My phone rings in my pocket and I almost spill my whiskey. I answer it without looking at who it is. “Jesus fuck, who is this?”
“Hello to you too,” Vivian says. “Catch you at a bad time?”
I look at my phone. I’ve got full bars. You get a signal in a hotel room on the other side of the universe in the realm of Nyarlathotep. Who knew?
“No, just unexpected. It’s almost 4 a.m. What’s wrong?”
“Good news for once,” she says. “Gabriela’s conscious. Woke up about half an hour ago. I figured you’d want to know, and you were never much of a sleeper, so I figured now’s as good a time as any. She’s not crazy about the spell you cast but she gets that it saved her life. She’ll yell at you a lot, but she really means thank you.”
“Conscious is good. How is she otherwise?”
“Not well enough to go out and fight an Aztec god, I can tell you that much.”
“Good. The fewer people stuck in the middle of this shit, the better. Too many people getting fucked up as it is. Hey, now’s probably not the time but I think these might be the most words we’ve spoken to each other in over a year, so . . . Are you doing all right?”
Silence. I’m the one who breaks it. “You know, forget it. That wasn’t cool. None of my business, it’s 4 a.m. and that was an ambush. Unintentional, but still. I’m sorry.”
“I need out,” she says. I’m about to say something but in a rare moment of my-head-out-of-my-ass, I don’t.
“I’ve always known our world’s fucked up,” she says. “But I thought things were a tolerable kind of fucked up. And then Lucy got murdered. And you came back. And Alex died. And Tabitha . . . I’m still not entirely sure what the deal was with Tabitha.”
Her voice is getting shaky. She pauses. I can hear her take a drag on a cigarette. “I threw myself into the cleanup. Wrapping up Alex’s business, liquidating assets, handling the will, leftovers from Lucy’s death. When I gave you all that paperwork about the inheritance, that was the end of it. I was done. I was about to leave. Had a job offer at a hospital in Seattle, picked out an apartment. I was one foot out the door.”
She says nothing for a long time and finally I say, “What changed?”
“I got scared. Everything I knew was here. Everything I’d loved. Everything I’d hated. I’d already shut down my practice, sold my condo. Needed to get my head together. Did some volunteer work treating some of the homeless supernaturals, the ones Gabriela’s been trying to help. We got to talking. She was up front about everything. About the challenges and the bullshit and the violence. Scared me at first, but she was doing good things, and I figured if this is the world I live in then fuck it, live it all the way. I started working for her. I’d spent my life denying that this was the world I came from and once I took it on, everything was good.”
“You don’t seem good.”
“Because you came back, you fuck,” she says, voice filled with a barely controlled rage. “Everything else in my life had been squared away. I’d cut my ties, I’d started over. I stayed out of the Westside. Changed my routines. And then you had to fucking show up again and bring all your shit with you. It was like I’d finally gotten something I’d wanted and it turned out to be a trap.”
I don’t know what to say to that. Apologize for existing? I’m sorry she got caught in my orbit again, but I’m not fucking apologizing for who I am.
“It’s not even you,” she says, before I can jump in. “It’s our world. The whole goddamn thing. You know the fires at Vernon are still burning. People are still dying from toxic smoke. I know you didn’t do that. We did that. All of us. So, no. I’m not all right. I’m not sure I’m ever going to be all right. I can’t deny my magic, just like I can’t deny that I went to medical school, or that I’m white. I have an ability to help people, but why bother? When I was doing trauma at County I’d see the same guys come in every few months with new gunshot wounds. I’d patch ’em up, but they’d just go out and keep getting shot. There’s no point. I don’t even know why I’m trying. Magic’s not power. It’s a fucking curse.”
I’ve heard it enough times to know she’s crying and trying not to. I think back on what I would have said when we were together. Comforting words, everything will be all right. Something to cheer her up.
Instead I say, “Yes. It is a curse. And you’re fucked. So what? We’re all fucked. We’re more fucked than most people because we know what’s on the other side of the curtain. This is your life. And you’re stuck with it.”
“Great pep talk,” she says.
“You want me to lie to you? I won’t. You want me to tell you it’ll be all right? I can’t. Living’s hard, Viv. Living with magic’s harder. I’ve seen and done shit just to stay alive that I’m not proud of, and sure as shit won’t talk about. I don’t know what’ll make you feel better. Maybe nothing. Maybe Xanax, or a bottle of wine. Hell, maybe just some sleep. I don’t know. I’ve never known.”
There’s a long pause and I can hear her taking drags on her cigarette and not saying anything. Finally, she says, “Sleep. I should go to sleep. Call Gabriela later. She’ll want to talk to you.”
“Will do. Night, Viv.”
“Good night, Eric. Oh, and I know I said I was over it, but I still hate you for what happened to Alex.”
“I know. Get some sleep. It’s best to hate somebody on a full eight hours.”
She hangs up the phone. Well, that’s some good news, I guess. Gabriela’s alive, even while Vivian is slowly killing herself. The only way I can help her is by staying away. But that’s going to be a challenge with the circles I run in.
What was it that she’d said? She feels trapped? No. “It was like I’d finally gotten something I’d wanted and it turned out to be a trap.”
And then I know exactly what I’m going to do.
Chapter 27
“Son, you got any idea what time it is?” Jack MacFee says over a bad connection.
“Six in the morning,” I say. “I think I’ve been up for two days. I’ve honestly lost count.”
“You sound awful awake for not having slept for two days,” he says.
“Cocaine,” I say, my nose still numb from the two lines I did off the dashboard. Adderall lasts longer, like hours longer, but for the shit I’m about to pull, cocaine’s the only thing that’ll work. A few hours from now I’ll switch back to the speed, but right now, cocaine’s what’s on the menu.
“Ah, that would explain it.” MacFee’s one of those guys we mages go to when we need the sorts of things we can’t find at the local 7-11. Grave dust, hands of glory, toadstools picked under a full moon on Walpurgis Night, that sort of thing. He stands by his products, and he’s never let me down.
After I got off the phone with Vivian, I left the Ambassador and stole a car on Wilshire. In the last hour I’ve driven to the Valley and back, hit up my motel room for a few supplies, and come up with what I hope is a plan that has reasonable odds of both working and not getting me killed.
At the moment, of course, I am convinced that it’s the best plan I’ve ever had. Partly because I was not on cocaine when I came up with it, and partly because I’m on cocaine right now. That’s the problem with coke. It makes everything sound like a great idea. If at all possible, never make plans on coke.
“What can I do for ya?”
I tell him.
“I can have that by next Tuesday.”
“I need it today.”
“That’s gonna cost. A rush order? That strong? You know the types of folks I have to go to for that.”
“Whatta ya want for it?” Whatever it is it won’t be money. MacFee lives by the rule that the bigger a pain in the ass something is, the less inclined he is to do it. I have basically just told him that I will handle his biggest pain in the ass. I’m prepped for him to ask me to kill somebody. Not crazy about it, but if it’ll get the jo
b done, I’m all in.
“Goats,” he says, which is about as far away from what I expected as it is possible to be.
“Excuse me?”
“I got fifty black bucks on a farm in Ojai I gotta move. A cult bought ’em for a ritual two months ago but then it turned out somebody had a problem with animal cruelty or some shit, so they did the ritual and used, fuck, I dunno, tofu or somethin’.”
“Demon summoning?”
“Don’t know. Didn’t ask. But last I heard they were all dead, so probably.”
“And you want me to take the goats off your hands?”
“Yep.”
“What’s wrong with them? Possessed? Fire breathing? What?”
“They’re just goats. My ex-wife wants ’em off her land by end of the month.”
“You have an ex-wife?”
“Three of ’em. Couple kids, too.”
“The thought of you raising children has suddenly turned this into a terrifying conversation. I’ll get rid of the goats if for no other reason than to make it stop.”
“Fantastic. When do you need this thing by?”
“Noon enough time?”
“I can do noon.”
“Cool,” I say. “One problem.”
“I’ll get it up to ya,” he says. “Just call me and tell me where ya are.”
“You’re a pal,” I say. Traffic’s so snarled with the fire in Vernon that there’s no way I’ll get down to him to pick up anything.
“Nah, I’m just a guy who needs to get rid of some goats,” MacFee says, and hangs up.
The Santa Ana winds have picked up overnight and they’re blowing hard and hot through the streets, fanning the toxic flames of the Vernon fire and spreading them west into Alameda. Smoke and grit fill the hot air, get in the eyes, the nose, the mouth. A lot of people are wearing goggles and bandanas.
Mandatory evacuations as more homes are threatened. But there aren’t enough shelters, enough beds, enough air conditioning, enough water. It’s almost 100 degrees out and it’s only six a.m.
People are being bussed down to Long Beach and San Diego as more firefighters come up to join the fight. It’s the worst fire disaster in L.A.’s history and everybody with a hard hat and a hose is helping to put out the blaze.
The 110, 710, and 5 freeways are out of commission, so heading south means surface streets outside the evacuation zone, the 605 way the fuck out to the east, or the 405, which is a clusterfuck at the best of times.
Oh, and did I mention that part of the L.A. River is on fire, now? Yeah. Part of the L.A. River is on fire. Good times.
That’s that part down. I know MacFee will deliver. Hopefully I’ll still be alive to collect. The rest of my morning is just going to get progressively more uncomfortable.
I expect that the route down past MacArthur Park is going to be a mess, like everywhere else today. But all the lights are green, and the cars in front of and behind me are far enough away that I might as well be in my own little bubble. It takes a few blocks for me to clue in to the fact that that’s exactly where I am.
I get to the strip mall holding Santa Muerte’s church in record time. No cars in the lot. Boards covering the shattered windows. And of course I’m expected. The Saint of Last Resort isn’t going to let something like traffic get in the way of her consort coming to visit.
Tabitha, or whoever the fuck she is now, leans against the wall between the church and the laundromat, arms crossed. I stay in the car, engine idling.
Do I want to do this? Is it the only way, or just the most immediately convenient? After the last few hours of looking at it from multiple angles, possible outcomes, and really taking stock of what I have to work with, I can only answer the first question. Not just no, but fuck no.
But as to it being the only way—well, there is another. I could shoot myself. That’d put a wrench in the works, wouldn’t it? Certainly explains why Quetzalcoatl hasn’t killed me. I could end this all right now and the world would be demonstrably better off.
I’m seriously considering it.
I get out of the car and step in front of her, my expression flat to her look of smug satisfaction. “I knew you’d be back,” she says.
“Don’t. The only thing keeping me together right now is two lines of blow off the dashboard of a ’97 Corolla, and I am not in the mood.”
Her expression goes sober. “You’re right. I’m sorry. I know this isn’t easy.”
“I assume you know why I’m here, right?”
“Yes. I think it’s a stupid idea, and it could very well get you killed, with or without my help, but I’ll do it. You know what I want, right?”
“Thirty days,” I say. “All in one chunk or on weekends, or whatever. Like community service.”
“Six months,” she says.
“Fuck you. Even Persephone only got stuck with three.”
She jumps on that. “Three, then,” she says. “Three months of the year you take your place by my side in Mictlan as Mictlantecuhtli and help me fix it. You know how broken it is.”
“I’m a handyman for the underworld,” I say.
“You’re Mictlantecuhtli. Which amounts to the same thing. While you’re there you’ll take on the responsibilities of the role and the abilities to perform them.”
“And those include?”
“We’ll go over that. They’re pretty mundane. Opening paths between sections of Mictlan, getting some of the rowdier souls in line, the occasional blood sacrifice.”
“Oh, goody. I haven’t done one of those in weeks. One more condition. I don’t start for six months. There’s shit I need to figure out here and if I’m down there it’ll be a problem.”
“Counter-offer,” she says. “You start in a month, but you’re not stuck down there. You need to come up here, you come up here. That’s fine. I’m not abducting you, Eric. This isn’t what Santa Muerte had tried to get out of you. That was all just a bullshit ruse, anyway. I’m not her, but I have a responsibility, and I will see it through. And I need your help.”
My skin is crawling. Am I seriously considering this? I spent over two years trying to get out of this very position, and now I’m willing to go back in?
This feels different, but is it really? Last time, Santa Muerte maneuvered me into this position and it was for a very different reason.
I’m having trouble not thinking of the woman, the goddess, in front of me as half Tabitha and half Santa Muerte. I know she isn’t. But I still wonder which side this request is coming from.
“So I click my heels three times and say there’s no place like home?”
“Yes,” she says, smiling. I catch myself smiling back and remember that this isn’t Tabitha. My face goes blank. She looks away and the silence goes on too long.
“Deal,” I finally say. Fuck it. It’s a three-month-a-year gig. I’ve had worse jobs. I put out my hand to shake and instead she whips a long, thin obsidian blade out of her sleeve and slashes my palm with expert precision. Before I can even blink she does the same to hers and clasps my hand tightly, our blood mixing together and dripping down our wrists.
“Goddammit, that hurts. Why is it always the hand? Why do people always think the best place to draw blood from is the hand? I have to use that thing, you know.”
“Don’t be such a fucking baby,” she says. “It’s already healed.” I look at my palm and though it’s covered in blood, the slash is nothing but a thin white scar along the palm.
“It still hurt,” I say. “Is that it? We done?”
“Yes. Think of it as renewing your vows.”
“And I’d been all set for a divorce. Shit, I don’t have black eyeballs again, do I?” I look at my reflection in the car windshield, but no, my eyes are still my eyes. The wedding ring is back on my finger, though. It’d been sitting in my pocket the last couple days.<
br />
“Only if you want them. You had a taste of Mictlantecuhtli’s power before. This isn’t quite the same, or as powerful, not up here at least, but it’s yours. No turning into a rock this time. At least I think. This is kind of new for me, too.”
“Fantastic,” I say. “Later on, when the shit hits the fan, how do I get hold of you?”
“Just think of me,” she says, except she hasn’t said anything. It’s all in my head. Just what I need. More disembodied voices in my skull. I had enough of that shit with her ex-husband bouncing around in there before I got rid of him.
“That easy, huh?” I think.
“Exactly that easy,” she says, with her voice this time.
“Can all your relatives do this?”
She cocks an eyebrow. “You mean can Quetzalcoatl do this? After all, he’s the only one left.”
“Yeah.”
“Of course. If he binds with someone, he can do that.”
“Can he bind with more than one person?”
“He’s a god, Eric, he can pretty much do what he wants.”
Interesting. That gives me an idea.
“Thanks,” I say. “That helps.”
“Call me. I’ll be there. I’ll do my part.” Of that I have no doubt.
Two down. One to go. If I walk away from this one with my head, it’ll be a miracle.
* * *
—
The mansion in Beverly Hills has a clear patch of sky over it, as if the winds were forcing away the yellow haze of smoke and soot around it. If the normals even notice it their brains will fill in some explanation and move on. It’s just a weird weather phenomenon. Not like it’s magic or anything, right?
This is how powerful mages show they’re powerful. Sure, they throw their money around, but for us it’s all about letting everyone know how badass we are. Keeping this spell around the whole mansion takes a lot of power, keeping it up takes a lot of control. And then there’s being able to do anything else while it’s happening, like sleeping.
Things took longer than I expected, and the coke’s pretty much worn off. I do a bump to keep things moving along. Drugs do the same things to mages as they do to normals. We just get more side effects. Normal people doing ayahuasca puke their guts out, they think their arms are turning into snakes and that they can see the future. Mages do that and the snakes are real, a demon rises out of the puddle of your own bile, and you really do see your future. Which tends to be very short.
Fire Season Page 19