American Craftsmen (25 page)

“What purpose?” I said.

“Gives my dead head an ache. Try again.”

“OK, who do I have to kill to stop this?” I said.

“Damned if I know.” She giggled at this.

There was only one protected area that Sphinx couldn’t have gotten a single clue about. “How deep in the Pentagon is it?”

“Core of the H-ring,” said Sphinx. “Try looking in that direction for five minutes straight.”

OK, two more bits of the mystery, and I was done. “What does Chimera have to do with you trying to destroy me in the desert?”

Sphinx’s shade frowned to mocking excess. “Our failures serve a purpose too.”

“Yeah, getting people killed.”

She wagged a gray finger at me. “Better than the alternatives.”

I considered the alternatives. “That op was supposed to be Endicott’s, so I would have gone elsewhere. But worse than the desert?”

“I saw you die many, many times,” said Sphinx. “South America, the Congo, all sorts of exotic locales.”

I imagined these avoided dooms annoying me like flies. “Chimera would have gotten me on the alternative mission, or the one after that. But come on! The mad sorcerer was the only scenario where I had a chance of surviving intact?”

“The only one Chimera’s crew wouldn’t overrule,” said Sphinx. “The chance was small. And pushing you out of the service was a happy alternative for them. I took a longer view.”

“Longer view”—a tantalizing echo of Dad. But my next question took deadly precedence. “Tell me who killed Hutch, and how.”

“If I knew everything,” said Sphinx, “do you think I’d be here?”

“Isn’t she here too?”

“I haven’t seen her,” said Sphinx. “There are other early arrivals here, but she isn’t one of them.”

“Early arrivals.” I had expected this. “KIA before their time.”

“High-profile Family types,” said Sphinx, “who don’t seem to know what hit them.”

Time, though plastic here, was running short. If I tried to sustain this altered consciousness for too long, I’d become what I pretended to be. Tissue necrosis and brain damage would set in. “I need to talk to Hutch.”

“Well, I guess this is good-bye then. No time for family gossip…” The gray image of Sphinx turned to go.

Family gossip.
She was dangling that in front of me again. “Wait, what do you know about my family?”

“That’s need to know, Dale,” said Sphinx in a voice that faded to a whisper in the Appalachian’s throat. “When you need to know it, you will.” Silence, and no image came forward.

Then the Appalachian grabbed me, painfully hard. “Dale, is that you? Where the fuck am I?” The voice was near panic.

“Hutch?” I asked.

“Yes, yes, yes.”

“Physically, I’m in the Sanctuary,” I said. “I’ve entered the Underworld.”

A low moan came from the Appalachian. “You shouldn’t have come here.”

“There was no other way.” The Appalachian’s grip loosened; Hutch must be controlling her hands. That couldn’t be good. “Hutch, who killed you?”

“I don’t know,” said Hutchinson. “Probably a Gideon, ’cause they were able to sneak up on me. I still can’t find my body. Where did they put my body?”

Endicott must know. “I’ll find out,” I said.

Laughter came from the Appalachian. “And then you’ll die. That’ll be nice.” The Appalachian’s face glowed and contorted. No longer the gray effigy of a peaceful death, her eyes rolled.

“Hutch?” But I knew that this was someone else.

The Appalachian’s teeth mashed against her own tongue as the newcomer spoke. “Colonel Hutchinson is permanently out. No need to leave a message. You’ll be able to speak directly to her soon.”

The Appalachian had ceased to act as a willing medium. She was possessed. “
Leave her
,” I said, testing the opposition.

The thing in the Appalachian laughed, a horrid croak of forced air. “Always so rude, even in our family home.”

“This isn’t Roderick,” I said, “so knock off the impersonation.”

“Oh, so certain!” said the Red Death. “But who else could master such magics besides the great Roderick? You’ve learned too much. Here comes a chopper to chop off
your
head!”

Yes, who else could master such magics?
But I had my own question. “What have you done to Hutch?”

“Not enough, apparently,” said Red. “But I’m so glad we could talk again.”

Against all my instincts, I tried reason. “Whoever you are, I know you’re American. Can’t we come to a deal?”

“Certainly,” said Red. “I need you dead. After that, whatever you’d like.”

“Me dead, and all the craft Families,” I said.

“Just their best,” said Red. “Magi aren’t what they used to be. It won’t hurt too much. Like the time we Mortons killed those Endicotts…”

Mortons killing Endicotts? Only someone like Major Endicott would think I’d enjoy this blather. Time was running out. For once, the villain’s monologue was keeping the good guys preoccupied, when we should be escaping.

“
Get out,
” I said, putting more force into my craft.

“But we have so much to discuss.”

Dale, come forth
, I thought, and the spirit world faded into darkness, and strength came back into my limbs.

I grasped the Appalachian’s shoulders.
Umph
. She gave a punch to my solar plexus. The blow only irritated; the puppet’s strings must not be completely in enemy hands. I picked her up and threw her over a shoulder. I turned one-eighty degrees and strode through the dark toward the main shaft. In a few steps I saw the light at the end of tunnel. I hoped it wasn’t that other light, the one with Dad and Grandpa at the end of it.

“Die, you Morton cockroach, die!” The Appalachian’s body struggled and punched weakly at my back. “You’re staying here forever, Morton. An eternity of pain, while we rule your precious land.”

Not even pretending anymore to be a Morton himself. Whoever was in there was speaking directly from the subconscious. His conscious mind must be busy.

As if in answer to this thought, the warmth of another’s craft flowed around me. To possess someone and work craft through her—in another context, I would have admired the sheer power and skill. I braced for some magical blow, but instead saw an auric glow that shot up through the earth like a flare and heard a rising tone of music that sounded like “I’m ready!”

*   *   *

“What are we waiting for, ma’am?” said the grunt.

“Shut up or I’ll have your tongue,” said Sakakawea.

Though the grunt should have taken this threat literally, it was sufficient that he and his fellow soldiers took it seriously. They remained at attention, quiet.

Good
, thought Sakakawea. She fell back into a focused trance. At the bridge, she stood in front of her new companions, trying to see through the Sanctuary’s illusion to whatever signal her commander might send. What seemed a long hour to her reinforcements seemed to her, in her altered state, several eternities, several hells of waiting.

A beam of craft ripped up to the sky, a pure tone sounded the attack. Sakakawea’s heart leapt into ecstasy. He was here, and she was joining him in battle. “Follow me,” she said, and she dashed over the suddenly visible bridge.

CHAPTER

SEVENTEEN

I dragged the Appalachian as close as I dared to the main shaft. Red might attempt to drag both me and the Appalachian’s body to our deaths. No going up the ladder like this.

As I summoned the focus for another attempt at expulsion, Red continued to punch and kick, but with less enthusiasm. The craft signal must have tired him out. “Die, you vermin. Die now.”

“Is that you?” Scherie was calling from the mine entrance.

“Stay away!” I yelled.

“
Die, less than a woman
,” said Red, using a panglossic—it must sound worse in Farsi.

“You,” said Scherie. She was already scuttling down the ladder. A piece of rung broke and ricocheted down the shaft. “You,” she said again, entering the gallery.

“Don’t come near her!” I warned.

Scherie didn’t stop. She rushed at me and grabbed the Appalachian and shook her as I struggled against them both. Scherie’s rage echoed down though the depths of the mine. “
Get out of her, you fucking ghoul rapist.
”

The ground beneath Scherie’s feet glowed; the air imploded silently toward her.
Fiat lux.
A blinding grenade of craft exploded from her hands. I fell to my knees, and the Appalachian rolled to the ground.

For a moment, I forgot training. But only for a moment. Triage. First, I examined the Appalachian. Stunned, but very much alive, and no sign of Red. That was the good news.

The bad news stood in front of me, panting with the effort of an exorcism that I myself couldn’t achieve. I tried a theory: maybe the Sanctuary had used Scherie as a vehicle for its own craft. But I was tired of fooling myself.

I stood up and faced Scherie. I had to get to her before she recovered. “
The truth
,” I commanded. “I’ll know if you’re lying. What lineage are you? Who do you work for?”

Scherie was staring at her hands. “I don’t know … I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“I heard it, Scherie. I saw it.” I realized I was in a combat stance. I stood down. “I’m not going to hurt you. But no mundane could have made it this far.”

“Right, this has all been my idea.” Her hands were trembling now. I reached for them. She whipped them back. “Keep away from me, goddamn it.”

“I’m not going to hurt you,” I repeated.

“You idiot.” Tears rolled down her cheeks as she looked from the Appalachian to my face. “I’m not thinking of me.”

“Ouch,” said the Appalachian, sitting up even as Scherie was sinking against the gallery wall. “My head feels like unfiltered shit and moonshine.”

“We’ve got a situation here,” I said.

“They teach you to talk that way in the military?” asked the Appalachian.

I pointed at Scherie, who held her face in her shaking hands. “She’s a craftsperson, but she won’t tell me her Family or who she works for.”

“You and your lineages. Fool.” The Appalachian spat. “She doesn’t know.”

I stared at the Appalachian.
Shit, I’m still tripping.
“What the hell do you mean?”

“She doesn’t … Shh. They’re here. Git the fuck back down the mine. Now.”

*   *   *

Sakakawea had little difficulty finding the shaft. The residue of her commander’s possessive presence drew her, then unfamiliar power burst out from the mine. She sighed with disappointment at her beloved’s absence. Perhaps Morton had killed the Appalachian to expel him—a worthy outcome. One way or another, that hag was out of commission.

She sniffed the mine air. “Mmm, Morton.” He was still down there. Joy.

“Let’s blow this gash to hell,” she said. An advantage to working in the Sanctuary was that they could make as much of a noisy mess as they liked. Ritual genitalia-form spaces appalled her with their crassness; she’d blow up the Washington Monument too if they’d let her.

Her grunts had brought plenty of toys. “Toss some grenades down the main and emergency shafts, then immediately set that building-buster at the entrance and detonate.” Poetic. She knew too well that Mortons obsessively feared live burial.

“Now move it,” she said aloud, but to herself she said,
Chimera, come
. She felt the unnatural power wash over her and this abomination of preservation, just as the grenades dropped down the shafts.

*   *   *

I heard the warning
clang
,
clunk
,
clang
, and rattle of explosives against metal behind me as we helped the Appalachian scramble down the gallery, helmet lanterns faintly illuminating our way. My reflexes heard the noises first.

“Hit the dirt!” I said. But I had already pulled them down.

The mine vibrated once, twice, but nothing else. Just the grenades that time. I anticipated what would follow—if they had one big explosive charge, it wouldn’t be long coming. “Up, and move it.” I started counting, one, two, three …

On ten, “Down!”

The concussive wave blasted over us with its narrowly channeled force. Small stones rained on our backs; a cascade of rock rolled closer, closer … stopped. A slower wave of billowing dust passed over us like fog. I coughed and peered through the dust, only to confront the Morton dread of living entombment.

The shaft, the way we had come in, had ceased to exist.

“No way out,” said Scherie.

I looked at the Appalachian.

“Ye of shitty faith.” She pointed at a gap in the mine wall a yard ahead of us. “I’d never lead you into a box canyon.”

The gap, a ventilation shaft, doubled as a miners’ emergency escape route. Scherie moved toward it.

“Not this one,” said the Appalachian. “The next one.”

Scherie and I bent to help her, but she shivered us off. “Thanks, but I’ve got my wind back.”

We went deeper. Near the end of the gallery, we found the second shaft leading up and down. “Stay down or go up?” asked the Appalachian.

Fighting in pitch dark was old craft sport, but I would fight with unease in such a closed space, and if a Gideon came down, the enemy would have the nocturnal advantage. A Gideon also wouldn’t leave while my craft scent remained, so we would have to fight eventually. Sooner and aboveground would be better.

“We go up,” I said, feeling my weariness as I spoke. “But after a quick recharge.”

“Tactics, Mr. West Point?” asked the Appalachian.

I snorted, but it was a damned good question. I had a new weapon at hand named Scherezade Rezvani, but didn’t know what she could do, or whether she’d go off in my face.

“Wait.” As if answering my question, Scherie held up her palm. “Can you feel that?”

“What?” I said.

“It’s everywhere,” said Scherie. “So much … power? Like the thing that had her, but different.”

I looked for the power, but had trouble finding it for its pervasiveness. The mine spun for a second; I caught myself before falling. Déjà vu, motherfucker. This felt like the death magic that had been aimed at me. The power flowed not with the syncopated rhythm of a heartbeat, but with the merciless precision of a digital clock. No, the power wasn’t mechanical, but something more fleshy on a digitally forced march.