Annabel Scheme (10 page)

She was silent. Going through an inventory of demon friends, I assumed.

“When I left Grail and did
not
go into private equity,” she said finally, “I found a teacher.”

She pulled out onto the Embarcadero. Up ahead, the gray column of Fog City rose and intersected the black bar of the Bay Bridge to form a giant cross that cut the sky into indigo quarters.

“And I think she can help us.”

CARLOTTA

Scheme skirted Fog City, keeping the wall of gray on our left. The fog was more active than before—it was less a wall and more a waterfall, tumbling in slow-motion. It had been a while since I checked the feeds.

Scheme, you should know, Grail’s not working. Everyone is complaining.
You ask a question and don’t get anything back. It’s a black hole.

She made a low
hmmm
sound in her throat.

The Embarcadero was a wide street lined with palm trees that curved around the eastern edge of the city. Farther north, it was all sun and soup-in-a-breadbowl. Here, it ran like an alley between the gray boundary of Fog City and the black expanse of the bay. The Tata was the only car on the road.

Long, lonely piers stretched out into the water. Some were just ruins—half-submerged or reduced to skeletal pylons. Others still showed signs of habitation: rusty scooters parked in front, orange lights flickering through dirty glass.

Scheme pulled off the street into a narrow gravel lot. Outside the car, I could hear the lapping of the water. The bridge was almost directly above us; I traced it across the sky to it waypoint on Blood Island, then over to the glittering lights of Oakland, Alameda and the New Fleet.

Where the lot ended, there was a single skinny pier that stuck out into the bay. At the end of the pier there was a tugboat. It was short and squat, with a bulky cabin and a stubby round conning tower. The portholes were all decorated with dark curtains; it looked vaguely domestic, but also quite derelict.

“This is it,” Scheme said.

This is what?

“Her home.”

“Someone
lives
out there?” Nelson said. It was nice having someone else along to share the burden of incredulity.

“Her name is Carlotta,” Scheme said. “She was my teacher for a little while. She can help us.”

“Oh,” Nelson said. “Good.” It came out like a squeak.

Scheme took one step out onto the pier, and as her toe touched the first creaking plank, a light came on aboard the tugboat. It was a blue-green glow peeking out from behind the curtains.

Scheme turned back to Nelson. “I have to go alone,” she said. “That’s the rule.” She lifted each heel in turn, pulled off her shoes—simple black dance flats—and lined them up neatly. Then she jogged lightly down the pier towards the tugboat. Her feet flashed pure white against the dark, damp wood.

“I’ll just, ah, wait here,” Nelson called after us.

At the end of the pier, Scheme reached out to steady herself against the tugboat’s hull, then hopped over and in.

It was possible she had gone crazy. I reviewed my notes; she’d accumulated an awful lot of trauma points today. Also, there was the part where we connected to an interdimensional marketplace for souls and she found out that her ex-boyfriend had just traded a murdered merchant for some kind of world peace. There was that.

Back behind us, across the street, Fog City was churning like a soup set to simmer. And all across the internet, people were howling like it was the end of the world, because they couldn’t find anything. They were casting their questions into Grail, over and over, and nothing was coming back. Like coins down a wishing well.

The tugboat clanked against the pier in time with the waves, a slow metronome.
Clank. Clank
.
Clank.
Everything was quiet. Scheme rapped three times on the cabin door.

The door opened smoothly and standing inside was not a shrouded crone or a moss-haired monster, as I had expected. Rather, it was a young woman—younger than Scheme—with hair so blonde it was almost white. She was wearing snug jeans and a light blue work shirt, too big for her, sleeves rolled up around her elbows. Practical clothes. This was Carlotta.

“Annabel,” she said, without surprise—and without affection. Her eyes were cool and bright, bright blue.

“Hi, Carlotta,” Scheme said. “I’m sorry I haven’t visited sooner.”

The cabin was everything that Carlotta wasn’t. The walls were cracked and dripping with mold; dark water pooled on the floor. There were books stacked on shelves built into the wall, but they seemed to have decomposed and fused into a single bibliographic mass. An oil lamp, set on a low table that was also built in, was the source of the blue-green light. It made the whole cabin look like the belly of some giant sea creature. Some giant sea creature with a terrible disease.

I was glad I couldn’t smell it.

Carlotta sat lightly on a low bench next to the galley, which was also disgusting. She looked digitally composited into the scene around her, as if she was lit by the autumn sun, not that gross lamp. Like Scheme, she was barefoot.

“You
should
be sorry,” Carlotta said. “We’re not finished.”

Scheme nodded. I’d never seen her so meek. “I’ve been busy.”

“Too busy to learn things that make all that”—she waved a hand towards the city, towards Fog City—“look like children playing in a sandbox. You could be very powerful, Annabel.”

Scheme made no motion to sit; she didn’t even take another step into the cabin. “About that,” she said.

Carlotta smiled—a creeping, curling smile. “You need my help.”

Scheme nodded. “Someone I know made a deal with a demon.”

“It’s him, of course,” Carlotta said. “Your old boyfriend.”

Scheme was silent. I noticed something I hadn’t seen before: a row of easels set up at the far end of the cabin, at the tugboat’s helm, each with a painting in progress. They showed scenes of the city from various waterborne vantage points. They were classic post-card views, painted in cheery colors—except that each had a different skyline. One had the Shard as the focal point. Another was missing the Shard, but had a huge golden cylinder instead. A third showed a tall tower pointed like a pyramid.

“Of course I’ll help you,” Carlotta said, and her smile turned sweeter. “I’ll give you a hint.”

“I was hoping you could just—intervene,” Scheme said.

Carlotta shook her head. “No, no. A good teacher doesn’t just solve her student’s problem. I’ll give you a hint, a very good one. But,” she said, “it comes with a price.”

“What?”

“After you’ve figured it out and saved the day in the sandbox—after that, return here, and finish your training. Stay with me for a year and a day.”

Scheme breathed out, and it was shaky. She was never shaky.

“Okay,” she said. “I’ll come back.”

Carlotta nodded. “Good. Now, it couldn’t be easier. You need to introduce your friends to each other.”

Scheme was silent. Waiting. Then: “That’s it?”

Carlotta rolled her eyes. “Fine,” she said, “a hint
and
a gift.”

She stood, reached into the galley’s cupboard, and pulled out a small, glinting silver thing. It had a jointed body with dark feathers down one side and a single curving hook. It was a fishing lure. She cupped it in her hands, brought it to her mouth, whispered words to it. Then she reached out, smiling, dangling the lure.

“This,” she said, “will bring them together. I promise.”

Scheme held out her hand, like a child, and Carlotta dropped the silver lure into her palm. Without another word, Scheme turned and stepped back out through the door and as she closed it—almost slammed it shut—I saw Carlotta smoothing back her white-blonde hair, closing the cupboard, looking straight at us, smiling.

Scheme, are you really going to stay with her?

“Let’s not talk about it now,” she said, hopping out of the tugboat. “But yes. I’ll have to.” She retreated back up the pier.

I don’t understand the hint.

“Neither do I, not yet,” Scheme said, “but I trust her. Carlotta is always cryptic, but never wrong.”

Nelson was wandering in a slow circle around the car. Scheme snatched up her shoes with one hand and stepped onto the gravel with bare feet. At the sound, Nelson turned, and his eyes widened. Something was wrong. What?

“Annabel, hey,” he said. His eyes were wide, and they flitted around Scheme’s face like they couldn’t find a place to land. “What’s wrong with—”

Scheme cut him off. “I got what we need,” she said. “Let’s go.”

She sat in the driver’s seat with her feet out the door, pulling on her shoes. Nelson piped up, meekly: “It, ah, looks nice.” When Scheme swiveled around to start the car, I saw what he was talking about. Her face in the mirror was pale and drawn, and her hair wasn’t bright red but light blonde, almost white. Even as I watched, color was seeping back, edging in from the roots.

“Thanks,” she said. “Occupational hazard.”

We pulled out onto the Embarcadero and Scheme accelerated around the curve. The tugboat disappeared behind us. In the mirror, her face loosened. She broke the silence: “One time I lost it altogether,” she said. “Turns out it’s really cold without hair. Especially way out in the Richmond.”

Nelson laughed—an exaggerated guffaw. “Hey, I’m getting there,” he said, bowing his head down to show the premonition of a bald spot. “But”—he tugged his curly beard—“I have this to make up for it.”

“One time I grew a beard, too,” Scheme said.

“You’re making that up.”

She was stone-faced for a moment, then giggled. Nelson laughed, too. Scheme’s hair was full-red again, bright and coppery. Both of her hands were on the steering wheel and she guided the Tata along the curve of the street, looking straight ahead.

That was the last time I ever heard her laugh.

ANGELUS NOVUS

Scheme tried to kick Nelson out of the car on the corner of Mission Street. I mean, she really kicked him—foot in his face, heel striking dangerously close to his eyes—but he clung to his seat, protesting.

“You can’t just ask for my help, then ditch me!” he cried.

She relented, pulled away from the curb, and made a hard left into Fog City.

Scheme, I think he has a crush on you now.

She frowned, looked in the mirror right at me—she’d never done that before—and shook her head.

Oh, come on. If he figured out the loophole in a demonic contract
that ends up saving the day, that’s got to count for something.

She didn’t smile.

It was actually lighter in Fog City, as if photons that had wandered in during the day were still trying to find their way out. But the Shard was dark, without the tiniest twinkle of life. It was a chunk of black ice. Scheme parked right in front of it, directly across the street. She switched off the car, then palmed an earring and draped it across the rear-view mirror so it dangled down over the dashboard. Now I had one eye on her shoulder and another here in the Tata.

“Watch for cops,” she said, “or anything else.”

“Who, uh. Me?” Nelson said.

“Yes, you too,” Scheme said. “Back soon.”

The Shard's front doors slid open without resistance. The lobby was dark. No alarms rang. No queries scrolled across the giant screens. Maybe the Shard’s batteries had finally run out.

The same receptionist from before was slumped over the desk, head in her arms like she was sleeping. But I could see a spot under her nose—a dab of blood that looked black in the shadows. Another Grailer was sprawled out on the floor behind her, legs cycling slowly like he was treading water.

The elevators were still running, and Scheme pressed her palm against the call button. The doors swished open.

From Scheme’s other earring, dangling in the car outside, I watched the elevator climb up the side of the Shard. Inside, I saw her (and myself, I suppose)—she was a tall splotch of gray with a spark of red at the top, rising and fading into the fog.

Nelson was playing with the Tata’s radio, trying to find a station, but it was all static.

The forty-seventh floor was even darker than before.

Jad wasn’t at his desk. Scheme crept through the antechamber and into the short corridor. She took slow, steady steps, hugging the wall. Finally, she peeked into the floor beyond.

Jad was sitting at the makeshift tables, leaning into one of the screens. Sebdex was pacing the channels of the maze, walking slowly, muttering to himself, making his way towards the center. There, the quantum computer sat glimmering, just as before, with little flecks of yellow stuck to its plastic casing. But now there was something else laid out in the center, too. A long, black bag. A bag as big as a person. Oh no.

I could hear what Sebdex was saying:

“Who was Paul Klee? Who will I marry? What is a good credit score? What are the symptoms of goat flu? Where are you, Bel?”

Scheme’s breath caught and she tensed. But no, he didn’t know she was here. He was talking to the darkness. He continued:

“Why did China ban computers? What is the difference between brown and white eggs? What is love?”

It was a weird catechism of queries.

“It should be here by now,” Jad said, interrupting. I zoomed in on his screen. He was looking at Doctor Faustus; they could access it here, somehow.

“It will be here,” Sebdex said. His whip-and-bones voice again.

Scheme stepped into the maze.

Outside, from my perch in the Tata, I could see that the fog was creeping in towards the Shard, flowing along streets and alleys like water running, slowly, for the drain. Nelson was shifting nervously in the passenger seat, adjusting and readjusting his seat belt.

“Bel,” Sebdex said, turning to face her.

“Sebastian. Stop this,” Scheme said. Her hands were in her pockets. “I think it’s finally your last chance.”

Sebdex was breathing hard; the effort twisted and distorted his ribs. “I told you. I have a plan,” he said. “ I know how to do this, Bel. I’ve been outsmarting them for fifteen years.”

Scheme shook her head. “I’m looking right at you, Sebastian.” His body was a bent-over jumble. He was gaunt and bald. His face was a ruin; it was worse than Jack Zapp’s, because it wasn’t monstrous, just sad. “You haven’t outsmarted anyone.”