Blood Engines

by T. A. Pratt

  “Well, that’s a relief,” Marla said. “And here I was worried you were going to try fucking my ghost. Or do you only do that to boy ghosts?”

  He waved a hand. “A ghost is a ghost is a ghost. They’re malleable—I can shape them into nearly anything I want. You told my colleague in Chinatown that you were here to find something—something Lao Tsung had?—and that then you’d be on your way. How can I expedite matters, and get you out of my city?”

  She crossed her arms. This was it. “I need access to a Cornerstone, and Lao Tsung told me there’s one here.”

  Finch just stared at her. “A Cornerstone,” he repeated.

  Marla ignored him. Verbal delaying tactics didn’t interest her.

  “Hmm,” he said. “It’s true that there is one in San Francisco—I’m sure you know that much already—and it’s true that Lao Tsung made use of it. In return for its use, he stayed here and acted as its guardian. But the stone itself…every use erodes it, Marla, and the making of such artifacts—if they were ever made at all, if they aren’t the gallstones or coprolites of a primordial god or something else supernaturally occurring—is lost to us. I can’t let you near the Cornerstone without a fantastically good reason.”

  The most fantastically good reason was that Marla wanted him to, and she’d pull his intestines out through his face if he didn’t do as she asked, but there was no need to get nasty and physical right away. Especially since Finch might have tricks of his own. “Erosion? Be serious. You could cast spells with the Cornerstone every day and it would still last centuries.”

  “We take the long view,” Finch said. “We want it to last millennia. It’s a civic resource. What spell do you need to cast that requires the power of a Cornerstone behind it?”

  “I need to cast a binding spell. An ironclad one that will last forever, and can’t be undone. The Cornerstone is the only way.”

  Finch frowned. “That’s rather vague. Aren’t there other options for you? I understand there’s a Cornerstone beneath the British Museum—”

  “No, the old chief sorcerer of London, Ballard, got his hands on that one; he crushed it up and ate it last year. Ingested its energy as it dissipated. Don’t you keep up with the international news? Now Ballard’s an immortal statue in some protected monastery courtyard, set to wake up and become flesh again when the last rain forest is destroyed. Then he’s going to summon the angry ghosts of all the devastated ecosystems and take over the world, or something, I forget what. Crazy idea, but it might work. I’ll be irredeemably dead by then, though.”

  “He ingested a Cornerstone?” Finch said, and from his voice, Marla couldn’t tell if he was horrified or impressed.

  Marla nodded. “Yeah, Ballard was a prick, but it’s not like the Cornerstone was doing any good under the British Museum before he got hold of it.”

  “No, but it wasn’t doing any harm, either, which is just as important. How do I know you don’t want it for…something horrible? I had another visitor some weeks ago, who wanted to use the Cornerstone for his own ends, and I turned him down, too—don’t take it personally. You aren’t as clearly insane as that man was, but still, I’m hesitant. Why should I trust you?”

  “This crazy guy,” Marla said, sensing the edge of a hunch. “Was he an older man, carrying a cane and wearing an old-fashioned beaver hat?”

  Finch frowned. “Very much no. He was young, and he wore snakeskin underwear.”

  Crap. So much for hunches. “Got him down to his underwear, did you?” She grinned.

  “Hardly. He didn’t wear anything else, except for an odd cape.”

  “Really.” That sounded like the same person who’d been seen arguing with Lao Tsung. “What was his name?”

  “It was something improbable….” Finch looked up at the ceiling for a moment. “Mutex. He called himself Mutex.”

  “Sounds like the name of a third-string super-villain.”

  “I expressed a similar opinion. He assured me it was a very old family name. He’s Central American, I think. Why do you care about him?”

  “The guy in Chinatown told me Lao Tsung was seen arguing with a guy in underwear and a cape, and if that same guy was here asking you about the Cornerstone, it’s reasonable to assume he was asking Lao Tsung about the same thing—”

  “I am aware of the connection, Marla, and we are investigating. This Mutex came to me first. When I rebuffed him, I suppose he somehow discovered Lao Tsung was the keeper of the Cornerstone, and went to him. It’s possible he was somehow involved in Lao Tsung’s death. As I said, we’re looking into it. There’s no need for you to involve yourself in our civic affairs. We’ve dealt with rogue sorcerers and inspired lunatics before. This Mutex, if he’s more than a simple madman, will be dealt with as well.”

  Marla gritted her teeth. She didn’t trust these people to wipe their own asses, let alone avenge her friend, but she knew that wasn’t a rational reaction. She just liked taking care of things herself. She found delegation difficult. “You’re right. It’s not my place, or my business, and I don’t intend to get involved. I just want to protect my city—that’s why I need the Cornerstone. I give you my word.” Inspiration struck. “And if I give you my word in the presence of the Cornerstone, you’ll know it’s the truth.” One of the peculiarities of a Cornerstone was that no one could lie if they stood within a few feet of it. In fact, Cornerstones reputedly led to a certain overly garrulous sincerity. Sorcerers weren’t comfortable around them for that very reason—when your entire life was built on keeping secrets and knowing things other people didn’t, a stone of truth could be rather intimidating.

  Finch began to crack his knuckles while gazing up at the ceiling. “I’m inclined to believe you,” he said at last. “I made some calls when I heard there was a sorcerer in town claiming to be a chief from back east. You certainly sound like the Marla Mason I was told about, and as far as I can tell, you’ve always been honorable—as honorable as our kind ever can be, at least. My sources in your city told me you were blunt, impatient, prone to violence, indescribably lucky, honest, formidable, and well respected. I suspect you didn’t bother to do any research about me.”

  Marla shrugged. “I figured I’d talk to Lao Tsung and be out of town by dinnertime. I didn’t expect this much interaction with the locals. Will you take me to the Cornerstone?”

  “I can take you in the morning,” he said. “I will require certain promises and payments in return, of course, and I wouldn’t mind having a formal ambassador in your city.”

  “What you’re saying is, I’ll owe you a favor.”

  “You’ll owe me a big favor.” He began to crack his toes, carefully, one at a time. “And not me, exactly. You’ll owe the city of San Francisco a favor. The Cornerstone is a civic possession, and letting you take a bit of its power puts you in the city’s debt.”

  “Fair enough,” Marla said. She didn’t like to be beholden to anyone, but without the Cornerstone, Susan would go ahead with her stupid, dangerous plan, and then Marla’s whole city would likely fall to pieces, so it was worth a few promises on her part, even if they were promises she’d be forced to keep. “So can you keep your friend in Chinatown from trying to kill me in the meantime?”

  “Oh, I doubt it,” he said. “But I hear you can take care of yourself. They told me you killed Somerset.”

  Marla nodded. “Why do you think they respect me so much back home? Somerset almost took control of the city again, after he died, but I handled things.”

  “Then my friend in Chinatown shouldn’t be a problem for you.”

  “What’s his name anyway?” Marla said.

  “He’s never told any of us,” Finch said. “He’s the oldest sorcerer living in the city, though I don’t think he was as old as Lao Tsung. Most call him the Celestial. He’s of the old school—he believes names have power, you know.”

  “They do,” Marla said. “But your true name isn’t what’s on your birth certificate, and anyone can use an alias.”


  “The Celestial believes that to name something is to limit it. He does not wish to limit himself. After you finish your business with the Cornerstone, and you officially owe the city a favor, he will be forbidden to harm you. In the meantime, though…” He spread his hands apologetically. “You’re just a tourist who pissed him off. Shall we meet here, bright and early, say 7 A.M.? I’ll take you to the Cornestone then, and you can be on your way by lunchtime.”

  “I’d rather go now.”

  Finch scowled. “You may not have noticed, but I’m soaking up the energy of several score romping bodies. I’m busy for the evening.”

  “Then just tell me where the Cornerstone is.”

  “No. I won’t have you carrying off my city’s major artifact.”

  Marla opened her mouth, started to protest, then stopped. “Yeah, okay. Fair enough. I’d do the same in your position.” How could she possibly sleep tonight, wondering if Susan was going to cast her spell? Her source had told Marla she had a day or two, but her source had been discovered. Still, that didn’t mean Susan could rush ahead and cast the spell early. It would require peace and meditation and preparation, after all, and Susan was probably a bit agitated after maiming Marla’s informant. Marla wanted to get her protective spell over and done with, but tomorrow morning was probably soon enough. It would have to be. She didn’t think she could beat the Cornerstone’s location out of Finch, especially not with all the energy he had to draw on from downstairs. “I’ll see you first thing tomorrow. I appreciate your help.”

  “I’m just doing what’s in the best interest of the city,” he said. “If I denied you, I doubt you’d go away quietly. I’m sure you’d do the same in my position.”

  “Probably I’d just kill me, if I were in your place,” Marla said.

  Finch nodded. “Oh, it crossed my mind to try, but I think I’d rather have you owe my city a debt. We can discuss more specific terms tomorrow. Go on downstairs, and enjoy the party.” He stood up. “And never burst into my private rooms again, or we’ll see which of us is really the better sorcerer.”

  Marla considered letting that go past, letting Finch get in the last word on his home turf, but it simply wasn’t in her character. “I don’t have to be the better sorcerer to turn you into a heap of meat and a bewildered ghost, Finch,” she said. “You might be a half-decent pornomancer, but I could feed your balls to you in a fight.”

  “Oh, please,” he said, and suddenly Finch was gone, replaced by a shaggy grizzly bear with ragged claws and a powerful stench. The bear, towering over her, cocked its head and yawned.

  Marla squinted at him. Illusions were easy, after all, if you knew what you were doing. Sight depended on the eye interpreting various wavelengths of light reflected from and absorbed by objects, and a talented sorcerer could make those wavelengths twist and bend in order to deceive the eye; sound was equally simple, requiring only minor variations in the vibrations of the air. Marla’s eyes weren’t like normal ones, though—with a bit of effort, she could see in the dark, and around metaphysical corners, and through illusions. She stepped up her vision, peering through to Finch’s true form…and she saw a grizzly bear.

  Finch had transformed himself into an actual (though certainly magically augmented) bear, and that was heavy-duty totemic magic. She whistled. “Wow,” she said. “Not just a pornomancer, but a dancing bear, too. You’ve got range, Finch, I have to admit. I bet you’re a lot older than you look, to have learned all that.”

  The bear was gone, and Finch was back, still yawning. “And you, Ms. Mason, are almost exactly the age you appear, I would wager. Don’t try to outclass your elders and betters, especially when we’ve already reached an accommodation. I’m sure you’re formidable, in your own little way—otherwise, you’d be of no use to my city—but I’ve been doing this a lot longer than you have.”

  Marla thought about reversing her cloak, but it would be criminally stupid to do so in this context, just to show off. She’d probably end up attacking him before she could flip the purple safely back to the inner lining. Besides, that wouldn’t prove anything—the cloak was a powerful artifact, but it didn’t have anything to do with Marla’s power as a sorcerer. It was just a weapon, and while Marla could do more with the cloak than someone with no experience could, it didn’t prove anything about her intrinsic abilities. She still thought she could probably beat Finch in a fight, but if she tried to prove that now, the whole house would likely as not come tumbling down, and with Finch crushed under a pile of rubble, how would she ever find the Cornerstone?

  Letting go of her pride when it conflicted with the best interests of her city was one of the hardest things about being chief sorcerer. She simply couldn’t engage in a pissing contest with this ghost-fucking bear. There was too much to lose.

  “Take me to the Cornerstone tomorrow, and I’ll get out of your pelt,” Marla said. “I’ll let you get back to ravishing the dead.”

  It was hardly an exit line for the centuries, but she’d had a long day, and it would have to do.

  Marla found B and Rondeau, still alone in the hot tub. Marla crouched behind them. “I thought you’d be hip-deep in some fan of yours by now, Bowman,” she said. “And you, Rondeau, why aren’t I pulling you off Zara and dragging you out of this party against your will?”

  “Zara was otherwise occupied already,” Rondeau said, glaring down at the bubbling water in the hot tub. “She’s an impatient woman with many strange and varied needs.”

  “Took off with another woman, huh?” Marla said, grinning.

  “No comment,” Rondeau said. He squinted at the house. “I note with interest that you aren’t on fire, nor are you a purple flurry of killing rage, so may I assume that Mr. Finch wasn’t home?”

  “You underestimate my diplomatic skills, Rondeau. Finch and I talked. And, admittedly, indulged in some typical primate dominance behavior. He says he’ll take us to…” She glanced at B, then back at Rondeau. “He’ll take us where we need to go tomorrow morning.”

  “You trust him?”

  “Rondeau, I’m surprised at you. Of course I don’t trust him. But I think he’ll do as he said. I’d cause him too much grief otherwise. Anyway, I expect to have my business done by tomorrow morning, and we’ll be out of here by tomorrow afternoon.”

  “I don’t think so, Marla,” B said. “You really should listen, I have these dreams, and something terrible is going to—”

  Marla sighed. “Listen, B-grade seer-boy, nobody ever taught you this, I guess, but there’s no such thing as destiny. You guys who see as through a glass darkly and all that, you’re just seeing possibilities, likelihoods, okay? You extrapolate beyond the limits of normal logic, or you get whispered at by various supernatural beings—and they all have agendas to promote and axes to grind, believe me, they don’t report in an objective manner—but you don’t know what’s going to happen. Maybe last night in your dream the best-case scenario was pretty goddamn awful, but things have changed now, and if you get hit in the head by a vision tonight, I bet you’ll see something different, like me and Rondeau getting on a plane and flying out of here, mission accomplished. Got it?”

  “I hope you’re right,” B said. “But if not, if I need to find you—”

  “You’re a psychic,” Marla said. “I guess you’ll just have to predict where we’ll be. Come on, Rondeau, let’s get back to the hotel. We’ve got to get up early. See you, Bowman. I’ll try to catch one of your movies on DVD when I get back home.”

  “Take it easy, B,” Rondeau said. “And don’t take it personally. Marla just does things her own way.”

  “Otherwise known as ‘the right way,’” she said, and waved a hand to dispel the soft keep-away spell she’d cast on the hot tub. People started heading for the water right away. She stood up, and Rondeau clambered out of the tub. They headed for the door, leaving B behind.

  7

  B efore Rondeau and Marla had walked a block from Finch’s house, a man stepped out of an alleyway and bl
ocked the sidewalk in front of them. He was broad-shouldered and short, a squat bulldog of a man, wearing what looked like a black karate gi. Marla and Rondeau moved to walk around him, and he slid over to block the way.

  “I hope you’re a mugger,” Marla said, cracking her knuckles. “I’ve only whipped one ass so far tonight, and I could go for another.”

  “You should look for easier pickings,” Rondeau said cheerfully. “She’ll use your head for a punching bag.”

  “My master sends his greetings,” the man said. His voice was formal, and he spoke with a faint Chinese accent.

  “You work for the Celestial?” Marla said. “Have you come to drag us back to his lair, or just to kill us?” Rondeau was, prudently, stepping back, putting Marla between himself and the other man.

  “My name is Ch’ang Hao. What is your name?”

  “Your master didn’t tell you that?”

  “I prefer introductions to be made personally,” he said, bowing slightly.

  “Call me Marla.”

  “And your associate?”

  “We’re not at a cocktail party, Ch’ang Hao,” she said. “State your business, throw a punch, or piss off, okay?”

  He spoke past her, to Rondeau. “I regret the necessity of committing an act of violence against someone to whom I have not been introduced,” he said, voice heavy with genuine regret. “It smacks of mere thuggery, a condition to which I never wish to sink. But, alas, circumstances are what they are. I—”

  Marla threw a punch at his throat.

  He blocked, knocking her hand aside, without even pausing in his speech. “—will do as I must.” Bowing again, he slid his right foot back and brought up his hands, assuming a defensive stance.

  “Get back, Rondeau,” she said, and slid into a stance of her own. It had been a while since she’d used martial arts for real, and she hoped she hadn’t lost the knack. Actually fighting someone was quite different from practicing at the gym or her friend Master Ward’s dojo.