Authors: Tim Pratt
“So,” Trey said. “I’m going to guess ravings of a prophet, in this case, because it seems like a lot of work to go through for a joke.”
I sighed. “I was really hoping to find some answers. Maybe an annotated family tree. A daily journal, explaining all Mr. Grace’s motivations. But if this is a code, I’m not going to crack it tonight.” I yawned hugely and didn’t even bother to try and stifle it.
“Get some sleep, Bekah. We’ll think about…everything there is to think about…tomorrow. I’ll be down here on the couch if you need me.”
I kissed him on the cheek, and he turned his head into the kiss, his lips touching mine. I leaned into him a little, and his hand slid to my hip, and for a moment we stayed that way, touching, kissing, his breath mingling with my breath, connected. I considered pushing that connection further—telling him don’t be silly, you can come upstairs with me—but I was tired all the way down to my marrow, and even though I’ve got nothing against sex for comfort, I didn’t want my first time with Trey to take place in the aftermath of fear, and in the midst of weariness. I broke the connection, touched his face, and said, “See you in the morning.”
I picked up the sword cane and took it with me upstairs, resisting the urge to pause on the landing and look back down at Trey, because my resolve might fail me then. I turned my attention to the magical blade in my hand, reassured by its weight and solidity. At least if someone attacked me in the night I could stab myself and get better. Then again, I had no idea how the sword worked, and every kind of medicine
I
know about comes with side effects—even painkillers stress your liver or your stomach lining. Who knew what the sword was doing besides healing, or what the long-term consequences might be? In Trey’s case, obviously, the alternative had been paralysis or death, and I wouldn’t hesitate to slash him with the blade again if I had to do it over in similar circumstances. Until I knew more, though, I wasn’t going to use it to cure every stubbed toe or hangnail. I’m not that old, but I’m old enough to distrust things that seem too easy and too free. There’s usually a price hidden somewhere.
I stepped into the bedroom, and everything was neatly tucked away again. I wondered, fleetingly, if Trey had somehow tidied up in there, but he hadn’t had time. The lamp had righted itself on the table, the bed had made itself right down to the hospital corners, and everything else was back the way I’d left it. Even the drop cloth that had covered the mirror was folded neatly and resting on the floor under the window.
The sudden restoration of order should have freaked me out, made me think of weird home-invasion scenarios and neat-freak serial killers who cleaned up your house before eating your spleen, but it was just one more impossible thing in an evening full of those, so I took it in stride. The contents of the room had hurled themselves around in my defense, so it didn’t seem so unlikely that they’d put themselves back again when they were finished.
I thought of the
Beauty and the Beast
story—not the Disney movie but some picture book I’d read as a kid, with an enchanted castle that magically took care of itself without benefit of chattering anthropomorphic cartoon servants: food appearing on the table every night, dishes whisking themselves away to be magically made sparkling again, dirty clothes vanishing and clean ones reappearing in their place.
Maybe Grace’s messy, ramshackle old house was my enchanted castle.
I climbed under my covers and closed my eyes, holding that comforting thought in my mind as I slipped into a deep sleep.
My castle. Mine, mine, mine…
In retrospect it’s strange that I didn’t just load up my car and tear out of there first thing in the morning, once the shock or trauma or whatever had time to wear off. I think the house was having an effect on me—giving me a sense of belonging, one I hadn’t felt anywhere else. Except maybe when I was a little kid, and I used to make a nest in the closet of my bedroom with pillows and blankets and a flashlight and a book. My own tiny world, sacred and inviolate, where I could reign entirely at my own whim and discretion.
Whatever the reason, when I woke up in the morning, I didn’t even think about fleeing. I wanted to find out who the Firstborn was, and how to avoid her, or pay her off, or get rid of her in some other way. I wanted to know if she was my only sibling—she’d mentioned others, but who knew how reliable she was? If I did have other relatives, and they showed up at some point, I hoped the next family reunion would be less violent.
Mostly, though, I wanted to look around the house and see if I could find the other objects from the sanctum. Or anything else out of the ordinary, for that matter. The Firstborn had been ransacking the place looking for a vessel—whatever that meant—and if I could find out what it was, I’d be in a better position to know what the hell was going on.
Trey was already awake when I emerged from the bedroom, making bacon and eggs and toast and humming to himself in the sunny kitchen. I cinched the belt of my robe tight as I walked over to the counter and slid onto a stool. “You seem pretty chipper for someone who had a broken spine last night.”
He winced as he slid a plate of scrambled eggs and crisp bacon in front of me. “So that really happened? I was trying to tell myself it was all a dream.”
“If it’s a dream, I had it, too. What’s the word for two people who share the same delusion? Folie á deux?”
“I’m so happy to share things with you,” he deadpanned. “‘‘Folie á deux.’ You sure love showing off that book learning, college girl.”
I snorted, pouring myself a cup of coffee from the French press. “I want to make sure you know I’m more than just a pretty face.”
“Oh, it’s not just your face I think is pretty.”
I raised an eyebrow at him, and he held my gaze, smiling. I had to admire his devotion to flirtation, despite getting almost murdered the night before. “You make a good pot of coffee, Trey. See? I respect your nonphysical qualities, too.”
“As long as you don’t entirely ignore the physical ones.” He poured himself a cup. “I was nervous about doing anything in here, to be honest. Who knows what other magic Mr. Grace left lying around? What if pushing the plunger on the French press caused a hurricane? Or turning on the stove summoned up a fire demon?”
I took a bite of bacon. Burnt almost to pure carbon, just the way I liked it. “It’s good to see you forged ahead in a spirit of heedless exploration despite your misgivings.”
“Well, we’ve got to eat.” He buttered some toast for us, then sat on the stool beside me at the counter. We ate and drank in silence, both deep in our thoughts.
“So—” we both said at once, and he laughed. “You go first.”
“Oh, I don’t know. I was thinking I should try to be a little more systematic about things. Search for the stuff from the sanctum, of course, but even beyond that. Do something approaching an inventory, and see if there’s any other weird stuff in the house. Try to get into the rooms I haven’t seen yet. There are bolt cutters in the shed, and I was going to lop off that padlock.” I pointed at the tall, narrow door in the corner of the kitchen. “See if my father had a study or something, maybe a journal—besides the magical inner sanctum and the incomprehensible blue book, that is. Try to understand, basically.”
“Very sensible. More sensible than I’d be in this situation. I was going to check on Melinda—the real Melinda. I wonder if you even met her at all, or if it was this Firstborn person all along. I figured I’d go to her cottage, mention your name, and see how she reacts.”
“Good idea. I like plans. They create a comforting illusion of sanity and order.”
“Want me to hang around while you cut off the padlock?”
“In case there are monsters behind the door? Sure, if you don’t have someplace you need to be.”
“It’s Saturday, and Saturdays are all mine. Not even a Sunday family dinner to endure.”
We finished up our breakfast, then went out into the yard. A row of blue jays sat on top of the old Studebaker truck, heads all cocked at exactly the same angle. Trey picked up a pebble and threw it with impressive precision, almost hitting the bird in the center, and they all squawked furiously and flew away. He glanced at me. “Uh. Sorry. I’m not a cruelty-to-animals guy, I promise. I just hate jays. Rats that think they’re angels.”
“You’ve got pretty good aim, counselor.” I went to the spiderweb-filled shed, fetched the bolt cutters, and we returned to the kitchen. I placed the hasp of the lock between the blades and then squeezed the long handles together, the awesome power of leverage shearing cleanly through the metal. “There,” I said, setting the bolt cutters aside. “No—”
The padlock healed, much like Trey’s twisted leg had unkinked itself the night before. The sliced arch of steel resealed itself, until the lock was whole again.
“You have got to be shitting me.” I stormed back outside, this time going around the side of the house to the messy heap of unsplit logs…and the axe I’d seen there the other day. The blade was dull, but the head was heavy, and if nothing else, it would serve as a sharper-than-average sledgehammer. I lugged it back into the kitchen, where Trey was inspecting the lock, but he backed off quickly when I came in holding an axe.
“The direct approach,” he said. “I like it.” He looked a little nervous, though, and kept his eyes on the axe.
“What, do you think I’m going to go all Lizzie Borden on you?”
“Ha. No, I just have a healthy respect for sharp edges in close quarters.” He grinned. “Though I have learned to watch myself around the Grace women.”
I snorted. He was joking about his near-death experience already. The guy was nothing if not resilient. More and more, I thought he was worth keeping around. “I wouldn’t use an axe on you, no matter how much you annoyed me. Way too messy. I’d hate to ruin that nice shirt.”
“Right. Just a point of clarification—are you trying to flirt right now? Because if so, you’re really, really bad at it.”
“Let’s not lose focus, counselor.” I lifted the axe and brought it down against the door in true
The Shining
fashion, smashing the blade right into the center of the upper panel. I half expected the axe to bounce off, like I’d banged it against a wall of steel, but the blade cut into the wood with a satisfying snap and crack. I wrenched the blade out, and caught a glimpse of the darkness beyond the door…just before the wood healed itself, sealing over without so much as a scratch left behind. I might as well have swung my axe at the surface of a pond.
“Okay, that’s weird,” Trey said. I rolled my eyes at the understatement. He shrugged. “On the plus side, a self-repairing house is a boon to the young homeowner.”
“Don’t you want to tear out your hair and scream, ‘
That’s impossible’
? You’re so levelheaded.” I leaned the axe against the wall in the corner.
“Don’t get me wrong. This is the weirdest stuff I’ve ever seen. But…look—I’m not saying people from around here are necessarily superstitious, but some of us have a more flexible relationship with empirical reality than you might realize. At least some of the old-timers do. I’ve seen a dowser walk around a piece of land holding a forked willow stick, and I’ve watched the stick jump in his hands, pulling and bending and pointing down at the right spot to dig a well. Maybe he was faking it, or even fooling himself into thinking the dowsing was something supernatural when he was just relying on a deep understanding of local geology and decades of experience—but it sure as hell looked like magic. My grandfather, whom you met—you couldn’t build a more skeptical and hard-nosed guy if you had a kit. But ask him if he believes in ghosts, and he’ll look at you like you’re an idiot and say, ‘Of
course
,’ just like if you asked him if he believed in, I don’t know, the estate tax. Believing in dowsing doesn’t mean I have to believe aliens built the pyramids or that ancient geniuses lived in the lost city of Atlantis or that whole tribes of bigfoots are hanging out in the Pacific Northwest, but I’m maybe a little more open-minded than the average lawyer.”
“Is bigfoots really the plural? Not bigfeet? Seems inelegant.” I sighed. “Do you mind if I go with you to check on Melinda? I think getting out of the house of magic doors might be good for me.”
“Sure thing.”
On the way out, I picked up the sword cane.
“You’re bringing the sword?”
“Trey. I have a magic sword. I’m going to take it
everywhere
. At least until I find a magic flamethrower or something. Healing us isn’t as good as smashing the Firstborn to pieces, but it’s better than nothing.”
We went outside, and I locked up the front door carefully, then looked at the ring of keys in my hand. “Did you say that old truck works? I should probably at least run the engine at some point.”
“Sure. We can take the Studebaker over to Melinda’s. You want to drive?”
“The thought of a manual transmission and all the hills around here fills my heart with terror, but I’ve got to face my fears at some point. Besides, if you’re with me and I stall out, I can make you get out and push the truck up the hill.”
“Your wish, my command.”
I opened up the creaking driver-side door of the truck—the door alone weighed about as much as a whole ordinary car—and climbed way up into the cab. Trey joined me from the passenger side. I put in the key, pushed down on the clutch, and turned on the engine.
The truck started right up, without so much as a cough or whine or grinding noise. What did cause alarm, though, is that the entire truck disappeared.
I shrieked and Trey said “Oh shit!” as the dirty windshield vanished, along with the dashboard, steering wheel, stick shift, rearview mirror, and the seats underneath us.
Everything
disappeared, and we seemed to be sitting in midair, supported by nothing at all. I could still feel the leather and loose springs under my ass, still feel the key in my hand, even the clutch under my foot, but it had all gone entirely transparent. My foot slipped off the clutch, the engine stalled and died, and everything reappeared: once more, we were sitting in an ordinary, old, totally noninvisible truck.