Magic Time: Angelfire (24 page)

She turned her head enough to see me, but her eyes met mine only for an instant. “I wouldn’t expect you to understand. You’re not cynical enough.”

“Oh, yes. I’m such an idealist, such a Pollyanna. Always, the rose-colored glasses.”

“You
are
an idealist. You see people the way they want you to see them. You buy their hype.”

“Ah. Do I?”

She sat up straighter and met my eyes. “You do. It’s an endearing quality, Viktor, but stupid, and will probably someday get you killed. And it’s not just you. Goldie is hot for that cute little flare, and Cal’s hot for the Source, and he looks at Mary McCrae as if she were… I don’t know, Joan of Arc and Mother Teresa rolled into one. Somebody has to keep a straight head.”

“And that would be you, yes?”

“Somebody has to.”

“And how do
you
see them,
boi baba
?”

“As they are. I see them as they are.”

“Vitsishye glaz choozhoi da nyeh vidishyeh svoy,”
I said. “What?”

“A proverb of old Russian grandmothers: ‘The eye that sees all things sees not itself.’ ”

“Yeah, well, I know a few proverbs myself, like: ‘Trust no one.’ And: ‘If something seems too good to be true, it probably is.’ ”

“Ah. And I suppose it’s because you are such an untrusting person that you are marching off into the heart of darkness with the rest of us?”

“I’m marching into the heart of darkness, as you put it, because it improves the odds. I’m not good with people, Doc, but I’ve got damn good survival skills, which have really come in handy lately, wouldn’t you say?”

She was right, of course. She had skills that very much increased the odds of Cal getting where he needed to go and doing what he needed to do. I could not help 
but contrast them with my own, which were conspicuously lacking.

Even Colleen’s dream had reminded her of something that now might be of use. It had reminded me only of a lesson I had learned most recently from my failure at the mill—that while I might be an asset in a medical emergency, I could be a liability when the goal was simple survival. An unpleasant truth. And despite Colleen’s belief to the contrary, my glasses were not rose-colored enough to disguise it.

I gave the contract a second thorough reading, underlined a few clauses, jotted a few notes, then sat back and stretched, aimlessly clicking the point of my pen in and out. It was late… or early, depending on how you looked at it. The Lodge’s roomy lounge was quiet except for the snap and crackle of the fire in the grate. Beyond the aura of the lamp, it was swathed in moody but comforting shadow.

Mary had gone up to bed, Colleen and Doc were curled up in opposing chairs on either side of the fire. They seemed in emotional opposition just now, too. It bothered me—the strange static between the two of them. But I couldn’t afford the head space at the moment to worry it or puzzle it out. Later, I told myself. Later, I’d talk to Colleen.

Enid was drowsing, too, his breathing labored, his lanky frame draped over one end of the rustic plaid sofa. Magritte had fallen asleep and come to rest on the sofa’s lumpy padding, her head in Enid’s lap. Goldie was hunkered down at the fireplace, trying to make coffee.

I had contemplated putting this off until I’d had some sleep, but it was hard to look at Enid and imagine sleeping. In all probability I wouldn’t be able to sleep anyway until I’d at least gotten a handle on the legal issues. There was a mystical part of me that hoped I might ingest the contents of Enid’s contract while my very literal consciousness was half asleep, then digest it while I was
fully
asleep.

Maybe, I told myself, half seriously, I would dream the answer. My dreams had not been terribly productive lately, although they were predictable. Inevitably, I would find myself in a maze that seemed to be made of wet or oily glass. The maze was dark and full of cryptic, disturbing sounds that shredded the senses. Its thick walls seemed to ripple and pulse as if alive.

I always started out leading Goldie, Doc, and Colleen through the maze, while I whispered or shouted, “Follow 
me!” at intervals. But at some point I’d turn around and realize they were no longer behind me. I could only hear their voices, nearly buried in all the other voices and sounds. They’d call my name and plead with me to find them, but the walls of the maze closed in and the glistening corridors went on and on, and though I turned this way and that, I never came any closer to finding anyone.

In the past few nights a new element had entered the nightmare: through the translucent walls of this stygian fortress, I could see a vague, glowing form. It seemed to shadow me as I searched, becoming clearer and closer. At length I would see that it was a flare, and that the flare was Tina. I would throw myself at the glass, trying to break it, while she pressed herself against it as if, like light, she might pass through.

The dream would end with us face-to-face, separated by viscous, cold translucence. Her face was a wraith-blur behind the glass, pale and distorted. Her eyes were no more than deep smudges of shadow, and though her mouth moved, it was the others I heard, still crying out to me to find them.

“ ‘Earth control to Major Tom,’ ” Goldie sang, practically in my ear.

My weary nerves failed to leap. “Hey,” I said.

“You’ve been suspiciously sphinxlike for a very long time. Anything?”

“Goldie, I’m not even sure what I’m looking for.”

“I believe ‘legal loophole’ is the operative term.”

“What good would a legal loophole do? This thing’s not operating in the same continuum it was written in.”

“Ah, yes, and…” He perched on the corner of the little table, rocking it. “… if the contract is tweaked, then any loopholes in it would be tweaked, too, right?”

I laughed. “You’re trying to apply
logic
to the situation?” “Meaning Goldie doesn’t do logic or logic doesn’t apply?” “Meaning, logic doesn’t
necessarily
apply.”

“Yeah, but I’ll bet
twisted
logic does.”

He had a point. I gave my faltering attention back to the 
contract, smoothing the paper. My fingertips left a smear of pale violet light across the page.

“Whoa,” said Goldie, and leaned in closer. “Do that again.”

I brushed the paper a second time, tracing a line with my fingertips. Where I touched violet, the type glowed and gave up an answering charge of green static.

My skin crawled, my scalp tingled, and hair rose up on the backs of my arms. While I watched, the letters and words began to wriggle as if trying to free themselves of the paper. In a matter of moments the sentence had rearranged itself on the page.

“God,” I whispered, “are you seeing this?”

“God’s not answering,” said Goldie. “But Goldman saw it. Nice light show. What does it mean?”

I read: “ ‘The Creator hereby agrees that he will know no other Master, nor will he enter into any covenant by which his creation will be employed for the benefit of any entity but his Master, without his Master’s express permission.’ ”

“Pardon me? Where are you reading
that
?” He put his head next to mine and squinted at the page.

I pointed. “Here. Right here. Where the text rewrote itself just now.”

“Whoa. Back up. What do you mean, rewrote itself?”

I raked a hand through my hair in frustration. “Just now—the light, the living word. You said you saw—”

“I saw the light; I didn’t see… Read that again.”

I did.

“Okay,” he said. “When I look at it, it says: ‘The Artist hereby agrees that he will sign no other contracts for his services, nor will he enter into any agreement to perform, record, or write original lyric or music without the express written permission of Management.’ ”

“Damn. It would sure make me feel a lot better if you could see it, too.”

“Why? I’m a nut case, remember?”

“See what?” Enid had padded over to us, quiet as a cat. I pushed the contract across the table and indicated the passage that was still giving off soft green radiance.

His brows rose. “What language is that?”

“What do you mean?”

He ran his own finger over the passage. “This part, here, is in some weird language I never seen before. What is it?”

In answer, I translated the next passage, whereupon I saw English words that were entirely arcane; Enid saw words that were not even English; Goldie saw the glow of light, but no change in the text.

At least we all saw
something
.

Goldie wasn’t content with that. He seemed to go inside himself for a moment, silently chewing his lip. Then he said, “Give me your pen.”

“My—”

“Your pen—your
pen
! The one you’ve been making notes with.”

I fished it out of my breast pocket and handed it to him. He took it and laid a hand on the contract, clicking the pen top in a snappy staccato.

Just when I found myself fighting the urge to hum “Black Magic Woman,” he chuckled. “Bingo,” he said, and read the arcane version of the first clause.

“I don’t—”

“Transference. An inanimate object with which power is channeled transfers power. In layman’s terms, it rubbed off on me.”

“Where did you pick that up?”

“Irrelevant at the moment.” He nudged my shoulder. “Come on, Dr. Jones! Decipher the rest of that hieroglyph.”

There was a strange creeping sensation in the pit of my stomach, not unlike the day I first stood, solo, in front of a judge. My skin was tingling with something I couldn’t name; first the map, now this. I had begun to think I was impervious to the Change. Now, I felt as if it had trailed a cold, slimy finger across my soul, leaving a slug trail.

I took a deep breath and passed my fingertips over the remaining text. The words wove themselves into an arcane tapestry describing an unnatural covenant. A covenant that 
resulted in nothing more or less than the spiritual bondage of Enid Blindman.

“ ‘If the Creator should strain or break the bonds of this covenant of blood and spirit without the Master’s leave, the consequences shall be upon him, and upon those creatures to whom he binds himself in spells of mist.’ ”

“ ‘Like acid and oil on a madman’s face,’ ” Goldie murmured. “So
that’s
the backlash—the consequences visited on Enid and the people who hear his music.”

“But not all of them,” I noticed. “It’s random. Or at least inconsistent.”

“Spells,” repeated Enid, sounding dazed. “It says that? Spells?”

“It says that,” I assured him. Which in itself made me wonder how this contract was still binding. I read on, looking for a possible mechanism for Enid’s liberation. Near the end of the contract I found one.

“ ‘If the Creator wishes his release from the bonds of this covenant, he must seek such release from the Master alone. Face-to-face and spirit-to-spirit must the suppliant Creator seek his deliverance in the place where the covenant dwells. The Master, alone, may grant it.’ ”

I sat back in my chair.

Goldie echoed the movement, making the table groan. He let out a low whistle.

“The Master,” repeated Enid. “That’d be Howard?” “Presumably. I wonder if he’s even aware of what’s happened to this contract.”

“I dunno. Howard’s kind of a shithead capitalist sometimes, but he’s not
mean
.”

“You mean he wasn’t mean
before
,” Goldie observed. “He might’ve turned into something that’d make a Ferengi look like a Keebler elf.”

Enid was nodding rhythmically, as if affirming something whispered by an invisible companion. He looked down at me finally, face set. “I gotta go to Howard. That’s what all this means, isn’t it?”

Goldie and I exchanged glances. Had I just uncovered 
something that was going to send us on yet another detour?