by Jeff Deck
I look at the dying woman, all that rich red staining the floor. Waste not, want not.
“Sol!” I shout. “Help me get her to the Port. We need her blood to close it!”
We both rush at the home aide, who offers no resistance, and we drag her toward the Port. But blood alone won’t be enough, so I leave Sol to manhandle her the last few yards and I walk the five-petaled path close to the Port. I recall the words Guhnach spoke—in his tongue—and I try a modified version, hoping it’ll work:
M-Master of Quintessence, we lay this sacrifice before you, CLOSE the gate and stitch the skin between worlds back up, drink the blood and consume the flesh, hope you’re hungry, May Your Hand Never Close…
The Port ripples. Beyond it, I hear a loud crash.
“Good,” Sol cries. “Good, you’re doing it!”
I ignore him and continue walking, chanting. Sol drags the rapidly expiring Ilana into the middle of the flower I’m tracing with my feet. Her red headwrap comes loose and something small and metallic rolls out; I kick it away while doing my steps. Then Ilana’s blood streams into the essence of the twirling flowers.
I dare a look through the shrinking Port. I choke as a bunch of silver soldiers rush toward me. Hurry up, dammit!
But now the Port is too small to stick their large metal bodies through. One reaches an arm out, but its comrade slaps its arm away and calls it an idiot. More of Ilana’s blood waters the flowers, the Port dwindles, and it is gone.
I bend over, feeling dizzy. Sol lends me a supporting arm and we sag against each other. So much has been lost, and there’ll be so much to explain. But the “sorcerer” won’t hurt anyone ever again.
Wait.
I straighten up. What was that thing that came out of Ilana’s headwrap? And where did it go?
I shove away from Sol. “That little metal thing,” I say. “Did you see it?”
He shakes his head. I crouch by Ilana’s corpse and unwind her headwrap the rest of the way. I find a gaping, circular hole in the back of her head—in her skull. I can see her brain through it. The hole is far too large to be caused by a bullet, and besides, Ilana caught the ricochet in her neck, not in her skull.
“Look at this,” I say.
“Oh!” Sol gasps. “How—how was she—”
“There was something there. Help me look for it.”
Together we prowl the dark corners of the attic, sweeping the room with our phone lights. A few minutes later, Sol says, “Here. Oh—God, I’m sorry, I don’t want to touch it!”
The little object perches on the edge of a broken floorboard. It’s bronze, stick-shaped, and only a few inches long, with a circular serrated rim that drips blood and grey matter onto the insulation. I drilled the squeamishness out of myself when I became a cop, and I’ve held onto my strong stomach since then; I pick up the object for closer inspection.
Ilana’s head cheese only stains the serrated end. The other end is clean, a tube shape that looks like another part is supposed to fit into it. The object looks vaguely like a medical instrument, but not for a modern surgeon’s repertoire—better suited to one of those ye olde amateurs who also gave haircuts.
“That was in her head?” Sol asks. “The whole time?”
Horrible thoughts take shape in my own, non-cored brain as I think about Ilana’s. “Sol, I don’t think she was the one who put it there.”
“What are you saying?” His eyes bulge. “Oh, no, Divya. Oh, no.”
“Still feel bad for your innocent old demented millionaire?” I growl. “That fucker!”
I should have known. The way she called me a whore after Shaughnessy had rambled on about whores. The language repetition: both Ilana and Natalie had used that curiously antiquated phrasing, “beyond question,” when insisting that Shaughnessy had dementia. She had an old man’s choice of weapon, too, in that ancient revolver. Which I should grab—I pocket the gun along with the creepy little tool from Ilana’s skull.
Guhnach and the Doxe warned us the sorcerer could control minds with some infernal toolset. That’s what the skull-borer must have come from. The whole time, it had been under her headwrap as Shaughnessy used it to speak through her and control her.
“Ilana wasn’t the ‘sorcerer,’” I go on. “Come on, Sol, but be careful. If he can control minds—if he still has the rest of the toolset—then we could be next.”
I heft the Relic awkwardly and we pelt down the attic stairs. The rooms on the third floor are dark. Same with the second floor, but the nearest window shows me a disturbing sight.
Flames. Fire.
“Outside! Come on!” I shout to Sol. I run through the foyer of the mansion and head out onto the veranda. Shaughnessy’s Round Island Ferry motors into the harbor, the ghostly figure of the old man waving at me while Handel’s “Water Music” blares from the boat’s speakers. Shaughnessy’s spare rowboats, meanwhile, are both on fire.
I run over to the dock, searching for anything I can use to scoop up seawater to douse the flames. But my search is in vain. The two vessels collapse into the current, the fire hissing out. I crane my neck to see what’s happening on the mainland as the Round Island Ferry arrives. A car arrives at the dock and the short, slender driver jumps out to help the old man exit the boat. It’s too dark to discern much detail, but the driver sure looks like Attorney Sandy Grieg. The two climb into the car and speed away.
The naval shipyard is just across the water, so the river is frequently patrolled. It only takes the Coast Guard ten minutes to show up, in response to the rowboat arson.
Three men climb out of the patrol boat. I face them with resignation—but I’m surprised to see only two of them are Coast Guardsmen. The third is a Korean-American man in a tie and jacket rather than a uniform. He gives us a small, ironic wave.
“You two have been busy, I see,” says Supervisory Special Agent Ethan Jeong.
11
A likely innocent woman died in Shaughnessy’s attic. Detective Ulrich got killed and eaten in another dimension. The vile Scott Shaughnessy himself got away, free to wreck and kill some more. And oh yeah, I’m no closer to freeing Milly Fragonard than I was when I first went through the Port.
So at first I feel relieved at the sight of a familiar face accompanying the two blandly hostile authority figures. Everything’s gone wrong, and I could really use some help making it right again. But I still haven’t forgiven Agent Jeong for letting me get arrested for crimes he knew I hadn’t committed.
“Jeong,” I say. “What are you doing here?”
He chuckles. “Classic Allard. Your self-confidence is an inspiration, you know that? You didn’t even consider I’d ask you the same thing.”
“Well?” I don’t have the patience for his aw-shucks routine. “Don’t tell me you joined the Coast Guard so soon after that cushy promotion on Daniel Street.”
“Gotcha,” he says. “Down to business, then. Agent Ramirez was walking downtown today and saw you and Detective Ulrich together, which struck her as odd. Still odder was the fact you two were arguing about going out to Round Island. So I asked the Coast Guard to contact me immediately if anything suspicious happened on this island. Day or night. Boats on fire fit the bill.”
I chuff. “You couldn’t leave me alone. Throwing me in jail on fake charges wasn’t enough.”
“Listen,” he says, “I’m sorry. I don’t know how many times I’ll have to say it, but—I really am sorry for what we put you through. Ivanov had my hands tied. He and the other folks down in Boston… they’re merciless about covering tracks. You could’ve had it worse, believe it or not.”
I don’t believe it. “Thanks for caring.”
“So… did you find her?”
“Who?”
Jeong raises an eyebrow.
“Do you see her?” I snarl at him, my frustration releasing like the torrent from the snail’s shell. “Do you see anyone else on this godforsaken island? We failed, Ethan. Milly’s a prisoner in another world, and—”
&
nbsp; I stop and eye the two Coast Guardsmen. Jeong follows my gaze and my drift.
“Thank you for your help on this one,” he says to them. “Please pick up my colleagues at the dock. This is now officially a Bureau matter. Oh, and take this young man with you—he needs medical attention.”
“Yes, sir,” says one of the Guardsmen, a tall and handsome man with lustrous dark skin. He offers a hand up to Sol, who’s been sitting on the dock this whole time looking dazed. “I’m Lieutenant Bishop… would you come with me?”
Sol accepts the hand and seems reluctant to let it go once he’s standing. “Hi. I’m Private Shrive, and yes, yes, I would.”
“That’s a nasty head scrape you got there, Mr. Shrive. Want to tell me about it?”
“No, I would not,” Sol says. He gets into the patrol boat with Bishop and the other Coast Guardsman and they head to shore.
“Now. Barnes and McGuinness will help me secure the property,” Jeong says. “What should we expect to find in that house?”
I tell him, briefly, picking up the Relic from the dock and using it as a visual aid. Jeong’s eyes widen. He straightens out of his slouch.
“Two bodies and a Port?”
“A closed Port,” I clarify.
“Yeah, but you’ll have to open it again if you want to rescue Milly,” Agent Jeong says. “And you’re sure it was Councilor Grieg who picked up Shaughnessy?”
“Almost sure,” I say. “It’s dark.”
“I’ll get Ramirez to Grieg’s house stat, in case he’s foolish enough to bring the old man there,” Jeong says. He sends a quick text to the agent.
“Listen,” I say, fighting off fatigue. “Don’t let the Portsmouth PD or any of the city councilors near this island. Shaughnessy may have run away, but he won’t give up his Avariccian paradise so easily. I’ll bet he has a plan to retake it—that might involve Grieg.”
“But Grieg is on the opposite side of the inheritance case,” Jeong says. “Why is he helping Shaughnessy?”
“I think he took the case to find out more about what Shaughnessy’s been up to.” I’m putting the pieces together as I go. “Maybe on Councilor Stone’s orders. Grieg would be the one to understand Shaughnessy. Grieg has wallpaper in his office that—well, it controlled what I was saying. I wouldn’t be surprised if it came from the same place as Shaughnessy’s mind-control toolset.”
Jeong rubs his jaw. “I thought the city councilors want to close the Ports, not keep them open to grab stuff.”
“I think that is their goal,” I say. “And maybe most of them stick to it, with only a little graft on the side. But Shaughnessy’s not on the council anymore and—let’s say he’s gone off the reservation. Grieg wants to stop him. So Grieg is playing ally to Shaughnessy, but he may be planning to bag the old man for the ‘good’ of the council, and the city.”
Jeong frowns. “This may sound harsh, but what if we let Grieg take care of Shaughnessy?”
“Yeah… no,” I say. I try to crack my own back; I’m aching all over. I need a shower, a meal that doesn’t involve Avariccian flesh, and a nice long sleep in my own bed. “If that is what Grieg is planning, he’s underestimating Shaughnessy. The old fuck might still have tools to manipulate him.” I refrain from mentioning the skull-corer in my pocket.
“Then we’ve got to find them,” says Jeong.
“I wish you good fortune,” I say. Now it’s my turn to sit down on the dock.
He takes a closer look at me. “You’re right… you’ve done plenty. Leave this one to me. You need rest, Allard.”
“No shit.”
“As soon as Barnes and McGuinness get here, I’ll take you back to the mainland.”
I’m not sure how much time passes before the boat back arrives. Maybe only a minute, maybe ten. Sitting down was a mistake—I don’t realize I’ve been sleeping until Jeong touches my shoulder to rouse me. I spend the ride home over sea and land in a half-waking, half-dozing state, though still clutching the Relic all the while, and I don’t refuse Jeong’s assistance in walking up the long staircase to my apartment. I do, however, head him off from tucking me in. I’m still mad, after all.
I find I don’t want to let the Relic out of my sight, so I put it at the end of my bed and curl up to sleep. After the fourth or fifth bloody, vivid nightmare, I wake up once again, pound my tear-stained pillow in frustration, and blearily send a text:
Cancel your first appt. Need to see you first thing in morn. Emergency.
At around six a.m., I wake up for the final time. Only after I’ve poured my coffee do I remember the message I sent. I think it’s part of one of my many awful dreams until I look at my phone and see her response.
“Divya, I thought this was an emergency,” Kathryn Bergman says. “But you come in here dragging that thing and you’ve barely said a word to me. What is that thing?”
“My good luck charm,” I mumble, glancing down at the Relic leaning against my chair to make sure it’s still there. Outside my therapist’s lightly Japanese-themed office, it’s a busy day in downtown Dover. With my increased sensitivity, I’m making an active effort to keep all those voices and footsteps and vehicle whooshes outside.
Kathryn studies her dark brown knuckles and waits. I need to exorcise the accusations from my head, particularly Ben Ulrich’s… the detective keeps screaming my name in his death throes. You’re no longer so special, are you, Hannah? You’re no longer the only ghost following me around. Ilana has also joined the merry band; she keeps asking why I wasn’t smart enough to see through Shaughnessy’s deception and save her.
You’re the Queen of Weird in this city now. You got friends in weird places.
That’s a good little whore.
My foolish children!
But I have no idea how to talk about what happened without… talking about what happened. Kathryn hasn’t seen the Ports. She would never believe my crazy story about the City of Games. I’ll have to couch it in terms so broad as to be meaningless.
“I—worked on a project with two friends recently,” I say. “There were—extremely negative consequences, and I feel responsible. I am responsible.”
“Can you be more specific?”
“No.”
“Divya, I want to help you, but—”
“We went into a dangerous situation together,” I interrupt her. “To help someone.”
Kathryn gives me a motherly frown. I can tell she wants to ask whether I’ve done anything illegal. Instead, she says, “And you forced your two friends into this situation. At machete-point.”
I take a breath. “No. But I didn’t do enough to dissuade them. I knew it could end up being dangerous, but I was weak. I accepted their help, and they paid for it. One of them… one of them will never be the same.”
That’s an interesting euphemism for getting eaten alive, Ulrich growls in my head. I know it’s not really him—Ulrich would never use the word “euphemism” in conversation, for one thing—but I still flinch at the reproach. Kathryn notices.
“Accepting help is equivalent to weakness,” she says.
“When it means leading someone to their death,” I snap, “then yes, it’s safe to say that’s weakness.”
My therapist runs her hands through her thick grey curls. “Listen, Divya. Under New Hampshire law, you can feel free to tell me anything as long as it doesn’t involve harming a minor, or an adult who can’t defend themselves. Or telling me you’re going to kill someone. So be straight with me—did a kid get hurt? Is someone going to die?”
“No.”
“Then please tell me what’s going on. If I may be frank, you’re scaring the crap out of me. Who died?”
I sigh. “Detective Ben Ulrich of the Portsmouth PD.”
Kathryn’s eyes bug out. Her voice remains calm. “One of your old colleagues, then. You say you’re responsible for his death?”
“I should have told him he couldn’t come.”
“Couldn’t come where?”
I extract mys
elf from the lumpy chair. “I’m sorry, Kathryn. This is useless. I appreciate what you do, but I made a mistake sending—”
“Sit down,” Kathryn Bergman commands me, in a tone I’ve never heard before.
I sit.
“Well?”
“You’re never gonna believe it,” I plead.
“Divya Allard,” says my therapist, “I have been on this Earth for fifty-five years—almost twice the amount you have, if I recall your file correctly. I have seen shit you would not believe that I believe. I do not suffer from the particular rigidities that have plagued you on your life journey, so would you please stop projecting and try me already?”
I grit my teeth. She wants complete honesty, she’s going to get it.
“We went to Round Island to look for our missing friend, Milly Fragonard,” I say. “The sole full-time resident of the island, a Mr. Scott Shaughnessy, used his lobotomized home aide to force us through a portal to another universe. There, we did find Milly, but we failed to free her from her magically enforced imprisonment. Ulrich got torn apart and eaten alive by a bunch of metal-suited aliens, after he broke the rules of a racing competition involving mythological creatures, specifically by shooting a griffin in the eye.”
Kathryn says nothing for a good long while. Finally, she says, “Okay. I guess you had a point.”
“Thank you.”
“Maybe I can attempt to understand this metaphorically,” my therapist goes on, maintaining a brave face.
“Oh, god. No. What happened to all your ‘more things in heaven and earth, Horatio’ bullshit?”
Kathryn taps her notebook against her temple. “FYI, my other patients treat me with a little more respect. I’m trying, here. What you—what you told me does not square with what I know about you, so I’m just trying to find a way to understand. You weren’t making a joke.”
“I wasn’t.”
“I know you weren’t. That was a statement.”