“You have enemies? Good. That means you’ve stood up for something in your life.”
—Winston Churchill, 1933
Free City of Shanghai
“Good morning, Mr. Sullivan.” For being so little, her voice was incredibly loud when you had a splitting headache. “I brought you breakfast.”
Sullivan cracked open his eyes and groaned. The light sneaking through the boarded-up window told him it was just after dawn. “You are way too happy in the morning.” But then he smelled that she’d brought him coffee, and all was forgiven. “Morning to you too, Lady Origami.”
He didn’t like waking up in the partially bombed remains of an old tenement, but it beat not waking up at all. His skin hurt from his brush with absolute zero in the tunnels, but the healing spells he’d managed to carve into his body had been able to repair the frostbite. The ones on his chest were still gathering Power and burned with a feverish heat, which made him realize he was naked, so he quickly pulled the thin blanket up. Not that there was a whole lot in the way of privacy in the dump the Shanghai Grimnoir were using as a safe house, but Lady Origami was still a lady. “Where are my clothes?”
“You swam in the river. I hung them up to dry, Mr. Sullivan.”
He could barely remember much after he, Heinrich, Lance, and Zhao had stumbled their way here in a half-drowned fog. It was like Zhao’s magic had been so cold it had messed with his head. “Thank you for doing that.”
“It is fine. You are covered. I work with pirates many years. Pirate ship is very small place. A difficult place to have privacy. But none of the pirates are such a big man as you.”
“Excuse me?”
She looked away sheepishly. “I mean muscles. Very big muscles. Like picture in magazines. I . . .” Now she was blushing. “I mean the last page picture, where first is a skinny boy, who gets sand kicked in face by bully, and then sends away for book about how to lift heavy things. You look like last picture, with the muscles.” Now she was just getting exasperated trying to explain. “Sorry, Mr. Sullivan. I should not have spoken.”
“Comes with being a Gravity Spiker.”
“Yes. Omosa. Heavies. I am familiar. They are all so very big.”
“Thanks, I guess. And please just call me Jake.” Lady Origami smiled, as if to say that’s not likely. “What’re you doing here anyway? Doesn’t the Traveler need its Torch?”
“Not so much to do there now while she is parked. Whole ship is taken over by Fuller building his machine in the hold. She cannot fly until this machine is done. So until then, I come here to maybe help burn Iron Guards.” She knelt by his sleeping mat and set the tray next to his elbow. Breakfast appeared to be balls of sticky rice.
He had to remember that this lady also enjoyed participating in the brutal close-quarters fighting of a pirate boarding party. “That’s mighty brave of you.”
She shook her head. “Not so much. I like to help. And I do not like Imperium soldiers. Not at all. And this city swims in them. You are lucky to be alive, Mr. Sullivan. The Icebox child nearly killed you.”
Sullivan shrugged as he took the coffee, hot and black, perfect to warm his bones. “The kid did what he had to do.”
“I do not trust Iceboxes. Their magic is . . . hmmm . . . Forgive me. I am still practicing my English. Their magic is incorrect.”
Of course, to a Torch, whose magic was based in manipulating the consuming rampage of fire, the absence of heat energy would seem blasphemous. If he wasn’t such an analytical man, he might even feel the same way about Heinrich’s Fade magic. But he wasn’t feeling particularly analytical right then though, since huge Power use always left him starved. Going all wispy like that, just wasn’t right.
Lady Origami didn’t seem inclined to go anywhere, so he just started shoving rice balls into his face. They were either better than expected, or he was just so hungry that it didn’t matter. She knelt there, watching him, and he had to marvel how she was able to sit like that without hurting her knees.
“How is everybody else?” he asked between mouthfuls.
“They are fine. That very loud noise is Mr. Talon snoring.”
“Huh. I thought somebody had parked a truck next door and left it running.”
“Mr. Koenig was already awake. I think he does not sleep.”
Sullivan was normally a light sleeper, as were most who survived the Great War trenches. Heinrich’s paranoia made Sullivan look like an ostrich with its head planted in the sand. “Or when he does sleep, he leaves one eye open . . . Heinrich grew up in Dead City.”
“Ah . . . Then he slept in trees to not be eaten by zombies. I see. You would need to sleep lightly to not roll over, fall, and die.”
Sullivan had marched to Berlin at the close of the war. He didn’t think they had been many trees left there after the Peace Ray blast, but he didn’t share that, because it was a sad thought, and it didn’t seem fair to share that with the usually perky Lady Origami. “How is Zhao?”
“The Icebox is still sleeping. He used much Power. Too much exercise.” She gestured at the now hidden scars on Sullivan’s chest. “And he does not have those.”
Their presence was for the most part kept a secret, but not anymore. “Lucky me.”
“I thought only Iron Guard wore the magical kanji which made them stronger. At the Imperium schools, they brand the prisoners, testing such things. It usually does not work, so those prisoners are . . . thrown away.”
“I’ve heard that. Terrible business.”
“They use prisoners to get the designs correct. They twist metal brands until they are perfect. It takes many, many tries, and most prisoners die after a few tries.” She rolled up one of her sleeves and showed him a terrible burn scar on her arm. Sullivan could just tell that no magic had taken to that mark. He had made a few of those failures on himself. “Once correct, they can use them on their own people.”
“I’m sorry,” Sullivan said, meaning the whole damn thing.
Lady Origami put her sleeve back down. “It is fine. It does not hurt so much. They give the prisoners ether, keeps them from squirming. Besides, I escape. I am still alive.” She gave him that innocuous little smile again. “My captors are not so alive.”
It was grisly, but he was a curious man. “I didn’t think the Imperium experimented on their own people.” She scowled hard. She did not consider them her people, but he quickly corrected himself. “I mean Japanese people. I thought all their Actives got used by the Chairman’s government and they saved the dangerous experiments for the folks they conquered.”
“Not everyone in the Imperium agrees with the way of things. Some are even brave enough to open their mouths . . .” She looked away and her cheeks burned hot. “Those who speak too much, their whole families are shamed. They are outcasts. They become not-people.” It felt like there was a lot buried behind those words. She hurried and changed the subject. “So how did you learn this Imperium trick, putting spells on skin?”
“I’m self-taught . . .” He saw that answer wasn’t going to satisfy her. “I figured out how to do a basic healing spell one time after I got shot.” He didn’t add that he’d learned to do it on the fly because he’d just got shot in the heart, because that made for a long story. “I got lucky. The rest were trial and error. I put on more of the healing ones, but each one adds a little less than before, so I started messing around with other Powers. I recognize gravity the best, so that’s the only other area I’ve had any luck with.”
In actuality, he was probably as talented with spellbinding as anyone outside of the mad Cogs of Unit 731 or Buckminster Fuller, and if it wasn’t for this quest and all the trouble that had come before it, he would’ve loved to devote his life to magical study and experimentation. If only . . . Problem was, he was just too damn good in a fight, and too stupid not to volunteer for one.
“You have so many scars. You did this all to yourself?”
Obviously, she meant the new spells, and not the leftovers from the various bullets, knives, or shrapnel he’d picked up over the years. “I was sick of giving up the high ground to a bunch of fanatics.”
“Iron Guards die too, but because of these, it takes much more work to burn them.” Lady Origami seemed intrigued. “Does it hurt?”
Cutting your own flesh with a knife, searing it all with otherworldly demon ink, concentrating through the sizzle, and then channeling so much Power into it to try and get it to stick that you had to go right up to death’s door . . . “A little.”
She did not have to ponder on it for long, which told him she’d probably been thinking about it since she’d first seen them last night. “I would like you to put these spells on me too.”
“I lied. They hurt a lot.” He was having a hard time imagining her surviving the process. One healing spell had damn near killed that tough bastard Lance, who had been a very pushy volunteer. Though these physical spells were useful, Sullivan wasn’t exactly thrilled with spreading them around. The Imperium troops had them, but only after their Cogs had experimented, working the kinks out, and murdering untold numbers of prisoners in the process. The last thing he wanted to do was accidentally kill one of his associates. However, danger wasn’t the main reason he was hesitant to share them. Rather it was because it seemed, with each spell he’d carved onto his body, he felt a little less. Not just pain, but everything, and he wasn’t sure he wanted to do that to anyone else. “You need to be conscious the whole time or you’ll die, and then you might die anyway when the new magic connects to your body.”
“I am not scared of pain. Having a baby is pain, but worth it. This is same.”
“I didn’t know you had kids.”
“I . . . do not . . . now.”
There was a long, awkward pause. Sullivan didn’t know what to say to that. He had never been good with words, or women, or people in general for that matter. So he just nodded, and then ate another rice ball.
“Besides, I knew you lied, Mr. Sullivan. When you lie it shows up on your face. Americans are not so good at lying, but you especially are bad. You are like . . . like an ox. The ox doesn’t lie. It simply is an ox. It works so hard, it does not need to deceive. You are an ox, Mr. Sullivan.”
In most circumstances he would think being called an ox was an insult, but in this case he figured it was meant as a compliment. “I guess sometimes we lie to try to protect folks.”
“Yes. Nipponese, we learn to not lie with our faces, only with our eyes. My polite face is the same as my lie face. Make your face polite, and lie to them in your eyes only.”
“I’ll keep that in mind.” In his admittedly biased dealing with the Imperium, that actually made a lot of sense.
“For the spells on your body, I am not scared to die. I do it anyway. If it helps beat the Imperium, then I do anything.” That polite face she had mentioned had slipped a bit. Now he could see the sadness kept buried deep beneath, but deeper than that was a core of fire, just waiting to get out. “They take what they want and ruin any who speak against. I would burn them all.”
“You despise the Imperium,” he stated the obvious.
“Every last one,” she whispered the Marauder’s slogan. “The Imperium was my home. I hate it more than you can ever understand.” Apparently the conversation had moved into another area she wasn’t comfortable speaking about, so Lady Origami popped up from her knees. She was exceedingly graceful. “Eat. I will fetch your clothes. Tokugawa Toru is downstairs. Yesterday, he killed many secret police.”
“How are you handling having him around?”
“I do not like him. Captain Southunder said he is necessary so I should not burn him . . . yet. Do not trust Toru, Mr. Sullivan. His face does not ever lie. He means exactly what he says. That makes him more frightening.”
“You are a remarkably perceptive woman, Lady Origami.”
“Thank you, Mr. Sullivan.”
“Jake.”
“Mr. Sullivan.”
Considering the rather direct circumstances of how they’d first met, this was one odd lady. Direct when she wanted to be, demure the rest of the time, she was probably one of the most important members of the Marauder crew when they got down to business, yet the rest of the time she acted like a servant around them, all deferential and polite. Yet beneath all that, he had a gut feeling that she was wound tight as a spring. “Whatever makes you happy.”
“Thank you.” She folded her arms and gave him a little bow, then turned to leave.
“One thing, that little paper frog you made me, I doubt it made it through punching an iceberg and taking a swim. Sorry about that. It was nice.”
Pausing in the doorway, she gave him a genuinely pleased smile. “It was to bring good fortune. You must have used it up. I will make you another,” she said as she left the room.
“I’d like that,” Sullivan said to himself.
The Grimnoir knights and Marauder volunteers who had snuck into Shanghai over the last few days were staying in several different safe houses across the city. It wasn’t smart to have all of their eggs in one basket, and should any one group of them get rolled up by the secret police, the rest still needed to be able to complete the mission. Only Pirate Bob knew most of the locations, and he was back at the Traveler.
In fact, since they were nominally in charge of this little shindig, Heinrich, Lance, and Sullivan were supposed to be staying in different places, but because of their detour through the river, this hideout had been the closest. It had once been an apartment building for dockworkers, but one of the Japanese artillery shells from a few years before had hit a nearby sea wall, and the building’s foundation and first floor had been flooded ever since. It was now rotten to the core, and would probably fall over soon on its own. Heinrich and a small group of knights had already been here for a few days.
“It ain’t much.” Sullivan leaned on the balcony railing, but when it groaned and rust began to fall into the water below, he thought better of it and stepped away. His clothes weren’t quite dry from the last swim yet.
“Compared to where I grew up, this is a rather nice neighborhood,” Heinrich answered. “At least it is defensible.”
“True.” The only approaches were bridges fashioned from discarded lumber and old sheet metal, so it would be difficult for anyone short of a Traveler to sneak up on them unseen. There were enough of the makeshift bridges attached to other nearby buildings that it would be very difficult to surround and cut off all their escape routes. Plus, he’d been told there were a couple other escape routes available, provided you didn’t mind holding your breath. “Zhao picked it?”
“Yes. He knows this city like the back of his hand. The young man shows some tactical aptitude.”
“Strongest Icebox I’ve ever heard of, too. I once took on an Icebox, one of the most wanted fugitives in the country, and he didn’t hold a candle to Zhao. Provided we survive this, the kid’s got a future.”
“I would say send him away, but I sincerely doubt he would go.” Heinrich shook his head. “In fact, I know he would not. He reminds me of myself at that age, and no matter how lost a cause it may be, your home is still your home.”
“Even you left Dead City eventually.”
Heinrich shrugged. “And a lost cause is lost. Sometimes it simply takes longer for some of us to realize it. I come from a very obstinate people.”
“I know.” Sullivan chuckled. He had gained a lot of respect for Heinrich since he had met the Grimnoir. The German simply did not know how to quit. “I fought in a war against your bunch. Working with you has reminded me of why it was so damn hard to win, you stubborn Kraut.”
“Why thank you, Jake.” Heinrich took out a pack of smokes and a book of matches and offered them to Sullivan. His had been soaked in the river, so he was glad to see that someone had thought ahead to stash vital supplies. “Speaking of lost causes, Shanghai has suffered greatly under the Imperium’s boot. I have tried to prepare these knights for the presence of our Iron Guard.” There was a sudden crash from inside the bowels of the rotting building, followed immediately by some agitated shouting in Chinese. “And there he is now.”
“So Toru’s met the Shanghai Grimnoir.” Sullivan sighed as he struck a match and lit up. The hot smoke felt good in the lungs, and as a bonus, Jane the Healer was back in America, so she couldn’t yell at him about emphysema or cancers. “Let’s go keep them from murdering each other.”
The central area had once been several individual rooms, but someone had torn out many of the interior walls to burn the wood to stay warm. The walls were covered in trophies taken from the Imperium military, broken weapons, uniforms, torn flags, all the sorts of things that a resistance found motivating. In one corner was some of the equipment smuggled there from the Traveler. In the other corner was what passed as their kitchen area, and in it was Toru, standing there all surly, with his arms folded, while some of the local Grimnoir yelled at him. One of them was really agitated, and had picked up a meat cleaver and was pointing it at Toru’s face.
“Easy there,” Sullivan warned, because Toru would more than likely just take that cleaver away and bury it in the man’s skull. “What’s his name?”
“I don’t know. It was confusing. Zhao introduced everyone, but everyone in Shanghai seems to have three names each, and I can’t tell which is first, last, or a nickname.”
“Hey, Meat Cleaver!” Sullivan raised his voice, and since he still had his “sergeant’s voice” when he spoke from the chest, it made the entire building vibrate. “Knock it off.” Either he spoke enough English, or that got through in any language, but it worked, and he lowered the weapon. “What’s the problem in here?”
“This peasant fool does not realize what he has.” Toru gestured roughly toward one of the captured trophies. “That helmet is incredibly valuable.”
Helmet? It looked like some weird, stylized, oriental art piece, until Sullivan realized it was upside down. It had big horns, either for decoration or a real nasty head-butt, only the horns had been pounded into the floor, and the interior of the helmet had been used as an ashtray. “Damn it, Toru, I can’t take you anywhere. Let the man have his ashtray.”
“You do not understand. This is part of an extremely valuable weapon system.” Toru reached for the ashtray, but Meat Cleaver, who was a chunky, red-faced, angry sort, started jabbering again. Toru paused. “Out of respect for our mission, do not make me gut this imbecile.”
There were a bunch of people staying at the safe house, and every one of them who wasn’t on guard duty had come in to see what the commotion was about. Luckily, Zhao was one of them. The kid looked haggard, with dark circles under his eyes, which was to be expected, because expending that much Power at one time was physically exhausting. Zhao barked an order, and Meat Cleaver, though he was probably twice Zhao’s age, immediately complied, dropped his weapon on the floor and took two steps back. He did not, however, stop arguing.
“What’s he saying?”
Zhao looked at Toru with barely concealed hostility. “I would prefer not to translate. It may upset our guest.”
“He’s my responsibility,” Sullivan said.
“I am taking this helmet. I do not care what this wretched pig-dog has to say—”
“Shut it, Toru.”
The Iron Guard clamped his mouth so tight that if he hadn’t had Brute-hard teeth they probably would’ve shattered. It was either that or let out a response that would’ve surely started a gun fight. After a few seconds his jaw muscles unclenched enough for him to mutter, “Fine.”
“Pang says he killed an Iron Guard in a fierce battle, and he was wearing this armor.”
Toru snorted. “It is more likely they murdered him in his sleep and stole his helmet. This tub of fat could not best an Iron Guard in fierce battle, especially one wearing Nishimura Combat Armor. The only thing he might be able to defeat an Iron Guard in would be a dumpling-eating contest.”
“Pang is a powerful Brute,” Zhao warned.
Pang puffed up his chest and flexed his muscles. It didn’t help his case any.
“I killed fifteen Tokubetsu Koto Keisatsu yesterday,” Toru stated flatly. “Can he even count that high?”
Sullivan took quick stock of the observers. There were a few of the Shanghai Grimnoir present, and most had quietly placed their hands inside their clothing, surely to rest on firearms. There was another young Chinaman standing off to the side, and unlike the blustering Pang, this one was quietly confident, watching Toru, surely with some Power ready to go. That one had the stance of a fighter. There were a few Americans and one marauder, and none of them would lift a hand to help Toru out either, so he really didn’t know how stupid their Iron Guard was about to get. Lady Origami had arrived, and she was surely just looking for an excuse to set him on fire.
“Now, now, my friends. Let us not be hasty. I personally find murdering people in their sleep to be an excellent method, because since they are asleep it is rather difficult for them to retaliate.” Heinrich walked into the center of the room, trying to defuse the situation. “So regardless of how our friend Pang actually killed this Iron Guard, what is this combat armor you speak of?”
“It is from one of our most brilliant Cogs, the same man who invented the Gakutensoku. It is a suit of battle armor, perhaps the most capable design ever, each one heavily connected to the magic of the user and driven by the Power itself. Very few were ever made. They were far too labor intensive, and each one required so many kanji that they were never mass produced. Just this one piece could add incredible capabilities in battle.”
“How capable are we talking about here?” Sullivan asked. “Because, no offense, Zhao. If that ashtray can help fight the Pathfinder, I’ll buy Pang a new ashtray.”
“Let me phrase this diplomatically,” Toru said, which meant he was about to do nothing of the sort. “I have seen that glorified heavy suit which John Browning and Buckminster Fuller built for you in preparation for our mission. Compared to Nishimura Combat Armor, it is archaic junk, as if fashioned by monkeys using bones and rocks as tools. So you can see why I must claim this helmet—”
Pang shouted something.
“Ashtray,” Zhao corrected.
“Helmet,” Toru growled. “I will claim this and hope that it salvageable. If these barbarians did not do too much damage to it, perhaps I can still put it to some use.”
Zhao translated all of that, and from the reactions of the Shanghai Grimnoir, Zhao had done so in a much nicer way than Toru had. They still seemed either angry or ready to fight, but whatever he said did take it down a notch. Zhao and Pang began debating back and forth, but at least it wasn’t so heated anymore that somebody was likely to get hacked to bits.
Something brushed his sleeve. He hadn’t even heard Lady Origami approach. Everybody else was still paying attention to the loud, dangerous ones. She stood on her tippy-toes, and he still had to bend a bit so she could whisper in his ear. “I understand some. I know some Mandarin.”
“Really?”
“Yes. Many Marauders from China. These men are trying to save face. Pang did not battle Iron Guards. These men are brave, but not stupid. He stole a crate from an Imperium train. The armor was inside. They did not know what it was.”
“There’s more of it?”
“The Icebox child is saying they could not make the magic work, and it was too heavy to wear. Only Pang was strong enough to carry it all, but he was too fat to fit, so it was left in the crate and hidden.”
Zhao made eye contact with Sullivan. He didn’t need to be a Reader to know they were on the same wavelength. “I would suggest that our guest apologizes to Mr. Pang, and perhaps an arrangement can be worked out.”
“Hey, Toru. You heard the man. Apologize.”
Toru’s eyes narrowed dangerously. “Are you deliberately trying to provoke me, Sullivan?”
“Well, I ought to let you suffer for insulting John Browning’s craftsmanship, but if you want the rest of this armor, then you’ll apologize to Pang.”
“What?”
“The whole suit.”
That obviously got him. Sullivan had no idea if this Nishimura stuff was as great as Toru made it out to be, or if it was more of his usual smug superiority about all things Japanese, but either way, it was enough to make him swallow his pride. He turned to face the fat Brute and gave a small bow. “I apologize for insulting you.” Toru had to pause to lick his teeth, like the words left a nasty taste. “I acted impulsively.”
Zhao translated. While he thought it over Pang stroked his pointy little beard, which was the only thing on his entire body which could be described as thin. Pang answered. Zhao turned back to Toru. “And?”
Surely the Iron Guard had to call upon his Diplomatic Corps training to utter the next bit without laughing in Pang’s face. “I am certain now that you defeated an Iron Guard in battle. You are obviously a great warrior.”
“That must be some damn impressive armor,” Heinrich whispered.
Zhao translated. Pang responded in the affirmative and then it was smiles all around, except for Toru, who immediately ripped the helmet out of the floor and dumped the cigarette butts everywhere. He ran a hand down one horn, almost reverentially. “Take me to the remainder immediately.”
Pang just stared at him for a second, and then said something to Zhao, who didn’t even need to translate.
Toru sighed. “Please.”
Zhao was grinning. It wasn’t every day you got to humiliate an Imperium killing machine. “It is stored downstairs. There are dry pockets on the first floor where no one would ever think to look. Come. We will show you.” Several of the Shanghai Grimnoir filed out for the stairs, Toru right behind them, cradling his precious helmet. He would probably hold a grudge and plot their deaths, but as long as they held it together until the Pathfinder was dead, Sullivan could deal with it.
Lady Origami waited for the others to leave before addressing Sullivan. “Earlier, I made a mistake.”
“What about?”
“Toru’s apology. I was wrong. He can lie.”
Wannsee, Germany
“I thought you said you were leaving after one day?”
Jacques jumped. He had not heard Faye enter the hotel room. But then again, Faye didn’t enter anything in the normal sense. She simply willed herself into existence wherever she felt like and scared the hell out of whoever was there.
The elder made a big show of putting one hand over his heart. “I’m an old man. Don’t do that to me.”
Faye was bone-tired weary, and coated in the grey dust of Dead City. She wasn’t in the mood for Jacques’ banter, so she merely walked past him and flopped into the nearest chair. It knocked a choking cloud of dirt off of her clothing, but she was too tired to care. She’d spent days studying and thinking about the drawings, and then another day collecting them after she gave up on the studying. The satchel which had been filled with art supplies was now filled with Zachary’s drawings, and it made a loud thump as it hit the hotel room’s floor.
“I . . . I was going to take the train, but I decided to give you more time. I am glad I did. Are you alright, dear? Can I get you anything?”
Like she’d ever drink or eat anything from him again, what with all those pictures of him thinking about poisoning her. “I found Zachary.”
“You did?” Jacques pulled out the other chair, sat down on it, and leaned way forward, curious and eager. “Is he all right?”
She shook her head. “He’s dead. Not alive dead, but dead dead. Zombies are so complicated. Real forever dead, I mean.”
“Did you . . .”
“Oh, Jacques,” Faye gave a tired smile. “I’m still not the monster you think I am.”
“I did not mean to imply—”
“Naw. He stuck himself in a furnace when we were done talking. He was just plain worn out and didn’t want to hurt no more. Can’t rightly blame him.”
His expression was unreadable. “Zachary was a good man.”
“I could tell.”
Jacques leaned forward in his chair until his elbows rested on his knees. “What did he show you?”
“All sorts of stuff. Things that have happened, will happen, might could, maybe, heck, I don’t know. I’m still sorting it out. I gathered them all up.” She touched the satchel with one foot. “But I do know one thing for sure.”
“That is?”
“Me and you? We’re done.” Faye kept her voice even, and though it was hard, she was exhausted, starving, and trying not to be emotional. She didn’t deal well with betrayal. “You were aiming to kill me.”
“No.” Jacques looked her in the eye. “I have kept my word. You are aware of how I voted. I explained to you my reasons. That was never a secret, but I have stayed my hand since we first met.”
“I know it’s been hard for you. You can’t shake your doubts. You’ve seen too much of what it means to be the Spellbound. I know about the poison in your pocket,” Faye stated. “Surprised you didn’t poison all those cookies, but then you’d likely have gotten yourself by accident too. I bet you never met a cookie you didn’t eat eventually.”
To his credit, Jacques didn’t flinch or try to lie his way out it. The elder played the vapid man of leisure really well, but Faye knew he was just as hard as any Grimnoir. He reached for his shirt pocket and removed a small vial. “It is a lethal neurotoxin. The effects are immediate and painless. Of course, I thought about using it many times since we met, believe me. Yet, I have refrained. I would ask you to show me the same courtesy now. Since you did not immediately take my head upon your return, then I can only assume Zachary showed you the future, and perhaps now you understand my dilemma. Was it the same one I saw?”
“You saw a future, but it ain’t the only one.”
“So there are more possible outcomes now? That is certainly better than before.” There was a glimmer of hope in Jacques’ voice.
And then Faye took that hope and squashed it. “More, sure, but most are still evil. So darn many evil ones that I couldn’t even guess which one it was you saw that got you spun up enough to have Whisper murder me in the first place. You’re still more than likely right, and I’m more than likely going to meet a bad end. So today’s your lucky day, Jacques. I get it. I know why you’re willing to do what you’re willing to do.”
“I am so very sorry.” And she knew he was totally sincere.
“So yeah, you’re right. One day the society will probably have to turn on me, and the only real question is, do you do it now while you can maybe still handle me, or do you wait to see, hope against hope, that maybe I get lucky and master this thing, but if you have mercy, and wait, and get it wrong, then you know I’ll beat you all. You didn’t say that before, but you know I’m already stronger than Sivaram ever was. Hard as he was, you know I’m better. If the Power is experimenting on Actives, you know I’ll show it better than Sivaram ever could manage. I scare you now. You give me time and you know you’ll never be able to take me.”
Jacques nodded slowly. “You are correct, Faye. We have taken an oath to protect man from magic. You understand now what your magic is truly capable of. That is the quandary I find myself in. You are not yet, but may well be, the greatest threat to innocent life we have ever seen.”
“Only I’ve got a bigger problem for you.” Faye reached down and opened the satchel. The pictures she wanted had been left right on top of the stack. They were easy to find, all crumpled up by Zachary’s frustrated hands. “There’s something bigger coming. Something Zachary couldn’t even draw, and as scary as the Spellbound curse is, the Enemy is worse.”
Jacques took the picture and looked at the ragged, blood-smeared hole torn in the page. “What manner of madness is this?” But much as when Faye had studied it before, the longer you started at the chaotic patterns, the more the Enemy took shape. Jacques gasped and dropped it almost as if it burned.
“You can feel it looking back, can’t you?”
“It is real, then.” Jacques unconsciously rubbed his hands on his pants, as if he’d touched something icky and wanted it off his skin. “Sweet, merciful God, it is real.”
“Told you so. I was right. Mr. Sullivan was right. Even the Chairman was right. Most of all, the Power was right. And all the bad endings you can imagine from the Spellbound curse won’t make a lick of difference, because if we don’t stop that first, then there won’t be any future at all. So evil as you think I may become, that thing is evil now. I ain’t got nothing on it.”
The picture of the Enemy had fallen on the rug. Jacques was still staring at it, like it wanted to crawl out of the ink and eat their souls. “What do you intend to do?”
“I don’t know yet. Win . . . Somehow.”
He was shaken, but he found his spine. “What do you want from me? What can I do to help?”
“Tell the elders I’m still alive, and then tell them to stay out of my way. Convince them that we’re about to get attacked, everywhere, and that we’ll need to be ready. Convince everybody. The pictures show men that ain’t really men, and they’re hiding, waiting, all over the whole wide world, ready to start collecting Actives. I need to find my friends before it’s too late. They don’t know what they’re getting into against this old samurai with the shadow living inside his head. They’re in the pictures, in a city with funny buildings and oriental writing on the signs.”
Jacques was still distracted by the idea that he’d been wrong, that magic was about to be chased from the world, and all life on Earth was about to be extinguished. “Shanghai. Jake Sullivan’s expedition is in Shanghai,” he mumbled.
Faye got up and gathered her meager belongings. “Power made me the Spellbound for a reason. Some of the other folks it picked before weren’t good enough, so I need to set things straight, take back things that have been done wrong. I’ve got some things I need to do first, then I’m going to Shanghai to beat this thing once and for all,” she stated with grim determination before she Traveled away.
Then she nearly scared Jacques to death for a second time when she reappeared a moment later. “Wait . . . Where is Shanghai, anyway?”
Art to come
Evil Fay
