by Alison Levy
15
RIOT
The yellowish light of the lone basement bulb cast a sickly mask of shadows over the man’s face that made his toothy smile look unnaturally bright, like a dragon’s mouth lit from fire within. Animal alarm exploded through Rachel’s body; since there was nowhere to run, she balled her fists and prepared to fight.
“Why are you doing this?” Rachel demanded.
“I can do what I want,” he said. “I don’t need a reason.”
“Why would you want to punch a hole in the dimensional spectrum?” she yelled. “And why to the wastes?”
The man looked at her in speechless surprise, his thin mouth slightly agape. For a brief moment, his composure slipped. But he quickly pulled himself together and flashed his snakelike smile.
“You’re from that other place, aren’t you?” he said with the air of a king addressing a lowly peasant. “When I saw you upstairs, I thought you were just a common mongrel, some sort of mulatto whore with your muddy skin, but I get it now. You’re one of those people who fixes the demons. They warned me that someone like you might show up eventually. Messing with the ‘natural order’ always brings out people like you, according to them.”
Rachel stared. Her arms trembled and her whole body felt surreally cold. “What is it you know?”
“I know you’re from another layer,” he said with a smirk. “The people I talked to called it another color in the ‘spectrum rainbow.’”
Rachel’s pupils contracted slightly at the word. Rainbow. She remembered teachers and instructors using that word repeatedly during her education. The human dimensional spectrum is like a rainbow, they said, with each color containing a layer of reality. It was a reference any Arcanan would recognize. But this man was Notan. The owner of the dungeon grinned in self-satisfaction at the sight of her shock.
“They said they can’t use their own technology because too many people would notice, so they have to resort to messier methods. They brought me into their fold because I can perform the tasks that they can’t, since they have to stay hidden.” He leaned toward the women just a bit, his cold eyes gleaming with reptilian avarice. “They need me, you see.”
Rachel did not see. She did not understand what was happening. Her Arcanan-born, Arcanan-bred, Arcanan-raised mind could not fathom that this psychopath had been hired by her own people to do something that went against everything her world believed in. It was illogical . . . and sick. It was . . . un-Arcanan.
LEDA HAD NO such cultural barrier to overcome, and though she didn’t fully understand what was happening, she knew a narcissistic sack of shit when she saw one. In that way, this man reminded her of her boss, and she had never once been afraid of that asshole. Seeing her captor in this new light, she gained courage.
“I see,” she said, scanning the man from head to toe. Her nose wrinkled and she shook her head. “You’re just some dumb bastard who’s doing some other dumb bastard’s dirty work. Dumbest thing about it is they’re just using you but you still think you’re important.” She snorted and pursed her lips. “Fuckwit.”
This assault on his intelligence stirred the would-be placid waters of his expression, but he visibly forced his anger into check. Leda saw the impact of her words, and she suppressed a smile.
He clenched his jaw and flashed his teeth in a smile that was like a crocodile’s grimace. “I’m not as dumb as you’d like to think,” he said, sneering. “I know who you are. They said I would find you somewhere in this city, so I’ve been poring over the journals to figure out where you were hiding. I really had to dig deep, in the journals and in the public record, but I knew I was close. I didn’t think I’d pick you up purely by chance, but the phone call I just got confirmed it—I’ve got you.” He grinned hungrily at the center of the dungeon floor, at the old stains that had escaped the bleach. “The blood of those other girls I picked up would have eventually done the trick, but it’s been slow going. Your blood, on the other hand . . .” He sighed happily. “Oh, that should really make an impact. I don’t know if the gate will open with your blood alone, but even if it doesn’t, I’ll bet it makes one hell of a dent. And now that I know who you are, I can hunt down the rest of the women in your family. Once they’re all dead, Apep will pass over to this dimension by default. And I’ll just bet he leaves a nasty gash in the dimensional boundary when he does.”
He giggled like a child—a disconcerting, unnatural sound. Leda was beyond hope of grasping all of his babble, but his fixation on her, her blood, and her family renewed her fear and rendered her silent. She shot a look at Rachel, hoping for an explanation, but on her face she saw only shock.
RACHEL TURNED ONE disbelieving eye to Miss Morley. “You’re the gatekeeper?” she whispered. When Leda only stared blankly at her in response, she shook her head. “The daemon said it saw something strange in you but . . . I didn’t know.”
Rachel looked at Miss Morley as if for the first time. This couldn’t be real; and even if it could, it shouldn’t be. The odds against stumbling upon the missing gatekeeper while tracking down a mark from a completely different case were astronomical. There was no coincidence broad enough to cover this situation. Except . . . an oracle had led her here. When an oracle read the map, even the most divergent paths would eventually cross. Bach had, without actively knowing it, brought these two paths to a junction, the crossroads at which she now stood. To the right, a psycho trying to open a portal to the daemon wastes. To the left, the last scion of an ancient gatekeeper line, the extinction of which would open just such a portal. These two should never have met and would not have if not for the oracle . . . and Rachel herself.
“Ladies, take a seat against the wall,” their captor said, pointing at the chain and cuff dangling from the concrete. “Sit down, stay still, and we’ll get started.”
“Up yours,” Rachel snarled.
“Are you under the impression that you have a choice?” he asked. His eager, pleasant expression suddenly hardened into a visage of hateful monstrosity. His lip curled back from his teeth like a rabid dog’s and his eyes filled with lightning. In seconds, the tranquil man with a song on his lips had dropped the mask that camouflaged the near-soulless truth within. He glared viciously at Rachel and pointed at the wall again. “Put your ass on the floor, you dumb bitch, or I’ll put it there for you.”
When Rachel didn’t move, his nostrils flared and he took a step in her direction.
“Don’t you get it, whore?” he snapped. “I already beat your ass once today.” He took another step, thrusting his face inches from hers so that she could smell turkey and mustard on his breath. “Are you stupid or just a masochist? I’ll take you apart and scatter the pieces of your body all over the city, just like I did to those other girls, and no one will ever kn—”
Rachel swung at him, and for the first time made contact. The heavy padlock in her hand struck the man in the side of the head just shy of his left eye. He reeled and staggered backward a few steps while trying to catch his balance. Rachel rushed forward and hit him again, in the back of the head this time, knocking him to the floor. She leapt on top of him and starting twisting his ear with her other hand while hitting him about the head with the lock.
“Run!” she shouted to Miss Morley. “Go!”
With a startled gasp, the other woman darted around the fallen man and lunged for the door. She flipped the locks, turned the knob, and yanked, but only managed to expose a sliver of light before her stunned captor’s flailing legs caught her in the knee. Rachel heard something pop out of place, and Miss Morley shrieked in pain as her leg buckled beneath her.
The man swung his foot again, and this time connected with the door, which banged shut. Before Miss Morley could steady herself, he was kicking again at her knee, even as he grabbed a fistful of Rachel’s hair and yanked her off of his back.
Miss Morley fell to the floor, screaming with blind pain.
HE CONTINUED TO kick at the museum bitch, trying to aim for joints and s
oft spots to inflict the maximum amount of damage, while simultaneously trying to put enough distance between himself and his attacker to land a serious blow.
The smaller girl was clinging to him doggedly, one arm wrapped around his neck while the other pounded away at him with the padlock, coming agonizingly close to fracturing his skull. By pure luck, he grabbed her wrist and managed to pry the lock out of her fingers. She surprised him by immediately using her newly freed hand to secure her hold around his neck. He expected her to go to pieces with her weapon gone, but instead she kept a level head and continued her attack undaunted. It was just what he would have done in her place, and that shocked him. By the time he recovered from his amazement, she was already choking him.
He turned his head just in time to see the other woman crawling toward the discarded padlock. Snarling, he heaved himself up, with his attacker still choking him from behind, and flung his body backward against the cinder block wall.
The girl threw her head forward far enough to avoid another knock to her skull, but he felt the blow snuff all the air from her lungs. She gasped, breathless, and he took advantage of her helpless state to rip free from her arms and fling her, still desperate for air, to the floor. Then he marched to the museum woman, kicked the padlock out of her reach, and stomped on her outstretched hand. He heard a snap; she began to scream again. Unbothered by her pain, he seized her by the wrist and dragged her, kicking and clawing, to the far side of the room, where he dropped her against the wall, right next to Rachel.
“Stay there!” he bellowed.
He could feel the blood matting in his graying hair and running down his face. Panting, he turned his back to his captives, snatched up the padlock, and marched to the basement door.
“Goddamned bitches,” he said hoarsely, massaging his bruised throat. “I’m sticking to one at a time from now—”
The door was open. He stared at it in astonishment. His memory of the last few minutes was a bit jumbled, but he was very sure that he had stopped the museum bitch from opening the door. He glanced back at his captives; they were just where he’d left them, still too shaken and wounded to move. He quickly closed the door and reattached the padlock. That done, he felt a delightful sense of routine wash over him. The empty smile returned to his lips. The girls were back under his control. Now he could begin.
He turned toward them with a ready-made speech on his tongue. He would tell them, as he’d told the others, what awaited them. He would bind them and then unlock the closet to introduce them to his many blood-seasoned tools, one at a time. Most girls didn’t live long enough to meet the last few instruments (the “corkscrew” in particular), but these two were stronger than most; despite the disappointments of the last few minutes, he had high hopes for them.
Smiling eagerly, he took a step toward them—the usual introductory speech taking shape in his mind—only to be distracted by a shadow at his feet. He glanced down and squinted in puzzlement.
There was a ratty brown coat on the floor.
“Bitch must have dropped it earlier,” he mumbled as he leaned down to pick it up.
The coat darted away from his fingers. He was startled to see a piece of clothing move, but he was also instinctively annoyed to see it attempt to evade him. Without thinking, he sprang forward and grabbed the sleeve.
The coat lurched and covered his hand, and a pain like he had never felt before exploded through his arm. He let fly an agonized, terrified scream that shook the concrete walls. It was as if a box of invisible red-hot pins had invaded his hand and burst through his veins and muscles on their way up his arm, leaving a hundred smoldering tunnels in their wake. He yanked his arm back, but the coat stayed with him, clinging to him with its unseen teeth. He wildly flung his arm this way and that to shake it loose. Droplets of his blood struck the floor, walls, and ceiling, but the coat did not let go.
He tucked the coat to his side, pinned the previously unnoticed bulk with his arm, and pulled his hand free. Long strips of his skin and flesh ripped away with the coat, but with the pain of the bite still coursing through his arm, he could hardly feel it. He hurled the coat in the direction of the two girls and gasped for breath as he tried and failed to flex his fingers. He looked over at the coat; the strips of skin torn from his hand dangled from its collar like wet noodles, dripping blood down its buttons.
“What the fuck is that thing?” he shrieked.
RACHEL HAD NEVER seen a daemon bite anyone before, and in fact hadn’t known for sure that it was possible until now, but she was thrilled to see it happen to her captor. She glanced at Miss Morley and saw a similar rush of excitement on her face. But quickly, very quickly, Miss Morley’s expression shifted from a soft hope to a hard fury. Rachel had only a moment to puzzle about the sudden switch, because she suddenly felt a change come over her as well. The pain of her injuries dimmed as anger boiled in her blood and radiated through her, from her heart to the very tips of her fingers.
As the rage engulfed her, she glanced at the blood-spattered coat and understood. A riot daemon’s function was to stir discord and incite violence. Its unheard whispers urged anyone with a grudge to react disproportionately, whether with words, gestures, or fists, and Rachel and Miss Morley had more than a simple grudge. Their blood was already warm from the struggle a minute ago, and now, with some intensive daemonic urging, it was searing hot.
Rachel flashed a smile at the coat that quickly and willingly became a snarl. She understood what was happening and she fully embraced it. Without hesitation, she stood up and launched herself at her captor. Despite the obvious damage to her knee, Miss Morley somehow did the same. Together, without pain, sense, or plan, they attacked their captor with fists, nails, and teeth, and with every adrenaline-driven ounce of strength their bodies could summon. They shrieked like mindless banshees through it all, but Rachel didn’t even hear the mad voices as their own. The rage, the riot, consumed them both.
SHORT THE USE of his wounded arm and reeling from the pain, he could barely hold them off. The two defeated victims had suddenly and inexplicably transformed into rampaging harpies, and he couldn’t wrap his mind around the change. Flashes of light and dark skin darted in and out of his vision, accompanied by stings and cracks. He fended them off with his one functioning arm, but unlike him they seemed to feel nothing and did not react to his counterblows. Their yowling mouths set his ears ringing, and he tried to shut them up, but every time he struck one in the teeth, she clamped her jaws on his fingers.
It took only seconds for them to take him to the floor. Once he was down, they crouched over him and continued their attack, and all he could do was blindly flail his arm at them.
At last, a lucky kick knocked one into the other and disoriented the pair long enough for him to scramble to the door. With only one functional hand, he was unable to unlock the padlock. He dodged the scrambling girls and ran for the stairs. As he passed into the basement anteroom, he flung the dividing door shut behind him and bolted the locks. Both women slammed their bodies against the door, sending a huge shock through the hinges. They screamed with inhuman voices and beat their fists on the slab.
He backed away, out of breath and wide-eyed. With his heart racing (a sensation he was unused to), he climbed the stairs toward the main level of his house.
With each step, he discovered a new ache or bloody gash. He was forced to gasp for air through his mouth, as his nose was smashed to bits, and in between each breath, he had to swallow down a mouthful of blood—one of the girls had knocked a tooth loose from his gums. His eyes returned again and again to his tattered arm as he struggled with the idea that the old coat had bitten him. As he neared the top step, he shook his head decisively.
“I’m calling the others about this,” he said, thinking aloud. “There’s something extremely wrong happening here.” He reached the door, fumbled for the key in his pocket, and clumsily unlocked the bolts with one shaky hand. “Better to let them sort it out before I go back down.”
&nbs
p; More tired than he had been in years, he gingerly pushed open the door and let it swing casually into the kitchen. He stepped up onto the tile and, a second too late, realized that someone else was in the room.
Had he not been nursing his injuries and spinning in a whirlwind of thought, he would have sensed the intruder long before opening the door, but as it was, he was caught off guard, and the tall, skinny stranger successfully landed a punch right between his eyes.
Staggering blindly, he swiped his good arm at the assailant but made no contact. A hand grabbed him by the shirt and shoved him hard. He tripped over his own foot and fell backward down the very staircase he had just climbed. He surrendered his consciousness halfway down the steps.
WHEN WU UNBOLTED and opened the door, Rachel and Miss Morley burst into the anteroom. When she saw their captor bloody and unconscious on the floor, Rachel almost immediately felt the last of her strength leave her. Miss Morley seemed to be experiencing the same feeling, since she immediately slumped down the wall with a grunt and a sigh.
Already feeling her headache return with a vengeance, Rachel groaned wearily in the face of her rescuer. “Don’t think I’m not glad to see you,” she said in Arcanan, “but it sure took you long enough.”
“Don’t blame me for this freak,” Wu said. “Blame the Central Office for misclassifying this case.”
“As soon as they open their doors again, I will.” As the last of the adrenaline trembled its way out of her body, she sighed and accepted the arm her friend was offering her. “Thanks, Wu.”
He grinned his jokester grin, the endearing one that showed a few too many of his teeth.
“Not a problem. Hey, since I helped you out here, maybe you can pick up one of my assignments for this week. Shouldn’t be a problem for you, right?”
Too tired to laugh and too bruised to reply, Rachel held her head in her hand and listened to the comforting sound of her own beating heart.