by Matt Wallace
“You’re different. What I saw you do when that demon Santa Claus fuck tried to X me out . . . that came from you. That came from inside of you. You were born with true power, the kind our people haven’t seen in countless generations.”
Little Dove begins to feel her entire face and skull trembling. She swallows hard and shakes her head to stave it off.
“You don’t know that,” she insists.
“I’m afraid I do, girl. I’m afraid I do.”
He reaches out and takes her wrist, guiding her hesitant hand to his sand painting.
“I’ve taught you this already. I’ve taught you how they must be destroyed when you’re done painting them.”
“Sand paintings are for healing,” she whispers.
“Healing means many things. To heal rage is to create peace. To heal evil is to destroy it. Mostly, these paintings are like this place. They’re conduits. This is a tool for breaching those layers we just talked about. The procedure, the way of it, it doesn’t really matter. Because it all comes from the person.”
“What do you want me to do, Pop?” she almost pleads.
“I want you to fill this painting with your power and use it to see the way I see.”
“I don’t know how to do that,” Little Dove insists, tears beginning to roll over her eyes.
“That’s why you have to learn,” White Horse urges her, gently squeezing her wrist. “I’m here; I won’t let it get away from you. But this is how we begin.”
Little Dove uncurls her fingers and begins sifting them through the sand.
“Think of that moment,” he bids her. “That moment the demon came for me.”
“I don’t want to . . . Please . . .”
“Then you’ll always be afraid of this and of yourself. And to live in fear is no life. I’m a fuckup, a junkie gambler, but I’m not afraid of what I am. If nothing else, I will leave you that. Now, see it in your mind, child.”
Little Dove shakes her head, but the memory is already creeping around the edges of her conscious mind. She closes her eyes. The lobby of Sin du Jour is on fire. It’s filled with cackling, jagged-toothed elfin minions. Her grandfather has been skewered by debris and can barely move. And that hideous, horrifying construct, that demon in the form of a beloved holiday idol, is bearing down on them.
Her eyelids snap back. An impossible wind, like unseen hands, wipes away the sand beneath her fingertips, scattering it until there’s nothing left. She feels the drums beating in her ears, and it might be the blood of her own skull throbbing or it might be the sound of time itself splitting apart like a rotten gourd.
She sees plasmatic energy flowing all around them, weaving through the shelves and rafters of the otherwise-ordinary store. It moves through her, and when it does, Little Dove sees flashes of memory, hundreds of memories not her own, spanning lifetimes untold.
Then she blinks and it’s all gone.
Her grandfather’s voice is anchored by concern. “Little Dove?”
She’s breathless, sweat dappling her temples.
She can only nod at first.
“I’m okay,” she finally says. “I . . . I saw. I saw it, all of it. For just a second.”
White Horse pats her hand gently.
“Welcome back to the Fourth World,” he says.
LANDSLIDE
Lena reports to Sin du Jour in the early morning hours. It’s a long drive from Long Island City to the Virginia woods, and they have to arrive in time to set up service and cook. The guest list is so swollen, they’ve had to rent two large moving trucks in addition to their trusted cartoon-cake-logo catering vans to accommodate all the fare and their equipment. The vehicles, loaded late into the night before, are lined up on the street in front of Sin du Jour headquarters.
They’re not alone.
Long black sedans, half a dozen of them with windows tinted as black as tar pits at midnight, are flanking the foursome of trucks and vans. Lena spots an equal number of suits wearing sunglasses in the predawn, milling about the cars. They put her instantly in mind of the private security contractors her Army division would often encounter overseas.
Lena finds Bronko standing in front of the open cargo door of one of the moving trucks, overseeing a final inventory check.
“Are we carting food or the president himself, Chef?” she asks.
“What, all the spook vehicles and suits? It’s a high-profile, high-security shindig. They’re our escorts.”
“Feels wrong,” she says plainly. “They look . . . wrong.”
Bronko grins. “Everything feels wrong to you, Tarr. And that’s good. We need that. It keeps us on our toes.”
He seems thoroughly unconcerned, and there isn’t anything rational or logical Lena can say to change his mind.
She walks away and spots Darren sitting on the stoop in front of Sin du Jour’s lobby entrance, head nearly dropped between his knees.
“Yo, zombie boy. We doing any better today?”
“I’m fine,” he says mechanically.
“I swear, you say that to me one more time and I’m going to fucking deck you, son.”
Darren lifts his head and looks up at her, their eyes locking.
“That would be a mistake,” he says.
Lena ignores the sudden chill, the sense that something’s seriously wrong. It’s still Darren, and an overwhelming part of her can’t accept Darren would seriously threaten her.
She tries to play it off. “Yeah, I know. You’re deadly now, right? All that training you been doing with whatever sensei Ritter set you up with.”
He doesn’t say anything to that, dropping his head.
“All right, then,” she says. “But if you’re not going to talk to me, I’d talk to James. You’re sincerely fucking that up, and it’s a mistake.”
She leaves him there to sit with that, hoping at least those final words penetrated.
When Bronko is satisfied they’re good to go, he rallies everyone together like a cattle boss ready to start the big drive.
“All right!” he addresses his line, pulling a small slip of paper from the breast pocket of his smock. “Our security escorts here have a specific procedure and seating assignments in mind for the trip for reasons that I’m sure make sense to them, so listen close. Nikki, you take point in the first van with James and Vargas. Rollo, your big Eastern Bloc ass is piloting truck number one. Rest of the line can pile in with you. Tarr, you and Dorsky are in the second van. Pac and Mo can ride along. I’ll follow y’all in the last truck with Jett. The big black cars know where we’re going, so just follow them. Simple?”
No one has any questions or concerns, at least that they vocalize.
“Good, then. Let’s go feed some folks some pig!” Bronko concludes.
Lena wishes Nikki luck, and she and Dorsky walk to the second van, Lena climbing behind the wheel. When Lena is in her seat, searching for her seat belt, she sees Sin du Jour’s busboys are already comfy in the back. Mr. Mirabel is snoring into his oxygen tubes, fast asleep, and Pacific is rolling a fresh joint.
“Pac,” Dorsky warns, “you smoke out the food in here and Chef’ll put that out on the tip of your stoner dick.”
“I’m just prepping,” he assures them amiably. “Just like you guys. And girl. Sorry.”
When everyone is seated in their separate vehicles, the caravan slowly cranks into motion, moving like a caterpillar from the head down. As they take to the street, the black sedans begin weaving around and in between the two sets of van and truck, both leading and following the Sin du Jour vehicles, and filling the middle of the procession.
“You want to talk or listen to music?” Dorsky asks her once they’re driving.
“You’re all about the talking lately,” Lena says.
“Is that a bad thing?”
“No. Not necessarily. I guess.”
“I feel like y’all are speaking in code,” Pacific observes from the back of the van.
“Shut up, Pac,” they reply together.
; Lena and Dorsky glance at each other awkwardly several times.
Finally, Dorsky turns on the radio and begins surfing channels.
Four hours later, Lena is yawning regularly, ready for another cup of coffee and barely paying attention to their progress when she nearly eats the bumper of the sedan in front of them.
“What the hell is he doing?” she mutters.
The driver in front of her has slowed, nearly burying their tail end in her. Lena opens her mouth to curse again, but her driver’s-side mirror is filled with two more sedans, their tail guards, pulling up alongside both the moving truck behind Lena and the van itself. They’re all close enough to shave paint and metal from the cargo doors.
“They’re fucking herding me onto the exit!” Lena rages.
“Same thing with Bronko and Jett behind us!” Dorsky says, looking from one rearview mirror to the other.
Lena watches the other half of the caravan pulling far ahead of them. “I’m losing the others!”
Out of the corner of her eye, Lena watches the moving truck and van ahead of them disappear into the endless flow of traffic continuing southwest. She’s forced to turn onto the next exit and keep following their faceless escorts.
“Call Bronko!” she instructs Dorsky.
He nods, pulling out his smartphone and setting his thumb to work.
“I got nothin’,” he announces a moment later. “No signal.”
“I’m just sayin’,” Pac interjects, “if we were all buzzed, we’d mind what was happening right now a lot less.”
“Son of a bitch!” Lena curses, gripping the steering wheel so hard, her knuckles turn white.
“Where are we going?” Dorsky asks.
She points out the windshield to the green-and-white placards above.
All the signs ahead of them now read the same WASHINGTON, D.C.
PART III
TWO INAUGURATIONS
YEP, THAT ONE
“Welp,” Bronko says to the rest of them, “this is certainly a perfectly normal everyday thing that happens all the time. Yessir.”
They’re standing on the western steps of the U.S. Capitol Building, about ten yards from the spot where the next president of the United States of America is to be inaugurated in just a few short hours.
“What in the hell are we doing here, Chef?” Lena whispers, urgency in her voice as if they’ve already committed some terrible crime and are waiting to be caught.
Bronko stares down at the suited Secret Service agents guarding the perimeter. They look to him less like human beings and more like appendages of a single organism, programmed with only the basest of instincts. None of them offered so much as a one-word response as Bronko and his people were led into the city and herded past the high-security barricades.
Beyond the Secret Service, hordes of everyday people are already choking not only the U.S. Capitol but the city itself.
“I guess we got our inaugurations mixed up” is all he can offer them.
“It ain’t exactly like mixing up Ray’s Famous Pizza with Famous Ray’s Pizza,” Pacific points out.
“And why are we here and not the others?” Lena demands.
“Tarr, I know as much as you right now, which is diddly-shit. I’m standing where the silent gentlemen with guns told me to stand.”
They hear the clacking of Jett’s five-inch heels before all turn to see her bounding up the steps to join them.
“Well!” she proclaims, brightly. “It’s not a mistake. We’re supposed to be here!”
Bronko stares down at her as if Jett has just walked out of a comic book.
“Jett, girl, I don’t even know how to take in what you just said.”
“That’s impossible!” Lena insists.
“I’m telling you, I just spoke with the White House event coordinator.”
Jett is practically bursting with kinetic energy, and Lena half-expects to see a rainbow form when she blows.
“They know who we are,” Jett continues. “Sin du Jour, all of us, individually. They have all our names, our menu, and everything has been approved. We all have security clearance!”
“Even me?” Pacific asks, toking on a joint he somehow ninja-sparked without anyone noticing.
Bronko reaches up and quickly closes his entire fist around the hand-rolled misdemeanor, crushing it.
“Jesus Harold Chang, Pac!”
“Like I’m the first dude to get high at a presidential inauguration!” Pacific protests, causing Mr. Mirabel to laugh until he begins hacking into his oxygen tube.
Pacific pats him gently on the back until the old man recovers.
“Can we focus?” Lena interjects. “This doesn’t make any sense. Did Allensworth say anything to you, Chef?”
“Not a damn word, and he went on ahead with the rest of the line and the other truck. They gotta be wonderin’ where we are.”
“They confiscated all our phones,” Dorsky reminds him.
“That’s a perfectly standard security procedure,” Jett assures them all.
Lena’s gaze is hot enough to melt titanium. “Jett, Jesus! I know shit like this is basically meth to you, but can you join us in reality? We’re not supposed to be here!”
“Well, they’re expecting us to set up and serve the VIP guests inside the Capitol immediately, and Secret Service won’t let us leave. That’s reality too, Lena. I would assume the Sceadu inauguration is proceeding as normal with the rest of the staff. I saw to all the nonfood preparations for the event yesterday. The space is prepared. It’s ready to go. I’m choosing to see opportunity instead of catastrophe.”
Lena looks up at Bronko helplessly. “Chef, this is insane. Like, way more insane than the usual amount of insane.”
“I know,” he says heavily. “Something’s up. Something is way off here. But there’s nothing we can do about it right now except go with the flow and hope Allensworth or somebody in the know shows up and fixes this.”
“So, we’re serving?” Dorsky asks.
Bronko nods. “We’ll plate what we got until we run out. Everything was split pretty much down the middle between the two trucks, food and equipment. We got servers. Hell, I’ve pulled off bigger Hollywood gigs with less; that’s not the problem.”
Jett applauds, ecstatic. “Excellent! I’ve seen the space inside. It’s perfect. It doesn’t even need any touches, which is good because I don’t think we should let the Secret Service know there’s a van full of the undead parked next to the food.”
Lena just stares at her in awe. She realizes she’s no longer even angry with Jett.
In fact, she’s almost envious of the woman.
“Pac, you light up again in our nation’s capital and I’ll beat your ass to a citrus pulp. Y’hear?”
“My bad, duder.”
Jett lights up, recalling something suddenly. “Oh, and Byron! Apparently, the president-elect is a huge fan of yours! He always wanted to have one of your restaurants in his Atlantic City hotels.”
Judging strictly by his reaction, Bronko might’ve just had a lit turd put out in his eye socket.
“Thank you, Jett,” he says, seeing no value in correcting her perception of the matter. “That just . . . That just solidifies this moment in a way nothin’ else could.”
She beams back at him, wonderfully oblivious to either his tone or the look on his face.
“All right, everybody hop to,” Bronko instructs. “We’re short-staffed, so everybody pitch in with setup.”
Dorsky, Jett, Pacific, and Mr. Mirabel begin descending the steps.
Lena lingers, stepping close to Bronko. “Chef?”
“Yeah, Tarr?”
“Forget about that racist ass-head they’re inaugurating for a second,” she says. “Do you think . . . is you know, the outgoing president here? Somewhere?”
He sighs. “I don’t know, Tarr. I didn’t vote for either of ’em.”
TREADING WATER
“Where the heck are they?” Nikki asks no one, everyon
e, but mostly herself.
Rollo only shrugs. He and the rest of the kitchen line are milling about behind their rented moving truck.
Nikki tries her iPhone again, and again has no signal.
“Darren, is your phone working?” she asks, receiving no answer. “Darren?”
She looks past the small assemblage and spots Darren cloaked in shadow on the other side of the truck.
“Darren!”
“I have no reception, Nikki,” James offers, helpfully, but he frowns back at the darkened spot where Darren is continuing to ignore the rest of them.
Nikki angrily stuffs her phone back inside her smock. “Well, this is awesome.”
They’re somewhere just across the Virginia border, lost in the still-lush forests that exist in such places. The Sceadu have gone all out for the inauguration of their first human president (who is actually an incubus, but apparently politicians in the supernatural world are no more honest than their human counterparts). There’s a fifty-by-fifty platform of solid black onyx hovering twenty feet above the surface of a small lake. They can all see the robed, hooded figures stationed at regular intervals around the lakeshore. If you walk between them, you can actually feel the power radiating there, the magic they’re using to maintain the platform’s constant hovering.
Smaller slabs hover at an incline to form broad steps leading over the water from dry land. Atop the onyx surface, velvet tents of crimson and midnight blue have been erected around the perimeter. It barely needs to be lit by the ornate torches holding perfectly spherical fireballs; the onyx traps the silver rays of the moon and casts them brightly all about. In the center of the platform, a smaller dais has been raised, a stone rune serving as a podium.
Attendants are scuttling all around, servicing last-minute details before the throngs begin to arrive. Nikki and the severed half of the Sin du Jour kitchen crew watch them helplessly, at a complete loss.
“I’ve never known this staff to dawdle.”
It’s Allensworth, observing them behind his usual beatific smile. He’s wearing a nondescript black tuxedo, with the exception of bloodred lapels and a matching rose pinned to the breast. His Rottweiler, Bruno, is attending Allensworth’s side. The large canine rests obediently on his haunches, a red bow tie strapped around his neck in place of a collar.