Phantom Pains

by Mishell Baker

  “We didn’t even know you needed help,” I said. “But we do know you’re angry enough to destroy people’s homes and eat them alive, and you have been ever since V—uh, since the death of the exiled Countess Feverwax.”

  “Vivian,” said the manticore as though he were spitting out gristle.

  “So you’re acquainted.”

  “I served that woman and her pathetic revolution for half a human’s lifetime.”

  I felt an almost tangible click as things fell into place. “That explains a lot,” I said, “including your Valley accent.”

  “When I got tired of her delusions,” said Throebrand, ignoring my smart-ass remark, “she made me a promise that tempted me to carry her little revolt through to the end. But then she died. Even I can’t call in a debt from the dead.”

  “What did she promise?” I said. “If we can help you, maybe you’d consider helping us in return?”

  Throebrand made a percussive choking sound; I backed up a step, expecting the world’s largest fur ball.

  “You?” he roared. “Vivian was sidhe garbage, but at least she was bound by a promise. Nothing can bind an iron-monkey.”

  “What’s the harm in telling us what she promised?” I said. “Worst case, we can’t help you either, and you’re no worse off.”

  “Except that your little Project now knows what I want and can use it to manipulate me. In other words, that thing you’re trying to do right now.”

  “All I want is to stop the carnage you’ve been causing, and the even worse destruction that’s going to happen thanks to Vivian’s plan. A plan you’re up to your ass in, apparently.”

  Slowly Throebrand’s mouth stretched into an ear-to-ear grin, exposing his yellow bear-trap teeth.

  “So you know what’s coming,” he said. “And you also know that there’s exactly squat you can do about it.”

  “Is there any point in even trying to explain to an Unseelie fey why it’s wrong to hurt innocent people?”

  “Nope,” he said, then made another scoffing hair-ball sound in Caryl’s direction. “You thought your pet monster would intimidate me, changeling?”

  “Wait, I’m the monster? Says the guy with shark teeth?”

  “You’re in Arcadia, Ironbones,” said Throebrand. “I belong here.”

  “Not in Skyhollow you don’t,” I said. “I may be an ignorant human, but I’ve picked up on that much. And if you won’t run after a carrot, that just leaves us the stick. I’m going to do everything I can to help Claybriar make an end of you.”

  The manticore’s horrible red eyes narrowed. “You know the queen’s so-called champion?”

  “You could say that. He’s my Echo.”

  Throebrand’s face went perfectly blank and his body still; even his tail stopped twitching. As shocked as we’d been when he first spoke English, it seemed I’d managed to turn it around on him. A series of expressions fought each other for control of his face, and finally he spoke in a careful, even growl.

  “What is it you want from me exactly?” he said.

  “Information. Also to stop attacking people.”

  “Define ‘people.’ I do have to eat.”

  “Uh . . . anything sentient?”

  “What qualifies?”

  “Just—don’t attack anything that could sit down with me for a game of cards, okay?”

  “You’ve just described every source of meat in Arcadia.”

  “Oh.” I scratched at my hair. “Uh, any chance of you going vegetarian?”

  “Nope.”

  I looked at Caryl. “This isn’t going well.”

  “When you say people,” Throebrand interrupted, “what you really mean are the damn sidhe. I might agree to leave them alone, for now, under certain conditions.”

  “And fauns,” I said. “I’m pretty sure I don’t want you eating fauns either.”

  “Fine. But I’d need something in exchange.”

  “Why do I have the feeling I’m not going to like this?”

  “I want to visit your world.”

  “Buh,” I said. “Uhhhh.”

  “That is impractical, to say the least,” Caryl filled in for me.

  “Those are my terms,” said the manticore. “Take them or leave them.”

  “That would be our cue to leave,” I said. “Nice talking to you, Smiley.”

  “Wait,” he said. “You said you need information. I have it.”

  “Information you had no interest in giving us until you found out Claybriar was my Echo. Why does that make a difference?”

  “Gee,” said Throebrand. “That sounds like information. And I’m pretty sure you’re not interested in dealing with me.”

  “Not interested enough to set an elephant-size predator loose on the streets of Los Angeles. Nothing you could possibly have to offer could be worth making a deal like that.”

  “You think that,” he said, grinning ear to ear again, “because you don’t know what I know, and how little time you have to figure it out.”

  “You know when they’re going to bomb the estates.”

  “Among many other, much more useful things.”

  I hesitated. “If you tell us when the bombings are planned, I will reconsider making a deal with you. Otherwise I’m walking right now, and we’re done.”

  “Halloween,” he said.

  “What the fuck?”

  “Yeah, I thought you’d like that.”

  “That’s—what, a little over a week, now? Jesus Christ!”

  Throebrand gave a massive leonine stretch, feigning a yawn. What a pain in the ass.

  Caryl looked thoughtful. “It makes sense. Without Vivian to give a signal . . . and some of them would not have a way of following a calendar. The convergence at Samhain would be a palpable event to them, a cue they could all act upon no matter where they were, and use to coordinate their strikes.”

  I considered Throebrand for a moment. “Not that I’m condoning it necessarily, but . . . could we even make a facade for . . . something like that?” I murmured.

  “I—am not certain. We couldn’t expect it to master bipedal movement in the time allotted.” Caryl tilted her head, studying Throebrand dubiously.

  “So give me four legs,” he suggested cheerily. “What sort of creatures do you have over there?”

  “Not very many that could just walk around L.A.,” I said. “Maybe a dog? A big-ass dog. Nah, I seriously doubt it.”

  “I don’t see why not.” Throebrand lashed his tail. “Pretty please? I promise to be a good doggie.” He gave me a horrible open-mouthed grin, showing all three rows of teeth.

  “There’s not enough nope in the world,” I said.

  “Hold a moment,” said Caryl. “This could conceivably work, if we had a promise of proper behavior and a willing facade crafter. Skyhollow’s people would of course have nothing to do with him. But perhaps I could persuade King Winterglass to contact the people at his High Court.”

  Throebrand bristled. “Sidhe usurpers,” he growled.

  “Beggars can’t be choosers,” I said, trying to hide how unnerved that simple display of aggression made me. “How long would this take, Caryl?”

  “I am not certain, as the entire process is known only to Dame Belinda and the High Courts. I do know that a human mind is required to create and hold the image, and the crafter must join with the human’s mind and make the image flesh, with constant feedback to shape the creation. Depending on how cooperative the various parties are, it could be anywhere from twenty-four hours to never.”

  “Worth a try,” said Throebrand. “Get me to your world, give me a little tour, and I’ll tell you exactly what the wraiths are up to.”

  “I don’t see that we have much choice,” I said. “If you promise not to attack any sidhe, fauns, or humans between now and Halloween, we’ll contact Winterglass and do everything in our power to make this happen.”

  “Pleasure doing business with you,” said Throebrand. He turned and began to stride away, t
hen paused to look over his shoulder. “Just make sure it’s a really big dog.”

  23

  The moment we got back, Caryl removed her curse on Phil, but either the paralysis had spread to his vocal cords or he’d simply decided never to speak to either of us again.

  “We have until Halloween to stop the destruction of Arcadian civilization,” Caryl explained to him. “I am sorry for taking drastic measures, but you had no right to prevent the regional manager from accessing the Gate, and I have not yet been officially removed from that position. Until Alvin officially takes over here, we are in a sort of Schrödinger’s box that makes it difficult to tell which of us violated the rules.”

  Phil responded to that by turning his back on us and sitting at his desk as though we weren’t even present.

  “If you want your phone back,” I said, patting my pocket, “you may want to cooperate.”

  “Keep the phone,” said Caryl. “If he reports us, Dame Belinda will further hinder our investigation, and that could cost countless fey lives.”

  “He can just use another phone.”

  “He would be in contract violation if he did so. We have already established that he will not risk loss of employment.”

  “He can get fired for using a different phone?”

  “Employee privileges and promotions are linked to behavior rather than diagnosis. Phone usage patterns are an important part of our evaluations.”

  “Just leave me alone,” said Phil.

  I knew he was going to be trouble, but it was already midnight, and we still needed to talk Winterglass into cooperating and get me home in time to grab a few hours’ sleep before work in the morning. So I contented myself with keeping Phil’s phone hostage.

  Luckily, Alvin had left Caryl’s car keys on their usual hook in the kitchen. Her SUV was still parked on the street; it had a ticket on the windshield from street cleaning two days before.

  The Omni was about ten minutes from Residence Four, but Caryl’s SUV wasn’t cleared to park in the hotel’s garage, which meant that by the time we even got to the front doors my lower back was a throbbing nightmare from dragging my prosthetic legs over five blocks of sidewalk.

  The hotel intimidated me with its grandeur, even (or maybe especially) in the dead of night. Its concave, modern facade was lit by a row of fan-shaped lights atop three-story columns; the lobby’s interior was a sprawling golden palace accented by arrangements of enormous red flowers. I felt like a gnat.

  Caryl and I didn’t speak in the elevator, and we slipped through the impeccable fourth-floor hallway toward the king’s room like a pair of thieves. Even if Caryl hadn’t known the room number I could have guessed which one was set aside for the Arcadia Project; at the very end of the hall stood a door with an old-fashioned wooden knob. Gently I rapped on the door, hoping it would be enough to wake Winterglass without alerting his neighbors.

  The king of the Unseelie came to greet us half-asleep, in what I was beginning to surmise must be the fey’s usual private mode of dress. I wish I could say this was the first time I’d been greeted by a stark-naked sidhe. I kept my eyes on his face, but that helped less than you’d think. He’d taken the clasp from his hair, and it fell forward to half veil one eye.

  “Sorry to wake you,” I whispered. “May we come in?” I stood aside so he could see that Caryl was there too. At the sight of her his sleep-dulled eyes brightened, and he moved back to let us pass. The room was softly lit and surprisingly minimal, decorated in shades of beige, gray, and slate blue. It wasn’t even a suite, just a king-size bed and the usual assortment of hotel furniture, all made from the finest woods and richest upholstery.

  Once he closed the door behind us, I returned to a more conversational volume. “Could you put some clothes on, please, Mr. Morozov?”

  Winterglass looked down at himself. “Ah.” His tone perfectly blended sympathy with contempt. He nabbed his dark trousers from the back of a chair with a swift motion of one leanly muscled arm. Turning his back to us, he stepped into them, hiking them gracefully up over his perfect ass and buttoning them before turning back around. He didn’t bother with a shirt, and I tried not to think too hard about the fact that he was going commando under there.

  “We’re going to need your help with a couple of things,” I said.

  “I promise nothing, but I am listening.”

  “First, Tjuan has been possessed again.”

  “Are you certain? How?”

  “I think it’s because you released the wraith in Arcadia. It was able to travel back to Tjuan’s corresponding location and essentially use him as a Gate. Because it had been in him before.”

  “But if they have that ability . . . this means—”

  “Yes.”

  Winterglass lifted his hand to cover his eyes, a picturesque pose of despair. He took a slow breath before lowering it, and when he did, his expression was calm. “I can disable the wraith the next time I visit the Residence. Was there anything else?”

  “We’ll need your assistance in getting a facade for someone,” I said. “A custom facade, in secret, and as quickly as possible.”

  “Are there not procedures for that sort of thing?” He was ostensibly speaking to me, but his eyes were on Caryl.

  “We can’t let the Project know,” I said. “I’m doing this behind Alvin’s back.”

  Winterglass frowned, lowering himself to perch on the bed. I remained standing, but Caryl seated herself on the edge of the chair his pants had just vacated.

  “This bodes ill,” the king said. “I am no criminal, to skulk about hiding my plans from my allies. Why the secrecy?”

  “To tell Alvin why we need the facade would require telling him that Caryl and I have already violated Project protocols. We had to do it; there wasn’t time to wrestle with bureaucracy. We found out we have until Halloween to stop the wraiths from destroying every noble estate in Arcadia.”

  “Halloween?” said Winterglass blankly.

  “The autumn convergence,” clarified Caryl.

  “Which happens in like a week,” I added. “So you see the urgency. What we’re asking is unprecedented, and I’d rather get forgiveness once we’ve saved Arcadia than riddle the place with holes while we’re waiting for permission.”

  After a moment’s icy pause, Winterglass exhaled, relenting. “Tell me what you need.”

  “We need the facade of a large dog. A facade the manticore could use.”

  Winterglass looked as though I’d slapped him. “Are you mad? You are. You’ve gone mad.”

  “No,” said Caryl gently. “I wish we had another option, but I was there. I spoke to the beast myself. It may be the best source of help.”

  “You let it speak to you?” His eyes smoldered with the first flames of a towering rage. “That thing is a savage beast mimicking speech to mock its betters. You’re both mad.”

  “No, we’re not,” I said as patiently as I could manage. “The thing—the manticore—Throebrand, he speaks perfect English. He’s apparently been working with Vivian for decades, and he was every bit as reasonable as any other fey I’ve talked to, which is to say, not very. But he has agreed to give us information about what Vivian was planning before she died. He knows everything, Morozov; he was part of it. But he won’t tell us squat unless we bring him here.”

  Winterglass rose from the bed, more than a hint of anger animating his lanky frame now. “This is idiocy. You play right into that animal’s claws.”

  “I don’t have time for your classist bullshit,” I said, my own temper fraying around the edges.

  I’d pushed it too far. I hardly had time to blink before Winterglass had me pinned against the wall. It probably hurt him more than it hurt me, but it was a little hard to think about that when I was staring into the fiery blue eye sockets of an antlered nightmare creature. I whimpered, and he let go almost immediately, raking one perfect hand through his inky hair.

  “That thing will never help you,” he said, moving away. “It is
distracting you with this—assignment so that you look the other way while it plots something foul.”

  “Distractions?” I said with a nervous laugh. “Plots? According to you, it’s just an animal.”

  “Animals can play tricks,” said Winterglass. “Wolves on the hunt work together to trap their prey. Birds lay eggs in other birds’ nests. And this beast wants nothing but our destruction.”

  “It’s the best lead we’ve got, Morozov, and you are the only person who can make this happen for us.”

  He turned to me, his eyes boring into mine. “I will not do it.”

  “You’d rather watch all your friends’ homes, probably even your own palace, disappear into an interdimensional void? You would rather the nobility of Arcadia be homeless? What do you think the commoners that you’ve spit on all these years will do to you once there are no walls to protect you?”

  “Do you think I am a fool?” he hissed, his entire body trembling with something that was beyond rage, beyond panic. “Do you think I do not know what they will do? I, who stood and watched my king bleed in the street like a dog?”

  I stood dumbly, not taking my eyes off him. “Caryl,” I said, “what is he talking about.”

  “Tsar Alexander II,” she said, her calm seeming out of place.

  “Narodnaya Volya,” Winterglass said, the Russian words bittersweet like dark chocolate in his mouth. “Rebels, you would call them. I have seen what the ‘will of the people’ will do. The tsar freed the people. The tsar had plans to remake the government to give them voice; he would not listen to me when I told him it was folly.”

  “You were pals with the tsar of Russia.” I suppose it shouldn’t have surprised me. “Was he your Echo?”

  His eyes suddenly filled with tears. He turned away from me and went to the window, pulling aside the curtain so that he could stand gazing out at the lights of the skyscrapers like some goth-girl’s fan art.

  “No,” he said. “Fedya was my Echo.”

  “Fedya?”

  “Fyodor Dostoyevsky,” said Caryl. “The novelist,” she clarified, as though I and not she were the one who’d grown up on another world.