by T. A. Pratt
“I discovered those stories when I began to research the site of your resurrection,” Pelham said. “ Some believe there are vast miles of hidden caves, containing temples and treasure rooms, beneath the valley. The claims of nine-foot-tall skeletons dressed in clothes made from animals unknown to science are... tenuous at best. Certain religious-minded conspiracy theorists believe the giants are nephilim, children of angels and men mentioned in the Bible as ‘giants in the earth.”’
“Why do those people get to be ‘religious-minded’ and my followers get called cultists? My people are worshipping an actual goddess, after all, so it seems unfair to –”
Pelham cleared his throat. “They wear black robes, and masks of hammered silver, and the only reason they don’t sacrifice animals constantly is because I told them you would disapprove of them presuming upon the power of death that is yours alone by right. They speak to the black spaces between the stars and cut abstract designs into their flesh with ceremonial daggers and drink blood. They are death cultists.”
“Okay. Point taken. I guess I’d better go review the troops.”
“Let me get my robe.”
I snorted. “Really? You wear a robe? Does it have little glow-in-the-dark skulls on it?”
“I do. And it does not. I find looking the part helps keep the cultists in hand.” He spoke in tones of infinite resignation. Pelham picked up a puddle of black cloth and draped it over himself, then covered his head with the voluminous hood. He looked like a background character from every 1970s horror movie about Satan worshippers.
“You lead,” I said. “You look the part, at least. I’m greeting my worshippers – what an asshole thing to say, I hate myself – looking like Pigpen from the Charlie Brown comics.”
“Emerging from a cave, with the dirt of the grave still clinging to you? They will be transported by ecstasy at the sight of you, Mrs. Mason.”
•
For some reason I’d expected it to be dusk, but it was blazing afternoon, and when I emerged from the cave behind Pelham I blinked in the sun like a cartoon mole. I heard the cultists before I saw them: a whish and swish of moving robes, and voices saying, “There she is!” and “The bride!” and “Bride of death!”
Once my eyes adjusted I could see them, about twenty-five figures kneeling or in some cases laying flat-out prostrate among the scrub growth on the ground before me. Most of them wore silver masks, simple circles blank except for two eye holes and a slit for a mouth, some surrounded by spikes that might have been meant to signify sun rays or knives or teeth. All those masks made me nervous. Even though I’d been kicked out of my city, I still had an authoritarian ruler’s distrust for people who hid their faces.
“My people!” Pelham’s voice was big and booming. He must have taken some drama lessons. “The goddess has awakened!” He looked at me. Pointedly.
I stepped forward. The gathering of cultists looked tiny and insignificant out here, in this dry and stony place, against a backdrop of low hills beneath a distressingly sprawling sky. The total absence of skyscrapers unnerved me, too. “So,” I said. “You’re my worshippers. I thought there’d be more of you.”
I meant it as a joke, but they moaned with one voice, like little kids who’d just heard mommy was disappointed in them. I tried to backpedal. “Hey, it’s okay, I’m new at the godhood thing, we’ve got plenty of time to grow...” Shit. What was I even talking about? I didn’t want more of them. I hadn’t asked for these people to come bother me in the desert, so why should I reassure them?
Pelham was wincing, and I knew I was blowing it. Once or twice in my life I’ve had cause to play the dominatrix, so I tried to draw on that experience. I stood straighter, put a sneer on my face, and said, “So. You think you’re fit to worship me?”
“Yes, Bride!” they answered.
“Mmm. I’m not convinced.”
“We will pluck out our eyes!” one shouted. “I would die for you!” called another. “Kill! Kill for you!” That last was a particularly large cultist, clutching his fists convulsively.
Way too heavy for me. “Killing and dying aren’t necessary. I’ve got the whole death thing covered. It’s kind of my wheelhouse. “
“Then how may we serve you?” said one of the cultists.
There were giants in the earth in those days, I thought, and had an inspiration for how to get them out of the way, and keep them from mutilating sheep or going door-to-door handing out pamphlets about my greatness. “I have emerged from the dark caves beneath this dry valley, a place named in my honor.” Kind of a stretch, there, but they didn’t seem to notice. “In those caves, there are artifacts, and treasures, and the remains of ancient races that lived before the rise of man. You will explore those depths, and map the secret places there, and by toiling in the dark in my service, better come to know my nature.”
Pelham cleared his throat. “Because the Bride of Death does not wish you to perish until a time of her choosing, you are to be very careful, and procure proper equipment before you descend.”
Oh. Right. Sending dentists and car salesmen into a dark pit was maybe not the best plan for their well-being, but give me a break, I’d just crawled out of a hole in the ground. Anyway, it was bad enough being a wife; I had no intention of being a mommy too. “My high priest will give you the details,” I said. I could see the RV, tan and white and as long as a yacht, parked beyond the cultists. Shower.
I held my head high and tried to step regally, weaving my way through the kneeling and sprawled cultists. They tended more toward averting their eyes and whimpering than trying to tug at my pant legs, so that was all right.
I opened the RV door and slipped inside. The place was tidy, as befitted Pelham, though it was also stiflingly hot. There was a big fruit basket with a card from Rondeau on the table. The thought of fresh fruit made me salivate immediately, despite how crammed I was with sandwiches, but cleanliness called more urgently. I looked at the tiny upright-coffin-sized shower and wondered how long the water tank would hold out. I figured I must might run it dry.
I stripped out of my filthy clothes, knowing Pelham would’ve brought a clean wardrobe for me – hopefully something other than a black robe and a silver hockey mask. As I turned on the water, I caught sight of something written on the inside of my left wrist. Small letters, recognizably my printed handwriting, but when I rubbed at the letters, they didn’t come off. Not ink, then – a tattoo. I had no memory of getting tattooed, which meant I’d acquired this bit of body art in the underworld.
The tattoo was just two words: “Do Better.”
I stared at it for a while before I stepped into the trickle of the shower and closed my eyes.
Do Better.
Aw, gods. That’s a hell of a thing to demand of yourself.
CITY OF GOLD
Once Pelham had mother-henned the cultists to his satisfaction, he joined me in the RV, sitting at the tiny miniature table across from me. I heard an engine start up nearby, and figured it was some of the cultists heading off to buy caving gear. Did they wear their silver masks in the camping store, I wondered? If they did, would anyone bat an eye? The desert had its fair share of weirdos, and some history of attracting cults. The Manson family had holed up in a ranch in Death Valley while they were hiding from the cops. Maybe the locals just shrugged this kind of stuff off.
I was comfy in a light silk shirt and loose cotton pants I’d found in a suitcase by the bathroom, but I wasn’t happy. I sat brooding over the latest note from myself – this one apparently deemed so important by my goddess-self that it became my first and only tattoo. “Did you see this shit?” I waved my arm at Pelham.
He squinted. “Do Better. It seems good enough advice.”
“At least it doesn’t say ‘fail better.’ That would be too pretentious for words. How long before we get to Vegas?”
“Three or four hours. The roads in this part of the valley are a bit primitive. There are some charms on the RV to help it negotiate the terra
in, but even so, the start will be slow.”
“Let’s get rolling, then. Life in the country doesn’t suit me.”
“This isn’t the sort of place I’d choose to settle, or even visit, under other circumstances,” Pelham agreed. He moved to the driver’s seat and began flipping switches and turning knobs. I dropped into the passenger seat – it felt like the captain’s chair on a starship – and twiddled with the vents until a blessedly cold blast of air hit me full in the face. I sighed and slumped. “That’s better.”
Pelham deftly maneuvered the big camper around the tents the cultists had pitched, and a few of the black-robed figures waved at me solemnly as we pulled away. I pretended not to notice them, since that seemed the bitchy, goddess-like thing to do. Watching Pelly happily drive away from all that bad weirdness made my heart a little lighter. “I feel like we should talk, since I haven’t seen you in a month,” I said. “Except for me it doesn’t feel like a month, it feels like a rough night’s sleep, so you’ll have to carry most of the conversation. What’s new?”
On the long drive out of the national park and onto the highway, he filled me in on recent events. Pelham had mostly been dealing with pushy cultists. Rondeau had sold his property in Hawaii and invested in a hotel in Las Vegas, which was his new headquarters for debauchery. That made sense to me – Hawaii was beautiful, but Maui had been a little too laid-back and Zen for Rondeau. The flashing lights and ringing bells and vulgar glamours of Vegas were a better fit for his personality.
Pelham had heard from a couple of friendly acquaintances back home in my old city, Hamil and the Bay Witch, though for understandable reasons he’d been vague about what I was doing with my time – no reason to spread around word in the sorcerous community that I’d ascended (or descended, more accurately) to a position of part-time power. Sorcerers were pragmatic opportunists as a rule, and even the ones I considered allies would be tempted to find ways for my new status to help them.
Me, I never liked calling in favors that way, not if I could help it. I know a few beings of unimaginable power, sure. A psychic named Genevieve who can reshape reality at a whim, for one. My old apprentice Bradley, who’d become something as far beyond a mere god as gods are beyond humans, tasked with preserving the integrity of every possible universe. (I didn’t envy him that gig, but talk about the student surpassing the master.) Hell, as far as it goes, I sometimes make out with the god of Death. I don’t like leaning on people who are stronger than me, though. I didn’t get where I am by letting other people save me. The best way to find out what you’re really capable of is to get stuck in an impossible situation and fight or think your way out of it. (Then again, last time I got into an impossible situation, I ended up dead. Don’t listen to me.)
We reached the outskirts of Las Vegas around dusk. I’d been there once before, in my mercenary days, but I was on a mission then, and hadn’t exactly taken in the sights. The place had a dusty, worn-down vibe on the outskirts (I kind of liked that part, honestly), but became increasingly plasticized and flashy as we got closer to the Strip, every establishment trying to outdo the others and grab the attention of the walking cash machines – I mean, tourists.
Pelham pulled into some kind of gated VIP parking garage at a place just off the Strip called the Golden Light Hotel and Casino. Not one of the monster luxury resort hotels, like a city in miniature, but no little shithole motel, either.
“Rondeau’s place?” I said.
“Half his,” Pelham said. “But the other owner is retired and lives on a ranch in Montana, so it’s mostly Rondeau’s to run.”
“I hope he has good pit bosses. Rondeau’s not exactly management material.”
“He did run a bar and nightclub for years,” Pelham said.
“Sure. But a casino’s not the same as a bar.”
Pelham chuckled. “That’s true. But it turns, out having a psychic running a casino is very cost-effective. No one gets away with cheating at the Golden Light.” We climbed out of the RV and headed into the building through a side entrance that Pelham unlocked with a key card. I have always had an abiding interest in shortcuts and back ways and secret passages, so I enjoyed passing through the tunnels used by the employees and staff, those gray corridors with cinderblock walls and ugly metal doors. We wound our way through the non-public portions of the Golden Light, passing showgirls with feathers on their heads and blackjack dealers in red vests and hyperkinetic maids and serious-looking gorilla-shaped men in dark suits. Pelham knew and greeted every single person by name, and didn’t even once try to introduce me to anybody, bless him.
Eventually we emerged from a door partly concealed behind an immense potted plant and stepped out into the lobby. “Why couldn’t we just walk in the front door if this is where we were going?” I said.
“I thought you’d enjoy going the long way,” he said. “Seeing potential escape routes.” I couldn’t argue with that. I wanted to resent the wasted time, but I couldn’t, quite. In one sense, time was short: at the end of the month I’d be going back to the underworld for another thirty days of service. But since I didn’t actually have any plans for what to do with my month on Earth beyond eating and taking showers, there was no harm in taking the scenic route.
The lobby was very golden, though of course none of it was actually gold. The floor was white marble, flecked with gold chips. The chandeliers gleamed a brassy yellow. The reception desk was black and gold. The ashtrays – because in Vegas, you can still smoke most places – were golden pillars so beautiful they could have passed as artifacts in a gaudy emperor’s tomb. Pelham led me to the bank of elevators – even the doors were reflective and yellowish – and once inside, he swiped a keycard and hit the “P” button.
I have to say, after crawling up out of the dirt, it was nice to smoothly ascend through a beautiful gleaming tower. Even if the whole place did stink of cigarette smoke and gambler sweat.
The elevator doors opened at the top of the building. The hallway here had only three doors, the pricy penthouse apartments, and Pelham led me to the farthest one on the right. Before he could swipe a card, the door swung inward, and Rondeau was there, arms outstretched. He looked the same as always – tall, lean, grinning like he knows a secret I don’t, which is so not the case – except that instead of some hideous vintage thrift-shop leisure suit or an Aloha shirt he was wearing a yellow silk robe with the name of the casino embroidered over the chest.
I consented to the inevitability of a hug – I’m not much of a hugger – and then wriggled free and walked past him into the suite. The place had the kind of impersonal opulence you find in fancy hotel rooms, all overstuffed white furniture and golden lamps and deep pile carpet and floor-to-ceiling windows, with a view of the Strip and – farther out – the desert. There was a cute half-naked guy sprawled on the couch, deeply asleep and faintly snoring, and a table heaped with room service trays that held everything from bunches of grapes to shrimp. Good. I was still hungry.
Rondeau pulled up a chair by the table and dropped into it, while Pelham tsked and found a blanket to throw over the unconscious man. “Marla! So how was life in hell?”
I didn’t answer him, at least partly because my mouth was full.
“She doesn’t remember anything.” Pelham joined us, plucking a single grape and squeezing it mistrustfully between his fingers before popping it in his mouth.
“Ah, right, like the letter from beyond said.” Rondeau shook his head. “Here I was, hoping for a few secrets of the afterlife. Not that I ever expect to actually go there, but I’m curious.”
I glared, then swallowed. “Should we be talking about this stuff with your boy toy over there?”
“Oh, he only speaks Danish. Even if he was awake he wouldn’t know what we were saying.”
“You had sex with someone and you don’t even speak his language?”
Rondeau shrugged. “The other guy speaks Danish and English, so there was a translator, it’s all aboveboard.”
“
What other guy?”
Rondeau looked around vaguely. “Huh. He was here a minute ago. I think he went to buy some cocaine.”
I rolled my eyes. “Cocaine? Seriously? I thought your psychic powers made you too delicate for drugs. Last I heard you couldn’t even drink espresso without getting the shakes.”
“Shakes, nightmares, the whole deal.” He grimaced. “Not being able to do stimulants is a pretty brutal downside to having insight into the deeper workings of the universe. Nah, the cocaine’s not for me, but the boys like to have their fun, and it sure does give them energy. I just told them I’m allergic to the stuff. At least I can still drink champagne. Speaking of, maybe we should crack open a bottle to celebrate your arrival before you head off on your mission, ha, head off, did you see what I did there –”
“Rondeau,” Pelham said. “She doesn’t remember anything. She doesn’t remember the head.”
Rondeau stared at him, then stared at me, then stared back at Pelham again. “Oh. Right. I didn’t even think about that. I had all these puns ready for nothing.”
I cut off a hunk of brie and smeared it on a hunk of bread. “All right. What’s all this about a head?”
Rondeau started to rise. “Oh, I’ll show you –”
“Rondeau!” Pelham said. “If you just show her, she might – well – it might not end well. It probably won’t even begin well. We have to explain first.”
“We have to explain to Marla something she told us to do?” Rondeau shook his head. “This amnesia crap is a pain in my ass.”
“Yours and mine both, brother,” I said.
Rondeau sat back down. “You sent me a vision. The ghostly skull of a dog.”
“Pelham mentioned that.”
He grunted. “But he didn’t tell you what the skull said, huh? Decided to leave that to me.”