by VK Fox
Owen chuckled, “Come on, it’s not a terrible name.”
“It is.” Better to lean into it, “I’m personally scarred from being forced to read To Build a Fire as a kid. I didn’t play in the snow for a year.”
He leaned closer to her—she could feel his body against hers, inside her personal bubble—walkie-talkie and pager on his belt digging into her hip. “You know most people think of the city. The capital of England? I like a bookworm, though.”
The song was ending, and Jane tried to pull back, but he didn’t let go of her hand. She offered a nervous smile, “Ok, well, thanks for the dance. Enjoy the night with your girlfriend.”
Jane’s fingers hurt from the force of his grip. She willed herself not to panic. They were in a crowd. No way he was taking her anywhere she didn’t want to go. Owen smirked and made no move to disengage.
“Let go now.” Jane’s voice was shaky. She freed her other hand by releasing her cup, and margarita and ice slopped over their shoes. No one took notice beyond swearing when they got splashed.
“I’d like to ask you some questions, Jane. I’m not trying to upset you, but I can’t have you disappearing on me either.” Owen nodded reassuringly. Shit, could he see something weird about her? Without training sometimes it was hard to tell, but Ian said he could see her glowing a little all the time and maybe she had a magical effect always turned on even though she didn’t know what it was. Could Owen see her glowing? Maybe he hadn’t noticed: everything was kind of glowing under the hundreds of overhead lights.
Jane tried ineffectively to wrench her hand free of his grip again. On her best day she probably wouldn’t have been able to do it. At her current level of frailty, it was an embarrassing display of impotence.
So she kicked him in the crotch with her army surplus boots. Owen groaned and let go, doubling over.
Jane slid through the crowd, taking advantage of tiny openings. After a stupidly short time she was too exhausted to continue. Stopping by the large dais of a street performer, she panted for a few seconds until her breath came more easily. The artist standing above her was dressed in mime makeup and juggling magic eight balls. Pulling out a five, she made sure he could see her put it in his upturned hat. She got out another bill but didn’t put it in yet.
“Hey, buddy! There’s a guy with spiky hair recovering from a crotch kick towards the stage. Can you tell me what he’s doing?”
The mime stopped, took an exaggerated gander, and selected one of the fortune-telling balls displaying the message, “You may rely on it,” holding it where Jane could see.
Jane ground her teeth and put the five in his hat, pulling out another bill. “What’s he doing?” She asked in her sanest, calm voice. The mime mimicked the motion of taking something off his belt and holding it to his ear, making theatrical conversation gestures. Jane’s face lit up, “Oh, he’s talking on his walkie?”
The mime held out a ball with the message, “Without a doubt.”
That meant he had a partner. Jane deposited the five, figuring she was paying like six hundred dollars an hour for this information, and took out another fiver.
“Is he coming this way?”
The mime held out, “My sources say no.” Jane exhaled and leaned against the pedestal, the mix of adrenaline and alcohol making her hands shake.
“Can you tell me if he starts doing something new or moves?”
The eight ball read, “Outlook good.”
Jane sank to the concrete. Her leg muscles trembled with exhaustion after a brief hike, a slow dance, and a less than two-minute jog. She was in deep shit if this turned into anything physically demanding.
Time to come up with a plan. Owen and his unknown partner were here; in a best-case scenario, there were only two of them. They were probably both magic-wielding special agents for a millennia-old secret society and, for some reason, they were acting all stalkery. Something was wrong with Olive: maybe her memory was jacked up—a side effect of her using magic—and Owen wasn’t helping her. They should know each other. From the way Ian told it, all the people who eventually became field agents in Sana Baba were raised in a big group from infancy. The fact Owen wasn’t approaching her like a caring friend set off a huge alarm in Jane’s head. Oh, and he was a total creeper. Asking her to dance and then pressing against her and trapping her hand? Fuck him.
Mr. Mime was making meaningful pointing gestures.
“What? What’s he doing?” Jane was back on her feet in an instant. Her rosy-cheeked informer was mimicking taking something out of his pocket. Jane had no flipping idea what. It could be anything from lip gloss to a stick of dynamite the way he was holding his hand. She tried a different tactic. “Listen dude, I get it—you’re working. But I need your help. That guy is bad news. He tried to assault me. He’s been watching the pretty lady with short black hair unblinkingly for like fifteen minutes. I’m happy to pay you for your lost performance,” Jane winced as she took a fifty from her pocket, held it in view, and stuffed it in his hat, “But I need your help. What’s he doing?”
The mime’s brow creased as he came to a decision, speaking at last, his voice unexpectedly low and loud. “He pulled a clamshell case from his pocket and opened it. He took something out.”
Now that sounded familiar: Dahl had one like it. “It’s small? Could it be a syringe?”
“Yeah, could be. He’s holding it by his side. Maybe he’s going to shoot up.”
Or it could be Ketamine. “Listen to me, he’s going to drug that woman.” Jane cast about for anything useful. God, give me what I need to help her. I’ll owe you one. Please.
Jane’s eyes fell on one of the Magic eight balls, laying on the pedestal, displaying the message, “Without a doubt.” Jane grabbed the ball and thrust it at the mine.
“Can you hit him from here?”
“What?”
“With the eight ball. Can you hit him? Please.” Jane met his eyes, not even trying to hide her desperation, “Please.”
The mime clenched his jaw, nodded, and wound up like Greg Maddux.
Jane was already in motion when a yell of pain joined the music in the air. She burst through the human wall by the dance floor to see Owen on the ground, syringe lying beside him on the filthy pavement. Olive had paused in mid-gyrate, fuchsia lips slightly parted, watching blood slowly spread through his spiky hair as he squirmed.
Jane kicked the syringe, grabbed Olive’s wrist, and yanked her into the crowd.
“What the hell?” Olive was trotting along behind her, glancing back, “What just happened? Do I know you?”
“No, but I think you’re in trouble and I want to help. Good enough?”
Her answer was slurred, “Sure, why not.” Great. They’d both been drinking. Jane tried to shake off the tequila so she could captain their escape.
The press of bodies opened around a small black-curtained Chip N Dales booth, and Jane pulled Olive past a couple shirtless, flexing men and into the back. They crouched near a fold-out card table while Jane’s legs burned and her mind raced.
“So, who are you?” Olive’s voice was low and musical.
“You know your boyfriend?” Jane’s tone held a nearly lethal dose of passive aggression, “Dahl?”
Olive’s lip trembled and her eyes grew bright, “Yes.”
“I’m a friend of his. A guy on the street was trying to abduct you. I saw it happening and wanted to help.”
Olive took the news of attempted kidnapping with a resolute nod. Jane continued, “Do you have any magic left? Can you fly? Fight? Anything?”
“No.”
“What? Why not?”
“I’m too close to the edge—my memory is fading. I won’t come back if I keep going.”
Jane bit her lip. So neither of them could use magic, because she would pass out and Olive would go crazy. Super. “Where are your friends? Can I help you get to them?”
Olive shook her head violently, “No! No, I can’t go back. I don’t know why, but I know I
can’t.”
“You don’t know why? Can you remember anything? Why are you even in Vegas? Don’t you live in DC?” Chilly fear was seeping through Jane’s chest.
“I have an office here. Look, I’m sorry, I don’t know the details, but something’s wrong and I shouldn’t go back.”
“Is Dahl safe?”
Olive’s brows knit together, and a single tear smudged her eyeliner. “I don’t know.”
The tent flap lifted, and a shirtless Chip or Dale entered.
“Hey, ladies? Glad to see you’re enthusiastic, but this area is employee only.”
Olive scrubbed her cheek and stood, weaving slightly. Jane slid her arm through Olive’s since she was the steadier of the two. She tried for a smile, “It’s so noisy outside, can we hang here for a few minutes?”
Chip grinned, “Sorry, staff only. Come out front though, we can give you a polaroid.”
The two of them went without a fuss and quickly posed for a picture while XL Tinkerbell showered the crowd in itchy, obnoxious glitter. Irritation bubbling over, Jane hastily shoved a couple singles at Chip and stomped off. They wove through the crowd, Jane obsessively glancing over her shoulder.
The plan Jane formulated as they marched was simple and full of holes. Go to the hotel and figure it out tomorrow. Nothing more reasonable sprang to mind. Sister Mary would be in town, Jane would be sober, and everything would be a lot clearer in the morning. They continued along the pedestrian stretch of Fremont Street, slowly closing the distance to the taxi pickup. Every question burning inside Jane stamped down. Olive obviously couldn’t remember and talking about it seemed to freak her out. It wouldn’t change anything to wait until they were safe to probe for more information.
Jane slowed as the crowd ebbed and flowed around a booth selling bright plastic necklaces and keychains. The polaroid was developed, and Jane glanced at her and Olive’s cheerless, dazed expressions as Chip and Dale posed and grinned. The picture was so disjointed it almost made her laugh. A blurred spot at the edge of the image was out of place. Was the photo smudged? Jane held it closer and then slowly moved it farther out, like a magic eye image, trying to make sense of the speckled, glittery area roughly the same height as Chip was in the photo.
It was a silhouette. Once her eyes focused on the edges, the shape became absolutely clear. Little specks of glitter all over the shape of a person who wasn’t there while a small, blurred syringe hung in the air like a huge insect.
Jane whipped around, frantically searching the crowd behind and in front. Ahead and a little past the stall, a spot in the surging crowd stood inexplicably empty, only a faint glitter shimmer reflecting the overhead lights. Jane’s eyes went wide and her mouth gaped before she remembered her poker face and pretended to consider the necklaces of the stall.
“What?” Intoxicated, vacant Olive knew something was happening based on her reaction. Great.
“I think someone’s watching us. We’re going to have to try to lose them. You ready to run for it?”
Olive squeezed her hand, “I’ll follow your lead.”
Jane’s heart pumped, and she scoured the crowd for openings. They ducked through a family group, breaking into a lurching jog amid the teaming mess of sweaty bodies. The edge of Jane’s vision sparkled as they dashed past the empty space, the shimmer in the air surging forward, close behind.
They were swimming upstream as tourists poured down the street, stopping every few feet to gawk or take pictures. Jane clasped Olive’s sweaty hand in a death grip, desperately trying to make headway. Her boots struck the pavement as they shoved and jostled against the crowd. Each inhalation was a stab in the chest. Jane knew she shouldn’t rubberneck—keep going, keep pushing—but her eyes were irresistibly drawn to that sparkling empty space.
A drum peel from a street performer pounded her ears as they blew by oil barrels ringing with noise. Olive grabbed the cash bucket in her free hand and tossed it ten feet skyward. Chaos erupted when bills and coins rained over the indignant shouts of the musician.
They didn’t slow as they sprinted through the spray painter’s stall, Jane swiping a can of blaze orange on the way. At this end of the street the crowd was thinner, and she could see taxis rolling by ahead where the road crossed Fremont.
Olive went down hard, knocking Jane on the way and sending them both sprawling across the pavement. The older woman’s training showed as she recovered almost instantly, scrambling into a crouch, while Jane made a less coordinated effort to stand, her palms and knees stinging. Olive ripped a syringe out of her shoulder and threw it to the ground with a flash of disgust.
“One minute, tops,” She yelled over the noise of the onlookers who formed an impromptu ring around the two of them. Arms grabbed Jane from behind, but Olive went low and knocked the invisible assailant sideways. The two of them grappled for ten seconds in what appeared as a ridiculous one-sided fight as the interested crowd grew. One of the veteran’s dogs was going insane, pulling his master’s wheelchair forward in an effort to get in on the action.
Jane grabbed her spray can and tagged both Olive and, to the crowd’s delighted amazement, a shapely breast, some curly hair, and part of one shoulder, visible under the layer of the paint.
Applause erupted as Jane landed a solid kick to phantom ribs and the orange bits rolled off. The crowd was pressing in, eagerly grasping the brightly splattered apparition. Jane, the mundane and ignored part of the freak show, shoved Olive with all her might towards a taxi. Thank God Olive could still stumble along. If Jane needed to graduate from cajoling to carrying, they were royally fucked.
They collapsed in a heap on the back seat and Jane intoned, “Lock it and drive please,” in a voice she hoped wouldn’t be questioned.
To her incredible relief, the driver followed her instructions and pulled out at a decent speed onto the main road. Jane gave him her hotel name, and Olive passed out. The driver got an extra twenty for helping unload her when they reached their destination.
Chapter Two
Last November - Six Months Ago
Monday for Everest Lovecraft was end-to-end appointments: nutritionist, therapist, social architect, and an officer’s dinner, which was a friendly way of saying “work we call socializing so we can still make you do it when you’re off duty.” For someone who was on bereavement leave, there were a lot of obligations.
Once on campus the tedious marathon would commence, so Everest dragged his feet getting there. He sat, drank tea, and thumbed through the paper. After a half-hour, he wandered to the dressing room to brush and rebraid his long, dark hair four or five times. In the kitchen Everest stared at a dirty mug in the sink, trying to figure out if he could bring himself to wash it. When he couldn’t, he slipped on his Converse sneakers, grabbed his pea coat, and went to the car.
His nutritionist told him he was losing weight, which he knew, and that he should eat more, which he also knew. An hour well spent. Everest’s therapist asked him how his week was going and, as he’d seen her two days ago, he scraped to find fascinating details of forty-eight hours in the life of a single, twenty-five year old man who wasn’t working, didn’t have a family anymore, and didn’t have the will to go out—another fifty minutes of his life burnt on the altar of productivity. Judy from Social Architecture announced that, beginning tomorrow, he was to spend time socializing with the only person in the world with whom he shared primal revulsion.
“I’m sorry,” Everest prevented fidgeting only by folding his hands. “I’m not sure I understand.”
“August Dahl, your field agent.” Judy pulled a pen from behind her freckled ear and jotted a note on the open file lying across her heavy wooden desk. “I know you’re acquainted, but we believe it would be good for both of you if you were to socialize.”
“Ah. No.” Dahl was possessed of life wisdom only a nineteen-year-old could fathom: everything would be perfect if everyone was as clever as he was. Everest did not have the patience to swallow Dahl’s condescension, and he cou
ld not stomach the guilt of being near him. Dahl’s situation was Mordred’s fault, but Everest was compliant in silence.
Judy simpered. Her teeth were slightly crooked. “Tell me about your reaction.”
Everest tried to formulate the most innocent, legitimate reason he could for not wanting to be buddies with Dahl. “I don’t socialize with any of my agents. It muddies my position of authority.”
“What a great policy! Your record reflects those kinds of healthy habits; you haven’t lost an agent in your entire command career.” She put a manicured hand on his shoulder, and he could not prevent himself flinching. “That is real. Let’s take a moment to recognize your success.” Judy was new, and Everest was holding off judgment about her until their third meeting, but hating her with unflinching intensity was looking both reasonable and justified. She continued, “But there are solid reasons behind our decision. In light of your recent loss, we think it would be good for you to branch out.”
“Thank you, but I am able to choose my own friends.”
“Everest—”
“No.” Everest cut her off, his voice rising a bit at the end of the word. First name basis was not where they were.
“Mr. Lovecraft,” Judy corrected herself with raised eyebrows and an exaggerated nod, like he was a clever puppy. “You are aware Mr. Dahl is on medical leave, and we feel he would benefit greatly from companionship from someone near his age—”
“Which would not be me.”
“And of comparable intelligence.”
“You can assign him to a thirteen-year-old.”
“So, as you can see, you both profit! You gain the support of someone new to share your time with—”