by DD Barant
But I’m still disappointed.
“So that’s it?” I say. “What about the kids? What about that baseball glove you sent me?”
“Forget about them,” he says flatly. “There’s nothing we can do but cut our losses and walk away. Sometimes you lose—that’s a harsh truth, but it’s one worth knowing. I do.”
Charlie shakes his head. “Come on, Jace. Last train to Loserville is about to board, and this mook needs to be on it.”
“Give me a moment, will you?” I ask Charlie. “Stoker and I need to talk alone.”
Charlie shrugs. “Try not to hurt him too bad,” he says. “I’ll wait up on deck.”
He clumps his way up the metal ladder. When he’s gone I turn to Stoker and say, “There’s something you’re not telling me.”
“Yeah? And what makes you think I’ll tell you now?”
“Because I’m talking to you as one human being to another. I know what it’s like to feel outnumbered and outgunned. Whatever’s got you worried—besides the Codfather—you owe me, at the very least, a heads-up.”
He studies my face. “Maybe I do,” he admits. “But I still don’t know if I should tell you.” He sees the anger on my face and adds, “You don’t understand. I’m not keeping this secret for selfish reasons. This is something you might not want to know, okay?”
“I already know lots of things I wish I didn’t. One more won’t make a difference.”
“This might,” he says.
And then he kisses me.
NINETEEN
To say I’m surprised is putting it mildly.
I pull back, smacking my head against the metal bulkhead. “What the hell?” I blurt.
Stoker shrugs. “I said you might not want to know.”
“Yeah, but—what the hell?”
“Very eloquent. I’m glad you’re taking this so well.”
I resist the urge to knee him in the groin. “In what universe did you ever, ever think a romance between me and you might be possible? You’re an international terrorist. You’ve committed multiple homicides. It’s not only my job to send your sorry ass to prison, it’s the only chance I’ll ever have to go back to my own reality!” I realize I’m yelling. “How does any of that add up to you and me together?”
“Well, I’ve always been an optimist.”
I glare at him. The knee to the groin is sounding better and better all the time. “Listen. I’ve wondered since the day I got here just how crazy you really are. Now I know. Whatever signals your twisted brain thinks it’s been picking up from me, they’re imaginary. You hear me? Not interested. Not now, not later, not if we both become pires and go to the moon and the Earth blows up and we’re stuck in a little moon dome for the next thousand years. Not with a gallon jug of tequila. Not if you have your brain swapped with a twenty-year-old clone of Elvis Presley. Are we clear?”
“Not really. Who’s Elvis Presley?”
“That’s it. I’m taking you into custody. You think you can drag me into another country, use me to take down a Yakuza operation, then kiss me—thirty seconds after you’ve told me you’re giving up? Forget it, sunshine—”
I’m interrupted in mid-rant, but not by Stoker. No, the sound that cuts me off is an unearthly, echoing roar, a booming, guttural howl that isn’t coming from above us. It’s coming through the hull itself, and originating somewhere below the waterline. That reverberating, profundo cry is being generated underwater, by something big and very, very unhappy.
“Oh, no,” Stoker says.
“Time to go,” I say, and scramble for the ladder.
“You hear that?” Charlie asks when I climb out of the hatch.
“They heard that in Seattle,” I answer.
And then we see it, too.
A fin breaks the surface of the water, looking a lot like a sailfish—one of those big, spread-out things almost like a batwing, thin membranes stretched between long, sharp spines. But on a sailfish the fin covers its whole back; this thing sports his the way a punk rocker wears a mohawk, on top of his skull.
Most punk rockers are a lot prettier, too.
The head breaks the surface, then the shoulders. It looks like the Creature From the Black Lagoon’s great-grandaddy. It just keeps on getting taller and taller, as if a skyscraper from an underwater city decided to go for a walk. Its skin is dark green, the scales the size of manhole covers. Its eyes are the dead black of a shark’s, above two slits for nostrils and the mouth of a hungry piranha. It’s got fins running down its back, the sides of its arms, and its legs. It smells like low-tide just before a thunderstorm, rotting seaweed and dead mollusks and ozone.
And then it looks down, right at me.
“Stoker?” I say with a very dry mouth. “Now might be a good time to not be in a boat.”
No answer. I glance down—and see an empty cabin through the hatch. Somehow, Stoker’s already left.
Dagon regards me with features so alien I have no idea what’s going through his giant, fishy mind. Then he raises one immense, web-fingered hand over his head, and clenches it into a fist. Well, that seems pretty clear …
“Hold your breath,” Charlie says, grabs me around the waist, and jumps. There’s a single frozen instant when we’re in midair and that enormous fist is hurtling down toward us like a scaly meteorite, and then we splash into the surf an instant before Dagon destroys the ship.
* * *
My ears are underwater when his fist smashes into the Orca, and it sounds like the world’s biggest bass drum being hit with a swimming pool: a booming, crashing, splintering impact with a chaser of sploosh.
Charlie and I are sinking fast, but at least I’ve got air in my lungs. Charlie spins me around and mimes, very quickly, that he’s going to the bottom and I should swim for it. I nod, he lets me go, and I strike out through the water, heading for the surface but at an angle; I want to put as much distance between me and Codzilla as I can before I come up for air.
Ever try to catch minnows in shallow water with your bare hands when you were a kid? Impossible, right? It’s not just that the minnows are fast and slippery, it’s that you’re pushing them out of the way by disturbing the water, too. And that’s exactly what happens as Dagon’s huge, scaly paw plunges into the ocean ten feet from me; the water surges at the point of impact, and carries me with it. Luckily, it pushes me toward the shore instead of farther away.
I make another ten yards or so before my head breaks the surface. I don’t bother looking behind me, just take a quick gulp of oxygen and dive back under, this time striking off to my left, parallel to the shore.
Sure enough, that massive mitt smacks into the water right about where I’d be if I’d gone straight. I ride the surge again, swimming with it, and then curve back toward the shore.
This time when I come up I’m beneath the remains of a rotting dock. I get behind a piling as quietly as I can, and peek out.
Dagon’s looking around at the water like a kid hunting frogs in a pond. I’m glad he doesn’t have a net on a pole—these godly types are good at the grandiose stuff, but it’s always the fine details that bog them down. He didn’t even bring a bucket to put me in.
I paddle backward slowly until I can feel rocks under my feet. Then I very carefully creep out of the water, keeping to the cover of the rotting dock. With any luck I can get enough distance from the shore to be safe—something tells me Dagon won’t stray too far from an aquatic environment.
“Geez, what is it with me and the jumbo-size baddies lately?” I mutter under my breath. “If I keep attracting them they’re going to start calling me Jace the Giant-Killer.”
“I very much doubt even you could kill that,” a voice says from the shadows. “But then, I once saw you banish an Elder God, so perhaps I’m wrong.”
I recognize the voice, of course. “You weren’t actually there for the banishing,” I say in a low voice. “You were in the brig of a US aircraft carrier at the time.”
Tanaka’s crouched behind a ju
mble of logs. He glances in Dagon’s direction, then motions me urgently to run. I dart across the beach, feeling horribly exposed, and throw myself down on the pebbly ground beside him.
“What are you doing here?” I say. I keep my voice down, but I doubt we’re in danger of Dagon hearing us—it’d be like me being able to eavesdrop on an ant.
“Looking for trouble.” He’s wearing a loose black coat, black drawstring pants, and black sneakers; he looks more like a burglar than a ninja.
But then, he isn’t a ninja—he’s a samurai.
“Well, you’ve found it.” I scan the beach, looking for Charlie. He’ll be safe enough on the bottom unless he gets stepped on, and even then he’ll probably just get smushed into the mud. I hope that doesn’t happen; the last thing I need right now is to mount a marine salvage operation to retrieve my partner.
But I don’t see him. He might be waiting for Dagon to leave, but that’s not Charlie’s style. Which means—
“Oh, no,” I say to myself. “He wouldn’t. He couldn’t.”
I fumble for the small binoculars in my soggy pocket, pull them out, and scan the water around Dagon’s legs. And sure enough, there’s a very determined-looking golem in a very wet wool suit climbing the back of the monster’s leg, pulling himself up by gripping the edges of scales.
I shake my head. “What does he think he’s going to do? Climb high enough to poke him in the eye?”
Tanaka smiles. “He will do whatever is necessary to protect you. You inspire great loyalty, Jace Valchek.”
“Yeah? Guess you missed that memo.”
I know it’s the wrong thing to say the second after I’ve said it. Tanaka’s only reaction is a brief incline of his head—an acknowledgment of his guilt, an acceptance of my accusation. “Tanaka, I’m sorry. I—”
“No, Jace. You are correct. I betrayed you, and by doing so dishonored my family name. I must make amends—that is why I am here.”
I abruptly realize the obvious. “You’ve been following me. Since the park.”
“It seemed the best course to pursue. Isamu is a wary target, but I knew that sooner or later he would approach you directly. It is his nature.”
I thought back. “So you saw the whole fight in the graveyard?”
“I did. You acquitted yourself admirably.”
“It never crossed your mind I might need a little assistance in taking down a giant, chomp-crazy skeleton?”
“It did. Should you have ever appeared to be in any serious danger, I would have intervened. But you rarely seem to need assistance.”
I accept the compliment grudgingly. “Yeah, well … so you know where Isamu is holed up now, right?”
“Yes.”
“Then why are you here?”
He meets my eyes calmly. “Because my debt is to you. It occurred to me, in the course of my inquiries, that a greater threat to you than Isamu might be lurking. I see now that I was right.”
Charlie’s up to mid-thigh by now. Dagon hasn’t noticed him, but his attention is on the shoreline, still looking for me. “What, this? This is no big deal—just your run-of-the-mill angry Ancient One, looking for a little trouble. Once I catch my breath I’m going to march out there and kick his ass.”
“I believe that would require an elevator, at the very least.”
I grin, despite myself. “Got one handy?”
“I have something better.” He reaches behind him and draws his katana from the sheath slung on his back. I eye it dubiously. “No offense, Tanaka, but that thing’s not going to be much more use than Charlie’s gladius. Frankly, I don’t see what could take that beastie down short of a cruise missile, and those don’t even exist here.”
“It’s not the size of the weapon, Jace—it’s how you use it.”
“Yeah, like I haven’t heard that one before—”
Charlie’s made it to the small of Dagon’s back, though small isn’t a word I’d use to describe anything about the situation. I’m starting to worry. Charlie’s as bad as me when it comes to being stubborn, and he doesn’t know how to back down from a fight. This could wind up getting him killed.
And then the creature spots us.
“Uh-oh,” I say.
Dagon roars. Okay, it’s more like a high-pitched screech with bass undertones, but even that doesn’t really convey the sound very well; let’s just say it sounds like a recording of whale noises played backward at really high volume and leave it at that.
I don’t have to tell Tanaka to run. We both bolt from cover and sprint away from the water, and I hear the splash of Dagon’s first tremendous step behind us.
Now what? There’s a busy street not far away, and buildings after that. I need cover, but not something Dagon can just smash; unlike King Kong and Fay Wray, I’m pretty sure my pursuer’s intentions aren’t amorous. He might just destroy anything that gets between him and me.
Stanley Park or the tunnel?
The tunnel’s farther away. It’s big enough to let semi-trailers drive through it, but Dagon would be a tight fit—he’d have to squirm through like a snake. If nothing else, it would slow him down and maybe even trap him, giving the authorities a chance to bring in some heavy-duty sorcerous firepower. I just hope the Canadian military has something in their HPLC arsenal that can deal with a being like this.
But there’s collateral damage to think about, too. Vehicles with people in them, going too fast to stop when a big scaly foot stomps down in the middle of the road. No, it can’t be the tunnel.
That leaves the park. Tanaka’s come to the same conclusion; he wolfs out as he runs, going to half-were form to boost his speed and strength. His clothes are baggy enough to contain him, but his sneakers burst and fall away in pieces.
Tanaka reaches cover first. He resheathes his sword and crouches, watching me. I can see how badly he wants to dart out, grab me and run back, but he doesn’t. He knows I hate being rescued.
I make it to the trees one step ahead of Dagon—one giant step. No sooner am I under the canopy than I hear the enormous thump of his foot. So much for him not leaving the water.
I wonder if I can use the same hiding-beneath-the-foliage strategy I did with Gashadokuro, even though this guy’s considerably bigger. I get my answer a second later, as Dagon grabs the old-growth spruce I’ve ducked under and rips it right out of the ground like a gardener yanking out a head-high weed. Dirt and loam shower over me as the root bundle rises up, and then Dagon tosses it aside. It flies a few hundred feet and lands in the harbor.
I keep running, deeper into the park. He can’t uproot the whole rain forest—can he?
Tanaka lopes beside me. He could go full-wolf and just take off, but I know he won’t. What I don’t expect is what he does next: He stops at the base of a redwood and leaps up the trunk, catching a branch nimbly and pulling himself onto it. He turns back to me for a split second and gives me a very formal nod of his wolf’s head.
Then he starts to climb, springing from branch to branch, using his claws as nimbly as a jungle cat. I know what he must be planning.
“Tanaka, no!” I shout, but it’s no good.
Dagon decides there’s no point in ripping trees out of the ground when he can just swat them out of his way; he’s around the same height they are, but apparently a lot stronger. The sound of timber cracking and crashing is deafening as he bulls his way forward. I run to the left, using the same tactics I employed underwater, and then stop when I’m out of the path of destruction.
Through a break in the canopy I can just see Dagon’s head and shoulders. And then, working his way around the monster’s neck, my partner appears. He’s moving away from the head and toward the edge of the shoulder, still gripping the scales but only holding on with one hand; he cocks his other arm back like a major-league pitcher winding up for a fastball. Even though I can’t see it, I know what’s he’s about to throw: a steel-cored, silver-coated ball bearing, several ounces of metal Charlie can hurl with deadly force and accuracy.
Which he does. Right through Dagon’s eardrum.
I understand his strategy now. If it walks, it has a sense of balance, and that sense of balance is regulated by delicate mechanisms located inside the inner ear—in most animals, anyway.
The ones that breathe air. And aren’t a hundred feet tall. Or owe their existence to supernatural forces that sneer at little things like physics.
It’s still a good plan, and if it works it’ll bring Dagon crashing to the ground like one of the trees he just knocked down—but it doesn’t. It must hurt like hell, though, because his whole body shudders violently, and then Dagon lets loose with a roar that makes his previous bellows sound like whimpering.
Two things occur while this is happening, almost simultaneously. First, Charlie gets shaken loose and goes flying into the trees. I’m not too worried—they’re mainly spruce and pine, with plenty of thick foliage between the peak and the ground to break his fall. He’s survived much worse.
Second, as Dagon starts his roar, Tanaka springs from the top of the redwood, katana held in his jaws. His leap is perfectly timed and executed, taking him exactly where he intends to be.
Through Dagon’s gaping, fanged jaws.
“No,” I whisper.
It must take a lot to surprise a god. I swear Dagon’s huge, jet-black eyes get a little wider. He does his best to cough the unexpected morsel out, but Tanaka’s got claws on all four limbs to keep him anchored. Even gods don’t have armored throats—not on the inside, anyway.
With the exception of silver or decapitation, it’s hard to kill a thrope. They can survive drowning, burning, disemboweling, and just about every poison known. I never considered adding being swallowed alive to the list, but once you’ve gotten past the perils of chewing, all you have to worry about is being digested. Ugly way to go, feeling your flesh being slowly dissolved until the acid eats through your spinal column and separates what’s left of your skull from your body.