by VK Fox
Chapter Thirteen
For a department that supervised all the sex and romance in ancient, cultish Sana Baba, the Human Relations office was depressingly corporate. Jane’s fantasies of red velvet curtains, ornate wooden doors, and luxurious gem tone satin robes gave way to an intern-aged redhead rocking back and forth in a swivel chair, eating a cheese danish. He handed both Jane and Ian a single-sided black and white photocopy sheet to fill out. The process was underwhelming, although Ian bent over the paper and wrote with painstaking care, double-checking each line and nodding to himself often. After shoving both sheets in a manilla folder with Ian’s name, the intern scheduled Jane’s orientation interview with Human Relations for Friday. The shit would either hit the fan or not. Or she might be dead by Friday. Who could say?
They swung by the budget hotel. Olive wasn’t there: a scribbled note indicated she’d gone out for a few hours. Jane donned an ivory sundress with her army surplus boots and waited while Ian made a pit stop by his hotel to grab a few things. He returned with a suit jacket over his black “Living the Dream” T-shirt and a bouquet of white daisies. Jane beamed at him and kissed his cheek on tiptoes.
“Did you ever dream of me, before we met?”
Ian looped a few flowers into a daisy chain, tucking it snugly into Jane’s short hair, “All my life.”
Inside Vegas’s Chapel of Love, Jane stood with Ian in front of a middle-aged man sporting a black and white collar questioning them about richer or poorer, in sickness and in health, and forsaking all others as long as they both should live.
No one they knew attended their wedding. In a tiny room with peeling blue paint, silk flowers, and six wooden pews smelling of lemon wax, two by-the-hour witnesses watched Jane and Ian say “I do” and share a brief kiss. Dahl was still back in DC, and Jane didn’t want Ian to know Sister Mary was in town. They agreed to hold a party with family at a later date. Ian asked Jane if she’d like to go to Vegas for their honeymoon, and she said yes.
Jane took in exactly zero details about the drive to Ian’s hotel. They probably took a cab. The room had a door that Ian locked. He kissed her until her mind went fuzzy, and then Ian’s trembling, warm hands pulled off her sundress and laid her back on what was probably a bed while his lips roamed across her neck, shoulder, breasts, and stomach. The thickness of the walls or potential hearing loss were not considered as she worked her fingers through his hair and spread her legs, cradling his head between them. When she’d screamed herself hoarse and her mouth was her only dry part, Ian slowly worked his way back up and pressed inside her. Jane shook with dopamine and desperation, wrapping her legs around him. He found a rhythm, bracing one hand against the headboard as he bent over her, huge, grunting, and damp with sweat. Jane’s voice was babbling his name and words like “Yes” and “Fuck” and “Harder” while Ian’s body flexed and trembled. She lost track of time between numb and aching and fervid, her hands scrambling for purchase on his arms, running through his hair, and twisting in the sheets. Her voice sobbed, words utterly lost, but she pulled him forward frantically, signaling not to stop. Somewhere he ended and she began, but the line was impossible to find. Maybe it didn’t exist anymore. Her deliciously exposed body pulsed with him as Ian, groaning, let go of his part of the essence of life. He tenderly kissed her and searched her face with sparkling eyes. What were the things Jane wished she could have heard her first time?
“I love you.” Her voice was scratchy and uncoordinated, “You were awesome. This was perfect—everything I hoped it would be.”
Ian beamed, his words resonating through her, “I love you too. You’ve made me so happy. Thank you for being you.”
They lay on the bed, Ian gathering her against his naked form while Jane snuggled close and let her mind drift through the impossible moment. She’d found an impossible man because of an impossible turn of events and, impossibly, they loved each other. This time, only this time, Jane dreamed what a little person from the two of them might look like with smiling eyes, skin smelling like warm heaven, and ten toesies.
Ian’s voice chatted in an indistinct, troubled way with a woman as Jane shivered back to consciousness. The room was dark and smelled weird, like rubbing alcohol. Jane tried to sit and brushed against a railing on the bed. That didn’t seem right.
“Ian?” The image of a hospital room was coming together. Was it a hallucination? Had she dreamed they’d gotten married? Were they still with the Sisters after the battle at Longwood Gardens? That was Ian’s voice—he was here and real and she wasn’t in a mental hospital somewhere imagining him, right? Jane’s pulse tripped. A beeping monitor sped up.
“Hey,” Yes. Ian’s voice—Ian studying her with his brows creased and Ian’s real, warm hand smoothing her hair. Jane could breathe easier. “Hey, Jane. I’m so glad you’re awake. How are you feeling?”
Jane licked dry lips, “Confused and panicky.”
“Sure, I can understand. It might be a side effect of blood loss. What’s the last thing you remember?”
Jane burst into tears. She didn’t mean to, but blood loss?
Ian held her awkwardly around the hospital bed rail. Even with limited contact Jane could hear his heart was pounding, a telltale contradiction to his calm voice, “No rush, sweet girl, we don’t have to talk about it right now. You’re safe. You’re out of the woods.”
Jane opened her mouth to inform him that phrases like “out of the woods” were less comforting when there weren’t supposed to be woods at all. A nurse in Winnie the Pooh scrubs and frizzy blonde hair swept into the room, “Hey Mrs. Sendak! I’m Becky, and I’ll be your nurse this evening. On a scale of one to ten right now, where one is none and ten is the worst in your life, where would you rate your pain?”
Jane blinked a few times. Mrs. Sendak. Oh, thank God. “Um, one. Maybe one point five for the IV.” Jane wiggled her arm experimentally and squashed the urge to ask, “What happened?” Better to get the story from Ian.
Becky laughed, “Great. We’ll keep you a few hours for observation, but you should be able to go home tonight. Let me know if you need anything.” She indicated the call button and swept back out.
Jane turned to Ian. The brief, clinical exchange with Becky left her on more stable, familiar ground. Ian was lingering by the side of the bed and rubbing his face. His shoulders sagged. He took a sip from a cup of water and his warm eyes came to rest on Jane’s. She cleared her raw throat, “The last thing I remember is going to sleep with you after we… after we…”
Ian beamed, and Jane blushed furiously. Paperwork and I Dos did not, it seemed, erase twenty-four years of being self-conscious about everything having to do with intimacy. Ian kissed the top of her head and began where she left off. “I was going to sleep as well, when something felt… off. I’m having a hard time remembering exactly what. You might have been shivering, or maybe there was a flash of brightness. I got up and turned on the bathroom light and saw you were bleeding. At first I thought… well, I know you said you weren’t a virgin, but I’ve read women can still bleed sometimes. It looked like a lot, though, so I tried to wake you but couldn’t. On closer inspection I discovered a wound on your thigh. The quantity and color of blood indicated you’d nicked the femoral artery...” Ian shuddered but pressed on, “I improvised a tourniquet and called 911. The EMTs applied a pressure dressing in the ambulance, and since it stopped the bleeding they held off on surgery. When we got here you received a blood transfusion. They assured me you’re going to be fine; they just want to keep you for observation to make sure the transfusion doesn’t cause any issues. Oh, and they’ll probably ask you a bunch of questions about your weight before they let us go. Sorry, I tried to reassure them.”
Jane poked at the dressing on her thigh. It didn’t hurt, not like an injury serious enough to cause this kind of reaction. She tentatively pulled back the edge. Nothing. Smooth skin. The blood-soaked bandage stuck to little flakey bits on her thigh, but no injury.
Ian gently squeezed her s
houlder, “Phantom wound?”
“Yep.”
“Have you had this kind before?”
“Once or twice.” Jane could picture what the puncture wound must have looked like: deep and abrupt and squirting pomegranate blood. Imagining it made her feel clammy and nauseous, so she shoved the image aside.
“Do you know why?”
Jane shook her head.
“Did you use magic?”
“Not on purpose.”
“Did I hurt you? Make you feel afraid?” Ian was holding onto his relaxed tone with a death grip that ruined the calming effect. Jane glanced up. He didn’t meet her eyes.
“What do you mean?”
Ian ran a hand through his short hair, “Did you use magic on instinct because something I did was wrong?”
“No! No, absolutely not. I don’t know why, but it’s not because of you.” Jane grabbed his hand, “You were awesome. You didn’t make this happen.” Ian gazed at her with a small smile that melted the lump in Jane’s chest as heat crept back into her cheeks. “Really. Honeymoon’s not over. Now let’s blow this joint before I have to convince a doctor I don’t have a crazy, untreated hyper-thyroid or something. I don’t want to be here all night.”
Everyone deserved someone who would look at them the way the Tupperware golem looked at aluminum foil. It rubbed its plastic sides against Jane’s ankles with feline persistence when she held the roll. It wiggled in anticipation if she pulled a sheet out. It spasmed with joy, ripping the flimsy material when she tried to secure some to its open top. Jane crumpled the shredded piece, sunk a three-pointer in the trash can, and swept the ridiculous creation into a tender embrace. Blue had informed her not to let it wander off. When probed about the functionality of a portable storage solution golem, Blue confessed it was a quick and dirty method of life force containment. Having the awakened book inside of another life force was a theoretical way to keep a lid on things. When Blue had recovered from laughing at her pun, complete with a few diminutive snorts and wiping tears from her eyes, Jane asked about the legs.
“Why make it able to run away if it’s a safe box?”
Blue shrugged, “Golems have to be… well golemy. Legs are part of who they are. More talented golemancers,” She blew on her fingernails and polished them on her shirt self-appreciatively, “can do things like make them tiny or more animal in form than human, but I don’t know anyone who could craft a functional golem that was a box or a briefcase. Since Sister Mary needed the life force as a protective measure, she thought this would be a good option. He does seem like a feisty one, though!” She coochy-cooed for a few seconds and tickled the golem’s tummy before wandering back outside.
Jane rocked it, and the uneven legs bicycled with increasing laziness before dangling limply. Hopefully the posture was a sign of enjoyment, not stupefying terror. Outside, the Sisters cast long shadows into the darkness as they loaded the truck under bright exterior lights. Jane gulped more lukewarm coffee. The side of the vehicle was lettered with Spiffy Clean, and the image of a mop cheerfully imparting sparkles all over an imaginary floor. Or maybe the mop was cleaning up the sparkles. Oh boy, she was tired. Thank God her part of Mission Impossible consisted of putting a book in a Tupperware golem. She could manage that. Then she’d get to see Ian again.
The plastic legs remained relaxed as Jane slid the transparent creature onto the table. It startled once, but Jane let her hand linger and it stilled again under the weight of her touch. She incrementally removed her hand and, when it looked like a dash for the edge was not imminent, Jane exhaled and finished zipping her Spiffy Clean coveralls.
The gas mask she’d been issued was a straightforward full-face air-purifying respirator, a smart choice for this kind of a gig. It would be stupid to enter a room rigged for chemical deterrents without eye protection, even if Sister Mary said they only expected knockout gas. It also obscured her entire face, a huge plus in Jane’s book, and wasn’t laden with the clumsy weight of a self-contained breathing apparatus. Jane’s dad would approve of this model—he had something similar in his emergency closet. She needed to call him. She wanted to tell him she’d gotten married and figure out a time they could all get together. Her goofy, eccentric dad would enjoy Ian. She’d have to warn him not to talk too much about hunting, though.
Sister Mary appeared in the doorway, and Jane held her finger to her lips, indicating the slumbering Tupperware. Mary raised an eyebrow but adopted a velvet tread. She indicated the door with a sharp jerk of her head, and Jane almost mimicked her soundless stride. The golem slumbered peacefully.
Out on Blue’s patio, Jane lit up, and Sister Mary checked over her disguise.
“Looks good. You about ready?”
“Sure.” Jane blew her smoke skyward and pushed her hair out of her eyes. “Hey, can I ask you a magic question?”
“You can, but I might not know the answer. Ian’s your best bet on this topic.” Her gravelly voice might be from smoking. Jane offered a cigarette, but she shook her shaved head.
“So, I had a thing happen last night. A magic thing. I need help understanding it.”
Sister Mary’s laugh was dry and warm, “Don’t overwhelm me with all of those details.”
Jane shifted from foot to foot. She didn’t know how to ask, but she also didn’t know who else to ask. “So I got married.”
“What?” Mary’s grin grew wide, “Well, congratulations. I assume it’s Jane Sendak?”
“Yeah.” Jane’s smile was dopey, but she couldn’t help it. Mary clapped her on the back. “Anyway, last night I got a serious phantom wound, but I don’t know why. I had to get a blood transfusion, so I’d rather avoid that again.”
“Okay. What does this have to do with you being married?”
Jane chewed her lip.
“Jane?”
“Ummm… so, I was wondering if, since I’m linked to saints and all, if maybe I did something wrong?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Like Saint Barbara was a martyr. Her father told her to marry a pagan man and she refused. She wanted to remain a consecrated virgin. He killed her for it, but that was like her big religious experience—she died for what she believed in, so she’s honored as a saint. I’m linked to her, but I made different decisions, did things she wouldn’t have done.”
Sister Mary was nodding along, “I think I see where you’re going now, but you don’t need to worry. First off, unrelated to magic, it sounds like you’re making some great choices. Ian’s a good guy. In the time I’ve known you, I’ve seen you put others first a dozen times over. You two got married. That’s all important stuff and I want to congratulate you on it. But back on the supernatural and extra-natural side, saints and angels are not going to smite you for transgressions. God gave you free will, and he respects it. He doesn’t want you to make good choices because you’ll be slapped on the wrist if you don’t. Side effects occur in response to magic usage. That’s all. Does that address your concern?”
Jane chewed her lip, “I’m glad for the answer, but I still feel clueless.”
“I’m sorry, I don’t know why it happened. Dahl would be your best point of contact on this as soon as he recovers. In the meantime, keep an emergency kit on hand for first aid if it happens again and try not to be alone. Make sure the people you’re with know how to use the supplies you have and are ready to respond if things go bad. I can help you put one together. Sound like a plan?”
Having something to do left Jane lighter. Of course she should have a kit: blood clotting powder, tourniquet, gauze—the kind of items Dahl carried.
“Yeah, perfect. I’ll take whatever you can spare and figure out where to get the rest.”
“Good. I’ll get you set before we roll out. Now let’s go commit grand larceny and banish an extra-natural evil back to hell, fiction, or England from whence it came.”
Chapter Fourteen
Olive wore her Spiffy Clean coveralls like sin: a thin wrapper of cheap cotton hiding a ripe,
juicy form underneath. Jane wrinkled her nose. How the hell did she make coveralls sensuous? Then her mind skipped back to Ian bending over her and all irritation vanished. She was very kindly helping with their heist. Good on Olive.
Sister Mary and Sister Isadora checked their shotguns loaded with bean bag rounds (plan B) and their suppressed 1911 handguns and bowie knives (plan C) as the van lurched and paused in stop-and-go traffic. Jane clutched the Tupperware golem and her roll of aluminum foil.
Sister Frances Ruger, the third member of the nun trio, was driving. When they were introduced, Jane had nearly lost fingers during the handshake with the nun who stood on the north side of six feet with a face like a hatchet and a head of ruthlessly short blonde hair under her habit bandanna. Sister Mary supplied details for their motley quartet in the back of the Spiffy Clean van.
“The Library is four stories with two points of entrance: a front door and a maintenance door. Inside, only the ground level fills the building’s footprint—the second and third stories are balcony levels accessible by multiple staircases with an open shaft in the middle extending the height of the building. On the fourth story there is no balcony—the vault is suspended from the ceiling. It’s made for high visibility and difficult access: a transparent room rigged with motion, vibration, temperature, and humidity sensors accessible only by an elevator. A six-inch vent feeds in for humidity and temperature control and also to flood the vault with knockout gas if any of the alarms trip. Inside the vault are twenty-five linked books.”
Jane interrupted, “All the books in the library aren’t linked?”
Olive grinned, “That’d be something. No Janey, it’s a collection. Like the Library of Alexandria or The House of Wisdom. The linked books at this location are all in the vault.”