Hexomancy

by Michael R. Underwood

  “Only if you allow me to ply you with my tea collection as we go. There is an oolong that I believe may be the perfect companion to a snowy day of reading.”

  “As long as I can still start my day out with espresso to hit my caffeine baseline.”

  “I would think that goes without saying.”

  They turned the corner as a male voice cried out from down the street, a scream of pure panic. Not just mugging panic. Twenty bucks said this was monster action.

  “I think this might have to become retroactively not a date.”

  “Well, we could always abandon our self-appointed sacred duty and leave him to his fate,” Drake said, checking his rifle.

  “Yeah, because that’s going to happen,” Ree said, pulling out her lightsaber.

  “After you.”

  Ree dashed down the street, and Drake followed.

  Chapter Nineteen

  Welcome Back, Cowboy

  Spring

  Ree leaned back in her bed, a bulletproof smile on her face. “So then, he says, ‘Your moods are more mercurial than tropical storms, more beautiful than the triple sunset over the Ajerian horizon.’ ”

  “What’s an Ajerian?” Ree’s dad asked.

  “Hell if I know, but I’m pretty sure he meant it as a compliment, so that’s how I’m taking it. He still doesn’t get half of the things I say, so it’s only fair that he get to drop references I have no fucking clue about.”

  “And it’s not like he’s wrong about your moods,” her dad said. His voice dropped, and she could hear the shadow pass over his face. “That’s your mom coming through.”

  For the hundredth time, Ree’s heart broke for her dad, who still didn’t know what had happened to his wife, Sionnan Reyes, aka Branwen nic Catrin—the late Jedi of Pearson. As far as he knew, she’d just run off, leaving him alone with Ree.

  But she’d gone off to resume her Geekomantic career, eventually dying years ago under mysterious circumstances that threw her straight into the clutches of the Thrice-Retconned Duke of Pwn, Dork Lord of Hell. And in between running away from home and getting killed, she had shacked up with Eastwood for several years. You know, just your standard midlife crisis.

  And while she’d come clean to her dad about basically everything else about her magical life, Ree had kept this part a secret. Her dad was dating again, had a good thing going with an economics lecturer at IUPUI. He didn’t need the gaping wound of his wife ripped back open with phosphorous and brimstone thrown into the gap for bad measure.

  “Yeah, go Mom,” Ree said, matching her dad’s tone. “But he takes me as I am, and I take him as he is. We’re a walking romantic comedy, but it works, largely by actually communicating about shit that bugs us instead of flouncing off and requiring a song-and-dance to be won back.”

  “Have you learned nothing from John Hughes movies and Love Actually?” her dad asked, the sarcasm as thick in his voice as red sauce on his enchiladas. Her dad positively drowned his enchiladas. So much that Ree was always a bit disappointed whenever she had them out in the world and she could sometimes actually see the tortilla through the sauce.

  “I learned plenty. If I were a Cinemancer, I could make my life a romantic comedy, but unless I want to channel My Super Ex-Girlfriend all the time or try to base my relationship on the hate, bicker, love arc of The Empire Strikes Back, I’m strangely stuck being a grown-up about the whole thing.”

  Her dad laughed, a deep belly laugh. She could imagine him crossing his arms as he did it, the way he’d done a zillion times before. “Who are you, and what have you done with my daughter? Are you a changeling? I can call Grognard and put together a search party.”

  Note to self: Need to visit home soon. Maybe bring Drake?

  A shiv of worry hit her in the gut. Shit. What about his parents? He doesn’t mention them. Never mentions them. Will he ever be able to see them again?

  “What can I say? I’ve matured. When you’re dating a temporally- and dimensionally-displaced Steampunk Technomancer, you have to work a bit harder to be grounded. Plus, he gets on really well with the Ladies, even Priya. I mean, as well as you can get along with your current girlfriend’s best friend, who is also your ex.”

  “Again, you’re not really living a romantic comedy.” Her dad waited a beat. “It’s nine here. Didn’t you need to head off and pick up Eastwood?”

  Ree pulled her phone away from her head to check the time. “Shit, yes. I promised Grognard I’d help him clean up and come down to the bar for a welcome-back party. Thanks for chatting, Daddy-o.”

  “Love you, Ree-bee.”

  “Love you, too,” Ree said, sighed a smiling sigh, and hung up. She launched herself off the bed and grabbed her already-prepped bag, heading out the door.

  Eastwood was in strangely good spirits when she arrived at the Dorkcave.

  He’d shaved, even, his beard as well groomed as she’d seen since the trial.

  “I spent two months in traction. You get to missing things—like feeling human. And plus, an old friend is in town. She’s coming by Grognard’s tonight.”

  That was news to her. “Oh, yeah? What kind of old friend?”

  Eastwood’s blush told her exactly what kind.

  “Oh, yeah? Who is it? Dish.” Ree’s gossip-mongering overpowered her anger at Eastwood, which, to be fair, had mellowed over the months since Lachesis’s hit had nearly left him six feet under. The third Strega was due soon, and the law of threes plus the Billy Goats Gruff vibe had her looking over her shoulder in a big way.

  Lachesis, bonkers as she was, had been very clear about how much bad news Atropos was. And considering how rough Connie and Lachesis had been, whoever took up their Atropos spot was likely to earn the label of The Heavy.

  Hence the party, a full week before the equinox.

  Even so, Eastwood was loaded for bear. His Han Solo vest was packed with several sideboards, his psychic paper, and Gygax only knew what else. His trench coat was crisp, and practically glowed with magical protections. The cowboy look was strong with him; no doubt he’d cleaned up for his old friend.

  The trip through the unseasonably warm spring and down into the humid sewers passed without incident, and before she knew it, they were knocking on Grognard’s still new-seeming door.

  The zillion-times-warded steel door swung open. The bar was as crowded as it had been during the grand reopening, if not more. The regulars had come back right away, but it took a few months after that for the casual patrons to drift back in, for new folks to join the circle after making connections at the Midnight Market.

  “Eastwood!” they shouted in unison, channeling Cheers.

  Ree took the stein that Uncle Joe had been holding, waiting by the door as Grognard’s plan demanded. She handed Eastwood his stein, and he raised it to toast the assembled.

  At the bar, Grognard was also in his best, an unbuttoned vest lying open over his Deathmøle T-shirt.

  Sheesh, everyone shaved, Ree noted. Uncle Joe was put together, and Chandra was wearing makeup (aside from eyeliner). Talon was the same as ever, thank goodness.

  The crowd shifted, and Drake emerged without moving. Thanks to the neurochemical joys of limerence, the room brightened. Ree felt three inches taller, walking on platform shoes made out of giddy.

  She had it bad. And it felt awesome. A permanent +2 morale bonus on basically every roll, ever.

  Drop salsa on her shirt? Meh. Miss the bus? Whatever. Monster popping out of the sewer? That’s what lightsabers were for. She didn’t know if the neurochemical hack would be permanent, and suspected that at some point, it might fade to a more comfortable, worn-in-pair-of-jeans affection, but damned if she was going to let it go if she could avoid it.

  Ree wrapped her arms around Drake and planted a big smacker right on his lips.

  “Hey, babe.”

  Drake chuckled. “H
ow is it that I ended up saddled with that as your pet name for me?”

  “You vetoed Drake-y, and rightly so.”

  “I suppose I could retaliate by declaring you my Ree-splendent One, or something equally nauseating.”

  “Yes, but that takes much longer to say. Wouldn’t stick.”

  “So are you saying that the name will not stick because it takes too long, she who quotes The Middleman perfectly, including always saying the entire phrase of The Booty Chest, the pirate-themed sports bar with the scantily-clad waitresses?”

  “Touché. Cider?” she asked, releasing her hold. She was on the clock tonight, after all. Grognard was fairly lenient when it came to canoodling and making googly eyes on the clock, but judging by the crowd, tonight was going to be slammed.

  “Always. Thank you,” Drake said, pulling Ree’s left hand up to kiss on the knuckles. It was a totally chaste move, but Drake managed to make it positively roguish. Needles of self-fiving thrills washed over her like a tidal wave. She squeezed his hand, then headed to the bar to activate Super-Server Mode.

  “You weren’t kidding about a crowd, man,” Ree said as she stepped behind the bar with Grognard, who Monkey Gripped three bottles of booze at once, pouring an AMF.

  “Nothing less for the return of my best customer. Plus, we hadn’t thrown a big blowout in a while.”

  “And what does New Year’s count as, if not a blowout?” Ree asked, chuckling.

  “That was just a fucking mess. This will be much better.”

  Ree grabbed the apron from the shelf under the register and strapped it on like a Bat-belt. She stuffed her phone and lightsaber into the apron, then checked her notepad, the small bills, and the credit card envelopes. Everything was in order. “Uh-huh, sure. Where you want I should start?”

  “Pitchers for Eastwood. Take them to his friend in the corner, there.”

  Grognard nodded to the corner booth, where a stunning Japanese woman in a trench coat sat, arms spread around the booth like she owned the place. She was maybe forty, attitude for miles. That’d be Eastwood’s old friend, then.

  Her spiky hair would fit right into an anime but wasn’t quite so outrageous that people would stop her and ask where the Comic-Con was if she walked down the street. It’d take the rest of her outfit to do that. She wore a black-and-red bodysuit, glowing red trim sending off Tron signals in Ree’s mind. Over that, a coat that could have been a twin to Eastwood’s. Ah, so that’s a thing.

  “Critical Hit, then?” Ree asked, checking that they’d be drinking Eastwood’s favorite of Grognard’s brews.

  Grognard nodded without looking at her, operating two martini shakers at once, deftly popping the tops off and pouring four drinks’ worth of shots in a single go.

  Ree slotted a pitcher under the tap, and said to herself, “Time to go meet Cowboy-Ko, then.”

  Once the pitcher was full, she grabbed a tray, stacked some pint glasses, and headed out into the crowd. She took a wide path around a pitched card game with a crowd.

  The woman embraced Eastwood with a hug, their touch lingering long enough to lend more weight to Ree’s suspicions. Shade joined them, rounding out the trio with his OC (Original Cyberpunk) look.

  “Pitcher of Critical Hit for you folks.”

  Shade brightened, giving his best salesman-not-trying-to-sell-you-something smile. “Thanks, Ree. How’s tricks?”

  “Good. Those shades of yours saved me a lot of hassle a couple of months back, don’t remember if I told you.”

  Shade put a hand over his heart, everything exaggerated. “It warms my Amiga heart.”

  Pouring a pint, Ree said, “I’m Ree, and I’ll be taking care of you all tonight. Eastwood, are you going to introduce me to your friend?”

  “Eriko, this is Ree, my former apprentice. She’s still angry at me for some reason or another.” Ree gave him a mild glare. He knew damned well why, just didn’t want to mention it to his ex. “Ree, this is Eriko Miguchi, one of the finest hackers I’ve ever had the privilege of working with. She’s the one who helped me try to backtrack Lachesis.”

  Ree nodded, and Eriko returned the motion with a slight incline of her head. “Good work,” Ree said. “That woman was ten pounds of scary in a five-pound bag. It’s good we got her out of town when we did.”

  “I’m glad to be of assistance.” Hints of a Northern California accent peeked through at the edges of Eriko’s vowels.

  “Anything to eat for you folks? Cheese sticks are going to be good today; we just got in fresh basil.”

  “An order of those, and the queso fundido, please,” Shade said.

  Ree waited a beat for the others. “Anything else?”

  Nope.

  “I’ll put that right in. Let me know if you need anything. Cards Against Humanity starts at eight, and shots will be half off during the game.”

  “Even for Uncle Joe?” Eastwood asked. Uncle Joe had the alcohol tolerance of a three-year-old. And when he was drunk, nonstandard cards had a tendency to appear in his hands for games.

  “Only way to see is to buy in.”

  “You have Cards Against Humanity tournaments?” Eriko asked, leaning forward, a crack of enthusiasm piercing her cool demeanor.

  Eastwood beamed like a kid showing his friend around FAO Schwarz for the first time. “That’s just half of it. You should see the Warmachine armies folks have here.”

  “You really have retired, haven’t you?” Eriko asked as Ree stepped away from the table.

  Ree made the rounds, picking up enough orders to backlog the kitchen for an hour. She dialed in to the job, laughing and joking with the regulars, greeting the newbies, and playing up the evening as much as possible, feeling a bit disingenuous as she did. Was it wrong to help other people celebrate someone you’ve got major problems with? When harshing that joy is all about prioritizing your own feelings over others’? Add the compromised position of working for tips and the whole thing became a headache.

  Chop wood, carry water, she told herself. Or in this case, chop limes, carry beer.

  After the Cards Against Humanity game finished, Eriko waved Ree over to the corner booth.

  “Sit down! You’ve been going nonstop since you got here.”

  “Well, my boyfriend is over there,” Ree started, pointing over her shoulder.

  “Screw your boyfriend; he can wait.”

  “Those are kind of mutually exclusive, aren’t they?” Ree asked.

  Shade slapped the table. “Point, Reyes.”

  They were into their cups. Several cups. All three were flushed at the cheeks, Eriko’s buttoned-up facade dropping off to reveal a hard-drinking, shoulder-punching counter to Eastwood’s tipsy taciturnity.

  “So, Eastwood tells me that you’re Branwen’s kid. D’you grow up in all of this, then?” Eriko gestured vaguely in an everywhere direction.

  “I grew up in geekdom, but not in the weird-ass magical subculture version.”

  Eastwood cut in, lurching forward, forearms rattling the table. “Branwen was in retirement for a while. But why don’t you tell her about the thing with Joe from the EFF . . .” he said, clearly trying to lead the conversation away from the topic of her mom and his ex. Thanks for that, she thought.

  “She was a good mom, until she was gone. And it’s a super-pleasant memory, so thanks for bringing it up. I’ll bring you all some water.”

  “Hold on.” Eriko reached across the table and grabbed Ree’s wrist. Ree tensed, nearly ready to wrench the woman’s arm over and pull her into Shade. But he hadn’t done anything to deserve getting someone tossed on him, and the woman was drunk. Treat her like a drunk.

  “I’ll just bring that water. . . .” she said, sliding out of Eriko’s grip. The older woman tightened her grip, clamping around Ree’s wrist.

  “Wait a minute, spring chicken. You oughta know that Eastwood here
has devoted his whole life to saving people. He and I are the reason regular people can even use the Internet anymore. We kept the digital frontier safe, kept the Neo-Luddites from using Trojans to send the country back to the 1850s.

  “The EFF wasn’t just about keeping the Internet free from corporatist control. The shit we saw, the blood we shed, all for you kids to scream at each other on Tumblr and post cat videos. . . .” Eriko let Ree’s wrist go and slumped back, shrugging deep into her coat.

  Shade jumped on the silence. “The Internet has always been a weird, wonderful place, it’s true. I wasn’t the same kind of active as these folks, but I’ve got some stories of my own. Did I ever tell you who Max Headroom is really based off of?”

  “You haven’t,” Ree said, happy to spare a smile for Shade, who switched from slightly-sleazy-but-not-creepy salesman to lovable uncle very easily. “But I’ve got to make rounds again, or take a real break. And if I’m taking a real break, it’s going to be to snog that handsome Steampunk over there.” Ree pointed a gun-finger at Drake. He held court at the bar, speaking with expansive gestures.

  “I’ll be back to hear the stories later. I do want to hear them, really. I’ve been using the Internet since BBS days, but Eastwood’s never been that forthcoming with his Wild Wild Web stories.”

  That seemed to calm the suddenly-sullen Eriko, and Ree managed to escape back to the bar to pour a pitcher of ice water. Some H2O to dim the edge on Eriko’s drunk, then she could make rounds later for the war stories.

  “Mind if I sit with Drake for a fifteen?” she asked Grognard, who had his own crowd gathered to hear about the Assault on Grognard’s, or the Tale of Grognard’s Heroes, whatever he was calling it now.

  He gave her a vague nod of approval, which was more than enough to help her feel justified in de-aproning and sneaking over to plant a big one on Drake, inserting herself into the discussion.

  “Hello, my dear! I was just regaling some new friends with the tale of the time that we conducted a dogfight across the skies of Pearson with the fiendish Aberrant Muse.”

  Ree leaned against the bar and grabbed Drake’s stein, taking a drag on his Angry Orchard cider. Grognard didn’t brew cider, but he kept a good stock on hand (mostly for Drake). This varietal was a bit sweet for her taste, but it suited him.