by John Levitt
I could hear voices proclaiming, “ooh, how cute,” so I knew Lou was already working the room. I chatted with a few people I knew, catching up, not asking questions, just trying to get a feel for anything off-kilter. As far as I could tell, nothing. Everyone was relaxed, mellow, having a good time. Maybe we were all just being paranoid. Then I saw Sandra.
She was leaning against the back wall of the main room, quietly observing. That wasn’t her style; she was the original party girl, the walking equivalent of three shots of Jack Daniel’s. I’d known her a long time and we’d come close a couple of times but never actually hooked up. She wasn’t much of a practitioner; she was more a painter and preferred her art to her practice. I could relate.
She looked unwell, sick. Always thin, she now seemed positively emaciated. I might have suspected crystal, maybe even smack, but I happened to know Sandra had never touched so much as an aspirin in her entire life. I moved over beside her, and disturbingly, she didn’t even notice.
“Hey,” I said, gently pushing on her shoulder. She turned her head.
“Oh, hey, Mason. S’up?”
“Not much. Just hanging out.” She nodded.
“What you been up to?” I asked.
“Oh, stuff,” she said vaguely. This was not the Sandra I knew.
“You okay? You don’t look so good.”
“Yeah. No, I’m fine. A little down lately, that’s all. I thought maybe a party would cheer me up.”
Sandra was one of the few practitioners with an Ifrit. There were those who thought it wasn’t fair, since she barely used the little talent she had, but there’s no figuring Ifrits. Sandra’s Ifrit was Moxie, a scruffy little brown terrier type who was the smartest Ifrit I’d ever met, though if Lou overhead me say that he’d probably pee in my shoes. Not that Lou isn’t smart; he is. They all are. He’s smart enough to understand most of what I say—maybe not the exact words, but certainly the sense of them. He can open doors if he’s strong enough, twisting the knob in his mouth. On the other hand, he’ll eat a pound of bacon if he can get it, throw up, and do it again an hour later. Certain things he never seems to learn. You just have to remember he is a dog, or a reasonable facsimile. He isn’t like a dumb human; he’s brilliant, but still a dog. Sort of. But he wasn’t as smart as Moxie.
“So, where’s Moxie?” I asked.
Sandra stared straight ahead and answered in a listless voice. “She’s gone.”
“She’s gone? What do you mean, gone? Where did she go?”
Sandra shrugged, almost imperceptibly. “I don’t know.”
I waited for a fuller explanation but none was forthcoming. She went back to staring out across the room. I didn’t like this at all. I slipped away, and again, she paid no attention. I stood across the room for a while, watching her. Lou came over from across the room and ran over to greet her, but before he reached her he stopped, stared, and then slunk quietly away, tail curled between his legs. Again, not good.
I was going to have to check her out on the psychic plane. That was something I didn’t like doing; it took a lot of energy and always left me weak and disoriented afterward. It’s not as simple as shifting your perspective, the way you might when examining the warding on a house. Exploring auras is more subtle and involving. It’s almost like merging with the other person, and doing it without their knowledge and permission, even with the best intentions, is a terrible invasion. Like a doctor, who without asking, decides to check you for a hernia in the middle of the dance floor. But there was something very wrong with Sandra, and in the state she was in I didn’t think it would even register I was doing anything.
I called Lou over to stand watch. Whenever you check auras you’re no longer totally in your body. I needed his help to deflect anyone coming up to chat, not to mention how vulnerable I was going to be to anyone with bad intentions.
“Sandra,” I told him. “She’s not well.” He didn’t make any sign, but he clearly got it. “Guard. I’m going to check on her.”
I slid my back down the wall until I was sitting on the floor. Lou sat in front of me, and I dismantled my ego and drifted into a dream state, though not that drifty, unfocused state we usually call dreamlike. More a chaotic swirl of emotionally charged dark confusion. Some practitioners can function perfectly well in that state, but I don’t have the training or experience. I always feel like someone on acid for the first time.
It’s hard to focus in that condition, or sometimes to even remember why you’re there. As a result, I usually just observe and then try to make sense of what I’ve seen when I come back. I drifted through the room, watching the auras of the party guests with their shifting planes of color shot through with bright sparks, similar but endlessly different. The few practitioners present were easily identifiable. Practitioner auras are different in a way that’s hard to put a finger on, but you know one when you see it. One caught my attention momentarily—a practitioner, but subtly wrong. Not just different, but wrong. I’d have to remember to check it out.
I glanced down at Lou for reassurance. Ifrits have their own auras, different from people, but nothing like animals. I could see energy flowing smoothly from Lou’s aura to mine, stabilizing me, something I’d never noticed before.
I’d almost forgotten about Sandra by the time she came into my awareness. Her aura was swirling chaotically, almost flinging itself away, but that wasn’t the worst thing. Right in the middle was a huge black scar, as if something had been torn away. Like a heart scan showing a massive MI, or an MRI of a brain invaded by a monstrous tumor. I’d never seen anything like it. Was this what happened when an Ifrit abandoned a practitioner? The sight was so horrible, so disturbing, that it broke my trance and shocked me back into my normal consciousness.
I got shakily to my feet, feeling sick to my stomach. I always did after visiting the psychic realm, but this was worse. Sandra glanced over toward me with blank eyes. I felt I should do something, but had no idea what. I was thoroughly spooked, and slipped quietly away.
Obviously something major had happened to her. The question was, had Moxie left because of what had happened to Sandra, or was the psychic scarring a result of the abandonment? I selfishly hoped it was the former. We all want to believe there must be a reason if an Ifrit leaves, that it must somehow be the fault of the practitioner. That way we can say, well it’s sad, of course, but it won’t happen to me.
After taking a few minutes to calm down, I started looking around for the practitioner with the unusual aura. I found him lounging against a tiled counter in the spacious kitchen, sipping a glass of red and talking animatedly with two very young women. I recognized him immediately, though I’d never had much to do with him. I’d always figured him for one of those low-level wannabes who spend a lot of time hanging out with nontalented people, trying to impress them with practitioner mystique. Especially women. His main claim to fame was that he, too, had an Ifrit, supposedly a raven of all things. Again, go figure.
He looked pretty much the way I remembered him; small and wiry, no more than five-four, constantly vibrating with suppressed intensity. Wound much too tight for my taste. The wrinkle lines that crackled around his eyes could have been from laughter, but I was betting it was more from too much clenching of teeth. Close-cut curly hair, starting to go gray. A straight nose and freakishly tiny ears.
A sense of power hung around him, very different than the last time I had seen him. He looked up as I came in, giving a friendly smile and wave, holding up one finger as if trying to remember who I was, politely giving me a chance to name myself.
“Mason,” I said, offering a hand.
“Of course. Christoph.” He glanced around. “Nice party, isn’t it? Where do you know Pascal from?”
“Oh, around,” I said, vaguely.
Lou poked his head in, having finally figured out that the kitchen would be a likely source for all things edible. Sometimes I wonder just how smart he really is. Christoph noticed him and gave me an appraising look. Appa
rently I had gone up a notch in his estimation, having shown up with an Ifrit, although I’m not sure why. As I said, a connection with an Ifrit hasn’t much to do with the worth of the practitioner.
I wondered where his raven was, although I wasn’t gauche enough to ask. Having an Ifrit who could fly could be very useful, I guess, but it might be problematical at a mixed party.
I didn’t bother to introduce Lou. I felt an instant distaste for the man. Maybe it was from the aura I had seen swirling around him. I’ve learned to trust that gut feeling—sometimes it proves wrong, but not often. I knew I should pump him for information, but I could barely stand to be in his presence.
Christoph continued chattering on, oblivious to my short noncommittal responses. Maybe he was the type who could hardly conceive that not everyone found him to be fascinating. The two young women by his side clearly did.
Sandra wandered into the kitchen, still wearing her vacant expression, barely acknowledging us. Out of the corner of my eye, I noticed a quick smile flit over Christoph’s face. It wasn’t a smile of amusement, which would have been bad enough, but more the smirk of someone who thinks they know something you don’t. There was something definitely off. I stopped ignoring his conversation and focused in with renewed interest like I was supposed to.
“So, what have you been up to lately?” I asked heartily. He eyed me cautiously before deciding I was just making conversation.
“Oh, I’ve got some irons in the fire,” he said. “Right now I’m concentrating on how to make some money.” He gave a self-deprecating laugh. “I get tired of being poor. I mean, what’s the sense of having talent if you can’t use it to better yourself?”
“Sure,” I replied, “but that kind of thing is kind of frowned upon, isn’t it?”
“You mean like with Eli and Victor and that bunch?” He gave me a calculating look. “I seem to remember you hanging out with that crew, no?”
“Well, that was awhile ago,” I said, shrugging. “I don’t see a whole lot of them anymore.”
Christoph took that in, then decided he wasn’t about to embrace me as his new best friend and confidant on the basis of one sentence.
“Oh, I wouldn’t do anything unethical,” he assured me. He gave me another look, this one sharper. “But you can’t tell me you’ve never sat down and dreamed about ways to cash in on your abilities. Unless you especially enjoy your romantic life of poverty?”
He had me there. But how did he know my money situation unless he’d been keeping tabs on me? Interesting.
“Who hasn’t,” I said, lightly. “What about you? Have you come up with anything clever?” I was clumsily fishing. I’ve never been good at the whole “get the bad guy to tell you his secrets” thing. Christoph laughed, genuinely amused.
“Well, no. Not yet. But one can always hope.”
I had enough sense to realize that pushing it wasn’t going to get me anywhere, not to mention I had no idea if there was anywhere to get. Christoph might be a bad guy, but he might just as easily be nothing more than an obnoxious boor. I was about to be late for my gig anyway, so I made excuses, pulled Lou away from a group of intoxicated partyers who seemed to be betting on how many canapés he could eat without getting sick, said good-bye to Pascal, avoided Sandra, and five minutes later was back on the street.
It was misting out, that almost-rain so typical of San Francisco. I’d only gone a couple of blocks down from Stockton, passing by a blind alley, when I heard noise. A confused muttering of voices, then a couple of louder yet indistinct shouts, then, a woman’s scream. I looked over and saw two stocky men pulling a woman toward a dark corner. One of the men had hold of her arm and the other had his hand either on the back of her neck or in her hair. She wasn’t giving up easily though; besides screaming she was striking out with her free arm, and doing some damage.
I started running toward them. I may not exactly be a knight in shining armor, but I wasn’t about to let a woman be hauled off the street and raped right in front of me. I’d run about ten steps when instinct cut out and actual thought cut in. What were the chances of a street attack happening just as I was walking by, especially now? I stopped abruptly, and as I did, the figures struggling down the alley faded away like so many wisps of smoke. Perfect.
The alley dead-ended in front of me about thirty yards farther down. I turned around and could barely make out the street I’d just left, obscured by a flickering blue neon curtain blocking my retreat. This could prove interesting. You’d think I would have learned by now not to blindly rush into a dark alley. It looked like Darwinian evolutionary theory was about to be upheld yet again, since I was clearly too stupid to live.
Lou looked up at me with disgust. The illusion hadn’t fooled him, of course, but when I’d sprinted off down the alley there wasn’t much he could do but follow.
The pavement under my feet began to bubble and roil. Small blisters appeared on the surface, and as each popped it expelled an unpleasant sluglike creature about the size and shape of a hot dog. Gray skin, rough and wrinkled, covered them. From one end, two projections sprouted like antennae or snail horns, but other than that they were featureless, eyeless but not necessarily blind. A viscous slime dripped off them which gave off an acrid, unpleasant odor clearly distinguishable from the normal back alley smells of rotting fruit, old coffee grounds, and dog crap.
They looked more unpleasant than dangerous, but I wasn’t betting on it. It seemed unlikely anyone would go to all this effort in an attempt to make me feel nauseous. As more and more of them emerged, Lou started hopping around as if the ground was hot, trying to avoid coming in contact with them. A larger than usual specimen surfaced directly in front of me, sprouting up like some mutant fungus, and I took a step backward to avoid it.
Unfortunately there were several more of them behind me, and as I stepped back I trod on top of one. It spurted open like a bratwurst that had been left in the sun too long, splattering over my shoes and pant legs. A revolting stench filled the air. Immediately, the tops of my shoes started to smoke and ragged holes appeared on them as if someone had poured sulphuric acid on my feet. I felt a quick burning as the slime made it through my socks and started in on my feet.
I ripped off the shoes and socks, which left me standing barefoot on the cold, damp bricks. Being barefoot wasn’t the ideal condition to deal with these things, but more than that, I now felt irrationally vulnerable, like having to fight naked. The pavement was at full boil, slugs proliferating like popcorn in a kettle. Avoiding them wasn’t going to be an option much longer; the alley would be knee-deep in the things in a matter of minutes. I noticed that my abandoned shoes were not only dissolving under the slime, but were being rapidly shredded as well. Apparently the slugs also possessed rows of razor-sharp teeth.
Part of me cooly appreciated the cleverness of the trap—a vicious monster can be fought, a powerful spell countered, but this was going to be trickier. It was too late to set up a protective circle; there would be as many inside as out. I could immobilize some of them, but not enough of them to matter. I could block the effects of the acid for a while, but eventually sheer numbers and sharp teeth would overwhelm my defenses.
I looked around for escape, something to wall off the things, or even better, something to climb up onto. Nothing. Except…on the back side of one of the buildings was an old-fashioned fire escape, one with a wide barred landing on each floor and iron grid stairs connecting the landings. If I could get up there, I’d be safe. The final flight of stairs, the one that would reach the ground, had a counterweight system with a latch that kept it secure up against the last landing. From above, it would swing down gently when unlatched, swinging back up when you stepped off onto the ground. From below, it was snuggled safely out of reach, preventing access from the street.
Talent isn’t very good at dealing with inanimate objects. It’s a lot better affecting energies and living organisms. Objects aren’t my strong suit anyway, and there was no way I could trip an iron l
atch twelve feet over my head and swing the iron stairs down. I might, given enough time, figure out a way to accomplish it, but of course you never do have enough time. That’s the whole point. Lou was mean-while eyeing me, as if studying the possibility of scrambling up to the relative safety of my shoulders.
“Forget it,” I snarled, annoyed at his selfishness. “I’ve got a better idea.” I pointed up toward the fire escape. “Up there. Get the latch.” He looked up to where I was pointing and then looked back skeptically at me. I didn’t have time to explain.
I picked him up and gauged the distance carefully. I wasn’t going to have a second chance to get it right. He caught on and stiffened his muscles to make it easier to cast him through the air. If I could toss him up on that first landing, he could trip the catch and the stair would swing down for me to climb. If I missed, the fall would probably break his neck, and even if it didn’t the slugs would finish him off soon enough.
“On three,” I said, swinging him back and forth like I was tossing a heavy rock across a stream. He flew through the air, all four legs bicycling in an attempt to keep his balance, like an Olympic long jumper. He hit the front railing bars, and for a sickening moment I thought he wasn’t going to make it, but he hooked one paw through the bars and scrabbled his way onto the landing.
He ran over to the latch holding the stairs, cocked his head, and stared at it with blank puzzlement. Oh, great. I had forgotten he wasn’t mechanically inclined. I couldn’t see the mechanism from where I stood down below, so he was on his own. I wanted to yell at him to hurry up, but realized that wasn’t going to help the situation.
By this time I was dancing around, trying to avoid another exploding sausage debacle. Unfortunately, the dancing had the effect of energizing the slugs, who immediately started writhing around, uttering excited metallic, hissing, chittering sounds. Then I heard a bark. A light bulb had finally gone off in Lou’s head and he reached down with his muzzle, twisted something I couldn’t see and pulled back. He was having trouble, even though his jaws are twice as strong as you would expect from a dog that size. I finally heard a clunk as the lever released. Naturally, the stair, instead of swinging down, remained sedately in place.