Hexomancy

by Michael R. Underwood

  Eastwood took a step forward. “Or, you release Branwen from her bondage, return her to Earth alive and well. Along with Drake, Ree, Eriko, and all of the Console Cowboys.”

  The Duke laughed, but it sounded hollow, forced. “Your perception of how black-and-white this situation is would be charming if I didn’t know you so well. If you set off the bomb, you die permanently and will be remembered as the worst villain Spirit has seen since the inquisition.”

  “I’m all out of fucks to give, Dukey. The only people I care about are right beside me. I do right by them, or I’m nothing.”

  Eastwood grinned. “Plus, if you let them go, you get something even better. You get me.”

  Fuuuck, Ree thought, seeing Eastwood’s gambit for what it really was. This was his Hail Mary of redemption, his Buffy’s swan dive into the rift, his Matrix Crucifixion.

  The Duke’s eyes lit up. “Interesting. You would come, without contest, and do my bidding for all time?”

  “You sign, I’m all yours. But you leave them out of it, and renounce all claim on their souls,” he said, pointing to Branwen, Ree, and Drake in turn. “Those are the terms. Otherwise we all go up in a big puff of nothing.”

  “Don’t do this, Tony,” Branwen said. “You don’t know what he’ll do to you.”

  “Nothing I don’t deserve,” Eastwood said. “This is the best way, for everyone. The world needs you in it. Ree needs you. It doesn’t need me anymore. That’s what this year taught me.”

  “Like hell!” Ree said. “You’re an asshole, but you’ve saved countless lives.”

  “Not countless. Three hundred and seven,” Eastwood said. “And it’s not enough. I’ve gotten people killed, stood by while they died. It doesn’t matter how many lives I save, if I can’t save you all.”

  Eastwood took another step forward, still ten feet away from the Duke.

  “You make the oath on your power, and then it’s all over.”

  The Duke’s smile grew even wilder, his face making a decidedly Cheshire cat–like shape. “Oh, but I’m so enjoying the tension. The noble self-sacrifice, the grand gesture.” The Duke stepped forward. “How you must have stayed up nights thinking about what you would do if it came to this.” Another step.

  Eastwood matched him, backing off, keeping his distance, hand still on the aether bomb.

  The Duke continued. “How you must have swelled at the thought of getting to burn out and not fade away.”

  “Talk all you want. The offer is the offer. You swear on your power, or this all goes up in screams.”

  “There’s got to be another way, Tony,” Branwen said. “To lose you after you’ve spent all this time trying to save me . . .”

  Eriko’s voice cut out of the darkness. “Do it, Tony. It’s the right call.” She limped out of an alley, spirit-revolver in one hand, the other wrapped tight around her middle, like she was holding something in, stanching a wound.

  Eastwood looked to Eriko, then to Branwen, like he was pulled in seven directions at once. The conflict played out on his face, but only for a second. He’d made his choice, and he’d stick with it. The dude was nothing if not stubborn.

  “If only one of us gets to live out our lives, it should be you,” Eastwood said to Branwen. “Be a mother again. I was a shitty father figure, anyway.”

  Ree’s heart was pounding so fast, so loud, that she let the moment to snark pass right by.

  Eriko limped over to join the group. Ree wrapped an arm around the wounded cyberpunk, bracing her up.

  “So, Dukey, what do you say? The catch of the day, or years of blame, trials, cold wars, and infighting down in Hell, the Dork Lords carving up your kingdom into a hundred conventions and fiefdoms?”

  The Duke laughed, the sound like an avalanche at the bottom of the Grand Canyon. “You’ll have your deal, Eastwood. I just wanted to wait for you all to fall over one another being noble and repressed.”

  Ree was still on a hair trigger, ready to run, fight, or both at the same time. Her emotional landscape was a fucking disaster zone, love and fear and gratitude and anger and compassion adding up to a near-suffocating pool of feeling. . . .

  The Duke flicked his hand, and a worn vellum parchment appeared, text blazing into existence, ornate red lettering filling the page. The Duke put thumb to the contract in the bottom left corner, then rolled it back up and lobbed the parchment to Eastwood. The geek tossed the bomb sideways to Branwen, who snatched it out of the air without blinking.

  Eastwood caught the contract and unfurled, reading, one eye still on the Duke.

  Ree kept a hand on the spiritual blaster, though she had every reason to believe that these weapons would likely do jack-all to the Duke.

  “Ree?” Eastwood asked, indicating the contract. She stepped over and held the parchment in the air, unmoving thanks to the not-quite-physics of the Spirit realm.

  Eastwood signed the contract, which burst into black light, then flew back over to the Duke, rolling up into his hand. The Duke opened his mouth wide and stuffed the contract down his throat like a sword-swallower.

  He smiled, then snapped his fingers. “Now, boy. We should away. You have one minute for goodbyes, as per the contract.”

  Eastwood handed the bomb to Branwen, then hugged her like he’d never let go.

  Ree stepped back to let them have their moment, lovers reconnected after years. She imagined what she’d have to say to Drake if she were in the same position. I’d never put myself in such a crappy situation. Though really, she had no way of knowing.

  A few moments later, they disentangled. Branwen stepped back, and Eriko limped up, grabbing on to Eastwood like he was a life raft. But not for balance. She dug her nails into the man’s coat, whispering something in his ear. Her eyes were wet, puffy. Not that Ree’s were any better, with the emotional roller coaster they’d all been through, one last drop just around the corner.

  Eriko squeezed Eastwood tight one last time, then let go. Branwen offered a hand to help, but Eriko shrugged away, standing on her own two feet.

  Finally, Eastwood extended a hand to Ree. “You’ve done more and better than I could have asked for, even if you were a pain in the ass.”

  Ree took his hand, and shook. “Right back at you. The pain-in-the-ass part.”

  Eastwood stepped back, turning to the Duke.

  “You come back at us, I won’t hesitate to put you down,” Ree said.

  “Please don’t,” Eastwood said, walking forward to the Duke, hands shaking, clearly trying to put on a strong face, to see his heroic gesture through to the end.

  The Duke spoke again. “Know that The Gulch is not safe, never will be safe. Branwen, Ree. I’ll be seeing you later.” He gave them the same wave that Vir gave Mr. Morden, making it as creepy as a cute gesture has ever been, menace and delight mixed like a cocktail. He wrapped his red hands around Eastwood, pulled the man into his form, and the pair imploded, collapsing into a puff of sulfur.

  And then, nothing.

  Branwen dropped to her knees and screamed. It was a scream of defeat, of triumph, of freedom, of loneliness. It was a hundred different things all at once. It was open season in her heart, every doubt and joy and frustration all exploding and rampaging at once.

  Ree went to her mother, hugging and crying, overjoyed and deflated.

  An indeterminate minute later, she let go and went back to Drake, burned but still breathing.

  She touched her earpiece, calling up the line out of Spirit. “Shade, we need a way out. But there’s a wrinkle. There’s four of us coming back—me, Drake, Eriko, and Branwen.”

  “Is Eastwood okay?”

  “He’s gone, Shade. It’ll be Branwen coming back with us. We need a way to get her out without a tether or whatever.”

  “Ah,” Shade said.

  “I can get myself out,” Branwen said. “I’ve done it be
fore.”

  Damn, Mom. Ree nodded, impressed.

  “Just the three, then.”

  “Understood,” Shade said. “Just a minute.

  A silent moment passed, spectral winds passing through the street.

  Ree and Branwen pulled Drake up and held him between them, still out for the count. His burns looked nasty, though the jacket had taken much of it. Spiritual armor or something. He had spent years and years adventuring through Spirit realms, after all.

  “Portal opening now,” Shade said.

  A two-yard-tall circle opened up in front of them, the portal showing the Dorkcave, Shade and Dr. Wells standing by.

  “You good, Mom?” Ree asked.

  Branwen put her hands together, took a long breath, and blinked out of existence.

  A moment later, she blinked into sight in the Dorkcave.

  The two women stepped through with their unconscious companion, and the world went white.

  Ree woke up in her seat, Drake beside her. He was distinctly not burned to a crisp.

  She leaned over and planted a kiss on his cheek, waking him up at a lurch. Ree squeezed his shoulder. “It’s fine, we’re safe. I’m here.”

  Drake relaxed into her touch, looking around.

  “Where’s Eastwood?”

  “He’s gone,” Branwen said. She stood with Shade and Dr. Wells. Eriko reclined in her chair, asleep, but Eastwood’s chair was empty.

  Ree pointed at the chair. “Where’s his body?”

  Shade said, “Disappeared shortly before you checked in. From what Branwen tells me, the contract was sufficiently binding to bind his body to his spirit, the both of them transported to hell at once.”

  Ree hmmphed. She didn’t really have energy left for anything else.

  She wobbled to her feet and offered a hand to Drake as he did the same.

  Turning, she saw Grognard and Talon, each leaning against a row of the stacks, bloodied and looking three miles past exhausted.

  “Thanks for having our backs,” Ree said, sufficiently battered and wrung dry that she actively had to focus to put any real emotion into her words.

  Grognard raised the head of his halberd an inch in recognition. Talon nodded.

  “I think this calls for milkshakes. Lots of milkshakes. Mostly so that we don’t collapse from lack of blood sugar,” Ree said, looking at the crowd.

  Dr. Wells said, “I’ll stay here with Eriko. That long spent with a cut tether has weakened her.”

  “You good to hold the fort, then?” Ree asked, realizing that the Keeper of the Dorkcave wasn’t due back anytime soon. Or, really, at all.

  At that thought, her phone buzzed a notification.

  When she pulled it out, the screen was white, with black text. Eastwood’s voice spoke the message.

  “If you’re hearing this, it means that my eventuality for the Thrice-Retconned Duke of Pwn’s return has gone off, and I’m being fitted for torture cuffs or something unimaginably nasty in hell, like watching Manos: Hands of Fate for all time alongside a devoted, ecstatic audience that just won’t shut up about how awesome it is.

  “Ree, if you’ll have it, the Dorkcave is yours. If my gambit brings Branwen back, I need the two of you to move on with your lives, keep fighting the good fight, and not try to get me out. That dumbass move never works out well, and even if it did work, the Duke’s backlash would be even worse.

  “I’ve made my choice, and please let it stand. If I frakked that all up, and neither of them are around, I want Grognard to look after the place. Sorry I couldn’t stick it out, brother.

  “Whoever hears this, keep following your passions, turn them into something positive, some way to help. I got wrapped up in guilt and revenge and arrogance, and I lost sight of what got me into this whole thing: I wanted to be a hero; I wanted to help people. I lost perspective, and now I’m paying the price.

  “Eastwood out.”

  Branwen coughed back a sob, and Ree leaned into Drake, cacophony of emotion still deafening.

  “And after milkshakes, I’m going to need a lot to drink,” she said.

  “I’ve got that covered,” Grognard said, pulling himself up, chain mail rustling. He extended a hand to Talon, who stood as well.

  “That was a hell of a thing. Kit worked out fine, though.” Her shield was dinged in a hundred places, and the spear was stained red a foot past the blade. But even bone-tired as Talon looked, she was proud and pleased in equal degrees. This was a woman born to fight, and she loved what she did. It was scary but infinitely useful.

  “I know the Burger Bin is accepting, but this might push even their limits,” Ree said, making her way to the door, shedding weapons and armor as she went to slightly mitigate how badly they’d stick out of the crowd.

  Once they’d had food, she could start the daunting task of processing all the crap she’d just gone through.

  But first, shakes.

  Epilogue

  Breath of Life

  They got more than a few stares at the Burger Bin, even de-armored and with the big, obvious weapons left at the Dorkcave with Dr. Wells. But money talked, and the group racked up a $120 bill and pushed two tables together to have their version of post-battle shwarma in the form of burgers, fries, and milkshakes.

  Oh, the milkshakes. Choirs of angels should accompany the Burger Bin’s milkshakes. Even their straight-up vanilla was inspired—homemade ice cream, sumptuous texture, and with none of the chalky aftertaste that was endemic among crappy corner-store and chain milkshakes. This was the real shit. And for Ree’s favorite, every flavor combined to make a taste symphony, a seventeen-hundred-calorie yumpocalypse.

  The world went from 360 to 1080p as caffeine and blood hit Ree’s system, and by the time the monstrous concoction was half-gone, she felt like she could rejoin the conversation.

  Branwen caught up with Grognard and Shade, going back over several years’ worth of milestones. Drake sat beside Ree, a comforting arm around her shoulder, leaving him to eat with his left, which he did quite adeptly. Clever boy, she thought.

  “I’m going to have a lot of catching up to do, aren’t I?” Branwen asked.

  Grognard started rattling off titles. “You gotta start with MCU Phase One. It’s the most impressive work of cinematic franchising since the James Bond movies.”

  “The X-Men movies were fine and all, but don’t tell me that the Iron Man movie was actually good. RDJ is an inspired bit of casting, but the character is second tier, at best.”

  “No, seriously, Mom,” Ree said, energized by the three major forces in the universe: sugar, caffeine, and squee. “We can go watch it right now. And that’s not even the best one of the bunch. They managed to make Captain America not just a retro jingoistic mess, and Branagh directed Thor. It’s Kirby-tastic.”

  “Thor is quite impressive. Ree says that’s because it’s as melodramatic as I am, and while the critique may be on point, my praise remains,” Drake added.

  So, that’s one meet-the-parent conversation down, Ree thought, noting the oddity of hanging out and talking magic shop and geekdom with her mom, her mom, who had helped make her the geek she was today, and was, after all, the reason she was in this magical world in the first place. The circularity of it all was kind of overwhelming, so she went back to her milkshake, leaning into Drake’s embrace.

  This, this made sense. Odd couple though they were, it was one of the best things to come out of her urban fantasy life. The adventure and excitement were definitely up there, but they came with a crap-ton of peril.

  And these folks. Her magical family of choice, weirdoes all, just as weird as her, but every single one weird in a different way.

  “And more important,” Ree said, “George Lucas sold Star Wars to Disney. Which means new movies. Lots of them.”

  At that, Branwen’s eyes lit up.

 
Grognard cleared his throat. “I’m going to order some of their soda to go, and then you’re all going to come down to my place to drink to Eastwood’s passing.” It wasn’t an invitation.

  Ree went back up to the servers and slipped them a $20, figuring that a bit of scratch never hurt in keeping up a good relationship with one of her favorite all-hours purveyors of life-giving drugs.

  At Grognard’s, it took approximately 3.7 seconds for the booze to come out. Grognard wheeled out a barrel of his Critical Hit, in honor of Eastwood. The place was still closed, and would be for the rest of the day, if she knew her boss.

  The brewmaster had called Chandra and Uncle Joe on the way, but other than that, it was going to stay a closed wake. There would be a memorial during the next Midnight Market, and even thinking ahead to that meant that Ree opened herself up to a flood of actuarial anxiety, the burden of the Dorkcave and the emotional baggage that came with it coming at her like whitewater.

  Glasses full, Grognard started the toasts. “Eastwood wasn’t just another guy, just another friend. He was as noble a fuckup as I’ve ever known, and as a fuckup, I admired him. We didn’t always see eye to eye, but that’s what friends are good for. They call you on your bullshit, tell you when you’re going off the rails. He kept me in check, and I did my best to return the favor.”

  Raising his stein, he continued. “Here’s to Eastwood. He died so others could live.”

  “To Eastwood,” they chorused, and then drank. Ree took a sip, then a longer chug.

  Her emotional HP was totally tapped out. She was all out of go, but it was important to be there for everyone. There were too many things to resolve, too many words to say, and all she wanted to do was curl up into a ball and spend a weekend processing everything that had happened over the last year, the highs and lows, the things said that couldn’t be taken back, lines crossed, friendships made, strained, and broken.

  Twenty minutes later, Grognard came along with a flask. “You look beat. Pearson’s going to need you to be strong. With Eastwood gone, they’re going to look to you now.”