Undead to the World (16 page)

Charlie offers us beers; Cassiar politely declines, and I gratefully accept. Charlie
gets them while Cassiar and I choose seats. He opts for the end of the couch, and
I take an armchair. Charlie hands me my beer and picks the other armchair.

We study one another in silence for a moment.

“Okay,” I say. “Here it is in a nutshell. This town is going to do its best to try
to kill us. Oh, it might only cripple me, since its ultimate purpose is more about
making me suffer than expire, but you two are definitely going to die. Charlie, you
were my partner. Cassiar, you were my lover. I’m not stupid; I can practically see
the bull’s-eyes painted on your foreheads. I say we get in Charlie’s car,
right now,
and get as far away from this place as we can. Sound good?”

“And then what?” Charlie says. “I live here, Jace. I own a business. I can’t just …
run away.”

“Sure you can. And Cassiar, you’ve only been in town for a few days. There’s nothing
stopping you from leaving, right? Why don’t we just relocate to wherever it is you
live and consider this problem from a safe distance?”

Cassiar nods. “That would seem to be the most prudent course of action,” he says.
“But before we leave, I have to ask you one question.”

“Go ahead.”

He spreads his hands. “What good is a trap with an open door?”

“You don’t think we
can
leave?”

“I think we need to find out.”

“He’s right,” Charlie says. “There’s only one road in and out of town. Should be easy
enough to check.”

“Then let’s do that,” I say. “Right now.”

“I’m not sure that would be wise,” Cassiar says. “What if the safeguards that prevent
you from leaving are lethal to those close to you?”

Damn it, he’s right again. Just like Cassius—always two steps ahead. “So trying to
escape with either of you could result in your death? Yeah, that sounds like exactly
the kind of nastiness Ahaseurus would have set up. Which means I go alone.”

“No way,” says Charlie. “Not safe. Jimmy Zhang’s still out there, remember?”

“Oh, I’m not going alone,” I say. “But you two are staying here. You still got that
streetsweeper?”

Charlie nods. “Yeah, but I don’t see it doing much good against a vampire.”

“Oh, it won’t. In my experience, guns are useless against the supernatural. Ammunition,
on the other hand…”

Charlie leaves the room. He comes back with a shotgun in his hands—specifically, a
Mossberg Over/Under and a box of shells. I ask him for some tools, a funnel, and a
few other odds and ends.

“This has to be the strangest load I’ve ever assembled,” I mutter as I tinker. I put
Charlie to work helping prepare the contents, while Cassiar watches from across the
room.

“Something’s just occurred to me,” Cassiar says, getting to his feet. “This local
boy you told me about on the way over, the one that’s just been arrested. He can’t
possibly be the Gallowsman—and since Stoker is a member of the cult, he knows that.
So why arrest him at all?”

“Good point,” I say as I work. “But I don’t see how it’s relevant. Terrance seems
to be a proxy for someone in my life named Tair, a homicidal thrope I helped put behind
bars. His being arrested here mirrors what happened on Thropirelem.”

“But it still makes no sense,” Cassiar insists. “I think we should investigate further.”

“Go right ahead,” I say. “But me, I’m getting the hell out of Dodge.”

“If you can,” Charlie says.

“If I can,” I admit. “But I won’t be gone for long, Charlie. I’ll come back. Azura
and I will figure some way to defuse this. I’m not—”

“Abandoning me?” He shrugs. “I should be so lucky.…”

*   *   *

Charlie lets me use his car. I bring the shotgun with me.

There’s only one road out of town, the one that connects to the highway. I take it.
I see a few people on the streets as I drive, though most folks seem to be indoors;
it’s not that late, but Thropirelem tends to be pretty quiet after dark. The thunderstorm
overhead is still threatening to break loose.

Dark, empty fields on either side. Two-lane blacktop, the occasional flash of lightning,
and me. I think less about where I’m going than where I’ve been.

So I’m Alice, and this is the other side of the looking-glass. A distorted, warped
version of my life, with familiar faces playing new roles. A remake, I guess. Can’t
say I’m a fan, so far.

Certain patterns seem to hold true, though. Charlie’s my main ally. My dog’s really
smart. Cassius is an authority figure with vital information at his fingertips, and
Tair’s a jerk in trouble with the law.

Those are my friends—all the friends I can remember, anyway—and Tair’s more of a part-time
ally than a friend.

Then there are my enemies.

Isamu. Zhang. Maureen Selkirk, whom I knew as Maureen Selkie, an Irish witch with
a talent for shapeshifting magic and a member of the terrorist group called the Free
Human Resistance. Father Stone, whom I encountered as Brother Stone, a suspect in
a series of bizarre murders.

I suddenly realize something. My clearest recollections are of people who are now
dead: Stone, Isamu, Selkirk. My memories of Zhang are murkier, almost dreamlike. Must
be Ahaseurus’s spells, eroding. Makes sense, I guess; with the subject of the illusion
gone—and no one to reinforce it—the spells are dissipating on their own.

That’s not why I remember Charlie and Cassius and Tair and Galahad, though. It’s because
they’re all important parts of my life, in ways both good and bad. Bad guys come and
go, but some people will always stick around. Whether you want them to or not.

Patterns, patterns, patterns … what else holds true? Well, both Zhang and Isamu were
pires, and both of them became neckbiters here. But Cassiar’s not a pire, and Charlie’s
not a lem. Is Terrance a werewolf? Possible, but unknown. Maybe that’s what he wanted
to talk to me about—

There’s a flashing orange light in the middle of the road. I slow down, then stop.
A traffic barricade straddles the blacktop, and on the other side there’s a two-foot
drop onto rough gravel. I can see the hulking shapes of roadwork equipment, backhoes
and steamrollers and dumptrucks, plus a number of construction trailers. The sign
on the barricade reads ROAD CLOSED just to make sure I get the point.

I park and get out of the truck. Study the situation. As I’m standing there, a door
opens in the nearest trailer and a man walks out. Big guy, dressed in dirty orange
coveralls, work boots, and a yellow hardhat. He’s got a large mug in one hand, giving
off steam, and he carries it carefully so as not to spill it.

He walks over and stops just short of the barricade. Looks at me with about as much
expression as a prison guard.

“Evening,” I say.

“Evening.” He doesn’t sound happy to see me. He’s got a square, blocky face and the
name
JOE
stitched over his right breast.

“Didn’t know there was any roadwork going on out here,” I say.

“Yes, ma’am. For some time now.”

“Looks extensive.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Is there an alternate route to get to the highway?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Kind of inconvenient.”

“I suppose.”

“I guess I could just walk across the fields.”

“That’s not a good idea, ma’am.”

I smile. “Why not?”

“Storm coming. Lightning strikes are a definite hazard.”

At that precise moment, an immense blue-white bolt rips out of the sky. It smashes
into an oak tree with a sound like the Jolly Green Giant hitting a home run with a
telephone pole and a bowling ball, splitting the tree in two; both sides crash to
the ground a few seconds later. The afterimage of the strike is burned into my retinas,
a jagged glowing ghost I try to blink away; flames flicker redly at the base of the
tree.

Joe takes a sip from his mug. “See?”

I nod. “Uh-huh. Yes, yes, I do. Think I’ll head back into town, now.”

“Probably a good idea.”

I head back toward the truck, then turn back. Joe’s still watching me, over the rim
of his steaming mug. “You always wear a hard hat after hours, Joe?”

“Safety first,” Joe says.

*   *   *

Looks like leaving isn’t an option. I spend a minute wondering if that applies only
to me, or if other people can come and go, then drop it—it doesn’t really matter.
There’s nobody else on this world I can go to for help, anyway. This is my fight.

But at least I have allies.

My phone lets me know I have a call. It’s Cassiar. “Jace, are you still within town
limits?”

“Yeah. And for the forseeable future.”

“Then you should come down to the police station. I’ve talked to a deputy here, Mr.
Silver, and he has some interesting information.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

I pull up in front of the police station, but don’t go in right away. I’m still thinking
about patterns; they’re always—
always
—the most important factor in solving a case. What’s bothering me right now are all
the ways things are almost-but-not-quite matching up.

If Azura is right and the only other people Ahaseurus brought to this dimension with
him—other than me—are one pire and one thrope, then who are all these other people
that seem to be from my life?

Fakes,
I think.
Real people, but not supernatural ones. Human beings with implanted memories hidden
inside their heads, little ticking time bombs. Until they get bitten by the genuine
article—at which point they become incredibly strong, very hard to kill, and remember
just how much they hate me.

Except some of them don’t, right? Some might be potential allies. But I don’t know
which are which … and therein lies the fun.

But the worst part of all, the part I don’t want to think about, is the single, most
obvious, glaring fact of all.

Charlie Aleph, my partner, is a golem. Not a pire, not a thrope. Ahaseurus didn’t
bring any lems with him—so this Charlie is just another fake. And knowing Ahaseurus,
he’s probably the most dangerous trap of all.

So why do I still feel like I can trust him?

I shake my head, then get out of the truck. I can’t explain why I feel this way, I
just know that I do. And at this point, I have to trust someone.

Deputy Silver must have been waiting for me, because he steps out and hurries down
the steps to meet me. “Jace,” he says. “Hi. I think we should talk.”

I let him steer me down the sidewalk, away from the station. “Where’s Cassiar?”

“He left. Said he had some things to get. Said you’d understand.”

I probably do. I’ve got a shotgun, but I’m sure a monster-hunter like Cassiar must
have a few survival strategies of his own up his sleeve. “What’s going on, Quinn?”

Silver looks troubled. “I don’t know, Jace. Two deaths in twenty-four hours is bad
enough, but … things are getting worse. You heard we arrested Terrance Adams for murder?”

“I heard something about it, yeah.”

“But I don’t know
why.
We don’t have a case—or if we do, the sheriff won’t talk to me about it. Keeps saying
he has his reasons, but won’t explain. I tell you, it don’t make any sense.” He pauses.
“Thing of it is, he’s got an alibi, a pretty damn solid one. Sheriff says he’s lying,
but I can’t see how. So when this Cassiar fellow came by and asked to talk to the
boy, I thought I’d let him, just to see what would happen.”

“And what did?”

Silver frowns. “Sheriff just about blew a fuse. Told me nobody was allowed to see
him until he gave the say-so, not even a lawyer. Then he threw this Cassiar out—but
not before he threatened to arrest
him
, too. It’s not like the sheriff to act like this, and I just can’t figure it out.
Mr. Cassiar said you might be able to shed some light on it.”

Me? I’m dumbfounded. Why the hell would Cassiar dump this in my lap, then disappear?
What, am I supposed to bring Silver into our little counter-conspiracy? And why would
Cassiar think I was any more credible than he was? Not that anything in our story
is even remotely believable, anyway.…

I give Silver a brilliant smile. “It’s actually really simple. Sheriff Stoker has …
a secret.” I pause.

“A secret?”

“Yes. Haven’t you noticed how
private
the man is?” I’m making this up as I go along, which feels a lot like tap-dancing
on a high-wire while wearing a blindfold. “How he comes and goes sometimes with no
explanation? Mysterious errands and so forth?”

“Well … come to think of it, he has been kinda withdrawn lately. On edge, too.”

“Uh-huh. Exactly. Well, Terrance knows what’s going on. And he’s threatening to spill
the beans all over the cat he’s going to let out of the bag.” I’m on a roll now. “So
the sheriff’s trying to convince him otherwise. Get him to see reason, show a little
discretion, clam up. Understand?”

“Not really. What’s this big secret he’s trying to cover up?”

“Oh, I can’t tell you that. Are you trying to get
me
locked up, too?”

He looks at me like he can’t decide which one of his legs I’m pulling, and how hard.
I drop the smile and stare back impassively.

“Look,” I say in a low voice, “don’t take my word for it. Do a little checking around—especially
on the connection between Stoker and Old Man Longinus. You’ll see what I mean.”

“Longinus? What’s he got to do with—”

“That’s all I can say.” I hope it’s enough; I want to get his interest, but not tell
him anything that could get me locked up. Having a cop on our side would be one helluva
plus—if nothing else, it might help keep Stoker off our backs.

My phone chimes and I quickly dig it out, glad of the excuse to end the conversation.
I’m hoping it’s Cassius, but it isn’t. It’s Gretchen Peters, the librarian.
Wait. Librarian?

“Hello, Miss Valchek? I’ve been looking through the town records, and I’ve uncovered
some very unusual facts. I really think you should see them.” She sounds a little
nervous. “And as quickly as possible.”