by Leah Cutter
“Whatever you’d like,” Gary said smoothly.
As usual, Steve waited until everyone else had gone before he tried to talk with Gary alone.
But Gary was being even stranger than usual, going over and stroking the huge jar like it was his precious or something.
“Dude, you gotta snap out of it,” Steve told Gary, trying to get his attention by grabbing one of his hands.
Gary hissed at Steve.
“Seriously. Don’t go Gollum on me,” Steve warned.
Gary was his friend. It didn’t matter if he’d gotten super crazy. Steve was going to drag him back, out of his mom’s basement, and into the real world.
Hell, Steve might even try to take him out to a bar and get him laid, if he thought that would do any good.
Gary suddenly shrank down, blinking owlishly at Steve. “Oh. Hi,” he said. “Were we successful?” he asked, looking around as if he didn’t realize where he was.
“You’re really starting to worry me,” Steve said, slinging his arm over Gary’s shoulders and leading him up the stairs. “You need help. Serious help.”
“See, that’s the problem. I already asked for help.” Gary stopped at the top of the stairs and glanced back down. “Look where it got me.”
Steve couldn’t help but glance back.
Green mists and eerie shadows swirled in the darkness. The gelatinous beast that didn’t exist, no, couldn’t exist in the corner slithered out and caressed the giant jar like Gary had been. Foul winds howled and promised terrible deeds that night.
Steve shook his head and the basement returned to normal, with cardboard boxes full of winter clothing lining the shelves, the dusty abandoned drum set that Gary had miserably failed to learn, the skis and skates and old china and Christmas decorations and everything else that lined the walls with normality.
Then there was the round table, with its hulking lamp just daring them to come sit in its light again.
“Yeah, we got to get you out of your Mom’s basement,” Steve repeated.
Was he already too late to save his friend?
Ξ
Hunter held the luminous pearl in his hand. Each pill in this batch of the ghost tripper drug seemed larger than the last ones that Hunter had taken. Were they stronger? Why would Dusty do that? Or was it to get Hunter hooked again?
The last time Hunter had taken the drugs had been before Loki had shown Hunter just how fallible he was. How he could never have the strength and speed he needed to stop the bad things from happening.
How Hunter’s gift could also be a curse.
The counselor Hunter had dutifully seen once a week had tried to tell Hunter otherwise, that it was okay. No one was perfect. No one was bulletproof. Not even the gods.
But it had been Cassie who had stopped Loki. Cassie, his blood brother, who had saved the world.
Not Hunter.
And though Hunter would do everything in his power to stop the bad things from happening again, he just wasn’t good enough, not powerful or pure enough. His visions and dreams—true, false, and constant—had shown him the truth about his place in the world. How tainted waters were his true heritage. That no matter how much he struggled, he would always be ineffective in the end.
That wasn’t about to stop him from trying, however.
He just needed to use every advantage he had, to the fullest. Even if it meant the risk of overloading his senses, overdosing on the drug that was supposed to enhance his gift.
Even if it meant risking addiction again.
Hunter was fairly certain that no one had followed him to his current dive. It was a hidey–hole that he’d kept as a backup, in case the government housing failed.
In case he failed. Again.
It wasn’t much. A basement room. Single window at the top near the ceiling that faced an alley. Strong bars there. Bathroom that stank of sewage—pipes dripping in the walls. Hot plate and coffee maker, both padlocked to the wall. Mold winning against the dingy, yellowed paint. Bed that wasn’t much better than the cot Hunter had slept on when he’d been in the Army.
Door had three locks on it. That didn’t make the place safe. That just meant it would slow down anyone breaking in, give Hunter enough time to be prepared.
Hunter looked around the room again. He knew he was stalling. He’d never been reluctant to expand his gift before. Hell, he’d been addicted to seeing, to making the most of his gift, for a decade or more.
Would the drugs push him too far, like Loki had? Would he end up addicted to this type of seeing again?
Or was it just because all his dreams turned out bad these days? That there was never any hope, never any promise of good?
That his sight always showed him failing?
With a sigh, Hunter closed his eyes, opened his mouth, and swallowed down the poisoned pearl.
Then Hunter dreamed.
Ξ
Kilpatrick jerked his head up. He took a deep breath, coming back to himself.
He was in a lousy part of downtown St. Paul. That much he remembered.
He kind of remembered being directed to the alley where he now knelt. Setting up the foul candles laced with the blood of the three virgins. Sketching out the eldritch signs in tar on the side of the building, just opposite the apartment where The Dreamer now dreamed.
How he’d prayed to the Great Old Ones, channeling their power into the ether, so that The Dreamer might dip his toes in their stream, might sip from their cup, overwhelming the many others that were available to him.
Groaning, Kilpatrick forced himself up, off his knees. God, he needed another drink. Or three. Or maybe three bottles, to wash away the filth and horror of the gods flooding his senses.
It was more than a mortal man could take.
Kilpatrick found his mind slipping away as he laughed, shouting obscenities at the cars passing by the end of the alley. He forgot his candles, his tar, his chalk, and wandered aimlessly away.
Until the Great Old Ones called on him to do their bidding again.
Chapter Seven
Though I wasn’t working, I’d told Sam I needed another night “off”—off from the fights, from being way the fuck outside of the city, off from everything. So I spent the evening in the steam box that also doubled as my apartment.
It wasn’t even a one–bedroom, but an efficiency, barely enough space for one person, let alone two, with the single bed just across the room from the kitchen. I didn’t have much in the way of personal goods—couldn’t afford much, and had nowhere to put shit. Ratty loveseat, single chair, TV and dresser. All second–hand, all scarred and stained and beat to crap. That was about it.
But for all its lack of charm, this place was mine, and mine alone. And it was clean. I’d lived in shared housing for a while before I “fully merged” back into society. Those were some dumps. I kept the ashtrays empty and took out the garbage every night, part of my “thing” to remind me that I no longer had to share my living space.
I spent the night smoking and looking up shit on my phone on the internet—looking up the great old ones and the elder gods. Freaky shit. Cults that worshiped the dread lord Cthulhu. Islands that drove people insane.
One of the things I found most interesting was in one of the games, an add–on to the books: Poseidon was evidently an enemy of Cthulhu, and watched over the underwater island where Cthulhu lay.
And supposedly, Poseidon presided over the Aquatennial torchlight parade.
It couldn’t be the actual god, there, could it be? But maybe a representation of him…
Would that be where the next bomb went off? Or the final bomb? Destroy Poseidon and raise Cthulhu?
It made sense. Would Sam, or anyone else, believe me?
Then the phone rang.
I jumped and dropped it onto the floor.
Damn it. I’d never watched horror movies, hated that kind of shit. But even reading about this stupid Cthulhu had gotten me spooked.
I finally snatched up my phone from
the floor.
It was Sam. Did I want to talk with her?
Maybe it would be some good news for once. Maybe she missed me, and wanted to go out or something.
And maybe my shithole apartment would suddenly turn into a palace.
“Hello?” I said, swiping it on.
“Have you seen the news?” Sam asked.
“No,” I said, the pit of my stomach falling in on itself. “Why?”
“There’s been another bomb.”
Ξ
Fucker set the bomb to go off as people were leaving the baseball stadium downtown, after the game Friday night. Rode in with it on the light rail. Didn’t leave it somewhere. Kept it in his backpack, then did the suicide–bomber thing.
And he was another vet.
“Want to meet me at the parking lot on Washington Avenue? Walk together to the crime scene?” Sam asked.
I blinked. That would mean time together when we weren’t doing anything but walking.
Fuck. I almost suggested that we meet closer to the stadium. Would rather face a mad bomber than have another “talk.”
“Thirty minutes?” I asked, taking another drag of my cigarette.
“Make it forty–five,” Sam said. I could hear the grimace. “Traffic’s fucked.”
That surprised me. Sam rarely swore.
Was she already on her way in?
“See you then,” I told her. I wanted to say something more to her. Not anything trite like “I love you.” We never really talked about love. “Be safe,” was all I managed before I hung up.
Nothing like a good bombing with dozens dead and over a hundred injured to remind me of my own mortality.
Ξ
I stood on the corner, chain smoking, waiting for Sam. The heat still hadn’t let go of the night. Busses barely stopped at the stop then roared off, blowing dank wind. Sirens sounded now and again a few blocks off—ambulances racing off to try to save more of the injured, I told myself. Not many people passed by me, though clubs were open not even a block away.
Probably scared off by the bomb.
I hadn’t put on my Dr. Martins, though I’d thought about it. I felt like I needed armor on a night like this.
Of course, Hunter found me before Sam arrived. He appeared out of the shadows, as if he’d been formed out of them.
Made me nearly jump out of my skin.
“Fuck, Hunter,” I told him. “Where the hell—never mind. How are you?” I scanned him quickly. He looked crazed, his eyes wide, his hair spread out in a wild mane. The T–shirt he wore was stained, as if he’d drooled down his chest.
“You’re going to the bomb site?” Hunter asked.
At least he sounded as if he was still holding it together.
“Yeah. Waiting for Sam,” I said. “Shit, Hunter. You using again?” It wasn’t that he couldn’t have guessed where I was going. But given his general state…
“Had to,” Hunter said with a shrug.
“No, you didn’t have to,” I told him sternly. “You could have said no.” I winced inside but didn’t retract my words, even if I sounded like one of those lame ads that the adults used to try to target kids and “at risk” youth.
“Do you want to stop the next attack?” Hunter asked, his wild eyes suddenly laser focused on me.
“Of course,” I told him. Shit, even if I didn’t get credit. I didn’t want any more people to get killed. That was just fucked up.
“Then you’ll need more of the drug as well,” Hunter said. “It’s the only way to see through the lines.”
“Bullshit,” I told Hunter. “I’m able to see through the lines just fine.”
Hunter tilted his head to one side, examining me. “No,” he said. “You don’t understand. Not timelines. World lines. Where the non–men are coming from.”
“Fuck you very much,” I told him, fuming. “I can’t. If I take more of the drug—”
“No one will hire you. Ever,” Hunter supplied. “I know. I’m sorry.”
He actually sounded sorry, which surprised me.
“You’re wrong,” I told him. “Sam and the police and the other PAs will be able to track this asshole.”
Hunter gave me a wry grin. “Wrong asshole.”
“What?” I asked. “Don’t tell me there’s more than one bomber.”
“Only one person is making the bombs,” Hunter assured me. “But the bombs don’t matter.”
“Like hell the bombs don’t matter,” I told Hunter. “People are dying.”
“And the whole world will die, become an endless hell, once the Old One wakens,” Hunter proclaimed.
Shit. “You mentioned those creeps before,” I said. And Odin had said that it was different gods. “You don’t really think—”
“You’ll do the right thing,” Hunter said as he backed up, already fading into the night. “You always do. You’ll make the right decision, save the right god.”
Then he disappeared, fading into the night, like he was a damned ghost himself.
Fucker.
“Cassie?” came a soft call from behind me.
“Hi Sam,” I said, turning.
“You okay? You look white as a sheet,” Sam said, concerned, coming up to me, hands held out.
I couldn’t help it. I took her into my arms. She stiffened, but then relaxed, sliding her own arms around my waist.
I took a deep breath of her wonderful scent—lemongrass and sweet musk and all woman.
I also let her go much sooner than I wanted to.
“Shall we?” I asked, not mentioning Hunter, or his dire warnings. That I was going to have to take more of the ghost tripper drug. Make myself completely unemployable, forever.
I was going to fight like hell to make sure that this time, Hunter’s predictions didn’t come true.
Even if I was certain that I was already lost.
Ξ
Yellow “DO NOT CROSS” crime scene tape hung in limp lines across the street. The cops manning the line mutely held the tape up as Sam and I approached.
Were they that familiar with her? Or had she called ahead, called in more favors?
Was Sam ever going to be free from the promises she’d made to get me involved? Was she ever going to stop resenting all the time she’d lost to get work for me?
We didn’t get too close to the explosion site. Could see the dark, wet splotches that were sure to be blood from several feet away, along with the chalk marks around smaller areas.
Body parts, my subconscious cheerfully supplied.
I told it to fuck the hell off.
To the right, a white canopy had been set up with tables and computers. Technicians worked there, cataloging…something, I was sure. Uniforms hung out under the tent, talking in a group.
Two guys in suits looked up as we approached. Sam didn’t look at them, or try to get closer to the tents or the bomb site.
Instead, she stood stock still, closed her eyes, and started doing her post–cog thing.
I could take a hint. I mimicked her stance—feet slightly wide, eyes closed, head raised, as if I was searching for scents on the air.
I built my area of knowing easily enough. Gray square, then me, as the blue dot, in the bottom left corner. From there, I fanned out blue lines, undulating in place.
The strongest one was fucking strong, probably because such a major event had happened. I’d have to ask Sam about it later.
I pulled back to where the line faded slightly, before the event occurred, then dove in.
Suddenly, I was standing on the light rail train. The guy with the backpack was radiating. He was impossible to miss. He practically glowed with intent.
He was a tall guy. Skinny, but not muscular like Hunter, more starved. Asian–American, with greasy black hair hanging down into his eyes. Green khaki T–shirt stained with sweat. Camo pants and black Army boots.
The people around him didn’t look too closely at him. I could tell why—he looked like a crazy homeless guy. Believe me, I knew en
ough crazy homeless guys to recognize the look.
But I could also tell that he was going for the look deliberately. This guy wasn’t homeless. His nails were too clean. He didn’t have grime embedded into the wrinkles of his skin. His boots were far too nice, as were his clothes, despite the holes and the dirt.
Then something happened behind him. For an instant, green plants suddenly blossomed, growing madly through the car, sticky vines with thorns.
Just as quickly, the greenery pulled back. As if it recognized it didn’t belong there.
When I looked back at the guy, it was as though he’d shifted. Like he’d been standing in one place, then had moved away and come back, as quick as Hunter.
The bomb exploded as people started pouring into the light rail car, the flash blinding, throwing me out of the timeline.
I came back to the present shaking my head, trying to get rid of the after vision, the lights still blinding me when I opened my eyes to the darkness of the evening.
Sam stood beside me, also looking shaken.
“What the fuck was that?” I asked her. Because something was wrong with that vision, that timeline.
Sam looked grim. “That is what has been happening with the other bomber timelines as well. The bomber…shifting. And those things. Growing. Then gone again. And as the time from the original event increases, the more things change. Shift.”
“Well, fuck,” I said quietly. I tagged the area of knowing, wanting to watch it again. Would it change more? Or would it stay solid?
“This is why people wanted to question you,” Sam admitted. “Because they want to know if the other timelines are interfering.”
I looked at Sam, puzzled. “There aren’t any other timelines like this. Not with green shit growing in it. The changes are minor. This…this is not normal.”
Before I could suggest to Sam that we go back and check the first bomb scene, two detectives came up. One was a guy I didn’t know.
The other, because my luck was just that good, was Ferguson. He’d hated me since the first time he’d met me, when he was working on the death of my best friend, Kyle. Hadn’t liked me then.
Really chapped his ass that I was one of the blessed, though he was also one of the assholes who refused to work with me because of how I’d come into my powers.