Sometimes the case comes to you, and you take them or leave them, letting Fate throw you around like a rag doll. The case could come as a slender broad in a dress that looks like it was poured on, or it could be a hungry greedy thing trying to pass for human in a cheap suit. It takes all kinds. But there are those moments, in the small hours, when the city calls out to those who listen, and you find yourself walking in the city, skipping to a beat you can barely percieve. It is in that quiet place, where no matter what’s around all you hear is your own footsteps on the pavement, that you find the case. Maybe he’s lost something that only you can find. Maybe she’s on the run and you’re the only one who can protect her. Maybe its just something or someone that really needs killing. Those are the tiny moments I live for, when Chance and Fate are two sides of the same coin. Makes sense that I’d think of the cosmos in that way, a coin, as if He had always been watching me, waiting, turning the coin over and over in his fist. Maybe you’re a thrown around rag doll no matter what choices you make, and the trick is to be harder than the wall you hit.
The Devil is walking the streets tonight. He is among us. I’ve got one hand holding the sickly glowing crystal pendulum, in the other I have the WWI trench knife from my father. All around me buildings burn, people scream and run and fight and die. Something is out there in the night, killing us, starting the fires, violating our flesh while it screams at the sky. I can see it hiding behind the eyes of the man whose throat I cut, and before I can react it finds purchase in the woman being ravaged a moment before. She snarls and leaps for me, but it’s been too long and bloody a night for hesitation or mercy, and I bash in those beautiful cheekbones with the knuckles. I’m weeping uncontrollably, but I blink through the tears and the terror and the dirt and the blood, and I see it. There, smiling back at me from inside a young man across the street, across the sea of rioting bodies. I thank goddess for college football and a naturally stocky frame as I plow through the crowd, most of them too busy scratching at their own faces to pay me any mind. I wrap the crystal within my fist, yet just at I get to him I see it jump to a man running past us. I grab him by the collar and use his own momentum against him, slamming the man onto his back. I bury my blade in his heart, just in time to see it jump back into the young man, who kicks me squarely in the chest. I fall over, but just as quickly sweep his legs out from under him, and pounce upon him. It does what I’d hoped it would, and jumps into the old woman leaning against the near wall, propping herself up as if her legs had given out. Just as it begins to take her my knife is already in flight, and the moment it has her my blade wedges itself into her right eye socket. It’s a damn dirty shame, but the old dame dies, and it is forced to go back to the last skin it was wearing, which is the poor bastard I’ve got pinned to the ground. As it returns to flesh I shove the crystal inside the young man’s mouth and am holding it closed with one hand even as I pull the chord around his neck tight and choke the life out of them both. Gotcha you corrupt son of a bitch, there’s no coming back from this.
I walk down the side street, and find the blind boy sitting on the steps. I stand in front of him for a moment, then he holds out his hand, into which I place my own. He is looking for the pronounced wizard’s triangle in the lines on my palms. Not everybody has them, and those that don’t just aren’t prepared for what’s inside. Hell most of the time I’m not prepared anyway, this ain’t my kind of joint. I knock on the green metal door and the security man eyeballs me as I go in, making sure to let me see that the battle-axe he’s carrying is the size of a serving tray. I tip my hat to him and walk deeper inside. The 9th Circle, a speakeasy to be sure, but higher class than is easily matched. By the time I’ve walked across the place I can tell I’m the worst dressed of the lot, but for better or worse there’s so much going on nobody seems to notice. Perfume hits my senses, a hand slides across my shoulder, and suddenly I’m getting the most passionate and deep kiss a man like me is likely to ever get. But the passion is practiced, and the pressure is probing, the kiss of a professional. You can’t fool me lover, no matter what face you dance with, I’ll always know you. This black magick sex party was one big trap, my invitation a death warrant, and I’d just walked right into it. At least this place serves good manhattans.
Our glasses clash in union, a salute to the night’s reverie, and we all knock back a slug of something amber colored that kicks like a magnum load. I’m reeling from the shot, and I pull back from myself, watching the evening unfold as if I am a remote observer. The feeling is not wholly unpleasant, but there’s that itch in the back of my brain telling me to be careful. They are The Wild Hunt, and chaos is their game. The faerie folk of myth and legend, on their ceaseless journey, rolling through the world playing guitar and screeching heavy metal songs from dive bar to dive bar. They are the hunters of old in new flesh, crashing down the gates of consensual reality like supernatural rockstars. Good thing I’ve had all my vaccinations this season, its going to be a long night.
I find myself walking through the alley, keeping to the shadows, not wanting to chance my luck. There is mischief afoot this night, and no doubt a steaming pile of it will find a way to stick on the bottom of my shoe. I tell myself that is my fate, to wade in the thickest of it all. In the narrow path before me I see the glitter of reflected light shimmering from dozens of shards. Broken mirror. Could be anything. Maybe someone pulled a demon out of some teenager, perhaps a shield took one hit too many, unless someone went through a Door and slammed it behind them. Could be old-fashioned bad luck and shattered glass. For all I know it is all of these things, or none. I see my life reflected for the briefest of moments in the perfect chaos of the multitude of reflections. Then I see the glint of light on metal, and I jink to the right as a sniper starts pulling the trigger.
Behind a dumpster is perhaps not the most glamorous place to weave a spell, but it will have to do. I flip open the portable computer, awakening the patterns within, and the ouija board inlays upon the keyboard vibrate with unseen power. I repeat the mantra, and slip into a coding trance while I bring up an operating platform. Reality spreads out before me, slamming into my senses as data arrays and formulas. This isn’t my usual style, and the hardware is on loan from Eddie Idoru, the binary samurai, but the job requires what the job requires, and I’m a professional dammit. I find two of them, hiding out in some warehouse behind a triple layer of hermetic sigils. Normally this would be tricky for me, being a more hands on sort of chummer, but with the ouija board in my hands, its nothing to reinvent the world like so much code.
I see the warnings on their tattooed skin, the truth hiding in plain sight. Hard music, hard sex, and hard drugs. Aesir suicide warriors masquerading as gangbangers and street thugs. When the blade whispers from its sheath, engines roar, and spent brass hits the pavement, their maniac smiles split inside my mind’s eye. There are no sides, no goals, no cause fight for, what matters is that they do battle in the halogen shadows of a dying city. Where the stormcrows gather tread carefully, the Harbingers are coming.
He winds the watch. My heart slows as I draw my power into the core of my being, silencing myself as I wait to spring the trap. The Tower has been after this guy for longer than most, and the bounty on his hide is worth a year of the penny ante hustles that I’ve been surviving on lately. The five combat mages rotting six feet under can attest to this man’s mettle, so I’d best not underestimate him. I can’t come at him in my usual way, all fire & brimstone, going to have to play this smart. I’ve marked his exit points and warded them all, so there’s only the one way out, and I’ll be waiting. Suddenly I realize I can’t breathe, and I have lost the sense of my pulse. I will my arms to move and they remain still. A smile creases his face and I realize he’s checked my play. Should’ve stayed out of it and gone home hungry dammit, the medical bills I’m about to rack up are going to outweigh the reward. I hastily fire up my inner sigils and brace for the onslaught. He winds the watch.
Red brick dust cascades from my fist as I h
old my arm out, legs performing a swift pirouette as a circle of vibrant color is powder-etched onto the pavement at my feet. The world moves in a slow blur as I pull from inside my coat the blood crusted trench knife with one hand while jerking my wrist so that the wand will slide down my forearm into a waiting grip. I move fast chummer, done it a thousand times before tonight and I’ll do it a thousand more.
They spread out across the empty parking deck, three of them, mirrorshades reflecting nightmares and spinning yo-yos creating a hollow moaning sound that makes my brain itch just to hear. Hired guns on the payroll for the Lord of Pain. That cheap bastard was upping his game, usually the second rate crime boss couldn’t afford more than a few brawlers with sigil tattoos and a half-drunk rage mage. I’d be a liar if I tried to say that I wasn’t getting bored and tired of uptown milk runs, but surprises don’t come with raises.
Souls like butterflies in jars, kept in cages and sold on the streets to hungry things with burning names, I see bitter walkers in the unending witching hour and I pull my hat down across my brow, here, in the place where all the cracks in the world fall down to meet, they tell stories about flowers that never die.
They'd sewn her eyes shut, so there was no way to shine the truth out of the girl even if she wanted me too, which she didn't. Just as well, I knew that there was only one place in town where thread like that is for sale, and last time I went shopping down there it cost me my last angel's tear. Tonight doesn't look like it will be getting any better, good thing I have a few killing words left and clientele who pay in advance.
They came out of nowhere, obscene screaming things wearing the faces of forgotten children. I sucked down the last contents of my hip flask and tried not to vomit as they flanked me in the wide alley. Too little skin covering too much Other. The juice wasn't working, and they were closing in, all chattering teeth and scrabbling claws. I slipped on my knuckle-dusters, looked like I was going to have to do this the old fashioned way.
I could feel her behind me, the desiccating closeness of her filling the air with a static, my lips chapped instantly, and I closed my eyes as her caustic scent assaulted my senses. All the years wiped away in a single step, the small caress of her hand on my shoulder, the destroying friction of her cheek pressed to mine. Feathers fall from my hands, and my power is gone, the dust choking me from the inside out. I hate it when my personal life gets mixed up with business. Most guys just send flowers.
There’s a saying amongst us gumshoes that it always starts with a body. No room for irony on these mean streets, only iron in your fist and a hardboiled soul. That’s another saying, and they’re both true. It all started with a body. A young woman so broken that afterwards I couldn’t sleep without half a bottle of whiskey to throw a blanket over what I’d seen. What drew me in was the horrible mess that had been made of her mouth, teeth removed and gums all busted and bleeding. Stomach bloated with what we later discovered was half-digested meat from three other people. I let the Tower goons keep sniffing after bunk leads while I got busy with the real threat. I run in some bad circles and my white gloves are stained, so I know a few things that the good guys don’t. Baba Yaga, the cannibal witch of the woods, isn’t actually a person, she’s a self-aware set of rune etched iron teeth that likes to possess young women. I shook off the headache the next morning, drank the rest of the whiskey, and took up my weapons. It always starts with a body and it always ends with a body. If I was going to murder some girl with iron teeth I sure as shit wasn’t going to do it sober.
I can feel the walls closing in on me, another dead end alley in what’s turned out to be a day full of dead ends. Specifically, the dead-man that’s hot on my heels. Thought he’d be a solid informer, had some dirt on a Bleaker cabal operating out of the Oneriomancer’s District. Apparently someone else thought he knew just a little too much, and had him… re-purposed. Goddamn I hate zombies.
Nothing quite like a well-deserved drink after a long day at work. For a second I feel a little guilty about all of the aether dripping off my coat and boots, but the moment that potion hits my lips I quit caring. I'd slipped a gnostic collar on one of the bleakers that trashed the Usury, and he'd put up a hell of a fight. I didn't know they could do that thing with their voices, a couple of bystanders out there who won't be going home ever again, and I doubt I'll sleep right for at least a week. So much drama over a few wish debts, thank goddess nobody pours em like Doctor John.
The world goes mute, my sight gets all fuzzy, and I feel as if I am walking underwater. It takes years to learn how to step Sideways, but no matter how many times I do it, there never ceases to be a moment where I seem to forget who I am, and the abyss screams up at me from a maw infinite and dark. I breathe in sharply, and reality snaps back into focus. Now I can actually See the son of a bitch standing there, that look of sick surprise washing over his face. That's right chummer, its just you and me now.
I saw him sitting at the bar, his features somewhat obscured by the smoky haze of the cramped room that passes itself off as a place of business. Nothing more than a speakeasy for the sorts of people who can't go buy a drink at any respectable joint. We are judged by the company we keep, so I guess respectable isn't a description you'd hang on my name either. He must have felt me staring a hole in him, because he turned around, his face still hidden, but by the depth of the shadows and the cut of his hat, I knew he was looking right at me. I don't get the impression that this guy responds to much other than a direct approach, so I get up and walk towards him, my hand closing around the revolver deep in my coat pocket. I am just a few feet from him, and I start to realize that I still can't see his face, and I should be able to by now. Then I notice that the shot glasses lined up in front of him are full of razor blades.
The blood runs down my leg and pools in my boot, making a sick splashing sound every time I take a step. I need to move faster, have to get back to Mag's, got to tell her what's coming. My arm doesn't seem to want to move, and when I try to hold myself up against the wall I just collapse in a bloodwet heap. My wand is broken, and the switchblade I keep in my boot is what ended up buried seven inches into my thigh. Got to get up, got to keep moving, find Mag. Trust is overrated.
I'm running up the stairs as fast as I can, taking them two and three at a time. They took her. I couldn't protect her. In my hand burns the last lock of her beautiful hair, a beacon that has lead me to this awful place. Some flea-bitten flophouse on the wrong side of a town that doesn't have a right one. They came at us when they knew I was weak. They waited with a terrible patience, observing until they knew exactly when and how to strike. My muscles burn as I reach the thirteenth floor, never bothered to take the elevator, everybody knows the only way to find floor thirteen is to pay for it with sweat. One of them attacks me on the landing, and I make short work of him, the mask splitting apart as I put my fist through porcelain, blood, bone, and something that squirms and screams. Another tries to stop me at the door, but goes through the door, knocking it off the hinges, as I drive it backwards. It dies laughing as I crush its throat, and I don't like that, not one bit. Without standing up I quickly survey the room. Nothing out of place, everything just like I left it three years ago. Then I see her. I run to her, the tears falling from my nose and splashing against the dried gore that used to be the left side of her face. She stares at nothing as I turn her face towards me, then I look up, and I see Him.
He is looking past me, no, looking through me. Naked, covered in the shallow whispers of a thin blade, and unaware of my presence. I can see the gun on the floor, the empty bottle, the scorch marks of a witchengine against the tile wall near the tub. Whatever happened here has already been finished, some plan set in motion and careening towards completion. Then I smell the cigar. I tense up and fight myself to keep from turning around, because I know he will see, and I cannot show him how deeply he has wounded me. The hollow man still stares out, transfixed, and I can see him trying to remember, the work of it bringing beads of sweat to his brow. I hear t
he trample of footsteps on the stairway, and in an instant I know what I have to do. I sprint forward and tackle the hollow man, we fall together into the sick pink water of the tub. I use the Words, and the water rushes into my mouth and nose as I breathe in, the taste of cigar smoke and blood nearly making me gag. My eyes open and I cough up water and bile, then I sit up, looking across the tunnel floor at the hollow man as he takes in his new surroundings.
Hemlock: Shadow Pages Page 2