Back From the Undead (33 page)

“You don’t just hang around temples to Inari looking for people to screw with. You’re one of her messengers, charged with doing her work. Correct?”

“Well, yes…”

“Oops, that was another question. Wasn’t it?” I grin, and keep going. “And I’m thinking she may not be too happy with you goofing around when you’re supposed to be on the job. You got away with it the first time I showed up because I didn’t really know what I was doing. But not this time. I brought the offerings, I lit the incense, and I’m doing my best to put myself in a devout frame of mind. Because, hey, I think Inari and I will hit it off just fine; she’s a goddess of warriors, after all.”

“I told you, Inari won’t get involved in the affairs of other gods—”

“I know what you told me. You also told me you liked biting off people’s heads while masquerading as an oversize Halloween novelty.”

“I was just kidding about that. Didn’t you notice my whole skull was made of plastic? Including the teeth? I wasn’t really going to chomp you, just nibble a bit. For fun.”

I almost believe him—but, like all tricksters, he has a tendency to take his jokes a little too far. “Sure. Point being, you’ve proven I can’t take you at your word. Which means Inari and I need to have a little chat without you around. An honest and frank exchange of information.”

He gives me his widest, most charming smile. “I’d love to help you out, but Inari’s kind of busy this millennium, so check back in a thousand years or so and I’m sure I’ll be able to fit you in—”

That’s when I recite the phrase Eisfanger taught me. It’s a simple shamanic invocation, one of the most basic things you can learn, and has only one function: to get the attention of the shrine’s Kami.

Zevon goes pale. “Hold on. There’s no need for that.”

You need to say the phrase three times for full effectiveness, and according to Eisfanger there’s no way Zevon can stop me once I’ve started. Against the rules. I give him my sweetest smile and say it again.

“All right, all right!” He holds up his hands imploringly. “I’m sorry, okay? All in good fun, nobody got hurt. No need to mention any of this to the Boss.”

“Nobody got hurt? Tell that to my friend Tanaka.”

“That wasn’t my fault! Look, Dagon was coming after you anyway; I didn’t tell him where you were, I just sort of made sure you were in the general vicinity. Better the beach than your hotel, right?”

He has a point. “I’ll think about that. But I
am
going to talk to Inari. And you’re going to do your best to convince her that she needs to help me—because that’s the only thing that’ll keep my mouth shut about your extracurricular activities. Understand?”

He studies me. For the briefest instant, something flickers across—no,
through
—his face. Something feral and deeply inhuman, a glimpse of his true nature. It doesn’t look happy.

And then it’s gone and he gives me an easygoing grin. “Absolutely. No problem. You keep our little secret and I’ll do my usual job of super-salesmanship. Now, what was it you wanted again? Something about bull pits?”

“Bullets. And that’s going to have to wait—I’ve got bigger fish to fry. Really, really, big fish.”

“You want Dagon off your back? Inari can probably swing that. He’s not
really
a god, you know—I was exaggerating, back when I posed as Stoker. More godd
ish,
if you know what I mean. Gets a lot of street cred because of Mommy and Daddy; they’re major players.”

“I know. They’re on the same level as Inari. And I don’t want Dagon off my back; I want a sit-down.”

I take a deep breath. “Inari, Yog-Sothoth … and me.”

TWENTY-ONE

Zevon looks at me like I just told him Bugs Bunny was dead. “Are you out of your tiny human
mind
? You don’t just arrange a meeting between gods like you’re scheduling a conference call!”

“Why not? The corporate approach seems to be paying off for Isamu. If Yog-Sothoth will listen to him, he’ll listen to me.”

“You don’t understand. Inari might—might—be willing to speak to you; she’s very earthy sometimes, does the whole rubbing-elbows-with-the-little-people thing. But Yog-Sothoth is an
Outer God
. Most mortals can’t even be in the same room without going a little crazy. And you want to have a
conversation
with him?”

“Then I’ll deal with him through an intermediary. Inari has you—Yogi must have someone, too, right?”

“Well … he has been known to use avatars. Some of whom aren’t
completely
homicidal.”

“See? Now we’re getting somewhere. Talk to your boss and set up a meet. And no more tricks, right?”

He gives me a reproachful look. “Please. When I’m representing Inari, I take my job
very
seriously—and Outer Gods have absolutely no sense of humor. I’ll get back to you, but it might take a day or two. Gods have a different perspective on time.”

And with that, he disappears. No puff of smoke or flash of light, just one second he’s there and the next he’s not. I take one last look around, close my eyes and try to project sincerity and good intentions; then I leave the shrine myself, to rejoin Charlie and Eisfanger.

And prepare.

*   *   *

This is the part that usually drives me nuts.

I can handle the long, boring stakeouts. I can deal with the emotional pressure, the long-term effects of violence, the actual danger. What I can’t stand is that point when it’s completely out of your hands, when you’re waiting on someone else’s decision to make or break your case. The control freak that lives in the back of my brain starts to go a little stir-crazy and makes me do things I otherwise wouldn’t.

I go shopping.

I hardly ever do the retail-therapy thing. It’s not that I don’t like to shop, it’s that I never have the time to do it properly. You know, wander from store to store, try things on, scrutinize prices and selection, look for bargains. My normal schedule means I hit the front door of the mall running, and exit the same way twenty minutes later with a shopping bag stuffed full of things that are mostly stretchy or baggy wash-and-wear basic black.

But here I am in a new city, with time to kill and a whole shopping district called Robson Street. Most of the stuff they sell is too pricey for me, but shopping is just as much about speculation as it is about buying anything. How would this look on me? Do I have anything that goes with these shoes? Who would I wear this for on a date?

For most men this would be slow torture, but Charlie’s not most men. He may have the soul of a
T. rex,
but he’s got an eye for fashion like a Paris designer. “What about this one?” I say, holding up a little black number. I already own several a lot like it, but I like to go with what I know.

“With your legs? Sure,” Charlie says. “But that neckline is all wrong for your shape. Try this.” He hands me a purple dress on a hanger.

I examine it critically, which is a waste of time; when it comes to style, Charlie’s always right. But wasting time is exactly what we’re trying to do. “I’ll see if it fits,” I say, heading for the change rooms.

“Don’t take too long,” he says. “I want to hit that Italian shop next.” He may have great fashion sense, but Charlie’s still a hunter at heart—one who’s always hungry for the next trophy.

I’m down to my underwear when my phone rings. Unknown caller. I answer, hoping it’s Zevon. “Hello?”

“Jace.” It’s Stoker’s voice—but then again, it was last time, too. “Where have you been? I’ve been trying to get hold of you.”

“Before I answer that, let me ask you a question. Where did we first meet?”

Stoker lives in a very paranoid world, so he plays along with no hesitation. “Outside a tent in the middle of Alaska. I was riding a blizzard bike and you were playing coroner.”

Good enough. “I’ve been dealing with someone posing as you. Trickster spirit called a
kitsune
—he was probably screwing with my phone, too. I’ve got it straightened out now.”

“Okay. Any progress on Hemo?”

“Quite a lot, actually.”

“Then we should talk face-to-face.”

“I’m not at the hotel right now. Where are you?”

“In the next cubicle.”

I stop. Lower the phone. Look at the wall. “Stoker?”

“Hey, neighbor.” His voice is muffled, but it’s him. “How’d you like to come on over? Just put a fresh pot of coffee on.”

“Give me a moment.”

I get dressed in a hurry, throw open my door, then stalk over and yank open his. He’s leaning against the wall, arms crossed, wearing torn jeans and a black leather jacket. “Sorry about the intrigue. Thought it was better we not be seen together.”

I glance around, then step inside and close the door. “How’d you find me?”

“Let’s not get bogged down in trivia, shall we? We’ve got important things to discuss.”

He’s right about that. I tell him what I’ve discovered since the last time we talked—Hemo, Hereafter 2.0, the pire kids in the Yomi facility, Dagon, the
kitsune
. He listens intently, nodding now and then like I’m confirming something he already suspected. “That’s where we are now. I’m going to try to broker a deal.”

“Using what as incentive? We don’t have a lot to offer.”

I give him a hard smile. “Speak for yourself. I’ve got something in mind.”

“I believe you. Which is good, because I think negotiation is the only option we have at this point.”

I think back to when the
kitsune
was posing as Stoker, and how he tried to convince me he was turning tail and running. I didn’t believe it then, and I don’t believe it now. “What, no bold plan involving a frontal assault and massive casualties? Just giving up without a fight?”

“I prefer strategy to suicide, thanks. And I didn’t say anything about surrendering. I—” He breaks off and gives me a look I can’t read. Like he’s about to do something he’s not sure about. I’m suddenly aware of how small the change cubicle is—a lot smaller than the cabin of the
Orca
.

But this isn’t an imposter. This is the real deal. And the Stoker I know is capable of things a lot more lethal than a kiss.

He reads my body language in a glance, and shakes his head. “Relax. I’m not going to do anything stupid. Well, maybe I am, but I very much doubt it’s what you expect.”

I keep my guard up. A trained fighter can deliver a killing blow from a relaxed stance, and Stoker’s been training his whole life. “Okay. Can’t wait to hear your definition of stupidity.”

“I’ve been doing a lot of thinking. About long-term goals—about what I’ve accomplished so far, and what needs to be done in the future.”

He frowns, his eyes on something far away he can’t quite see. “I realized a few things. One, that I was fighting a war I was never going to win; two, that I stopped trying to win a long time ago. And that—that’s
insane
.”

He takes a deep breath, lets it out. “But I’m not crazy. Not when I started out, and not now. I know that for a fact, because for a while I
was
—crazy, I mean. When I had the Shining Trapezohedron.”

“Whatever happened to that?”

“I got rid of it. And when I did, that’s when my head started to clear. I realized I needed a different approach, a new plan.”

He shakes his head. “I know you think of me as a mass murderer, a serial killer, a terrorist. But that’s not what I am. I’m a soldier. War is the only thing I’ve ever known, war against a world full of monsters.”

“A war you can’t win.”

“I know that now. I do. So I’m calling a truce. No more killing. That raid on the blood farm was my last military action. Time for a new strategy.”

He’s right; this isn’t what I’d expect from him. “Which is?”

“Save my people.
Our
people.”

I frown. “How? Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s great you’ve decided you can’t kill each and every thrope and pire on the planet, but—”

“But it’s
their
planet, now. Right?”

It’s surprising how hard it is to admit that. “In a manner of speaking, yes.”

“So let’s go somewhere else.”

“What?”

“You’re from an alternate reality, another Earth. According to what I learned from Ahaseurus, there are an infinite number of others—some very different, some virtually identical. There has to be one out there that doesn’t have pires or thropes or any kind of supernatural beings—but does have room for a million or so human beings looking for a fresh start. A new Earth. A new home.”

I stare at him. “You want to relocate the entire human population to an alternate reality? That’s…”

He studies my face. I can see the determination, and the hope, in his.

“… not completely insane,” I finish. “But hard to imagine. I don’t know how you’d even find such a place, let alone generate the level of occult power it would take—”

“I know. I know. But it’s
possible
. It could be done. Everything else is just details, willpower, and hard work. Not much different from how I’ve been living my whole life.”

It’s a lot to take in, but I can see that he’s dead serious. I sigh. “That’s a lot to process right now, and my head’s already about to explode, what with the upcoming god-talks and all. Don’t get me wrong, I think it’s great you’ve found a more positive direction, but now is not the time.”

“Understood. But I wanted you to know where I stand. It’s important to me.”

I meet his eyes. “I appreciate that.”

“I might be able to help with the negotiations, too.”

“What did you have in mind?”

“Always bargain from a position of strength. There’s strength in numbers.”

“Wow, two clichés for the price of none. You’ll have to do better.”

He shrugs. “Will this do?” He digs into the pocket of his jacket and pulls out a small black plastic vial. Hands it to me.

I open it. It’s full of a dark gray, grainy powder that I instantly recognize. “Gunpowder?” I say. “Where did you get this?”

“Made it myself,” he says. “Simple formula, actually. Surprised you haven’t done the same.”

Stoker has a definite talent for surprising me—but for once, it’s a pleasant surprise. Maybe. “Any chance you’d be willing to trade recipes? I make a mean bundt cake.”