Feast of Shadows, #1

by Rick Wayne

  I hadn’t thought about that, how Mom had lost more than her son. She’d lost the last of her family—including me. What was I by then but a punk teenager disappointed by everything she did?

  I took her hand. I squeezed. I didn’t say anything. I just held on.

  She had so much guilt. Under all that anger was her fear that it really was her fault for sending him there, for sending him away. She thought my uncle, the one-time skinhead, had “done things” to her baby. That’s what the police thought, too, when they hauled the man from his house in handcuffs. What other explanation was there? And Mom blamed herself for putting Bug there. All these years.

  What the hell could I tell her? My dying mother. That ghosts and bogeymen were real? That there were different gods? That whatever killed Bug had a thousand eyes and that the only justice he’d ever get was if someone sent it back to whatever dark place it had slithered from?

  I held my mother’s hand until the medication kicked in and she slept in earnest. I kissed her forehead. I rode the elevator down and sat on the steps at the back of the hospital, in front of the staff lot. I could see downtown Atlanta in the distance. Everything seemed so normal.

  I wasn’t fair to her. I mean, she wasn’t a great mom. Pretty damn bad, actually. But I wasn’t fair. Bug wasn’t just her son. He was her baby. I was fourteen and doing everything I could to show what a man I was, how much I didn’t need her anymore. Bug was the only one who did. He was her joy. I can’t imagine what it would be like to have Marigold taken from me. Especially if they’d found her like that. Naked. Fingers worn bloody. I realized then that Granny Tuesday was right. Ain’t no good comes from knowing some things.

  Science says the simple answer is usually the correct one, and I suppose when you’re dealing with pieces of things, with bits and components, that’s probably true. But in the category of human experience, truth often isn’t simple, even when the facts are. Truth—not the naming and measuring of things, but real Truth—can sometimes be terrible. Legitimately terrible. It isn’t a virtue, like wisdom or compassion. Truth is like Nature—neither good nor evil. It just is. It doesn’t care if it meets our expectations or not. It doesn’t care what we think of it. Like a great oblivious god, striding the universe, crushing worlds underfoot, it’s just as likely to strike us down as offer enlightenment.

  I heard a flap and a squawk. I looked up and saw a white raven, like the one from the park, balancing itself, wings extended, on the branch of a nearby sapling, which still had the plastic tag from the nursery wrapped around a branch. The bird was looking at me, turning its head from side to side. I knew then that he was standing behind me, hands in his fantastic coat.

  “How the hell did you get to Atlanta?” I said without turning.

  “The bus,” he explained.

  I heard the grate of a large engine. Sure enough, across the parking lot on the far side of the street was a small bus depot—so folks from all over could visit the specialists at the hospital. A Greyhound was just pulling away. I watched it go, and it occurred to me it was a little old to be in service, a round-sided silver job that looked like it had rolled out of the 1960s. As it took a corner, I caught the word “Crossroads” on the destination sign.

  “Many interesting people on the bus,” he said.

  He sat down on the step next to me with a groan. It was the most human thing I’d seen him do. He rested his elbows on his legs. I could see the marks on his palms. They were intricate.

  “Little warm yet down here for a coat,” I said.

  “It will be cold soon.”

  “They’re predicting an unusually harsh winter this year.”

  He nodded slowly. I heard the raven’s wings hit the air and saw its shadow move over us as it flew away. I watched it go.

  “We didn’t stop them,” I said finally.

  He took a moment to answer. “That’s how the world is, most of the time.”

  Now it was my turn to nod. “It’s not over, though, is it?”

  “No.”

  “So what’s it gonna be? The end of the world or something like that?”

  “Not the end,” he said softly. “Although people will wish it to be.”

  As I let the implication of that flutter across my heart, he took a slim flash drive out of his pocket and held it to me.

  “What’s that?” I asked without moving.

  “If I were to offer you a second chance, would you be interested?”

  The case was sheer black with a blue tech company logo etched on one side, like an infinity symbol. It looked like the tiny coffin the boy had been buried in.

  I probably should have gone home right then. Called Marlene. Promised to do whatever it took. If I didn’t, wasn’t I just another punk taking the easy way out?

  I thought about my daughter. Her smile. Her frizzy hair. I thought about my little brother, dying alone in an abandoned husk of a church. I thought about Etude’s question. In the car.

  I’d hedged a little. Before.

  I took the flash drive.

  “Without hesitation,” I said.

  FEAST OF SHADOWS is interactive

  Read more about a real-life deadly fungus and the persistent veil of secrecy in public health.

  [Just click here]

  (La Soupe) Curse of the Red Dagger

  Title

  Cross between a pimp and an undertaker

  That toilet didn't see me coming

  Random acts of chaos

  This is kidnapping, you know that right?

  Baking a billion-dollar paternity suit

  Compendium of Lesser Travesties

  Thrusting in and out

  The only spell you can touch

  My graduation from dumb to dangerous

  What a love potion tastes like

  Playing golf with the Mayor

  My admittedly limited experience

  A ruin of the highest order

  The fuck is Nancy Drew?

  The sower of discord

  Never play cards with a sorcerer

  The spray bottle honk-honked as I spritzed bleach solution over everything, just to be safe, before wiping it all down and throwing it in a big rubbish bin behind a fried chicken chain. I didn’t expect a manhunt or whatever, but not getting caught was definitely way better. I walked briskly but casually down a side street in Queens like I was just another girl on the pre-dawn walk of shame, heading home from another awkward online encounter that wasn’t nearly as good as advertised. I didn’t notice anything strange until the light on the sidewalk under my feet seemed to dim, like someone had come up behind me without so much as a breath or shuffle, and I spun. But the stretch of road between me and the now-distant chicken joint was completely empty. Eerily so. The change in light had come from a failed streetlight fading to black. I kept walking. A few strides later, it happened again. I turned and saw a second lamp dim, closer to me. While I contemplated the odds of that, a third went dark, closer still, and I suspected some faraway control mechanism had rebooted—or perhaps the lights were going through a maintenance cycle and in a few moments, all would be reliably lit again. I started walking as the fourth lamp went dark behind me, and then the fifth directly over my head. I looked up, mostly out of curiosity, just in time to see its orange coils fade under heavy glass, leaving me in darkness.

  There was now a long gap on one side of the lit street, as if someone had cut the light like a cake and removed a rectangular slice from the air. I got that prickly sensation then, like when you go into a dark basement by yourself. You know it isn’t rational, but you rush in and out all the same. And I did. Rush, I mean. I started walking faster for no other reason than that I wanted that sensation to end. A couple times my stride turned into a brief trot, and before long, I made it up the stairs and through the stile and onto the platform just in time to see the train coming, which was good because I was still completely alone. Headlights peered around a bend in the tracks and I heard the screech of the wheels and I let out the
long breath I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. The train was early, and it looked entirely different than usual, but I figured that was simply a sign of the hour. The doors popped open, and I boarded a middle car, which was empty. I took a seat and leaned my head back and shut my eyes. It was probably the only time in my life I was happy to be bathed in the buzz of fluorescent tube lights.

  With my head back and eyes closed, I became vaguely aware that the ambient light around me had changed again, and I opened my eyes. My car was empty. So were the adjacent cars. I couldn’t see another living soul. The entire rear of the train was dark. I couldn’t see any illumination except the passing lights of the tunnel. I thought for a second that somehow I’d stepped onto an out-of-service train by mistake and that I was being whisked away to some distant service center where the security guys would search my bag and ask me all kinds of awkward and incriminating questions.

  When the lights above flickered and went dark, I was sure I was in trouble. I sat up and looked around for some sign that I was indeed on an out-of-service train when the lights returned, all of them, and a sharp-dressed black man stepped through the rear door. He was maybe mid-60s and very gaunt. He wore an expensive charcoal suit, and wore it well. It had gray pinstripes and looked well tailored but also well worn, like a uniform, something he’d donned every day for years or even decades. His necktie was very narrow, almost completely straight, and it matched the color of the suit. He wore a brimmed hat with a satin band and he walked with a fancy cane that tapped the floor with each step. I also heard the clink of coins in his pocket. His cuff links, belt, and shoes were all some kind of reptile hide—polished and shiny. He looked like a cross between a pimp and an undertaker.

  “Miss,” he said to me, tipping his hat politely.

  People don’t usually talk to each other on the subway. It’s some kind of universal rule no one teaches you but everybody knows, like not farting on an elevator. But then, the two of us were the only ones within sight of each other. I assumed he came forward to escape whatever malfunction had blinded the rear cars. In the circumstances, it almost seemed ruder for him not to acknowledge me, and I responded with a polite, tight-lipped smile. He sat across from me, one seat down, and settled with a sigh like he’d been walking for hours. The loose change in his pocket shifted noisily. It sounded as if he carried all his money in coin. I thought maybe he was an off-duty security guard or other night shift worker who fed himself from vending machines and always kept a pocket full of change. Like the ZZ Top song.

  He took off his hat and set it on the seat next to him. He had hardly any hair left. What was there was gray-white, same as the band on his hat. He caught me looking at his boots.

  “Alligator hide,” he said.

  He had a mouthful of gold and yellowed teeth. He pulled a handkerchief from his coat pocket and wiped something off the toe of his boot.

  “Under-appreciated, if you ask me. It’s tough. But flexible. And it gets downright soft over time.”

  He had a throaty voice, not so much like a smoker as much as a man who’d spent his entire life shouting—an auctioneer perhaps, or a blues singer.

  “It’s certainly distinctive,” I said.

  He nodded to me. “Just so.”

  The shaft of his cane was solid black and lustrous, but I couldn’t tell if it was painted wood or obsidian. He held it loosely by the neck and rocked it back and forth. The bottom tip was polished silver. The knob on top was a grinning skull.

  The train slowed and he leaned forward like he was going to get off. But then he stopped. He looked at me.

  “This your stop?” he asked.

  I shook my head. “Just a few more,” I said with another polite smile.

  He sat back. “Then I’ll ride witcha.”

  “Oh, you don’t have to do that.”

  The train stopped and the doors opened, but my companion stayed put.

  “I’m old fashioned,” he said in that throaty voice. “I know it ain’t popular. I know these days old men like me are supposed to let young ladies like yourself take care of themselves.” He shook his head. “But that’s not how I was raised.”

  “I wouldn’t want to make you late.”

  “Oh, the fella I come to meet been waiting his whole life to see me. He can wait a bit longer.”

  The movement of his jaw when he spoke pulled his skin taut over his skull, like there wasn’t much of anything underneath, like he was all bones and his skin was just as much a part of his tired uniform as the pinstripes.

  I shrugged. “Suit yourself.”

  The train started moving again and we sat in silence as it rocked back and forth over the tracks.

  “Miss,” he said, leaning cautiously over his knees, “I hope you don’t mind me saying this, but are you okay?”

  “Me?” I frowned. “I’m fine. Why?”

  “You sure? You’re not in a spot of trouble, maybe?”

  My face turned sour.

  “It’s just,” he said, motioning to my bag on the seat next to me, “I couldn’t help but notice a ski mask there when I sat down just now.”

  I closed the top by turning the handles over each other.

  “Now, I know it wasn’t polite to look. But here you are on the late, late, late train.” He chuckled. Then he motioned to my head. “With a little bit of perspiration across your brow, and I thought—”

  “I was out,” I said. “At a club. It was hot.”

  He eyed my bag.

  “It was a costume party.”

  “Odd month for costumes.”

  “Newest summer craze,” I said. “All the cool kids are doing it.”

  I looked around the empty car and wondered how rude it would be if I changed seats. He smiled in understanding, sat back, and crossed his legs, which revealed more of his fancy boots. The stitching formed skulls and flowers near the top.

  “You’re not from around here, are you?” he asked.

  “What makes you say that?”

  “Your accent.” He twirled his cane in his right hand. “Very faint. If you was older, I’d say you’d been here awhile. But you young yet, which means you worked hard at it—putting the past behind you. How’d you do it? Wait, lemme guess. Lotsa American TV.”

  “Deadly, but effective,” I joked. I turned my face toward the front of the train to signal the end of polite conversation.

  “But just there under the surface.” He pointed the skull knob toward me and made wave shapes with it in the air. “There’s a little something else. Like how you say ‘rubbish.’”

  I scowled again and thought back over the conversation. Had I said rubbish?

  “Here they say ‘trash,’” he explained. “And it’s not ‘flat.’ It’s ‘apartment.’”

  My brow stayed knit. I didn’t think I had said either of those words.

  Had I?

  “Um. Thanks. I’ll keep that in mind.”

  “My guess, you’re from Hong Kong,” he said. Then he added, “What brings you to New York?”

  Only he didn’t say it in English. He said it in perfect Hong Kong Cantonese.

  I mean, perfect.

  Call me racist, but there’s just something terribly incongruous about a black man speaking Chinese like a native. He had no accent. None.

  “School,” I answered. I glanced to the route map above the car doors and confirmed there were just two more stops.

  We were quiet a few more moments as the train slowed and the next station was announced. I wondered if I should hop off. He must have saw it on my face because he sat back and relaxed considerably.

  “Oh, don’t mind me. I didn’t mean nothing by it.”

  I watched the doors open.

  I watched them close again.

  The train started moving, and we rocked with it for another minute or so.

  To avoid further conversation, I looked down at my Magic 8 Ball watch. At least that’s what I called it. But it wasn’t some cheap plastic piece of junk. The domelike top wa
s actually made of etched copper. It looked old. I got it from a friend of mine—which is to say I half-stole it from a guy I used to know. Well, technically, I still knew him. We just never hung out, not since he broke up with my best friend. I shook my arm and the little triangular message appeared out of the dark fluid.

  Soon, it answered my unspoken question.

  “It’s just really something,” he said softly. “After all these years.”

  I didn’t look at him. It was way late and I’d been rushing on my feet for hours. I was tired and I just wanted to get home.

  “You should know I ain’t never met the man, ’cept once in passing. Like this.” He moved the cane back and forth between us. “But folks says he’s a right proper sorcerer, like the shamans of old.”

  I had no idea who he was talking about. I got up then and stood by the door. It didn’t seem like he wanted to hurt me. It seemed like he was just old and lonely. But I was ready to bolt just in case.

  He brushed lint off his suit pants like he was annoyed. He replaced his hat on his head. He took out his handkerchief again and polished the silver skull at the top of his cane. Then he stood and faced me. He seemed taller, like the top of his hat might get crushed under the ceiling. He brandished the cane.

  “But that don’t give him the right to come into my house . . . And take what’s mine.”

  I felt the train slowing. I realized then that there hadn’t been any announcements before each stop. I gripped the bar by the door with two hands. The lights in the car flickered and suddenly everything was a little brighter. Then it was too bright.

  “You ain’t met him yet, but you will right quick, and when you do, you tell him. You tell him when you see him that I’m ready. And don’t think for one damned second that that thing”—he jabbed the tip of his cane at my side—“will protect you.”