Tomorrow Wendell (White Dragon Black) (9 page)

He accepted the fortune, but saw, even having forgone reading the message, just anticipating its content had Wendell shaken up. The man’s eyes had once more gained the lost look that haunted them when he first came to Jonathan’s office.

Jonathan schooled his face to show no reaction as he lowered his eyes to read the message. Printed on the strip of paper was the statement: ‘Even the most resolute man reaches the end of their journey—yours is near.’

Jonathan put the paper on the tabletop where it curled in on itself. He picked up the half of his cookie from which the end of his fortune poked provocatively.

Jonathan tugged the paper free and pushed the uneaten portion aside, no longer interested in its sweetness. His fortune read: ‘A strong person understands how to withstand substantial loss.’

For a moment, Jonathan accepted the possibility that this fortune, too, had somehow been tailored for him alone. He wondered if whatever had affected the fortune in Wendell’s cookie had also impacted those around it.

Usually what he got in a fortune cookie from The Lucky Monkey amounted to no more than the standard drivel like: ‘Success is a journey, not a destination,’ or ‘Your ideals are well within your reach,’ and even ‘All will go well with your new project.’ The fortune in his hand now felt more personalized, more real.

But then
, Jonathan told himself,
it could be a fluke . . . nothing more than being too keyed to the interpretations, more hyper-attuned to the situation.

His rational voice pointed out that his earlier introspection, added to Wendell’s prediction, had simply skewed his perspective.

Difficult to tell for certain, either way. He had to file the question away for the moment as something to mull over later, when he was alone.

“Stay here; finish your tea. I’ll be right back.”

Jonathan crossed the room to where Bao stood talking with an elderly couple settling their bill. He hung back a few paces until the couple had exited and then approached the front counter.

In a lowered voice he asked, “Bao, did you start using a new company for your fortune cookies?”

“No, same cheap crap like always. Bland taste and pointless predictions just like what westerners expect. I don’t want to confuse or distance customers.”

“Crap,” he muttered.

“Why? What is wrong?”

“My client is having some . . . issues, regarding predictions and he just got a cookie with an unfortunate message. I guess I hoped something was different with your order this time.”

Bao stood up straight, his lips came together in a thin line, and he headed towards Wendell’s seat. Glancing back at Jonathan, he gestured and said, “Come. Come. Show me fortune.”

Jonathan followed with a sigh—he hated distressing Bao. Wendell stared into the container of tea clasped in his long-fingered hand and Bao gave him a start when he spoke.

“Most sincere apology, sir. Mr. Alvey says you got bad fortune.”

“It’s not your fault, I’m quite sure,” Wendell said, looking at Bao. “I wouldn’t get worked up over it, see? I’m sure Mr. Alvey would say the same thing. Right, Mr. Alvey?”

“I agree the likelihood of it being your fault is miniscule, Bao. My client is having trouble with this sort of thing in general, which is why he has become my client.”

“Show me—show me fortune,” Bao insisted as his English started to break apart under the duress and his accent thickened with worry.

Regretting having involved Bao in the matter, Jonathan picked up the small strip of paper from Wendell’s cookie and passed it over.

Bao nearly had an apoplexy. He began to apologize profusely, moved on to state that the meal was on the house, and then swore he had no idea how such a terrible thing could have happened.

Jonathan wasn’t going to nay-say a free meal. It wouldn’t be the first one he’d had from The Lucky Monkey. He ordered from them no less than once a day, often more, and had for years. The only time he ate any other food, really, was during the occasional times when he placed himself under the care of the good people at St. Dymphna’s.

Ever since he had first been admitted, involuntarily as a ward of the court, Jonathan looked upon St. Dymphna’s Institute of Mental Health Facilitators as a retreat of sorts.

Manipulating a system like that was actually quite easy, with a real and serious reason to do so and the reason isn’t an actual mental condition.

Having finally been deemed safe to both society and himself, he had been released, time served, from his first significant stint in that facility without any hard feelings towards the institution or those who worked in it.

He had even retained his ability to enjoy Jell-o, just about the only thing St. Dym’s seemed to think of as dessert.

After his initial stay, Jonathan used it as a way to drop off the face of the earth when such an action became necessary. If he needed a place to get away from being chased by a herd of nightmares, or an angry chthonic cult, or even the day to day drudgery of doing nothing, St. Dym’s was the place.

He had been contemplating whether or not he would need such an escape just the other day, after he had sent those corporate zombies to a restful death and had been forced to wonder just how upset the company behind them might be.

St. Dym’s also served as the only place he could go when he found himself drained dry and tapped to the very core of his bones after too many nights summoning up the power to fuel spells and enchantments.

It was his sanctuary. The one place he could regain a balance with an addiction that left him cradled in warm pudding while sharks tore chunks from his flesh.

For him it remained the quiet space where he could battle with a need deeper than breathing, fucking, and smoking combined. A place to face himself, while riding a lustful high that should be reserved for ancient gods with hidden faces and bloody hands.

The changing of Bao’s speech cadence brought Jonathan back to the here and now. It seemed offering a free meal and his most sincere, heartfelt apologies wasn’t going far enough for the restaurant owner regarding this matter.

He swore to them both separately and together that he would stop his business transactions with the particular company who had supplied him with those cookies. He said he would find another supplier—one who took the job seriously and was staffed by solemn, dedicated people.

Jonathan couldn’t let Bao carry on any further.

Not only was his distress and attempts at unwarranted reconciliation beginning to make his other customers worried, Jonathan knew damn well the cookie manufacturer had nothing to do with Wendell getting his fortune. He knew that fortune had not only never been shipped from any cookie company, it had also never even been received by Bao’s restaurant.

Jonathan assured Bao switching companies was unnecessary, but only defused the situation by quickly and quietly explaining the issue that had brought Wendell Courtney to Jonathan.

Bao, being a clever devil, immediately told Jonathan he must follow him to check the other cookies. He said perhaps it would help Jonathan solve Wendell’s problem.

Jonathan thanked Bao and, making sure his client would be all right alone for a couple moments more, followed the restaurant owner.

Bao led him past the swinging door and into the secret, steaming world of the kitchen, where he showed Jonathan the bin full of fortune cookies.

Jonathan took one look at the pile and knew he’d find nothing irregular there. Instinct, mixed with the magic eating away at his self-control, was enough to know it.

Jonathan also knew Bao, though, and Bao would worry until assured that the rest of his customers would only get the banal predictions they were supposed to.

Jonathan sighed. One day, and he’d already had to twice rip the scab off the wound that was his addiction. This case was going to be a bitch.

First, he grabbed a random cookie from the bin, tore off its wrapper, and broke it open. Jonathan tugged out the slip of paper and after reading ‘Happiness was the best gift one could give,’ he passed it to Bao.

The older man hummed, nodded almost sagely, then looked to Jonathan, apparently to see why he hadn’t started doing his thing yet.

Realizing he wasn’t going to be getting out of it, Jonathan began to rub his ring and middle finger against each other. He decided on a Mayan incantation to show the presence of ill omens and evil intent.

As he summoned, the ripe and pulsing life of pure energy rushed through his veins. His mind expanded in a whirlwind of sparks and his flesh sung in unison with a universe hidden in ultra-violet. The power of the White Dragon thrummed in him.

A garish, viscous orange liquid began to seep out of the pores of Jonathan’s fingers and wrap itself around their length. The stuff then began to flow and swirl, like a length of rapids in miniature. He dipped his fingers into the container of cookies, glad of the individual wrappers, and began to slowly turn the contents widdershins.

After a moment or two, the orange slowly lost its vivid color and faded, an ember turning to ash. Only a few flakes of what looked like copper dust remained in the end.

“Nothing there,” Jonathan informed Bao. “Just give the container a shake and the flakes will fall to the bottom. They’re not harmful, taste vaguely like flowers actually.”

“I have tasted some unpleasant flowers, Mr. Alvey.”

“I was thinking roses, but . . .” He shrugged.

“But no other customer will get cookie with fortune like your friend?”

“He’s a client. But no, no one else will get anything but the usual.”

“Thank you,” Bao said and then looked askance at the fortune cookies. “Sorry it did not help.”

“Yeah, well, I’ll figure this out, Bao.”

The older man nodded as though Jonathan’s statement was a given.

Jonathan went back out through the swinging doors with the steam of the kitchen clinging tenaciously to him. He sat down across from his client once again.

Wendell questioned the outcome of the excursion with a single raised eyebrow. Jonathan merely shook his head slightly.

The sigh Wendell gave in response bothered him. Jonathan didn’t like his clients to feel out of luck, or options. Although Jonathan steeped in frustration, he wasn’t out of hope yet. He had over forty-eight hours to find answers, assuming the threat was actually real.

It still remained quite possible the whole thing was a hoax, a sick joke, or cruel retribution for an unknown slight. Should that be the case, then he had even longer to track down the sick individual who thought carrying out the concept had been a good idea.

Jonathan still hadn’t made up his mind as to just which it was: real threat or simple mind tamper. He didn’t have enough information to know so far, but either way, Jonathan wasn’t willing to fret about his client’s safety just yet.

If real . . . well, if real, Jonathan had one good day to stop whatever was behind it. If worse came to worst, he would take Wendell to a random hotel, get a room on a upper level floor where they could watch over-priced movies and eat food pre-purchased from the Lucky Monkey.

He would keep Wendell from the windows and cover the place in wards and sigils of safety and obfuscation. They would simply sit tight until the ill-fated day had slid into the next.

An end game solution wasn’t going to give his client the help he needed right now, however.

Jonathan didn’t know what to do with, or for, Wendell’s current problem. He could see no real need to have him watched at this stage, nor could Jonathan think of any reason to make the man hang around. He just didn’t need him for anything at this point in the game.

However, the whole ‘death threat’ deal made it seem in poor taste to simply brush his client off. Even Jonathan could figure that one out, and he knew he wasn’t the most compassionate or empathetic of creatures.

He wasn’t in a good place and everything tasted like ash, until he finally had Bao bring him some saké. After a couple shots to fight back the need having risen from just one spell, to bring his mind back to earth, and to ease the aching in his bones from having hauled the energy through himself, he could think again. The Dragon Black still held him in its teeth, but he could work.

He considered other questions to ask his client and alternate ways to approach them. Eventually, he regained his equilibrium and began to press Wendell for details he hoped might later in the investigation reveal themselves to be important.

That killed twenty minutes.

Finally, he could do nothing more for his client except send him home with instructions to get as much rest as he could. Jonathan told Wendell to pick up some sort of sleeping aid on his way home, if he thought he would need it.

“Sleeping pills, booze . . . whatever is going to work for you, Wendell. It won’t do anyone any good if you’re up all night worrying, stressing yourself out. The human body needs rest. So, whatever it takes, get it.

“I’ll call you in the morning, but not too early, so don’t get yourself worked up if it’s after ten and there’s no word from me yet.”

After Wendell left, and he had made sure Bao was all right, Jonathan decided to go home.

A light fog caressed the buildings and abandoned street, transforming the grit and brick into ethereal mirages. Jonathan had often found, however, ethereal was a whitewash word thrown on something awful, flesh eating, and multi-limbed to make it good for bedtime stories.

He jammed his hands into his pockets and stood in the doorway a moment. He scanned the dark, obscured spaces between the buildings, the cars parked on the road, and the windows—both those glowing against the murky night and those dark, empty spaces like the picked-clean sockets of a head left for crows to squabble over.

When paranoia and precaution had been satisfied, and Jonathan was assured no one watched him, he made his way down the street towards his apartment.

He lived in what had once been a multi-floored warehouse at the end of the block. The third-floor apartment featured a single wall of windows providing a view down on the street which he now walked.

Jonathan had chosen the place because of that important aspect. He could watch his office from his apartment and decide if he actually felt like going to work.