by DD Barant
But I didn’t remember the breakdown itself. Not until right now.
Everything’s very far away. My thoughts are very loud, and I don’t have a lot of control over them; they jump from subject to subject, memory and imagination blurring together, making random connections. A small, quiet part of me is watching this happen, like someone watching TV. That’s the part that’s in control of my body, making me walk to my house, unlock the door, breeze past Galahad, and unearth my stash. Not the regular one, under the fridge; my secret stash.
It consists of exactly one DVD in a paper envelope, and it’s duct-taped to the underside of a bookshelf. It’s the one I watched over and over again, the one that convinced me I was somebody else, the one I swore I’d never watch again.
It’s also the very first time the Sword of Midnight shows up, though nobody knows who she is yet. I can’t believe I forgot that.
I slip the disc into the machine, turn on the TV. Galahad is watching me with a worried look on his face, but I’m careful to keep the remote well away from him.
“You don’t understand,” I tell him. “This has … this has what I need.”
I sit down on the couch. The remote feels impossibly heavy in my hand, like a gun. I find that strangely comforting.
I know why Cassiar’s calculation was off, why the Gallowsman is already here. It’s because of my breakdown. That was the emotional torment that drew him to my little town, and he’s been here ever since. Waiting. Getting stronger. Sucking down everyone’s despair and bad luck and storing it for later, for whatever purpose his master had in mind.
But his master is dead now. And I don’t know what will happen next.
I hit PLAY.
* * *
“Coming up on CSI: Transylvania this week:”
Forensic Investigator Helsing kneels beside a headless corpse in the moonlight. CSI Larry Talbot stands behind him, hands in the pockets of his trenchcoat.
“Vic was decapitated with a silver-edged weapon,” Talbot says.
“Yes, he was,” Helsing murmurs. “But look at this—bite marks on the right breast, with scorching around the edges. Pre-mortem, and probably made by silver.”
“Silver teeth? That would rule out a pire or a ’thrope.”
“You’d think so. But obviously, someone has fangs for the mammaries.…”
The opening bars of The Who’s “Behind Blue Eyes” swell, and then the scene cuts to the opening credits of The Bloodhound Files.
The world around me falls away. The colors on the monitor are richer, deeper than real life. The theme music, so familiar, so haunting, makes my heart ache. I go up and touch the warmth of the screen, willing the hardness of the glass to soften into a membrane I can push through. Tears run down my face.
I want to be there. I want to go home.
The Sword of Midnight is in the very first scene. She’s stalking Jace, who knows somebody’s following her. The Sword is perched on the edge of a rooftop, looking down at her quarry.
“Hello,” I whisper.
The Sword turns, slowly, to face me. She looks solemn. “So you’re finally watching it. I didn’t think you were strong enough yet.”
“I don’t know if I am, either. But I have to know.”
“Yes, you do. So go ahead and ask me.”
I take a deep breath and let it out. “Who am I?”
“Your name is Jace Valchek. You used to be a criminal profiler for the FBI. You were taken from your world and into another one, where magic exists and vampires, werewolves, and golems make up ninety-nine percent of the population—”
“No,” I whisper. “That’s crazy. That’s Jace Red Dog’s story, not mine.”
“Jace Red Dog is just a character on a TV show. You’re not—you’re real, you’re you. She’s the imposter, okay? Life imitates art, especially when alternate realities are involved. You know that.”
“Parallel worlds. Each one a little different than the next. Worlds with different histories, different rules, right next to each other.”
“Yes. That’s it, exactly.”
“You’re not telling me everything. That’s what I am, right? Some kind of alternate version of the real Jace Valchek? Some kind of, of echo?”
“No, Jace. There are alternate versions of you—though not as many as there used to be—but you’re the one I just described. It’s the world around you that’s not the original.”
“That doesn’t make any sense.”
She sighs. “Your mind has been messed with, Jace. Your memories. You’re not from a small town in Kansas, and you’re not crazy. You don’t belong where you are—in fact, you’re probably being given some sort of medication to keep you from getting sick as a result.”
I think about the Erthybon. About how I feel disconnected and nauseous if I miss a dose. “So why am I here? How did I get here?”
“You were taken against your will, by a sorcerer. Jumping between parallel worlds is extremely difficult, but he manages it with ease. He’s the one behind all this, Jace. He’s been manipulating the situation from the very start.”
“I see. So I’m really a kick-ass crime fighter. I don’t really belong here. I’m being victimized by an evil sorcerer, and the medication I’m taking is part of the plot.” I laugh, a little wildly. “God, it all fits together perfectly, doesn’t it? Nothing’s my fault, it’s all this big, evil conspiracy. I’m not a pathetic little nutcase trapped in a small town; I’m a hero! And all I have to do is believe, right? Or do I have to flap my fairy wings together, too?”
“Jace. Look at me.”
I do. She reaches up and starts to undo the buckles that hold her mask in place. “You don’t have to believe, Jace. You just have to remember.”
The mask falls away.
I have to admit, I was halfway expecting her face to be my own. But it’s not—it’s a woman who looks familiar but I can’t quite place. She pulls a dark wig off, too, revealing short, pixieish blonde hair. She studies me, then gives me an encouraging smile. “Know who I am?”
“You look sort of … I don’t know. I’m not sure.”
“Try to remember. Take however much time you need. This link is better than the previous ones, so I can keep my image on screen longer.”
I study her. Something comes back to me, but it’s blurry. After a second, I realize why, and grin. “We got drunk together, didn’t we? Somewhere … somewhere with slot machines.”
She grins back. “Yes. Out of all the bizarre experiences we shared, why am I not surprised that’s the one you remember?”
And then the name claws its way out of my subconscious. “Azura? Your name is Azura?”
“Yes, Jace. I’m Azura. What else do you remember?”
There’s another A word that’s trying to break through. It almost sounds like Azura, but it’s longer. And darker. “Asa … no. Ahaseurus.”
The smile falls off Azura’s face. “Yes. What do you remember about him?”
“He—hates me. Or loves me? And he’s bad, bad news.”
Now she looks grim. “He’s obsessed with you, Jace. He’s a sorcerer, very old, very powerful, from my world. He’s the one who dragged you across the dimensional divide in the first place.”
“Why?”
“Initially, for the NSA; they needed your skills. But Ahaseurus wanted you here for his own reasons.” She pauses. “A multitude of alternate worlds mean a multitude of alternate yous—you get that, right?”
“Yeah, yeah. Red-headed me, President me, South-won-the-Civil-War shitkicker me. What am I, Human Sacrifice me?”
“No, Jace. They’re all the human sacrifice version. You once explained to me exactly what constitutes a ‘serial killer’; that’s what Ahaseurus is. And his choice of victim is you—a different you in every world, but still you.”
I stare at the screen. And then I lean back and laugh.
“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just—this is getting to be a little much, you know? I have an evil cult dumped in my lap
, then vampires and lycanthropes, then alternate worlds … now you’re adding a magic serial killer to the list? What’s next? Are there some gods out there I’ve pissed off, too?”
Azura looks uncomfortable. “Well, not recently.…”
“Okay, enough is enough. Just—just give me everything you got, all right? The whole ball of deranged wax. I think I’d prefer a big whack of insanity all at once instead of this constant drip, drip, drip of crazy.”
“I wish I could, Jace. But I don’t know much more. Ahaseurus kidnapped you and brought you to the world where you are now. He’s got something big planned—he always does—and obviously he decided to get you out of the way first. I can’t reach you physically; it takes a sizeable amount of sorcerous power just to contact you. But I do have one small consolation to offer.”
“I get frequent flyer miles for travel to other realities?”
Her smile comes back. “No, just the opposite. You acquired the dimensional equivalent of jet lag when you were pulled here—returning to your own reality would have stolen years of your life. You don’t look any older to me, which means Ahaseurus nullified that effect when he took you this time. It probably doesn’t mean anything to you right now, but it’s important; it means you can return to your home reality now without Ahaseurus’s help.”
“Sure, great, fantastic. Hey, did I lend you my ruby slippers at some point? ’Cause I can’t find ’em anywhere.”
“I’m doing the best I can from my end, Jace. We’ll get you home, I promise.”
“Home? Home? I can’t even remember my home! I don’t know who I am, I don’t know what’s real and what’s not. All I’ve got is two lousy names, yours and the guy who got me into all this. And I don’t even remember what he looks like!”
“Well, there I can help you out.” She tosses her blond wig in the air, and it transforms into an eight-by-ten glossy hanging in midair. “As I said, I may not be able to be physically present, but information is the most important weapon—”
I gasp. It shouldn’t come as a shock, it should have been obvious from the start, but the hook-nosed image glowering at me is someone I instantly recognize.
It’s Old Man Longinus.
EIGHT
“So,” I say carefully, “what would happen if this guy was, say, no longer in the picture?”
“What, you mean if he leaves the reality he’s stranded you in? That’s unlikely; from the information I’ve been able to gather, he appears to be concentrating his mystic resources there. In fact, it almost seems as if he’s setting up some sort of power base—”
“No. I mean, yeah, I think he’s definitely left this reality, but I doubt if he’s coming back. Of course, I don’t know how things work with evil wizards, so maybe I’m wrong—”
“Jace. Are you telling me Ahaseurus is dead?”
“Not in any legally binding confessional kind of way, no. Otherwise, pretty much.”
Azura blinks. I notice for the first time just how large her eyes seem to be, almost cartoonish. “You killed him?”
“No! No, I definitely did not. But I did sort of discover his body—after you told me to ‘seek Longinus’. Which means you already know who he is and what happened—”
She puts up her hands. “I don’t, I swear. That was our first contact, and the link wasn’t strong—I didn’t even use the name Longinus, it’s just what came through. What I was trying to say was see Ahaseurus truly but dimensional boundaries are tricky; they can change things around—”
“See Ahaseurus truly? What does that even mean?”
She sighs. “It means that—from what I can tell from here—you’re surrounded by illusion spells. Things, people, even your own memories have been tampered with. If I could get you to realize Ahaseurus was the one tampering with your senses, I knew you’d figure the rest out. You’re like that.”
“Thanks. I think. So, evil killer wizard guy—really dead? Or another illusion?”
“How’d he die?”
“Someone got all stabby on him.”
She shrugs. “I don’t know. If he is dead, some of his more recent spells should start unravelling—but he’s a powerful mage. A lot of his work will be self-perpetuating. It’s more likely to mutate without him around rather than just falling apart. Magic’s like that.”
I think about that for a moment. Ancient serial killer harboring a serious obsession with yours truly has stuck me in a little town in the middle of nowhere. In another dimension. In a place where I’m viewed as the local crazy, and where said killer has apparently summoned a demon that personifies despair. It’s starting to all make sense, and not the kind I want.
“This place,” I say. “He made it to torment me. I’m … I’m a rat in a cage, and he’s a sadistic teenager with a can of lighter fluid and a book of matches. That’s how a lot of serial killers start, you know.”
“I know. You told me.”
“He wasn’t going to kill me. He was going to see just how far he could push me. How bad he could make things before I went over the edge.” My voice is starting to tremble, just a little bit, and I hate the way it sounds. “This isn’t a town. It’s a dungeon, filled with torture devices and traps. I can’t trust anyone, can I? Even you might be part of it.”
Azura opens her mouth, then closes it again. She knows I’m right, and nothing she can say will change that.
At that precise second, I know she’s on my side. It’s pure gut instinct, nothing else, but it’s all I have right now. “And apparently it gets worse. If he isn’t dead, this is all part of his plan to screw with my mind—and there’s nothing I can do about it. If he is dead, then all the stuff he set up to torment me is still in place—only now it’s going to activate randomly and in unpredictable ways. Either way, I’m trapped in a maze full of booby traps and land mines. That about right?”
She nods mutely.
I cross my arms. “Goddammit,” I say softly. “You know, whether they were real or not, I’m starting to miss the good old days on Ward C.…”
There’s a knock at the door. I hit the pause button on the remote and jump up. “Charlie?”
“No,” says a deep male voice. “It’s Sheriff Stoker. You and I need to have a little talk, Jace.…”
* * *
I don’t know what to do.
After a second, I decide to turn off the television. I don’t know why, but I don’t want Stoker to see Azura’s face. I’m running on instinct now, and don’t have time to question it.
I open the door. “Hello, Sheriff. What’s this about?”
Stoker looks at me and smiles. Just a good old boy on his neighbor’s front porch, dropping by to say hello. Sure. The brim of his hat cuts off the late-afternoon sun, putting his eyes in deep shadow. “Just a few details I need cleared up. Couple questions. Won’t take long.”
“Oh. Okay, come on in.”
He nods his head as if I just asked a question. “Yeah. No, the thing is, it’d be better if we did this at the office. I’ve got some reference material there, didn’t bring it with me. You don’t mind, right?”
I blink. Reference material. Implying some sort of police database he needs to access, something he can’t do in my house. It sounds very reasonable and I know it’s a complete and utter fabrication.
“Sure,” I say brightly. I grab my jacket, step outside, then close and lock the door. I can feel his eyes on me the whole time, that focused attention you give a perp when you think they might abruptly do something stupid. I’ve done it myself, more than once—
I give my head a little shake. I’ve done what?
“You all right?”
“Fine. Just a little dizzy.”
We go out to his car, where he apologizes for making me ride in the back and makes a little joke about it. I pretend to laugh. Then we drive the few blocks to his “office.”
It’s a small town, so we don’t have much of a police station. It’s got an open-plan reception area up front and a locked door at the back. Behind
that door are four small, thick-doored rooms that serve as cells; I know, because I’ve spent the night there. I don’t even bother to act surprised when Stoker unlocks the door at the back and motions me through.
But apparently I’m wrong about the number of cells. When Stoker opens door number four, it shows me a slightly larger room, one with two chairs bolted to the floor and a table between them. I take a seat without being told. Stoker closes the door softly behind him and sits down across from me.
“Interview room, huh?” I say. “Didn’t know you even had one.”
“Had it put in recently. Got Bill Johnson to convert one of the cells. Gave me a good price on the drywall.”
I nod. “Yeah, Bill does good work. Charlie got him to fix up that room over his garage.”
Stoker doesn’t reply to that. He’s studying my face, my body language, trying to get a read on my mood. I don’t bother trying to fool him—I’ve never been that good an actress.
I lean forward. “This is the part where you ask me, ‘Jace, do you know why you’re here?’”
“And do you?”
“Sure. You want me a little shaken up, a little intimidated. You know I have a tendency to motormouth, so you’re going to encourage that. You’ll be deliberately obtuse about what’s going on, because my guesses will tell you more than asking direct questions. How am I doing so far?”
He just shrugs, which makes me chuckle.
“Here’s what I think,” I say. “I am shaken up. I am intimidated. You can see that, right? But not because I’ve done anything, or seen anything, or know anything. It’s because I’m an ex–mental patient with documented authority issues, I forgot to take my medication today, and I just saw a really gruesome dead body. I’m not doing so well, okay?”
“Okay.”
“So quit playing cop games and just ask me your damn questions. I don’t have anything to hide except maybe the fact that I’m kinda nuts—no, wait, you already know that—so whatever this is about—”
“Maureen Selkirk is dead.”