The Fissure King

by Rachel Pollack

  "Fuck you," Jack said. "What now? You and Sarah go celebrate?"

  Matin laughed. "Sarah? Weak, loyal, precious Sarah? Please." He laughed again and vanished into the cottage.

  Jack stared at the doorway, then at the Queen's torn body. Something was wrong, something didn't make any sense. Did André know of the other daughter? But then wouldn't he know she wasn't eligible?

  And then it came to him. A memory, a voice, as clear as a download. Ooh, the Queen of Eyes . . . some old man pissing himself in the woods. The Old Man of the Woods. Julie Strand had been talking about the chief sorcerer of the Societé de Matin.

  Jack grabbed his cell phone out of his pocket. Could it possibly work here? André had said the way was open. The gun had done that. If a body could pass through, could a satellite signal? Yes! It was ringing. In his mind he begged Sarah to pick up, pick up the phone.

  "Jack?" she said. Jack closed his eyes. Thank God, there's still a chance. "Jack," Sarah said, her voice distant and echoing. Speakerphone, he realized. "I can see—it's everywhere—oh, God, is my mother—please."

  There was no time to soften it. "She's dead. Killed. Sarah!" She was wailing, a high-pitched choking sound, as if she was trying to hold it in but couldn't do it. Jack said, "You have to listen to me. Please, Sarah. There's no time."

  "Sarai," she said distantly.

  "What?"

  "My name. My mother said I would have to claim it when I—Sarai Cassini Nliana Hand."

  "Sarai, please! You have to get out of there. Right now! Your daughter is sending someone to kill you."

  Too late. The new voice that sounded in his ears was so cold, so cheerful, Jack almost dropped the phone. "Oh, private dickie, so nice of you to think of my mother. But why would I send someone when I can do it myself? Take responsibility. That's what my mother and grandmother have always taught me."

  "Oh my God," Sarah Strand said. "Sweetheart, what are you doing?"

  "Claiming my own. Be honest, Mommy. You never wanted to be Queen."

  "Julie!" Jack cried. "You don't have to do this. André doesn't care about you, he's using you. For God's sake—"

  "Guilielma," came the excited voice. "Guilielma Callista, and of course, Nliana Hand."

  Sarah—Sarai—whispered, "Sweetheart . . ."

  And then the soon to be new Queen, "Goodbye, Dickie." The line went dead, cut off.

  That was it. Jack tried three times to redial but knew he wouldn't get through. Even if someone might have answered, the signal was fading, the line between the worlds breaking down. He knew he had to get back—what was that old Traveler line, "Never overstay your welcome"—but he couldn't just leave the Queen. If there'd been any chance to stop Julie then yes, but it was too late for that. It had always been too late, right from the beginning.

  He squatted down next to Margaret's body, forcing himself to look, at the bullet holes, the blood. Jack had seen bodies ripped in half by conjurings, or eaten by Half-bears or other creatures, but there was something about guns that filled him with a wild revulsion.

  He picked up the body and held it against him, like a lover might, or a father. "I'm so sorry," he whispered. Even as he rocked back and forth he could see the land all around him begin to change. The color was draining out of the flowers and the grass. The very forms were changing as well, the mountains becoming lumpy, the chairs like sculptures that had half-melted and then solidified into uselessness.

  Should he try to take her back? Where do you bury a murdered Queen of Eyes? No. Something told him she had to stay here. He didn't know why, but he'd learned long ago to trust such feelings. God, he thought, if he'd trusted his feeling that he knew nothing about missing-persons cases none of this would have happened. Too late.

  With a last look back at Margaret, he stepped into the cottage.

  As often happens, the way back was quick and easy. No potions, no falling asleep, no birdsongs. All he had to do was look around, close his eyes, and when he opened them it had all returned, the table, the robot witch, the Hansel and Gretel dolls, and the lights and noise of the store. Long ago, the Traveler Peter Midnight had said, "You conjure, or scheme, or buy your way into Paradise, and when it pleases the Masters, they spit you out again."

  He staggered from of the cottage and into a room of screaming children. At first he thought they must know what had happened, how a power-mad gangster and a psychotic teenager had killed the Queen of Eyes—twice—and all the world was wailing in pain. But then Ray appeared, and pointed a paw at him, and he looked down at himself and said, "Fuck," because he'd forgotten to cast a glamour to hide the mess.

  Jack wasn't very good at glams. He pretended some sort of moral objection, but really, he just liked himself too much. When he was young, he'd counted on his good looks to get him through life. And they'd brought him Layla, so he was right, wasn't he? And after Layla's death, and Genie's banishment, Jack had wanted to see the scars the geist's knife had cut into his face, the mark of memory. So he didn't like glamours and didn't use them much. But he could, at least long enough to get away from the guard yelling into his housenet phone, and race down the escalator and out of the store.

  Don't run, he ordered himself, but he walked quickly, slipping between people without touching them, until he made his way to Madison and 47th Street, and the innocuous entrance to NYTAS, the New York Travelers Aid Society.

  The glam fell away as soon as he'd stepped inside, no match for the anti-spell tech that ran through the building. He would have dropped it anyway. Who was he to hide the blood of the Queen of Eyes?

  Carolien Hounstra, all six feet and one hundred sixty pounds of her, was standing door that day. "Jesus, Jack," she said in that cheerful Dutch accent, "what the fuck did you do to yourself?" A smile twitched at her generous mouth. "You didn't take on one of those Beasts of Legend safari jobs, did you?"

  Jack said, "I've got to see Arthur. Right now." The last time Jack had seen Arthur Canton, the NYTAS Chief, they'd spent a good seven or eight minutes yelling at each other.

  "Oh, really?" Carolien said. "Just like that." She snapped her plump fingers, then folded her arms across her magnificent breasts, the subject of much Traveler discussion and not a few dreams. She was wearing a tracksuit of soft purple fleece, and she'd woven her knee-length blond-hair into a thick braid.

  "Let me check," she said, and turned around, somewhat dramatically, to walk down the long marble corridor lined with ornately carved story pegs, like miniature totem poles, each around three feet high. The pegs represented the history of NYTAS in some complicated mnemonic system Jack had never bothered to learn.

  Jack spent the next few minutes trying to calm his breathing, with his arms folded to keep his hands from shaking. Finally, Carolien strolled back to say "Dr. Canton will see you now," and then, with a smirk, "God help him."

  According to the NYTAS website (strictly guarded, though spirit-hacked at least twice that Jack knew of), Arthur Canton had been working as a resident cardiologist in NYU Medical the night he discovered the Real World. Something about an ER patient with two hearts, and the green, scaly next-of-kin who'd shown up to claim the body. Canton, so the bio went, "dedicated his life to uniting the best of modern science with the ancient lore of the Traveler." Jack had always thought that Canton's primary allegiance was to his own self-importance.

  Canton had moved the Chief's office from its original ten-by-twelve space to what had been a ceremonial chamber, a room whose black marble floor was inlaid with gold and silver ovals marking the orbits of the planets, and diamond arrows showing the "fault lines" that allowed Travelers to move between the "Palaces," as the planetary realms were called. Canton's large ebony desk bore a similar design. According to rumor, probably started by Canton himself, the desk had once belonged to Tycho Brahe, the sixteenth-century astronomer and secret Traveler.

  Chief Canton stood up when Jack entered, then quickly
sat down again without offering to shake hands. He wore a dark blue suit with a light blue tie. He'd gotten hair plugs since Jack had last seen him. That, or made a deal with some growth demon. He looked, as always, as if he could give you five minutes before he had to go meet the mayor. "Jesus, Jack," he said, "you look like shit."

  Jack said, "The Queen of Eyes has been murdered. Twice. André Matin did it. To get back in power."

  Canton's mouth twitched. "Well, that's certainly rather vile. What exactly does it have to do with us?"

  "Are you serious? It's a power grab. And he didn't just kill the second one, he got her own daughter to do it. So he could control the new Queen. For God's sake, Arthur—"

  "I see," Canton said, with just enough of the Command Voice to stop Jack in midsentence. "A power struggle within a wretched organization has resulted in a double murder. Possibly more to come, since presumably the Old Man of the Woods will resist André's efforts. And now Jack Shade, the Traveler who can never be bothered to work with anyone—what is it you call yourself, Lone Wolf Jack? Johnny Singleton?—thinks he can come in here and rally all of NYTAS to his side. I don't think so."

  "Arthur, a gangster has created a puppet Queen of Eyes. You don't think that concerns the Travelers?"

  "There have been puppet Queens before. And assassinated Queens as well. Read the archives some time."

  "Goddamn it—"

  "Enough! Go home, Jack. Go sulk in your precious hotel."

  Jack started to say something, then realized it was hopeless. He turned and was almost at the door when Canton said, "Clean yourself off before you leave."

  "Screw you," Jack said. He reached for the door handle and discovered his hand frozen in midair.

  The Chief said, "That was not a request. We do not call attention to ourselves."

  "I'll glam myself."

  "You can't be trusted."

  The thought of washing Margaret's blood away nearly made Jack weep, but he managed to control himself. "Fine," he said. "Fresh clothes in the locker room?"

  "Of course," Canton said. "The usual charges." He released control and Jack's hand yanked open the door.

  Jack didn't return to the Rêve Noire that day, or the next, or the day after that. He didn't plan to keep away, he just couldn't seem to make himself go home. They'd given him jeans and a turtleneck and an old-fashioned pea jacket, so he was warm enough, though he hardly noticed. And he had some money, so he could eat, or get drunk, or even rent a room somewhere. Instead, he just walked through the city, hour after hour, until he got so exhausted he just fell down somewhere and slept. The first time he lay down on the sidewalk he thought of casting a look-away glam so no one would notice him, but it wasn't necessary. He never slept for more than ten minutes before the horror in his head jerked him awake. Ray would always be there, squatting alongside him.

  Wednesday afternoon he gave all his cash to a hollowed-out young woman crouched in a doorway. Wearing only a cotton dress and sneakers without socks, she had her arms wrapped tightly around her knees, with her head bent forward. "Here," Jack said, and placed a couple hundred dollars in front of her. "Get yourself a coat. And some food." He walked away, but when he turned and saw she hadn't picked up the money, he went back and put it in her hand. At the corner he looked again and the money was gone. Jack hoped she'd hidden it away and no one had stolen it.

  He kept wanting to call Miss Yao, to tell her he was okay even if he wasn't. But suppose they were watching her, waiting for his call? He couldn't bear it if he brought the Societé down on Irene. The fear was ridiculous, of course. André had the new Queen of Eyes, he hardly needed surveillance, electronic or magical.

  For a while Jack stared at every billboard poster or newspaper photo, even statues, any image with eyes. Were they her? Was she watching him? Right now?

  A couple of times he wondered if he should go to the Risen Spirit Shelter. He was their kind of guy now. But who was running it with "Andy" gone? And what would Jack do if he saw Jeremy? The fact was, of course, they wouldn't take him. He wasn't an angel, elemental, or demon. He was just a poor screwed-up Traveler. If Guilielma Callista was "fully human," what the fuck was Jack Shade?

  In his more lucid moments he wondered about this overwhelming grief he felt. After all, he'd only spent a few minutes with her. He kept telling himself it was the horror of it, seeing her shot right next to him. And his own part, the fact that he'd led André right to her.

  But there was something else. A couple of times, when he closed his eyes, he found himself back in his kitchen all those years ago, his wife's cut body bleeding out in his arms. Maybe that's all it was, the resemblance, the way Margaret's death seemed to wipe out all the years since he'd lost Layla. And Eugenia.

  No. It was more than that. There was something about Margaret that had touched him in just those few minutes. Something about her he couldn't quite figure out. Was it the sadness in her face? The resignation? Did she see it coming and realize she couldn't stop it? All Jack really knew for sure was the pain that drove him through the streets.

  Thursday night a woman came to him. He was sleeping in the doorway of some wholesale bead and findings shop on 38th Street when he heard someone call his name. At first he thought he'd managed to sleep all night for he opened his eyes to brightness. When he focused, however, he discovered it was still nighttime but the woman before him gave off a kind of radiance. She was kneeling down, so it was hard to tell, but she appeared tall and slender, with long hair that was actually black under the golden light that shone all around her.

  "You're her," Jack blurted out. "The Queen's other daughter. The hybrid." Jesus, he thought, had he just insulted her?

  "Yes, yes," she said, and waved a hand, as if to swat away such matters. "Jack, she needs you."

  Needs me? Jack sat up and squinted at the light that shimmered all around her. She wasn't like this that other time. He said, "I saw you once. On the Secret Beach. The first time I saw your mother."

  "Jack, please. Try to listen to me."

  He knew he should keep quiet, but it was important somehow to understand. "You weren't all lit up then."

  She shrugged, and flashes of sunshine seemed to splinter in the air. "I work for my father now," she said.

  Despite everything, Jack almost whistled in admiration. Wow, he thought, Margaret scored a Sun elemental? He noticed suddenly that Ray, who hadn't left his side the whole time, was lying down next to the daughter and staring up at her in adoration. But what did it matter? What did anything matter? The Queen of Eyes was dead.

  "Jack!" the woman said. "Please. You have to help her."

  "Help her? Are you crazy? She's dead. I helped her murderers."

  "She needs you."

  "Stop saying that! What, are you feeling guilty?"

  For the first time she looked startled. "Guilty?"

  "Yeah. She told me she went there because of you. You needed help or something."

  "Oh, Jack, it wasn't about me. Yes, we needed to talk, and in neutral territory. My mother and I, we had issues. She didn't like the work I was doing."

  "For your father."

  She ignored him. "But the whole thing, it wasn't—it was never about me. It was Julie."

  "What?"

  "It was always Julie. It was the only way my mother could save her."

  "Save her? By letting her murder her own mother? Are you crazy?"

  "Please, Jack. My mother needs you. You're the only one who can help her."

  "For God's sake, she's already dead! It's too late!"

  And at that he woke up, in the dull yellow glow of streetlamps and neon, and occasional headlights. Three in the morning, he guessed. He must have made a noise, for some elderly drunk in a shabby brown coat was crossing the street. Basic rule of New York life. Avoid the crazy guy yelling in his sleep. Jack leaned his head back against the doorway and to his amazement
he began to cry. Maybe it was all very simple after all. The Queen of Eyes was dead. And Jack Shade had killed her.

  That afternoon he came upon the Nude Owl. It was on Broadway by Herald Square, the stretch given over to chairs and tables to act as a sidewalk café in summer. Post-season, the furniture remained but no one used them, especially on a day like this one, gray and damp, with a harsh Hudson River wind. No one, that is, except a crazy homeless elemental dressed in so many layers she might have been an art exhibit. Of course, she might not be a "she" at all. At one time Jack might have found that question fun to think about. He could have debated it with his teacher, Anatolie, or maybe Carolien Hounstra. Right now Jack didn't care about what the Owl might look like actually nude any more than he cared that the chair was wet when he sat down next to her.

  People walking along Broadway did that automatic swerve people did when they spot homeless people holding a meeting. Jack didn't care about that either. He said, "Why couldn't you tell me? You knew, you had to know, it's what you do. What you are."

  For a long time she didn't answer or even look at him, just stared up at the Empire State Building. Maybe she had no idea he was there. Maybe he appeared to her as no more than a tangle of quantum vibrations.

  Finally she turned and looked at him as if he had just materialized out of nothing. "Know," she said in a harsh whisper. "Not tell."

  Jack said, "Oh, you've got to be kidding me. You're a Know-It-All, but the job description doesn't include telling? Should I have hunted down your twin sister, the Tell-It-All? Oh, God." He felt his anger burst and bent forward, arms tight against his chest. He kept seeing the bullets smash into Margaret's body.

  The Owl whispered, "She didn't leave."

  Jack was about to say something sarcastic but instead let out a breath. He'd thought about that. Didn't Mariq Nliana see what was happening? Wouldn't she have watched it all along? André must have spent weeks, if not months, cultivating Julie. Why didn't Grandma see that? And then to sit, and just wait. She said she'd gone there to help her daughter, the hybrid. But whatever they'd needed to do was over, and Margaret just stayed. The daughter herself said it was all about Julie, but that didn't make any sense. And besides, that was a dream. You can't trust dreams.