The God Collector

by Catherine Butzen

  “It’s not your purpose to see the future, remember?” she retorted. “Help me carry these.”

  The eyes focused on the bags. “It is not my purpose to be a porter.”

  “You’ve got hands, don’t you?” Theo said irritably. She jerked open the kitchen drawers and began to root around.

  “But it is not my purpose.” The stone eyes blinked again as Theo turned, a foot-long bread knife in hand. “Threatening me will not change this.”

  “I’m not threatening you, I’m being cautious.” She shoved the bread knife into one of the bags and added a couple of razor-sharp X-ACTO blades to her pockets. “If you won’t help me, then go take your dog out to the garage. There’s a blue BMW out there.” Remembering her audience, she frowned. “Um, a large blue car. You know what a car is?”

  “I am a servant of Anhurmose. I know what he knows.” The shabti grabbed his dog’s lead, drawing a grating whine from the animal. “This form of machine is inferior to his.”

  “Good for him,” she grunted, picking up the bags.

  It was a strange drive. The shabti-man sat in the front seat with the dog, whose head tracked left and right as it sniffed the air. Orange streetlights and strips of darkness slid over them, picking out corners and edges on features that were too sharply defined to be natural flesh. Anything Theo tried to say died for lack of response.

  Sometimes he told her to go left or right. The dog stuck its head out the car window and barked—the sound dry and grating—with each turn; it seemed eager for some reason. Maybe being incarnated was a nice change from its usual routine of nonexistence.

  Al watched her calmly from the passenger seat, his flat eyes impassive. The dog wagged its tail, its jaws opening in an unmistakable doggie grin.

  “What’re you looking at?” she said to him. It. Them.

  “You,” he said.

  “Why?” she snapped. “Shouldn’t you be tracking?”

  “I know all Anhurmose knows. He thinks you are safe.” Albrecht blinked mechanically. “This thought is a comfort to him. It will not comfort him to see you die.”

  “I’m starting to see why you guys are always kept behind soundproof glass.”

  They drove for more than an hour, following Albrecht’s link and the dog’s nose. It took them out of Deerfield and back into Chicago proper, then eastwards back toward the lakeshore. Instead of business districts, it was firmly residential, with streets of small houses in between blocks of storefronts, Asian grocers and all-night restaurants. They were in Little Vietnam now.

  She braked. The dog’s back was arched, growls rumbling through its thin chest, and Albrecht’s spine was stiff as a board. His gaze was fixed on the side of the road.

  “This is it,” he said. “No farther.”

  Theo leaned her head against the window, letting her eyes adjust to the scene. No shops here: the sidewalk was bordered by ugly chain-link fencing covered with plastic tarps, stretching away up and down the street. A construction site?

  She put the car in gear again and followed the curve of the wall. Before long, they found the entrance. Broad, green-painted metal gates chained closed for the night, an anachronism speckled with the glowing reflections of the neon-fronted eatery across the street. A small sign proclaimed this was the Cemetery of St. Boniface.

  “A graveyard?” she said to Albrecht.

  “A necropolis,” he responded hoarsely. There was something in him that seemed to know it was clay, and the clay was beginning to crack. “Old. Good place for ritual, the west is strong there. I am glad to see it.”

  A nasty feeling coiled in her stomach. “Can you help me in there?” she asked softly.

  “No.” He turned his head to look not at her, but at something past her. “You have raised me to be something, and I have fulfilled my purpose. My hound and I will return to the dust.”

  “I wish you wouldn’t” was all she could say. She meant it. She barely knew him, but with him as help and living (in a manner of speaking) proof of the truth in the middle of it all, she had had something to focus on. Someone to work with.

  He blinked, and cracks appeared in the corners of his eyes. “This far, and no farther. I have done the work you wanted,” he said. “Go. Help Anhurmose.”

  “And hopefully not die,” she said. With a sigh, she patted the dog’s head. “Good boy.”

  The animal gave her another broad dog grin, and Theo smiled back at him. Cracks ran through the rough-sculpted fur. “Very good boy,” she amended. He panted.

  “Thank you,” she added to Albrecht. “You helped me when I was in real trouble. Take care when you get back to the other world, okay?”

  He gave her a blank look. “My time is over. There is no beyond for me.”

  Theo stopped, her hand still on the dog’s ears. What do you say to that? Sorry for creating you? She blinked, feeling the burning gather in her eyes again.

  To her surprise, though, the shabti man spoke up one more time. “Thank you,” he said, “for a name.”

  “Everyone needs one,” she replied softly. “Isn’t that right, Lucky?” she added to the dog, who yelped and licked her face with a dry and dusty tongue.

  By the time she was out of the car, the tail had stopped wagging. When she put her hand on the cemetery gate and looked back, there was no sign of a man or a dog left in the car.

  Chapter Fifteen

  And for the sake of this book of magic, and for the woman he desired, Khamwaset slew his wife and children and buried them in the sand.

  ~The Tale of Khamwaset, as recorded circa 300 BCE

  The gate itself was a problem, but there was always a way around problems. St. Boniface was much older than the neighborhood that surrounded it and after decades of crumbling, two of the brick guard walls had simply been demolished to make space for better ones. But no construction was being done in the middle of December, and now the temporary chain fence sagged, the tarpaulins stapled over it flapping a little in the wind.

  Two broad paths intersected in the middle of the graveyard and divided it into four roughly equal sections. Little signposts pointed the way to the chapel and the other gates. Theo had to squint to read them; there were no lamps inside the fence line, probably because nobody was supposed to be inside at night. The glow from the streetlights at her back cast long, dim shadows over the ground, blending Theo’s own outline into that of a dozen statues and pillar monuments. In the distance, she could only faintly see the gate on the wall to her left.

  Grandma Dora hadn’t been allowed a standing monument on her grave because by city law all markers had to be flat so the groundskeepers could easily cut the grass. St. Boniface, well over a century old, disdained that. It had statues, pillars, monuments of granite, limestone, sandstone, basalt or concrete, all deep gray touched with orange-white highlights in the strange ambient gloom of a city night. Here and there were the occasional telltale flat graves, but St. Boniface had always been an immigrants’ cemetery, and, by God, they would have in death whatever they couldn’t in life.

  She fumbled a little with the flashlight but managed to get it turned on. The weak beam of light played over the still monuments, casting darker shadows this way and that. The pitted face of a limestone angel, etched by the city’s acid air, peered down from its pillar as she examined the historical plaque at the base of it.

  She raised the flashlight and peered into the distance. It was almost impossible to see clearly, with the monuments and pillars casting multilayered shadows and breaking up the line of sight. She might as well have not brought any light at all.

  With a sigh, Theo lowered the beam of the flashlight to the ground. At least she would be able to see the tombstones before she tripped over them. Bashing her brains out against somebody’s great-grandfather’s grave marker would be the perfect way to end the evening.

  Only the middle of the road was safe to walk o
n. The road itself had been plowed recently, but piled-up snow at the edges had frozen into icy hillocks, making the footing treacherous and awkward. Theo was barely past the statue of the angel when she slipped and sat down hard, unable to restrain a yelp. Her heavy bags slammed against her hips and ribs, knocking her wind out.

  “Maybe I didn’t really think this through,” she muttered, rubbing her aching side.

  When she reached the crossroads, she paused, trying to slow her breathing. Her heart was pounding, and every time she took a step the icy gravel crunched loudly underfoot. Maybe she was nervous, or maybe she was just imagining things, or maybe she really was causing that much noise. Her palms were sweaty inside her cheap gloves.

  Her eyes began to adjust—ever so slightly—to the inconsistent dimness of the cemetery. The farther back she went, the larger and more ominous the monuments were, forming a statue maze of angels, saints, crosses and mortuary slabs.

  The largest, set a little way up what seemed to be a sloping hill, was a huge square mass that looked like a mausoleum. It was one of the only things in the graveyard that was capable of concealing a full-grown man; the angels and saints fouled the line of sight, but they didn’t provide enough cover. Heart in her mouth, Theo crept toward it.

  Light leaked over the edge of the strange block.

  Three massive marble slabs, pieces of a family plot etched with lists of names and dates, formed a protected plot on the frozen ground. Candles were arranged on one of the headstones, and an old-fashioned oil lamp was burning in front of the central block.

  Lying in the little hollow formed by the marble slabs were Seth Adler and Anhurmose.

  The man was sprawled on his side with his wrists zip-tied behind his back, wearing only a T-shirt and jeans. He was rejuvenated, free of gray hairs and oddly plastic in his new youthfulness. Next to him lay an oblong, blanket-wrapped object that might have been a tent or a bundle of luggage, but the withered feet sticking from one end squashed that idea. Scraps of ancient bandages littered the dirty snow.

  Seth was barely breathing, but there was still life in him. In that body, anyway.

  Someone had been experimenting. A large plastic tub was propped up against one of the gravestones, and half a dozen unbaked statuettes were scattered around in various stages of completion. One seemed to have exploded, spraying droplets of clay over the surrounding snowy earth. Another looked like it had died at birth and was left sprawling against the tombstone, an eye three times too big bulging out of one socket. More shabtis, real ones from the Columbian’s collection, had been set up on various flat surfaces. Two had shattered into pieces, and the third had ballooned into a grotesque, fleshy mass that leaked clay from every crack.

  Mark Zimmer knelt next to Seth. He was heavily bundled up in dark colors which blurred his silhouette, and a scarf wrapped around his nose and mouth left red hair, white forehead and feverish eyes seemingly floating in the air. His hands were bare, and he was kneading a fresh lump of clay and muttering to himself as he worked. As Theo watched, heart in her mouth, Zimmer opened a shallow cut on Seth’s arm and hastily dribbled the hardening droplets into his own hands.

  “Ri ata,” the voice hissed into her ear. “Ata. Ri ata.”

  Again? She tried to wish the voice away and focus on what was going on.

  Zimmer was trying to carve symbols into the protoshabti in his hands. He didn’t seem to have much of an idea what he was doing, and the knife slipped, nicking his forefinger and cutting the shabti’s head off.

  “God fucking dammit!” he hissed, and threw the beheaded statuette at the nearest gravestone. “It’s not fair!”

  “Ri ata,” the voice whispered again. It sounded a little more satisfied this time.

  The instant the shabti hit stone, it splattered into an unrecognizable lump. That didn’t seem to satisfy Zimmer, though, and as he growled under his breath, he sketched a sign in the air. Blue-white flames instantly licked up and began to feed on the clay, which crumbled into unrecognizable ash.

  Theo’s stomach clenched as she watched the blue-lit ashes collapse into the snow. Zimmer definitely wasn’t happy.

  As she watched, silent under the cover of a broad-winged angel, the red-haired man grabbed one of his failures and began molding it into a new shabti. This time he mixed in scraps from the mummy’s wrappings, before adding the blood, and snatched a small dark-red object from a cooler. It was only when she saw the cadmium red dripping between his fingers that she realized it was a heart. By the size of it, it was from a small mammal. Definitely fresh. Bile rose in her throat as she tried not to remember that she’d done just the same thing a few hours ago.

  There wasn’t much she could do against someone who’d tried to steal her body and could set things on fire with a gesture. But if she left him there, he’d keep taking apart both Seths—or, worse, he’d succeed in whatever the hell he wanted to do with the shabtis. She needed to get Seth and the mummy away from him now.

  Time for a distraction. While Zimmer swore and threw away the latest attempt, Theo softly picked her way in a wide quarter circle away from the men. Slowly, so slowly, one foot at a time and always wary of the crunch of snow under her boots. Her heart felt like it would pound out of her chest, but she couldn’t move faster or she might give herself away.

  It took her ten minutes to find the right spot. Taking a deep breath, she sorted through her bottles and began to pour a long loop of oily liquid onto the frozen ground.

  Well, this would probably catch his attention. Theo pulled out the lighter, twisted an old receipt into a paper stick, lit the tip of it, stepped back and carefully flicked her makeshift match before ducking behind a granite slab.

  There was a massive thump and a hot, hissing whoosh, and a wave of heat blossomed in the graveyard. The thick stench of burning gasoline washed over her with a biting acidic component that made her head swim. Mission accomplished.

  As Theo scrambled to her feet, a mirthless grin spread across her face. The fire blazed like an open portal to hell. Flames blackened the slick stones with fresh soot and coiled upwards in a plume of orange heat that was impossible to miss. Melting snow would choke it out soon enough, but for now it burned furiously on the poisonous fuel she’d mixed for it.

  She hoped the residents of the cemetery wouldn’t mind what she’d done. After all, the dead would understand what it was like to want to keep someone alive.

  Zimmer would probably be coming to check it out. Keeping low, she circled back around, hiding in the shadows of the gravestones.

  Her breath caught in her throat as she dropped to her knees beside Seth. He was pallid and sunken-cheeked, his skin drying out. He seemed to be halfway to mummification himself. Theo shook him, but though he mumbled something and shivered a little, his eyes didn’t open.

  She pulled out a craft knife and got to work. The zip ties were tough, ribbed plastic, identical to the ones Seth had used on her in the loft…was it really less than a month ago? Jesus. She sawed carefully, trying not to accidentally slash Seth’s wrists. Killing him might transport his soul to some other body, but she had no idea how many shabtis were even left. The thought made her blood run cold, and she bit her tongue and tried to focus.

  “Seth,” she hissed as the ties parted. “Seth. Come on, Seth, it’s Theo. Wake up!”

  Snow crunched underneath her. The insistent voice kept whispering but she brushed it aside, annoyed and afraid all at once, and shook him again. Her breath steamed in the air and her fingers ached with cold.

  “Wake up,” she said. “Wake up, wake up, wake up, come on…”

  With agonizing slowness, Seth’s eyes opened. He blinked several times and shook his head, scattering the snowflakes that had settled in his hair. “Theo?” he said, his voice cracking. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know,” she said honestly. She wrapped her arms around him and heaved, trying to help him scra
mble to his feet. He staggered and wound up leaning against a gravestone, panting shallowly. Blood loss and cold had left his lips tinged blue.

  Theo touched the back of her hand to his cheek. The skin was cool, even for Seth, and clammy with sweat. Her heart flip-flopped in her chest; he looked like he had lost a lot of blood. How was that even possible? What had Zimmer been doing to him?

  “Oh, of course it would be you.”

  Theo flinched. Seth stiffened. Mark Zimmer emerged from the forest of gravestones, carrying a blazing flame in his open palm.

  He was as pale as putty, and in the flickering light from the fire in his hand, deep shadows had turned his face into something skull-like. Behind him, the inferno she had kindled was dying down, leaving the edges of the scene limned with a red-orange glow like the sunset on the last day of the world.

  “I didn’t think you’d be this much trouble,” he told Theo bluntly. He flicked his hand and the ball of fire went flying. It spattered against a nearby limestone pillar and went out, leaving only a smear of ash behind. “Does Van Allen know he’s employing a budding bomber? I’m surprised you’re not on some government watch list.”

  “Back off!” Theo snapped. Her hands were trembling, but she was still holding the knife. “I don’t know what the hell you’re doing here with this…this black-magic shit, but that’s enough. Okay?”

  Zimmer’s lips twisted. “Really,” he said to the world at large. He sounded just like Theo had two hours ago, talking to the shabti-man in her parents’ house. Tired, disbelieving and a little bit amused despite everything. “That’s your plan. An X-ACTO knife. There’s a nice, dry mummy lying three feet away from a man who can conjure fire, and you’re threatening me with art supplies?”

  A chill ran down Theo’s spine, and her eyes darted to the mummy before she could stop it—poor old THS203, his bandages now completely ruined and his hands and feet mangled, but still seemingly grinning at the ridiculousness of it all. What exactly were you supposed to do in a situation like this? She didn’t know.