Undead to the World

by DD Barant

  Where did that brick wall come from? I swear it wasn’t there a second ago, and then … I blink, trying to process what he just said. “Who is what?”

  “Maureen Selkirk. I believe you spoke to her and Father Stone shortly before he died.”

  “How—how did she die?”

  “The same way Stone did. Technically.”

  “What’s that mean?”

  “It means she asphyxiated. Boy selling chocolate door to door found her in her living room with the power cord from her air conditoner tangled around her neck. She had it mounted up high, above her door.”

  “And you think—” I stop, swallow with a suddenly dry mouth. “You think I had something to do with it?”

  “Right now, it looks like some kind of freak accident. But we’re still investigating—and you were apparently the last one to talk to Selkirk and Stone, according to the witnesses I’ve been able to track down. Mind telling me what you said?”

  “Nothing. I mean, they invited me to attend services with them. That was about it.”

  “Uh-huh. Can you be a little more specific?”

  I’m about to deliver a zinger out of sheer reflex—What, you want me to identify the church? It’s that pointy building with the oversized dinner bell mounted on the roof—when I realize that’s exactly what he’s asking.

  Not just which church. Which religion.

  He stares at me calmly. I stare back. Sheriff Stoker is second-in-command, Cassiar said. Which means that with Longinus/Ahaseurus dead, I’m locked in a room with the current head of a cult dedicated to making my existence one of eternal suffering and despair.

  And he wants to know if Stone and Selkirk spilled the beans.

  “This Sunday,” I hear myself say. “They invited me to services this Sunday. I told them I’d try to make it, but no promises.”

  He nods. “That all they said to you?”

  “That’s all I said to them. Then I made my excuses and left, because frankly I had no intention of showing up.”

  I’m thinking furiously while trying to look bored and impatient. Internal power struggle? A schism in the Cult of Let’s Bedevil Jace? Someone staged a coup and Stone and Selkirk sided with the wrong faction?

  If so, the prime suspect was sitting right across from me. Stoker kills the cult leader and assumes the mantle; Selkirk and Stone are murdered because they supported Longinus. So where does that leave me?

  That depends on whether they still need me or not. If they do, they won’t kill me. If they don’t, I’m an expendable loose end.

  “Have you seen Ahab Longinus lately?” Stoker asks.

  “Who?” I say, trying to sound confused—and believe me, it isn’t hard. Stoker’s using a classic interrogation technique, hitting me with one revelation right on the heels of another, not giving me time to think. “I mean, who gives their kid a moniker like Ahab? Was his family Welsh or something?”

  Now it’s his turn to look confused. “Welsh?”

  “I’m sorry. I should have said, ‘from Wales.’”

  He tries to recover. “Longinus. Lives at the edge of town in that big, ancient house?”

  “Sorry, don’t know the man. It is a man, right? ’Cause people will name their daughters anything these days. I met a kid the other day who, I swear, goes by ‘Lumina’. I asked her if she was the two-door or four-door model and she just gave me a blank look.”

  “He seems to be missing.”

  “How can you tell?”

  He frowns. He’s lost control of the interview and isn’t sure how to get it back. I don’t give him the chance, either. “Who reported him missing, is what I’m asking.”

  “He hasn’t been reported missing. His neighbors are concerned, that’s all.”

  “Which neighbors?”

  He ignores the question, which tells me there aren’t any nosy neighbors—just someone very familiar with Longinus’s basement and what goes on there. “Longinus spent a lot of his time with Selkirk and Stone. Did they ever talk to you about him?”

  “No. You find Jimmy Zhang yet?”

  “No. You have any ideas where he might be?”

  A number of possibilities pop into my head—root cellars, the local graveyard, somebody’s old fridge—but I keep them to myself. “Afraid not.”

  “He’s probably out of town,” Stoker says. “Turns out that broken window was just an accident; display fell over, is all.”

  He waits to see if I argue with that. Because he knows as well as I do that even if that steam cleaner did somehow manage to launch itself through a plate glass window, the big red puddle he found in the back room of the grocery store wasn’t from a broken ketchup bottle.

  I smile. “Oh, good. A perfectly innocent, reasonable explanation. I thought there’d be one.”

  “There usually is,” he says softly.

  We regard each other silently for a moment.

  “I’m just a wee bit worried about you, Jace,” Stoker says at last. “All these events must be difficult for you.”

  “Definitely. I was really close to that steam cleaner. Oh, the times we had—”

  “So I think it might be best if you took it easy for a while. Stay home. Watch TV. Relax.” Don’t make trouble and keep out of my way.

  “Funny, that’s exactly what I was going to do. Thanks for the reminder.” I’ll do whatever I want and you can go to hell.

  He gets to his feet. “I’ll take you home. Drop in on you from time to time, make sure you’re doing all right.” I’m watching you.

  “Thanks. I appreciate that.” See previous comment.

  I stand up. “Okay, then. Let’s go.”

  * * *

  He takes me home. The minute his car is out of sight, I turn around and leave. Not so much because I’ve got someplace to go as because I hate being told what to do.

  The sun’s pretty low on the horizon.

  I head for the diner. I don’t work tonight, but it’s familiar and well lit and presumably safe. If Zhang decides to attack me there, at least I can throw some garlic salt in his face.

  The diner isn’t open twenty-four/seven, and in fact closes every day between two and four; people who want someplace to sit down on their coffee break head over to the hardware store, where Don Prince always has a pot on that time of day. It’s close to five now, so the first of the dinner crowd will be filtering in any minute. I step inside and look around—only one of the booths is occupied, but all I can see is the back of someone’s head. I take a seat at the counter and call out, “Therese? Got a hungry customer, sweetie.”

  No answer. Must be in the john or out back. I don’t bother calling out for Phil; I don’t need him snapping at me right now.

  “She’s not here.” Phil’s voice, surly as ever. Not coming from the kitchen, though—he’s the one in the booth. That’s a little weird; he doesn’t like to sit out front with the customers. Usually, he takes his meal breaks in the kitchen.

  “Oh,” I say. “Well, can I get you to make me a grilled cheese? I’m starving.”

  I expect him to either complain about me interrupting his break or give me a chilly silence while he complies, but he doesn’t do either. Instead, he laughs.

  “You want me to make you a meal? Sure. I’d be happy to.”

  Uh-oh. I turn to look at my boss.

  He looks just like my boss usually does—no fangs, no red eyes, no sudden eruptions of fur. He’s wearing a long, stained cook’s apron and has a cup of coffee in front of him.

  But somehow, he seems different.

  “But first, we should talk. Okay?” he says. He smiles and motions me over with a friendly nod of his head.

  I get to my feet, slowly. He waits, patiently. Not threatening, not menacing, just waiting. Trying to keep my paranoia under control, I walk over and sit down on the other side of the booth. He’s probably just going to fire me, which is why he looks so cheerful.

  He studies me for a second. “Jace—how long have we known each other?”

&nbs
p; “Well, I’ve been working here for about four months—”

  “No. Before that.”

  “I guess I didn’t really know you before that.”

  He shakes his head, still smiling. “No, of course not. Why would you? It’s a small town, there’s only one restaurant, you like to eat out … we must have run into each other hundreds of times, don’t you think?”

  Where is he going with this? “I’m sorry—I don’t understand.”

  “Did you grow up here, Jace?”

  It’s a simple question. And after a long, confused moment, I realize I don’t know the answer.

  When he sees the look on my face, he nods. Still smiling, but looking a little more … satisfied. “Ah. You don’t remember. I myself cannot remember when I got here, though it seems as if I’ve been here forever. But before I was here, I was … nowhere. My childhood, my youth—all a mystery. But I only realized this in the last few days. It was as though there were some sort of mirrored barrier in my mind, one that not only blocked any attempts at recall but deflected even the idea of trying.”

  He falls silent, staring at me intently. It’s the longest speech I’ve ever heard out of his mouth, and it doesn’t sound like him at all.

  “You said, ‘were’. Does that mean this barrier is gone?”

  “Not exactly. It has become less substantial, though, more like a thick veil than glass. I can sometimes pierce it if I concentrate hard enough—it is weakening, I think. For the longest time, though, there were only two memories that came through clearly.”

  “What—what were they?”

  “The first was falling,” he says. His voice is hard, deliberate. “Falling endlessly through infinite space, between distant and unknown constellations. Plummeting into a vast, frozen silence.”

  “Wow. Sounds like you grew up on a space station. Or fell off one.” I try to keep my own tone light—there’s an intensity in his voice I don’t like.

  “The other was you. Jace Valchek. The Bloodhound.”

  “That’s—that’s just a TV show—”

  “No. It is who you are. It is what you are. It has been hidden from you, just as my true identity has been hidden from me. But as I am clearly the stronger willed of us, I have regained my self-awareness first.”

  I swallow. “That’s, uh, terrific. I’m glad you’re clearing up that whole invisible-amnesia thing—”

  “Surely you have recovered some of your memories, too?”

  I hesitate, not sure how to react. According to Azura, my memories have been tampered with, though she didn’t say anything about other people. Maybe Phil can help me get my brain working right again.

  “I might be remembering a few things,” I hedge. “Like … this town isn’t quite what it seems to be. Know what I’m talking about?”

  He makes a dismissive gesture. “This town is not important. It is a distraction, here only to occupy our attention. We are all that matter.”

  Phil’s gone from cranky to arrogant; I can’t say it’s an improvement, but I don’t feel like arguing with him. “Let’s say you’re right. Why us, Phil? Why are we so important?” I already know the answer to why I’m here, but I’m hoping his newly inflated ego will insist he talk about himself.

  “I was wondering that myself,” he says. “And then an old acquaintance dropped by and altered my perspective. By we, you see, I mean more than simply you and I. There is at least one other in this banal little village who is more than he seems.”

  And then the capillaries in his eyes begin to get bigger. The veins widen as they fill, spreading like a bloodstain soaking through paper. In seconds both his irises are a bright crimson, and when he speaks I can see how his incisors have gotten longer and sharper. “Jimmy Zhang.”

  He’s so fast, I don’t even see him move—but suddenly he’s got a hand wrapped around my throat. “It’s really a shame,” he hisses, “that you’re so blithely ignorant of who you truly are. You’re like a tiger that’s been declawed, defanged, and blinded. Killing you will afford me little pleasure.”

  He grins, showing me just how long his new fangs are. “But I’m going to anyway.…”

  NINE

  I’m dead.

  I know I’m dead. He’s got me. I can’t believe I’m not even wearing a crucifix—I could have made one in about thirty seconds with two pencils and a rubber band. But no, I had to have my emotional meltdown and abandon Charlie with all our monster-hunting gear, then throw my rebellious little hissy-fit after Stoker dropped me off. God, I’m so stupid I deserve to die.

  Which is good, because I’m about to.

  “I know exactly who I am, Ms. Valchek,” my erstwhile employer says. “My name is Hondo Isamu. I am oyabun of the Sapporo yakuza clan. I am one thousand, four hundred and seventy-two years old, and in all that time no one has caused me more displeasure than you and your cohorts.”

  Cohorts? I have cohorts? Some part of my brain that isn’t slowly dying from a lack of oxygen is gibbering at me frantically. I really wish it would slow down, because I can’t understand most of what it’s saying. Something about screaming eskimos?

  “I am a patient man,” Isamu says softly. “To kill a hated enemy once they are in your power is not something that should be done in haste. I would much prefer to kill you by inches, over many months. But I find myself trapped in a strange place, without access to my usual resources. Thus, I shall restrict myself to getting the necessary information from you to escape. Answer swiftly, and you will die the same way.”

  He favors me with another smile. “But you shall refuse, of course. The Bloodhound is not so easily broken. My inquiries will be met with your usual jibes, and I will respond accordingly. Though much less verbally.”

  He tosses me aside. One handed, off balance, and seated, he still manages to lift me out of my seat and pitch me over the counter eight feet away with little discernable effort. I think he was aiming for the counter itself—which would have really hurt—and actually misjudged his own strength.

  I sail across the Formica and smash into the wall just below the pick-up window—hitting hard enough to make the order bell give off a tinny little ring—before falling to the floor behind the counter. I’m a little shaken up and my shoulder hurts, but I don’t think anything’s broken. Yet.

  There’s a mop in a bucket beside me. I grab the handle of the mop and use it to haul myself upright, pretending I’m more hurt than I actually am. I’m not surprised when Isamu lands on the counter in front of me as agilely as a cat. I keep a firm grip on the mop.

  He grabs me with both hands—by my shirt this time—lifting my feet off the ground. “You disappoint me, Bloodhound. I remember you being quite the wit.” He actually pauses, waiting for my reply.

  “Please don’t kill me,” I whisper.

  His lip curls in disgust. “Can it be? As much as I detest you, I must admit that I always held your fiery spirit in high regard. To kill you now seems … unworthy. I want you to perish cursing my name, Bloodhound. To die as the warrior you are, not some pathetic waitress. Perhaps you need further encouragement.…”

  He throws me again, this time back toward the booths. I land on top of a table and smack my head against the wall pretty hard—but the mop stays in my hand.

  Pain throbs through my skull. My shoulder aches. He’s not going to stop until I’m unconscious, and then he’ll rip open my throat and gorge himself while I bleed out.

  The fuck he will.

  There’s a steel post jutting up from the corner of the booth, with a few metal pegs near the top to hang coats or hats from. I get a firm grip on the mop’s handle and swing it as hard as I can at the post, the point of impact just above the mop’s head. Thankfully, the bucket was half full of water and the mop head is soaking wet; the weight adds enough kinetic energy to snap the wooden handle near the bottom. Dirty suds spray through the air and spatter against the counter.

  Now I have a spear. A wooden spear.

  The booth tables are bolted to the floor
, so they’re nice and sturdy. I get to my feet on the tabletop, holding my improvised weapon in both hands. From his perch on the counter, Isamu grins at me. “Ah. Does the Bloodhound bare her fangs at last?”

  I shift my grip, spreading my hands farther apart. I bring the mop handle down and my knee up, snapping the handle into two equal lengths. I drop into a combat stance, one in each hand. “Now I’ve got fangs. And they’re a lot longer than yours, Yak-boy.”

  I’m back.

  It’s that sudden, and that complete. I know who I am. I know where I came from. I know who my friends are, and who Isamu is.

  But most of all, I know what I can do.

  A little voice is talking in the back of my head. But it isn’t whispering You must be crazy or This isn’t really happening or You’re out of your depth. In fact, it isn’t whispering at all. It’s too gleeful for that.

  And what it’s saying is: Please do something stupid please do something stupid, please please PLEASE leap toward me like a big, overconfident moron so I can introduce a stake to your left ventricle while you’re still hanging in midair like an idiot balloon.

  Hello, brain. I missed you.

  But Isamu doesn’t do that. He just jumps down from the counter, then unties his apron and pulls it off. He’s wearing a blue Mickey Mouse T-shirt underneath. “Come on, then,” he says, gesturing. “We shall see if you are as formidable as you believe yourself to be—”

  I run.

  Well, jump might be more accurate. And not toward Isamu, either; I’m traveling over the line of booths, using the tops of the seats and the tables as stepping stones. Staying on the high ground, but forcing Isamu to either follow or try to block me. I know how fast pires are, but Isamu—this version of Isamu—is newly minted; despite his claims of remembering exactly who he is, he’s still getting used to his increased abilities. The two conditions contradict each other, sure, but that’s how magic usually works.

  Hello, magic. I still hate you.

  But at least I understand you. Okay, not really, but enough to know a few basic guidelines—including that different realities often have different magical rules. For instance, in Thropirelem lycanthropes have no problem with religious items like holy water; in fact, the Catholic Church is mostly made up of thropes. I asked about that once, and nobody could give me a satisfactory answer; the best guess was that once there were more supernaturals than human beings, faith-based weaponry was no longer effective against creatures of the night.