Exile

by Peter M. Ball

  I shook my head, promised her my usual spots for lying low involved more fleas and less impressive views. “This is Langford’s doing,” I said. “She knows people with money who owe her favors.”

  “Good for her.” Nora strolled over to the window, rested her forehead against it. She was still wearing the borrowed jeans, coupled them with a sweater we’d picked up at the gift-shop below the hotel. “You think her friends have got something a little less conspicuous hanging around in their wardrobe?”

  “Good odds,” I said. “Bedroom’s through and to the left.”

  Nora nodded and disappeared into the bedroom, leaving me alone in the kitchen. I took a few moments to check the wards, then made coffee. We hadn’t mentioned the events of the previous evening. I wasn’t sure if I should have started that. I drained my coffee as Nora emerged, wearing a too-large t-shirt that hung over her jeans.

  “Langford has big friends,” she said.

  “Sorry,” I said.

  “You sure this Thirteen asshole will have my apartment covered?”

  “If they don’t,” I said. “Sabbath will. Either of them is liable to take a shot at you, given the circumstances.”

  “I’ll need clothes, Murphy.”

  “We’ll get to that,” I said. “This’ll get us by, ‘til we can sort a better option. Priority is making sure they buy your death, while we keep us from getting dead. That matters more than the size of your shirt.”

  I handed her a coffee. Black. Two sugars. The way she’d drunk it as a teenager. Nora sipped it, winced at the flavor, but she said nothing. I watched her pace around the lounge room, then settle into the couch.

  “So here’s the deal,” I said. “You wait here for a day. Lie low. Watch some TV. Raid the refrigerator when you get hungry and all. Just stay out of sight and don’t breech the wards. They’ve kept me safe this long, with Thirteen looking for me, and Sabbath hasn’t seen fit to come down here and blow the place up, which is a good sign they don’t know I’ve been staying here.”

  “And you?”

  “I’ll talk to an old friend,” I said. “See if I can undo some of the mess I’ve made of your goddamn life in the last twenty-four hours, then see if I can get a lead on Thirteen so I can dissuade him from further acts of terrorism against people I used to know.”

  “You think you can do that?”

  I pulled a knife we’d recovered from the storage shed, tapped my fingers against the older SIG P220 in my holster. “I plan on being convincing,” I said. “It brings people around.”

  I left her sitting at the kitchen table, nursing a cup of coffee. Nora smiled as I left, like she was already thinking of me coming home. For a moment, I let myself believe it.

  TRUST

  I dialed Wesna’s number and asked her to meet me. Just her, no Sabbath, no Randall riding shotgun. She called me an idiot, informed me a private chat wasn’t possible, then suggested I go get lost.

  I took the rental car down to the Palm Beach/Currumbin bridge, parked alongside an old RSL club. The walking paths following the creek. I followed them over to the far shore, headed towards the see until the path veered through the remnants of the mangroves, concrete giving way to wooden decks that cut between thin clumps of trees. I followed the curve, found a seat in this covered alcove tucked away about half-way along the decking. A lookout, invisible from the nearest shore, with a picnic table looking downriver.

  The brackish water sloshing against tree roots reeked of gasoline, inheriting the smell from the river. As teens, Wesna and I got drunk here, and kids today continued the tradition. The small trash can overflowed with empty bottles and beer cans. I could make out the wide expanse of Currumbin Bridge through a space in the trees. Behind it, the slope of Currumbin Hill that watched over the suburbs instead of the goddamn beach.

  The waiting got to me pretty quick. I stuck my hands in my pockets and wondered what Nora was doing right now. Ran through her story about owing Sabbath money, testing its details for truth. I’d started theorizing about other possibilities when Wesna showed up, coming around the bend at a light jog. She’d dressed down for the occasion. Sneakers. Sweat pants. A plastic visor protecting her face. Just another Gold Coast fitness freak running the mangrove path.

  She came to a stop, hands on her hips. Her expression wasn’t friendly. “For real,” she said. “Is Nora Otto dead?”

  I stared at her, saying nothing.

  “I should wring your neck,” she said. “Twist your skull free of that annoying carcass and take it back to Sabbath as a trophy.”

  “You should.” I grinned at her, wry and careful. Hoped she’d recognize it as a joke, instead of tacit permission. “I mean, this? This isn’t smart, Wes’. Not wise at all, goddamnit.”

  “Don’t blaspheme.” Her expression didn’t budge. “And this is against-my-better-judgment shit, Murphy. Try not to push it, okay?”

  “Deal.” We stood, facing each other, listening to the mosquitoes and the river and the distant sound of traffic. I backed off before her, retreating to the wooden seat. Wesna watched, arms folded, waiting.

  “I wouldn’t have picked you for a jogger,” I said.

  Her expression grew severe.

  “Right, business.” I drew a long breath, exhaled. “First up, I need to figure out, you know, given what’s gone down here—”

  “No,” Wesna said.

  “No?”

  “Not at any price you’re willing to give him,” she said. “You fucked a job. That’s it. He’ll set the hounds on you, revel in your damn pain. That was always the plan, though. I assume you predicted that.”

  “I did.”

  Wesna took off the visor, studied me as I watched the river. “Why ask, then?”

  “I enjoy knowing where I stand. It makes it easier to figure out which moves are really there,” I said. “Shit’ll get rough, sooner than you think, and having Sabbath on my team doesn’t seem like a bad idea.”

  “You dream big,” Wesna said.

  “That I do.” I crouched, picked up a discarded bottle cap from the debris on the platform. I lined it up on my index finger, sent it spinning into the creek with my thumb. “So what’s he offering Nora, that she’s so willing to forgive me?”

  Wesna raised an eyebrow, half-amused at the prospect. “Maybe it’s your natural charm?”

  “We both know I’m not that charming.”

  “True, but Sabbath can’t offer Nora Otto anything that makes forgiving and forgetting a worthwhile proposition.”

  “I’m betting he can,” I said, “especially given the situation. She came to him after I left, offered to work for him in exchange for knowledge. He knew the connection to me. Kept her in the back pocket, playing a long game in case the opportunity for revenge presented itself. You’re not going to tell me such a thing’s beyond his capabilities?”

  “It’s not,” Wesna said.

  “So?”

  “That’s not his play here,” she said. “He set her as a target to hurt you, sure, but that wasn’t the only reason. The Nora you dated, she’s gone, mate. Spent too much time running the place where black market deals got done. Sabbath wanted her eliminated because she’d become a threat. Nora Otto knows secrets these days. Used them to pay off her debt years ago.”

  “Not the story she tells.”

  “No reason she should.” Wesna crossed the platform, settled her ass on the bench beside me. “The Boss isn’t pissed Hell Bar went up in flames, even with the time he’s putting in keeping the cops from losing their shit. Nora’s joint going boom is good fucking news for him; one more up-and-comer without a power base to challenge him. And she’s still a threat now, with the club gone. Nora knows too many people, accumulated favors over money. You got history with her and all, but…”

  Wesna didn’t finish that thought. Sabbath had sworn he wouldn’t send me after anyone who didn’t have it coming, and odds were good he’d lived up to that. Demons thrived on falsehood. They lied through their teeth, sweated li
es out of their borrowed pores. But there weren’t many that swore an oath intending to betray it.

  I stood and dusted off my jeans. “If you planned on turning on me, now’s the time.”

  Wesna shook her head. “We’re a pair of old friends catching up on things. I ain’t swearing to tell the truth, but I believe you’re more useful alive.”

  “Appreciate it,” I said.

  “You shouldn’t,” Wesna said. “It makes the part where I have to hurt you sting a little worse. I’ll hold that against you, when Sabbath gives the orders.”

  “Maybe we’ll get lucky, and you won’t be asked to do the hurting,” I said.

  “No one’s got that kind of good fortune.” Wesna put her visor back on her head, preparing to jog into the shadows. “I swear to God, Murphy. Not even you.”

  * * *

  My father once rented an apartment on Burleigh Beach. We lived there three years, longer than I spent anywhere else in my childhood. It never felt like home, but it came closer to it than most. Roark claimed that’s what made me good at the job. Not the sight I’d learned to ignore, or the skills I’d picked up breaking legs for Sabbath. Just my habitual refusal to belong somewhere. The roots we put down in the real world are mirrored in the Gloom, getting twisted into weapons that could get used against us.

  I drove out to Burleigh and parked on the beach. Found a payphone, one of the few that still existed, and dialed the in-case-of-major-fuck-up number. It rang out twice, spitting out my change, but I fed it back in and called again.

  I got an answer on the third attempt. Danny Roark said, “Keith?”

  “Yeah.”

  “You weren’t supposed to call,” he said.

  “Yeah.”

  “Then I’m assuming it’s bad, and we need to make this fast,” Danny said.

  I studied the phone booth, the graffiti and tags scratched into the glass walls. The line snapped and popped, distorting as old copper landlines tried to connect with cell. I noticed my own breathing, in and out, marking off the empty seconds.

  “Roark?”

  He took a long breath. “Yeah?”

  “Things are bad here,” I said. “The cult tracked me here. They’ve got people in the city. Sabbath…”

  I heard the click of a cigarette lighter, louder and clearer than the line distortion. The pause as Roark inhaled, thinking details over.

  “We both predicted Sabbath would be difficult,” he said. “Wotan’s minions following you was always a possibility. Stick to the plan, kid. You know what’s at stake.”

  “No,” I said. “Not really. The way Langford talks about Wotan? The way his followers are coming after me? They’re blowing shit up, Danny. Attacking me in the midst of a crowd, screw the collateral damage. They don’t care if they get noticed, and that ain’t normal.”

  I left that out there, waiting for Roark to pick it up.

  He didn’t. Just smoked his cigarette. “Did you keep the soul cage secure?”

  “Yeah, but—”

  “But nothing,” Roark said. “It’s all that matters, Keith.”

  “No,” I said, “it’s not.”

  I leaned against the car, stared at the old apartment building. Listened to the waves rolling into the beach behind me. “What the fuck did we start, Danny? Just once, give me details. Treat me like a partner.”

  The silence that answered seemed like it would last forever. “Roark?”

  “Still here.”

  “Come on, man. I need to know.”

  “Yeah.”

  Roark sighed, low and quiet.

  “Ragnarök,” he said. “Wotan’s death curse was supposed to kick off an apocalypse.”

  I chewed on that. Absorbed it. “That’s a new one,” I said. “How close did he come?”

  “Close enough.”

  Roark hung up the phone, left me alone with the beach and the dial tone.

  ESCHATOLOGICAL CONSTANTS

  Peer into the Gloom on the regular, and you become a student of eschatology. Ragnarök. The End of Days. The long count on the Mayan Calendar and the last days of the Kali Yuga. Myths and religions are replete with scenarios that mark the destruction of the world, and once you realize that demons and magic are real, it’s not long before you do the math.

  The apocalypse is inevitable. Every species of Other that emerges from the Gloom, every faction that finds its way here, believes that the end is imminent. They just disagree on how it will happen, when it arrives, and who gets to kick it off.

  Very few eschatology scenarios work out well for humanity. Which makes it easy to sway people to your side once they’ve brushed against the Gloom and realized that something’s coming.

  The promise of self-preservation against inevitable catastrophe appeals to pretty much everyone.

  * * *

  I returned to the Currumbin Hill safe house. No sign of Nora Otto. The cold, sterile emptiness of the place suggested she’d left a while back. I fumbled for the lights, turned on the row that led down the short flight of stairs from the front door to the lounge room. I didn’t bother calling Nora’s name. Instinct said she’d already bailed, and all that really remained was finding out was how she’d fucked me on the way out.

  They’d tossed the safe house with speed in mind. All the drawers in the kitchen opened, their contents strewn over the floor. Couch cushions torn and spread across the hardwood, ensuring there was nothing hidden within. Solid work, methodical. I checked the duffle bag we’d taken from the storage shed, discovered the knives, spare SIG P220, and cash were gone.

  I drew my gun, edged my way into the bedroom. Of all the shit in the safe house, only one thing really mattered, and I knelt to retrieve the warded box from beneath the bed.

  A big man emerge from the shadows. Not Thirteen, but he looked like the sorcerer’s Neanderthal older brother. Huge. Bearded. Tattoos exposed for all to see, skin tanned to the consistency of leather. He grinned when I pointed the SIG at him.

  “Stay,” I said.

  The Neanderthal hesitated, and that’s all I needed from him. I put a bullet into his shoulder. The type of flesh wound that hurt like hell, reminding him of the stupidity of attempting violence against an armed opponent. Pity for me this guy ignored the memo.

  There’s an optimal range for firearms, and we were well inside it. The Neanderthal stepped forward, closed a meaty fist around my gun and wrenched it out of my grip.

  “Hear you killed the Master,” the Neanderthal said. “You trapped his soul in steel and lead.”

  Knuckles the size of a brick connected with the side of my face, got me seeing stars.

  “You shouldn’t have done that,” the Neanderthal said. “The Master kept us safe.”

  I was down, sprawled against the bed. The Neanderthal advanced, those big ham-hock fists ready to bludgeon me into pulp. No way I could take another hit. The adrenaline kicked in, gave me enough clarity to roll free. I came up with sheets in hand, flung them at his face. The Neanderthal brought his arm up, guarding his features. Offered me an opening to hook the ribs, and I put all my weight behind it. Felt like I was punching a side of beef, not really doing shit, but I heard the Neanderthal wheeze for a moment, his breath knocked out of him.

  I pulled the knife. Four inches of tempered steel, a red rubber grip. Not the kind of weapon you go out using if you’re looking for a fight, but it fit in my pocket and didn’t attract too many questions. The blade bit into the Neanderthal’s shoulder. My second stab gashed his arm.

  The Neanderthal bellowed and staggered back, blood slicking over his ink. He ground his teeth and snorted, psyching himself up to retaliate. The weapon changed the equation for him—nobody got through a knife fight without getting cut, regardless of their size and training. Any attempt to beat me to death would mean losing more bodily fluid.

  It wouldn’t slow him down much. A man that big has plenty of blood to lose, and lots of muscle protecting his vital organs.

  The Neanderthal howled and surged forward. I c
hanged tack, came in low and stabbed up past the waist. Caught the Neanderthal in the stomach, sliced along instead of pulling free.

  That seemed to get his attention. His fist clipped my ear, knocked me loose. I went, hit the floor. The knife stayed lodged in his torso. No way to get it back without getting into his range, so I crawled for the P220 lying on the bare boards.

  The Neanderthal reefed the blade free of his side. Scowled at the weapon trying to understand why I’d bother with such a thing.

  By then I’d got hands on the SIG. The gun kicked three times: two rounds to the chest, one in the head. Just like Roark taught me.

  The Neanderthal teetered, a falling redwood defying the rules of gravity until the very last moment. I lay there, panting, and reached for the box beneath the bed. The floorboards were already pulled up, exposing my hiding place.

  No sign of the soul cage. I unearthed my phone, dialed Langford’s number. “The safe house is compromised,” I said. “You do what I asked?”

  “Smooth as silk.”

  “Good,” I said. “We need to talk.”

  I hung up. Took a last look at the carnage they’d wrecked upon the place, with or without Nora’s help. Then I grabbed my gear and got the hell out. No sense waiting for the Neanderthal’s back-up, or for his ghost to emerge.

  * * *

  Langford met me in the food court of the Southport Mall, hunkered at a raised table that looked across the river to the theme parks on the spit. She took one look at my face and put together what happened. “Gone?”

  “Gone.”

  “Shit,” she said. “I’m sorry.”

  “My choice to trust her, see how she’d play it,” I said. “My mess to clean up, now that we know which side she’s on. You bring the gun?”

  Langford nodded. She pushed a small bag across the lunch table, looked away as I stowed it in my backpack. “Glad you sent me in, then,” she said. “It’d suck if you owed me for having this thing for no good reason.”