No Hero (27 page)

I blanch. But maybe that’s good news. “That means they’re pretty much impervious to the Progeny, right?”

“They’re essentially minor gods,” Shaw says. “The Progeny may be powerful and inhuman, but they’re not powerful the way the Dreamers are. The Feeders are, but not the Progeny.”

“And the Feeders...” I say

“They’d destroy the realities the Dreamers exist on. So I can’t imagine the Dreamers letting them in.”

“Fair enough,” I say, nodding. “So, the Dreamers’ presence here maybe doesn’t hurt us. Maybe it does help us somehow.” I pause. “I just can’t see how.”

“Neither can I.” Shaw cracks her knuckles. “But one of them making contact with you, trying to give you information. That can’t be a bad thing.”

I think about it. “They’re trying to help?”

“I would guess so.” Shaw shrugs. “They may not be very good at it, but they’re a powerful ally to have.”

And that actually makes me feel good. The Dreamers are on our side. My side. I smile. “Thanks,” I say to Shaw. For a moment I almost ask her if she wants to grab a pint with me before I crash out.

A knock at the door cuts that idea short.

“Yes,” Shaw says, but the door’s already opening. Someone has a sense of propriety. So it’s no one from the team.

The man is a narrow, gray-looking fellow. I think he was probably once my height but either scoliosis or terrible posture advice means that he’s staring directly at our feet. His face has an emaciated look with thin lines crossing the skin. Gray hair is swept back away from a prominent forehead. He points at me with one spidery finger, which at first glance gives the impression of having more than the requisite number of joints, and it is a while before I can convince myself that it’s quite normal.

“Is now a bad time?” he asks Shaw, then plunges on without waiting for a reply. “Well, this will only take a minute,” he says. I recognize the high-pitched needling voice at once. Robert, the whiner. The one with the purse strings who wanted to cut me from the team.

“This Peru trip is bullshit, Felicity,” he says to Shaw. “Bottom line. I’m not approving it. You’re going to have to find alternate means of funding. And I don’t think your salary quite covers it.” He gives a nasty acrid laugh, as if this is meant to be a joke.

And someone does laugh. A woman still on the other side of the door. I can’t see her, but it’s a lush sound, utterly in contrast to Robert’s.

Neither Shaw nor I join in, though. “It’s happened, Robert,” Shaw says with a sigh. “I wasn’t submitting for approval. I was submitting for reimbursement.”

Robert turns a dangerous shade of purple. The word, “What?” manages to hiss out from between his quivering lips. And who is this man? What sort of game does he think we’re playing? What sort of stakes does he think there are? I’m tempted to give him several large pieces of my mind.

“I submitted the forms Robert, expedited. I ticked all the boxes. But I didn’t have weeks to wait for an approval. I needed a rapid retrieval.”

“Look, Felicity,” Robert says Shaw’s name as if it were a curse. “I thought I had made the financial situation plain to you.” He clips each of his words, keeping them separate from the others, giving him an odd stilted tone. “The budget is not there. You can hardly afford maintenance of another old book, let alone the price of going after it.”

“Well, Robert,” Shaw’s tone is barely any more civil, “then we shall have to investigate new methods of finding the money.”

“Maybe we’ll have to cut some of the higher-paid staff.”

It’s a vicious little thing to say from a vicious little man. And before I know it my mouth is open and I have my own vicious things to say.

“How much do you get paid?” I ask.

His head snaps around. “What?”

I pause a moment. Because this is not the sort of thing I do. Or not the sort of thing I did. But it’s the sort of thing Kurt Russell would do, goddamn it. And I have faced down bigger monsters than this guy in the past few days. And I think I can take him.

“Well,” I shrug, “if we’re cutting people, shouldn’t we evaluate each individual’s salary? Try and work out what it is they bring to the team?” While he splutters, I let a frown crease my forehead. “What is it exactly that you’re bringing to the team?”

It is only there for an instant, but I swear I see Shaw smile.

“Can you not even control your staff, Felicity?” Robert hisses.

Shaw feigns confusion. “You seem to assume I disagree with Agent Wallace.”

I almost reach over and high five Shaw.

He swings his gaze on me, eyes black and flaring. “Director Shaw cannot offer you protection for long. Too many black marks and you will not enjoy the benefits of this organization. There are things out there that I would not like to meet without backup.”

“Oh shut up, Robert,” Shaw says, and I could almost hug her for it. Instead I swallow the ball of laughter and clamp it down in my stomach.

Robert turns, stalks out of the room. As he does so, I, for a moment, glimpse the woman who was standing there, who laughed at the little man’s little joke. I manage to get a glimpse of blond hair, red dress, and curves that would make the tires of a race-car squeal. And then she is gone.

And she laughed at his joke? There is no justice in the world. And I used to be a policeman. I should know.

I pull myself back together and turn back to Shaw, who’s looking at her watch. “OK,” she says, “now I could definitely use a drink.” She pushes against her forehead with her hands. “Too long a week by half.” She sighs, looks up. “Thank you. Robert is... manageable, but it’s always nice to have...” she pauses, lets the smile creep out for a moment again, “...backup.”

“I want you to know you can trust me.”

She lets out something that’s almost a laugh. Then she’s serious again. “Look, Arthur,” she says, “I don’t know how much help I’ve been. The Dreamers concern me, but I can’t tell you much more than you can figure out on your own. But you were a detective. Do some detecting. Try talking to the Twins. When we’re confused they’re often our best resource.”

“Sounds like a plan for the morning.”

“Indeed.” She opens a closet, pulls out a coat. I hold the door. She pauses there.

“Would you—” she looks awkward— “want to join me for the drink?”

My eyebrows bounce up and I immediately pull the irresponsible little buggers right down. “Sure,” I say, hoping she didn’t notice.

We step out into the corridor and see Clyde coming toward us. He’s still wearing the mask from Peru around his shoulder.

“Oh,” he says, “not too late am I? Just wanted to talk about the book we found, about the Dreamers and such.”

I look at Shaw, who looks tired.

“No,” she says, “not too late.” She turns back to her office.

“How about we do it down the pub,” I say. “Easier to talk with a pint in our hands.”

Clyde looks at me as if I’ve committed blasphemy. Shaw pulls the same eyebrow bounce I just did. And apparently this is an office culture faux pas I’m still too new to really grasp.

Then Shaw shrugs. “Yes,” she says. “Yes, that would be easier.”

I don’t think Clyde would look more shocked if a Feeder punched through reality right here and now and started dancing the two-step.

We head over to the Turf, which is a charmer of a pub, tucked away near a few of the colleges. It’s a bit of a trek from the office, but utterly worth it as I sag into an oak chair, and Clyde, who is decent enough to buy the first round, sets an amber pint down in front of me.

“So, this book,” Shaw says to Clyde, “tell us about it.”

“It’s reality magic,” Clyde says, “all of it.” His fingers bounce on the table. He’s excited. Has been ever since the flight landed.

So has Tabitha.

“I think this could be as big as the book about the Feeders. Just, well... less traumatic to read.”

More pint sipping quickly ensues all around the table as we all briefly relive the horrors of that experience.

“I mean,” Clyde continues, “I’m only just scratching the surface, Tabby’s doing the real work...”

And there’s that boyish grin again. It’s a little bit infectious. I wonder if Shaw knows, if I should tell her. Or maybe I should let it alone. Reality will impinge on the relationship soon enough. Devon will impinge on it. My smile slips. I wouldn’t want to be in Clyde’s shoes for that one.

“I mean... using this—” Clyde is struggling to find words to describe the enormity of his vision “—we could probably plot out other realities. I mean, the whole thing is basically a guidebook for creating your own spells. And I know, I know, I know...” He holds up a palm to Shaw. “The whole Chernobyl thing. But they didn’t have this book. We could do the experiments in Wales. Who’d miss Wales?”

I snort into my pint. Shaw clucks slightly.

“I’m sorry.” Clyde rubs his hands. “But this is so exciting. Like getting the girl of your... well, you know, just, very exciting. And even if we can’t... even if it doesn’t do all it seems to be promising to do, I still think this is a genuine break. This gives us some real insight into what the Progeny might actually be doing, how they think they can bring the Feeders through.”

Something clicks in my brain. Perhaps it’s the beer finally unknotting some of the kinks I’ve had in my thoughts since starting this job. Maybe I’m just not thinking straight and I needed to go at a lateral angle, but events start collating in my head.

Something to do with unwelcome guests.

And throwing Robert out of Shaw’s office.

Something about the Dreamers coming, entering our reality.

“Can we throw them out?” I say.

Shaw and Clyde both look at me.

“I mean...” I say, hesitate, almost lose the thought, then, “the Progeny. Out of people’s heads. I mean that’s the problem, right? And we’ve tried to get the Progeny out of our entire reality, and instead we pulled Dreamers in. But maybe we don’t have to be that dramatic. Instead of getting them out of reality, we just get them out of people’s heads. Because... well, if the Progeny don’t have a nest what can they do? They can’t breed. They can’t operate. Is there something in the book that can help with that?”

They both stare at me. I feel like I just spoke in tongues at them. Then Shaw’s head swivels and suddenly it’s me and her staring at Clyde.

“Err...” he says, looks down at his pint, goes for the sip to put some alcohol between him and the collective stare. “Maybe?” He sips again. Then more enthusiastically. “Maybe. Yeah maybe. I mean, I’d have to read more. A lot more.” He looks excited at that prospect. “But perhaps there’s something in there.”

“Read,” Shaw says. “Find out.” She pats me on the arm. “Good thought, Arthur.”

We both look at the hand. Almost sheepishly, she pulls it away. We both look up at Clyde, who takes a very, very long sip.

There is, I admit, a decent chance my vision of magical research was overly influenced by Harry Potter. I was pretty sure test tubes would be involved. Jars of unnameable fluids. Bits of mythological creatures. Probably a cauldron. And, I was rather hoping, the occasional explosion.

In reality there is a table and a large pile of very old books with colored plates. Though, in defense of young Master Potter, there are two people making eyes at each other over the book pile when they think no one else is looking.

As much as I like Tabitha and Clyde, it’s a relief when I remember Shaw’s advice, and excuse myself to go and see if the Twins can shed any light on matters.

The elevator doors slide open. The familiar sea-salt smell. Familiar shapes in the water and shadows on the walls. One of the girls is leaning on the side of the pool, wet hair draped over the tiles around it. The other slips through the water around her, bobbing up and down, barely disturbing the water as tentacles wave around her— the Loch Ness monster in miniature.

What happened to them? What was done that made them into these aquatic, prophetic creatures? And what’s going to happen to them? Am I really going to be able to stop anything?

More than ever I am reminded about what colossal bastards the Progeny really are.

“Hello, Agent Wallace,” says one of the girls. I am too far away to count freckles and know which one.

“Can we call you Arthur?” says the other, surfacing and swimming to the edge.

“Agent Wallace is more polite,” says the first.

“Arthur is what Shaw calls him,” says the second.

“Director Shaw,” corrects her sister.

Swann would have liked the girls. The thought strikes me suddenly, unexpectedly.

Ouch.

“You can call me Arthur,” I say, smiling through the mental confusion.

“We’re sorry about Alison,” Ophelia says. I’m close enough now to see it’s her. The first speaker.

“Time makes it better,” says Ephie.

Ophelia nods. “We’ve seen it before.”

Ouch again.

“Sorry,” says Ephie. Ophelia just shrugs with the certainty of youth—this was something I apparently needed to hear. She’s probably right.

“It’ll hurt for a while,” Ephie says. “But then less.”

“Yes,” I say. And then, “I’m not going to let them get you.” I’m surprised by how fiercely I feel it.

“We know you’ll try your best,” says Ophelia.

I don’t really know what to say to that. Not a ringing endorsement. But not a condemnation. Still, I mean what I say. I will do everything I can to stop the Progeny. Anything.

“You wanted to ask us something,” Ophelia says. She’s more serious than her sister. The difference is more pronounced between them than the last time I was here. Though there’s a decent chance I’d get grumpy if I were living with a death sentence over my head.

Man, it’s hard to have a happy thought in this place.

“Yes,” I say. “I wanted to ask you about—”

I cut myself off. Something has caught my eye. Something red in the water. Black dots floating in the center of a red haze. Something shifting beneath the surface of the pool.

Blood. It looks like blood in the water. Clots at its heart slowly dissolving away.

Blood. Why would there be blood in the water?

Unthinking I reach out to touch it. The girls stare at me, uncomprehending. Then, with my fingers a fraction of an inch above the water, they seem to understand fully what I am about to do.