by R. L. Naquin
“Guess I’ll have to settle for room 203 at the Stay n’ Play motel.” I started the engine. “Good times.”
I left the parking lot as the cops pulled in, waving at them as I drove past. They waved back.
Ten minutes later, I parked my truck, climbed the concrete stairs and let myself into my room at the Stay n’ Play. The bed was unmade, the trash can was full and last night’s pizza box was still on the small table in the corner. Maid service would’ve cost extra.
The bedsprings squealed in protest when I flopped down on my back. I had less than fifty dollars in my wallet and no magic in my gems to bail me out if I got into a tight spot. And now I had no job, either.
It used to be easier for me to stay afloat. The crappy jobs I’d taken had been for fun and to supplement my freelance income.
Before things changed in the world and the Hidden—like monsters, fairy creatures and urban legends—could walk among humans without appearing extraordinary, I’d worked with a partner as a soul chaser. Darius and I had roamed the country, chasing down escaped souls, then turning the souls in for money. It wasn’t a bad living, and I saw a lot of new places. Since I’d spent nearly a hundred years mostly cooped up inside a box, the freedom was incredible.
When Darius died, I kept his old pickup truck and continued to work freelance alone. It wasn’t the same. Darius hadn’t talked much—mothmen tend to be grouchy, especially at night, when they become all creaturey and scary-looking—but it was still a lot quieter without him. And now that all the monsters and creatures of the world could walk around passing as human, they didn’t have to hide anymore. A whole lot of them had decided to become freelance soul catchers. There were more soul catchers now than jobs.
The assignments had dried up. And I was left alone with an ancient pickup truck that still smelled a little like mothman and aftershave, no real job skills and missing a magic gem so I could never get home to the djinn world. I dropped my necklace and spread my arms out to the sides, staring at the ceiling and feeling sorry for myself. A water stain shaped like Abraham Lincoln stared back.
“Don’t judge me, Abe. Nobody ever made you dress like a pirate hooker and serve barbecued chicken gizzards.”
Abe didn’t comment.
My phone rang, though, which startled me. I didn’t know many people with my phone number. Most of them were in California, where I’d probably be heading soon if I didn’t find some money. Zoey and Maurice would always give me a place to stay if I needed it.
I checked the number. Even better. The call was from headquarters.
I sat up, all depression dissipated. “Art! I was just thinking about you!” This was sort of true. I’d been thinking I needed money. Art, as the new chairman of the Hidden government, was the man to give me some.
“Where are you?” Simple. Abrupt. To the point. That was Art.
“Branson. Fine, thanks. You?” I loved poking at him.
“That’s good news. That means you’re not too far away. How long would it take you to get here?” His voice was a little tenser than usual, like he was holding back from showing me how upset he was.
This wasn’t the typical way for Art to offer me an assignment. Usually, a phone call was enough. He never asked me to come to headquarters.
I frowned and crossed the room. “Well, I’m one state away from you.” I closed my eyes and visualized a map. “I could either go through Kansas City or Wichita.” I calculated times, holding my hand in the air where I imagined the map to be. “About seven and a half hours either way, but I think I could make it in six if I really hustle.”
“Can you drive through the night?”
I shrugged, ignoring the fact that he couldn’t see the movement. “Sure.”
“Take breaks. Don’t hustle. Be here for breakfast.” His words were demanding and bossy, but his tone was polite, almost desperate.
“I’ll be there.”
“Thank the gods. Be safe.”
I hung up, feeling both relieved and edgy. Art used to be a high-strung guy. He also used to be middle management, obsessed with rules and kind of a controlling ass. When the entire Hidden government disintegrated, Art had stepped up and become something better. After the dust had all cleared, he’d been the best one to take over and rebuild.
Since then, I hadn’t seen anything rattle him. Whatever this was, it was serious.
In the next ten minutes, I managed to gather everything I owned and put it into the large yellow duffel bag that was my only luggage. I took a moment to ditch the rumba panties and fishnets for normal underwear and socks. Nobody should drive long distance in those things. I left them on the bed for housekeeping to find.
Let them wonder what the hell I’d been doing in here.
I threw my bag in the truck, then popped my head into the office. A woman in her midfifties sat behind the desk watching a small television. The bruise on her cheek looked painful.
The room key clattered when I dropped it on the counter. “I’m checking out of 203.”
She squinted at me, then tapped a few keys on a keyboard. “You’re paid up till the end of the week.”
“Change of plans.”
“Still gotta charge you for tonight.” She stared at my face, not moving.
“Sure.” I was in a hurry, but I wasn’t going to let her know that. I could outwait her.
She sighed, her eyes flicking to the TV screen, then fiddled with something on the computer. The printer next to her came to life, and the cash register drawer popped open. She counted out bills, then handed me the printout and the cash.
“Three nights left to the week, minus cleaning fees. Seventy-nine seventy-two.” She dropped coins in my hand.
I honestly hadn’t expected I’d get so much back. A knot in the pit of my stomach loosened. With what I had left in my wallet, I’d have plenty for gas and maybe a burger to get me to headquarters. I could make it now.
After a long dry spell, I was off to save the world.
Chapter Two
As much as I loved my old truck, it was pretty damn old and sometimes took a couple of tries to start. I liked to think it had chronic bronchitis, which explained the coughing jags it occasionally had. It also guzzled gas as if the fuel pump was a pitcher of milk and it was at a jalapeño-eating contest.
I knew this because I competed in a jalapeño-eating contest once when I traveled through a little town outside Dallas. The milk helped the burn in my mouth and throat, but it didn’t do a damn thing to stave off the hell I experienced the next day. And I didn’t even win. I came in second place. First place went to a seventy-two-year-old lady named Celia. She had sixteen grandkids all cheering her on. I hadn’t stood a chance.
After Darius walked into the Myst of Time or whatever crap it was he did to stop being alive, I took his truck and named her Celia after that spicy grandma. If Darius had a problem with it, he shouldn’t have died. He should have stayed here and kept working with me.
I got it. The love of his life had sacrificed herself to save the world, and he hadn’t wanted to live without her. I didn’t have to like it.
Wasn’t life sacred? People weren’t supposed to give up like that.
Thinking about it always made me grumpy, especially on long drives. Darius hadn’t been much of a talker, but at least he’d been someone to talk to.
I pulled into a gas station in some tiny town in southern Kansas, turned off the engine and climbed out. The bright lights overhead made me squint. Once I had the gas pumping into the tank, I stretched my arms over my head and looked around.
The road and the station were deserted at this late hour. The small convenience store was empty except for one poor guy sitting behind the counter with his head bent over a book or a magazine. I couldn’t tell which from where I was standing.
Before I’d left B
ranson, I’d bought a couple of Visa gift cards with some of my cash so I could pay at the pump. In the past, I’d run into trouble in the middle of nowhere when the pumps were credit only and no attendants were around. Run out of gas one time in the middle of Nebraska, and a girl learned to take precautions. This place may have had a guy sitting there, but the next place might not.
I glanced at the numbers cranking slowly on the display. The pump was taking forever. An ad taped to the top offered two-for-one hot dogs from inside the store after 10 p.m. I couldn’t imagine eating old hot dogs from a gas station in the middle of nowhere.
Maybe other people liked to gamble, but my life was worth fighting for.
To the right of the ad were a small black button and a sign that said Press Button to Speak to Attendant.
I shrugged. “Well, if you insist.” I pressed the button and watched the guy inside lift his head.
His voice echoed a little through the metal speaker holes. “May I help you?”
“No. I’m fine.” I waved at him.
His hand came up but didn’t fully wave back. “Then why’d you push the button?”
“It said to.” I held my arms out in an exaggerated pantomime of helplessness. “What can you do?”
He was quiet for a moment. “Okay. Well, let me know if you need help, I guess.”
This guy had no sense of adventure. Or humor. I glanced at the readings on the pump. My tank was still only half-full. I pushed the button again. “Hey.” I waved with both hands this time. “What are you reading?”
He held up his book, but I couldn’t make out the cover. “Palindrome Falls. You read it?”
I was too far away to see the cover, but I shook my head. “Who’s it by? Is it good?”
He flipped to the cover. “April Kessler. Creepy book.”
“I’ll have to look for it. I like creepy stuff.” The nozzle clicked off, and I hung it on the pump. “What’s your name, gas station guy?”
“Martin. What’s yours?”
“Kam.” I opened the truck door and waved. “Nice chatting with you, Jeff!”
“See ya, Margo.” He waved back, this time with his whole hand as I pulled out to the road.
I felt better about the long drive for at least the next hour. Being alone was way too quiet for my taste.
* * *
Headquarters for the Hidden government was tricky to find. It was supposed to be. Unless people knew exactly where it was, they’d drive right by it. This was partly because it was in the middle of what looked like a field of wheat, and partly because it was sort of invisible.
Lebanon, Kansas, was the geographic center of the United States. They had a nice little picnic area set up so folks could visit and take pictures, but the spot where the formal plaque and family play area were set up was actually a diversion. The real center was half a mile away, where the bosses of the Hidden world built their headquarters. The location had to do with ley lines and energy vortexes or something.
They’d told me in orientation, but honestly, I’d been busy trying to remember all the words to The Golden Girls theme song and wondering if I could sing it at karaoke on Friday night. Orientation was boring.
It didn’t matter to me why they’d built it there, as long as I could find it when I needed to check in.
When I reached the small triangle of grass and picnic tables that pretended to be the dead center of the contiguous United States, it was dawn. I pulled the steering wheel to the right, drove a few yards, then went off the road into the field of wheat. A mile or two in, I spotted the bird that flew off, then appeared in the same spot before flying off and reappearing again.
The bird—and the entire section of field in front of me—was a metaphysically recorded loop overlaying the gate and buildings hiding from view. I slowed the truck until I passed through the barrier and saw things as they really were. The gate guard looked up at me from a clipboard he was studying.
“Welcome back, Miss Kam.” He grinned at me, and his human face shimmered in the early light. For a split second, the face of a troll looked back at me before returning to human form. “Mr. Art’s expecting you in the main building.”
“Thanks, Floyd. Is that a new hat?”
Floyd touched the ball cap on his head. It was blue and said Royals across the front. “This? Nah. But Mr. Art lets me wear it when there’s a game. The boys are playing some great baseball! Have you been watching?”
I shook my head. “I’m afraid not. I’ve been too busy serving nachos and fried cheese.”
He gave me a sympathetic expression. “That’s too bad. Well, go on in and get some breakfast. I bet you’re starved.”
My stomach growled. It was highly susceptible to suggestion. “Have a great day, Floyd!”
“Back at ya, miss!”
Ahead, the buildings of the headquarters compound sat in a half circle around a central bit of dried grass that might have once been a town square. The buildings looked like dilapidated farmhouses and businesses from the Old West. I kind of liked the look of it myself, but it was meant to appear old and abandoned as a last defense against humans who might wander in and find us.
To my knowledge, nothing like that had ever occurred. But what would I know? I was just a freelance soul catcher, not a full-time employee.
I parked in the circle near the main building—a single-story house with peeling paint and a slight tilt to the left—and climbed the porch steps. The door wasn’t locked, so I went in and stood for a moment in the hallway to reorient myself.
The inside was much bigger than the outside. A flight of stairs led to the upper floors, and a hallway pointed to the rest of the house. The walls were a soft blue, with natural light spilling in from the windows near the front door. The boards that appeared to cover them on the outside didn’t exist from the inside.
“Kam?” Art, a round man with a balding head, popped his face around the corner. “I thought that was you.” He held his hand out and took mine. “Come on. Let’s get you fed and rested before I have to send you out again.”
My stomach gurgled, and I rested my palm over it, as if that could muffle or silence it. “Thanks.”
The dining room wasn’t far. He pulled me in and handed me a plate. “Help yourself. We’ll talk when you’re sitting.”
“Gee, Art. You shouldn’t have.” I swallowed to keep from drooling on myself.
A buffet table had been set up along one wall. Silver dishes sat open and waiting for me to devour their contents. Eggs, bacon, sausage, potatoes, pancakes, French toast, pastries, ham. I’d been eating fast food, packaged snacks from convenience stores and discounted slop from the bar where I’d been working for weeks. Real food. I groaned and inhaled the smells. I could have bathed in those smells.
But not until I ate them. I wanted to eat everything.
I went down the line, taking spoonfuls of everything until my plate wouldn’t fit any more. Satisfied that I had a good sample, I sat in the chair across from Art and dug in.
Art watched me shovel food into my mouth with mixed expressions of horror and pleasure. “We’ve got training classes going on today in a couple of different departments, so the buffet was set up. I figured you probably could use a decent meal.”
I nodded, not pausing in my shoveling. “Mmph.”
He smiled. “Good. You eat, I’ll talk.” He touched the elbow of a small woman with turquoise hair and an apron as she bustled past. “Wanda, would you get some juice and coffee for Miss Kam, please?”
The woman nodded and barreled through the swinging doors into the kitchen. The doors were still swinging when she came back through them carrying a tray of drinks. She placed a cup of coffee, cream and sugar in front of me. Then she unloaded her tray of the rest of the glasses. She’d done as Art had told her. She’d brought me juice—apple, orange,
pineapple, grapefruit. I think one was pomegranate. Nine glasses of juice surrounded my plate in a rainbow of colors.
When she was done, she scurried off into the kitchen without a word.
I tilted my head and gave Art an amused look. “So...was that one of Bernice’s automaton thingies?”
He sniffed in disgust. “A golem. Yes. I still have five or six hanging around.”
I slathered butter on a biscuit. “I thought you were trying to get rid of them all.”
“I’m slowly rebuilding the staff around here, but I still have a few golems to help with the day-to-day stuff. Bernice talked me into it. They don’t eat, sleep or think for themselves, and I don’t have to pay them.” He shivered.
“Still creepy, though.” I shoved half the biscuit in my mouth.
He nodded. “Still creepy.” He took a sip of coffee, as if to clear his head. “Okay. Let me tell you what’s going on.”
Curious, I slurped from the grapefruit juice glass, then squirmed in my chair and screwed up my face at how sour it was. “Gah! Wow. Grapefruit juice. Am I right?” I drank it again to be sure, and my whole body twitched.
Art’s forehead wrinkled while he waited for me to settle back into my meal. “About a month and a half ago, I sent a reaper to the Kansas City region for a pickup. He quit reporting in.”
I stopped chewing. “So, he went AWOL?”
“I’m not entirely sure. I don’t think so, though. His name’s Peter Dunn, one of my most reliable reapers. Always made his pickups on time, and he came in like clockwork to empty his soul stone. He didn’t have a region of his own. He was sort of a substitute who covered wherever I needed him.”
“You think he’s in trouble?”
The first finger on Art’s right hand started tapping on the tablecloth. I doubted he realized he was doing it. It was something he always did when he was upset or agitated. Often, it took the form of clicking a ballpoint pen, but he didn’t have anything in his hands now, so that finger tapped to let out the steam in his brain, I supposed. “I’ve sent two other reapers out there to check on him.”