Undead to the World (15 page)

I bring both sticks up sharply, one across the other in a cross shape.

Cassiar stares at them. At me. Then he takes a step closer—and makes the same sign
with his own arms.

“I think,” he says gently, “that I’m not a vampire.”

I sigh and lower the stakes. “Well, the lack of horrified screaming would seem to
support that point of view.…”

He lowers his arms. “Your theory has some holes in it, it would seem.”

“It’s not a
theory.
It’s like—” Something Azura said comes back to me. “Illusion spells. Azura said I
was surrounded by illusion spells. Which means
everything
is suspect. Maybe you’re not Cassius after all. You could be some kind of decoy.”

“That makes it even more difficult—if not impossible—to prove what you’re saying.
If you can’t trust your memory
or
your senses, what’s left?”

“Thanks,” I say bitterly. “I really needed to hear that right now. Of course, that
doesn’t mean there’s any actual connection between what I’m hearing and what’s actually
being said. Or done. Or
anything.
For all I know, I’m just a brain in a jar, watching movies through the wires stuck
in my cerebral cortex.”

“In that case, I must be in the jar next to you.”

“Terrific. Maybe we can admire each other’s lobes.”

I press my palms against my forehead. “No. No, I’m not going down that path again.
Reality is more than just a concept. I’m here, I’m
me,
and I’m going to figure a way out of this mess.”

“I’m sure you will. I’ll help in any way I can.”

I look up. “Charlie. I need Charlie. I left him with you—did he say where he was going?”

“To his bar. But Jace…” Cassiar pauses. “If I’m not who you think I am, then who is
Charlie supposed to be?”

“My partner,” I say as I stand. “Come hell, high water, or the apocalypse.”

I stride toward the door. “Don’t go anywhere. I’ll be back.”

*   *   *

I’ve got a little time to think as I walk from the bed and breakfast to the Quarry.
About the cage I’m trapped in, and how many levels it might have.

Level One: Insanity. If I think I’m crazy, it makes me doubt everything I do, every
decision I make. Slows me down, makes me less effective.

Level Two: False Memories. Everything I thought I knew about myself, my surroundings,
my friends and enemies: all suspect. Hard to make deductions based on false data.

Level Three: Illusion. A combination of Levels One and Two. Can’t trust appearances
or events; more doubt, more unreliability, more confusion.

Level Four: Deliberate Manipulation. This is the level where Ahaseurus was going to
get all his jollies. He could tweak any situation, any encounter, for maximum effect.
Make me think my enemies were my friends, my friends my enemies. Fire up my paranoia,
press down on my despair, and take my psyche out for a spin. He could have constructed
all sorts of scenarios designed to hammer my emotions into any shape he wanted.

But not anymore.

I’m starting to think he must really be dead. If there’s one thing the organized type
of serial killer needs, it’s control: control over his victim, control over the media,
control over those hunting him. I can’t see any reason for Ahaseurus to give that
up—yet here I am, in more-or-less full possession of my faculties once more.

But then I think of what Isamu said to me:
I want you to perish cursing my name, Bloodhound. To die as the warrior you are, not
some pathetic waitress.
Is that what’s going on? Is Ahaseurus going to pull some last-minute switch, let
me have some sort of carefully planned artificial victory, then step out of the shadows
and laugh at me?

An even worse thought follows that one. Has he
already
done that? How many times? Am I just trotting through the maze for the hundredth
go-round, my memories wiped each time I get to the exit?
Groundhog Day
as psychological torture porn?

It doesn’t matter. Even if the game is rigged, I still have to play; I still have
to win. There’s no other option. The real question is: Who are the other players?

Who
is
Charlie Allen?

Charlie Aleph, I know. He’s my partner, my enforcer, my best friend. He’s three hundred
pounds of black volcanic sand poured into a human-shaped plastic bag and animated
by the spirit of a long-dead Tyrannosaurus rex. He’s a street-wise, sarcastic war
vet with a gift for police work, a lethal throwing arm, and a love for the clothing
styles of the 1940s. He’s a hell of a dancer.

But that’s the Charlie of Thropirelem-the-World. The Charlie I know here is … what?

Human, for one thing. Sarcastic, definitely. Also a war veteran. His sense of style
is drastically different from the lem I know, and I have no idea if he dances like
Fred Astaire or Pee-wee Herman.

But I trust him. And Azura. Again, I’m going on nothing but gut instinct … but right
now, that seems to be the most reliable source of information I’ve got. And if I’m
wrong, I am so totally, completely hooped that nothing else really matters.

I get to the Quarry. I pause outside, looking around. I haven’t seen anybody on the
streets. Maybe they’re all inside, dressed in black robes, with a big banner that
reads
SURPRISE
! adorned with bunches of skull-shaped balloons. Sure, why not.

I open the door and step inside.

The place looks the same as it always does. It’s not completely empty—there are a
few farmers at a back table, and the local plumber at the bar nursing a beer—but no
crowds of bad guys lying in wait. Charlie’s behind the bar, talking to Bob, his relief
bartender. Bob’s nodding and grinning, and Charlie’s shrugging while he talks, a “what
are you gonna do?” look on his face.

I walk up and take a seat. Bob spares me a slightly curious glance, nods, then walks
to the far end of the bar and starts slicing up some limes.

“You all right?” Charlie asks in a low voice. “I thought you were going to hole up
at home.”

“And I thought I was going to grow up to be a ballerina who lived on the moon. Life’s
full of disappointment.”

“Seriously, Jace, you’re in real danger out on the street—”

“Oh, you have
no
idea. And don’t ever,
ever
let me catch you using the phrase ‘at least things can’t get any worse.’”

I bring him up to speed. Stoker’s interrogation. Isamu’s attack. Me realizing who
I really am. Cassiar and what I told him.

When I’m finished, he reaches under the bar and pulls out a bottle. No label, more
dirty than dusty, metal screw top. He slides two shotglasses over, opens the bottle,
and fills each of them to the top. Whatever it is, it looks like water and smells
like tractor fuel. He downs his with a grimace.

“Is the other one for me?”

“No.” He downs the second shot, then refills both glasses. “These are.”

I slam the first one down. It’s sort of like setting yourself on fire, then jumping
into the Arctic ocean. Intense pain, then everything goes numb. I take advantage of
the anesthetic effect to down the second one which makes it all the way to my stomach
before detonating. By then the first one has eaten through my throat and most of my
spinal column, so the pain never makes it to my brain.

“Ack-
Ack
-
ACK,
” I say.

“Yeah, that’s the usual reaction.” He stares at me moodily. I don’t know
which
mood, exactly, but there’s definitely a mood going on. “So. You’re not … you.”

“Sure I am. In fact, I’m
more
me. The me you know? That’s
me,
except less neurotic and more homicidal.”

“I’m not sure that’s an improvement.”

“Okay, badly phrased. Let me put it this way: I have the same values, the same sense
of humor, the same temper—but more confidence. Less self-doubt. I
know
who I am and what I can do, and I don’t give a damn what other people think.”

“You never did,” Charlie says softly. “No matter what they said about you. Even when
you were doubting yourself, you didn’t pay much attention to other people’s opinions.
One of the things about you I always found … I dunno. Intriguing, I guess. How you
could be so strong willed but so paranoid at the same time.”

“Well, now you know the answer. Congratulations—you’re at least a thousand points
and a bonus round ahead of me.”

He shakes his head. “I don’t think so. I’ve been keeping up so far, but—what exactly
are you saying? That the whole
town
isn’t real? That none of us are? ’Cause I gotta tell you, I don’t
feel
like an illusion.”

“That’s not it,” I say wearily. “It wouldn’t be as satisfying to Ahaseurus if it wasn’t
real. It’s just that some things have been … altered, I guess. Changed to fit whatever
twisted script he’s written for me.”

“Okay, so how do we figure out what’s been changed?”

I think about that. “I’m … not sure it’s
we,
Charlie. I think it’s just
I.
I can recognize parts of my own history that have been woven into this place, but
you don’t have anything to compare against. Except—well, apparently, with Ahaseurus
dead, the spells are going to start unravelling.”

“Unravelling? Like a sweater?”

“Yeah, like a sweater. A big, magical memory sweater, knitted by pure evil.”

He frowns. “Knitted by pure evil? I’m having a hard time with that concept.”

I sigh, and put my head down on my arms. “I know. Not one of my best.”

“I mean, I know this is a bad situation. I know it’s serious. But
knitted by pure evil
? My brain doesn’t know how to interpret that. It’s trying, but—”

“Knitting. Grandmothers. Rocking chairs.”

“And kittens, playing with yarn. You ever try to imagine evil kittens? Or evil yarn?
I think I’m getting a headache.”

“You’ve already got one. Its name is Jace Valchek.”

“That’s funny,” says a voice behind me. “I’ve got a pain with the same name, only
it’s not in my head.”

I glance over my shoulder. Terrance. Just what I need. He’s wearing a leather motorcycle
jacket over a grease-stained T-shirt, but—despite what he just said—he doesn’t seem
as cocky as usual. “Hey, Valchek,” he says. “Got a minute?”

“Got a whole bunch. You can’t have any.”

“Geez, lighten up, okay? I just need to ask you a quick question. In private?” He
gives me an “aw, c’mon” look; I’m always amazed at how many jerks think they can just
flip a switch and suddenly you’re supposed to forget all the times they abused you.

But right now, I need all the information I can get, and Terrance coming to me for
help is an interesting development in and of itself. I slide off my bar stool and
walk over to a table. “Sit,” I say.

He does. Now he looks troubled, and more than a little unsure. “It’s about my brother,”
he says.

“The doc? What about him?”

“Well—”

And that’s as far as he gets, because the door opens and Sheriff Stoker strides in.
He heads straight for Terrance.

“Terrance Adams,” the sheriff snaps. “On your feet, son. You’re under arrest.”

Terrance is staring at Stoker in complete confusion. “What? What for?”

“Suspicion of murder, Mr. Adams. Now are you getting to your feet or am I going to
help you?”

Terrance gets up. Stoker handcuffs him briskly and professionally, then marches him
outside.

Charlie and I stare at each other.

“You know, you’re bad for business, too,” Charlie says.

TEN

I figure it’s time to gather the troops—such as they are.

Right now, the only person I really trust is Charlie, but I can’t afford to turn down
Casssiar’s offer of help. Charlie’s already arranged for Bob to fill in for him. We
jump in Charlie’s car, drive over to the B&B, and get Cassiar. Then we head for Charlie’s
place.

We pass the diner on the way. The lights are out, the closed sign on the door. With
a chill, I realize that someone must have found the burned corpse that used to be
my boss—and instead of calling the cops, had shut down and locked up the diner instead.
Was Zhang in there right now, red eyes peering out from between the blinds at us?
Or had someone else cleaned up, the same way Charlie and I had cleaned up at the Longinus
house?

I glance at Charlie, who gives me a grim look in return. He’s thinking the same thing
I am, but he isn’t sure what to say in front of Cassiar.

Charlie’s place is a double-wide trailer at the end of Third Street, with a gravel
pad for a yard. I’ve been here before, but never really felt comfortable inside; Charlie
keeps the place to a military standard of cleanliness and order, which seems unnatural
to me. The kitchen and bathroom are so clean it’s like he’s never used them …

I didn’t tell Charlie who he was to me. Or what. It seemed easier to leave that part
out, somehow—along with all the myriad details of life in a world where only one percent
of the population was human. It’d just be information overload.

We weren’t
there,
anyway; we were
here.
And
here
had enough problems of its own, thank you.

Charlie’s living room is sparse and utilitarian: a sofa, a coffee table, two armchairs.
Two walls are taken up by bookcases, and he has an ancient stereo with a working turntable
and numerous stacked milk crates filled with records: jazz and blues, mostly, with
some Latin stuff, too. That fits neatly with the memories of
my
Charlie—only the music of Thropirelem rarely matched up with the music of my world.
Different species might produce similar technologies, but cultural variance guaranteed
their art would be highly divergent.

I realize I’m lecturing myself, a habit from my early days as a federal agent—a trick
I used to pump up my confidence. It was an activity that corroded over time, becoming
less about recalling information and more about making cynical observations, but I
guess I feel the need for the reassurance of hard facts; in some ways, this is just
like getting out of the academy. I have to prove myself all over again.