Back From the Undead (25 page)

I hold out my hand, which Roger 2.0 stares at for a moment before taking and letting me pull him to his feet.

“Sorry about that. Thought you were someone else.”

“That’s okay. Didn’t actually hurt—nothing does, here. Just caught me by surprise is all.”

I nod. “So. This is it, huh? The End of the Line, the Big Finish, the Final Reward?”

“The Afterlife, you mean?”

“That’s where I was going, yeah.”

He gives me a big, beatific smile. “Well, you don’t have to worry about where you’re going, not anymore. You’re
here
. Welcome to Heaven…”

I just stare at him.

Game over. Apparently, I won.

Now
what?

*   *   *

I wish I could say things aren’t that simple. But—according to Roger, anyway—they really are.

He tells me as much as he can. Yes, he’s exactly who and what he seems to be. Yes, there’s a lot more to Heaven than what I see—this is just the part of it he and his fellow villagers prefer.

We’re sitting on a bench in the center of the village. The longer he talks, the more I believe him—it’s not so much what he says, it’s everything around him. The air is too fresh, too clean. The smells are universally pleasant. The colors are slightly oversaturated, better than real, and every sound has this wonderful, crisp quality. Even the bench I’m sitting on somehow seems like the best bench ever, the smooth cool surface of the stone exactly right. It’s like the whole place was run through a very fine conceptual mesh and had every little flaw removed.

“—so that was how I died,” Roger says. “I don’t mind talking about that. But some things I can’t discuss … like the Powers in charge here. You understand that, right?”

“Not really. What, even in Paradise I need security clearance?”

“There are some things the living aren’t ready to know.”

“You mean I’m still alive?”

He grins. “Oh, yes. I didn’t realize right away, but I’ve been …
advised
since then.”

Sure. Angels whispering in his ear, no doubt. “So if I’m still alive, what am I
doing
here? You guys decide to explore the possibilities of tourism or something?”

Now Roger looks a little uncomfortable. “No, of course not. But this isn’t exactly without precedent; living souls have been given glimpses of Heaven before.”

Sure—prophets, usually. Not NSA agents who’ve been kidnapped by vampire Yakuza warlords. “
Why
am I here?”

“I don’t know. How did you get here?”

“It wasn’t my choice.” I tell him about the bell, and what happened when Isamu struck it.

He nods. “Magic, then. Powerful sorcerers can visit other planes of existence—even this one—though they can’t stay for long. This Isamu—he’s waiting for you on the hill?”

“So he says.”

“He can’t go far from the bell. I’m surprised you can, actually.”

“Maybe he’s planning on stranding me here.”

Rogers shakes his head. “Can’t be done. When he goes back, you’ll go with him.”

He tilts his head abruptly, as if he’s listening to something I can’t hear, then smiles. “Oh. I see.”

“What?”

“You’re here to see
me,
of course.”

“Why?”

“You’ll have to figure that one out yourself.”

My eyes narrow. My Roger had a tendency toward smugness that I never liked, and this one has it, too. Come to think of it, from what Stoker told me about this guy, he shared a few other traits with my version. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but … you don’t seem like you really belong here.”

He looks back at me mildly. “Why would you say that?”

“Because I knew someone a lot like you—practically a twin, in fact. And he wouldn’t make the cut for a place like this, not in a thousand years.”

“Then I guess he and I aren’t that much alike after all, are we?”

Hard to argue with that—but that’s never stopped me. “Oh, I think you are. You were a car salesman, right? Liked to deal a little Bane on the side?”

He looks puzzled. “I worked for a car dealership, sure—but I never sold drugs. I was never in any trouble at all until those terrorists kidnapped me.”

“That’s not what I was told.”

“Oh? And who told you, exactly? The guy who killed me?”

I open my mouth, then shut it again. Of course Stoker would have told me that his victim was a scumbag; he was trying to convince me to join him at the time. This Roger grew up in a very different world from the man who betrayed me—and maybe he grew up to be a better person, too. It all comes down to Nature versus Nurture, I guess, and which one has the greater effect.

I look around at where this Roger wound up, and I’m forced to admit that maybe—just maybe—he turned out to be a reasonably decent human being.

As if he’s reading my mind, Roger says, “Okay, I was far from perfect. I probably got by a little too much on charm. I could be selfish. But I wasn’t a monster—I was just
human
. Like you.”

“And like everyone else here?”

He hesitates, just for a second. “Oh, no. Heaven isn’t divided into
species,
Jace. This village is mostly human because we feel comfortable with one another, but there’s nothing exclusionary about it. There are other villages—and towns, and cities, and islands, and forests … every environment you can think of. Everyone is free to come and go as they wish.”

“So … what exactly do you
do
with all this freedom?”

“Whatever we want, Jace. Whatever we want.”

I think about that. “Well, I can tell you one thing—given unlimited freedom, the Roger I knew wouldn’t be spending it in an idyllic little village smelling wildflowers.”

“I’m not the man you knew, Jace. But I think I understand why you’re supposed to talk to me.”

I shift on the bench to study him. “Why?”

“Incentive.”

“Incentive to do what? Die? Now,
that’s
a strategy I haven’t seen before: Go ahead and get yourself killed, it’s not so bad.”

“I don’t think that’s it. I think maybe you just need to believe in redemption.”

Maybe he’s right. Maybe this Roger being here, now, is supposed to show me that people can change, that there’s some good in all of us.

Yeah, sure. Except that the person who brought me here is not a good person, and never will be. In fact, I’m amazed he can come within a thousand dimensions of this place without bursting into flame, let alone be able to set foot here. I have no idea what Isamu is trying to pull—maybe it’s some sort of bribe instead of a threat? If so, I’m still not getting it.

I guess I’d better go ask him.

*   *   *

It doesn’t take me long to trudge back up the hill. Isamu’s sitting cross-legged beside his bell like some kind of busker with the world’s most inappropriate instrument.

“Okay, I’ve been to town and seen the sights. What’s your point?”

He gets to his feet with one smooth, fluid motion. “You talked to Mr. Trent?”

“I did.”

“You believe he is who he says he is? That this place is what he claims it to be?”

I sigh. “I grilled him pretty thoroughly on how he died. He had all the details right. And this place—well, if it’s not Heaven, it’s a damn good imitation.”

“It is exactly what it seems to be, Ms. Valchek. I am a powerful man, but surely you do not believe that even I could create an entire plane of reality simply to fool you?”

“Okay, I’ll grant that this seems to actually be some sort of … other-dimensional realm populated by spirits. So I’m going to say it again—
what
is your
point
?”

His answer is to turn and strike the bell again.

Once more, everything starts to vibrate. I’m a little more prepared this time, but it’s still unpleasant and disorienting and goes on for far too long.

We’re back where we started, beside the pond. I shake my head, trying to clear it, feeling slightly nauseous.

“Here is my point, Ms. Valchek. You are interfering in matters that do not concern you, and this is complicating things that should remain simple. I can forgive the attack on my blood farm, because you were obviously duped into it by Aristotle Stoker. What I cannot countenance is your meddling in the affairs of the Hemo Corporation. It is simply a business, one poised to become quite profitable through entirely legitimate methods, and your blundering about has the potential to disrupt delicate negotiations now under way. I will not have this.”

He turns to me, his hands clasped behind his back. “You will leave this city, this province, this country. You will abandon your investigation. Or I will bar you from Heaven for eternity.”

I have to hand it to him; as far as overreaching, grandiose threats go, this has to be near the very top. “And how do you plan to do that? You expect me to believe you have some kind of deal with—”

“It is not a question of any sort of ‘deal.’ I used the principle of Cosmic Harmonics to bring you to Heaven, and I used the same method to bring you back. But the return trip was not quite the same, was it?”

I don’t answer. But he’s right—it felt different, subtly wrong, like hearing an instrument that’s out of tune. I can still feel it, actually, a kind of subliminal vibration in my body and brain.

“I altered your essential being,” Isamu says. “On an extremely basic level. Your spirit cannot return to that place, not ever—it will reject your very soul. Your own shamans will verify your condition. It is one that will last for the rest of your life and even beyond … unless, of course, you do exactly as I say.”

SIXTEEN

The cops drive me back to the downtown core. They even give my scythes back. I don’t say much during the trip, and neither do they—not until the very end, after they’ve let me out of the car. Before he gets back into the passenger seat, the pire says, “Word of advice? Whatever he wants, let him have it. Nobody crosses this guy and lives to talk about it.”

That almost makes me laugh. Almost. “Funny. It’s not the living part I’m worried about.”

The pire gets back in the patrol car, and they drive off. Guess I can’t count on backup from local law enforcement.

I have a lot to think about on my walk back to the hotel. I call Charlie and Eisfanger on the way, tell them I’m all right and that I need Damon to do a thorough check on the status of my soul. He says he’ll have everything set up by the time I get there.

It’s still dark, but dawn’s not far off. It’s probably stupid of me to even be on the street at this time, but I don’t want to take a cab. I need to keep moving. And frankly, I feel sorry for anyone foolish enough to try to mug me right now.

Heaven. No Jace Valcheks allowed. What does that even
mean
? Do I go straight to the other place, or does my condition keep me out of there, too? Do I spend eternity pinballing back and forth, or do I wind up like a metaphysical bug squashed against God’s windshield or Satan’s grille? Is there some kind of bargain-basement afterlife I could get into instead, maybe a place with harmonicas and roller skates instead of harps and wings?

Maybe there’s an appeal process. I mean, how does an evil piece of crap pire get away with dictating terms to the Almighty, anyway? Can’t I lodge a formal complaint? Or just march into a church and demand to speak to a supervisor?

Oy.

This is too big to wrap my brain around. I don’t even know if Isamu’s telling the truth yet; I’ll have to see what Damon says. In the meantime, I’m determined to treat it the same way I treat any threat to my personal safety—ignore it, put my head down, and charge straight ahead.

When I get to the hotel, I go right to Eisfanger’s room. He and Charlie are waiting for me; Damon’s already got the bed shoved against the wall and a warded circle set up on the floor.

“That’s it,” Charlie says. “I’m getting a pair of bracelets with a nice thick chain, and one of ’em is going around your wrist.”

“Do me a favor and lock the other one to an angry wolverine, would you? I could use the peace and quiet.”

Eisfanger tells me to sit inside the circle. He holds a small metal bowl level with my breastbone and runs a stubby finger steadily around the rim. An eerie tone rises up from the bowl, then starts to pulse. Eisfanger stops what he’s doing. He looks worried.

“That’s—not good,” he says.

“So Isamu was telling the truth?”

“I need to do more tests.”

Which he does. He draws blood, he chants, he taps away on his laptop. He raps a tuning fork in the vicinity of my chakras and listens carefully to the result. He burns some herbs, rubs the soot into my spine, and makes me spit in a copper goblet.

Charlie watches all this with his arms crossed, leaning against the wall. I can’t tell if he’s angry at me, at Isamu, or himself. Probably all three.

“It’s not your fault, Charlie. It was a total fluke that I wound up in the hands of two corrupt cops.”

“Uh-huh. So how’d your middle-of-the-night meeting in the graveyard go?”

“Um … fine.”

“Get your little ammunition problem cleared up?”

“Well, not really. Turned out to be sort of a dead end.”

“Much like the fate of your immortal soul?”

“Maybe. Ask Eisfanger.”

Eisfanger looks up from his laptop. “I can tell you this much for sure: Yes, you’ve had your harmonic balance altered. I can’t reverse the situation, and I doubt anyone but Isamu can. And yes, the spell seems to be keyed to a particular dimensional frequency, and structured to resonate just out of sync with it. Wherever he took you, you’re not going back.”

“That much I figured. The real question is, was that Heaven or not?”

Eisfanger looks deeply troubled. “I don’t know.”

“What do you mean, you don’t know? You’re a shaman
and
a scientist—you took readings, you measured things, you studied the data. How can you know the dimensional frequency of someplace and
not
know whether or not it has Pearly Gates at the entrance?”

Eisfanger shakes his head. “For one thing, because there are a
lot
of spiritual realms. For another, information on any sort of afterlife tends to be contradictory, incomplete, and impossible to quantify. It’s nothing but a collection of personal experiences that rarely mesh with one another. Most people agree there’s some kind of existence after death, but exactly what kind is highly subjective. About the only thing that’s anywhere near consistent is cultural influence—people from the same ethnic background tend to have the same kind of experience.”