All Those Explosions Were Someone Else's Fault

by James Alan Gardner

  I giggled.

  “You’re supposed to be impressed!” He slumped back to his bedraggled ghost form. “I knew you wouldn’t be.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I can take other shapes,” he said. “They’d scare the piss out of you. Seriously.”

  “Even with my natural resistance?”

  “Don’t tease. I mean, come on, you must have natural resistance. You’re talking with me like normal, despite my Shadow. Other commoners—I mean anyone who isn’t a Darkling or a Spark—my Shadow’s effect is intense.”

  I didn’t answer. I knew full well that Nicholas’s Shadow might terrify most people—not just provoking the usual unease, but outright panic. Some Darklings are like that. But I felt nothing except pity. Pity for a boy who looked like something the cat had killed and who hadn’t been able to talk to real, live humans since he’d Converted.

  Perhaps the pity showed on my face. He suddenly looked offended. “I should go.”

  “Why?”

  “Because my Shadow will get to you eventually. It gets to everyone. If you start screaming, the police will come and catch you back here.”

  “So what?” I said. “The police have been ordered to let us go. By that Darkling woman. Do you know who she is?”

  Nicholas shrugged. “She’s likely with the government.”

  “But what department? What agency?”

  “You know as much as I do.”

  He turned away toward the window. A pair of venetian-blind slats spread wider apart to give him a better view; he didn’t touch them, they just spread on their own. His eyes raised up toward the moon. “I really have to go,” he said. “Sorry for all this.”

  “Why?”

  “You know. Darklings and coincidences. The universe loves to orchestrate surprises for us.”

  I nodded. Darklings and Sparks experience coincidences at a much higher rate than normal humans. Supposedly, it’s because the forces of Dark and Light play hell with probability—they just love to create drama. So: sudden confrontations. Flukes, reversals, and bombshells. The Dark and the Light use lesser folks like me to get a rise out of important players like Nicholas.

  Oh well, I thought, at least I wasn’t killed and crammed into his fridge.

  Not yet, anyway.

  “I have to go,” he said again. This time he really did leave. He passed straight through the glass of the window, as unhindered as the moonlight.

  AT LEAST HE HADN’T SAID, “NICE SEEING YOU.”

  At least he hadn’t said, “Why don’t you give me your number?”

  At least he hadn’t shaken my hand good-bye.

  Then again, he was a ghost; maybe he couldn’t shake hands. Or maybe when I felt his icy touch, I’d lose my mind with fear and my hair would turn white for real.

  Heh.

  I STOOD ALONE IN THAT DARK OFFICE AND ASKED ALOUD, “DO I STILL LOVE HIM?”

  The answer was no. Kimmi had loved him. Kimmi was gone.

  Almost.

  As for my current self, I had no idea whom Kim might love. It hadn’t happened. Kim had sometimes said, “Oh, he’s cute. Oh, she’s hot.” But love? Kim didn’t go there.

  Not yet.

  I didn’t love Nicholas, but I was caught on him, the way the strap of your purse can get caught on a doorknob as you’re trying to race out of a room.

  I GOT BACK TO THE LOBBY WITHOUT BEING SPOTTED

  I might have looked rattled, but no big—being interrogated could do that. Then I imagined Jools saying, “You look like you’ve seen a ghost,” and I almost broke into hysterical laughter.

  I choked it down. Cool and composed. None of the others raised a peep. A uniformed cop stood with them in the lobby; she’d just announced we were free to go. The others leapt to their feet, eager to get out of the station. Jools tossed me my coat. “Let’s bounce.”

  With a deadpan expression, the policewoman said, “Thank you for coming in. Have a good night.”

  “Merry Christmas,” Richard said. Shar hustled him out the door.

  4

  Daylighting

  WE STOPPED ON THE SIDEWALK AS SOON AS THE STATION ENTRANCE WAS OUT OF SIGHT

  We leaned back against the building, as if we’d just finished a race and needed to catch our breaths.

  “Wow,” Richard said, “I was afraid they’d lock us up.”

  “I think they wanted to,” I said, “but they were ordered to kick us loose.”

  “Ordered by who?”

  “A Darkling woman. A vampire, I think. Didn’t you see her?”

  “I didn’t see anyone,” Richard said.

  I looked at the others. They shook their heads.

  There were only two ways for that woman to reach the interrogation room: She could have gone through the lobby past my roommates, or come from the back of the building past Nicholas. She might not have seen him because of the Ignorance spell, but if I could beat the spell, a Darkling could too.

  Maybe the woman was so distracted she hadn’t noticed. Or maybe she and Nicholas had an “understanding” even though he’d denied knowing her.

  “Tell us about this vampire,” Miranda said. She glanced back at the station. “No, I take that back. No talking till we get home.”

  “We can’t go home,” Richard said. “We still have to pick up the stuff from my lab.”

  Miranda snorted. “You won’t get into your lab. The building will be locked down. Crawling with crime scene investigators.”

  Shar took Richard’s arm. “There were explosions, my sweet, and a toxic gas release. The authorities won’t let anyone inside until they’re sure it’s safe.” She glanced at Miranda. “That includes crime scene investigators. No one in or out except safety inspectors.”

  “Fair point,” Miranda admitted.

  “I still have to pick up the van,” Richard said. “If I don’t, my parents will kill me.”

  “Dude,” Jools said, “it’s been, like, two hours. Your van’s been towed.”

  She was likely right. UW was ruthless when it came to towing cars. An unattended van at a loading dock would be long gone.

  “Maybe the tow trucks are off for Christmas,” Richard said.

  “Forget the tow trucks,” Miranda said. “Worry about the police. What do you think they’ll do with a van illegally parked near a crime scene? There’ll be sniffer dogs all over it.”

  Richard moaned. “Sniffer dogs!”

  “Let’s not jump to conclusions,” Shar said soothingly. “E3 is only a few minutes away. We’ll check if the van is still there.” She glanced at Miranda. “And if it’s gone, you can say, ‘I told you so.’”

  “I never say, ‘I told you so,’” Miranda lied. But she turned toward E3 and set out at full speed. I had to hurry to keep up.

  THE CAMPUS SEEMED EVEN MORE DESERTED THAN BEFORE

  No lights in any building. Not a single car on the ring road. Nothing in the nearby parking lot except three university trucks parked side by side. They’d sit there unneeded till January.

  The sky was clear, with cold, hard stars and the full moon rising. Good night for a ritual, I thought. Melodramatic events like the solstice and eclipse made magic more effective, if, say, you were trying to open a magic portal. To a science student, the solstice and eclipse were just astronomy, but to the Dark, they were powerful mystic woo-woo.

  But why did the Darklings want a portal in the first place? And how was the Mad Genius machine involved? That was Cape Tech, not magic. The two didn’t go together.

  And the million-dollar question: How was Nicholas involved?

  He was a Vandermeer, first, last, and always. He wouldn’t travel all the way to Ontario and snoop around a police station except to serve Vandermeer interests. Mind you, they had a lot of interests—political, commercial, and sorcerous. His family had a serious hard-on for power in government, business, and the factions of the Dark.

  Something big, dark, and nasty was unfolding in Waterloo, and the leaden hand of coincidence had dragged
me into it.

  My knee-jerk reflex was to say, “This sucks.” Isn’t that how you’re supposed to react when you’re snarled in somebody else’s mess?

  But actually, I was grinning. The game’s afoot, bitches! Tally-fucking-ho.

  I could feel a new Kim coming on.

  RICHARD SAID, “WHY DO YOU KEEP LOOKING AROUND?”

  He was talking to Miranda. She said, “I expect to be jumped any second.”

  “By who?”

  “Darklings.”

  Richard surveyed our surroundings. We were on a broad sidewalk that ran beside the ring road. Fifty meters of open lawn separated us from the nearest building: no trees, no bushes, nowhere to hide. Richard said, “I don’t see any Darklings.”

  “You wouldn’t, would you? Until it’s too late.”

  “Why would Darklings jump us?”

  “To keep us quiet,” Miranda said. “Why do you think they forced the cops to let us go? They couldn’t attack us as long as we were in the police station.”

  “Wow,” Jools said. “Paranoid much?”

  Miranda glowered. “Just wait till someone puts a bag over your head.”

  “Why would they?” Jools asked. “We’ve told the cops everything—at least I did. It’s too late to shut us up. And if the five of us get whacked, the police will go ballistic, not to mention the media and every student on campus.”

  “What if we’re found back home, dead from poisoned Kool-Aid? With a suicide note saying we bombed the lab to get Darklings in trouble, but when the cops wouldn’t believe us, we decided to end it all.”

  Jools thought for a moment. “They’d have to plant evidence: the materials for making a bomb, stuff like that. Also a trail of where we bought what, and witnesses who’ll say they saw us. Lots of room for mistakes and loose lips.”

  Miranda said, “The Dark could just brainwash us. Use their powers to make us confess. Hell, they might make us truly believe that we planted a bomb.”

  “Risky,” Shar said. “Some heroes of the Light can detect psychic tampering. Can you imagine the backlash if Dark manipulation were discovered?”

  “Why would Sparks even think to check us for tampering?” Miranda asked.

  “Why would Darklings bother to brainwash us?” Shar countered. “The damage to that lab … how much would it cost to repair? Perhaps a hundred thousand dollars? To a Darkling, that’s pocket change. Someone could pay off the university, and everyone would pretend the explosions never happened.”

  “Now you’re talking,” Jools said. “Forget brainwashing. Toss me enough cash, and I’ll confess to anything.”

  “Not me,” Miranda said. “I would never—” She froze midstep.

  So did the others. As did I: as if my body had turned to stone.

  I WAS CONSCIOUS AND CLEARHEADED

  I just couldn’t move.

  Fucking magic. Nicholas, you dick, let me go!

  I couldn’t be sure it was him, but it didn’t matter. Whoever was responsible, I had to break free.

  I pushed and pulled. It was like being trapped in cement. I could breathe, but only a little.

  Sips of air weren’t nearly enough to handle the panic flaring inside me. Claustrophobia. Immobility. I go crazy at being confined.

  The one constant in my life.

  WHEN I WAS TEN, I WAS KIMBERLEY

  Back then, I didn’t ask questions about who or what I was. Kimberley was conventional. So of course, I had a best friend; her name was Hannah.

  Hannah’s parents enrolled her in judo. Soon enough, she did that thing done by every new martial arts student. “Hey, I learned something cool. Want to see?”

  Kimberley was so naive, she said okay.

  Next thing I knew, I was in a submission hold—all scrunched up, too cramped to breathe. I wanted to cry, “Stop, you’re hurting me!” but didn’t have enough air.

  Hannah kept asking, “Do you give?” and I couldn’t even tell her I surrendered. I was panicked, frantic, and smothered. I thought I was going to die.

  Something snapped inside me. I went berserk.

  I don’t know how I got free—Hannah had just learned the technique, so maybe her grip was a little off. But suddenly I was out of the hold, and scratching, biting, screaming, out of control.

  Most kids hold back when fighting, even if they’re desperate. I didn’t. Something extreme inside me knew no restraint.

  Eventually, Hannah’s parents pried me off her, but I don’t remember that. I don’t remember anything but the frenzy.

  Afterward, Hannah had to go to the hospital. I had to go to counseling. We never spoke again.

  NOW ON THE SIDEWALK, I HAD NO ONE TO ATTACK

  I couldn’t even thrash around—my body refused to respond. But mentally, I was feral, writhing and wild.

  Again, something snapped inside me. A barrier broke. The world changed.

  NIGHT BECAME DAY

  The dark campus flooded with light, as bright as a football field lit for a night game.

  The sky remained black and scattershot with stars, but the ground lost all shadow. The buildings cast no shadows on the dead winter grass. No shadows either from the five of us on the sidewalk. I could see through every window in every building; every office was lit as brightly as the aisles in Walmart.

  Every window. Every building. Three hundred and sixty degrees.

  I saw simultaneously in all directions: north, south, east, west. Up and down too. It wasn’t like looking through a fish-eye lens—I saw clearly, without distortion. It should have been overwhelming. Instead I felt a sudden relief, as if my head had been clamped in a vice since the day I was born, but at last I’d been released. As if all my life, I’d watched my surroundings on the tiny screen of a phone, but finally I’d thrown the damned thing away and looked at the world directly.

  My panic eased immediately. I still couldn’t move, but the feeling of openness banished the sense of being locked in.

  My new perception felt natural: the way I should have been seeing all along. But of course, I realized it was a superpower.

  It’s hard to feel helpless when you realize you’ve become one of them.

  MY SUPER-SIGHT DIDN’T JUST SHOW THE PLAIN VANILLA WORLD

  I also saw things that were previously invisible.

  Five thick gray tentacles stretched through the air in front of me. They looked like the arms of an octopus, except that instead of suction cups, the tentacles oozed with raw red pustules. Each one of us there on the sidewalk had a tentacle embedded in our skull. My new sense of sight meant that I could actually see the top of my scalp where a tentacle passed through the hair and bone without hindrance. If I concentrated, I knew I could track the tentacle all the way into my brain.

  But instead, I aimed my vision in the opposite direction. My viewpoint moved like a tracking shot in a film, following the tentacle back to its source … except that my “camera” wasn’t limited to seeing straight ahead but showed a full 360 degrees with perfect lighting. As my viewpoint moved away, I could see myself recede in the distance: another out-of-body experience like back in the lab, but this time I felt fully in control.

  I could see more clearly than ever before in my life. As Kim, I wore bottle-thick glasses. As Kimmi, it had been contacts. But the new whoever-I-was saw better than 20/20 with no artificial aids.

  (Sorry, Mom, I thought. My mother is an optometrist. Her definition of being a good parent is strongly bound up with my eye care. If I could suddenly see without glasses, she would say she was happy, but she’d feel bereft.)

  ALL FIVE OF THE GRAY TENTACLES LED BACK TO A BLACK LEXUS

  It was parked and idling on a nearby service road. The parking spot was mostly hidden behind a building, but the car had a clear line of sight on the short patch of sidewalk where we stood. Anyone going from the police station to E3 would have to pass through the car’s field of vision. We’d been grabbed as soon as we came into view.

  The tentacles passed through the windshield of the car as
easily as they passed through the skulls of my roommates and me. Ectoplasm, I thought. Nicholas, you dick!

  But I was wrong about who was responsible. My new sense of sight could penetrate the windshield as easily as the tentacles could. I thrust my viewpoint inside and saw who was really attacking us.

  THE CAR HELD ONE MAN, ONE WOMAN, ONE OTHER

  The driver was male, apparently human, and tough looking: the kind of bruiser that Darklings hired as “special assistants.” Ex-military or ex-cop. Good at Getting Things Done. He might have been a full-blown Renfield—made faster and stronger by drinking Darkling blood—or he might have been unaugmented: less powerful but free of the physical and mental aberrations that Renfields inevitably developed. Either way, he was a hard man (as the British say) but not so thuggish that he couldn’t be house-trained. Darklings needed employees who behaved themselves at soirees.

  I took one look at the man, then ignored him. He was only the help.

  On the car’s passenger side sat a demon connected to the ectoplasm tentacles. His skin was elephant gray, but speckled with weeping red pustules. The five biggest buboes were the roots of the gray tentacles: two sprouting from his forehead like long phallic horns, two more growing out of his cheeks, and the last going all beanstalk from the point of his chin.

  The base of each tentacle leaked oily wet goo that dribbled down the demon’s face and spilled off his jaw onto his clothes. With supreme bad planning, the demon had chosen to wear a cream-colored suit. The goo made greasy stains on the fine linen.

  Too bad. This tentacle-sprouting douche had paralyzed us with demon magic. He deserved a lot worse than an inflated cleaning bill.

  A WOMAN SAT IN THE BACK OF THE CAR

  She leaned forward, one hand on the demon’s shoulder, as if eager to be part of what he was doing. Her hand was gloved; in fact, she was covered from head to toe. The woman’s clothes matched the wedding outfit worn by the “bride” I’d seen in E3—long gown, elbow-length gloves, chiffon veil fully covering face and hair. But this outfit was black instead of white. Not a bride: a widow.

  Instinctively, I had known that the Bride’s face was monstrous. The same instinct told me the Widow was worse. I didn’t know what seeing her face would do to mortals, but it would be terrible beyond comprehension.