“I know something that will take our minds off our problems,” she says softly.
I have had several vivid fantasies that are remarkably similar to this, except for the glaring fact that the beautiful woman coming towards me is usually not dead. Jessica’s makeup covering the blemishes on her face doesn’t extend below her chest. I can see green, wrinkled skin and a couple of holes peering into blackness in her torso.
My stomach roils sickly, and I can taste bile. I try to step around her, but she pushes me down onto my chair and sits on me again, straddling me. She hooks one elbow behind my neck and kisses me soundly, her dry tongue scraping against my teeth. I taste her in the back of my throat. Her lips chafe against mine. I try to say something, but my voice is muffled into her mouth, and by making noise I only encourage her. She grabs my hand and places it around her breast, holding it in place over the top of a firm nipple which presses into my palm. Her breast is solid, leathery, not at all what I’m familiar with. I pull my hand away and put my hands on her shoulders, intending to push her away, but she moans eagerly as I grab her, and she starts fumbling with my belt. Her fingers scratching at the belt sound like the skittering of an insect across the floor, making me shiver.
“No!” I gasp, tearing my lips away from hers, turning away from her. I pick her up and stand both of us up so I can hold her at arm’s reach. My strength surprises even me. “Jessica, no.”
She exhales in frustration. “Yes!”
She looks at me with eyes wide open and realizes this isn’t some game or form of teasing. She leans back angrily. “Why not? What is wrong?”
“Look,” I try to explain, but I can’t form any words that make sense of this at all. What possible reason could I have to spurn the advances of an eager woman I like? I end up helplessly shrugging my shoulders.
“I see,” she says tersely. She stares at me intently, her lips pressed firmly together. Then she spins on her heel and picks up her shirt. Her back to me, a back that has bruises and open sores, she slips back into her shirt and begins to button it up.
“Jessica, I’m sorry, it’s just—”
She spins fiercely, her eyes furious. “Don’t! I don’t want to hear it.” She grabs her makeup and materials from my table and marches out, slamming the door behind her without looking back.
Time screeches to a halt, and I stand in place for nearly a minute, completely dumb-founded and speechless. I’ve hurt her feelings. I’ve offended one of the few people here that seems to actually like me, and that makes me a bad person. This might make me an even worse person, but I am also incredibly relieved. I’ve been dreading the night she made her move, and now it’s over. I’ll have to find a way to apologize, obviously, but hopefully, this means she won’t make similar attempts in the future.
Then it hits me.
“Crap,” I say out loud. With Jessica gone, I have no way of disguising myself. She’s the only person I know that can help me. Now I’m up the proverbial creek. The second I leave my apartment, I will be instantly recognizable. No way will I be able to follow anyone like that. This glamour on me right now is the last one I’ll have for who knows how long.
Hmm.
Ms. Greystone, are you there? I think/broadcast.
“Yes, I’m here, Detective Green. Is there something you need that Miss Everin can’t provide?” I can actually hear the snark in her voice.
Um, well, Jessica will no longer be helping us, I think guiltily.
“How on earth did you manage that? I had assumed she was rather smitten with you.”
I’d rather not go into it. I need your help.
“Yes?”
The glamour I have on me now is the last I’m going to get, so this is my last chance to try and see what Finnegan might be up to. Can you tell me where he is? I’ll give this one more shot.
“Detective Green, I’m not going to allow you to follow a suspect without any backup. And if I’m with you, Finnegan will sense me regardless of your glamour.”
Look, if you can tell me where he is, I’ll follow him. You hang back and follow me. Maybe he won’t sense you if you’re not looking for him. You’ll just be looking at me.
“I believe your logic to be flawed,” she thinks in an amused tone. “But I will help you if you want to make one more attempt.”
I put my two bottles of beer back in the fridge, wondering why I bother trying to cool them down. Looking around this hole I call home, I think back to Jessica’s surprise at me living here. I need to remember to ask Marsh about that. Honestly, I’d be happy with a bed. Well, a bed and an internet connection. But one step at a time. I grab my badge and my gun. Then I head out the door and start walking in Greystone’s general direction.
A few minutes later, Greystone says, “I’ve found him. He’s leaving a bar called Wiechert’s and is heading in your direction. In fact, if you stay where you are he’ll probably walk right past you.”
OK, hang back. Once I see Finnegan, you can start following me.
I find a doorway to some non-descript building, lean my shoulder against one side of the frame, and try and hide in the gloom. Barely a minute passes before I see him striding quickly down the opposite side of the street. He glances once over his shoulder, then looks around. His eyes look over at me and then right past me. Whatever this glamour on me is making me look like, it must not be very interesting.
He slows down almost directly across the street from me and stops. He looks around, again, confused. I will myself to be invisible in the shadows. Still, he doesn’t seem to notice me. I hardly dare breathe right now. I’m puzzled. Why doesn’t he see me? But he can’t. Is this part of the glamour at work? I wish I knew more about them. Every time we followed him before, was it Jessica or Greystone he was sensing and not me? Maybe the fact I’m alive is messing with his sense somehow? I don’t try to figure it out; I just need to capitalize on my luck.
The street is relatively empty. Finnegan waits for a few people to walk past him, then begins making complex gestures with his hands, uttering weird syllables under his breath that I can’t make out. I see a dim puff of light in front of him, like he lit a match. Then he turns and quickly strides away down a nearby alley. I let him get a short lead on me and then follow him.
“Detective, what are you doing?” Greystone asks.
What do you mean? I’m following Finnegan.
“No, I see Finnegan walking down the street towards me, back the way he came.” I can sense where Greystone is, and it’s nowhere near where I’m at right now.
What the hell? No, I’m telling you, I’m following him down this alley.
“This is most confusing. He just walked past me and didn’t notice me at all.”
We’re talking about magic, so I have no idea what is or is not possible. Did he make an illusion? Did he fool me or did he fool Greystone? Does he have a twin? All I know is that I see him disappearing into the shadows of the alley opposite me, and I’m not going to lose him.
Look, Ms. Greystone. You can follow that one if you want. But I can see Finnegan cutting through alleys and down some back streets. I need to keep him in sight.
“Keep going, Detective. I’ll catch up to you. Please be careful.”
Finnegan is moving so fast he’s almost running, and I follow through alleys choked with debris; I have to watch my footing, so I don’t slip or make a loud crash knocking things over. The gaslights from the streets barely reach back here, I can’t move nearly as quickly as I would like, and Finnegan seems to know them well.
I’m getting farther away from the sounds of people. Most of the buildings I’m walking past are industrial in nature. The occasional light shines from a lone window, but most of them look abandoned. I have to slow down around several smashed-in metal garbage cans and mangled shopping carts. Coming around the corner, I realize I’ve lost Finnegan. I curse loudly in my mind, and by the sharp ja
b of disapproval I feel from Greystone, I must have broadcast that one.
Sorry, I mumble mentally.
I’m looking down a road of packed dirt and gravel, lined by several large abandoned brick buildings. No lights shine in any of the broken-out and boarded-over windows. I jog quickly down the road, trying not to trip over the washboard grooves in the earth, glancing in doorways and alcoves as I go.
I’m two strides past a boarded-over metal freight door when I see a flicker of light through a crack in the frame. I quietly sneak over. The freight door is about eight feet tall, boarded over and chained up. It would normally slide to the side along rails at the top of the frame, but it is sitting off the tracks. The door is leaning up against the wall, and there is enough space for a skinny, sneaky bastard to slip through the gap and enter the building.
It’s a little tough for me to wedge my way through, but I manage. I feel horribly exposed as I struggle to squeeze through, expecting Finnegan to pounce on me as I am helplessly pinned, but I crawl across some gravel on my hands and knees, and I finally get inside.
The interior is full of junk and garbage. The inside space is enormous—maybe a couple of hundred feet square, open to the two stories above. A walkway encircles the exposed area on the upper stories, leading to some dark offices. The stairs are open, and the walkways are made of steel grating. Large chains hang from steel beams up in the rafters; at one time, no doubt, they were used to move heavy equipment to the higher levels. Part of the upper floor has collapsed in the far corner. The glow of moonlight, what little of it trickles through the clouds, barely illuminates the upper floors, but it is almost pitch dark where I’m at on the ground. I see the pale afterimage of light moving down a broad stairwell to my left, so I follow cautiously, trying to pick my path around debris on the floor.
The stairs descend into darkness. The light ahead of me is just enough that I can keep up as it moves farther down the brick walls lining either side winding around to the right. There’s enough distance that I can’t see Finnegan directly, but the dim glow from whatever light he’s using allows me to barely make out the stairs in front of my feet.
I reach the basement level after a handful of turns and end up in front of an open workspace. It looks like it used to house machinery of some kind. The room is massive, the ceilings about twenty feet high. There are rows of large furnaces or engines like nothing I’ve ever seen before. I have no idea what they would be used for; they are big metal boxes with dials, gears and levers on the front with pipes leading up and out over the ceiling above. Were they operational, they would likely make an incredible amount of noise. Now, they are silent and cold. In between the husks of these steel giants, the room is full of workbenches, at least twenty or so, with tools, vices, and scraps of wood scattered throughout. On all the tables, I see beakers, vials, glass tubes, Bunsen burners, propane tanks and other materials I remember from my science classes back in middle school. Bags of some sort of crystals, rough rock pebbles like quartz are wrapped up on one table. Dozens of vials containing something that looks like blood are stacked next to them. Dust hangs in the air everywhere. There are ventilation fans in the barred windows high up in the wall, but they aren’t spinning. Probably not much call for helping people with breathing.
Meth lab? I think to Greystone. Can I “think” you what I’m seeing?
Evidently, it works. That’s good to know.
“Get out of there!” Greystone shouts in my mind. “This is bad, Detective. You are in great danger!”
The hairs on my neck stand up, and I know I’m not alone. A cold lump forms in my stomach. I never knew where the “pit” of my stomach was, but I’m pretty sure I’m feeling it now. I pull out my gun and hold the heavy weight of it with both hands. From my position, where I’m crouching down behind a table, I try to get a vantage point where I can see the whole room. For all the good it does me. At right about the same instant that I realize I can’t see Finnegan anywhere, I hear the scuff of a shoe behind me.
I spin around, and Finnegan is staring at me from about ten feet away. He has his gun drawn as well, but he’s holding it down at his side.
“Who the blazes are you supposed to be?” he snarls and snaps his fingers. A ball of blue light appears above and behind his head, lighting the room up in a weird blue tone that makes it look like we’re underwater. The globe crackles, expanding and contracting in a pulsing pattern, softly buzzing with energy. He didn’t chant, read a spell, meditate or anything in a way I expect magic to be done. He just snapped his fingers. That is ominously frightening.
Finnegan is pissed, royally pissed, that much I can tell. But I also realize he has no idea who I am.
“You’re in a world of trouble, asshole,” Finnegan says. He’s looking around to see if there is anyone else here but me. I notice the close proximity of any number of steel tools he can use in excruciatingly painful ways.
That blue light, does he need a totem for that too? I ask.
Greystone’s voice in my head is a few octaves higher than usual. “No! Only arcane practitioners can even create Eldritch energy, Detective Green. If he can cast it instantly, without ritual, it shows he is a mage of the highest order.”
The information is slowly penetrating my brain. If Greystone is freaking out, I could be royally screwed, here. Finnegan isn’t going to just be mad about this; I’m in real danger.
So he doesn’t have a totem-thingy powering his Ward? I ask bleakly. He’s just casting it while walking around? But you said he isn’t a practitioner.
“He can’t be. It’s simply not possible. Unless he has some means of boosting his reserves of arcane energy.”
Like how?
“I don’t have time to explain, you need to get out of there!” Greystone says, urgently.
“I’m only going to ask you once. Who are you? What are you doing here?” Finnegan asks.
My mouth is dry, and my mind is racing. Do I tell him who I am? He may kill me if I don’t, but will telling him keep me alive? He has me cornered. I don’t think I can get past him and I’m terrified any sudden movements on my part will end up with painful consequences. I open my mouth to respond by saying something incredibly witty to buy me time, and I inhale some of the dust floating around. I choke and start coughing.
“The hell?” Finnegan mutters, and then his eyes narrow further. “Green? You asshole, is that you?”
He doesn’t wait for me to answer. “You’re coughing. You’re the only person that needs to breathe down here. No wonder I couldn’t figure out who was following me; I didn’t bother trying to track a mortal. How the hell did you get a glamour?”
I’m still coughing. It’s winding down, but I can’t answer yet. I glance around, trying to find some way out of this mess, but nothing is presenting itself. I’m pretty sure he’ll perforate me with his gun before I make it two steps.
“Ah, it’s that little tart that’s been following me around the last couple of days. I just figured she was a cop groupie. But she was with you, wasn’t she? Well, this is unfortunate.”
“She’s available now, if you’re interested,” I wheeze, slowly standing up.
He chuckles, but it’s a sound that sends a chill down my spine. He keeps a close eye on me, allowing me to stand but making it clear I can’t try anything else.
“Well, I suppose I’ll have to track her down after I get rid of you. She’ll only be marginally harder to kill than you. Is Marsh here with you?”
I feel cold. Any small hope I had of walking away from this just died. “Uh, wait a minute. Get rid of me?”
Finnegan raises both arms and waves them over his head. Though I notice the gun stays relatively pointed in my direction. “Are you kidding me? Do you have any idea what you’ve found here? How stupid are you?”
“I dunno, how stupid am I, Finnegan? What did I find?”
He gets ready to reply, then pause
s. He puts his arms down and regards me coolly, his eyes calculating. “Interesting. You’re stalling. That means that ghostly bitch must be on her way.”
On cue, Greystone comes streaking through the ceiling above the stairway, her ghostly form illuminating the doorway as she aims at Finnegan. She screams, loudly, an unearthly wail that rises in pitch and starts rattling my teeth. Some of the beakers and dust on the tables start shaking, vibrations radiating from Greystone’s howl.
Finnegan hardly even glances at her. He waves his hand like he’s brushing away a fly, and a cage of crackling energy surrounds Greystone. It’s made of the same stuff as the globe, which doesn’t flicker or change in any discernable way. Screeching to a halt, she ricochets off the bars of power and hangs in the air, the energy completely encircling her. Her scream instantly goes quiet, cut off mid-wail. While she’s silent in the room, I can hear her screaming in my mind. Her mouth is open in a rictus of pain, shrinking back from making contact with any portion of the cage around her.
“Greystone?” I ask, taking a step towards her. She doesn’t appear to hear me or is in so much pain she can’t respond. Her screaming won’t stop in my brain. “What did you do to her?”
He shrugs. “What do you care?”
“You’ve been killing people to cover up what? Drugs?”
“Killing?” He looks genuinely confused. “You think I’m the one murdering people? That’s why you’ve been following me? Unbelievable. You are the worst detective I’ve ever met, Green. I’ll be doing everyone a favor.
“You’re the only one I’m going to murder.”
Finnegan raises his gun and fires.
I don’t know how it doesn’t kill me. I take a step backward in surprise, tripping over some debris at my feet. Something hits my left shoulder, and it feels like hundreds of tiny ant bites stinging me. I spin around and slam to the ground on my back.
The walls are standing at a strange angle that I can’t make sense of. Finnegan takes a step towards me, a thin smile on his lips, the gun leveled at my face. I lift my hand slightly, straining at the weight of the gun in my hand, and pull the trigger. I don’t even know if it’s aimed at him. The gun kicks back and slams into my face. I squint through the pain and see a shield of energy flare to life in front of the Finnegan, catching the brunt of whatever projectile I just shot out. He’s completely unhurt, but the force from the shot is still enough to pick him up off his feet and toss him back several yards. He slams into a workbench, and glasses and beakers shatter and go flying in all directions, scattering their contents across the floor and tables. Dust, powder, and liquids spray all around him.
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