Undeath and Taxes (11 page)

4.

**Note: While Krystal and I were having our talk, Neil and Albert were engaged in a discussion of their own. As I was obviously not present, Neil will take over the narrative momentarily, in order to give an accurate report of what occurred.**

I’d spent a lot of my life lying to Albert. The others might have thought his cheerful, sometimes admittedly dopey nature came from the unique circumstances of his death, but the truth was that those had only exacerbated a previously existing condition. Albert was always quick with a smile and an open heart. He was so trusting, even when we were kids, that I suspected the world couldn’t help but take advantage of him.

I never lied to hurt Albert; I lied to protect him. I would tell him we weren’t hanging out with a group of people because I disliked them for one reason or another, never admitting that the truth was because I knew they’d tease him. I assured him that girls would come to us later in life, when our natural talents and charm were not hampered by the limitations of high school, doing my best to keep him from realizing how low on the social totem pole we sat.

I told him that I hadn’t gone to his funeral; that I’d been too busy working on the spell to bring him back. I’d actually sat in the front row, next to his mother and father. I’d tried to say my goodbyes when he was lying in the casket, but I couldn’t make the words come out. I tried again when we went to the cemetery, but still got nothing. When they were lowering him into the ground, I tried one last time to let go of my best friend. I ended up crying so hard that I fell out of the chair. I couldn’t do it. I couldn’t let him pass on.

That was the day I resolved to do anything, follow any avenue, to bring Albert back into my life.

As we sat on our respective cots, Albert staring at his sword and me at my ancient tome of necromantic magic, I wondered what sort of lies I might have to tell him before this ordeal was over. All I could think about as my eyes skimmed through the scrawled spells was what was coming at sunrise. I didn’t really need to study the words; I’d long ago committed the ones I could work on the fly to memory. Anything beyond those would require the book as reference, so there was no point in familiarizing myself with them extensively. My time was better spent trying to find something, anything, that would let me separate whatever bond the sword had created with my friend. He was connected to me, to my magic, and always would be. And that meant there might be a way to make the blade let go.

“What do you think I’ll have to do?” Albert asked, the words bouncing around our nearly bare stone room.

“I doubt it will be anything strenuous,” I told him. “They’ll just want you to use the sword, draw on its magic, and make sure there aren’t any negative side effects. Maybe they’ll put some bacon out for you to chop, and we can all have breakfast tacos.”

“Why do we have to wait, then? I could do that now.”

“It’s not really breakfast if it’s before sunrise.” I partially closed my tome, keeping a single finger between the pages so I didn’t lose my spot. “I’m sure it’s because they want to test you with as little ambient magic around as possible. Sunrise and sunset both have a lot of power in terms of purging magic. It’s why so many curses and spells center around when the sun is going up or down. Doing it at sunrise is just a safety precaution, giving you the best environment to test in.”

I left out my other theory, which was that having daylight on hand could take Fred right out of a fight (he was already pretty useless, but only we knew that), and waiting until after sunrise would purge many of the preemptive spells Amy and I could lay on ourselves. If that Arch guy was planning to do something that might make us fight, he’d have an easier task on his hands by waiting just these few hours. Albert didn’t need to know that, however. Those were my concerns to deal with.

“That makes sense,” Albert said. “I feel like I should be doing something though. Like training, or preparing mentally, the stuff they always do in action movies before a big fight.”

“Since you’re not actually going to fight anyone, why don’t we play cards instead?” I dug through my small satchel (a gift from Amy that held more space inside than outside) and pulled out a deck of cards. Amy had been adamant that every mage worth his or her salt should have mundane playing cards on them at all times (also, curiously, salt). She’d yet to tell me why, but I’d seen enough of her power and knowledge to trust her instructions implicitly.

“It could be a fight,” Albert pointed out. He got down off his cot and sat on the floor, setting the blade down nearby. I could sense the threads of magic still connecting the two, even without them physically touching. They were small, but powerful. I’d never gotten to see a magic quite like it before. Reluctantly, I took my hand out of my tome and got down on the floor with Albert. I could hunt for a solution after one game, especially if it helped take his mind off what was ahead.

“How would they make you fight someone? The whole purpose of the test is to make sure you won’t accidently hurt yourself or someone else. Doesn’t make sense to put another person in harm’s way before they’ve figured that out.” I pulled the cards free and began to shuffle, an exercise that immediately made my brain calm down and my breathing shift. Amy liked to make me shuffle cards as a meditation technique for clearing my mind. After so many months doing it, the effects kicked in even when I wasn’t intending them to. Plus, I could now shuffle really well. “Want to play War?”

“Sounds good,” Albert agreed. “I hope you’re right, about the fighting thing. I really didn’t want them to try and make me hurt someone. I don’t know if I could have done that.”

I did know, and the answer was that he couldn’t. Albert wasn’t a fighter, but he wasn’t a coward like Fred; he was just too soft-hearted. It was one of the things I admired the most about him. I was, on my best day, morally gray and decent. I mean, even raising Albert hadn’t been a purely altruistic endeavor; I’d done it because I couldn’t bear to be without my friend, not because I thought he’d be happier as a zombie.

That was the thing I worried and wondered the most about: was Albert happy that I’d raised him? He certainly seemed cheerful, but that was his default, so it told me nothing. I wondered if he wished I’d left him at peace. If, under all the smiles and cheer and fun . . . Albert resented me for forcing him back into this world.

“I think they’re shuffled,” Albert said, drawing me out of my reverie.

“Huh? Oh, sorry.” I quickly began dealing the cards, making small piles in front of each of us.

“Neil, there’s something I’ve been wondering, but no one seems to be talking to me about it,” Albert said, watching his stack of cards grow. “What happens after this test? I mean, if the sword doesn’t hurt me or other people or anything . . . what am I supposed to do if I can actually wield it?”

“So long as it’s lawful, I suspect you can do whatever you want.” I finished dealing and picked up my pile, pushing the errant corners into a single neat stack.

“I get that no one is going to make me do stuff, but that doesn’t tell me what I
should
be doing.” Albert glanced at the sheathed sword as he collected his own cards. “Krystal said those things were weapons of destiny, that they pick their wielders for a reason. Mr. Arch said if it chose me, then I’d use it eventually, whether I wanted to or not. The thing is, I have no idea what to do with it. I guess it would be kind of a good letter opener for sorting Fred’s mail, but honestly, I’m pretty sure the smaller one he already has works better; magical properties or not.”

“Well, that’s one thing you could do right off the bat,” I said. “You could quit that assistant job and get something a little flashier. There’s bound to be better career prospects for people who can wield weapons of destiny.”

“But I’m a good assistant,” Albert protested. “I’ve been studying a lot in my downtime, and Fred is even letting me help with some of the easier paperwork.”

“I’m not saying you aren’t good at the job, just that there are better jobs out there. Ones you might be able to fill.” I flipped my first card over—a three. Albert laid his own down—a four—and then scooped both cards into the bottom of his deck.

“I don’t want a new job. I like working for Fred. He’s nice to me, and the work he does helps people.”

I bit back a derisive snort, but only barely. While I’d have happily knocked that notion down if Fred had proposed it, Albert saying it meant he believed he was part of something that helped others, and I wasn’t going to take that away from him.

“You might not have to take a new job,” I reassured him. “Maybe this is something you can do part-time. Like when you worked at the gas station.”

“If wielding the sword requires me to clean out the toilets truckers use, I’m leaving it here and never looking back.”

Though Albert clearly meant it as a joke, I saw the threads of magic between him and the sword pulse ever so slightly. It didn’t like the idea of being left behind. Not even in jest. Part of me wondered how exactly it would enforce its will. Destiny was highly theoretical magic; even Amy had given a shrug when asked how it worked. It was encountered very rarely, and understood even less frequently. The one thing everyone seemed to agree on was that it was strong.

“Albert, no matter what happens today, just remember that you don’t owe anyone anything. Not that sword, not the Agency, not Fred, and not me. This is your life. You live it the way that feels right to you, not in the way you think you’re supposed to.”

Albert looked up at me and tilted his head. “Neil . . . that’s crazy. I owe so much to so many people. You brought me back to life. Fred gave me a job. Bubba is teaching me to shoot pool. Amy made me that balm to keep my skin looking healthy. Krystal and the Agency keep us safe. And that’s just one for each person; I could keep going on for a while.”

“And the sword? What has that done to put you in some perceived debt?”

“Well . . .” Albert bit his lip softly, then looked over at the blade in question. “It’s hard to explain. I guess it hasn’t done anything yet, aside from cause me trouble, but I have this really strong feeling that it’s
going
to be a big help. If that makes any sense.”

It didn’t, not logically, but magic and logic didn’t always see eye to eye.

“Just promise me that you won’t let anyone force you into things you don’t want. Sword or no sword, you’re a free, independent parahuman, and you have the right to live the life you want.”

Albert nodded, a new smile on his face, and flipped over another card. “I promise. Actually, as much as I’ve worried about all of this, I’m also a little excited. It’s sort of neat, not knowing what’s coming next. And to be selected by something like The Blade of the Unlikely Champion . . . I’ve never been selected or special before.”

“You’ve always been special, Albert,” I told him. “All that sword did was see what everyone else already knew was there.”

He nodded again, but I could tell he didn’t really believe me. That was Albert, willing to believe in anything except himself. It was okay, though. I had enough belief for the both of us. He could be worried, and I would be pragmatic. No matter what happened at sunrise, I would keep Albert safe. I wouldn’t let anyone or anything take him.

I was not going to lose my best friend again.

5.

**Note: We’ll now return to my recounting of the tale. Though I’d like to thank Neil for his contribution, even if some parts did seem unnecessarily hurtful.**

I wasn’t too surprised to find that Amy and Bubba were still awake. As a therian, Bubba’s natural resilience meant he could push himself for days at a time if needed; a trick that made doing long trucking hauls far easier. Add in his enhanced strength and stamina for the loading aspect, and it was no wonder that so many men and women hauling goods around our nation could shift into some sort of animal. Amy, on the other hand, had taken so many pills and potions that it was hard to say if her brain even needed sleep anymore (or to prove that she wasn’t somehow sleeping while she talked to you).

“Figured you’d be ‘round sooner or later,” Bubba said. He was laying on one of the cots—it’s meager frame struggling to accommodate his substantial size—with a small book of poetry cracked open.

“Yeah, can’t sleep unless the sun is out.”

“Even if it were shining directly overhead, I doubt you’d be able to get so much as a wink,” Bubba clarified. “You’re too worried about Albert.”

“Aren’t we all? No one knows what will happen when he uses that sword. He could get really hurt.”

“Highly unlikely.” Amy had been sitting on her own cot, digging through a bag for some misplaced object. She kept burrowing through her belongings as she spoke, not bothering to look up. “Though zombies may not have wielded a weapon of destiny before, there have been enough cases of vampires and Ghoul Lords doing so to make it unlikely that the sword’s magic would react badly to being in undead hands. Zombies are different, it’s true, but not so different that we should expect to see some giant reaction.”

“Oh. The way Arch and Krystal have been treating it . . . I just sort of assumed . . .”

“Krystal and Arch are agents, and neither of them have the knack for weaving magic,” Amy said, face still half-buried in her bag. I wondered if I’d be able to make out her words so clearly without my vampiric senses. “They see magic as some big, unwieldy beast. They know it can be useful, but they also know it can suddenly go wild and turn on them. Every time they encounter some new aspect of it, they’re immediately wary, which isn’t necessarily the wrong reaction for people tasked with ensuring others’ safety. But it means they tend to make mountains out of basilisk hills. If they’d bother to read the higher theories on necromantic displacement and theoretic—aha!”

Amy pulled a small stone—dark in color, with a clearly etched rune in place—from the depths of her bag. She deposited it into one of the many pockets on her strange jacket (which looked like a mix between a lab coat and a patchwork quilt), and snapped the bag shut. She looked at me for a moment, then to Bubba, then back to me, then finally around the whole room, before speaking.

“Sorry, what were we talking about?”

“You were tellin’ Fred why Albert will prolly be fine from using the sword,” Bubba reminded her.

“Really? I have the faint sensation that I was about to dive into some truly complex and meaty magical theory.”

“No, Bubba is right, definitely just assuring me that Albert will be fine.” Amy was a lovely woman in her own right, but she could go off on technical tangents that may as well have been in another language, for all the understanding we took from them.

“If you’re both sure . . .” Amy squinted her eyes for a moment, clearly trying to redirect that odd brain of hers toward the function of memory. After a few seconds, she gave a small shrug and abandoned the endeavor. “Anyway, the odds are that Albert won’t have any negative reaction to wielding the sword. That it chose him at all practically serves as proof.”

“Personally, I’m more worried about what’s waitin’ for him after the test,” Bubba said.

“You know about that?” I asked.

Bubba shot me a strange glance. “Course I know about it. I grew up with it. I’m a little surprised that you do, though.”

“You’re talking about different things,” Amy chimed in, producing a water bottle that I was fairly certain she’d taken from the plane and sprinkling in some strange powder.

“Are we? I was talking about how Krystal thinks Arch is going to try and recruit Albert into the Agency.”

“I think we all saw that coming,” Bubba said. “I was more talking about what life will be like for Albert after he’s free and clear to be a Weapon Bearer. It’s a hard thing, getting a lot of power and duty dumped in your lap like that. We have to run whole counseling programs just for newly turned therians to help them cope with the change.”

“Albert already handled dying pretty well,” I pointed out.

“That’s different. This is him being handed a mess of power, a sense of obligation, and no direction. Turning therian isn’t a perfect metaphor, but it runs close. We get incredible bodies, but also a tangled snarl of culture, etiquette, and obedience,” Bubba said. “Albert’s a good kid with his head on right, but that can be a real sticker bush for anyone to push through.”

“It’s curious to me how all of you are worrying in the wrong direction,” Amy said. She’d finished her sprinkling and taken a few sips of water. “But that might be due to the fact that I can’t remember how much I know versus how much you do. Either way, trust me: you don’t have to worry about Albert.”

“You say that, but you still seem a bit wound up yourself,” Bubba pointed out.

“Of course I’m wound up; I’m all kinds of worried,” Amy replied, her expression somewhere between confused and aghast. She added a few more sprinkles of powder to the bottle before twisting the cap back on tightly.

“I have to admit, I expected to see Neil in here with you, trying to find some way to get the sword to let go,” I said, trying to steer the conversation into waters where Amy made a bit more sense.

“He’s headstrong as a drunken bull, but Neil knows the right thing to do when it matters,” Bubba said. “My money says he’s over in their room doing all he can to make sure Albert feels calm going into the trial.”

“Should we go over and help?”

“No,” Amy said, voice strong and word quick. “Leave them be. This is important. Their bond needs to be as strong as possible.”

Though I had no idea what she was talking about, I trusted Amy’s judgment, especially when it came to her apprentice. She’d turned an overly ambitious sociopath into a tamed student, and from what I saw, she’d done it mostly with kind words and careful discipline. If she thought they were best served by being alone, then I wouldn’t be the one to break them apart.

“So, do we just sit around until it’s time for the trial?”

“Welcome to ‘hurry up and wait,’ the basis for every form of combat since the first caveman realized he could stake out a watering hole,” Bubba said. “It’s why I always keep a book on me, and I got a hunch it’s why Amy likes to have cards on hand.”

I had neither of those things, but I was carrying a smartphone preloaded with various apps and games. Though getting a signal in a place like this was laughable, I could still manage to whittle the time away with the things already on the phone. I pulled out my device and checked the battery.

“Over eighty percent,” I noted. “Well, hopefully that will last me through an hour.”

“That’s what I admire about you, Fred,” Bubba told me as he reopened his book. “You’re a damned hopeless optimist.”