Moonshine

by Rob Thurman

  Drowning in mud is not something I recommend. Drowning in mud that reeks of a thousand and one slaughterhouses, not surprisingly, is even worse. The force of my fall took me completely under the cloying liquid, and I struggled desperately to find the surface. I’d thought the mud was five feet deep, but I’d thought wrong. It was deeper. The mud was thin, but it wasn’t water and swimming was pretty much out of the question. It pressed against my nose, mouth, and blind eyes with the cool touch of the grave. Lungs burning, I continued to thrash frantically only to feel myself sinking deeper. Then the hard grip came on the back of my neck, and I was pulled upward, and yanked onto firm ground. As thanks to my rescuer, I rose to my hands and knees and promptly puked on Nik’s shoes. That I’d made it this far without tossing my cookies was something of a miracle, but to be swallowed whole by the stench . . . there was nothing left to do but turn my stomach inside out. There were a lot of things to curse the Auphe over, but I never guessed their acute sense of smell might be the one that did me in. The filth on me, the air around me, it was all so noxious that I actually felt my nervous system began to short-circuit. It beat anything the government whipped up in their poison gas labs, hands down.

  I could feel my brother’s presence hovering above me, hear the hiss of his blade cutting through the air. Pieces of gray tendrils began to fall like rain around and onto me. Sliced, diced, and still moving with sluggish life. I did my best to ignore them and focused on trying to clear my darkening vision. Breathing would’ve been nice too. Instead I vomited again.

  “Cal.”

  That reached me. Through fading vision and hearing that went in and out like a bad cable connection, it still reached me. Swallowing convulsively, I looked up just in time to see Niko disappear upward. I struggled up to a kneeling position to bring him back into sight. Dangled by the neck from a twisted tendril noose, he swung a deadly accurate sword only to be snagged anew before he dropped more than a few inches. The troll could’ve broken a comparatively frail human neck in less than a heartbeat, but where would be the fun in that? Now, watching my brother’s face slowly shift from olive to lavender, then deep purple . . . that was entertainment. Or it would’ve been if it had gotten that far. I wasn’t about to let it. I was halfway around the mud pit before I even realized I’d managed to struggle to my feet. It was more a drunken stagger than a run, but it took me where I needed to go and that was all that mattered at the moment. Spots were swimming across my vision, but I sucked in air fiercely and managed to clear the majority of them. When I reached Abbagor I could see well enough to pick out my target. My knife, although coated with mud, was still in my hand and I wasted no time in putting it to use. Diving under flying tentacles, I chopped at what was left of the troll’s legs. The bone, as big around as my waist, was far too thick to make a dent in. Instead I focused on what I could damage. The tendons, the ligaments, the gray-green muscle—I tore at it all with steel and sheer rage. Bare seconds passed before I was snared again, but it was long enough. Decaying flesh disintegrated under my knife, and suddenly hamstrung, Abbagor fell.

  But not before he threw Niko.

  My brother flew through the air in a hurtling rush and hit the edge of the tunnel where we had entered. The packed earth gave way and he tumbled on through. He hit hard, hard enough that he lost his sword. It pinwheeled lazily through the air, silver and bright.

  And then it was over, all of it. Abbagor hit the ground, bringing everything, including me, down with him. The impact was like a bomb going off, and the cavern began to fall apart. Dirt and concrete fell in massive chunks and the glowing fungus that lit the place began to flicker and die. I saw the doorway Niko had disappeared through cave in as the other one had. At least he was out. The tunnel was smaller, more stable. It would hold. It would. It had to.

  “Aupheling.”

  Shit. When was enough enough? When the hell was it enough?

  “Aupheling.” The voice was still thick with blood, but now it was heavy with gloating as well. “Now we both pass this world, as it should be. Old rivals cannot exist without one another.” The chuckle was fat with superior satisfaction. “And why would we want to?”

  He had fallen close enough to me that I was covered in a blanket of tentacles, cool and heavy. They rippled over me, petting . . . soothing. Almost hypnotic. “Almost” being the key word. I tore at them with hands and blade, fighting my way free. It could be I was going to die, but if that was the case, it was going to be at the opposite end of this death trap from Abbagor. My bones weren’t spending eternity intermingled with his. That was no kind of heaven and every kind of hell.

  “There’s no place to run, little Auphe. No place at all.” The eyeless face watched me with an indulgent bare-bone smile.

  I gave it a shot anyway. I ran, and Abbagor let me. Because, in his mind, where would I go? All the tunnels had vanished in an avalanche of earth. Okay, fine. I’d dig my way out. I had a few seconds, right? How hard could it be? A chunk of stone hit my shoulder and knocked me sprawling. Good answer. Yeah, good answer. More of the ceiling fell with a rumble that grew until it was the deafening scream of a jet engine. I pushed up and ran again. This time I didn’t make it three feet before I fell again. It was a knot of metal rebar and it hurt like hell. Lying on my stomach, I could see what Abbagor saw. The dirt had been like rain. Now it was a thundering waterfall. I couldn’t even see the walls, much less where the tunnels had been. My legs were already half-buried and I was beginning to choke trying to breathe through the falling debris.

  Abbagor was right. It was over.

  Try telling that to my spasming heart, my fingers digging into the ground beneath me. The fight-or-flight response didn’t know anything about an inescapable fate. It didn’t know resignation. And it didn’t know shit about giving up. Move, it screamed. Move. But there wasn’t anyplace to move to. No place to go. None. Fuck.

  And then it happened.

  I felt something twist inside as if two hands were clawing their way through my internal organs. My seizing heart turned over, then did its damnedest to burst. A blazing heat rolled through my body, frying every nerve ending. It was like being electrocuted; it was like dying. Dying before dying.

  That’s when the gateway opened.

  It opened before me, ripping a hole of hellish light into space itself. It was a talent peculiar to the Auphe. It was how they traveled—within this world, out of this world, in worlds that couldn’t be imagined. I should know. I’d been dragged kicking and screaming through a few myself. But this one . . . this one I had made. I’d felt its birth, felt it form in and of me. This door, ugly and raw, was mine. If I’d had the time or anything left in my stomach I might have been tempted to throw up again. Didn’t I have enough monster in me already? Did I need more evidence that I wasn’t human? There’d been a time I’d been sure that was all behind me. When the Auphe had all died . . . but that hadn’t happened, had it? They were still here. . . . I was still here, and more like them than I’d ever wanted to admit.

  I all but felt the hard swat to the back of my head and heard an invisible Niko order at my ear, Whine later. Escape now. Even in my imagination, he was right. I had no idea where that unholy rip led to, but it didn’t matter. Midair, underwater, New Jersey—it couldn’t be worse than here. Taking a deep breath, I dived through headfirst. As I hit the light, I heard Abbagor scream. Maybe he sensed the gate or maybe he just smelled my sudden sliver of hope. Whichever it was, his incoherent fury and rage might be the last thing I ever heard.

  “Swing Low, Sweet Chariot,” it was not.

  15

  I destroyed our coffee table.

  I came out the other side of the gate four feet in the air and landed in a classic belly flop on top of a wood and faux-marble table, heavy emphasis on the “faux.” The piece of furniture folded like cheap cardboard and I wound up with carpet burn on my chin. Disoriented, I rolled over hastily and tried to scramble to my feet. I failed dismally, listing dramatically sideways until I grabbed a ha
ndful of couch cushion to hold myself up in a sitting position. That’s when it struck me that everything looked familiar, more than familiar. Home. I’d opened a passage home.

  It made sense. Desperately striving for survival, instinct kicked in and did what I had no idea I could do. Darkling had done it while in my body; I knew the potential was there. But alone I’d never been able . . . had never wanted to do it. And I wouldn’t have had the first idea as to how to do it. We had been one, Darkling and I, but I had a serious block on even attempting to initiate that churning twist in your brain and gut that opened a door. But what I wouldn’t attempt, my subconscious had. It was logical that whatever tangled bit of blackened genes was responsible would fashion a destination of the most familiar place I knew. I didn’t like it. In fact I hated it, but I understood it. And right now that was the best I could hope for. I didn’t have time for anything else.

  Shaking off the dizziness, I pulled myself up onto the couch and grabbed hurriedly for the phone. I punched in the number as quickly as I could get my fingers to move. No answer, just voice mail. I tried again, then cursed myself through gritted teeth. Of course Niko had turned off his phone before we’d gone underground. Having “Kung Fu Fighting” ring in funky cheer while we were approaching Abbagor wasn’t the best of game plans. I dialed again, this time trying Robin’s number. It rang twice and then Robin was breathing fast into the phone, “I’m busy. Go away.” Click.

  Shitshitshit.

  I tried again. This time the answer was in Greek, but I had a pretty good guess at what four-letter suggestion it translated into. I didn’t get out a word, hell, not even a consonant. Son of a bitch. Look at the number, Loman. Look at the goddamn number. What the hell was he doing anyway? Breathing fast . . . unless he’d picked up a passing fancy, sunbathing wasn’t exactly that strenuous. Unless . . . crap. He was running . . . as best he could with an injured leg. He must have felt the cave-in rumbling under his feet and gone down to help us. Of course, Niko was the only one left to help at the moment, but Robin didn’t know that. Niko didn’t know it, which was precisely why I felt like beating the phone against the wall.

  Third time was the charm. Goodfellow’s voice came through, suspiciously questioning. “Who is this? Promise?”

  It was a good guess, if wrong. Who was left to be calling from our apartment? George was gone, and Snowball was out for the count. “Put Nik on,” I snapped. I didn’t bother to identify myself. Goodfellow knew my voice. As he’d once said, it was a unique combination of peat whiskey and sullen snarkiness. The whiskey was courtesy of my ever lovin’ mother who had a voice made for lullabies although she had never sang a single one. The snarkiness, to give credit where credit was due, was all my own.

  “What? Cal? How in the name of Nero’s syphilitic dick did you—”

  “Nik. Now,” I overrode ruthlessly.

  There was a confused and aggrieved snort and then a relenting, “I don’t see him y . . . oh.” The soft exhalation was all I needed to hear to know Robin had finally spotted my brother. “All right,” came the grim follow-up. “Hold on.”

  He was still running. I could hear the accelerated rasp of his breath and then he rapped out my brother’s name. “Niko. Niko.” There were more mumbled incomprehensible curses, this time more empathetic than sincere. “Niko, stop. Stop. I have Caliban on the phone. He’s all right. He’s home. Safe. Here, talk to him.”

  My hearing was good old human, ordinary and not especially keen, so I couldn’t hear what Niko was doing, but I didn’t need to. He was trying to dig me out. Niko, who was practical to the nth degree, showed logic the door when it came to his only family. Surrounded by dirt and concrete that could collapse at any time, and he wouldn’t give up. Wouldn’t abandon me. He could only claw at the dirt and ignore the grim truth staring him in the face.

  I heard the fumbling of the phone passed from one hand to another and then, “Cal?” There was a rigid self-control and an inescapable disbelief. I didn’t blame him. He’d seen me buried before his eyes. Unseeing that would be difficult to do. Believing I was alive under tons of earth was difficult to pull off. Believing I was alive, whole, and in air-conditioned comfort miles away was an absolute bitch of mental acrobatics.

  “It’s me, Cyrano,” I assured quietly. “I’m okay. I’m back in the apartment.”

  He didn’t say anything for the next few seconds. His breathing, as uneven from exertion as Robin’s had been, slowly smoothed. When he spoke again, the control was still there but the skepticism was gone. “How?”

  To the point as always. “Like father, like son,” I said with weary bite.

  “Ah. Unexpected.” There was the sound of his hand running over his face. “Stay there. We’ll be back as soon as possible.” There was an uncharacteristic hesitation. “You’re not hurt?”

  “Not a scratch,” I said immediately. It wasn’t entirely true, but it was what he needed to hear. And in reality, the coffee table had done more actual damage to me than Abbagor. It wasn’t much of an epitaph for a near-eternal evil. Served the son of a bitch right.

  “Good.” There was a long exhalation and then a brisk echo. “Good. Then you can have lunch ready for our return. We’ll discuss what we’ve learned then.” Click.

  I snorted and leaned back. Snatched from the jaws of death cut you exactly five seconds of slack around here, and repression was the only name brand my brother wore. I dropped the phone on the end table and realized something. The glossy black plastic was coated with pale brown, and so was I. I was still covered in rancid mud . . . as was the couch, the remains of the coffee table, and part of the floor. Luckily, my sense of smell had finally cut out, packed its bags, and headed for the hills. I hoped it stayed there. It was definitely more trouble than it was worth. Giving an internal groan, I rose stiffly to my feet and headed for the shower.

  “It didn’t go well, then?”

  Promise stood still as a statue by the hall. I imagine she’d been there the entire time. Her hands were clasped formally before her. So calm. On the surface. Hard to believe my stealthy furniture destroying and loud cursing had caught her attention at Flay’s side.

  I rubbed a sleeve across my face and gave her the best reassuring smile I could dredge up. “Nik is fine. He’s on his way back with Goodfellow.”

  The set of her shoulders relaxed, but all she said was, “How did you get here, Caliban?”

  I had the feeling that she already knew. And truthfully I was in no mood to talk about it. “I have to grab a shower,” I said evasively. “Mind ordering some takeout? Pizza maybe?” I moved past her and disappeared into the bathroom before she could comment.

  The pizza arrived twenty minutes later, followed shortly by Niko and Goodfellow. I gave them a throw-away salute when the latter walked through the door, and kept working on my piece of pepperoni and mushroom. I couldn’t taste much of it with my blunted ability to smell, but I ate it anyway. Robin gave the ruined couch and table a fastidious sniff. “Fragrant and fashionable. What more could one want?”

  Niko took it in, gave a minute shake of his head, and let it go. As far as he was concerned I spent too much time lounging there anyway. Moving over to me, he gave my wet ponytail a tug. The yank was hard enough to let him know I was real . . . alive, but not enough to hurt. Much. “Hey,” I protested with a wince. “How is this my fault?”

  “I haven’t quite figured that out yet.” He frowned. “When I do, trust me, you’ll be the very first to know.”

  Yep, repression, thy name is Niko. Or maybe it was Ninja-with-Panties-in-Twist. Whichever it was, I didn’t take it personally. My temper tantrums tended to be much louder and more destructive. I could suffer through the Niko version with ease. “Your veggie special is warming in the oven.” I swatted his hand away from my hair. “And Promise is waiting for you in the bedroom.”

  His eyes narrowed. “Excuse me?”

  My eyebrows rose. “I saw you hit, Nik. Abby tossed you like a Frisbee. If you’re not bruised from neck to
tailbone, then you’re not human.” I pulled a piece of pepperoni off the top of my slice and toyed with it. “And that’s my gig, not yours. I’ve laid out the ice packs, the muscle ointment, the whole nine yards. Promise said she’d like to help, but if you’d rather get half-naked in front of someone else”—my lips quirked—“that’s your prerogative.” The eyes narrowed further, but he disappeared silently into the back. He knew as well as I did that Robin might have a limp, but he was still a predator, through and through. And if the Puck had a weakness, it was for half-naked anything .

  “You don’t play fair, do you, Cal?” Goodfellow sat at the kitchen table and eyed the pizza without enthusiasm. “A man after my own shriveled little heart.”

  “I play to win.” I popped the pepperoni into my mouth and chewed without much enthusiasm of my own. “It doesn’t get more fair than that. You’ve taught me well, Obi-Wan.”

  “That can’t be taught, kid.” He helped himself to a piece with a mournful sigh at my poor choice of cuisine. “You’re either born with it or you’re born with a conscience.” The brilliant grin flashed on and off as quickly as a neon sign. “You can’t have both.”

  That didn’t explain his flight into the depths to try to save us, but that was Goodfellow, a contradiction in terms and not half as heartless as he imagined himself to be. Changing the subject, he reached for a napkin and said lightly, “Niko said you were able to get some information from Abbagor. That’s excellent news. We’re that much closer to getting George back.”