Geekomancy

by Michael R. Underwood

  She took a seat. Channeling her inner petulant child, she crossed her arms and leaned back, eyes locked on the man who she was certain was the same as the stranger she’d seen in the dream vision. But what had he been doing there that he felt guilt about it now, buckling under the barrage of her indiscriminate rage?

  “It all starts with a girl,” Eastwood began.

  Chapter Eleven

  Revelation Station

  “Branwen nic Catrin was the most powerful genre specialist I’d ever seen. We met around ten years ago, when she was new to the city. The dot-com bubble was bursting, and I was getting out of the computer business, burning my bridges with the EFF, and setting up shop here.” Eastwood gestured to the Dorkcave, then took to pacing. “She was good then and was even better by the end. When she vanished two years ago, I turned over the whole rutting magical Underground looking for her. I called in markers, knocked heads, and padded wallets. But she was gone.”

  He made the universal magical sign of poof. “No one could place her anywhere later than Howard Park on October 31st. I kept digging, turned up more and more sources.”

  Ree shifted in her chair, arms crossed, hackles still up.

  Eastwood stopped and took a moment. “And then the Duke showed up.”

  “Duke? Of what, Windsor?” Ree asked, thick with sarcasm.

  Eastwood narrowed his eyes, disapproval clear. “Hardly. Not only are demons real, there are lots of kinds. The fallen angel who plagued Jesus in the desert, the daemon that haunted Plato, oni, rakshasa, manitou, shen, and more. As we’ve changed, demons have kept pace, developed specialties to match ours.

  “The ‘Duke’ is properly His Brilliant Marvelousness, the Thrice-Retconned Duke of Pwn, Chief of the Dork Lords of Hell.”

  Ree burst into a most unladylike bout of laughter. The rage and frustration that had been at a rolling boil found the hole of the laughter and rushed out. She cackled so hard that her very proper Puerto Rican Catholic godmother would have chided her in Mach 3 Spanish had she seen Ree act in such a way.

  Eastwood let her finish laughing, waiting to resume his story like a politician letting an audience play out its applause during a speech.

  “I’d heard of the Duke through Branwen—he’d had a major hate-on for her because of some history I still don’t know. I figured that if no one on earth knew where she was, he’d be the one being off earth who would.”

  Ree wrapped her arms around herself, holding tight.

  “And he did. The Duke taunted me with her, promised to bring her back, for a price. I tried everything I could to get to her on my own: rituals, summonings, divinations. None of it worked. And last full moon, he showed his face. Or at least the face he shows to the world. Exacts on demons are sketchy, since they’re each as different as we are—individual eccentricity trumps general description. He appeared to me during one of my divinations, offering a bargain.”

  Ree let her arms drop to her lap. “And I’m assuming that bargaining with demons is as bad an idea in reality as it always is in fucking every single story ever?”

  “Almost certainly. But for Branwen . . .” He trailed off, then blinked and continued. “He gave me an offer. If I delivered—in full and on time—he’d return Branwen to me, unharmed, alive, and renounce all claim on her.”

  Ree stood into a fighting stance, her cheeks hot. “Delivered what?” already thinking she knew the answer. I want to hear you say it.

  “Demons run off of emotional energy. They breathe it like we do air. The anguish of a widower, the triumphant joy of a world-cup winner, the sadness of a broken heart. But to get it, they have to use intermediaries, since they can’t touch our plane without being summoned. Their lackeys here on earth do their dirty work, but they can’t harvest the emotion directly. No, that job falls to schmucks like me who’ve gotten themselves in over their heads.”

  “Deliver what?” Ree asked again, her heart pounding like a jackhammer.

  Eastwood shook his head, chagrined. “Everyone has a price. You don’t believe it until you’re the one crouched over a body harvesting its emotional by-product like some hippie vegan saving her afterbirth to freeze and cook into a casserole.”

  As Ree was about to yell her question at his sad little face, Eastwood stopped, looked her in the eye, and said, “I have to bring him the souls of five virgin suicides with broken hearts before the full moon on All Hallows’ Eve, or I’ll never get her back. That oni I was chasing broke my last ritual focus, so I needed the Claddagh to get back on track.”

  Ree moved in on Eastwood again, nostrils flaring. “You knew the suicides were happening early enough to break into their houses and steal their souls.”

  “Yes.” Eastwood narrowed his eyes at her. “Ree, she’ll spend eternity suffering at his hands. I can’t fail her. Not again . . .”

  Ree’s ears started burning. “And you came in like some cowardly hyena ghoul jackass, took their souls, all to pawn them off to get one woman back, a woman who probably got herself into whatever it was that killed her?”

  Eastwood narrowed his eyes but looked away from her.

  “And now you’re willing to trade five deaths for one life?”

  Eastwood’s eyes were bloodshot, puffy. But his voice was clear. “Yes.”

  Ree punched him. She used the single-mindedness of purpose, the smoothness and certainty of action she’d cultivated to pass her black-belt Taekwondo breaks, and she punched him in the nose. It broke, and he reeled back, collapsed into his chair.

  His hand went up to his nose and was quickly covered by blood. He didn’t stand up, didn’t retaliate, just looked at her through ever-more-teary eyes, and said, “I’m sorry. It was the only way.”

  Ree shook the impact out of her hand, stepping back. “Seriously? That’s what villains say, Eastwood, not heroes. You’re the grand-high Geekomancer narratological magical badass, you should know that better than me.”

  Ree gave him the nastiest glare she could muster, then picked up her pack and walked out the door.

  • • •

  She walked straight home, up the stairs, and into her room at The Shithole, where she turned on her stereo and queued up VNV Nation as loud as she possibly could and collapsed into a heap of crying and shouting.

  What in the fucking fuck am I supposed to do now?

  Ree went to her computer and tried to recall the email addresses she’d seen in the vision. The memory was foggy, like a dream. It had been so vivid, so visceral, but now it was barely a rough impression, aside from the pain. She pieced together what she thought Tomas’s email address must be, and started drafting a message.

  What do you say to someone who might commit suicide? Who might not have even gotten the final impetus to go through with it?

  Tomas must have already been unstable or depressed, for a breakup to push him over the edge. But that was in a normal, no-monsters paradigm. She had no idea what the phantom shadow she’d seen was, or what amount of influence it could have over someone. But who would know? Who of the people she’d met would help her even if Eastwood told them not to? The list was damn short.

  Not Grognard, who barely knew her, and certainly not Lucretia or Carlssen, since Ree was as likely to shiv them as ask them for help.

  If she wanted help from someone who was clued in, it came down to Drake Winters, the temporally displaced bombastic Victorian would-be hero. Who might actually just be some random whacko whom Grognard permitted in the store. Ree tried to remember the sewers, what Eastwood had said, tried to piece together whether there was any way to get to Grognard’s that wouldn’t require going through the Dorkcave or another run-in with gnomes.

  Her phone rang with the Unknown Number ringtone she’d set. The number wasn’t familiar, though it bore a local area code. She picked up. “Hello?”

  “Is this Ms. Reyes?” said the voice from the other line, proper but uncertain.

  She stood up. “Drake?” The hell?

  A sigh of relief came from the other side
of the line. “Indeed, Ms. Reyes. The pull of Providence urged me to my phone and to produce your calling card. May I be of assistance?”

  Woah.

  “Providence? How does that work? Some faerie magic, or some Steampunk probability matrix?” Or are you also a stalker? Are you in on it with Eastwood, maybe through Grognard?

  “Since my time in Faerie, I have been gifted with a strong sense of Providence, a call to adventure so that I might be in the right place at the right time.”

  “Are you sure you’re not stalking me?” she asked. “You could be working with Eastwood.”

  “Eastwood? Is he not your mentor? Miss Ree, I have only the noblest of intentions. Are you truly in need of service?”

  Ree ran her hands through her hair, sighing. “Like how. This will work better in person. Can you get to the U-District?”

  “I was enjoying a constitutional in Washington Park. With advantageous traffic, I can reach the University District within one half hour.”

  “Great. Meet me at Turbo’s Pizza in half an hour. It’s on University and Wilson.”

  “Of course, mademoiselle. Shall I bring my arsenal?”

  “Whatever you can conceal. Turbo’s is not a part of . . .” Ree struggled to find the words. “They’re not in the know, as far as I know, you know?”

  “No.”

  Ree laughed at the inadvertent wordplay. It was nervous laughter but better than nothing. “Then concealed it is.”

  • • •

  Turbo’s Pizza, on a Sunday afternoon in the fall, when the air outside was just cold enough that the idea of hot food became marvelously appealing, filling the same sense aesthetic as mulled cider in the winter or cold beer in the summer, was awesome.

  Ree was early for the meeting with Drake but had wanted to arrive first. Her internal oddsmaker had Drake Will Sell You Out/Kill You at 5–1 against him being creepy or evil, but she decided to hedge her bets. Plus, pizza. The greatest of comfort foods, especially when combined with beer.

  Turbo was not actually a person but a dog. He was the owner’s retriever-chow mix, a dopey but lovable mutt that was as much like his name as Robin Hood’s buddy Little John. Local health code meant that Turbo’s presence in the restaurant was symbolic only, but the pizzeria’s logo showed Turbo wearing a jet pack, holding a white pizza box in his mouth.

  And while Turbo himself wasn’t fast, the pizza was—the fastest in Pearson. The owner, Cole Lutz, followed the NYC model of slices, keeping a continual flow of business while also offering sit-down meals for the less hurried customers.

  The front of the restaurant was devoted to the by-the-slice crowd, with three different types of pizza available at any time: cheese, meat, and veggie. Today slices were Cheese, Italian Sausage, and Spinach.

  She knew triangular portions would not satisfy her, and she had the time. Ree walked past the by-the-slice counter and the seven-people-deep carryout line. She nodded to Joni, the tiny-spunky part-time-actress hostess, and walked straight down the aisle between filled tables to one of “her” booths.

  The fire-hydrant-red cushions looked a little worse for the wear; maybe they hadn’t been cleaned in a while, or maybe someone had spilled something that even Cole’s hippie-industrial-grade cleaners couldn’t get out. The table had the requisite white-and-red-checkerboard pattern and an upside-down lampshade of green glass in a turtle-shell pattern.

  She slid into the three-sides-of-a-square booth and faced the door, putting her back to a wall. It’d be harder to get out, but the place was busy enough that she didn’t expect anything untoward would risk that much exposure.

  One minute before the appointed time, Drake Winters pushed open the door. He was wearing his big brown coat, but there were no obvious signs of weaponry on him. He looked around the restaurant, walked past the amorphous line, and scanned the restaurant section. Joni greeted him, and he responded with a big smile and a nod, then gestured in Ree’s direction. Joni waved him through, and Drake strode through the restaurant like he was the cavalry coming over the hill.

  Which, in a way, he was. But damned if he wasn’t self-satisfied about it.

  Stay good, Ree. This guy might be your only chance of pulling this out.

  Drake stopped at her table, gave a quick bow, and waited. What’s he waiting for? Oh. “Take a seat,” she said, gesturing beside her.

  Drake nodded, then slid into the booth next to her.

  Old-fashioned is the name of the game, Reyes.

  “So, Ms. Reyes, how may I be of assistance?” he asked.

  Ree shook her head. “First, call me Ree. Or Ms. Ree, if you must be formal. And before we talk, I need food, unless you have a way of doing a reverse-lookup on someone based on an email address and we can cut right to the chase.”

  Drake’s blank stare told her all she needed to know.

  “Food it is. What do you say to a deep-dish with spinach, feta, and sausage?”

  This time Drake’s expression wasn’t nearly as lost, so she took that as a yes.

  With the timing that had helped him build his pizza kingdom, Cole Lutz appeared around the corner, exclaming, “Ree!” He wrapped both hands around her shoulders and squeezed.

  Cole Lutz was on the far side of fifty, but the only ways to tell were the shock of white hair and the permanent laugh lines. He had the energy of a twenty-year-old and was as fit as the grandpas in spandex Ree saw running at 7 AM on days when she opened the café.

  Look as good when 50 years old am I, I will not.

  “Cole, this is my friend Drake.” Ree gestured toward the Victorian refugee, who stood and offered his hand. The men shook, and Drake took his seat again.

  “I’m feeling Chicago-style today, Cole. Can I get a spinach, feta, and sausage?” Ree asked.

  The man nodded. “Start with crack fries?”

  Ree leaned back and grinned. “Only always.”

  Cole had stolen the crack fries recipe from a localvore restaurant in southern Indiana, though since he’d done it with the express permission of the chef, the “stealing” descriptor was mostly for effect. They were spiced with garlic, lemon, and a few other tweaks that Cole had made. They came in a bowl the size of one’s head and were impossible to stop eating.

  Would binge eating make the problems go away? No. Would it be delicious and distracting? Yes.

  “And a bottle of the chianti Ruffino, to come out with the pie, please.”

  Cole cracked his half-smile. “You I know, but I have to card this gentleman.” Ree’s smile dropped as she realized that Drake might not have an ID.

  Drake pulled a leather billfold out of his coat and showed it to Cole. Ree was somewhat disappointed to see that it was a standard state-issue identification card. In the picture, Drake looked somewhat annoyed, staring off-center.

  The pizza master scanned the ID and nodded. “Crack fries coming right up.”

  Ree rolled her shoulders, shrugging, and when she looked back, the dough-slinging sprite was gone.

  “Okay. Here goes.” Ree launched into a retelling of her misadventures with Eastwood, focusing on the suicides and the cauldron-borne vision, ending with Eastwood’s confession and her storming off. Drake listened politely, stifling several questions she saw grow on his face and get set aside.

  Her story finished, she leaned back, sipping on the water that Joni had apparated onto the table while Ree was talking about getting attacked by gnomes.

  Drake took a drink of his own, furrowed his eyebrows, and gave a thoughtful “Hmm. Several thoughts.”

  Ree nodded. “Please.”

  “Eastwood is a noted member of the local magical community. His reputation since Ms. Catrin’s disappearance has slid more toward that of the curmudgeon, but he is universally regarded as being on the side of the angels.”

  “Literal or figurative?”

  “Figurative,” Drake responded without missing a beat. “I think. I’ve not encountered any angels myself, but I would not rule them out. I’ve seen beings as strange, ter
rifying, and wonderful in my travels through Faerie.”

  “So—can you help? I need to find this Tomas, figure out a way to protect him from whatever that thing was.”

  “If my suspicions are correct, it was most likely an Aberrant Muse.”

  “It inspired the White Wolf Iron Age Superhero RPG?” she asked.

  Drake cocked his head to the side, regarding her for a second, then shook his head and resumed. “There are many varieties of muses. We mostly know the Greek muses, who inspired artists and philosophers. They were the more positive muses, nine singular entities that governed art. The Aberrant Muses were their dark reflections: numerous, cruel, and persistent. Far darker than even Melpomene, who governed tragedy, the Aberrant Muses inspire sorrow, hatred, jealousy, and so on. If I am correct, this phantom would be a muse of despair.”

  Ree asked, “And it could be responsible for the string of suicides?”

  “Easily. I would surmise that this Muse was part of a colony under the control of, or at least the influence of, the Duke, sent to Pearson to create the opportunities for young Master Eastwood. The Muse pushes the poor youths into the deepest despair, then Eastwood arrives to collect the souls and condemn himself as part of his desire to rescue his True Love.”

  Undercutting the somberness of the conversation, Cole appeared around the corner with the bowl of crack fries. Ree took a long smell, letting the spices and heat and cheese hit her senses, prompting an eat-your-heart-out-Pavlov’s-dog response.

  Ree started to tear in, then stopped herself. “You first. Otherwise they’ll all be gone before you get the chance to join the cult of the crack fries.”

  Drake raised an eyebrow. “Cult?”

  Ree waved a hand reassuringly. “Joke. They’re delicious, try them.”

  Eyebrow still up, Drake ate a fry. He chewed thoughtfully. The suspicion dropped, and then so did his hand, reaching for more. “These are marvelous! I’ve not had a treat its equal since the Mistress and I were guests in the grand hall of Count Dabbalio.”