Technomancer (Unspeakable Things: Book One)

by Larson, B. V.

  Then I noticed the blood in their midst. There was a lot of it, and it all pooled up underneath the rip they had encircled. The cellar was gently sloped to that point, where as I recalled there had been a drain before. Now the drain was covered, preventing the blood from escaping. It certainly did look as if they had summoned the rip that shivered and twisted.

  It was right about then that I dropped the finger. I don’t have a reason why it happened. I just tipped the bottle a little too far and it fell right out and thumped down the steps one at a time to roll out onto the floor of the cellar.

  I wouldn’t have thought a finger could make all that much noise, but this one did. To me, it sounded like a stone dropped into a quiet well—over and over again as it struck each step.

  I’m not sure who was more surprised, me or the cultists.

  I trained my gun on the group. Their looks of surprise changed to glares. I walked down the steps with as much swagger as I could muster. Thinking fast, I came up with a lie and ran with it. It wasn’t great, but it was all I had.

  “All right,” I said. “That’s about enough chanting, people. Do you know this house is bank-owned? You are all trespassing and my partner is walking the rest of the uniforms in here right now.”

  The cultists, getting over their initial shock, stopped looking at me when their leader spoke up. At that point, every one of their eyes fixed upon him.

  The leader looked at the woman seated to his left. “Abigail?” he said questioningly. He was a lanky fellow with sandy-blond hair that hung from his head in a long, thin mop. His nose was long and his eyes were large and dark. All ten of his fingers were weighed down by thick rings.

  “He lies,” Abigail said. “There’s no one else near.”

  As I watched him, he closed the old leather-bound book, which had a gold-printed title. I took the opportunity to read the title: Flowers of Evil, it read, in both English and French.

  “Yet, here he is,” he said, “and therefore you have failed to warn us. It was your responsibility to prevent intrusions.”

  Abigail was a thin woman who sat next to the leader. She looked like a housewife who gardened all Saturday and played bunco on Tuesday nights. She had curly black hair, blood-red nails, and a worried expression. Maybe in this group, failure resulted in a loss of blood.

  While most of them stared at Abigail, I walked down to the bottom of the steps and scooped up the gray finger. It felt hard and leathery in my hand. I shoved it into a pocket and straightened, vaguely disgusted. I told myself to man up and have a nightmare about dead body parts later. Now was not the time to be squeamish.

  “He could not have gotten through,” Abigail said to the leader. “Not unless he has power, or he stepped through a portal close by.”

  The lead cultist lifted his gaze to me again. “Do you have power?” he asked me seriously.

  I stared at them. They didn’t seem to be afraid of my gun. This worried me. The last time I’d confronted someone with this same weapon and gotten a disinterested response, I’d been tossed out of the sanatorium by Dr. Meng.

  “Are you part of the Community?” I asked, deciding to name-drop and behave as calmly as they did.

  The question got a strong reaction out of them. “No,” came the powerful response from several throats. They stared at me with eyes that glittered, reflecting the glimmering rip in space they encircled.

  “We are a group of—friends,” the leader said. “We have no domains to rule. We are rogues, as I suspect you yourself are.”

  I nodded. “Yeah,” I said. “A group of people with minor powers who’ve banded together, is that it?”

  The left half of the leader’s face smiled. “Not so minor,” he said. “Strong enough to open pathways like this one.” He gestured toward the vortex, and I nodded, impressed despite myself. Tearing a hole in the universe to go someplace you wished—I had to admit that was much cooler than Tony’s sunglasses.

  “Well, it’s been nice meeting you,” I said. “As one rogue to a group of comrades, I have to go now. I have responsibilities.”

  This caused a general twitter of humor to escape the circle. The leader lifted a hand and the group fell silent. They stared at me with shining eyes. I sensed a dark anticipation, so I knew it was time to do something.

  I stepped forward to the edge of their circle. It was time to take a chance. If these guys were anything like Meng, they weren’t bluffing. They could prevent my leaving, and I supposed I wouldn’t be able to gun them down before they attacked me somehow.

  They looked at me curiously, as if wondering what this intruder would do next. I smiled at them and put my gun into my pocket.

  “The truth now,” I said. “I’m convinced you are the group I’ve heard of. You are the people they whisper of in the shadows. I’ve come here to join you, if you will have me. Will you allow me to sit in your circle?”

  Another round of mirth swept them. The leader did not laugh at me, however. He lifted his hands and gestured for the circle to part. I stepped forward and now stood in their midst.

  “You can indeed be of use,” the leader said. “Unfortunately, your power is too weak to sit among us. We do need fuel, however, and you can serve well in that regard.”

  “Fuel?” I asked. “For what?”

  He indicated the shimmering region in the middle of the room. “Our fire is waning. Soon, it will go dim and die completely. We have to keep this flame alive, as one of our members has stepped out and is overdue.”

  I realized he was talking about the man I’d watched die in the hotel room. Apparently, these guys didn’t know he was dead, and that I’d come from the same hotel room. They didn’t know the pathway they had opened had split on their end, which had allowed me to get into their cellar. I decided not to enlighten them.

  “Ah, I understand,” I said.

  Each member of the circle reached under his or her right leg and lifted a knife. Each knife was the same—a slightly curved affair with a wicked point. I seriously considered shooting them, but I figured that even if I did kill several, the rest might be crazy enough to keep coming. Either that, or my gun wouldn’t stop them. Judging that the safest move was a quick exit, I strode forward toward the rip. It was the only way to get out before they could fall upon me.

  The cultists took action. One older woman to my right, with thick glasses and a bad perm, lifted a rag doll and shook it. A blast of heat passed around me—but only dried my skin of sweat. She looked shocked.

  A man to my left also moved. He wore a workman’s set of grimy coveralls. He lifted a small ball-peen hammer in one hand. He looked like a mechanic. He made a striking motion in the air with the small hammer. I felt a puff of air pass by me as he did so. The woman with the rag doll screeched and fell backward, knocked flat. Her head bled and she didn’t move.

  “I couldn’t have missed!” the mechanic in the coveralls shouted.

  My right shoe splashed into the pool of blood they surrounded. I was moving into the swirling region of space that separated this place from the hotel room. A young girl who could not have been more than fourteen made one last attempt to stop me. She had long, pale arms as thin as a child’s. Her arms and her steel flashed as she cut me with her blade and scored a nick in the back of my calf. I was glad she hadn’t been closer, and I was glad the others had tried to use their powers on me rather than simply stabbing me as I passed by. If that girl had slashed a half inch deeper, I would have been hamstrung. The pain was intense.

  “Killer!” the schoolgirl cried after me. It was the last word I heard from any of them. They all vanished, to be replaced more familiar surroundings. I was back inside the Lucky Seven. Judging by the shattered glass and blood on the floor, I knew I was in the same room where Jenna and I had spent a night together. The dead cultist was still gone, as was Detective McKesson.

  Hissing with pain, I quickly tended to the sliced meat of my calf muscle. Fresh blood dribbled down my leg onto the carpet—which had already been soaked by t
he first cultist I’d met that night.

  Someone stepped through space after me. He was blurry, but I thought I recognized that long, lank hair. It was the cult leader, and I was surprised to see him. I hadn’t figured any of them would have the balls to follow me. Even working their little tricks together, they’d not managed to nail me—a fact that had left me relieved but baffled. I pulled my gun and aimed it at him, figuring I could blast him the second he walked into full view. Just like the Gray Men, he should be vulnerable the moment he came fully into this place. Whatever his trick was, I didn’t think he would have time to pull it off.

  He stood there, not quite coming out into the room. I stared and aimed at him, my finger twitching on the trigger. I didn’t want to blink and give him a moment’s advantage. I wondered if he was waiting for more of his crew to come through to offer support. If they all stepped through the rip together, they might be able take me. But it would cost them.

  More figures did not appear, however. The lead cultist spread his hands wide. Was this some kind of gesture requesting a truce? I laughed and aimed my gun at his gut. He wasn’t going to trick me so easily.

  In response, he took out his gently curved blade and dropped it. I didn’t see where it landed, it could have been anywhere on their side or mine. I had a thought then: if he stepped backward, would he go back to the cellar, or someplace else? His little rip was shrinking and dying in color like a cooling fire. Did they really feed these things with blood? I didn’t know, but I supposed anything was possible.

  The figure gestured to me, signaling that I should put away my weapon as he had done. I raised my free hand, extended my middle finger, and gave him a gesture of my own. I waved it around so he was able to see it, even if I was a shimmering ghost to him.

  Finally, he decided to chance it. He spread his hands widely apart. Slowly, he stepped forward into my space.

  I snarled as he entered the room. I almost fired—it was a close thing. Part of me urged my finger to squeeze the trigger, but it was hard to do. In the end, I found I couldn’t shoot a man in the gut when his hands were up. I’d not seen him make any moves at me, or I would have done it anyway. Whatever his power was, I had no evidence that it was violent in nature. But I remained guarded. These people were anything but friendly.

  When he had stopped shimmering and could speak, he found the muzzle of my .32 auto in his face. This time, to my gratification, he looked worried. He didn’t have a gang of faithful minions surrounding him now.

  “We’ve not been properly introduced,” he said.

  I had to give it to him, he was smooth. Smoother than I would have been with a gun in my face. My lips had curled away from my teeth, and I must have resembled a snarling dog. I was angry, and my leg was still bleeding. I was in a dangerous mood.

  “Give me your name, then,” I said. “I’ll have them carve it into your headstone.”

  “Thomas Gilling,” he said evenly. “And yours?”

  “Quentin Draith.”

  Gilling nodded, then made a gesture of recognition, lifting a finger into the air and opening his mouth into an “O.” My trigger finger tightened in paranoia, but he didn’t seem to notice.

  “Draith,” he said. “Ah yes! The blogger! I know you now.”

  “You’ve read my stuff?”

  Gilling nodded. His demeanor had changed a great deal. He seemed almost affable, despite my gun barrel, which never wavered from his face.

  “I thought your columns were nonsensical originally, you understand,” he said. “But I followed your bits and dribblings. You actually helped me make my initial contacts among the fringe of the Community. People with minor objects and other hangers-on.”

  “Glad I could help,” I said bemusedly. “Now, if you don’t want to die, I suggest you step back through.”

  Gilling looked back over his shoulder toward the rip. “Almost too late for that. I really must apologize. When you asked to join us, I didn’t take you seriously. I didn’t think you could possibly have the kind of power you demonstrated back there.”

  I almost said “what power?” like an idiot. I barely managed to stop myself in time. Realizing I needed to seem as cool and powerful as possible, I didn’t confess my ignorance. Instead, I nodded as if I completely understood whatever it was he was hinting at.

  “Quite impressive,” he continued, watching me. “You were immune to both a sonic attack and a thermal projection.”

  “You mean the hammer and the rag doll, right?”

  “Ahem,” he said, as if I’d soiled myself. “Naturally.”

  “Yeah,” I said. “I can be hard to take out.”

  “Quite,” Gilling said. “But I’ll tell you what really impressed me, what made me come after you for more information. The knife did strike home, didn’t it?”

  I took a half step back just in case he was planning another test. My pistol twitched in my hand.

  Gilling made a calming gesture. “Again, let me apologize. We behaved abominably. You are possibly the most powerful rogue I’ve ever met.”

  I frowned at him. “How do you figure that?”

  His hands spread wide again. This guy really liked to talk with his hands.

  “Don’t be modest,” he said. “You resisted the powers of three others. No one there could touch you, I’d wager. Rheinman’s blast went right by you and hit Caroline. That was quite a shock for us. I knew that it couldn’t be something as simple as a shielding force that cocooned you, preventing harm. No, if it had been that, you wouldn’t have been vulnerable to Fiona’s knife.”

  “You mean the kid who slashed me?”

  “Yes. After you stepped out, she held her blade aloft to show the rest of us it was stained with your essence. I inspected her blade immediately. That was the moment I became intrigued. I had to follow you.”

  “What for?” I asked.

  “Why—to offer you membership in my coven,” Gilling said. “After all, you did say you wished to join us, didn’t you?”

  I wasn’t sure if I should be flattered or violently pissed. The cultists might or might not be murderers, but I was certain they had stabbed me.

  “What’s happened to you people?” I asked, honestly confused. “You look like normal enough individuals—housewives, schoolkids, laborers. How could you turn into a group that sits around in a circle and bleeds things?”

  “May I sit down?” Gilling asked, as politely as always.

  I gestured toward the chairs around the table. The shimmer in the midst of the sliding glass door had turned into an orangey glimmer. I suspected it was about to go out. It reminded me of a fire, just as Gilling had suggested.

  “Your question has merit,” he said. “Let me ask you how you have fared since you came into contact with these objects of power. Have you killed anyone?”

  I opened my mouth to retort with a harsh no, but the word died in my throat. I recalled the Gray Men I’d met in the cellar with McKesson. They may not have been officially human, but in my book they counted for something.

  “Nothing human,” I said. “And only in self-defense.”

  “Commendable,” Gilling said, nodding. “So the man you killed in this room attacked you?”

  “Who?”

  “Hugo was his name. He used to work for me—before you killed him.”

  I realized, then, who he meant. I frowned. There was blood and glass everywhere underfoot. The body was gone, but there was clear evidence of foul play at the very table Gilling had sat beside.

  “Oh, you mean your cultist friend. We didn’t kill him. He came through and—he landed badly. You see your rip? It formed right in the middle of the sliding glass door. When he stepped through…”

  Gilling turned his head and inspected the scene. The torn curtain luffed in a breeze and the balcony was revealed.

  “Ah,” he said, nodding with regret. “I failed him. My aim is admittedly still poor.”

  I thought about what his words meant. He was the one who had opened the pathway
from the mansion to this hotel room. That was his power, and it was an impressive one. I could immediately see why he was the leader of his group. My eyes drifted down toward his rings. I couldn’t help myself. It had to be one of them. Why else would he wear so many? I supposed he wore them all to hide the one that mattered.

  Gilling caught the direction of my gaze. A faint smile played over his thin red lips. “So, you have not yet taken a human life.”

  “The night is young,” I snapped.

  “Tell me, Mr. Draith, what would you do if someone tried to steal your objects from you?”

  Objects? I thought. As far as I knew, I had only the sunglasses. Still, his question made me think. I’d come to feel strongly possessive of the sunglasses. I would fight to keep them—that much I was sure of.

  “I suppose I would fight to keep what’s mine,” I admitted.

  A long, thin finger flew upward and he waggled it at me. “Exactly!” he said. “I would expect no less. They are so magical—so captivating. They become like a part of us. The bond will grow ever stronger, you’ll find. They are unique, priceless, and irreplaceable. The things you can do with them will define who you are. In time, they will become your beloved children.”

  I rubbed my chin with the back of my hand. I didn’t like where this conversation was going. He was trying to prove to me that greed and fascination could take over my mind.

  “OK,” I said. “These powerful objects tend to make people do bad things out of greed and possessiveness. I get that. Still, you guys are a bit beyond the pale. I mean, bleeding animals and chanting bad French poetry in a circle? What’s that all about? Are you wannabe witches or what?”

  Gilling chuckled. “Hardly. We do not perform actual magic in the traditional sense. We call ourselves technomancers. We perform magic with advanced technology.”