Play Dead

by John Levitt

  EIGHTEEN

  SOMETHING KEPT BATTING AT MY FACE, BOTHERING me. I tried to push it away, but it kept up, raking my cheek and almost drawing blood. Finally I opened my eyes, but they wouldn’t focus. There was something there, though, insistent and annoying. Then I came to, just enough to realize it was Lou, pawing at me, scratching me with his long nails, trying to wake me up.

  “Enough,” I said, and closed my eyes again.

  The pawing stopped, only to be replaced by high-pitched barks right next to my ear, slicing through the haze and making the violent headache I had even worse. I opened my eyes again, and this time tried to sit up.

  I succeeded on the third try, feeling an immense sense of accomplishment. After resting awhile, I managed to make it all the way to my feet. I stood there, propped against the wall for support, until I felt well enough to walk. Which was a whole other experience.

  Malcolm was gone, of course. If I’d been a movie hero, I could have quickly shaken off the effects, figured out where he’d gone, and tracked him down, but real life is a little different. I could barely walk, and I was having trouble remembering where I’d parked the van, much less figuring out where Malcolm might be.

  I tottered outside, walking like a very old man. My head felt too heavy for my body, which felt fragile enough so that a good sneeze would break bones. Jackie must have tried a more powerful incantation from the book, and that must have made a significant rupture in the world’s fabric. God knows what might have slipped through this time.

  I looked up at the sky, wincing from the light. Gulls swooped and circled overhead. I watched one that was riding a current with enough skill to keep it stationary, like a hawk scanning a field for an unwary ground squirrel. It dipped and hovered, making constant subtle alterations as the wind ebbed and surged. It looked as normal as could be.

  Halfway back to the van, I remembered the other part of Malcolm’s explanation. Those who were not killed might well lose their talent. If true, that would be a change of epic proportions, and I wasn’t sure how well we’d all handle it. Victor would be hit the hardest. In his own mind, being chief enforcer of the magical community, unofficial though it might be, defined him. But maybe not. He was rich, after all, and had many talents, one of which is facing reality unflinchingly. Maybe he’d just shrug and start a new life and career, as a captain of industry or something.

  Eli would care the least. He loved teaching, he loved academia, and his only real regret would be that of having an interesting area of knowledge closed off, as if an earthquake had destroyed a priceless archaeological dig.

  Sherwood? I didn’t know. In many ways I didn’t really understand her, which says a lot about me since we’d been together for almost a year before it fizzled out.

  And myself? A sick feeling came over me. I’ve always liked to think of myself as a musician, first and foremost, with my magical talent a sideline. A wonderful thing, to be sure, but not intrinsic to who I am, not the thing that defines me.

  But my gut told me that was a lie. The thought of living out my life devoid of talent was unthinkable, horrendous. As many times as I’ve denied that to myself, it is who I am, as much as any of the others if not more so. And what about Lou? Ifrits find practitioners, and only practitioners. If my abilities vanished, was I still a practitioner? Would he stick around or would he slip away forever?

  When I reached my van I leaned up against it for a few minutes trying to gather myself enough to try a spell. My head was still muzzy, but I was beginning to be able to think again. I thought at first about a simple illusion to test if I still had my talent, but that wouldn’t tell me enough. Illusions take little skill and even less energy, and I wanted to try something more complex, to see if I still had all my power.

  Overhead, the gulls were still circling, riding the wind. I focused on one that was surfing in place, took the energy of the wind and the bird, and transferred it down to the sidewalk next to my van. I poured energy into one square, and waited. So far, so good; at least it felt right.

  A young couple, deep in conversation, passed by the van. As they entered the square I’d prepared, their forms wavered momentarily. Their legs kept moving but they no longer made any progress; instead, they remained in the same place like the gull overhead. For them the sidewalk had become a giant treadmill.

  They walked along, oblivious, but they were bound to notice sooner or later. I diverted the power and they passed by me, still talking. “I’m just going to wait him out,” said one. “After all, time is on my hands.” It looked like their conversation wasn’t going anywhere, either.

  At least I still had my talent. I climbed into the van, thankful to finally be sitting down, and drove slowly and carefully down the Great Highway until I reached Victor’s house.

  He greeted me at the door, looking terrible, one eye bloodshot with half the white turned red from a burst blood vessel.

  “You too?” I said. He nodded.

  “Passed right out. Sherwood, too. Eli fared better—for some reason, whatever it was didn’t affect him as much.”

  “That makes sense,” I said. “Are they both here?”

  He nodded again and looked at me impatiently. Usually it’s Victor or Eli who have to patiently explain what’s been going on, but this time it was the other way around. Timothy was hovering in the background, plainly worried. He of course has no talent and hadn’t felt a thing.

  “You look like you could use some coffee, Mason,” he said. “Come in the kitchen.”

  Coffee was exactly what I needed. I followed Timothy and Victor into the kitchen, and gave a weary wave to Sherwood and Eli. Maggie trailed behind us, giving me the feline version of the evil eye. She didn’t care for me much—it wasn’t personal; it was just that every time something unpleasant happened to Victor, I was usually involved. She ignored Lou and jumped up on the kitchen table, a favored spot.

  “Was Lou affected?” Victor asked.

  “Nope. Not as far as I know. Then again, I was passed out for a while.”

  “Maggie didn’t seem to be bothered, either. But since you called me right before it hit with a question about headaches, I’m guessing you have a theory about what’s causing this.”

  “Not so much a theory as some information,” I said. “How much of it is true, I’m not sure, but evidence is piling up.”

  I relayed what I’d seen at the zoo, and everything Malcolm had told me, right up to the point where I’d passed out.

  “What do you think?” I asked Eli. “Truth or dare?”

  “It all hangs together,” he said. “The type of thing Jackie is trying to do opens rifts, and the way we’ve been reacting each time is not a coincidence. And the headaches? I have less intrinsic power than any of you, and indeed I’ve been less affected—so yes, I think what Malcolm told you is accurate.”

  “What about the otter?” I said. “Or whatever it was?”

  “Clearly it slipped through a rift—as did those pseudo pigeons you ran into.”

  “But if the rifts stay open, why aren’t there more things coming through?” I asked.

  “I don’t think it’s easy for them. Relatively few things will come through, even with an open pathway. But the bigger the rift, the more traffic there will be—that stands to reason. And this last one worries me. If it affected us so badly, it’s got to be major.” Sherwood looked thoughtful.

  “And this last one affected us ten times as badly as the others,” she said. “But if Jackie has been flexing her muscles, and the resulting rift is huge, something is bound to have slipped through. So why haven’t we noticed anything?”

  Before anyone could answer, Maggie arched her back and uttered a low growl, almost exactly like Lou does to warn me of approaching trouble. Immediately after, there was a knock at the front door. Victor put out a hand to quiet Maggie and stood up.

  “It seems we have company.”

  Apparently so, but no one unexpectedly drops over to Victor’s house except the very people sittin
g around the kitchen table. He walked out of the kitchen, leaving us sitting there.

  “Any guesses?” I said.

  “A friend of Timothy’s?” Sherwood said. Timothy laughed.

  “Not a chance in hell.”

  Victor reappeared at the door of the kitchen with the visitor. I realized it was the only person it could be.

  Jessie.

  NINETEEN

  AS VICTOR STOOD IN THE KITCHEN DOORWAY, I saw something rare indeed. Victor, acting indecisive when faced with a situation. The logical thing to do was invite Jessie into the kitchen to join us. But on the other hand, the kitchen, like many kitchens, was also a refuge—informal and relaxed, speaking of hearth and home, a place for friends and trusted acquaintances to gather.

  Jessie was neither of those things, and bringing her into the kitchen felt wrong, like a violation of trust. She belonged in the study, a place suitable for friend and foe alike, as well as those who were neither. A place where civil formality ruled and where the conventions of manners work to keep things from getting out of hand. But what could he do? We were already assembled in the kitchen—should we all get up and troop upstairs to the study? Eli rescued him from his dilemma.

  “Jessica,” he said, standing up and pulling out a chair from the table. “So nice to see you again.”

  Jessie appeared to be exhausted, looking older than usual. I knew the reason why. She took the proffered chair and Timothy asked if she’d like a cup of coffee. She looked at him with puzzlement, since he clearly wasn’t a practitioner, but had other things on her mind.

  “Where’s Naja?” I asked.

  “At home.”

  After that exchange not another word was uttered. Eli kept up a steady gaze coupled with an inquiring expression, but Jessie was tough and didn’t lose her composure.

  “I guess you’re wondering what I’m doing here,” she finally said.

  “Could it have something to do with headaches?” I asked. Her expression didn’t change.

  “So you do know what’s going on, then.”

  “Most of it,” said Eli.

  Jessie rubbed her temple with one hand. “Well, I need help,” she said. “It turns out that not only has Jackie gotten herself in over her head; she’s become a real danger to the rest of us.”

  “So it would seem.”

  “I met with Jackie earlier today,” Jessie said. “Downtown.”

  So that was why Cassandra had been keeping a watch out. She didn’t trust Jessie, not in the slightest.

  “Jackie told me what she’s planning—tried to make me see her side of it. Still wants her mother’s approval, I’d guess, despite everything. She’s doing something very dangerous. I couldn’t talk her out of it, and I was just about to take stronger measures when she got a call. She dropped the phone, jumped up, and ran out of the room. She thought I’d set her up in some way—why, I don’t know.”

  “I’m afraid that was our doing,” Eli said. “We’d tracked her there, and she must have thought you had a hand in it.”

  “Oh, great. Well, whatever. But now she doesn’t trust me and won’t even talk to me. And we’ve got to find her. Those headaches you mentioned? They’re just the start. It’s bad, and going to be a whole lot worse.”

  “We know,” I said. She looked at Eli.

  “You know about the book she stole, of course?” Eli nodded. “And the other book, the second volume?” Eli nodded again.

  She stole a quick glance at Victor, trying to assess just how much we already knew. Even with this deadly situation, she was having trouble opening up. Black practitioners are paranoid by nature, or if they’re not, they become that way. They eventually start to view others as untrustworthy at best, if not actively malevolent, and their guard is always firmly in place. Right now one of her worries was that Victor might discover information and use it to gain an advantage over her.

  And she was still looking for an angle that would benefit her. It’s hard to give up habits formed over a lifetime, no matter how dire the circumstances. She wanted our assistance, but didn’t trust us enough to provide any of her own. I didn’t think she was going to be much help until Sherwood spoke up unexpectedly.

  “Jessie? You don’t know me—I’m Sherwood.”

  “Yes. I know who you are,” Jessie said, in a neutral tone.

  “I suppose you do, but you don’t know anything about me. But you do need to listen to me.” A guarded expression smoothed out Jessie’s face.

  “About what?”

  “Just listen,” Sherwood said, in a matter-of-fact tone. “I’m pretty good at reading people.” A slight smile of condescension appeared on Jessie’s face and Sherwood picked up on it immediately. “No, that’s not what I mean. It’s part of my talent; it’s a skill, just like someone who’s particularly good at healing spells. And guess what—despite evidence to the contrary, I’d say you’re basically a decent person.”

  “Why, thank you,” said Jessie, and I couldn’t tell if she was being serious or mocking.

  “But I can see you’ve got your own agenda. You want to know how much we know, what Victor is up to, and how you might turn that to your advantage. I get that. But this is different. We don’t know everything, but what we do know makes one thing very clear—if we don’t handle this situation quickly, we’re all in trouble. Every one of us, every practitioner, and that includes you and all your friends. Your honest help just might make the difference between success and failure, between living and dying, so it’s time to stop holding back and simply pitch in.”

  When Sherwood started talking I didn’t think she’d get through to Jessie. People like Jessie are impervious to mere words. Some patterns of behavior become so ingrained that they will die rather than change. Or maybe they just can’t change no matter how much they want to.

  If Victor had given the same lecture, it would just have put Jessie’s back up, but something about Sherwood’s speech was oddly compelling, even though it wasn’t directed at me. I found myself unconsciously nodding as I listened to her, and then realized this wasn’t just her common sense at play. Sherwood was using talent, a lot of it, but so subtly that it passed almost unnoticed. No compulsion, no emotional sway, but a total believability that made sense on a primal level. I picked up on it only because it wasn’t being directed at me; I was off to the side, just catching the backwash. This was slick indeed; it had to be to get past Jessie’s defenses.

  Good for Sherwood. She was using a con on Jessie, with the noblest of motives. I’d have to get her to show me how to do that in the future. If there was going to be a future. Sherwood continued on, her tone reasonable, convincing, and compelling. Jessie took a deep breath, let it out slowly, held both hands out, and breathed a word I couldn’t catch. Talent spilled out, and Sherwood’s voice now seemed flat, lacking its former magic, like reverb on an amp suddenly cutting out. It had fooled me, but it hadn’t fooled Jessie. Sherwood stopped speaking.

  “Very impressive,” Jessie said. “Delightfully subtle.”

  “It was worth a try,” Sherwood said ruefully.

  “Yes,” said Jessie, giving her a chilly smile. “But I’ve been around a long time, and I’ve seen it all.”

  I didn’t say anything. The moment Jessie put her talent in play, I recognized where I’d run across it before. It was that distinctive. She’d been the second practitioner in the Carlyle when the dead body illusion was crafted. So she’d hired me to find Jackie and then tried to throw me off the trail. I was finally beginning to catch on, but as usual, a day late and a dollar short.

  “But you know what?” Jessie said. “You didn’t need the talent. You’re actually right. It’s that serious.” She turned to Victor. “Just how much do you know?”

  Now the shoe was on the other foot. Victor wasn’t happy, either, about revealing his knowledge, and especially its limitations, to an enemy. He hesitated until Eli added his weight.

  “Victor,” he said.

  Jessie listened to Victor’s summary w
ithout interrupting. When he was done, she put her head in her hands. I don’t know if she was tired or whether her head hurt worse than the rest of ours. She had a reputation as a powerful practitioner, so maybe that was it.

  “You’ve got most of it,” she said. “There’s not a lot I can add, but if you have any questions, feel free.”

  “Something major just happened,” Eli said. “That’s why you’re here, after all. Another rift, or something worse?”

  “Another rift. Things have already poured through; we just haven’t seen them yet.”

  “I’ve got something to ask you,” I said.

  She saw that I was referring to something specific, which made her regard me with a certain wariness, but she shrugged.

  “Be my guest.”

  “The first time I tracked Jackie to the Hotel Carlyle, she pulled off an illusion that she was dead. To throw me off the track. But she had help. You. The question is, why? Why hire me to find her and then try to make sure I didn’t?”

  I expected her to deny it, but she didn’t blink an eye. She really must be worried.

  “Because I didn’t want you to find her, of course.”

  “Yeah, but why?”

  She hesitated, not so much because she had anything to hide, but more like she was embarrassed. Eli suddenly snapped his fingers.

  “Ahh,” he said. All heads turned toward him.

  “Jessica’s been agitating for a while now, insisting that it’s time for practitioners to make themselves known, to come out of the closet.”

  “So?” Victor said.

  “So, what if Jackie were to get hold of a book, and use that book in a way that opened up pathways? What would be the effect on society if a stream of bizarre creatures suddenly were roaming the streets? At first, denial and dismissal, but eventually ordinary people would have to accept that their past worldview has been severely limited—they could hardly do otherwise. And when the creatures became numerous and dangerous enough, guess who would need to come out into the open, to deal with them?”