Nightlord: Orb

by Garon Whited

  “Uh… no.”

  “That means we run in a more mundane fashion,” Mary decided. “Let’s get all our stuff together.”

  “Yes, dear.”

  Mary knew where we could go, but, since Bronze couldn’t use a cab—she couldn’t even use most Google Vans; something big enough for her was a special order—we would ride her there. It was time to disappear, get new identities in new places. And, this time, keep a lower profile.

  I helped Mary up on Bronze and went to get the Ebon Eidolon of Evil. I reached through the door with tendrils, threw the bolts back, went inside, and punched the floor. I knelt on the floor and bashed through the concrete, shoved aside the rubble, dug down through the dirt, and pulled up the bag.

  It was light. I tore it open with a sick sense of certainty. The bag was empty.

  The orb was gone.

  Mary came in through the door in a dive-and-roll, a knife in either hand. She scanned all around the room, wildly.

  “What?” she demanded. “What is it?”

  I rubbed my face with both hands and sat down heavily. I noticed her, still crouched, apparently ready to turn something into sausage filler. I saw Bronze stick her head in the doorway. I waved. She nodded and withdrew.

  “What what?” I asked. “What’s gotten into you?”

  “I heard you scream,” she stated, matter-of-factly.

  “Oh. Yes, I suppose I did. Sorry about that.”

  “What the hell was that about?” she demanded. “And stop that!”

  “Stop what?” I asked. She pointed at my hands. I had a chunk of concrete in them and was crushing it to powder. “Oh.” I hurriedly dropped it and dusted my hands together self-consciously. “Did I mention the evil orb?”

  “Yes.”

  “Someone’s taken it. You probably heard me being a trifle upset,” I told her. “Sorry about that,” I repeated. Mary stared at me with an unreadable expression.

  “Do me a favor?” she asked, finally.

  “Okay.”

  “Don’t ever do that again.”

  “I’ll try.”

  “All right. What happened?” she asked, sheathing the knives.

  “I put the demon ball in a bowling bag and put a spell on the bag to make sure it was contained and concealed. I buried it here, then poured concrete over the floor. Now I find the bowling bag—don’t mind the damage; I did that—but not the Bowling Ball of Doom. Someone’s taken it. I don’t know who or when.”

  “Can you find out? I mean, you do magic stuff, right?”

  “I can try, but my house burned down. I want… oh, lots of things. Space to work. A smooth floor. Chalk. Grease pencils. Candles. Incense. Colored string. A large mirror. Magnets. A few iron nails. Maybe some marbles. I could really use some marbles; I lost mine a while ago. Nothing too fancy or complicated,” I concluded, “but also nothing I have on hand.”

  “Okay. Look, right now there is probably zero chance of anyone keeping an eye on my place. Even if they are, they won’t be coming after us instantly. They’ll want to get more goons together and assemble much more firepower—that will take a day, maybe two. Let’s go there for the day, clean up, sort ourselves out, and then decide what to do. I have a number of the things you mentioned and you’re welcome to them. I’m not sure I have any marbles, though; mine are probably wherever yours went. What do you say?”

  “Yes,” I agreed, tiredly. “I’m… it’s been a bad night.”

  “I understand the feeling. Come on,” she invited, holding out a hand. “Bronze can even stay in the garage.”

  I took her hand and she pulled me up. Bronze carried us away.

  Sunday, November 22nd

  Mary surprised me by breaking into her own house. She was concerned someone might have rigged it to either explode or set off alarms. In point of fact, someone rigged a silent alarm on her door. I don’t know how they did it, but I took her word for it.

  The house was built over thirty years ago, before the self-driving, electric cars took over. Mary didn’t actually own a car, but the garage was still there. Bronze liked the garage; it had a concrete floor and lots of headroom, along with lots of miscellaneous garage clutter. Most of it was edible in one way or another—flammable or metal. I pointed this out to Mary, who shrugged. Bronze is cleaning the garage.

  We got out the aluminum foil and tape to light-proof the bathrooms. I asked why they weren’t light-proofed already. She pointed out there was no need to before she started staying awake during the day.

  The bathrooms were not well-equipped. Soap and a scrub brush, basically. I’ve never seen a bathroom so devoid of feminine hygiene products. Not even hair conditioner. Being undead must be amazingly convenient for women.

  Mary insisted we shower together. Her morning transformation wasn’t as awful as the one before. While it was unpleasant, it had reduced symptoms—less of a fever, no heart palpitations, and much reduced nausea. She lay in the tub while the shower rained over her. I sat next to the tub and kept pouring water over her head, through her hair. I could take a shower afterward.

  When the sunrise started to fade, we stood up. She felt a little shaky and more than a little filthy, but otherwise all right. I helped her with her back and her hair while she continued to improve. Then she helped me with things I could reach by myself. Apparently, being alive again after a few decades is seriously sexy. Either that, or getting through a firefight really gets the blood going.

  Later—much later—we showered again, separately. She also treated the cuts on my back. She hugged me from behind.

  “Sorry about these,” she breathed in my ear.

  “No, you’re not.”

  “No, I’m not, but I am apologetic.”

  “I’ll take it,” I grumbled. She accidentally brushed my back. “Ouch!”

  “That, I am sorry about.”

  “Don’t they make a spray for this? I distinctly remember a series of sprays in a first-aid kit. One of them is a painkiller.”

  “I’m sure they do. If I had a first-aid kit, I’d use it.”

  “Why don’t you have one?” I complained.

  “I don’t usually have guests over who will leave alive.”

  I didn’t feel that needed a response. It should have been obvious.

  Mary dressed and packed a bag. Clothes for me were another story. The spells built into the enchanted underwear were working, but the damage was severe; it would take time to fix and some additional spiderweb. Fortunately, spiders are cheap. I talked half a dozen into helping me by spreading web over the burned areas. Tonight, there will be a massacre of insects and a feast for the spiders.

  My regular clothes were also punctured and burned; those had no repair enchantments. I wore the jeans anyway, despite the distressed look. Mary found me a man’s shirt, somewhat old and dusty. It was a trifle too large for me, but that’s minor. We ran it through the wash and I wondered whose it was. At a guess, he wasn’t going to miss it.

  Lunch was more problematic. I rummaged through cabinets and discovered it really isn’t a major priority for vampires to stock up on food. Admittedly, bare cupboards cut down on the ants and roaches, and there are never any crumbs to worry about…

  We decided since we were going to throw these identities away, we should clean them out. We split up, briefly, to do so. I took the opportunity to set up a trust for the Four, call a lawyer, deal with taxes, sign some papers, and draw out the rest of my bank account. I came back to her place with several pizzas. Mary did much the same thing, only she brought real groceries and some clothes for me. I could have kissed her. In fact, I did.

  Then we ate. I felt like singing that bit from Oliver! “Food, glorious food,” or something like that. I was hungry; it was a busy night with not nearly as much blood as I would have liked. The body parts we removed all contributed their contents, sure, but that’s really not much blood. Killing a local vampire with fire tends to reduce them to ashes, so there’s nothing there for me, either. I can only imagine how
hungry Mary must have been.

  Time for my lecture on food. Eat whatever you can hold; it helps. It doesn’t replace blood, but it stretches out the time between feedings.

  Short lecture. Well, I was busy chewing and that takes some care and attention if I expect to keep my tongue. My teeth are too damn sharp.

  “So,” Mary began, “what’s our priority? Running for cover or finding the ball?”

  “We have a narrow window for finding the ball,” I pondered, still chewing while I thought. “I’d like to settle things with Carlo’s organization, too.”

  “You’ve done quite a bit about Carlo already.”

  “That’s the point. I’ve got a responsibility.”

  “Since when?”

  “Since I interfered with Mark and Gary.”

  “As I recall,” she argued, swallowing, “Mark was pretty much doomed until you showed up.”

  “Maybe.”

  “And then you drastically improved his kid’s life.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  “Maybe,” she agreed. “But where does your responsibility end? Do you have to adopt them both as pets until they die of old age? Do you have to get Mark a new wife? Do you have to watch over those kids? And the grandkids? Where does it stop?”

  “Sometimes I like you more than other times,” I told her. She grinned.

  “This coming from the man with fingernail marks from his neck to his thighs.”

  “I blame you for that.”

  “That’s fair; I hold you responsible. But back to the subject. Have you done enough for Mark and Gary?” She held up a hand. “No, wait; let me put it another way. Mark wasn’t coming back from the time he was tied down in a drug factory. Have you given Gary enough extra time with his father? Add in all the changes to his situation, too. The house, the stuff, the neighbors, all that. Plus the fact Henderson’s people don’t seem to want to screw around with him. Plus the fact Carlo’s people recently got their noses bloodied for trying it.

  “And that brings me back to my first question. Where does your responsibility end? Where does it stop?”

  I chewed for a while.

  “Well?” she pressed.

  “I’m thinking.”

  We finished a pizza while she warmed up another. We worked on it for a while.

  “Well?”

  “Still thinking.”

  Logically, she was right. To assume infinite responsibility would require infinite power and infinite time. Since I’m not omnipotent, omnipresent, nor omniscient, I’m going to have to learn to let go of things once I’ve done what I can do.

  Emotionally, I still felt Gary needed and deserved my help. But what help could I give him? I couldn’t exactly hang around and watch over him and his father. I hope I did a good deed for him once or twice. Maybe it’s never knowing how his life will turn out that really bugs me. Did I improve his life? Did I add to his pile of good things? Or did I topple the first domino in a chain reaction that would destroy him?

  Yeah, that kind of uncertainty bothers me. I can be uncertain about the physical constants of the universe I’m in, but those I can figure out. Uncertainty about the effects of my actions, for good or for evil, is something more nebulous and not subject to my usual line of inquiry. I can’t exactly perform a laboratory experiment to measure my karma.

  Can I? There’s a terrifying thought. Can I check my karmic balance at the Bank of Reincarnation? Can I check my credit history with the Akashic Record Agency?

  “All right,” I agreed, finally. “You have a point. I’ve done what I hope is a good deed. I’ve supported it with a couple of forays into making my good deed stick. I’ll try to let go of it and hope I did enough.”

  “You don’t sound happy,” Mary noted.

  “I’m not. I hate that I’ll probably never know—or I’ll have no chance to fix it if I do find out I’ve screwed it up. Whether I’m responsible or not, I’ll still feel responsible. But I’ll try to do the logical thing this one time.”

  There was a psychic snort from the sword-shaped object on the kitchen counter. I attempted to ignore it with dignity.

  Mary was silent for the space of a sandwich.

  “Why, exactly, were you such an awful king?” she asked, completely off topic.

  “I don’t know anything about politics.”

  “Mm-hmm,” was all she would say. She continued to eat. I let it drop.

  We went out together that afternoon to handle some other shopping and logistical details. Mary said she had our transportation sorted out, aside from a trailer for Bronze. Regardless of Bronze’s feelings on the subject, she needed a trailer. A regular horse trailer wasn’t going to do, either. She would overload it before she finished stepping into it. We had to get one of the new, all-electric flatbed trailers and have an aerodynamic shell put on it. That took time, but we got the trailer company guys started on it.

  I shopped for wizardry and computer supplies. Mary found a padded rifle case for Firebrand—oddly enough, we couldn’t find a handy sword-accessory shop—and more ammunition for her guns. It was tempting to have her liquidate the gems in my pockets, but several of them were magical batteries. Given the opportunity, I would have to charge up the rest of them.

  Bronze’s trailer wasn’t quite ready at closing time. I threw money at the problem, claiming I needed to get my horse on the road soon for a show. They promised to finish in another three hours. I threw more money at them and thanked them. If I can only have two out of three of fast, cheap, or good, I prefer to skimp on cheap.

  It’s really a pretty impressive trailer. It has six wheels, two of which can be used to steer the trailer, each with an electric motor and brakes. The hookup to the vehicle provides power and even allows the driver to control the steering axle. On a powered road, you can almost tow the thing behind a scooter; it just needs to be hooked to something that can guide it.

  Mary and I finished our sunset showers one at a time, much to her disgust. I learned my lesson. Plus, it was comforting to have someone armed and alert at all times. True, no one was likely to disturb us so quickly, but caution has saved my life a couple of times.

  Besides, after my house burned down, my paranoia was acting up. People really are trying to kill me.

  We took the bus downtown to a paid parking lot. Mary led me to a small RV. It was larger than a typical panel van, smaller than a box truck; it reminded me of a shuttle bus. The interior was cozy, but not crowded. I approved of the shower, tiny though it was, and the solar panel roof.

  “Nice,” I observed. “Very nice. Some of this looks brand-new.”

  “After you mentioned the possibility of a mobile home, I had some refitting done on mine,” she admitted. “I had the springs and shocks beefed up to deal with heavier loads, Captain Density. There’s also a second battery pack for the motors, in case we want—or need—to go somewhere off a powered road. ”

  “Could be. Good thinking.”

  “Thinking ahead,” she added, “I also had those special rims put on. The ones with the rubber things mounted on the inside? When a tire goes flat, you can still drive on it. I figured we might need that. It cuts down on wrecks when you have a blowout—or get one shot out. And you don’t have to pull over instantly to change a tire.”

  “I’m beginning to suspect you’re better at this sort of thinking than I am,” I admitted, which pleased her.

  “You’ll like what I did with it when I bought it,” she added. “The glass has that transparent solar cell stuff on the outside, but the plastic of the windows is electrically polarized. You can almost black out the whole interior by turning a dial. It takes power, but not much—if there’s enough light to be a problem, the solar panels produce more than we need for it.”

  “I love this modern technology.”

  “The heavy-duty trailer hitch is new,” she pointed out. “That’s for those heavy cargo loads. I wanted to get an explosive bolt so we could disconnect it in an emergency, but I haven’t found anyone l
icensed to do that.”

  “We can set up something,” I assured her. “It’s a good thought, but I don’t think it’s a priority.” I didn’t mention Bronze could probably bite through any trailer hitch every made, if it came down to it. “Let’s go see if they’re done with the trailer.”

  Mary drove. It’s a big vehicle and handles like a drugged cow—or how I assume handling a drugged cow would be. I haven’t actually tried it. She presented a ticket to the automated gate, paid with a digital stick, and we went to the trailer lot.

  They weren’t quite done, but we waited. I plugged in the portable computer and connected the Diogenes drive. It was intact, but it really needed a new case; the exterior plastic had melt marks. The diagnostics ran their check; everything was fine with the programs. The Diogenes system ran the diagnostics on the vehicle; it seemed fine, too, except its GPS system was offline and the built-in wireless communications were disconnected. It wouldn’t be able to auto-drive or even navigate. It was as much off the grid as a vehicle could get.

  I told Diogenes not to worry about it. He acknowledged and made no further mention of it. I worried about it, instead.

  “Mary?”

  “Yes?”

  “I notice some of the electronic doodads are a bit…”

  “Disconnected?”

  “Yes.”

  “That’s deliberate,” she told me.

  “I got that. But this thing runs on electricity. Doesn’t it need to be in the autodrive lane? It can’t do that without the transponder system, can it?”

  “First, you’re mistaken. A power road is a power road in all lanes. How else do you think people on manual-drive get anywhere?”

  “I sit corrected.”

  “Second, if we have to, I bought a couple of alternative transponder codes for emergencies. I didn’t like the idea of traveling on autodrive during the day, though. Any sort of accident or breakdown could be disastrous, but if you have to risk it, it’s better to be prepared. Now, though, we could manage it with about the same risk as normal people.”