The Destroyer of Worlds (5 page)

They went downstairs together. 

###

“A terrible, terrible tragedy,” said Wycliffe, shaking his head. The glare of the camera lights irritated him, but he tried not to let it show. “Yes, Dr. Simon Wester did work for me some years ago, from 2003 to 2004, I believe. He left to pursue an academic career, and his wife to write novels. Their deaths are a terrible loss to our community and to the nation.” The Voice buzzed just beneath his words, conveying grief and sympathy. 

The blond reporter leaned forward, her face a mask of sincerity and solemn concern. “Were you and Dr. Wester close, Mr. Vice President?” Wycliffe considered using the Voice to drive her to his bed, but decided against it. It had been weeks since Marugon’s rampage through Chicago, yet the city was still in an uproar. 

He did not need any more controversy. 

Wycliffe put on a thoughtful face. “Not very, I’m afraid. Dr. Wester respected each other as professional colleagues.” He still could not believe how the Westers had hidden Lithon Scepteris for all those years. “I was almost a historian myself, you know. But I vow that the terrorists who committed these heinous acts shall be brought to justice. It will be this administration’s firm policy to protect the American people from such travesties.” 

The reporter nodded. “Do you have any special plans for the upcoming Christmas holiday?”

Wycliffe laughed. “I’m afraid not. Christmas is going to be a working holiday for President Jones and myself. We’ve got a lot of work to do to combat the corruption that has seeped into every level of American life, and by God we’re going to do it.”

“Well, that’s all the time we have,” said the reporter. “We’d like to thank Vice President-Elect Wycliffe for taking time out of his very busy schedule to speak with us.”

Wycliffe smiled. “It was my pleasure.”

“And that’s a wrap!” called the cameraman. Wycliffe leaned back in his chair and looked around the conference room. A row of lights, cameras, microphones, and other assorted television equipment lined the wall. A horde of television people moved amongst the machinery, and three men in suits hurried up the reporter and began talking all at once. 

“Pardon, but I must be on my way,” said Wycliffe, slipping off his microphone and handing it back to the reporter. “Please speak with Mr. Markham, the office manager. He’ll assist you with removing your equipment.” The producers and the reporters smiled, nodded, and thanked him.

Wycliffe slipped back into the corridor and headed to his office. Gracchan party functionaries hurried up and down the hallways, all of them stopping when Wycliffe passed. He got to his office and shut the door. Stacks of paper stood scattered around the room and on his desk, a legacy to the chaos of the last few weeks. 

He dropped into his chair with a sigh, stared at the ceiling, and tried to think. 

The official fervor over Marugon’s rampage last month had begun to subside. Neither the FBI nor the CIA nor the Chicago police had had any luck tracking the “terrorists”. Wycliffe supposed that whoever had escaped with the Wester children had covered their tracks very well. A few people still claimed to have seen devils flying in the night sky, but no one of importance believed them. The feds’ investigation had gone cold, and the hordes of journalists and private investigators swarming through Chicago had found nothing. 

And none of them had discovered anything linking that night’s carnage with Wycliffe or his organization. 

But it still worried him. Some link could yet be found. One of the expended bullets traced to a gun, perhaps, or a witness who had seen the winged demons leaving the compound. And Marugon had not yet found Lithon or Ally, and he would rip apart the world to find them. Sooner or later, it would be traced back to Wycliffe. He had so much to keep secret. Between the arsenal in warehouse 13A, the deals with Kurkov’s organization, the Stanford Matthews Tobacco Company (scheduled for full production next year), and the deal with Marugon, Wycliffe had the potential for enormous scandals. Any one of those scandals could destroy him, and not even the Voice could keep Wycliffe's numerous enemies at bay if the truth became public knowledge. 

And if Marugon kept on his course, the truth would come out.

This led Wycliffe to one inescapable, terrifying conclusion.

Wycliffe had to rid himself of Marugon. He had not labored for twenty years only to have his efforts destroyed by his partner’s madness. 

Wycliffe got up and paced the office, stepping around stacks of paper. “How? How?” He muttered to himself over and over again, pacing in a circle around his desk. 

Direct confrontation was out of the question. Marugon’s black magic would crush Wycliffe like a bug. And Marugon had the winged demons and the changelings, now numbering over six hundred. 

Wycliffe sighed and looked out the window. Jones’s demand for Secret Service protection no longer seemed unreasonable. But what could Secret Service agents do against the likes of Marugon and Goth? Perhaps Wycliffe could wait until Jones had assumed office. Then he could send military forces against Marugon and the winged demons. The idea appealed to him. He had used Marugon to reach power, and after he had the power, he could use the strength of the military to smash Marugon. Wycliffe could even take credit for smashing a hideous terrorist cell lurking in the heart of Chicago. But that way had risks as well, tremendous risks. 

And suppose Marugon blew Wycliffe’s cover even before Inauguration Day?

The intercom buzzed, and Wycliffe hit the button. “What?”

“Mr. Vice President,” said a male voice, one of the new security guards he had hired since Marugon’s rampage. “Mr. Kurkov is here to see you.” 

Wycliffe blinked. “Kurkov? Send him in at once.” 

“Yes, sir.” The intercom clicked off.

Wycliffe sighed and dropped into his chair. With all the trouble, he had almost forgotten about Kurkov’s bomb. At least Marugon had promised to return to his world once the bomb had been delivered. But that damned bomb was yet another scandal in the making.

The door opened, and Vasily Kurkov strolled into the office, his leather jacket creaking. He smelled of cigarette smoke and liquor. 

“Vasily,” said Wycliffe. “I dearly hope you have some good news for me.”

Kurkov laughed. “I am the angel of good news.” He sat in the guest chair and put his boots on Wycliffe’s desk. 

“Well?” said Wycliffe. “Out with it already.” 

Kurkov grinned. “The little bomb Lord Marugon wants so badly? It will arrive in Los Angeles in another three days.”

Tension and relief mixed in Wycliffe’s stomach. “After all these years you’ve spent looking, and all the mess getting it over the Pacific, it’s finally going to arrive?”

Kurkov looked pleased with himself. “Yes. The freighter left Vladivostok on time. It encountered no storm or squalls while the crossing. It may even arrive at Los Angeles a little early.” 

“Early?” said Wycliffe. “Has hell frozen over?”

Kurkov snorted. “Hilarious.” He produced a cigarette and lit up. “Yes, yes, let’s make fun of Kurkov, after all my efforts on your behalf.”

Wycliffe gave him a look. “And how many hundreds of millions of dollars have you made from these efforts? I think your ego can withstand some nettling.” 

Kurkov snickered. “Perhaps.” He flicked some ash onto the carpet. “But I am leaving for Los Angeles tonight.”

“Again?” said Wycliffe. 

Kurkov blew out a cloud of smoke. “I am going make certain this goes right. I shall drive the bomb to Chicago myself.” 

“How are you getting it here?” said Wycliffe. 

“U-Haul truck,” said Kurkov. “The bomb, I do not think you understand its size. It is not very big. I shall bury it behind other boxes in the truck. That way, even if I am pulled over, all the police shall see is moving boxes.” He grinned. “And I will have some of my associates following me in cars…armed associates, should the police become too inquisitive.” 

“This is tremendously dangerous, you know,” said Wycliffe, “driving a nuclear bomb across the county in a goddamn U-Haul truck.” 

Kurkov sneered. “Do you think I am stupid? Of course it is dangerous.” He rubbed his fingers together. “But the profit is very great. And I know what I am doing.”

“You’ll be taking Dr. Krastiny and his associates with you, I assume,” said Wycliffe.

“No.”

Wycliffe frowned. “Why not?”

“I do not trust them.”

Wycliffe snorted. “You don’t trust anyone.” 

“True.” Kurkov dropped his cigarette butt into the trash. “But…let us say they are no longer reliable.”

“Why?” said Wycliffe. “Because they took that contract with Marugon to find Ally Wester?”

Kurkov nodded. “I require loyalty. They shall have to be liquidated at some future date. When we return to Russia, I think. And don’t bother to protest. When they found that girl, it caused you big problems, didn’t it?”

“Oh, yes,” said Wycliffe. “Frankly, I think Marugon might have brought more difficulty onto our heads by trying to kill the girl and her brother. Had he left them alone, most likely he would have received his bomb and departed for his world without a shot fired. Now he has the changelings scouring the nation in search of her.”

Kurkov coughed. “Well, at least the problem will solve itself soon, no? Marugon leaves with his bomb.” He shrugged. “Of course, that will terminate our business relationship. You will no longer need to buy guns and bombs to sell to Marugon.” He grinned. “But it has been very profitable, yes?”

Wycliffe laughed. “For you. And you have another fifty million dollars coming yet.”

Kurkov gestured with his cigarette. “And profitable for you, too…you’re Vice President-Elect now, and…” He dropped his cigarette, leapt to his feet, and yanked a gun out from under his jacket. 

Wycliffe stood. “What the hell?”

A changeling slipped into the office, clawed fingers brushing against the carpet. 

“What the hell is one of those things doing in here?” said Kurkov, his gun leveled at the creature. 

Wycliffe waved a hand. “You may as well put that away, Vasily. You could empty the entire clip and not even scratch its skin. Besides, it won’t hurt us.” Not unless Marugon had overridden that compulsion. Kurkov scowled and put his weapon away. “I want to know how the thing got in here. Security should have spotted it. And I instructed them never to…”

The changeling shuffled towards the desk, a rasping growl wheezing from its fanged mouth. It snarled, closed its eyes, and wheezed again. 

Kurkov stepped away, revulsion on his face. “What is the miserable thing doing?”

Wycliffe stared at it in wonder. “I think it’s trying to say something.” 

The changeling nodded, greasy hair sliding over its pointed ears. “Mar…Mar…” 

Wycliffe frowned. “Marugon?”

The creature nodded. “Marugon. Where?” 

“So it can’t find Marugon,” said Kurkov. 

“He is in the bunker under 13A warehouse,” said Wycliffe. Marugon had holed himself up in the library over the last few weeks, muttering spells of the black magic over and over again. Wycliffe had no idea what he was doing. 

The creature shook with a spasm, trying to force words. “Take…me. Marugon. Bitch…ice queen. The bitch.”

Kurkov spat. “It’s lost its mind.”

“Not that these things had any mind left to begin with,” said Wycliffe. He paused, a memory scratching at the back of his thoughts. “I remember this one! It was the first changeling I transformed. Nathan Jameson, I think. Wasn’t that his name?”

The changeling nodded. “Ice queen.” Its voice rasped over the words. “Bitch. Find…find her. Ally. Found…” 

Kurkov frowned. “Ally? Does it mean Ally Wester?”

“Yes!” The changeling nodded. “Ice queen. Found. Her.” 

Wycliffe frowned. What armed chaos would Marugon unleash now? 

“Marugon,” rasped the changeling, interrupting Wycliffe’s thoughts. “Take. Marugon.”

“Very well,” said Wycliffe. “I need to speak with Marugon anyway. Come along.” 

He set out into the hallway, watching for staffers. 

The changeling loped after him, hissing. 

###

“Could you,” said Allard, shoveling more mashed potatoes onto his plate, “pass the gravy?” 

Ally nodded and passed the gravy. Allard mumbled thanks and dumped a generous amount of gravy over the potatoes. 

“You should not eat so much,” said Arran. “You’ll have a hard time staying awake tonight.” 

Allard gave him an incredulous look and waved his fork over the kitchen table. “But how I can resist this food?”

Mary snorted. “Kiss-up.” 

Allard winked at her. “You wish.” Ally gave him a look, and Allard grinned and began shoveling potatoes into his mouth. 

“Allard is right, you know,” said Conmager, wiping his mouth. “The food is excellent. You shall make us all fat, before you are done.” 

Ally grinned. “And you even made enough to satisfy Lithon.”

Lithon rolled his eyes. “But I was hungry.” 

Mary blushed and looked at her plate. “It’s no big deal. Someone has to do the cooking, and if Arran cooked, we’d have nothing but stew and jerky every day.” 

They ate in silence for a moment. Ally was not hungry, but she ate a little anyway, to satisfy Mary and Arran. Mary’s feelings would be hurt if she did not, and Arran worried for her, thinking that she did not eat enough. 

She didn’t, in truth. She cared what happened to Lithon, to Mary, to Arran, and had become friends with Conmager and even Allard. But Ally did not care about her own fate very much, a fact that worried Mary to no end. 

So she ate. 

“It is time,” said Conmager, “that we decided what we are to do next.” 

Ally felt a twinge of fear. She did not want to leave. She had been safe here. 

“I cannot tell you what to do, only advise,” said Conmager. “But now let me advise. I think it is time we moved on.”

“Where?” said Arran. Ally sought his hand under the table. She found it, and his hard, callused fingers gave hers a comforting squeeze. “Another of your safe houses?”

“At first,” said Conmager, “But a longer journey. I think we should travel through the Tower of Endless Worlds and return to my world.” He smiled. “Our world…it is your native world, Ally and Lithon, even if you cannot remember it.”