General rules:
1) Fire is a good standby. Except when you’re fighting ifrits, salamanders, and demons. But on most everything else, fire.
2) Not many things like getting decapitated. Except Hydras. Those frakkers love it. I hate Hydras.
3) If you don’t know what it is, keep hitting it until it bursts into ichor. Your laundry bills will suck Bantha pudu, but you’ll be alive to complain about it.
—Eastwood, Personal correspondence with Ree Reyes, January 11, 2012
Ree pawed through her bag and pulled out the lightsaber. She pushed a button, and the prop sprang to life with the trademark whoosh, a blue blade igniting in front of her. She tried to ward off the wyvern as she figured out how to handle the fight. She briefly flirted with despair as fear hit her stomach like a Double Down from KFC.
Dear Universe,
What’s with all the random encounters just when I don’t need them? Is this some kind of payback for pulling off the Tomb Of Horrors without losing a single party member? Or are you just a cruelly indifferent universe inexplicably populated with random shit that wants to eat people and sends monsters after them when they’re already hurt?
No love,
Ree of the Rooftops
P.S. I have weapons now, Universe. Lots.
The universe neglected to answer. Or maybe the monster’s scream was its answer as it winged forward.
Ree stood to a crouch on her left leg, protecting her right, which had so offended the Suburban as to get bruised to holy hell and maybe broken.
The wyvern leaned forward and dove at her, rows of teeth glistening with spittle and spattered bits of bloody something.
Ree pushed off of her good foot, diving to the side as she swung at the wyvern. Her cut clipped part of the beast’s neck, and she saw steamy blood hit the gravel-covered roof at the same time she did.
A fresh wave of pain hit her mind from her bum leg and her back, which she used to push herself to her feet again, warding off the wyvern with the lightsaber in one hand as she picked herself up.
You know what would be really nice about now? she thought. An appearance from my favorite temporally-displaced Steampunk dandy.
You work on Providence, right, Drake? Well, It’d be really damned convenient for you to show up right about now.
In a display that proved to Ree that only part of the universe was out to get her, a green burst of energy suddenly flashed from the behind the wyvern and blew a hole in its right wing as it turned to attack Ree again. The beast foundered and crashed into the ground, revealing Drake Winters standing fifteen feet back, his aetheric rifle still trained on the beast.
“You rang, mademoiselle?” he said, a rakish grin on his face.
Drake Winters (Strength 12, Dexterity 15, Stamina 13, Will 15, IQ 16, Charisma 15—Inventor 4 / Gentleman 2 / Steampunk 6 / Fae-Touched 3) was five-five and had sandy-blond hair he kept short and prim in a late-nineteenth-century style. His leather duster billowed in the wind as it flowed in and out of the alleys between buildings. He trained his rifle on the wyvern and fired again, the shot taking the beast full in the backside. Above all things, Drake was a gentleman, and second, he was thorough.
Ree gave the wyvern another look, and if it could come after her with a basketball-sized hole in its spine, it was welcome to try. When it failed to pull a Michael Myers and come after her for one more go, Ree deactivated her lightsaber and put the lifeless prop back into her bag.
“How do you do that?” Ree asked.
Drake shrugged, lowering his rifle. “As I’ve said, Providence. I rather imagine if I questioned its guiding hand, I might soon find myself bereft of its assistance. Are you well, Ree?”
Ree tried, very slowly, to stand, keeping weight off of her right leg. “Not really, but I was about to get a lot worse. Thanks for the save.”
Drake hurried over to Ree, slinging his rifle back over his shoulder and offering his arm to help her balance.
Ree leaned against Drake as she limped a few steps forward. Her right leg had about as much tolerance for weight as she had for bullshit.
The closeness felt good, even with the scent of burning flesh a few feet away. But the touch brought up memories of Jane last night as well as the close calls with Drake back in October, and an emotional pileup started in her mind as remembered pleasure T-boned unsettled crushes, then the both of them careened into old embarrassments to round it all out.
The confusing moment was interrupted by the sound of popping. Ree glanced over and saw the wyvern burst into a puddle of goop, which as far as she could tell was near-universal for monsters, beasties, and other things that rational people knew not to exist.
She’d never claimed to be rational.
Ree climbed up onto the lip of the roof to avoid the flow of goop, as her shoes were not rated for ichor. The fluid rolled over Drake’s boots without his notice.
“Shall we away? I imagine there is a tale to tell regarding why it is you found yourself on a roof with a leg wound and faced with a wyvern.”
“Nah, just an average Friday,” Ree said, winking.
Drake raised a well-groomed eyebrow.
“Can I use your rifle as a walking stick, pretty-please-with-I-owe-you-a-milkshake on top?” Ree asked.
Drake unslung the weapon and handed it to Ree. “To the . . . what is that eatery called again?”
“Burger Bin.”
Drake gave a wry smile. “To the Burger Bin!”
• • •
The lunch rush was in full swing when they got to the Burger Bin, so Ree would have had plenty of time to explain things to Drake in line. Chances were that anyone listening to her story would write it off as something from a TV show or a game, or would just forget it in a half hour, thanks to the Doubt.
But considering the . . . sensitive nature of part of the story, Ree wasn’t about to risk that. She’d already found herself on the tabloid radar and didn’t want to pour any fuel on that fire, even if it was just small bits of word of mouth.
Instead, Ree prompted Drake to tell what he’d been up to.
“Most of my time in the last month has been spent in the pursuit of refining my Tellurian Actuator.”
Ree waited a second for Drake to continue, which he didn’t. “Which does what?”
Drake nodded, speaking again. “My apologies. I have been endeavoring to not ‘overshare,’ as you say. The Actuator is a device that, when functional, will allow me to power mundane machines using the magical energies of Faerie.”
“No shit, really?” Ree said, quickly regretting the curse with the passel of four-year-olds being corralled between the benches by a pack of overworked moms. (Or nannies. They were young, who knew?) She looked back at the line, which was still more than thirty people long. The Burger Bin employees were as speedy as ever, darting back and forth in their Grimace-purple aprons and hats, but the crowd was still ridiculous. The shakes were worth it, though, and it didn’t hurt to take a cool dip in the pool of normal before heading back into the crazy.
“I am currently having difficulties refining the processes that modulate the wattage necessary for each individual device. I’ve thought of utilizing the adapters present in contemporary electronics, but the input to those adapters is still inconsistent due to the nature of the source power.”
“Then why do the normal Fae devices work?”
Drake ran a hand through his hair. “I’m not entirely certain, to be honest. I tend to believe that each device has its own semiotic frequency, and that all of the energy of the device occurs at that frequency. I suppose then all I would have to do is create a system for converting the wattage necessary to the Fae system of semiotic frequencies. If only I had the annotated copy of the Aarne-Thompson motif index I had on the Mistress’s Galleon!”
“I can get the shakes and meet you at your place, if you need to get back to
it. Plus, easier to chat there than here.” Ree gestured to the still-packed restaurant.
“That would be most advantageous, as I have a number of chemical processes under way to address my conundrum with the Actuator, but I would not wish to leave you on your own while you are still injured. Are you quite certain that you will be all right?”
“What’s this cane made out of, Drake?” she asked, waggling the rifle-as-cane.
“The point is conceded. Then I will see you shortly. Do ring me on the mobile if you are waylaid.”
“What about Providence?” Ree asked. If he’d dropped in to save her ass once already, why not again?
“We need not rely on Providence when the creator has given us the tools to enable our own salvation, my d . . . Ree.” Drake had choked on the phrase, correcting himself, which set off a ping in Ree’s brain.
More on that later, she told herself.
“Fair enough. See you soon.” She shooed Drake away, and the adventurer excused himself from the line and headed out the door. His apartment was only a few blocks from the Burger Bin, as they’d headed across town to get away from the set and Ree’s persistent thuggish tail.
Ree took a lap around the Internet on her phone while she waited in line, and discovered that her self-stalking Google Alert had gotten a dozen hits, almost all of them ping-backs on the original gossip rag story about her and Jane, along with several tweets.
Fan-fucking-tastic. This was not how she wanted to spend her fifteen minutes of fame.
Someone behind her coughed. Ree had followed the rabbit hole of the Internet long enough that she was at the front of the line. Ree dropped her phone in her shoulder bag and stepped up to order the shakes.
In her years of working customer service, she’d taken orders from people on cell phones, people who stepped up and just kept staring at their glowing screens, and from people blasting music in big earphones.
Ree had made a promise early on that she would never be one of Those People. She looked the employee straight in the eye and smiled as she made her order, saying please and thank you like a courteous human being.
As she waited for the shake, her stomach rumbled with anticipation of the chocolatey reward it was about to receive.
Sugar makes the happy go. I will put my trust in sugar and caffeine.
• • •
Her hands occupied by delicious shakes, Ree hit the intercom at Drake’s front door with her elbow to get buzzed in. Ree had stayed good and only drunk out of her own shake, refraining from skimming from Drake’s like she used to do with her dad’s as a kid. (And still did anytime he saw her. It was tradition by now.)
Drake greeted her at the door with a notepad and fountain pen. He smiled at her and then stepped back to resume his writing. “Welcome! If you will allow me to finish taking notes, I will be ready for confections and conversation presently.”
Ree stepped in and looked over Drake’s apartment. The living room was dominated by his lab, with beakers and vials arranged in rows, stacks of gears and vacuum tubes and circuitry in assorted piles, and another half-dozen health code violations, all covered up by an elaborate ventilation system he’d installed along the roof of the apartment, which took the smoke, steam, and scent of oil and did . . . something. He had tried to explain once, but it came out like the teacher’s voice from Peanuts.
She walked past a stack of gear-and-chrome-tube spheres that looked suspiciously like grenades and some kind of pneumatic jackhammer and turned the corner into Drake’s kitchen. And as cramped as the living room was, the kitchen was nearly empty and spotless.
Drake was a bachelor of the classic type, which meant that he either couldn’t cook, or just preferred not to. She imagined he must have cooked during his misadventures across the magical realms of Faerie that had been his life before he was unceremoniously dumped on a Pearson street corner a few years back, his illustrious Mistress abandoning him as she’d done with all of her other boy toys (the ones that hadn’t died).
She set the second milkshake down on the counter and took the liberty of opening up Drake’s refrigerator to check out his array of condiments or whatever gadget he was keeping cool that day.
There was, in fact, gadgetry sitting on the racks: a compass hooked up to a football-sized battery, with pair of bunny-ear antennae sticking out of the top, a row of beakers filled with various liquids, and an oversized revolver approximately the size of a breadbasket, with a valve showing settings like agitate, stun, and maim. The last setting was covered with a bit of masking tape that had Do Not Use inscribed in ink by Drake’s hand. In addition, there was a small army of condiments and a two-quart Tupperware that held a savory dish that looked oddly familiar.
Ree heard Drake walking over, his boots making the distinctive walking-with-purpose sound. Ree closed the fridge and filed that little morsel away for later. Curiouser and curiouser. Ree picked the milkshake back up and handed it to Drake as he rounded the corner. He accepted the drink and took a long sip, topped off with a satisfied sigh.
“Magnificent, as always. I must say, only my patrols and evening constitutional have kept my waistline from expanding since we met, Ree.”
Ree toasted with her own cup. “You’re not the first, and you won’t be the last. So here’s what’s going on.”
Ree launched into a quick summary of her last twenty-four hours, starting with the panther-fly. She glossed over the sexytimes, though the blush and raised eyebrow Drake gave her made her suspect that he’d read between the lines.
Worry about the love triangle later. There’s weird shit afoot.
God, my life has become a CW drama.
When she was done with the story, she realized her milkshake was gone and she had a brain freeze. Ow.
Drake’s face was locked in a pensive look, the gravitas of the situation totally undercut by fact that he was slurping a milkshake.
The inventor set down his shake to respond, taking a thoughtful pose with one hand at his chin. “That is an interesting situation.” Drake took to pacing, which, in a kitchen this small, meant he took a tiny step to the left, turned, then took a tiny step to the right as he talked. “I must admit, I am not familiar with this Celebromancy. It was not so known in my age, and I have not had reason to confront or study it in this century.”
Drake pursed his lips. “But if you are again in need of an associate, I would be most happy to assist you . . . tomorrow. Or later tonight. I am afraid I am engaged for a portion of this evening.”
“Oh, really? Got a hot date?” Ree asked, intentionally baiting. If she was wrong, it was a reasonable bit of teasing.
Judging from the shade of pink he turned, Ree realized she’d guessed right, though it did not exactly make her feel like she’d “won” anything.
“Who’s the lucky girl? Or guy,” Ree said, pretty sure that Drake didn’t swing both ways but trying to walk the bisexuality awareness walk.
Drake’s pink turned a shade darker, and he coughed, straightening up. “I will be accompanying your friend Ms. Tharakan to a gallery opening this evening, preceded by dinner at Bites.”
Aha! Ree knew she recognized that Tupperware of curry. And it would explain why Priya had been AWOL the last couple of nights the Rhyming Ladies had convened for beer and kibitzing at Trollope’s Trollops. She was smart, had good taste in friends, and was neck-deep into contemporary Steampunk, so she and Drake shared a common fictional language, even if they came at it from literally different worlds. They even had a shared hatred of Steampunk model, essayist, and fashion snob Abigail Wickham.
It’s not like Ree could be upset about the two hooking up, considering that she’d never made a move and had in fact just slept with someone else, but all of that trying to be reasonable wasn’t stopping the clenching feeling in her stomach.
“Well, have fun. Priya knows the best parties. And get the southwestern egg rolls. Priya alw
ays forgets about them.” She almost went ahead and asked how she and Drake had met, and stopped herself.
Oh, but this is a familiar place. And not one of the comfortable ones. She’d given dating advice to friends who she had crushes on when they were dating other friends more times than she cared to count, and it was a big, fat awkward sandwich.
Drake nodded, leaning back on his heels and taking a short breath before speaking. “Thank you. And do let me know if you find yourself needing assistance this evening. I have promised to return Ms. Tharakan by midnight to allow her to wake early in the morning for work.”
Oh, yeah. Work. Ree was scheduled to close Grognard’s, since there was a tournament tonight, with a big prize.
Ree held up a hand, one finger pointing. “I am contractually required to tell you that if you hurt Priya, I will hunt you down and then use your innards for an art project. I expect Sandra and Anya will tell you this soon, if they haven’t already. We made a pact.”
Drake nodded, solemnly. “I swear I will do everything in my power to ensure that she enjoys herself, and will not harm her by malice or negligence.”
Of course you won’t. I almost wish you would. Not really, but maybe. Augh. Time to get out of here before emo music starts playing.
Ree picked up her empty milkshake cup. “In that case, I’ll leave you to the Actuator and your date. Swing by Grognard’s tonight, if you want . . .”
Drake sighed. “I do not imagine there will be time for a visit, but thank you for the invitation.” Ree took a step forward to leave, and they did a short shuffle of a dance so Ree could exit without having to brush by Drake and pour more fuel on the awkward fire. Ree left in a controlled hurry, her stomach still held in a Force Grip.
Set mode to Calm the Fuck Down.
• • •
Ree hobbled her way home, thankful for the billionth time that Pearson’s public transportation was speedy and safe.
She could have used her sideboard, pulled out a card to teleport home, but that would have been a waste of resources. Plus, if she just God-Moded through everything, she’d be headed down Willow’s path to Dark Phoenix. Magic didn’t need to solve every problem. Plus, if she blinked into existence in her own room and Sandra was home, it’d take some impressive bullshittery to come up with an excuse as to how she’d apparated.
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