by Rowan Casey
I scrambled to my feet as he picked up the battle axe and crouched down in front of the trunk. He rested the weapon across his legs and reached for the lock. I ran at him, lowering my shoulder, and tried to tackle him. To say I bounced off him would be an insult to all things rubber. It was more like my body collapsed on impact and I staggered back a step before dropping to my knees.
“Golgameth!”
The lock—or what I assumed was the lock—made a gritty scraping sound, followed by a click. I heard it clatter to the floor, and saw it near his feet. The Key dropped next to it.
“Golgameth!”
The lid opened and I had to shield my eyes. The light seemed to push at me like a wind, forcing me back, it was so bright. It swirled up toward the ceiling in the shape of a water spout, throwing off flashing beams that caused the room to explode in blinding bursts. The funnel of light projected a swirling kaleidoscope onto the ceiling. The motion formed a vortex, and the center of it widened until I could see the night sky through it, though I could still make out the texture of the ceiling behind the image.
Then I saw Golgameth rising up, his body bathed in the white glow. Even squinting through my fingers, my eyelids barely able to stay open against the brightness, I could see the expression on his face as he looked up. Eyes bulging, mouth spread in a rictus grin. I had no idea whether that meant he was scared, or excited, or giddy.
He continued to ascend and it looked like he was going to hit the ceiling, but he kept going, kept rising, right through the clear middle where the sky was visible, the image rippling slightly as he did, like liquid. The moment he was past it, the light flashed again, compelling me to turn away. I forced myself to look just in time to see the trunk flip shut with a clunk, swallowing all the light.
I tried to blink the spots out of my eyes. Everything was quiet. The Key lay on the floor where I’d seen it fall. But the lock was somehow back on the latch, fully engaged.
“Pip, we’ve got situation here.”
Slowly, I made my way closer to the trunk, half-expecting the thing to open its lid again like a set of jaws and bite me.
“Pip, you really need to get in here.” I reached down and picked up the Key. “Pip?”
I felt a vibration in my pocket. I pulled out my phone. The Caller ID said it was Pip, which meant she wasn’t using that special direct connection, which was my first indication things were about to go from bad to worse. I swiped the screen with my thumb, but said nothing.
“We have her,” the voice said. I’m not sure how, but I recognized it immediately. It was the gal from Club Med, the barmaid. A feminine rasp, assertive, definitely not trying to sound friendly.
“Who is this?” The words came out even though I knew the answer. It just seemed like the thing to say.
“If you want to see your… friend again, come to the Med, come alone, and bring the Key.”
“Let me speak to her.”
“Bring the Key,” the voice repeated. The phone beeped a tone and flashed to the home screen.
I stared at the phone, waiting for it to ring again, but gave up after a minute and slid it back into my pocket. I rested my gaze on the trunk and dragged my fingers down my face. Then I stared up at the ceiling, and finally down at the Key in my hand.
It occurred to me that I had no way of getting in touch with Grimm, except through Pip. At least, not without a lot of time and some travel. I could hear his clear, clipped words from earlier in the evening, telling me how my father had wanted me to understand that someday I’d have no one else to rely on, other than myself.
Thanks, Dad, I said, though I imagine my lips never moved and no words were actually spoken. Like a silent prayer.
Lesson learned.
12
I arrived at the Club about an hour later, but parked a few blocks away and sat in the car thinking. Most of my thoughts during the frantic drive across town were harsh urgings, chastising myself to think faster, harder, better; thoughts about needing to think.
That feeling of spinning wheels was pushing my stress level through the roof. The first thing I needed to do was take stock of what I knew. It was the gal from the bar who had called. I couldn’t remember her name. She had Pip, and wanted the Key.
It wasn’t much, but it was known.
Something else I knew was that she couldn’t be working alone. If I was wrong about that, it meant she was a hell of a lot more than just some waitress from the bar. After what I’d seen the past few days, with magic and monsters and my couch bowed by a giant, I couldn’t rule out much. Risky as it was, I was going to have to operate under a few assumptions. My first would be that there were others involved, likely calling the shots. Which suggested a bigger question. If she wasn’t working alone, and she had worked for Alonzo, did that mean that freak show son of a bitch was still alive? I’d killed him myself, so I thought I knew the answer, but could I be sure Manticores could even be killed? Did he just shake it off after I’d left and plot to get the Key from me when he found out I’d tracked it down? My brain chewed on that one a long time, uncertain whether to swallow.
Why did she or whoever else was involved even want the Key? I could guess at a broad answer, but a more precise one was elusive. And why abduct Pip near the museum, but then make me come to the club? Why not just take care of things outside, right then?
The process was making my head hurt. Or hurt more, I should say.
I ran through the possibilities several times, accepting some, rejecting others, relying on a few inferential leaps. I tried to think horses, rather than zebras, which wasn’t such an easy thing to do when I couldn’t even rule out unicorns. I didn’t know for sure who was behind this, but the more I stared in the direction of the Mediterranean, the more I did start to have a suspicion. I reached around and pulled the Colt from my belt and looked at it. A plan started to form. Not a great one. Not even a good one. But having something in mind seemed better than having nothing. I was relying on a whole lot of guesswork and making way too many assumptions given the stakes, but I had to play the cards in my hand. Even if they turned out to be Aces and Eights.
One long breath, then another. I got out of the car and walked to the Club.
Showtime.
A large neon sign in the curtained window out front read “CLOSED” in glowing hot pink letters. A similar sign on the front door, this one plastic, said the same. I turned the knob and pushed. The door opened.
Inside, the place seemed empty. And with the way it was lit, I could see the whole floor from front to back the moment I walked in. I wouldn’t say the club was particularly bright. It was more a case that when it was open for business they kept the lighting unnaturally dim. The difference was striking. Overhead bulbs way up on the vaulted ceiling illuminated all the tables and floors in a uniform wash of florescence and I got the impression of a hooker in the morning light, the lines around her eyes and the smoke-stained yellow of her fingertips revealing more than was meant to be seen by the customers.
But aside from the scuffed and dirty floor and the rather rickety look of the seating, the thing that stuck out to me was the large pane of glass above the stage. With the lights on, the high ones shining through the glass enough to illuminate shapes behind it, I could see the space housed an audio control room, and probably doubled as a way for a manager or the owner to keep a surveilling eye on the patrons and staff. No wonder Alonzo and his goons were so quick to be waiting for me in the alley. He probably watched me walk in.
Then the lights went out, and everything went dark.
I’m not sure what I thought was going to happen, but before I could brace myself for whatever my subconscious was expecting, a spotlight threw a cone of white onto the stage, highlighting a microphone.
“Well,” I said, breaking the stretching silence. “I’ll need to warm up my voice, but if you insist…” I started moving toward the stage. “Danka Schoen, key of G. And let’s go with a brush snare.”
I had only advanced a few feet w
hen the curtain behind the stage parted and another spotlight shone on it.
In the cone of light, I saw a woman. Of some sort. She was short, with skin that was a shade of emerald and hair that was a shimmering cobalt blue. She was standing there with a net over her, the kind of thing people used to use to catch butterflies with in cartoons. The ring at the bottom of it was only about a foot wider in diameter than she was. The person inside had her palms out against the weave of it, like she was a prisoner.
I looked at her for a moment, then had to blink a double-take. No way.
“Pip?”
The look on her face, the moist hopelessness in those eyes, was painful to watch. She was emitting an alloy of emotions, part fear, part shame, part something poignant I couldn’t quite separate out. It was her, all right. Before I could say anything else, Dr. Winch, the stuffy museum curator, crossed in front of her and stepped to the microphone.
He may not have been the last person I expected, but he was definitely far down the list.
“What have you done to her?” I asked, trying to keep the anger from choking the words before they came out.
He didn’t speak, not right away, but above him the lights behind the glass came on. Three figures looked down at me, somewhat backlit, but easily recognizable.
“Ladies,” I said, touching the brim of my hat. I don’t think I’d ever uttered words with quite so much contempt in my voice as I did those.
“I believe you have something for me,” Dr. Winch said, his voice amplified slightly through the microphone.
“You haven’t answered my question.”
“We didn’t do anything to her,” said a different voice, this one feminine, projecting through the same speakers. I looked up at Cassiopeia.
“If it comes down to asking who I’m going to believe, you or my lyin’ eyes, you’re going to lose.”
“Funny you should say that,” she said. “I said we didn’t do anything to her. I didn’t say we didn’t do anything.”
“Are you going to keep playing games?” I lowered my eyes toward Winch. “Because all you’re managing to do is take someone already pissed off and pissing him off some more.”
“We didn’t touch her,” Cassiopeia said. “We didn’t change her. We simply removed her enchantment. Your lyin’ eyes are now just being…truthful.”
I shifted my gaze to Pip. The anguish on her face was so palpable, I could feel it in my gut.
“I don’t understand,” I said.
“Thank your mentor,” Cassiopeia said. “The esteemed Mr. Grimm. It seems he enjoys fooling people so much, he does it as a matter of routine, even when he’s not performing.”
I looked up at her. “Grimm did this?”
“The illusion. Amplified by your friend’s own magical aura, of course. Just one of the many ways he hides the truth.”
“What the hell are you talking about? Why does she look like this? And what the hell do you have her in?”
“That’s an Imp-Net,” Winch said, his voice interjecting through the speaker. “It’s harmless to her, really. But she can’t break free of it. They used to be quite popular among royalty. The equipment was expensive, but the hunt was considered the ultimate sporting event, and the prize, well, let’s just say to the victor went the spoils. They were always known for their carnal talents.”
“What the hell are you talking about?”
“I’m talking about your friend here, ‘Pip.’ She’s—”
“I’m an imp!”
Her voice yanked my face down and we locked eyes. Hers were pleading. Mine, I’m sure, were round and confused.
“I’m an imp,” she repeated, her body sagging. “Mr. Grimm and I both thought it best you not know.”
“There’s more,” Cassiopeia said. “I’m sure Mr. Bishop would love to learn why no one else ever seemed to notice you. Even in passing.”
Those words hit me like a delayed slap. My mind started racing through the halls of my head, throwing open doors and looking inside for answers. It was obvious now that something had always been off. Had anyone ever seen her? Someone other than Grimm and me? Did Claudia ever once mention seeing her? Had anyone? I thought of Golgameth, how he kept asking, ‘who’s Pip’?
I looked at her again. The hurt in those eyes was hard to bear. I had to do something.
“Let me get this straight,” I said. “You’re telling me that all this time, the whole six or seven weeks you’ve been my squire, working daily by my side, you weren’t really a redhead?”
She coughed out a laugh, holding the back of her hand to her nose as tears dropped from her eyes. That little chuckle made me feel twenty pounds lighter.
“An imp,” I said. I inhaled sharply, shaking my head. “Well, hell, I could have handled a gnome, or a leprechaun, or a fairy, even, but an imp? You’d better believe that as soon as I find out exactly what an imp is, I’m going to want to have a word with you.”
She laughed again, a sobbing chuckle, and I could almost see the tension and angst leave her body. It was exactly what I’d hoped for; to let her know it was okay between us. Not to tell her it was okay, but have her feel it. I felt sort of good about myself, for the moment.
Of course, I still had the minor issue of getting out of this situation alive to contend with.
Winch spoke up. “Now that you understand, you can see we’ve upheld our end. Even given you a bonus revelation. So, with that out of the way, did you bring the Key?”
“Let her go first.”
“We need to be certain you brought it.”
I filled my lungs with air and let it exhale naturally. It occurred to me that was just what I’d always do at the bell, when my corner was pulling out the stool and my trainer was yelling reminders about moving to my right or following up with combinations. Only I didn’t have a corner now, didn’t have a trainer, didn’t have anyone talking in my ear. Recently, those jobs had been filled by Pip.
“Tell me something, Winch,” I said, motivated by genuine curiosity. “What’s your angle? How the hell does a museum administrator get involved in something like this?”
He looked at me with the sort of disdain a teacher has for a student who asks a dumb question shortly after having told the class there was no such thing as a dumb question.
“You actually think I’m a traitor. How amusing. Do you have any idea what it is to devote your life to an intellectual pursuit? To spend not just years, but decades studying, researching, pondering, theorizing?”
“Going back more than one decade puts me in elementary school. But I’m pretty sure I understand the concept of someone having a passion. Most who do don’t, you know, sell out the human race.”
“I’m not talking about merely a hobby, pursued for amusement or entertainment or recreation. I’m not even talking about a career. I’m talking about a life of the intellect where the world you studied became the world you lived in, in your mind. Imagine that such a robust life of the mind shaped who you are, filling you with all the things you couldn’t find elsewhere. A sense of honor. A code. A thirst for adventure. Now, imagine that same life, lived yet not lived, where your body is stuck in a world of crass commercialism, of TV sitcoms and gadgets and social media and lives like yours not being lived for all the wrong reasons, when all you have wanted for so many years was to live the way your life was meant to be lived. In a world where men fought with honor, where Kings could be admired and served valiantly by noblemen, where creatures that have been vanquished to our fading recollection of legends filled the landscape with wonder.”
“Is that what they promised you? A time machine?”
“Yes, in a manner of speaking. Only rather than transporting me to that time, that time will be transported to us. Once the Veil is ripped asunder, this world will return to its rightful state of balance. The old ways will be dusted off and brought back. The things we lost to modernity, to technology, to the constant reach for the future, will suddenly be in demand again.”
“And jus
t coincidentally, so will experts in that era. How convenient for you.”
The man shrugged. “A New World will need new leaders. But think of how glorious it will be. A renaissance of medieval values and teachings, a return to chivalry and honor and sorcery and class. An appreciation for life as it becomes something fought for and cherished, rather than taken for granted. The old will become new again.”
“And in all this imagining of the New Old World of yours, doctor…” I looked past him at Pip. “Did you picture yourself the guy rescuing the damsels? Or the one putting them in distress?”
That made him stiffen. “This creature is hardly an innocent, and certainly not a bystander. And I find your implication quite offensive. There is nothing sexist about my philosophy. Women have always wielded power in far more subtle and effective ways than men. As my acquaintances here should have already taught you.”
I looked up at the Sirens. Cassiopeia smiled down on me. It was obvious they were the machine here, and Winch just a cog. I wondered if he understood how they were using him. I decided that was unlikely. The irony was rich. He was a patsy, and the whole point of a patsy requires they remain oblivious to being one.
“Now,” he said, clearing his throat. “The Key. Do you have it?”
“I’m told if you take possession of this, you either have to participate in a life-or-death Contest that you can’t win, or you die anyway.”
Winch smiled. “My friends upstairs took care of that. Once the Contest has begun, someone who had not previously possessed it may do so within a moon without being subject to its onerous baggage.”
Golgameth, I thought. That’s why they stuck him with me. They filled his head with delusions of glory so he’d do exactly what he did.
“The Key?”
I stuck my left hand in my pocket and retrieved the Key. I held it up for Winch to see and slid my right hand to the small of my back. I didn’t have much of a plan, but I also didn’t have much of a choice. I had to see it through.
“Excellent!” he said, clapping his hands together and rubbing them.