Back From the Undead (21 page)

“Scythes are fine. So what was the yelling last night about?” Eisfanger asks as he digs in.

“Nothing much,” I say. “Lucifer showed up, announced that Armageddon was starting, and apologized for all the confusion about the date. Apparently his prophecy department has been screwed up since he started outsourcing to another pantheon.”

“Uh, is that your usual mix of sarcasm and bizarreness, or are you upset with me?”

“Not really. I just wondered why you didn’t bother seeing for yourself. You know, what with all the screaming.”

He chugs down half a glass of orange juice before answering. “Oh. I heard Charlie charge in, and then you two talking, so I figured everything was okay. I was ready to back you up if you needed it, but—”

“But I didn’t. You’re right, I’m sorry. False alarm, just a bad dream.”

“Another one? About what?”

“Uh—just stuff.”

“What kind of stuff?” Eisfanger has that combination of curiousity and cluelessness on his face, more interested in new information than picking up any pesky social cues of inappropriateness.

I sigh. “I had a dream that ended badly, with me being chased by some kind of nebulous, evil entity. Okay?”

Eisfanger frowns. He puts down his fork. “No. Not okay. Tell me the whole thing, start to finish, and don’t leave out any details.”

I raise my eyebrows. “Well, some of it was kind of personal, so I don’t know if I feel comfortable with that—”

It’s Eisfanger’s turn to sigh. “Jace. You’re not embarrassed about stripping down for a doctor, are you?”

“Depends on how drunk I am. And if he’s a good tipper.”

He pauses, then shakes his head and continues. “I’m asking in a professional capacity, all right? As a trained shaman, I’d like you to describe your dream so I can determine whether or not you were attacked on the astral plane.”

Charlie lowers his newspaper. “Attacked?”

“Okay, okay,” I say. I tell him the whole thing, glossing over some of the more erotic parts. He listens attentively, not commenting until I’m completely done.

“Do you remember any distinctive odors?” he asks. “The smell of something burning, for instance?”

“No.”

“How about pain? Could you feel pain in the dream?”

“I didn’t feel anything like that, no.”

He pauses, balancing his thick chin on two stubby thumbs. “Hmmm. What about unearthly sounds—any sort of whining or keening noises, something actively unpleasant to hear?”

“Nope.”

“Okay, I don’t think you were attacked. Those are all markers that usually accompany an astral incursion. But this is the second disturbing dream you’ve had involving Cassius, and this one doesn’t sound normal.”

“So, what? A premonition?”

He shakes his head. “No, I don’t think so. More like someone was trying to contact you and having trouble doing it.”

“Cassius, you mean?”

“Not necessarily. The Cassius character might have been a symbolic representation of someone or something else. It could even be a pun—the brain loves to interpret language in creative ways.”

“So what’s the message being sent?”

He shrugs. “A warning, obviously. But other than that, I can’t say—there are just too many variables involved.”

Terrific. A mysterious someone is trying to warn me about a mysterious something, and my own brain is playing games with me. I feel like I’m being punished for every pun I ever made. Including that one.

“This is good news,” I say.

Charlie tosses his newspaper down on the table. “Absolutely.”

“Why?” Eisfanger asks.

“Nobody tosses around warnings unless you’re getting close to something they want you staying away from,” I answer. “So we’re definitely on the right track with Hemo.”

“What’s next?” Charlie asks.

“We ramp up the heat. I want you and Eisfanger to put in another appearance at Hemo, and this time I want the place checked out for masking spells. If those kids were really taken there, the place will be thoroughly masked, right?”

“That would make sense,” Eisfanger says. “But a corporate HQ doing sensitive R and D is going to have all kinds of wards up anyway, and we don’t have the warrants to peel them back and see what they’re hiding.”

“Doesn’t matter. I just want them to stay nervous, and get a feel for their defenses. If they’re trying to conceal something as specific as pire children there should be indications of it.”

Eisfanger nods, but he looks troubled. “I’ll see what I can find. How about you?”

“Thought I’d go to church.”

*   *   *

Church
isn’t really accurate, but where I have in mind
is
a place of worship. A shrine, to be exact—to a piece of sushi. And no, it’s not a restaurant, though my devotion to raw fish on rice does approach the religious. The sushi in question is called inari, which isn’t fish at all but a piece of fried tofu. It’s very common, kind of sweet, and named after a goddess: Inari, with a capital I.

Inari is kind of a big deal in the Shinto religion. Of all the thousands of Kami, she’s in the top five—in fact, over a third of all household Shinto shrines are devoted to her. She started out as a humble rice goddess, but became more and more popular over time, largely as a protector. After a few centuries, her responsibilities have grown considerably; she’s now prayed to by actors and prostitutes, by fishermen, by people who want to prevent fires, by women who want to bear children. She’s seen as a deity of desire, as the goddess you can go to when you need something.

But most of all, she’s the patron saint of two very specific professions: warriors … and blacksmiths.

It was my encounter with Funado that got me thinking along these lines. On the surface my problem might seem purely physical, one of diminishing resources, but I can’t see any way to resolve it except through the metaphysical. Even though it goes against my own stubborn sense of self-reliance to ask for help, I realize I’m fighting a losing battle on my own. When in Rome, do as the Romans do—and I’ve been stranded in Rome for a while now, with my supplies running low. Time to swallow my pride, slip into a gladiator outfit, and practice my Latin.

Besides—if I can’t share a little girl-talk with someone who’s fond of sashimi, ass-kicking, and a well-crafted piece of lethal steel, who else would I go to?

According to my laptop, the shrine is in an area next to the heritage district of Gastown, in a lane called Blood Alley. Not exactly welcoming, but in a world of pires it’s really no more ominous a name than Bourbon Street. The neighborhood is obviously Japanese: corner stores with posters of cute anime animals in the windows, an average of two-point-five noodle shops per block, even pagoda-style roofs on the bus shelters.

Blood Alley is just that, an alley. It smells of rotting fish and rancid grease, it’s got Dumpsters lined up at regular intervals, and even features a picturesque drunk snoring off his latest bender while slumped against an upended shopping cart. I can tell he’s a thrope, because he’s not wearing any shoes and his feet are large, hairy and clawed. I wonder if he howls in his sleep.

Most of the buildings that line the alley face the street, and from the rear it’s difficult to tell much about them. What I mainly see are locked, featureless metal doors set into aging brick walls.

Until I get to the halfway point.

The shrine itself is in a narrow slice of land, flanked on either side by taller buildings. It’s a three-story structure, an old, Victorian-style house with a steeply pitched roof, and it’s set at the very front of the lot, as far from the alley as possible.

Not because it’s trying to distance itself, though. It’s to leave room for the arches—each one a classic Japanese
tori,
like an angular upside-down U with two beams across the top, the top one slightly bowed and the ends sticking out to either side. There are a long line of them, at least twenty, painted bright red and about ten feet high, placed directly next to one another so they form a kind of squared-off tunnel that leads all the way to the shrine itself.

I pause at the first one. It’s flanked on either side by two white statues of some kind of animal; the sculptures are so stylized it’s hard to tell what they’re supposed to represent. Might be a wolf, might be a cat—hell, with that tail it could even be a squirrel. I shrug and walk under the first arch.

Either there’s some kind of magic at work or the acoustics are cleverly designed, because by the time I’ve taken a dozen steps the noise of the city has faded away to nothing. I can smell the first faint tickle of incense, something that reminds me of cherry blossoms. Each of the
toris
has a line of intricate
kanji
symbols painted down the vertical beams.

The arches end at the foot of a staircase, an ordinary set of wooden steps leading upward and onto a porch. More of the same statues on either side of the doorway, with incense burning on top of them. I go inside.

The interior is small and spare. White paper lanterns hang from the ceilings. The shrine itself looks like a dollhouse-size temple, a miniature pagoda with its own set of steps sitting on a waist-high platform of dark, polished wood. Vases with sprays of green foliage sit to either side, and
kanji
-covered banners hang down from the walls behind it. A tiny set of red
toris
like the ones I just walked under march up the miniature steps. I seem to be the only one here.

I stare at the shrine for a long time. I realize I have no idea how to do this, of what to say or even how to begin—and considering how important protocol is in Japanese culture, I’d better do it right the first time. There are times you can get away with being a wiseass and times you can’t, and asking cosmically powerful beings to do you a favor is definitely in the
can’t
column.

“You seem to be having trouble,” a voice says behind me.

I turn. There’s a monk standing there in a crimson robe, a pire with snow-white hair tied back and a little white beard. It’s unusual to see pires that appear old, but I guess even the occasional senior citizen got turned back in the day. This one smiles at me and asks, “First time here?”

“Yes. Guess it shows, huh?”

“A little.” His tone is gently amused. “Do not be nervous. Inari, for all her power, is a gentle spirit. She rarely turns away those in need.”

“Well, that’s good, because I’m definitely a gal in need.”

“Perhaps I can help. What is it you require of her?”

“More of these.” I hold up what I’ve been clutching in one hand ever since I walked through the door: my last bullet.

The monk bends forward slightly, studying it. “Most curious,” he says. “What is it, a talisman?”

“I guess. A talisman of high velocity. Mainly, though, it’s a weapon. Normally I have a bunch of these, but I’m down to my last one—and they’re strictly one-use only.”

“I see. You cannot obtain more?”

“No. I could make them myself—but there’s a powerful spell preventing me. That’s what I was hoping Inari could help me with.”

“Ah. You require her assistance as the benefactor both of warriors and of those who work metal.”

“Pretty much, yeah.”

The monk frowns. “While Inari does offer her help to many—and her presence is most often felt in the heat of the forge or of battle—she does not involve herself with sorcery. That is the domain of other gods, and even gods must respect propriety.”

“What? But—okay, I’m a little lost here. I thought sorcery was pretty much what all this was about.”

Now the monk looks offended. “You are most assuredly mistaken. Prayers and spells are not the same thing. One is respectful; the other demands. Lower spirits may be compelled or bribed, but a goddess such as Inari is above such crudeness. She cannot help you in regard to a mere
enchantment
.” He says the last word like it tastes bad and he wants it out of his mouth as soon as possible.

“Hey, there’s nothing mere about this spell, okay? It’s been around for centuries, it affects every single person on the planet, and most people didn’t even know it
existed
until I showed up.”

His white eyebrows go up. “That sounds most implausible.”

“If you think
that’s
implausible, take a look at this.” I take my gun out of its holster and show it to him.

“What is this?”

“It’s my weapon. It’s extremely powerful. With the proper ammunition, it can kill a pire, a thrope, or a bull moose from a hundred yards away … but that’s not the best part. The best part is that—despite how deadly it is—you won’t take it seriously. You
can’t
. I can demonstrate it to you right here and now, and you’ll
still
think of it as some sort of unreliable gimmick. That’s how the spell works.”

He regards me seriously for several seconds. “You can prove what you claim?”

“Sure. Just follow me out to the alley.”

“Very well.” He motions me toward the door.

I choose one of the Dumpsters as my victim. This bullet isn’t one of the special silver-tipped, carved teak bullets I normally carry; it’s unaltered, a .454 round designed to deliver around sixteen hundred pounds of foot-pressure to its target.

I make sure the Dumpster doesn’t hold any sleeping drunks first, then stride back to where the monk waits skeptically. I really hope this is worth using up my last shot.

“Okay,” I say. “Let’s be clear. Would you agree that a weapon that can put a large hole in that Dumpster from this far away is a force to be reckoned with?”

“I suppose I would.”

“But once you see it, you won’t. You’ll think it’s a fluke, or a trick, or just meaningless. You’ll rationalize it away. No matter how hard you try, you won’t be able to think of what I’m about to show you in anything but negative terms.”

“Proceed.”

I turn, raise the Ruger, and fire. I guess I should have warned the monk about the noise—the Super Redhawk roars like an angry grizzly when I don’t have Eisfanger’s magic silencer on it. The Dumpster bucks like it was kicked by an elephant and rolls back a good six feet. There’s now a baseball-size hole in the side.