that you don’t actually know the true purpose of the Lumina.”

  “I take it you do?”

  “Yes.”

  She leaned back and opened her arms in an expansive gesture. “Enlighten me, please.”

  The gentle sarcasm was drilling onto a nerve, but I gritted my teeth and plowed on. “The company’s just a front.”

  She laughed. “A front. Well, that’s an interesting theory. What was Kenntnis doing that I didn’t know about? Something naughty, I hope.”

  I hated that humoring tone, and how she was turning something deadly serious into a joke. I used the edge of the table to help lever myself to my feet. The laugh stuttered to a stop in the back of her throat as I stared down at her.

  “No, something dangerous. Lumina was founded to combat magic, religion, superstition, and ignorance. And Kenntnis dedicated his life to it.”

  “Magic,” Reitlingen said in an amused tone. “Well, it looks like he won that one.”

  “I’m going to let that go because you don’t understand, but you will in a few minutes. One of my … associates said that I need to be certain of all my employees. I don’t care about their honesty or yours, for that matter. You can all rob me blind, but I have to be sure that none of you will become a conduit for magic, or that you’ll be ensorcelled and turned against me.”

  “All right, this has become silly and annoying—” and her voice had lost its jocularity.

  “I am serious,” I snapped. “Deadly serious.”

  I decided it was time for showing and not telling, so I drew the hilt of the sword out of the pocket of my bathrobe. The sunlight was beating on my back and head, and I felt sweat, born out of heat and nerves and annoyance, beginning to trickle down over my ribs with that horrible crawling sensation as if small insects are on your skin.

  The chair shrieked across the stained concrete floor as Dagmar thrust it back and jumped to her feet. Fear tightened her features. “You will sit back down, and I am going to call your father,” she began in a tone of voice that reminded me of animal trainers.

  “Fine. Go ahead. He’ll back me up. He’s already submitted himself to this. All of my family and friends have. Now I’m asking … no, demanding, that you do so as well.” I thought I had matched her tone of snapped command, but I wasn’t sure.

  “What happens if I refuse?” Dagmar asked.

  Best to keep it simple. “I’ll fire you.”

  Shock flickered across her face, followed by alarm and then rage. She finally got a smile pasted back into place and said with forced lightness, “Maybe I better find out what you’re going to do before I refuse. It might be quite painless, although I’m guessing it’s pretty eccentric.”

  “It’s not painless, but I can’t predict how much pain you’ll feel. The amount of pain seems dependent on how much magic you possess,” I said, and wished I hadn’t added the last sentence. Keep it simple. Keep it simple.

  Dagmar stood dithering. I could see her trying to decide if she’d humor me, send for my father, or just call for commitment papers right now. Sometimes a demonstration can save a thousand words. I swept my hand away from the base of the hilt. There was the strange basso thrum that shook deep in your chest and laid a pressure against the back of your eyes. Dagmar pressed a hand against her chest and took several gasping breaths.

  “You’re not having a heart attack,” I said gently.

  She looked up, and her eyes widened at the sight of the sword I was now holding. I took an instant to contemplate the long black blade filled with distant glittering lights that flowed up and down its length. Whenever I was in the presence of powerful magic, the lights would come out of the blade and form a spinning nimbus of light around the sword and even around me.

  “And no, you’re not hallucinating. I really am holding a sword.” I felt like such an idiot just saying it. For, like, the millionth time I wished that Kenntnis could have recast his weapon into something less silly, archaic, and clichéd. But maybe it was a good thing he hadn’t turned it into a gun. Then I would have been saying, I’m going to shoot you with this gun. Instead of saying, “I’m going to touch you with the sword.” Her eyes widened, and I hurried to add, “Just with the flat side of the blade.”

  She started backing away. “No, no, I don’t think you are.”

  Suddenly she turned and went running out of the kitchen and through the dining room. So much for my being in command of the situation. I let the blade vanish, stuffed the hilt back in my pocket, grabbed my crutches, and started in gimping pursuit. This was the first time I’d really tried to move fast, and it hurt. I felt the tearing in the stitches and the slow warm trickle of blood down my thigh. Yeah, this was going great.

  I nearly caught up to her in the living room. Her high heel had twisted on the edge of the Oriental rug, and she stumbled into an Italian inlaid table. Yelping, she clutched at her knee, looked back at me. I advanced, and she limped frantically through the foyer and began punching the elevator button.

  Maybe mad pursuit wasn’t the best plan. I stopped under the archway. “Please, wait,” I said in the gentlest, sanest tone I could muster. “Obviously I didn’t explain things very well. Let me—”

  Dagmar’s eyes were darting around the foyer. She spotted the door to the stairwell. She ran to it, yanked it open, and vanished down the stairwell. I listened to her footfalls clattering and fading away down the steps. I hoped she didn’t break her neck in those high heels. The elevator gave a gentle ding and arrived. I hobbled onto it, and dithered between the button for the office and the button for the lobby. I really didn’t want my father to know how badly I had screwed this up. I’d try one more time to convince her. I punched the button for the lobby.

  THIRTEEN

  They were down to a Costco carton of peanut butter and cheese crackers, and had eaten two-thirds of the carton. Grenier’s belly felt like an empty sack, and he was past being embarrassed by his stomach’s angry rumbles. The trip west had taken much longer than anticipated since they had abandoned the interstate system just inside the borders of Oklahoma because of the crowds of people converging on Oral Roberts University. The plan had been to ride I-44 into Oklahoma City and then transfer to I-40 for the drive to Albuquerque, but the interstate heading into Tulsa was like L.A. on a bad day, and Syd had feared the wild, exalted expressions on the faces of the people.

  Grenier couldn’t blame him. He’d seen those faces in Serbia and Lebanon, India and Poland, and during government-mandated purges against the religious in China. The Old Ones used religious hatred as fuel for killing because it worked really well, but any kind of fervent, irrational belief that brooked no challenge worked, too. As long as the result was lots of hate, fear, and death, his former masters were indifferent to the source of the conflict.

  So to avoid the faithful they had bailed out onto local roads, some no better than farm tracks, and headed south. The vast emptiness of Texas had been a challenge because gasoline was scarce, and the shelves in the groceries of the small towns through which they passed had been very bare. Eventually they quit stopping because of the covetous looks the RV received.

  They had driven into the next wave of wild-eyed worshipers around the New Mexico town of Roswell, site of the supposed saucer crash in 1947. A tent city had sprung up in the desert, and everyone was watching the skies. The saucer nuts seemed less prepared than the religious nuts, and they were in a particularly hostile environment. It might be early January and colder than a witch’s tit, but it was still the desert. As they drove past the seething crowds, Grenier could hear the low thunder of drums. It seemed some members of the Harmonic Convergence also believed in aliens. A group of young women were whirling in an elaborate dance at the side of the highway. Multicolor
ed scarves, sparkling with sequins, trailed around them, and they sang in eerie high-pitched voices. The only other sounds that penetrated the windows of the RV were the piercing wails of young children and babies. Too young to be true believers, they just knew they were hungry, thirsty, and cold.

  Syd had pressed his foot down on the gas. “What the hell is wrong with them?”

  Because Grenier was tired and hungry and scared, he forgot himself and answered. “The gates are opening. It makes it harder for people to separate a fervent hope from an actual fact. And it’s likely they’ll get their wish. Something may come for them.” He swallowed hard, remembering the faces and that now he had to fear them. “It just won’t be what they expect.”

  “How to Serve Man shit, huh?” Syd asked, though he had neither expected nor wanted an answer.

  They hadn’t stopped in Roswell either.

  Now they were driving up a long street lined with strip malls and cheap apartment buildings toward the towering gray granite face of the mountain. High up among the tumbled boulders was a seven-story office building. The western side glittered and sparkled, and it wasn’t just the windows. Grenier realized the wall between the glass was lined with solar panels.

  They left the last of the buildings behind and went winding up a curving driveway toward the building. Lumina. He had seen the building many times in photos. This was the first time in person. The one time Grenier had led a crusade in New Mexico, he’d stayed well south of Albuquerque and Kenntnis. Grenier had been a true sorcerer, and it was rumored that Kenntnis could sense magic. In fact it had been Cross, but the humans serving the Old Ones hadn’t known that until Rhiana had been placed on the inside, close to Kenntnis.

  There were cars in the parking lot, mostly hybrids and small, fuel-efficient vehicles, but it was relatively few cars when compared to the size of the building. As Syd eased them into a couple of parking spaces, Grenier saw the front door of the building burst open. A woman came running out.

  She was frantically hopping and hobbling, and he realized she’d broken the heel on one of her boots. She stopped at the bottom of the steps that led up to the building’s entrance, unzipped and yanked off her boot. She focused on the still rolling RV and came running toward them, waving her arms over her head.

  “Help! Help, please.”

  Grenier and Syd exchanged glances, and the FBI agent opened his door. The woman jumped onto the first step and hung on to the hand grip, gasping for air.

  “Please …” pant. “I need …” pant, pant. “A ride,” pant. “Please.” She had a slight German accent.

  “Okay, ma’am, just calm down—” Syd began, but the woman interrupted.

  “No time. I must get away!”

  Syd stood up, the woman retreated back down the step, and Syd jumped down and caught her by the shoulders. “Whoa, whoa, why do you have to get away? What have you done?” His tone was sharp and suspicious.

  It must be the nature of cops of every kind, in every place, Grenier thought as he moved to get out of the RV. His belly gave a monstrous growl, and he belched. The gust of air across the back of his tongue carried the scent and faint taste of his last packet of peanut butter and cheese crackers.

  The woman leaned back, trying to pull free. She looked angry. “I haven’t done a damn thing. It’s my boss … former boss. He’s quite mad. He’s got a sword—”

  Syd’s expression cleared and he smiled with relief. He squeezed past Grenier, who was exiting the RV. “Honey, Sam, he’s here. Come on, you’ve gotta come out now.”

  Sam crept to the opening between the cab and the cabin, and peeked around with the air of a timid deer gazing fearfully into an open meadow. Tears welled up in her brown eyes and slowly spilled down her cheeks. “Come on, sweetie. You’re going to be okay now,” Syd said, ever so gently.

  The woman standing barefoot on the cold asphalt was frowning up at the father and daughter. “Pardon me,” Grenier said. She hurriedly stepped aside, and he stepped down with a grunt.

  Syd had his arm around his daughter’s waist now and was gently urging her toward the door of the RV. The German woman’s eyes widened when she saw the large rifle that Sam cradled in her arms. The woman slumped and shook her head.

  “First swords and now guns. Okay, the insanity seems to be spreading. Would someone please tell me what the hell is going on?”

  But Syd ignored the question. Instead he was hurriedly walking Sam toward the building. His head was bent solicitously over hers, and Grenier heard the soothing murmur of endearments and encouragement. “It’s okay, honey. We’re almost there. You’re going to be fine now.”

  The German stared in bemusement after them. Grenier cleared his throat. She turned to face him. “So, it looks like Richard didn’t do a very good job of show-and-tell with the sword.”

  “Does everybody know about this fucking sword but me?” she burst out.

  “A select few, and some of us have a more intimate knowledge than others.” Grenier lifted his maimed arm, and smiled as he watched the woman move to the logical conclusion—he had lost his hand to that sword.

  “Okay, I am definitely out of here,” the woman said and started to walk away.

  It suddenly dawned on Grenier that if Richard had wanted to touch this woman with the sword she must have some importance. He grabbed her by the upper arm, digging his fingers deep into her biceps.

  “Four months ago I would have done everything in my power to hurry you on your way, but now, well, let’s just say that if you give Richard an advantage in the coming battles, then you are going to stay.” Grenier dropped his maimed arm over her shoulders and frog-marched her back toward the front doors.

  * * *

  Pamela hung up the phone and looked over at her father. “That was Sydney in the front lobby. Dagmar went running through like the hounds of Hell were after her. It looks like Richard messed things up.”

  Her father stood up from behind the desk, ripped off his reading glasses, and tossed them down on the piles of papers. “Come along.”

  When they stepped off the elevator in the lobby, a man’s voice was echoing off the black marble and steel panels of the room.

  “She went down to Virginia while I was in the hospital.”

  Richard was there, leaning on his crutches. There was a bloodstain at thigh height on his bathrobe. Her brother’s entire focus was on the face of the older man who was pouring out words so quickly that it was hard to distinguish between them.

  “By the time I figured out what was wrong with her you were gone.” The “her” appeared to be a young woman with chin-length brown hair and wild brown eyes. The man was holding her by the wrist. She bucked and struggled like a hooked fish trying to break the line. Her free hand held a rifle, and that rifle was waving wildly.

  “Sir, we need to secure that gun,” said Estevan, one of the security guards. Pamela totally agreed.

  “I told you it’s not loaded,” the man snapped. He turned back to Richard. “I really need you to do the thing with the sword. You’ll do it, won’t you?”

  At that moment Dagmar and a fat man entered. He had amazing hazel eyes, and it looked like he’d once had good features, though they were now blurred under a layer of fat. His belly strained at the buttons of an expensive dress shirt. He looked vaguely familiar, but Pamela couldn’t place him.

  Her brother’s reaction left no doubt that he knew the identity of the man. “You!” he said, and the single word was filled with loathing and an undercurrent of fear.

  Pamela looked over at her father, but he was also staring at the man with hatred, at least equal to Richard’s if not greater.

  Richard spun on his good leg, putting himself within reach of the bemused security guard, and yanked Estevan’s pistol out of its holster.

  A lot of things happened all at once. Dagmar hit the floor. The man with the terrified, rifle-toting woman said, “Huh?” Rifle Girl began to scream. Sydney, the receptionist, joined in. Richard pointed the gun at the fat man
.

  Estevan said in agonized tones as he shifted nervously from foot to foot, “Sir! Sir! That one is loaded, sir!”

  “Richard!” She shrieked out her brother’s name. “What are you doing?”

  The fat man was speaking, the words both furious and contemptuous. “Good God, what do you think I could do, here in your own stronghold? Assault you? I’m here to offer you my help.”

  “How dare you come here, sir! Leave at once!” Pamela’s father commanded.

  Pamela heard the clack of the front door’s bar being depressed. A new voice, a rich contralto, joined the cacophony, “Richard, what are you doing? You’ve opened your wound.”

  Angela rushed toward him. Hectic spots of color burned on each cheek, distinguishable despite her rich cocoa-colored skin. She stopped, confused by the sight of the gun, and followed the barrel to the fat man. “Oh shit, Grenier!”

  Now Pamela realized who he was. At that point everyone started talking at once and Pamela couldn’t untangle a single sentence.

  “Shut up!”

  It was Richard. His voice carried above the screaming, crying, and talking. Guess all those singing lessons were good for something, Pamela thought.

  And, amazingly, everyone did.

  FOURTEEN

  The furnishings and art in the penthouse were stunning and made Grenier’s possessions look like cheap Walmart crap in comparison. He’d loved the big stone and timber building on his estate in Virginia. The public rooms had been trailer park chic—blue velvet upholstered furniture and thick white pile carpet with bad modern religious art—but his private quarters had been beautiful. He’d collected eighteenth-century English furniture, silver, and paintings. He’d loved the hunting still-lifes, the way each feather on a dead bird had been so perfectly rendered, but his antiques paled in comparison with the objects in this room. Resentment clawed at the back of his throat. Of course, I’m just a man, a mortal, and had only a few years to amass my fortune and collection. Kenntnis had had eons.