Celebromancy

by Michael R. Underwood

  “So what in the name of Riddick was that?” Ree asked.

  Drake raised an eyebrow. His gaps in pop culture knowledge were closing, but slowly.

  “I haven’t a notion, Ms. Ree. But well done, nonetheless. With less astute company, I imagine I’d be being digested presently.”

  “Part of you looks like it was already,” Ree said, seeing the man’s many wounds.

  “Well, there is that. I’d say a trip to Dr. Wells is in order, except . . .” Drake trailed off, waving to the door.

  Ree nodded. Except the doctor was back out there, through the tunnels. Or an amusingly tricky trip through the basement of an Armenian and Turkish apartment building.

  Grognard had a full medical kit in the back room, and between the two of them, they patched up the worst of their cuts and bites. When all the gauze was said and done, Drake looked like he’d joined a Fight Club populated by goblins, but he wasn’t going to bleed out any time soon.

  Ree didn’t look any better. “Okay, we can take the easy way out here, but I’ve got to leave a note for Grognard to try and lessen the chance that he’ll rip out my liver and use it to strain his next batch of stout.”

  Drake nodded, draping a towel over a stool to keep the blood from staining it as he took a seat.

  What the fuck is going on with all this random monstrosity? Did the universe’s GM get a new Monster Manual or something? Ree pushed aside the implications of the universe running on game supplements as she searched through papers at the bar to find something she could write on and not spoil an artifact or mess up Grognard’s byzantine organization system.

  Moving a stack of paperwork, she noticed a gold-plated pocket watch with a sticky note attached to it. The watch had a classic look, analog numbers, burnished metal, and a manual winder.

  The handwriting on the note was Eastwood’s.

  Kid,

  I hear you’ve been tangling with Celebromancers. Thought this might come in handy.

  Turn it to 12:16 and Andy’s your uncle.

  —E

  Ree examined the watch, looked at the note again, then smiled knowingly before stashing the watch in her coat.

  Finally discovering a piece of real, honest scratch paper, she started her note to Grognard. She didn’t even try to sugarcoat the situation, since Grognard wouldn’t have any of it.

  She even left out her suspicions of who might have been responsible (Lucretia), or what she was going to do to whomever was responsible (description not suitable for professional fucking discourse).

  After sticking her note to the cash register, Ree did one more walk around the store, seeing if there was anything she could tidy or take care of to feel like she’d gotten something useful done, given that she had just lost hundreds of dollars in cash, several hundreds more in product, a three-thousand-dollar handmade cart, and Grognard’s totally awesome if ultimately-insufficient shield device.

  And on top of that, I left the goggles and tape in the cart. Another $100 down the drain . . . literally.

  Not my best day on the job.

  She plucked her phone out of her pocket as she walked back to leave with Drake, and saw that she had three voicemails and ten text messages from Jane, Yancy, and Danny. Ree stopped in place as she flipped through the texts, Instant Worry cooking in her stomach as she put the picture together.

  But wait, there’s more. Ree was almost afraid to listen to the voicemails, but listened anyway.

  Ree worked her way down the list, then said, “Fuuuuck,” as she set down the phone.

  “What is the matter now?” Drake asked, concerned.

  “I think someone’s been having an even worse night than us.”

  Chapter Thirteen

  Nightmare on Douglas Street

  Another round of libel charges have been filed against Plugged (A Cosmic subsidiary) due to stories posted by its editor and creative director, Alex Walters.

  Cosmic attorney Jessica Charles says the claims are baseless and that Cosmic has moved to have the charges dismissed as the last four rounds have been.

  The plaintiffs (all Tower Media Agency clients) have asked for Judge Oswald Smith (who presided over the previous cases) to recuse himself, citing conflict of interest. Smith has recently come under fire for his wife’s undisclosed holdings in various Cosmic subsidiary companies.

  Walters is currently in Pearson, Oregon, covering the Cosmic production Blog Wars, starring Rachel MacKenzie. When asked for a response, Walters deflected questions and began speaking about the latest exploits of fallen-from-grace star Jane Konrad.

  —SpiceOfLife.com, May 17, 2012

  The first message was from Jane. She sounded out of it. In a normal world, Ree would have thought the star was drunk dialing her, but in her new world, Ree guessed she could pin it on the magic, carried away again like she’d been at dinner and dancing.

  The second was from Yancy, also asking her to come over. He said Jane was restless, and it had been all he and Danny could do to keep her from going out.

  The third message was also from Yancy, an hour later, saying that Jane had vanished from her trailer, the set area, and the surrounding blocks.

  Fucking Carmen Sandiego bullshit, Ree thought.

  “Feel like turning the city looking for a superstar?” Ree asked, feeling the weight of hours on her shoulders, along with a dulled undercurrent of pain.

  Drake took a long breath, then said, “Certainly. Ms. Konrad, I presume?”

  Ree nodded. “She’s flown the exquisitely appointed coop.” Ree opened the app that held all of her media playlists. No way she’d be able to run Jane down just by walking the neighborhood, not if she didn’t want to be found.

  She pored through her videos as she led Drake out the office building entrance to Grognard’s.

  Harry Potter? That wouldn’t last. Sherlock? Maybe, but she’d need to spend time inspecting the scene, which would leave her with less energy to use the skills after leaving the set. One of the earlier X-Men movies might work, but she didn’t have a Cerebro prop, so the range would be really short. Plus, she didn’t relish the idea of trying to learn how to filter telepathy under pressure. Buffy’s “Earshot” told her that was a terrible idea.

  What she really needed was a tracking prop. Maybe one of the props from the Dresden Files TV show was on the market. Or she could dedicate herself to enjoying the short-lived show Finder.

  “Where do we start?” Drake asked, breaking her train of thought. Ree looked up and saw that she had stopped to ponder in a lane of traffic. Since it was after 2 AM, there weren’t any cars on the street, but there were a few going by the cross street.

  She hurried forward a few steps onto the opposite sidewalk, then went back to thinking.

  “Can you whip up a tracking device?” she asked.

  Drake’s head bobbed as he considered. “I should be able to adjust one of my existing devices, but I’ll need something to calibrate: an item of Ms. Konrad’s, or something with a strong semiotic tie.”

  Ree laughed. Well . . . “You could use me. I’ve spent a lot of time with her the last couple of days.”

  Drake raised one eyebrow, considering. The humor of the motion was accentuated by the fact that he almost certainly had no idea who Mr. Spock was or why that gesture was funny to her. “Possibly, but another item more singularly associated with Ms. Konrad would make it easier to pinpoint the aetheric wavelength.”

  “Would clothes work?”

  Drake nodded. “Certainly.”

  Ree hoped Drake would be caught up in the hunt enough to not want to put things together.

  What if he did? He’s a big, if totally weird, boy.

  Not important, she thought immediately after. Priorities.

  “Then we make a quick trip back to my place, and we’re off. Plus, that way I can change and restock.”

  No matte
r how short the trip through the sewer, Ree never felt fully human again until she got a shower. Not for the first time, Ree was very glad she didn’t pay her water bill.

  • • •

  After the trifecta of shower, coffee, and Geekomantic weaponry restock, Ree was ready to go. By the time Ree plucked Jane’s shirt out of the laundry, Drake had started his calibrations on a handheld astrolabe.

  Ree tiptoed back out of her room, wearing a fresh set of black-on-black with an older pair of faded jeans that hung a bit loose on her (all the better to jump-kick you with, my dear).

  “How goes?” Ree asked in a whisper.

  Drake nodded, standing with the astrolabe, leaving the shirt on the table, neatly folded. “We may proceed at your leisure.”

  “Did you want some tea?” she asked.

  “I will be fine, Ms. Ree. Thank you.”

  “You sure? Sandra has some wicked oolong,” Ree said.

  Drake smiled his smile of polite refusal. “No, thank you. Shall we away?”

  They made their way back to Jane’s trailer, and after feeding it (not literally) a semiotic anchor (Drake’s words, not hers), the astrolabe was ready to go. The trail led them several blocks to the north, then east, heading into downtown. Ree watched most of an episode of Buffy the Vampire Slayer (“The Harvest”) on the way over, and felt the energy of the magic zipping through her veins like quippiness caffeine.

  She and Drake got more than a few odd looks from club-goers, homeless people, and one police officer on the night beat. Ree thought the officer might have been one of the cops she’d met the night after the first attack, but when she was about to stop and ask, Drake took a sharp turn and said, “This way! The signal has become stronger in a most inexplicable manner!” and so she followed.

  Drake lead them down Third Avenue, then paused in front of an active construction site, fenced off, yellow cranes and plows lit at odd angles by the streetlights, looking like a twentieth-century elephant graveyard.

  “Here?” Ree asked.

  Drake puckered his lips, then said, “So it would seem. The astrolabe says she is less than one hundred feet straight ahead.”

  Ree looked up and down the street. “We should go back and get that beat cop, have her help. I’m not excited about the idea of breaking and entering while she’s in the neighborhood.”

  “I’m afraid that the extranormal matters of our situation would come out all too easily, Ms. Ree.”

  “Well, I’d rather have her on my side than slapping cuffs on us for an overnight visit to the lovely accomodations of the Fifth Precinct lockup. We’ll just rely on the Doubt for this one.” Ree turned and jogged back to where she’d seen the beat cop.

  “Officer!” Ree called as she spotted the cop.

  The woman turned and looked at Ree. “Yes?”

  Ree looked both ways and then crossed the street, amused by the fact that she was jaywalking in front of a police officer. “I’m Ree Reyes, I think we met at the Awakenings set.”

  The officer looked at Ree again, then nodded. She was just a couple of inches taller than Ree, was solidly built, and moved with smooth confidence. Her thick hair poked out from the sides of her hat but didn’t obscure her vision.

  “Yes, Ms. Reyes. What’s the problem?”

  “Jane Konrad is gone, and we have good reason to suspect she went into the construction site around the corner, and I thought it’d be a helluva lot of a better idea for us to tell you than to tresspass ourselves.”

  Ree waited while the officer considered. She shifted her weight to the other leg, then scanned the street. Apparently satisfied, she leaned into her radio, saying, “This is Washington, Badge #71359. I have a lead on Konrad. Proceeding on foot to the construction site on Third and Harrison, over.”

  The radio crackled, then there was a response in a bored female voice. “Stand by. We’re sending another unit. Over.”

  Ree looked at Washington. (Was it Lieutenant Washington? Sergeant? Ree had never bothered learning the police visual ranking system . . . ) “If she’s in trouble . . .” Ree said, trying to catch the officer’s attention.

  “No good, dispatch,” Washington said. “I’m proceeding on foot. Get the property manager on the line and tell them I’ve gone in. They should send somebody down.”

  “Washington!” the dispatcher said, but Washington turned a knob and dropped the volume to a whisper.

  “You follow me, keep back ten feet, and don’t talk unless I ask you to.”

  “Yes, ma’am?” Ree said, taken aback at the officer’s Chaotic Good inclinations.

  “Is it sergeant or lieutenant?”

  “When I ask, you can call me officer.”

  Wow, touchy much? Ree thought. So she leans chaotic, doesn’t want to wait for backup, but also doesn’t want to talk? Ree wondered. Then again, for all she knows, I’m a stuck-up Hollywood type. Give her respect, and maybe she’ll return it. As long as she gets the job done and doesn’t arrest us.

  Ree lead Officer Washington back to the construction site, where Drake had activated a glamour to make his totally unlicensable rifle appear as a walking stick and make most folks gloss over the obvious bits of his outfit. She could see the glamour like a transparent overlay, since the Doubt didn’t do jack to her anymore.

  “Good evening, Officer,” Drake said, nodding to Washington.

  “Who are you?”

  “A colleague of Ms. Ree’s.” Take the formality down by a notch or three, Drake. Even brusque cops aren’t that old-timey. Not that he could hear her, but she hoped he could read her body language, which she was trying to use to say Play it cool.

  Washington passed Drake and pulled out her flashlight, looking the construction site over.

  “And why do you think she’s here?” Washington asked.

  “She likes to be able to see the skyline,” Ree said, almost before she knew it. Ree was surprised to remember that it was true. She’d said so during their dinner at Yoritomo’s.

  “Movie stars,” Washington said, chuckling.

  The officer kept walking, reaching the ten-foot-tall fence around the site. She eyed the fence, then holstered her flashlight and started climbing.

  Ree looked to Drake, who shrugged, a motion that still looked too casual on him, even with his toned-down look.

  “After you,” he said. Ree handed her bag to Drake and then jumped up onto the fence, very glad that the construction company wasn’t a fan of barbed wire.

  Ten feet up, she could do. The ten stories up she might have to go in that building, with no walls and unfinished floors, that would be a whole different barrel of terror. Strangely, facing down atavistic fur-suited werewolves, flesh-eating gnomes, and Dork Lords of Hell had not cured her fear of heights.

  She climbed up and over with magically-enhanced ease, lowering herself halfway down the other side before dropping to the ground. She’d have done a backflip over the fence, but she got the feeling she might need to save the magic for what would come next.

  Ree looked away from the building and to Drake. “Toss me the bag?”

  Drake nodded, keeping eye contact as he lobbed her bag over the fence. Ree caught it easily, between her Buffy mojo and the fact that the bag wasn’t as loaded down as it sometimes was. Taking her laptop into the field would really probably only ever do one thing: make her shop for a new laptop. She’d been considering Shade’s rigs, but their toughness came with bulk and weight. She’d just have to trust her phone for the on-the-go power-up.

  Which she had been planning on doing, except Washington was already booking for the building even as Drake was swinging one leg over the fence, trying to keep his jacket and rifle from tangling.

  Washington was halfway across the ground level when Drake touched down, so Ree tapped into the Buffy magic and started dashing after her, moving like she was on a walkalator. She ate up the groun
d, closing in on the half-done building.

  The building’s walls were unfinished, and the soon-to-be-mega-office ended at the tenth floor, with a half-dozen girders poking up to suggest a roof yet to come. Orange floodlights illuminated the site from the ground and each floor. Washington stopped at the first-floor stairs, lit in forced profile by the light in the far corner.

  Ree slowed to a stop ten feet out, and turned back to see Drake jogging over, his rifle unslung. Careful, Drake, she thought, wishing once more for projective (and only projective) telepathy.

  Note to self: Research a show for projective telepathy. All of the table talk, none of the going crazy hearing voices.

  “Keep a half flight back, and let me clear each floor before you come up and start making noise. Do you have flashlights?”

  Ree produced a Maglite from her bag and clicked it on, the six-bulb light cutting through the dark like a laser. Drake pulled a foldout lantern from his jacket, snapped it together, then turned a knob to start the gaslight.

  Ree laughed, which made Washington give her a suspicious look.

  “He’s just endlessly useful, isn’t he?” Ree said.

  Ree thought she heard Washington say, “Weirdos,” under her breath as she started up the stairs. Ree turned to Drake and said, “Let’s try not to freak her out unless something woogy shows up.”

  “Woogy?”

  Ree laughed. “One day I’ll get you caught up to modern lingo.”

  Drake shrugged. “And to think that I considered The Queen’s Tongue a deep language in my time. It seems there are fifty new words every day I could never have imagined in Avalon.” Drake said this with a somewhat bittersweet smile, checking his rifle again, which looked very odd as Ree saw it both in reality and in the glamour, where Drake looked like a man playing pretend with a cane.

  They followed Washington up the stairs as the policewoman cleared floor by floor. Ree knew without knowing that they wouldn’t find anything until they got to the top floor. Laws of dramatic narrative, y’know. No one stops a bomb before the clock reads 00:01, sibling enemies get more powerful one by one as you meet them, the big boss is always on the top floor of the tower, and so on.