by J. R. Rain
Owie.
I stand there for a few desperate minutes waiting for the blinding pain in my hips to stop. At least my arms have a little slack, so my shoulders are resting. As soon as I can summon up the wherewithal to move, I grab the crystal with my toes, swing my leg up, touch crystal to manacle, and get my left arm free. After sparing a few seconds to let my arm dangle in wonderful limpness, I pluck the crystal from my toes and open the last manacle.
Free.
I scoop Mr. Moody up and hug him so hard he squawks. “You’re amazing.”
He preens.
As soon as I set him down, he trots for the door. I frown at the stupid outfit. Native attire indeed. Was he serious?
“Come on,” says the cat. “Why are you staring at yourself?”
I pad after him. “I’m debating if I should take this stupid sacrificial outfit off or not. It’s almost more embarrassing than wearing nothing. If the cops find me like this, they’re going to think I’m a hooker or something.”
“It’s not a ‘sacrificial outfit,’” says Mr. Moody. “Apparently, your people dress like that normally.”
“My people run a magic shop in New Hope. And… ugh. Thanks.”
Mr. Moody looks back at me. “Thanks for what?”
“You put the image of Mom wearing this thing in my head.”
“No. Don’t blame me for that.” He points a paw at me. “That’s all on you. Could be worse, at least you didn’t picture your father wearing it.”
Argh!
The cat laughs. Actually laughs. “That image in your head, I shall take credit for.”
Whatever. Some modesty is better than nothing. I run to the door, pull it open, and peer out into a hallway that looks much like the one I appeared in. Plain grey concrete, boxy lights on the ceiling, two pipes running along the opposite wall. It runs in both directions, longer to the left, and they both bend corners in the same direction. Maybe I should hunt down a cultist and take their robes. Nah. My luck, I’ll find a room of thirty and get kidnapped again. Well, technically I’m still kidnapped. That status doesn’t change until I escape this… probably underground bunker.
“Do you know where the way out is?” I whisper, rolling the stiffness out of my shoulders.
“Yes.” Mr. Moody trots left. “I didn’t spend all my time chasing mice.”
“How’d you know about the crystal?” Every few seconds, I look back over my shoulder while running on the balls of my feet so I don’t make any noise.
He picks up a little speed. “I watched them hang you.”
“They didn’t spot you?”
“No. I am, as you said, awesome.” He corners to the right. “Before you blacked out, I tugged a Vanish out of you.”
I blink. That explains that weird feeling I had. “You can do that?”
“Apparently. So said one of your books. And only if you let me.”
Huh. I don’t remember that. Did I gloss over it while I was so focused on trying to understand what the hell I am? I also don’t remember him asking. I guess having my skull bounce off a concrete wall scrambled some things. Mr. Moody slides to a stop by the second door on the left.
Here goes nothing. Kicking down doors isn’t the greatest plan, but I’ve got nothing else. My only advantage is that they don’t know I’ve gotten out of those chains. I run over and barge in… on two robed men sitting at a table with food trays. Cots and metal cabinets stand against the walls on either side. On the far end of the room is a heavy door with a wheel in the middle―like a hatch in an old submarine. That must be the way out.
“Hi. Wrong turn. Don’t mind me.” I start for the submarine door, but the cultists stand, looking decidedly unhappy.
I lock eyes with Scar, the guy from Central Park. The one who had his back to me goes for a handgun on his belt. My brain grinds to a stop, stuck on the ‘shit, that’s a gun’ aspect of our relationship. Scar running at me doesn’t even register to my senses for the second and a half it takes me to push a Lance into the world amid a swirl of scintillating violet light. The blast hits the gunman in the chest and launches him off his feet. He flies ass first into the wall and collapses on a cot with blood dribbling from his nostrils.
Scar starts to tackle me, but I somehow manage to twist out from under him. I wind up on all fours while he falls to the ground with a thud. Mr. Moody savages his leg, but being only a housecat, causes Scar to shout in pain while doing little real damage. I spring to my feet and run for the door, but get one meager step before Scar grabs me by the loincloth, technically butt-cloth. The metal belt digs into my gut, jerking me to a halt. Honestly, I’m astounded it didn’t break. I’m too wound up on adrenaline to even shriek at having my ass exposed. He drags me backward, my feet sliding on the glass-smooth floor. Before I know it, I’m in a bear hug.
We spin around a few times before he gets the bright idea to charge at a wall and smash me into it. I raise my legs and catch myself against the cinder blocks, my knees rammed into my shoulders. Ouch, but it beats French-kissing concrete… again. I grunt and shove with both legs, knocking Scar into a backward stumble. Another double kick swings my legs up high and imbalances him critically. He lands flat on his back and I roll over his head in a reverse somersault, getting a face full of loincloth until I wind up on my feet again.
Damn I hate this outfit.
Scar flips over into a crouch, making noises like a constipated gorilla. I think I’ve pushed him past the point of rational thought. He yanks up his robe and pulls a giant combat knife from a sheath strapped to his right leg. I throw a Lance at him, but he gets under the bolt, diverting the brunt of it to his shoulder. He goes careening into the table, throwing crappy cafeteria food and plastic cups everywhere.
I start to cast another one, but he whips an aluminum food tray at my face like a death Frisbee. My dodge buys him enough time to lunge and grab my right ankle. Scar drags me off my feet and pulls me close. I flip onto my back as he tries to drive his knife into my heart, catching his attack with both hands at the wrist and one knee under his forearm. Geez, what’s wrong with this guy? How can they sacrifice me if he kills me now? Priorities, brother!
He growls. I grunt and gasp, barely managing to hold the tip of the blade away from my skin.
“Fetch the gun,” shouts Mr. Moody.
Scar does a double-take and stares at the cat that talked.
Out of the corner of my eye, I spot the gun on the floor by where the still-unconscious cultist slumps in the cot. A shove with my whole body tosses the bewildered Scar back a few inches. Without thinking, I Fetch the gun, scramble for a grip, and fire.
A small red dot appears in his chest. In my horror, I squeeze the trigger a couple more times. He heaves a grunt and collapses face down.
Oh, shit. I just killed someone.
I swallow hard.
“Sol. Come on.”
I look at the cat. “I killed a guy.”
“Run. More are coming. They heard the shots. And you killed that other guy too.”
The man on the cot still seems to be breathing.
“No, not him.” Mr. Moody claws at my foot. “The one in the field. When you tried to blast demon-boy’s head off.”
“What?”
Mr. Moody bites my big toe.
“Ow!”
“Run!” yells the cat.
I leap to my feet and race to the door, where I discover I am not strong enough to turn the wheel.
“Dammit!” I shout, grunting, straining. Bracing a foot on the wall doesn’t help.
“Solstice,” says Mr. Moody, in a voice of perfect calm. “You are panicking. Stop panicking and think. Open the door.”
I stare at it for the span of a few hard breaths. Right. Duh. Holding my left hand outward, fingers splayed, I cast Open. The wheel spins on its own and stops with a clank. Shove. There’s a few inches of exceedingly cold water in the passage on the other side. Heedless, I sprint onward, splashing it all over my legs. At least I won’t get stuck with soggy sho
es. But the floor is so slimy and nasty. Sheets of glistening moss or something float to the top wherever my feet scrape it from the concrete.
Black-robed figures flood the room. I slide to a stop, aim, and empty the rest of the magazine into the doorway, not caring if I hit anyone. When the gun runs out, I toss it and throw a reverse Open at the door before taking off at a sprint. Mr. Moody keeps pace at my side, no longer leading the way.
“Where to?” I ask.
“No idea. I couldn’t get past that door.”
Screw it.
I run as fast as I can on stiff, weary legs, barefoot in freezing water. A few times, the rumble of cheap engines passes by overhead. Ugh. This is a sewer. Okay, disgusting, but at least that means I’m in civilization. Maybe those OSA creeps won’t chase me out into the open. I get the feeling they don’t want to be seen in their regalia yet. Shit. I don’t want to be seen in this regalia either. The passage hits a four-way intersection and I head left for no other reason than it has no water in it.
“Are you sure I killed that guy?”
Mr. Moody scurries ahead a bit and looks up at me. “The one you shot or the one you blasted in the face?”
“Face.”
“Oh yes. One of the feds mentioned he had a broken neck and a cracked skull. You were quite angry and worried for Eva.”
My stomach gurgles. I think Jade killed a guy once. Maybe even two. I have to ask her how she dealt with that. Right now, I can’t dwell on it. I have to coast on adrenaline and the need to survive. Guilt can wait. Self-defense, right? I didn’t do anything wrong.
“For what it’s worth,” says Mr. Moody, “I believe Desjardin had to put a lot of effort into blocking it. He may well be afraid of a direct confrontation with you, at least for the time being.”
“Why for the time being?” I keep running.
“Until he’s had time to study more.”
My body’s screaming at me to stop. It wants to shut down but those cultists could be one corner back. I can’t surrender to pain. “He’s way ahead of me already. Portals? I can’t do portals.”
“Why do you think he’s afraid?” Mr. Moody chuckles. “You barely know what you’re doing, and you knocked him senseless.”
Small comforts.
Patches of sunlight mark the dingy stone walls every sixty feet or so. A passing car shadows them one after the next. I can’t slow down until I get out in the open. As long as I remain out of sight, I’m in trouble. Another right turn and thirty bounding strides later, I spot a ladder on the side of the wall covered in awfulness I don’t want to comprehend. Forcing myself to think it’s moss and plant matter (which it may well be), I squish into the slimy horror and climb. It’s like stepping in raw egg laced with crusty bits that spent about ten minutes in a freezer.
Alas, I can’t budge the manhole over at the top. Open won’t work but… I drop down a few rungs and look at it. Lance appears to be a blunt-force effect. Maybe I can launch the metal disc into low Earth orbit.
“Gah!” I scream, mixing fear and anger at my situation into a blast of purple light.
The cover vanishes with a dull, metallic clank, leaving a spot of clear blue sky. Mr. Moody jumps up and hangs on my butt-cloth as I mount the ladder. No longer aware of the slimy crust on the rungs, I rush climbing. At the top, I reach out and grab wet pavement, pulling myself out into a drizzle. Mr. Moody jumps down and rubs against my leg.
When I stand, I find myself in the middle of a narrow street, with tiny shops and a handful of bundled-up pedestrians on either side. Damn is it cold. My teeth chatter. A gust of wind sweeps down the street almost knocking me over and whipping my hair and loincloth off to the side. I yelp and grab the fabric, holding it against my thighs and butt.
A feeble car horn shoos me out of its way. I turn toward it, squinting at a little blue car that looks foreign. It’s got one of those long white license plates. An older guy in a drab grey coat looks at me from behind the wheel like I’m insane. It hits me.
All the stores, all the signs: everything’s written in Cyrillic.
Off in the distance, a loud metallic whump accompanies the sound of smashing glass. The manhole cover. What goes up must come down.
Oops.
stare dumbfounded at the man in the car.
Russia. I’m in goddamned Russia.
Or somewhere close. I scurry sideways out of the old man’s way. He drives off, shaking his fist at me and shouting. Sure sounds like Russian. I want to pick up my cat and hold him for warmth, but I don’t want to let go of my pathetic little garment or everyone around me is going to see everything about me.
Moody follows close as I make my way along the sidewalk. Old women glare at me, calling me a slut with their eyes. Young men whistle and catcall. I can’t understand a word, but body language is universal. A few middle-aged men walk into sign posts while staring at me, and I think I cause at least one delivery truck to run a red light. I half-remember Jade making a joke that red lights in Russia are more of a suggestion than a rule.
It doesn’t take long for me to get drenched in the rain even though it’s light. The wind blows right through my sorry excuse for clothes and my toes feel about ready to fall off. Wait, no they don’t feel anything. I look down to make sure I still have toes.
“Glupaya devchonka, chto ty delayesh?” shouts an older-sounding man.
I look up, shivering, at a seventy-plus guy with a Santa Claus beard leaning out of a place that looks like a tiny restaurant. The way he’s waving at me could mean either confusion or invitation.
“I’m sorry. I don’t understand you.”
“Vkhodi, vkhodi, ty ne odeta dlya takovo kholoda.” He beckons with his hand.
I shuffle over to him, cat at my heels. I must look seven shades of pathetic. “I’m sorry. I don’t speak Russian.”
The man grasps my hand and tugs me into a warm room. He twists and raises his voice toward a kitchen door. “Rada, prinesi odeyalo.”
Mr. Moody slips in unnoticed and hovers by my feet. Rain drips off my nose and chin. I can’t stop shivering. A woman near in age to him peers out, spots me, and flies into a flurry of arm waving and chattering. The man leads me across the room to a back alcove where narrow booth seats look like they’ve been standing there since the late sixties. The woman emerges from a door so narrow, she has to turn sideways to get out, and hurries over with a bundle of clothes and a blanket.
The old man mutters to his wife and disappears into the door she came from.
She waves her arm at me. “Snimi mokryye veshchi.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t understand you.”
“American? British?” Her attention shifts to my ears, which have to be terribly obvious with my hair soaked to my head. “Volshebnoye tsarstvo.” She gives me a knowing smile and chuckles.
“Kinda neither, but legally American, and I have no idea what that other word means.”
She tugs at my halter top. “Wet. Wet.”
“Oh. Right.” I pull and fidget at my top, but can’t seem to find any way to open it. Wow. Who makes stuff that’s locked on? I blink. Magic using elves, that’s who. Open does the trick. The back pops apart and I shrug out of it, still shivering.
As soon as I Open the thin metal belt and let the loincloth drop to the floor, the old one wraps me in a heavy blanket and urges me to sit at the booth. The wool is like a hug from a divine power. My shivering hasn’t stopped, but I feel better already at least having these people taking care of me.
The woman calls, “Motya, taschi yedu,” at the door. She faces me, pats her chest, and says, “Rada.”
With a bump, the door eases open. A grey-covered rear end emerges, and the old man shuffles backward until the tray he carries clears the door. He spins about and brings it to the table. A plate of four green bundles like tiny burritos half-drowned in a sauce that smells of tomato sits next to a huge cup of tea.
“Golubtsy.” Rada gestures at the plate before patting herself over the heart. “Eto sogreyet va
s. Warm.”
“Ya pozvonyu Zhenye.” The old man walks off.
Rada points at him and holds up her wedding ring. “Motya.”
“Motya means married?”
As soon as I say ‘Motya,’ the old man looks back at me. Oh. That must be his name. I smile at him. He grins and shuffles over to the oldest telephone I’ve ever seen.
“Yesh’te. Yesh’te.” The woman points at the food and sits facing me. She looks at Mr. Moody who’s perched on the seat beside me. “A ty, kotik, tozhe golodniy?”
Mr. Moody looks her in the eye, and nods in an exaggerated manner.
To her credit, the old one doesn’t bat an eyelash. Almost as if she expected him to understand her. She gets up and wobbles into the kitchen.
“You understand Russian?” I whisper.
“No, but I imagined since she just fed one stray that walked in from the rain, she’d be asking the other one if they were hungry as well.”
I pet him and scratch his head. “My little hero.”
“A bit to the left, please.”
Rada returns and offers him a bowl of something meaty cut into tiny bits. Mr. Moody seems to like the smell of it and chows down.
“Yesh’te. Yesh’te,” says the woman again, gesturing at me.
Grandmother for ‘eat’ is pretty universal. I dig in. Steam wafts from mincemeat-stuffed cabbage rolls. I’ve never had anything like it, and I think I might have a new favorite dish.
Motya wanders back over after hanging up the phone. Rada manages to say, “Son, Eugene, and English.”
Once I finish the tea, they let me use a bathroom upstairs to take a hot shower, and I change into the clothes they are either giving or loaning me. Tank top, a blue flannel shirt, an old pair of jeans that look like they belonged to a teenage boy, socks, and beat-up sneakers. At this point, I’m beyond caring about being fashionable. Hey. I can even feel my toes.
When I go downstairs, a thirty-ish man breaks away from a conversation with the lovely old couple. His brown suit jacket looks like it’s from the seventies, and he’s wearing it over a black tee shirt with grey slacks.
He approaches with a hand extended in greeting. His English is rough, but passable. “I am Gene. I have a little English.”