Windslinger

by JM Guillen

  “I run the store by day, and slaughter vampires by night?” The idea seemed ridiculous.

  “It’s what I believe the Assets are supposed to do—protect humanity.” He frowned, just a touch. “In all honesty, I suspect they were once quite different, more defenders than inquisitors.”

  “Did you hear some of the things that the Gaunt Man kept going on about?” I shuddered. “Calling them Templars and Rose-Christians?”

  “Rosicrucians.” Simon’s frown grew darker. “I’m not certain what that means, but I’m going to look into it.”

  “Anyway, Rector stuff?” I gestured at him with a fork. “You were talking about all the new responsibilities I’m not ready for.”

  “You’re ready. We even have a handy excuse for you to travel about.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Aiden created a list of several dozen gaming conventions all up and down the eastern seaboard.” He took a bite of egg. “Good excuse to move about a lot. Keep an eye on things.”

  “And what are you going to be doing?”

  “The last several years, I spent a lot of my time training a troublesome young sprat.” He winked at me. “But that’s over now. I’ve got more time to put in some hours helping out the occasional Rector who could use a hand.”

  “You’re a crazy person,” I chuckled as I shook my head. “Absolutely batshit crazy.”

  “Language.” He gave me a playful grin.

  “So what you’re saying is, the Rector of New York has a decision to make.”

  “I am at that.”

  I thought for a long moment and drank my shake.

  “People who are not associated with the Scions of Babel have recently been exposed to our activities.” I munched on a chili-fry. “As secrecy and subtlety are important to our daily operations, I need to decide what to do about this.”

  “You understand my intentions well.” Simon took a sip of coffee.

  “And you’re not going to change my mind for me? Or use your little ace in the hole to decide what my friends remember?”

  “One.” Simon pricked up a finger on his left hand and touched it lightly with a finger on his right. “Officially naming you the New York Rector and then going behind your back would be… what do you call it? A ‘dick’ move?”

  “Simon!” I looked around as if I cared what anyone else might think. “Language!”

  “Two.” He tapped the second finger “That particular card got left behind in Fallen Leaves.” He frowned. “Along with my staff.” His eyes grew positively dark. “And my fork.”

  “Your fork?”

  “It wouldn’t take too much for me to craft another card. But even if I do, I won’t use it on your friends.” He leaned back in the booth. “You’re the Rector. You’re the boss. Make the call.”

  “I think the call is already made for Alicia,” I mused. “My understanding is that this whole ‘angelic possession’ thing isn’t something that we can take back.”

  “Well…” he trailed off, and vacillated with one hand. “Tricky. But for the purpose of this conversation, I think you can assume that Abriel is on board.”

  “As far as the guys go, I think I need to have a talk with them,” I mused. “And, if they’re going to remain on my bad-ass monster fighting squad, then I should talk to you about what it takes to induct people into the Scions.”

  “An excellent thought.” Simon nodded in agreement. “As Rector, you are responsible for the secrets of the Scions of Babel. If others know those secrets, then perhaps they should belong to our organization.”

  “Is that your official suggestion?”

  “Oh, I’m not the Rector here.” He put one hand in the air, palm out. “In fact, I don’t currently have a title in the organization at all.”

  “It’s almost like you don’t even exist.” I stuck my tongue out at him.

  “It’s quite the handy thing, being nonexistent,” he said. “Being nonexistent gives a man time to work on side projects. That way, when one of his friends needs a hand with terrors from beyond reality, he can be available.”

  “What about when one of his friends has become trapped in an infernal pact?” I held both my hands out, mimicking being in handcuffs.

  “That too,” he said darkly. “I’ve already started research, Little Duck. If there is a way out of the Gaunt Man’s horse pucky, I’ll find it.”

  “I believe you,” I said softly.

  “In my opinion then, the last order of business we have here today involves my best friend.” Simon shifted in his seat. “It seems as if we have some plans to make.”

  “Yeah. About that.” I narrowed my eyes in thought. “I assume that Abriel told you how I found out about the little bit I know regarding Dad.”

  “The fairy?” Simon chuckled. “Or were you talking about your new relationship with some of the Gentleman?”

  “It’s not like that.” I raised one hand. “Abriel told me a little more about your past with them. I would never go looking to hang out with those guys.”

  “I dunno,” he teased. “Seems like you were pretty chummy.”

  “Ha!” I shook my head and then stuck my tongue out at him. “You already said that Abriel told you everything. You’re just trying to get a rise out of me.”

  “Okay. That’s true.” He reached across the table, and tapped the new bracelet I wore on my wrist. “But on a serious note, that’s why you’re wearing this. I don’t want those Facility boys thinking they can track down my new Rector whenever they like.”

  “They seemed really…” I took a sip of my shake, trying to phrase it appropriately. “Intense about this third party of theirs.”

  “I know the group.” He eyed me. “Call themselves ‘Sadhana.’”

  “Weird name.”

  “It’s a yogic thing. Means a ‘path’ or a ‘way.’” He waved his fork. “Somesuch thing.”

  “Huh.” I felt pleased to at least have a name.

  “What I want to know is why the Assets were so all fired interested in you?”

  “The one I spoke with tried to claim it had to do with Dad.” I thought back, trying to remember exactly what Garret had said. “There was a point where he stumbled a little bit in the conversation. I think he may have been about to tell me something that I wasn’t supposed to know.”

  “Well, I’m no longer the Rector of New York. Therefore I’m not going to sit here and give you orders.”

  “What?” I leaned back in my booth, as if stunned. “Whatever shall I do without your guidance?”

  “However, as a nonexistent man without title, the Facility is a solid ‘no’ for me.” He raised one eyebrow. “I will not work with them. Not to help you, and not to save your dad.”

  “Okay.” I hadn’t expected the conversation to get so serious, so quickly.

  “Barring the Facility, however, this is a no-brainer. Been a while since I had true family, Sassafras.” He looked down at his plate, and his tone grew quiet. “I figure family don’t let family stay missin’.”

  He paused for a moment, and the silence grew heavy.

  “Well, I did come for you.” I sighed. “Way outta my way, too.”

  “Yes.” He shook his head ruefully. “If I understand correctly, you used grenades and hurled your motorcycle into Fallen Leaves?”

  “Maybe a little bit.” I smiled widely.

  He reached across the table, and put a hand on mine.

  “We’ll get him.” His eyes grew hard, not with anger, but determination. “You know that, don’t you?”

  “I do.” I nodded.

  “Good.” He gave me a savage grin, and set his fork down.

  “Do you have any idea how?” I blinked back the beginning of tears.

  “I do.” His eyes grew cunning. “Wanna hear some ’a them?”

  Stealth Check- An Epilogue

  January 3, 1998

  Manhattan, New York

  Even before my days of superpowered badass-dom, the subway was never something I felt p
articularly nervous over. Other girls my age would worry about creepers and perverts, but for me, the subway always felt like an adventure.

  An adventure that smelled like urine, but an adventure nonetheless.

  I could have easily taken my new bike across the borough, even with winter’s chill. Usually, I preferred the Valkyrie, even when winter bit.

  But today, I wanted to use the subway.

  I had no idea how long this little excursion might take, after all. As far as I knew, I’d be parking for weeks, and in New York, that could be a small fortune.

  Not that getting Dad back wouldn’t be worth it.

  2

  Gold Street. The Sadhana office building. The last place my father had visited while within this world.

  According to Black Horn Jack, anyway.

  I circled the so-gray-it-was-nearly-black, mirrored-windowed building for the third time. I pretended, hard, that people weren’t beginning to notice me.

  Still no front entrance.

  Honestly, how can a building not have a fucking front door? I wondered for the fifth time. Sure, Simon had said I’d never find it, but I’d had to look for myself.

  I’d been torn between not really expecting to find the front entrance and expecting to find it immediately as some strange joke on Simon’s part. Not that he joked about things like that, but a corporate building without an entrance?

  “How do the employees get in, for one?” I groused.

  The second time, I’d paid more attention. I noted the dark safety glass of the windows—difficult to see through, not to mention break—and the security cameras pointed at the only thing resembling a door: the loading dock.

  Behind a fence, of course. It was clearly locked down; the giant garage doors prominently displayed ‘NO PARKING’ in bright yellow paint.

  “What if I don’t want to park?” I muttered.

  It literally seemed like the only way in. Fortunately, the building had been constructed off by itself, not jammed wall to mismatched wall with the latest coffee bistro or bookstore.

  And that meant…

  “Agility check, Liz.” Wriggling sideways, I squirmed between the building corner and the fence meant to keep all the evil trespassers from making a complete circuit of the building.

  It was cute to think a chain-link fence would really be much of a deterrent.

  I nailed the agility check (of course) and emerged into a weed-strewn empty lot. From there, it was a few short steps to the loading dock

  “Fine,” I grumped as I pulled a couple burrs from my socks. “Let’s see this trick. It ought to be a good one.”

  I trudged to the loading doors.

  Once there, I slipped up between them and located the keypad, discreetly placed to the side of a sign giving loading dock hours. 8:00 am to 5:00 pm, Monday to Friday

  “My ass,” I grumbled. I gave a sigh and tapped in the code Simon had spent so much time digging up. “1… 2… 3… 4.” I shook my head.

  How original.

  Aside from the tiny light at the bottom changing from red to green, nothing happened.

  “Come on.” I punched the numbers again, but nothing.

  What if I have the wrong code? I repressed a growl and looked around for something, anything at all.

  Hey, where did that fence go?

  It was nowhere in sight. Neither could I see the garden of weeds I’d tromped through.

  So where did I get the burrs on my socks? I shook my head to dislodge the thought. I turned back towards the loading dock—and came face to face with a revolving door.

  “Jeez.” I frowned at it. “About time.”

  I pushed my way inside.

  3

  Warm air blasted down on me as I entered the building and I heaved a sigh of relief, eyes fluttering shut for an instant. An elegant and lush theme met my gaze as I opened them again. Gold flecked blue tiles shone underfoot, their rich expanse interrupted here and there with dark marble columns. Palm fronds exploded out of tall vases at their bases, islands of green that guided my vision to a massive, onyx and gold reception desk.

  A gentle smile crossed the lips of the most model-perfect receptionist I’d ever seen. Her golden hair, captured in a loose chignon, looked at once professional and careless, though it would have taken me an hour to get my sable locks to do that. Her eyes matched the deep-blue of the lapis lazuli floor tiles as if they’d been chosen just for that purpose. Her nails, slightly pink, were neither too short nor too long as she placed the handset of a phone back into its cradle.

  “May I help you?” Even her voice was perfect, a blend of girlish excitement and womanly huskiness.

  I cleared my throat and tried not to clomp as I made my way to her desk. “I hope so.”

  She smiled again, neutrally helpful. “Do you have an appointment or are you a walk-in?”

  “Walk-in,” I smoothly bamboozled.

  Her smile broadened, though I gathered no more or less meaning from it.

  “This way, please.” She gestured to the right as she came around the side of her desk. I followed her tiny heel-clicks through a side door that blended in so perfectly, I’d barely seen it as we went past.

  Dense gray carpet cushioned our footfalls as the perfect secretary ushered me into a small waiting room.

  Straight-backed chairs, well cushioned but still uncomfortable, lined the edges, interrupted at the corners by coffee tables covered with outdated magazines and slender brochures.

  I took a seat and turned to the blonde expectantly.

  “Please wait here,” she uttered in that magnificent voice. “It will only be a few moments before someone will be with you. May I offer you anything to drink while you wait? Water or coffee?” She tilted her head and raised her brows a fraction.

  She’s got to be a robot, I mused even as I shook my head in negation. She’s unreal.

  “If you need anything, just ask,” she added as she slipped out the door. It closed with a gentle click.

  I sighed and settled back and absently picked up a brochure.

  The heading, WHAT CAN SADHANA DO FOR YOU? all but screamed at me. A picture of a young woman on the run from shadowy figures, adorned the front.

  Help me find my father, I hope. I stood up and made my way to the door the woman had just closed. I internally counted to ten, and then cracked the door.

  Clear.

  I slipped outside and edged my way down the hallway.

  Time to find out what Sadhana’s all about, I thought.

  ###

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  About the Author

  JM Guillen was a normal, mild mannered Midwesterner until he achieved his lifelong dream of being a full-time writer in the summer of 2011. When one of his stories, The Herald of Autumn, was nominated for a Nebula Award, it was the final straw for his mundanity.

  He immediately went mad with a miniscule, insignificant amount of power.

  Soon he was declaring himself to be “exempt from the laws of men, regarding pants,” and conducting mad experiments regarding human tolerance for rum. In between attempts at taking over Strafford, Missouri, he also dabbles in weird fiction. Aside from technothrillers, dark fantasy, and Lovecraftian steampunk, he is best known for implementing schemes, plots, and ploys.

  Today, the self-described supervillain spends his days scribing The Paean of Sundered Dreams, a cycle of series that all blend and interweave. This is his greatest scheme yet, as discovering the myriad connections between these worlds tend to drive his readers mad.