by Graeme Smith
Cute Guy put down his coffee. They hadn’t offered me one. Hot liquids running round inside the target screw up the tech toys. He shook his head. “You’ve got an interesting file, Maya.” At least he got my name right. “Actually, you’ve got two interesting files.” He raised an eyebrow and waited.
I figured if he was going to be a smart-ass, mine was smarter. I raised my own eyebrow and waited right back. I figured I had nothing to lose, so I concentrated for a moment. I smiled, while I felt my nipples turning into bullets. If that didn’t distract him some…
It didn’t. He picked up a clipboard, made a tick. “Ah, yes. Sven. And Maria.” He shook his head, made some more ticks.
Sven. And - I’d have smiled, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction – and Maria. Mom had brought them home last year. Said too many jobs got screwed up by hormones. Two months of pyjama parties, without the pyjamas. I ended up sore in places I hadn’t known were worth getting sore in. But by the time the two of them were done, Mom was satisfied none of my jobs were going to get screwed up because some cute guy – or girl – smiled at me. Or didn’t. And that I was more than capable of, um, screwing anyone else up if necessary. I shrugged, and let my nipples relax. “So I guess you’ve been watching, huh?”
Cute Guy shrugged. “It’s what we do.” He paused. “Well, or part of it.” He sighed. “Shall we get this over with?”
I shrugged too. Apparently it was in style this week. “Sure. Whatever.” I thought for a moment. “My name is Kaitlyn. I’m fat. I worry about my math grade. I’ve killed six…” Cute Guy looked down at his clipboard. I sighed. “OK, I’ve killed eleven…” He raised an eyebrow. I shook my head. “Look, that guy in the parking lot doesn’t count! He stole my space!” Cute Guy waited. I sighed. “Alright, already. I’ve killed twelve people. I like marshmallows, walking in the rain, and my Glock 357. Oh – and I want my fucking clothes back.” See, that’s how it’s done. They have to see some lies, and some truth, so they can tell the difference. Before they get on to the real stuff. The stuff they really want to know. It’s called base-lining. So I figured I’d save some time.
Cute Guy made some more checks on his board. He looked up at the wall mirror I knew was one-way glass. A light above it flashed twice. He nodded, then looked at me. “Ah, yes. Your, um, fucking clothes.” He didn’t sound sixteen. He sounded older. He sounded hard ass, and professional. He sounded like – like Mom. He pressed a button. The guy who came in had my clothes – and my Glock. Cute Guy nodded at them. “So, Maya. How would you feel about blowing your fucking Mom’s fucking head off?”
Preludio
Primo Movimento
December 1475, Near Bucharest
The target battled on. The Turks threw themselves on the blades and arrows of the Moldavian, determined the target was going to fall. Which was exactly what the man wearing the black leather duster and aiming the Barrett M82A1 had in mind.
He steadied his sight on the target.
At five thousand feet per second the seven hundred and fifty gram shell would go through Vlad Tepes like a knife through butter. The man in the leather duster knew there’d be no trace anyone would find that he’d been here. Gently, his finger began to squeeze the trigger.
As the girl in the leather jacket stepped from behind the tree the man turned, his eyes locking hers. She was amazed. Nobody ever saw her coming – nobody. Not that it made any difference. Her trigger finger tensed – and a 357 slug hammered into the man’s head.
The Barrett fell, the man slumped over it. The girl slipped the Glock back into her thigh holster. She moved in to clear the site. L would be real pissed if there was so much as a scrap of evidence. She looked up as the handsome sixteen year old stepped from behind a rock, a gun in his hand. “Hey, CG! I didn’t know you were riding shotgun!”
The boy looked round. He shrugged. “It's a good job I am, I guess. We've got a problem.”
“What problem? I don't miss. Like, ever. He's dead, CG.”
The sixteen year old shrugged. “That's the problem, M. Or rather, you are. See, you're supposed to be dead now too. Or gone. Or never here. One of those. But we can fix that.” His gun came up. There was a single crack, red fire burning from the sixteen year old’s gun. A second flare of red fire erupted from the girl’s thigh, and the girl slumped to the ground. The sixteen year old put another Hell round into the girl’s head, just to make sure. He walked over to the corpse and looked down. He lifted her skirt and ran his hand up inside it. He sighed. It was just too bad. If he hadn't been over a thousand years old, or if he'd ever actually reached puberty, he might have had a different reason for doing what he was doing. Well, if she was still alive anyway. Which she wasn't. For a moment, he thought he felt a flutter of life in her spirit – but then it was gone. He shook his head. His hand found what it was looking for and pulled. Even though she was dead, it wasn't easy. If she'd been alive it probably wouldn't have been possible at all. But she wasn't and the thigh holster came loose from her leg, dripping blood. He drew a crystal dagger from the sheath on his leg and kissed the blade. For three minutes his lips moved, his words a harsh whisper on the wind. When he was done the dagger blade glowed a sickly yellow. He cut into the thigh holster, slicing it open. Red fragments spilled out, a once-gem shattered by the boy’s hellfire slug. The boy took the fragments and put them carefully into the rune-box She'd given him. L was going to be pissed, but there was no way in Hell he was going to try to carry it with – he looked over at the dead man in black leather – the other thing as well. He'd come back for it. He grimaced. Come back. Like getting home wasn’t bad enough. He pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket and wrote on it in thick black marker. Then he pulled a red gem, filled with a dull red glow, out of his other pocket and held it tight. He began to chant again – then to scream. As he screamed, the red gem began to glow brighter. Eventually he stopped screaming. Dull, dead eyes read the paper, holding the now burning gem tight in the same hand. With his other hand, he took a flask from his pocket. The smell of Unicorn Horn filled the air. He drank - and was gone. The sheet of paper drifted in the wind – then flared into flame, leaving only ash.
* * *
The slumped figure in the leather duster coughed, a hacking, rasping gasp. Above him the Paradox Storm twisted the sky. Nothing not Summoned was going to get in. He grinned raggedly, blood bubbling between his lips.. He knew there was no way he could draw a pentacle. But - he grinned again, even though it hurt - that’s what emergency kits were for. His hand jerked. Slowly, so very slowly, the hand struggled to a pocket in the duster. Reaching in, he dragged out a folded sheet. The man coughed again, more blood spurting from his mouth. He rolled, and dragged himself to one knee. He unfolded the sheet and laid it on the grass, a black pattern visible on the surface and a monogrammed H in one corner. He fell to his side, twisting to land away from the sheet. After a few moments of exposure to the air the sheet flared red fire and white lightning. The flames and lightning vanished, but the heat didn’t. The air seared, the grass shriveled, and the earth fused to rock under the sheet as it burned away. Rock scribed with a black pattern. The man in the black leather duster struggled to his knees. He pulled a small glass vial filled with a red fluid from a patched slit in the shoulder of the duster. His hand slammed down over the vial, smashing it into the center of the pattern. With his last breath, he cried a long and complex name, then fell face down over the pentacle.
The sky opened.
Chapter Three
9 to 5 to 357
“Sure.”
The thing with fluttering, Mom told me, is they sometimes throw stuff in to shock you. To surprise you. To get a reaction. But the other thing is, when someone like the people Mom works for asks you how you’d feel about blowing someone’s head off – they’re probably not kidding. I ignored my clothes, and reached over to my Glock. Mostly to see if Cute Guy (I was really going to have to do something about knowing his name) did anything to stop me. He didn’t – and the mach
ine guns or lasers or whatever else they had buried in the walls didn’t start stopping me either. The Glock’s clip was in, and the weight was right to say the clip was hot. I raised an eyebrow at Cute Guy. He shrugged. I aimed the Glock at the mirror on the wall and pulled the trigger. The bang was loud, and the ricochet made a hole in the wall. The mirror was just fine, with a blur where the slug had smudged whatever they were using as armour glass. So they’d given me a loaded gun – and didn’t seem worried if I was going to use it.
I slipped my gun into my thigh holster. As I did, I ran my fingers over a ‘fault’ in the leather that looked just like my skin. Whatever they’d done, they hadn’t found the lump under it. Mom once said it might be the last thing I needed some time I had nothing left. She never said what it did. Of course knowing Mom it could just as easy kill me to cover her back trail as save me. But at least it was still there. And my leg sure felt better with the weight of my Glock where it should be.
I ignored the rest of my clothes and leaned back, crossing my legs so my Glock was near my hand. Mom had told me this would happen one day. I mean, sure. I’d done some stuff like the PTA thing for her. And other things. I wondered if the fluttering had picked me up. I’d hit twelve before I hit eleven. But it was all off the books. Mom said it was like ‘take your kid to work’ day, even if it was a lot more often than a day and mostly she didn’t come with me. But there’s a limited number of employers in Mom's field – and only one where she wouldn’t have to blow my head off if she found out I was working for them. So it looked like it was time. At least I wouldn’t have to worry about Career Day at school – not that I ever had. I pointed my index finger between Cute Guy’s eyes, and cocked my thumb. “So where do I go for your trick with bullets?”
“You don’t.”
He didn’t look amused. Which was fine by me. If I was reading it right, I wasn’t amused either. But the game’s the game, and there are Rules, even if I knew I’d break them just as soon as it suited me. But now wasn’t then. Not yet. “Look, CG...”
“CG?” Cute Guy and the electronic voice that could have been male or female, from speakers I couldn’t see, could have had Siamese tongues. I shrugged. “CG. Cute Guy. But don’t let it go to your head. I eat…” I grinned, remembering Sven’s face. Then I grinned some more, remembering Maria’s. “I eat Cute for breakfast.”
“Is this absolutely necessary?” Cute Guy’s face had gone from ‘not amused’ to ‘can I hurt someone?’ as he looked towards the mirror.
The voice behind the speakers laughed. It wasn’t a pretty laugh, but if it was laughing at Cute Guy I figured I might like whoever owned it. “Just get on with it…” the voice paused a moment. “… CG.”
Sometimes you really can hear a smile.
I leaned back a little. It gave me an opportunity to adjust specific bits of my me and maybe make CG’s life, or at least part of his anatomy, a little harder. “That’s not how it goes, CG. If you’re going to be my…” I looked over to the mirror. The light flashed. Twice. Damn – I was right. “My case officer, aren’t we supposed to do that whole ‘trust me’ thing?”
Cute Guy sighed. “The first time you saw me, you did your best to blow my head off.”
I shrugged. “Hey! I waited ‘til lunch. At least you died with a full stomach.” I frowned. “Or didn’t die.”
CG shrugged too. “You missed.”
“I never miss.” If there’d been a glass of Jack in the room, nobody would have needed ice. My voice would have frozen it on the spot. I don’t miss. I point, you’re going down. So I was pissed, and I didn’t give a shit who knew it.
He shrugged again. But this time it was more to cover the flinch I’d seen him flinching. Which was better, but not enough. He put his hand out. I let mine drift closer to my Glock. He shook his head, and sighed. “So what do you know about magic?”
“What, you’re going to make the Empire State disappear? Or do I get to pick a card?” I wasn’t in the mood for dumb-ass jokes.
“Not exactly.” Cute Guy turned his hand palm up. The air over it began to glow, to burn. Then the fire flickered – shifted. And a girl-shaped flame with a tiny face I’d seen in a mirror danced in his palm. “Let me tell you a story.”
* * *
The Treasure Room, Court of King Alfred the Great, 890 AD
In what would one day become South America the Maya Indians were writing books. In Rome a baby was being born whose bastard son, grandson, great-grandson and two great-great grandsons would all sit on St Peter’s throne and who, with her mother Theodora, would rule Rome in what would one day be called the Pornocracy.
And in the newly rebuilt London, an eight year old boy eased an iron spike into a lock.
The boy sighed. These new metal locks were, he thought, a right bastard. The locksmith who had generously told him their secrets, mostly while screaming and bleeding, hadn’t seemed very happy with the boy’s devotion to his trade. He grinned as he eased the metal spike between the bolt wards and gently twisted. The locksmith had stopped screaming too soon. But he’d got what he wanted. People who didn’t know they were being paid by an eight year old boy had told him about the King of Gwynedd’s (whatever a Gwynedd was when it was home) visit to the court. The boy had been getting into places he shouldn’t get since he was five. Getting into the treasure store wasn’t the problem. But these new bloody metal locks…
The spike caught. The bolt shifted. The boy smiled.
Whatever a Gwynedd was, the word was he was bringing treasure. And as far as the boy was concerned, the only important thing about treasure he hadn’t stolen yet was how and when he was going to take it. As the bolt slid back it looked like that time was now. But as he eased the chest’s lid open the boiling black cloud inside was no treasure he'd been looking for. His eyes glazed, and he fell to the floor.
The cloud boiled, then shifted. A young girl stood where it had been. The Fallen Angel, named Belphegor by those who knew names they’d be better off not knowing, smiled. This one would serve his Prince well, and for long. And the Stealer of Children had had her eye on it for… well, for what the child might think was a while, anyway. The brat would make a fine gift for her. But it was only fitting said brat should know its place first. Besides. Eight was a fine age. The boy should keep it for – Belphegor grinned wider – what it at least would think was rather more than a while. The Fallen Angel waved his, or currently her, hand. Let it be so.
* * *
CG spat. “So I’ve been eight ever since. A thousand years. Never even made bloody puberty! And now I have to babysit a girl! Eeeew!”
He didn’t look happy. I knew I wasn’t. I just didn’t know what I was least happy about. That he was giving me this demon-curse magic bullshit or – I remembered the fire girl dancing in his hand – or that it might not be bullshit. I stood up, grabbed his hand and yanked him up. “You’re a pretty big guy for eight, CG”
“Glamor.” He shrugged.
I grinned. “Glamour? I don’t see no stockings and lace.”
“Eeeeeeeew!” CG looked over at the mirror. “Do I really have to?” The light flashed. Twice. I was willing to bet whoever was behind it was grinning too. He sighed again. “G-l-a-m-o-r.” I did my best blank look. He sighed. He was getting quite good at it. “Magic, you…” He looked over at the mirror. The light flashed. Once. He winced. “It’s magic. Eyes, touch – all the senses. That’s why you missed. You were aiming at what you saw.” He shimmered. An eight year old boy stood where he’d been. An eight year old rather shorter than CG had been when I’d blown his head off. Or thought I had. “Not at me.” He shimmered again.
I turned to look over at the mirror. “So I’m hired then?” The light flashed twice. “Paycheck, pension…?” The light flashed three times.
CG grinned. “We’re not big on pensions. Most of our… employees… don’t make it to collect.” He looked down at the him that wasn’t himself. “Or never get to bloody retire.”
I shrugged. I looked at t
he mirror. “OK. So maybe no pension. But benefits, right?” Medical? Dental?” The light flashed twice. I grinned inside. My face never twitched. I stepped sideways and bent. As I lifted my leg and cocked, I swung in a half circle and released. My foot planted in what looked like CG’s crotch. I almost wished it was his crotch – but what it was would do. CG flew back and slammed into the mirror. An eight year old boy slumped to the ground, his mouth full of broken teeth and blood. This time my grin was on the outside. I looked at the mirror. “Dental. That’s good.” I looked at CG. Now I wasn’t grinning. “I. Don’t. Miss.”
I grabbed my clothes. Apparently I had a new job. Now I had to find out how I was going to get screwed doing it.
Preludio
Secondo Movimento
The burning gem crumbled to dust in the hand of the handsome sixteen year old boy with dull and lifeless eyes. A red fire leaked from it, and seeped into his skin. He screamed. When the screaming stopped, the boy’s eyes were bright with life. Bright – and aware. He dropped the body slung over his shoulder and looked at the one way mirror on the wall. “It’s done, L.”
The hidden speakers crackled. “Excellent. Now give me the jacket.”
The boy cursed inwardly. Damn and… “L. I figured you’d want hers first. If I'd tried to carry both of them together – no way. The Storm was... I'd never have got back, boss. And I knew you wanted...”
“So you didn't bring the jacket, dear?” The vocoder may have hidden the speaker’s gender, but somehow whoever it was managed to make the crackled words sound sweet. Which, the boy knew well, was about as bad as it could get. “Then I will tear every limb from your body.” The words were still honey and soft. “I will make you scream for a hundred thousand years. You will…” The sweet voice sighed, and paused. Then it was no longer sweet. “We’ll talk about this later, Ealdric. For now – GET ME THAT JACKET!”