Hiram Grange & The Chosen One

by Kevin Lucia

  This isn’t hell.

  He looked around, then yelped when someone tugged his elbow. Turning, he saw what appeared to be a teenage boy in jeans and a white T-shirt. His eyes blazed bright blue.

  “This isn’t hell.”

  He nodded. “You’re right, of course. Hell would be a Kenny G concert with no exits.”

  He flashed a wide smile, which faltered as the boy gazed back at him, expressionless. He kicked the ground and scowled. “Kali’s tit. Does everyone hate my jokes this much?” He shook his head. “If this isn’t hell, what is it?”

  The boy tipped his head, brow furrowed. “A way station. A place for decisions.”

  “Decisions? About what?”

  “About many things.”

  “Well, that’s specific. So why am I here?”

  The boy pursed his lips. “You have to stop her.”

  “Who? Therese?”

  “Yes. She’s Becoming. Gathering the White River into her, to release upon the world.” A dreadful pause hung. “You must stop her.”

  The irony killed him. “Unbelievable. Even here, it continues: ‘Hiram, do this … Hiram, do that.’” He shook his head. “Why should I?”

  The boy didn’t answer. The silence grew, so he turned, said more forcibly, “Seriously—why? Better question … how?”

  The boy looked away. “By showing her what she’s destroying. By showing her love.”

  “Oh hell. How very Hallmark. Listen, I don’t mean to insult your omnipotence … but you do know who you’re talking to, right?”

  The boy turned his burning gaze upon him. It cleaved his protests in two. “You have loved.”

  His gut twisted, felt brittle. “Right. Look how well that turned out.”

  “You persevere.”

  “Shit.” He waved him away. “I don’t know why, though. Certainly not because I’m any good. At least Mother had the courage to pull the trigger. I haven’t even got that.”

  “And yet … you continue.”

  He closed his eyes, relishing the blackness. Something trembled inside. “Can’t I just stay here? I’m so damn … tired. Of everything.”

  “Hiram.”

  The voice softened. He opened his eyes and stared. Where the boy had stood was now the patchwork woman from his dreams. This being was stitched together—with luminous threads—from only two women.

  Sadie and Mother.

  Hiram stepped back, overwhelmed. “No. No.”

  The being moved closer, imploring with her hands. “It’s not your time, Hiram. You have too much to do. A destiny to fulfill.”

  “You mean like Mab’s visions? Hell …”

  “Prophecies never work as they seem, Hiram. You don’t have to become what you hate.”

  “No.” He looked at his feet, feeling small, weak. “I can’t do this. I don’t know what to say. I could never talk to either of you. How can I now?”

  The patchwork woman took his face into her hands. Unlike Therese’s, hers throbbed with warmth. “Don’t speak, Hiram. Show her. Show her what we should’ve shown you, long ago.

  “Show her.”

  … show her.

  Hiram gasped. Fire burnt his lungs. A massive tug hauled him upwards. Every nerve in his body thrummed as the energies of the Veil pulsed through him. Spinning into the air, he touched everything through Therese—hate and love and envy and fear and joy and sadness, madness and grief and hope and despair. In a heartbeat, he felt it all.

  “P-please. Hiram, come back! I can’t control her … can’t control it …!”

  I don’t know what to say …

  Show her.

  Hiram worked his arms free as they spun higher. Power throbbed and crackled all around. He felt it in her touch: a threshold had been reached. A great tide rose inside her.

  Show her.

  Hiram clasped Therese’s face and kissed her. Reaching down to the darkest parts of his soul, he pulled the memories—thoughts, pictures, feelings—of Mother and of Sadie, flooded his mind with them, sent them to Therese. Arousal, excitement, fear … and desire; sparked by the taste of her on his tongue. Their bodies pressed together, and as Hiram allowed every bit of sadness and grief to surface, he found something else there. Love. Hope. Peace.

  The Chosen One fought back, but he let his memories and passions flow, relentless. Every ounce of his pain, but with that torment, undeniable moments of happiness, pleasure, wistfulness. His hands slipped to the small of Therese’s back, pressed her hips to his as their kiss deepened. His thin frame melded with hers, her soft curves molded over his hard angles.

  Therese pressed back, tasting his tongue, his mouth, his life. She reached up, cradled his head in her hands, accepting all that he gave.

  The Chosen One screamed. The universe convulsed as Hiram felt something ripple between them, something deeper and more fundamental than a mere orgasm could possibly be, but that’s what it was—a cresting, a breaching—as he and Therese reached a crescendo …

  … and exploded.

  Therese grasped the doorknob. It throbbed with power … but she no longer felt so afraid.

  She glanced over her shoulder. The Chosen One stood, arms crossed, looking almost petulant. “You’ll never survive without me. You’re a fool.”

  Therese smiled. “I suppose that’ll have to do.”

  The Chosen One cracked her neck, rolled her shoulders and relaxed, suddenly smug. “I’m glad we had this chat. We’ll do it again … very soon.”

  Therese frowned. “Don’t hold your breath, sweetheart.”

  “Funny. That’s not ‘no’ … is it?” A pause. “See you soon, dear.”

  Therese didn’t respond. Filled with a curious mixture of hope, dread, and fierce certainty, she opened the door and walked into the shining world beyond.

  A Week Later–Jimmy’s

  James Conlon appraised the new counter in his bar with satisfaction. The old one hadn’t been damaged in last week’s row—not like his front window and the bathroom—but what the hell, right? It had been rundown enough. He’d wanted to replace the eyesore for a while now. Because the fight had wrecked his old place, his insurance had allowed him to upgrade. It was on the shady side of legal, but he knew a constable or two. He’d greased the wheels with waived tabs. No one seemed wiser.

  “Excuse me … which Bushmills do you have in stock?”

  Conlon jerked and stared at the sharp, angular features: awkward cutting nose, intense eyes. He opened his mouth, but nothing came out save a high-pitched squeak as he recognized the outdated and ill-fitting cut of the man’s suit.

  The man frowned. “Hell, mate. You all right? Looks like someone stepped on your grave.”

  Conlon looked for at least one friendly constable to have the man arrested, or at least run off. He found none.

  “Whatever you want, ” he muttered, looking down into his hands, avoiding the man’s gaze. He grabbed a fresh bottle of Bushmills 21 Year from the wall behind and slid it across the bar. “On the house.” Giving the counter a few hurried, token swipes with a rag, he shambled away.

  “What the hell is his problem?” muttered a vexed Hiram Grange. He twisted the cork from the bottle and grabbed a glass from the bar.

  “Probably worried you’ll trash his place again,” murmured a voice of silken-steel over his shoulder. “You know—that maybe you’ll set it on fire, this time.”

  Hiram turned to face Mab. Dressed in a simple—and positively tasty—black, full-body leather suit under a demure duster, she blended in with the crowd. Hair pulled into a plain ponytail, feet shod in thigh-high leather boots, Mab looked like a biker-girl cruising for action. As always, Hiram swatted down a pleasurable heat. This was Mab, after all.

  Pity.

  “Mab.” He leaned on the bar. “You look positively Hell’s Angelish. Got your Harley parked outside?”

  Mab raised an eyebrow. “You look well yourself. Much better than I expected, actually.”

  He smirked. “And look—all human. No world de
stroying powers.”

  “Visions don’t work that way. Still plenty of time for it to come true.”

  Hiram slowly poured himself a glass of the amber whiskey, took a healthy gulp before responding. “Sorry to disappoint, Mab, but no apocalypses forthcoming here. Talked with the Big Man himself. Got it all worked out.”

  She tilted her head. “What are you talking about?”

  “The Big Man? Big Kahuna? You know … God? Well, he looked like a twelve-year-old boy, but I’m pretty sure he was God, or someone else important, cosmologically speaking.”

  “Please. You were near death, Therese dragged you back from it, and you hallucinated.”

  “See, that’s the problem with being a messiah. No one ever believes in you until it’s too late.”

  Mab stiffened. “What do you mean by that?”

  He made a face. “Bloody hell, Mab. It’s a joke.”

  “Hiram, listen …”

  And suddenly, he reached his limit. “No, you listen to me, you manipulative little bitch. You used me; again. I don’t exactly know how, but you did.”

  Mab’s face assumed an expression of studied indifference. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  He snorted. “Please. Don’t patronize me. This whole thing reeks. It did from the start.”

  “How do you mean?”

  “Whoever summoned the Tanara’ri didn’t want revenge against the Faerie. No mortal has that power, knows how to construct such a Binding. Someone had to have instructed them. Someone from your domain, or somewhere like it. This whole thing was about Therese. They knew who she was; knew how powerful her flat’s aura would be. There’s simply too much premeditation here: Binding the Tanara’ri to her, forcing her to manifest, summoning the Tanara’ri with your sigil.”

  Mab said nothing. Arms crossed, her cobalt blue eyes burned into his. Hiram ignored her and continued. “You know what occurred to me while I was recovering? You said Therese’s powers were Bound, and that if I didn’t do something soon she’d break that Binding. I assumed you meant a magical binding. Then I remembered what you said about enthralling the poor blokes who fathered the scions, that—even though you’d no idea why—magic couldn’t be involved. The whole thing had to be pure.”

  He straightened. “Her Binding wasn’t magic; it was her humanity. When I killed her, I broke her Binding. And the funny thing is, I think you told me to do it.”

  At this, Mab scowled. “You’ve no idea what you’re saying.”

  Hiram smiled. If there was one thing he enjoyed, it was watching arrogant people squirm. “Words are funny, Mab. When first spoken, their true meanings are often missed. While resting and composing my thoughts, something occurred to me: your words about Therese, and what I needed to do. They were very oddly phrased, when you think about it; such highbrow statements as: ‘destroy the vessel, loose the power of the Veil.’” He smirked. “Call me insane, but not once did you actually say: ‘Kill Therese.’ You certainly said, ‘She must die,’ but you never said, ‘kill her.’”

  “This is nonsense.” Mab shifted her weight. Her anger and defensiveness had dissipated, replaced by her usual brand of smug superiority. “I hope you feel very satisfied with all your posturing, but …”

  “Mab, listen very carefully. I never want to see you again … ever. Not even if space-time is unraveling, or if Faerie’s sacred line of Welsh poodles is threatening to destroy the natural order. All jesting aside about who can kick who’s ass; if I see you again … I’ll kill you.”

  He stared at Mab for several long seconds. It occurred to him that he’d made a habit of pissing on the shoes of very powerful beings, but he’d never been a study in social graces. Why change now?

  Seconds passed. Mab nodded and turned to leave, only to face Therese.

  The moment hung. As Hiram watched them face off, the air filled with ambient energy. Surrounding patrons must have felt it, for several of them glanced at the simmering contest, though they probably assumed it was over something mundane, his affections, perhaps.

  The thought gave him much pleasure.

  The standoff lasted several more seconds. He was struck even more so by the similarity in their features. Therese looked like Mab’s younger cousin, or even sister.

  Slowly, the tension faded. He saw Mab force herself to relax. “We’ll be watching,” she whispered. “Closely.”

  Therese remained silent a second longer, then flashed Mab a luminous smile that dispelled the Faerie Queen’s coldness. “Don’t wait up, Mum.”

  The look on Mab’s face was priceless. She hesitated a beat, then without another word pushed past Therese, bumping shoulders.

  Therese continued to smile as she approached Hiram. Dressed much like she was the night he’d first seen her, in a simple white blouse and skirt, though this time wearing a brown leather jacket, she looked like an average college girl, out to stretch her legs.

  She leaned on the bar, affecting his pose, and watched Mab’s departure. “You know, I’ve always dreamed of meeting my birth mother someday. Wondered what she was like, if we’d get on; that sort of thing.” She offered him a grin. “Turns out, the experience is vastly overrated.”

  He smiled. “Well, that’s Mab; she of the eternally twisted panties. You’ll get used to her.”

  Therese tossed her hair and chuckled, a gesture he found endearing … and utterly normal. “Nice jacket. New?”

  Therese’s smile faded. “No. It’s Reggie’s, actually. I went over to his place today to collect a few things. Thought I’d keep this … to remind me.”

  Something inside him twisted, thinking of the countless Jodie Foster collages at home. “Looks good on you. Fits well.”

  “Thanks. So … did your Bothwell ever discover who’s behind all this?”

  “No. None of her leads panned out. The University’s vice-provost—Stemmins—turned out to be a rather mundane, run-of-the-mill dodgy bastard in the end. Only thing Bothwell uncovered: the custodian for your dormitory, a Julian Williams, has disappeared. He’d been living with his grandmother. They found her dead of a presumed heart attack in her flat. Someone cleaned out her bank accounts, though. A week ago. And, among his things they found several old spell books, arcane volumes … though none of them contained a spell for the Binding found in your apartment.”

  Therese looked thoughtful. “God. Makes sense. He had keys to everything, didn’t he? I don’t even know what he looked like, although I must’ve … had to have bumped into him at some point …”

  “Don’t sell yourself short. No one else could remember exactly what he looked like, either. Man like that would’ve been adept at moving around unnoticed. Also, probably used a Glamor—a spell to cloud his face—so even if you had spoken to him directly, you’d still forget his face.”

  “I suppose. Are you off, then?”

  He nodded. “Bothwell needs me in London. Hellhounds, I believe. Nasty brutes … but at least they don’t replicate like demonized bunnies, have horrid, leathery tentacles and all those blasted eyes.”

  Therese shook her head. “Hellhounds, tentacled monsters …” She smiled. “The world you live in, Hiram Grange. Mind-boggling.”

  He grinned. “I was going to say absolutely dreadful, but thanks. Besides, it’s also your world now. Welcome to it.”

  She nodded, her face sobering. In most ways, he didn’t envy her. She had much to unravel. As far he was concerned, he’d done enough unraveling. It was time to get back to the simple life of pointing loud guns at nasty things, pulling the trigger, and making them go away.

  He chuckled. The simple life, indeed. “So, I imagine you’ll be on your way?”

  She inclined her head, looked thoughtful and a bit sad. “Yes. This wonderful new world of yours is absolutely thrilling. But if it’s all the same, I’d like to leave it behind for a while.”

  “Understandable. You know, if you happen out East, there’s a secluded enclave of Tibetan monks who proved very hospitable to me several years back
, when I rid their village of a wendigo …” At her furrowed brows, he gestured a hand over his head, “Big furry white beast, somewhat like a yeti, about so high? Anyway, I didn’t stay with them very long …” He flashed a rueful grin, “Not nearly enough women there to suit my tastes, but I imagine that you’d appreciate the quiet. They’re not the Faerie—thankfully—but if there’s anyone who can teach you balance, it’s them.”

  Therese sighed and nodded. She looked around the crowded pub. “Sounds like an idea. I’ve got so much to think about.”

  “Such as?”

  “About what to do next.” There was silence, until she added, “I’ve always wanted mutually exclusive things, I think. Just to be normal, but also to be special.” She glanced at him sidelong, smirking. “Of course, now that I have one … I think all I really want is the other. Ironic, isn’t it?”

  “They say fate is a harsh mistress. If that’s the case, then irony is her bitchy little sister.” They both shared a laugh.

  Therese sobered as she caught the evening news on a television mounted over the bar. It still told the story of last week’s terrible “terrorist” attack at University Quarter, calling the dead “brave heroes.” Now they were giving an update about a group that had been uncovered, believed responsible.

  “No one knows, do they?” She looked at him, eyes wide and glistening. “About the things you do? The battles you fight.”

  For a moment, he’d no answer. Then he said, “We know, Therese. Most nights, that’s enough. And when it’s not, I drink far too much and sleep with many strange women. All at the same time. It evens out in the end.”

  Therese shook her head, lips caught between a frown and a smile. “You’re incorrigible.”

  “That’s what Bothwell says. Frankly, I think she’s jealous.” They fell into a companionable silence, both knowing what must come next, neither wanting it.

  Eventually, Therese sighed and gave him a lopsided grin. “I suppose words would cheapen the whole thing, wouldn’t they?”