CrossTown

by Loren W. Cooper

  “I’m disappointed in you, Blade.” My internal voice had a controlled, warning mildness. I didn’t vocalize the thought, as I didn’t intend to trigger any unwanted activity on the part of the cat.

  “It doesn’t have any detectable hostile intent,” said Blade. “And it seems to be able to screen on some level. I didn’t feel it before you saw it.”

  “Let’s hope it doesn’t change its mind,” I replied sharply. I didn’t continue the thought, which had threatened to blossom into a lecture, as I thought of the possibilities. That cat, with sharp predatory reflexes and at least four times my mass, had considerable potential for mischief.

  I reached out gently, touching the cat’s mind with my will. I watched its reactions, minding Blade’s comment about its ability to screen on some psychic level. Its ears pricked forward as I made contact. I saw the tip of its tail twitch against the trunk of the tree. Cats are contrary critters. I had apparently blunted its appetite but piqued its curiosity. I thought I’d take advantage of both.

  I nudged its attention across the clearing, to where the two men reclined. It didn’t want to cooperate. I occupied its thoughts for the moment. It wasn’t taking my word that something else might be more interesting. I wheedled, I persuaded, I made my case in images and shades of emotion. Cats were territorial. Wouldn’t it want to know what these interlopers were all about? It took a bit, but slowly the great liquid eyes blinked, and the gaze shifted, sharpened. Then I concentrated on the potential deliciousness of rare Whitesnake: the hot savor of the blood; the marbling of the meat; the sweetness of the marrow. I waxed a bit enthusiastic. By the time the cat drew itself up with an elaborately casual yawn, dropped from the branch, and slid into the cover of the brush, its eyes never moving from the two sentries, I had to wipe my mouth and spit. I didn’t even like those damned Whitesnakes. I felt certain I wouldn’t like one rare, but I still fought sympathetic drool.

  I pulled back, into the brush, and made my way on toward the border of Chimereon’s lands. When the first scream cut the air, I picked up my pace. The screams followed me longer than they should have. I had to clear my mouth and spit frequently.

  I really didn’t like Whitesnakes, but I almost felt the stirrings of sympathy for those two. In a hungry sort of way.

  I came out of the edge of the trees and crossed into Chimereon’s environs without further encounters.

  I hate influencing another mind. I prefer brute force. I don’t have to get so close.

  Chimereon’s temple sat on the edge of a granite cliff. Neatly tended gardens bordered the path that wound up the edge of the cliff. Ordinarily, not so much as a blade of grass or a single pebble dared be out of place.

  I winced as I saw shrubs trailing broken branches, places where gravel spilled across the path, and the dried stains of old blood. The blood would be especially bad for the goblins, since only Chimereon spilled blood in her environs without paying a price for it.

  The temple rose above me, the edges of fine marble shining a delicate rose color in the light of the setting sun. In Chimereon’s area, the day itself passed quickly, but sunsets and sunrises seemed to last forever. Various scripts had been cut into the steps of the temple: Chimereon’s effort at cross-cultural recognition. I couldn’t remember whether each script had been laid down in the language of each new culture from which she drew a worshiper, or each script had been laid down by a race she had conquered.

  Either way, it would be much the same with Chimereon.

  I stepped through the rising columns, waiting politely in the throat of the temple. Torches flared to life before me, lighting the long hallway of white marble that gradually blended into the rose-tinted granite of the cliff. I took the invitation, descending down the long slope of the hall. I took the only lighted corridor of the many passages that opened around me.

  The place had all the silence of a tomb. The hollow resonance of my footsteps faded into the shadows like echoes of mortality. Whatever else Chimereon had, atmosphere she had in plenty. I stepped at last into a brightly lit, circular room. The long curving walls shone with the purity of unsullied gold, matching the two seats and two low couches, also covered with cloth of gold. Marble tables stood at intervals around the room, each displaying a particular object: on one table, a ruby the size of a man’s head; on another, a chess set of onyx and alabaster; on yet another stood the carving of a clipper ship in full sail, jade waves furling around the prow.

  Chimereon stood in the middle of the chamber in human guise, her white hair long and uncombed, dark eyes smiling. “Wipe your feet.”

  I did so instinctively, then looked down at the throw rug. Pale and blotchy and oddly shaped, I couldn’t remember having ever seen anything quite like it. “My apologies.”

  She laughed. “No need to apologize. I simply like to make sure that my new rug gets used. Goblin skin has a certain durability, though it does go surprisingly well with the decor. I’m considering adding more to my collection. What do you think?”

  I looked again at the “rug,” stepping carefully away. “I think he still looks surprised. Where are the wolves?”

  “Tsk. Wolfskin simply would not do.” She grinned, displaying a mouthful of pointed teeth. “Besides, I hold the riders responsible, not the wolves. If the riders want to tame a beast, then they had best be able to control it. Wouldn’t you agree?”

  I grinned back at her. “Would it matter?”

  “Not really.” She waved one hand toward a low couch, and lay bonelessly back on its mate. I took my own place more gingerly and with considerably less flexibility.

  “You’ve been busy, from what I hear lately. You must be, to have left my message unanswered.” Her expression was carefully neutral.

  “I haven’t wanted to access the house or any of its services. Fetch is waiting for me there,” I responded.

  One eyebrow lifted delicately. “Fetch? Really? I’m afraid I can’t help you with that.”

  “I know. And I didn’t drop by to ask for help with Fetch.”

  She cocked her head. “Why did you drop by?”

  “To be neighborly, of course. And to see if you might be able to tell me what significance this has.” I pulled the pouch out of my shirt, freed the stone from the confines of the pouch, and passed it to her.

  She considered it in her hand. “You know that I do nothing for free. Even for good friends like yourself.”

  I steeled myself. “What price do you ask?”

  She winked at me. “Let us not be hasty. I also enjoy a challenge.”

  She closed her eyes, brought the fragment close, sniffed it, and flicked her tongue against the rough surface. Watching her reminded me of her inhumanity, and how well she wore the human form. Then she glanced back up at me, a delighted smile on her face. “I haven’t come across this in quite some time!”

  I wondered how far her pleasure would carry her. “What is it?”

  Her eyes narrowed. “Not so fast, my boy. What do you offer me?”

  I spread my empty hands. “What do you want?”

  Her eyes sparkled. “Years of service?”

  I started to stand. “I don’t …”

  She forestalled me with a hand. “Sit down, sit down. Relax. The bargaining has just begun. What about specific services? Tasks?”

  “Predefined?” I asked warily.

  She threw back her head and roared with amusement. “I love a good haggle. Let me go this far. I’ll tell you the first part of what I know. This is a piece of a place and time. It still has some connection to where and when it arose.”

  “So it can be used as a guide. Or a map.”

  She nodded grudgingly. “So I confirmed a suspicion. Fine. That you get for free. But what about the nature of the place? Eh? How much will you trade for that?”

  She handed me back the fragment, and I bobbled it in my hand. “I could simply use it to go there and find out.”

  “You could. Might be dangerous. What if there are obstacles? What if the environment
is hostile? I will tell you this much: what you have there is very old, and what it leads to some would kill to find, and others would kill to leave lost.”

  My attention sharpened at that. She saw it.

  “Three tasks, any nature, for as long as we both survive,” she said quickly.

  “One task, of a predetermined nature, that I must agree to in advance.”

  She leaned forward. “The fragment you hold in your hand is a motive for Corvinus’s death. I’m not saying that it is the motive, but it is a possible motive. Two tasks, any nature, for as long as we both survive.”

  I frowned. “Two, predetermined nature, agreed to beforehand, for as long as we both survive.”

  She made a clicking sound with her tongue. “You should have been a lawyer. So many clauses. One favor. I swear I will not ask for anything outside your principles.”

  “Including the principle of self-preservation?”

  A hint of melancholy clouded her expression. “I will not cause harm to you and yours. I thought you knew that.” A quick smile flashed across her face. “Good neighbors are hard to find.”

  I caught a hint of something I had seen in Chimereon before, a touch of regret at her continual solitude. Even Chimereon’s worshipers feared her, and rightly so. Fear tends to be a barrier to intimacy. I nodded, wondering how badly she was taking me. “Done.”

  “In your travels, have you ever heard rumors of the Nephilim?” she asked.

  “Doesn’t sound familiar.”

  “Not surprising,” she said. “The world’s changed since the days of the Nephilim. There’s no need for them anymore. The entire project had been so cloaked in secrecy that knowledge of them just … faded away. Back in the early days, before possibility had split along its many paths, humanity fought continuous battles for survival with a multitude of powerful forces. You can still see many of these forces in NightTown, UnderTown, and of course in Faerie.”

  She leaned forward. “Humans had sorcerers then, naturally. They had a little of everything. Everyone else tended to be specialists. Specializing was a winning strategy. Humans needed an edge. They found the edge in the Rites of the Nephilim. Men and women gave their lives trying to become Nephilim. Only a few succeeded.”

  I began to ask, “Why?”

  She forestalled me with a raised hand. “Human leaders found a desperate answer to a desperate situation. Who’s to say that they didn’t save humanity by acting as they did? The Nephilim fought against all of the enemies of mankind. Those wars divided reality. The various races fled from the fury of the Nephilim down the newly opened paths of myriad possibilities.”

  My brows shot up. “You’re saying that the WanderWays didn’t exist before the wars of the Nephilim?”

  She nodded. “That’s exactly what I’m saying. The Nephilim had power never before seen. Each, alone, was like unto a god. Together … only legends remain of them, and in them the Nephilim are angels and the sons of angels, gods and the sons of gods, giants in the earth and demons. Most of those tales come from the time after the Possibility Wars, when their foes had fled to the far reaches of possibility and the Nephilim turned on one another. The power that made them more than human also passed the bounds of human definitions of morality … and sanity. The Nephilim were weapons, you see, and a weapon with a will must have something to fight. All of this took time. But the Nephilim had time—all of time. The process that made them Nephilim gave them immunity to the passage of years. They became immortal.”

  “Then where are they?” I said. “I can see why some would kill not to have the Nephilim released, and I can see why others would kill to have the secret of the Rites, but why did it fade away? Why are there no more Nephilim?”

  Chimereon’s dark eyes pulsed with the beating of my heart. “Only a few humans could control the power. Only a few could survive the Rites. Those few were enough. The other races fled, or became furtive. The Nephilim who survived the wars of possibility locked away the knowledge of the Rites. Nothing remained to oppose them. And so they opposed one another. When all the enemies of mankind had retreated from the ferocity of the Nephilim, they turned on themselves in a battle so cataclysmic that only dim memories remain of the times before the battle. Echoes of those memories survive in myth and legend. Though the transformation made the Nephilim immortal, they perished in the Wars of the Brethren. Knowledge of the Rites faded with them, destroyed accidentally or deliberately through the wars.”

  “Knowledge of the Rites, or the Rites themselves?” My voice sounded sharper than I intended.

  Chimereon smiled. “Perhaps the Rites no longer exist,” she said. “Perhaps they remain. If they do remain, they would be at the birthplace of the Nephilim … at the Fane of the Nephilim. Given the power involved, it would be difficult to do more than isolate them and make the Fane difficult to find.”

  I leaned forward. “Do you think that’s what Corvinus was trying to do?”

  “I can’t say,” she said. “But echoes of that time are around us still. Some of the Nephilim’s descendants remain, the power and madness in the blood diluted but still potent. My father was such.”

  “What about the original Nephilim?” The topic had swept me beyond my earlier caution, but Chimereon didn’t seem to mind the probing.

  “If any of the original Nephilim survived, they conceal themselves well, along with all traces of their origin,” she said. “The Hebrews who wrote the Bible called them the Nephilim, and believed that they were the bastard children of the angels. The Norse called them Aesir and Jotun. The Greeks called them Olympians and Titans. The alchemists’ search for the Philosopher’s Stone was a mask for their attempt to recover the Rites. The Nephilim were a living power.”

  Chimereon had just given me a glimpse of the stakes in Titania’s game. They scared the shit out of me. I held up the fragment, my hand shaking. “And this?”

  Her eyes had brightened during the discussion. Her pupils had lengthened to slits. “As far as I can tell, it’s the heart of one of the Nephilim. It’ll take you to whatever Corvinus was researching. I wouldn’t be surprised to find that Corvinus might have been searching for the Fane. If he found the Fane, then the heart could act as a kind of key to the Rites.”

  That brought me up short. “A key? Shouldn’t finding the Fane be the hard part?”

  Chimereon didn’t blink, and hadn’t for a long time. “You don’t understand. Even if you found the Fane, you’d have to make it past the security surrounding the Rites. A key probably can’t even get you through all of the barriers, but it should help. Expect no easy entrance. The security in that project will last.”

  “But where would he have found such a thing?”

  That question had been more rhetorical than anything else, but she took me at face value and answered seriously. “Where Corvinus came across that stone, I have no idea. I would guess that investigating the Rites would be the project that proved so dangerous for him. Something in me doubts that he went through the Rites. If he had, he would not have died so easily. Are you planning to pursue this thing?”

  “They’re already after me,” I said. “They were after me before I found it. I really don’t have a choice, do I?”

  She didn’t answer. I sealed the heart of stone back in the bag and secured the bag around my throat. It felt heavier than it had before.

  I began to rise, saw a flash of loneliness in Chimereon’s dark eyes, and settled my weight back onto the divan.

  Surprise flickered across her face. “Aren’t you leaving?”

  “If you want me to. It’s been a while since we talked. How long has it been since you’ve played a game of chess?”

  She smiled suddenly. “A long time.”

  “Would you like to play?”

  She sat up straight. “I believe I would.”

  She didn’t really need help with the tables or the chair, being considerably stronger than I, but I offered, and she politely accepted. As we settled in over the chessboard, she looked up at me
, the pleasure fading from her face. “One last thing.”

  “Yes?”

  “Something you should consider.” Her tongue flicked out from between her lips in a quick movement not at all human. It looked split at the tip, but it moved so fast I couldn’t be sure. “Just because one never hears of the Nephilim anymore, doesn’t mean that they’re all gone.”

  I stared at her for a long, still moment. “Do you have anything more solid than that?”

  She gave me a slight shake of her head. “Just the thought that if one of the Nephilim were still around, then he or she might not want anyone else delving back into that old power.”

  “Now there’s a reassuring thought.”

  We turned our attention back to the chessboard. I won the first game. She won the second. The third we stalemated. We dined between games on bread and wine. I carefully refrained from touching any of the meat she offered me unless she identified it first. Her eyes twinkling, she never obliged me. I ate vegetarian.

  On some level, we all choose how we will nourish our souls as well as our bodies. Consider Eliza Drake and her fellow creatures of the night. Consider how the choices they had already made had locked them into a narrower and narrower set of possible choices. They must nourish themselves on the lives and hearts and minds of others, as must we all; but by their nature they must take without giving in return. Such an existence must be a hollow torment.

  For that very reason I am cautious about the choices I make. One step leads to another, and another, and the final destination winds up being a place you would never have chosen to go when you set out on your journey.

  Consider Chimereon. Chess partner, pleasant company, and carnivorous goddess. Whole civilizations had given themselves to her. She avenged the most insignificant slight with spilled blood. She had a side to her nature beyond my comprehension and beyond my approval. Did that mean I should bar myself from her company? Did it mean I couldn’t trust her? Did my association have to be restricted to people whose whole selves I could describe, and number, and mark down as meeting my requirements for moral behavior, whatever those might be?