“Agent Thomas,” he says as soon as he spies Tall. Which is when I realize he’s got a plastic bag in one hand, marked with the ubiquitous “Have a Nice Day!” smiley face. Those things give me the creeps, especially since most of the time they’re used by cheap-ass lunch carts or rundown corner bodegas. At least it’s better than having bags showing some negative, glowering, frowning little demon-child saying “I hate you all and I wish this whole world would perish in flames.” Those might be more honest but I doubt they’d sell well, unless death cults started having their own lunch carts. And I know I wouldn’t eat at ’em! “I wonder if you wouldn’t mind carrying this up to my desk for me?” the old dude asks. “I’ve got a meeting back downstairs in a few minutes.” What he doesn’t say but doesn’t have to is that clearly he’s gonna need that time just to make his way back down again, never mind going up and coming all the way back down. That’s just crazy talk!
“Of course,” zombie-Tall replies. He takes the bag, turns, and begins making his way back up the stairs, toward the main office space.
“Thank you,” old-guy agent calls after him. Tall doesn’t even glance back.
We get up there and Tall sets the bag down on some other desk in the hellish open-office space. Then he turns and starts toward his own desk again. I’m guessing he’s now completely forgotten that he was supposed to be going to Gray’s Papaya for lunch for him and PH. I guess, like with a guppy, there’s only so much memory a zombie brain can handle. I wonder how long it’d take to reboot. I’m sure I saw an outlet around here somewhere.
We’re almost back to his chair when a slender figure glides up alongside us. Oh, great.
“Agent Thomas.”
“Agent Smith.” I’m tempted to cry out, “Janet! Rocky! Biff! Uh!” but that probably wouldn’t help us much.
“I was hoping to prevail upon you to deal with a small problem we seem to be having,” Smith explains slowly, somehow making it sound like he’s about to do Tall a big favor. “A Cervasite smokedancer is here for the festivities and got a little carried away. Unfortunately, it turns out he’s also a shadowgrifter, a fact we had no way of knowing beforehand—he conveniently left that off his visa application.” Smith sighed, doing his best to look put-upon and aggrieved and all that, and only succeeding in looking like any evil he’d caused might not have been entirely premeditated. “A few of our fellow agents were a bit . . . forceful in detaining him, and caused him to unleash those other talents upon them. Thus far he’s absorbed about two dozen men’s shadows, which would be problematic in and of itself. But as you know, each shadow adds to his power. He’s absorbing them more frequently now, and his range keeps increasing. At this rate he’ll be able to absorb the shadows of everyone on the Eastern Seaboard by noon tomorrow, and I don’t even want to think about the mountain of paperwork that would cause!” Yeah, because obviously if someone’s eating shadows we should be worried about which forms we have to fill out to report it! Give me a break! “We need to convince him to stop somehow, and to return those shadows he’s already appropriated.”
Tall sits down. “You want me to speak with him?”
Smith nods. “Yes, you’re always so . . . persuasive, I’d hoped you could prevail upon him to behave reasonably.”
Tall stands again—up down, up down, like a damn jack-in-the-box. Which, come to think of it, isn’t a bad analogy. Now we just need to wind everybody else up so they should all pop more or less simultaneously. “Of course.”
And he turns and walks away.
Great. We’re gonna go talk to a Cervasite smokedancer now, whatever that is. And we have to be careful he doesn’t try to steal our shadow, plus we need him to give back the ones he’s already stolen.
It’s like setting out to speak with Peter Pan, if Peter was a compulsive thief and, from the sound of it, a bit of a nasty customer. And on a bender. Plus somehow I don’t think a needle and thread are really gonna help solve this whole damn question/case/whatever it is. And how do you convince some guy to give back the shadows he took, anyway?
Then I remember something else Smith said. “His range is increasing.” And suddenly I get chills wondering what’d happen if his range was long enough to, say, reach to the Matrix. Could he take my shadow right through the little doohickey on Tall’s head? Bad enough I’ve got the head of a duck, if I lose my shadow how’m I gonna cast Mount DuckBob and Mount Duckmore images across the kitchen floor?
Great.
Chapter Thirteen
Not a shadow of a chance
Tall goes downstairs—and when I say “downstairs,” I mean it! He heads to the elevator, steps in, swipes his ID through a slot alongside the row of floor buttons, and causes a whole new row to slide down from those. These new ones are labeled “B1” through “B12,” and he pushes “B11”—which makes me wonder, if we’re dealing with a guy who treats shadows like Cookie Monster treats Oreos and he’s only on B11, what kind of monsters do they reserve B12 for? Or maybe, just maybe, it’s in ascending order, and they put the worst guys on B1 and the mildest on B12, in which case we’re in for a cakewalk.
Yeah, right.
I don’t for a second consider turning the camera and mic off and leaving Tall on his own, of course. Hey, the guy’s a bud and I don’t ditch my buds—unless there’s cops from three different states involved, and we’ve got an expired hunting license and a sinking canoe and the daughter of a foreign dignitary, but, hell, it’s not likely that’s gonna happen to me a second time, right? I actually wish I could do more for the big lug, but since he’s not exactly listening to me what can I do? I decide to try again, though, just in case it’ll work better now that we’ve got actual wall around us.
“Hey, Tall!” I say in his ear.
“Yes?” He shakes his head. “DuckBob? Did you call again?”
“Uh, yeah. Listen, I need you to snap out of it.”
“Snap out of what?” he shakes his head again, which makes me a bit dizzy. Darn shiny metal elevator walls!
Okay, still not getting anywhere. “Never mind.” Since I’ve got him talking, though, I figure I might as well find out what I’ve gotten myself into. “So, what’s a Cervasite smokedancer?”
He doesn’t seem the least bit surprised that I’ve heard of them, which only goes to show how not-Tall he’s being right now. “The Cervasites have the ability to warp air and light around themselves,” he explains as we descend—judging by how fast the indicator’s changing, this’s got to be one of the fastest elevators ever built. I bet it’s the kind that makes you feel like you’re in zero-g right at the end, when it stops so suddenly you float for a second before gravity remembers to grab you again. I always loved those as a kid—I used to ride up and down in them for hours, just to feel that momentary weightlessness. Well, that and I discovered if I wore a little red cap and pushed buttons for people when they got on I could make pretty decent pocket change. But Tall’s still talking: “They have an affinity for fire,” he’s saying, “and like to create shapes with it. A smokedancer is someone who’s mastered that art and can weave the smoke and flames around him as he moves, creating a dance between himself and those elements.”
“Huh. Okay, like one of those ribbon-dancers but with fire?”
“Exactly.” I have no idea if he’s looking amused at my comparison or pleased that I got it at all or just stoic like usual.
“So what’s a shadowgrifter?”
“Someone who can steal other people’s shadows.” Well, that makes sense. “They feed off the shadows, gaining strength from them.”
“And this guy you’re gonna go talk to now is both of those?”
“Exactly.” Again he doesn’t ask how I know that, which shows that being a cookie-zombie is messing with his head. Normally he’d be all over the question of how I’m getting my information.
I can’t think of anything else to ask—other than “what the hell are you supposed to do about this guy?” which I figure isn’t very helpful—so I stay quiet the rest of
the way down. The indicator finally reads “B11,” and the door slides open, letting Tall step back out.
I’m expecting a dark, dank dungeon, all cobwebs and damp walls and guttering torches. Or one of those high-tech prisons you see in movies, with everything gunmetal-grey and sharp-edged but with muted lighting to make it all a bit hazy.
Instead, it looks like—
A doctor’s waiting room.
I kid you not. The walls are white and have stylized trees and flowers stenciled on them in bright colors. The floor’s green rubber with raised dots for traction, and the ceiling is painted to look like a sunny day, all bright blue with fluffy clouds. There’re big, comfy chairs and couches grouped to either side of the elevator, and a door in the wall straight ahead with a big window set in it. I’m surprised there’s no receptionist with a big fake smile and a bowl of lollies for after, if you’re good.
On reflection, though, the décor kind of makes sense. I mean, going to a doctor’s sheer torture, so why not make a prison look like a doctor’s office? It’s like bringing back all the trauma all over again. Not that I’ve been to a regular doctor in a while, but vets’ offices aren’t much different except they have dog biscuits and cat treats and sunflower seeds instead of lollies. You want my advice, stick with the seeds—the biscuits’re too dry and the cat treats taste like moldy tuna.
Tall doesn’t waste time—he heads straight for the door, swipes his ID again, pulls it open, and heads on through. The rest still looks like a doctor’s office, basically a long, wide hall with doors on either side, except that each door’s got a card-swipe alongside the handle and a small window at eye level. Tall peeks in each one as he passes, and so do I.
I kinda wish I hadn’t.
I’ve never seen sentient wood before. I kinda hope I don’t ever again, because this one’s a whole lot less than pleasant-looking—it’s like somebody crossed a small redwood with a low-class thug and maybe threw in a rabid wolf while they were at it. He’s all splinters and fangs and claws and beady yellow eyes surrounded by thick bark, and he must hear Tall or smell him because he turns and snaps at the door as we pass. Charming fellow.
The next cell’s got a dog in it, a nice little beagle or spaniel or something, all big soft eyes and floppy ears and round little body. He’s just sitting there, panting and looking like he wants to play, but then Tall’s shadow falls across him and he changes. Suddenly his head’s five times bigger than his body, snarling and snapping, and there’s another head alongside it, and a third one on the other side, all of ’em huge and hideous. What is this, Cerberus’s pup or something? We don’t stop, which is for the best. I’d hate to see this thing trying to play Fetch.
A few of the other cells—that’s what they are, despite the cheery colors—are also occupied, and they range from people that look normal to things that I’m not even sure how to describe. In one of ’em there’s a guy I can only explain as Cheese Factor Five—he’s got a white polyester suit, a big glossy black hair-do, a black silk shirt open halfway down, gold chains, and white faux-leather loafers. Talk about a Saturday Night Fever flashback! The fact that his skin’s blue and covered in what look almost like raised paisley polka-dots actually works pretty well with his whole Disco vibe. Wacky. But finally we come to one door and Tall peers in, then nods and swipes his ID to open it. He enters, and it’s not like I have much of a choice—I go with him.
The room’s not big, maybe eight by eight, with a bed against one side wall and a table and chair by the other and a sink and toilet and some other doodads that could be alien equivalents arrayed across the back. Tall shuts the door behind him and moves over to the one chair, because the bed’s already occupied.
At first glance, this guy looks completely normal. Really tall and really skinny, with thin, jutting limbs and a long face and wildly curly black hair, but still normal.
Then I check out the shadow peeking out from over his shoulder.
And the one swaying to some invisible music at his feet.
And the pair fighting back and forth across the wall behind him.
And the other pair dancing along the far wall, their feet linked to his by a thin thread.
Yeah, this’d be the guy.
Tall sits down and stares but doesn’t say anything. After a minute the guy concedes defeat and meets his gaze. “Hello,” he says, his voice all soft and dark and a little raspy, just like you’d think smoke would sound. Or a shadow. ‘I am Vijik’yin. Let me guess, you are the next one they’ve sent to torment me.”
“My name is Agent Thomas,” Tall answers. “Agent Smith asked me to speak with you, yes. We need you to return those shadows you took, and to promise that you won’t try taking any more.”
I guess that’s funnier if you’re there, because this guy throws back his head and laughs. But what’s really creepy is all of his shadows do too, making this shadow-chorus you can just about hear as a cold echo if you really listen. “And why should I do that?” he asks. “What would I possibly gain from such behavior?”
“Right now, you’re to be held indefinitely,” Tall replies. “If you cooperate, I can reduce that sentence. You could get out of here before you’re too old to dance, much less anything else.”
This guy starts to say something in return, but I happen to glance down at Tall’s feet and I can’t help myself, I gasp. “Tall!” I say, hopefully not so loud that Creepy McShadows will hear me. “Check out your shadow, man!”
Tall does, and I can just about hear the sharp intake as he sees what I just noticed. His shadow is stretching out in front him, impossibly long and narrow, right toward this smokedancer—who isn’t moving as near as I can tell, but Tall’s shadow’s being absorbed into his, regardless.
“Cut that out!” Tall snaps, and this guy does a much more convincing “Hey, wasn’t me” than Agent Smith. Then again, so does the dastardly villain in all those Saturday-morning cliffhangers, the one always walking around and twirling his mustache while chuckling maniacally, so that’s not all that impressive.
“I’m sorry, is something wrong?” he says. Then he smirks, which kinda ruins it. “Oh, that. My apologies.” And suddenly Tall’s shadow stops looking like it’s twelve feet long and has a pinhead, and goes back to being a more normal cast-off of his real self. “I’m afraid I have a hard time resisting one in such close proximity,” the guy adds. Yeah, I tried that line a few times at various bars, telling chicks why I was groping each and every one of them as I passed by, and you know what? Didn’t work then either.
“Are you prepared to be reasonable?” Tall asks him, and he sounds completely reasonable himself, which I think is at least partially due to his being zombified. Normally he’d sound like he was chewing nails and about to spit them at your eye blowgun-style.
The smokedancer—what’d he say his name was? Victor Din or something?—frowns. He’s got one of those mouths that looks like you could probably bend the lips to make balloon animals, they’re all thin and wide and ridiculously mobile. Though these days I’m jealous of just about anybody with lips, no matter what kind. Ned asked me once why I didn’t just ask the Grays to give me lips back, if I wanted ’em so bad. I told him he was crazy. Can you picture a duck with lips? Yuck!
Anyway, he says, “Reasonable? I was being reasonable, my friend. I was here to enjoy an evening’s entertainment, watching a display of acrobatics and aerial maneuvering and dance and music—I believe they call it a Circus of the Sun, or some such? The next thing I know, I’m being asked to leave by two large gentlemen dressed the same way you are. I did nothing wrong.”
“Really? Nothing?” Tall folds his arms across his chest, which should make the seams in his jacket scream in protest. Honestly, I’ve often wondered if they use elastic instead of cotton or rayon or whatever it is most suits are made from these days, otherwise he’d just Hulk out of his shirts whenever he takes a deep breath. “I find that hard to believe—I heard you got carried away.”
Vic waves that off—his fingers
are so long they look like bendy straws sticking out of a monkey’s paw. “Oh, I may have added to the festivities,” he admits as casually as if it were nothing. “They were playing with fire, after all, and that is my forte. I thought they could handle it.” I get sudden images of a bunch of acrobats who think they’re doing tricks and flips and stuff over a nice little row of gas flames, only to have those suddenly flare up to bonfires, and shudder. “I am sorry if they were injured,” he says, “but they seemed like professionals, so I assumed they knew the risks.”
“You’re a professional, too,” Tall points out. “You should know better than to interfere with someone else’s act.” Ooh, nice one! And I can see the mildly stated jab strike home, too, as Vic winces. “Regardless, you’re here on Earth as a guest, and if an agent asks you to step outside or present your visa or anything else, you are expected to comply at once and without argument. You know that, it’s in the entry rules.”
“But they put hands on me!” Now he sounds like an irate six-year-old. “No one touches Vijik’yin without his express permission!”
“So you lost your temper and took their shadows, and now you’re stuck in here,” Tall concludes. “Which is exactly where you’ll stay until you learn to behave. And you can start by giving back their shadows, and the others you stole.”
“And if I don’t?” For a second all those shadows mass behind the guy, bulking into a single big, scary one that makes it look like he’s really nine feet tall and a couple hundred pounds of hulking muscle. There’s spikes and barbs and horns and the whole Goth show, and I’m shuddering even though I’m just watching from a distance.
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