Sullivan grimaced as his stomach growled. Burning that much Power always made him hungry, and that wasn’t counting the blood loss. “You talk. I eat.”
Chapter 8
Why did I join the First Volunteers? That’s a tough one. My older brother, Matt, he just liked to fight, and figured Germans would serve as good as any. My other brother, Jimmy, he was simple. He went wherever we went. Me . . . I was the one that liked to ponder on stuff. Roosevelt did like he did before with the Rough Riders. My daddy was a Rough Rider in Cuba. President Wilson didn’t want him to go, but General Roosevelt wanted to prove that Actives were good for the country. Got himself killed in the process. Never did like his politics, too progressive for me, but I’d follow that man into battle anytime. Lousy politician, great leader . . . Sorry. The question . . . Why’d I go? I guess I felt a duty to show that Actives could be useful . . . that we could be the good guys . . . I was a fool.
—Jake Sullivan,
Parole Hearing,
Rockville State Penitentiary, 1928
Mar Pacifica, California
The three strangers drove Faye south along a road overlooking the ocean. The young man, who introduced himself as Francis, was driving. Lance was sitting up front, and the woman, Delilah, was in back with her. The man that had tried to hurt her was on the floor, with his ankles and wrists bound and a burlap sack over his head. Every time he started to move Delilah would kick him again as a reminder.
Lance had taken a piece of charcoal from the ruined house and drawn a complicated mark on the unconscious man’s forehead before pulling the sack over his head. She didn’t know what that was supposed to do, but it seemed to satisfy Lance.
Faye had started to ask questions in the car, but Delilah had shushed her, explaining that if the General, whoever that was, decided to let this man go, then the less he knew the better. Faye had a suspicion that Delilah had just said that out loud so the man on the floor would have some hope, and maybe that would make him more cooperative. Or maybe she just didn’t want to talk. After all, Faye thought, why would a beautiful, sophisticated woman, that could jump across a vacant lot and throw men through brick walls want to waste her time talking to a hayseed bumpkin from El Nido by way of Ada, Oklahoma?
The only other conversation was when Lance apologized for his swearing and called her little lady. He said that he tended to cuss more when his mind was in more than one body at a time.
So Faye went back to spinning in her head, examining the car, the finest thing that she’d ever ridden in, all shiny chrome and bright blue paint and soft leather, intricate mirrors on top of the spare tires, and a little golden angel on the end of the hood. She watched the ocean, amazed at how far it seemed to go until you could see the curve of the world at the edges, and even the people she was riding with, at least two of them just as special, if not more so, than she was. It was all very intimidating.
They turned off the main road onto a windy gravel path. They drove under a stone arch with elaborate writing on it. Faye could read, but these letters didn’t look right. They looked more like what had been scratched in the ashes of the burned house than normal words. There was a blocky shack behind the gate, and someone watched them through a dark window as they passed. Or maybe something, Faye thought, as the shape swiveled to follow them, and it looked entirely too triangular to be a person, unless they were wearing a very strange hat.
The house at the end of the lane was spectacular. It was three times the size of the Vierras’ milk barn, only instead of holding cows, it was made for rich people, and it was on top of a giant finger of land that stuck out into the ocean. Three sides around the house turned into cliffs that ended in waves crashing on black rocks far below. The front of the house had tall white pillars and more windows than she could quickly count.
They parked inside a garage, which seemed strange that there would be a space actually inside the house to leave your car, but this was big enough that they could probably park four tractors inside and have room to spare. She was having a hard time wrapping her brain around the kind of wealth it would take to build something like this, and suddenly the little wad of money hidden in her traveling skirt seemed pathetic.
“Delilah, would you kindly drag this piece of trash downstairs and lock him in the basement?” Lance asked. “We’ll get to him in a bit.”
“My pleasure.” Delilah grabbed the man by one ankle and yanked him out onto the cement like he was a piece of bad luggage.
“She seems kind of scary,” Faye said to the two men once Delilah was gone, the man bumping painfully down the stairs behind her. “Is she going to kill him?”
Francis shook his head. “That gunsel? The people he works for shot Delilah’s father down in cold blood. For all we know, he might be one of the ones that did it. Serves him right.”
Faye studied him. Francis seemed like a nice young man. Polite, friendly, well spoken, she even had to admit that he was rather handsome. He talked like he came from the big city, but not from the poor big city, but a place with schools, and houses like this. He turned and caught her staring and she looked away quickly. Then again, he had blown a man’s head off earlier without hesitation. She reminded herself that she needed to be on guard. It wasn’t like she knew these people.
Lance gestured for the door. “Let’s go get that thumb looked at. Never been bit by a squirrel before, though I have bit people as a squirrel. It looks like it hurts. You’re probably hungry too. We’ll get you a room where you can clean up before supper.”
Faye looked down at her shabby dress. It was covered in dirt, coal dust, and speckled with dull red drops of dried blood. She had even gotten the seat dirty in the car. “Sorry for the mess,” she said sheepishly.
“What?” Lance said gruffly. “This?” He snorted loudly. “Girl, you don’t know much about what goes on around here, but let’s say that I’ve seen a whole lot worse. Come on. You’ve probably got a bunch of questions, and I’ve got a few myself, like who your grandpa was, why he gave you a Grimnoir knight’s ring, and why those goons were following you.”
That reminded her. “I need to speak with someone from that note. Is Pershing here? Or Christiansen? Jones? Southunder? It’s really important. My Grandpa’s last words were that I needed to talk to somebody named Black something.”
Francis and Lance glanced at each other. The muscular Lance only came up to Francis’ shoulder, so he actually had to look up. “Your call,” Francis said. The younger one was dressed in a fancy suit, and Lance was wearing worker’s clothes and a dusty hat, but it was obvious which one was in charge.
“Nothing personal, but I want some of our people to talk to you first. I’m in charge of security around here, and nobody gets to see General Pershing until I say so.”
She had not come all this way to be turned back now. “You listen here. I need to talk to Black somebody, my Grandpa said so.” Faye reached into her voluminous skirt and pulled out the little Tesla device. “I think this has something to do with it.” She held it out, and Lance took it, scowling as he read the plate. “My Grandpa was murdered by men looking for this, and I’m not going anywhere until I find out why.”
“Aww . . . this ain’t good. Not good at all.” Lance hesitated, like he was going to keep the device, but then he shook his head and passed it back. He looked at Francis. “I hope this ain’t what I think it is. Keep an eye on her. Don’t let her snoop in anything.” Then he limped away, grumbling.
“He’s grouchy,” Faye said when Lance was gone.
“You’d probably like to freshen up,” Francis suggested.
When she returned from the washroom, Francis was waiting with a sandwich on a plate. “I had the cook make this for you,” he said.
“You have servants?”
“Well, of course, this was one of my father’s estates,” he answered proudly. “The Society has been using it since the old headquarters was destroyed.”
She took the sandwich. “It must be nice to be rich. Servan
ts and indoor plumbing.”
“I . . . well . . .” he stammered. “I wasn’t meaning to brag. But yes, I suppose it is rather nice. Please, sit down.” He gestured toward a nearby table.
The interior of the home was amazing. Electric lights were on every wall. “This is the nicest dining room I’ve ever seen,” Faye said, settling into a padded chair.
“Well . . . actually, this is where the help eats. The dining room is back there . . .” he drifted off, uncomfortable. “Sorry, bragging again.”
For some reason his embarrassment made Faye smile. She liked this Francis. She ate her sandwich. It was good.
Lance returned a minute later. “Here’s the deal, you seem like an all right kid, Faye, but we deal with some . . . strange types, and there’s more than a few folks who’d want nothing more than to see him dead. In fact, the predicament we’re in now is because I didn’t do my job a few years ago, and somehow somebody got through and put a curse on him. It ain’t nothing personal, but I’ll be needing to hold onto your little gun, and if you try to use any magic on the General, I will kill you. Do you understand?”
“No need to be impolite,” Francis said.
“I once saw a six-year-old slash a man’s throat with spikes that came shooting out his fingers,” Lance pointed out.
“Fine,” Faye said, removing the Iver Johnson from her pocket and passing it over to Francis. “I want that back. It cost ten whole dollars.”
They left the kitchen area, through some sort of service room, past a workshop full of machines, out into a giant foyer, then up a flight of stairs. Lance’s limp was more pronounced going up the stairs, almost like one leg was shorter than the other.
“What happened to your leg?” Faye asked.
“I left part of it in a demon’s stomach,” he responded without turning around.
Francis leaned forward and whispered in her ear. “You can’t get a Healing if too much time’s passed. If it’s healed on its own wrong, it’ll stay that way. A surgeon tried to fix it later by cutting out all the poisoned bone. He’s sensitive about it.”
He heard. “Shut up, Francis.”
“You can control animals?”
“Sorta . . .”
Faye smiled. “That would be the best Power ever back on the farm. No cow would ever kick me in the hands again! What was that mark you put on that man’s head? What’s with the funny writing on the gate and in the house?”
“Magic spells. Do you ever get tired of asking questions?”
Faye thought about that for a second. “No. Where are we?”
Lance sighed as they reached the top of the stairs. He knocked politely before entering the first room. A beautiful blonde woman, wearing a white sundress, was sitting in a chair, reading a thick book. “Hey, Jane.”
She looked Faye over as she stood. “Oh, honey, what happened? You’ve got a hole in your foot! And something bit your hand! You should have called me and I would have come down . . . Imagine, making the poor thing walk up here with a hole in her heel.”
“How’d you know?” Faye asked, but was ignored.
“She didn’t tell me nothing about foot problems,” Lance said defensively. “Damn, woman. How was I supposed to know?”
“Is she okay?” Jane asked, looking to Francis for confirmation. “She must be since you brought her up here.”
“She didn’t burst into flames when we crossed the barrier, did she?” Francis said, pointing back at the doorway. There were more of the curious letters carved into the wood.
“Hold still,” Jane ordered as she set her hands on Faye’s shoulders. Jane’s hands were extremely warm, so warm that Faye could feel the heat through the coarse fabric of her traveling dress. Then her hands were ice cold, and now Faye was hot, like she was burning with fever. She wobbled for a moment, dizzy, as the flash of warmth passed.
“What just happened?”
“The hole in your foot will be closed by supper,” Jane answered. “I just gave you a little help is all.”
Faye’s thumb felt puffy. She held it up and the punctures from the squirrel bite were now just purple indentations. An actual Healer! Only millionaires had Healers. Faye felt lightheaded. “I can’t afford to pay you . . .”
“Oh, honey, you’ve been listening to too many radio programs,” Jane clucked reprovingly, picked up her book, and returned to her chair. “Don’t keep the General up too long. He’s having a bad day.”
“It’s about to get worse,” Lance muttered.
Western Colorado
The dining car was nearly empty. Sullivan grunted politely as the waiter dropped off his third thick steak, then he went to town, carving the beef into huge triangles and hungrily gulping them down. “Oh . . . yeah . . . that’s better,” he mumbled. To him, magic was almost like physical exercise, and running his Power dry always left him exhausted and famished.
Heinrich Koenig and Daniel Garrett watched how much he consumed in amazement. The bookish Garrett pulled out a pack of smokes and offered them to his companions. The German turned him down, but Sullivan never turned down anything free, took one, and stuck it behind his ear for later.
They had procured clothing for Sullivan at the last stop. He would have to get it tailored later, as no one made clothing sufficient to fit his shoulders and arms, but Sullivan was forced to admit that this was now the nicest suit that he owned. The bandages were thick and itchy under his new white shirt. Once Dr. Rosenstein had decided that Sullivan wasn’t going to die on him, he had gotten off in Denver to catch a flight back to his practice.
“So, about this job . . . I’m listening.”
Garrett lit up his smoke and leaned back in the booth. “So, Sullivan, where do you think magic comes from?”
“Well, that’s an odd question,” Sullivan answered, still chewing. “The best scientists in the world don’t know that. How should I? I’m just a po’ dumb ol’ Heavy, Mr. Garrett.” His voice dripped sarcasm like the rare steak dripped juice.
“Call me Dan, and we both know you know more than you let on.”
Sullivan wiped his mouth on a napkin. “The first documented case of Powers occurred in 1849, a Chinaman in California who could bend steel rails with his hands. Newspaper attention brought in some scientists, and the rest is history. Dr. Spengler’s research indicates that there may have been isolated individuals in rural communities as early as the late 1830s, but those were usually hushed up or run off by the superstitious. Dr. Kelser from the University of Berlin claimed to have proof of one in 1818, but I think his methodology was flawed . . . and he was a quack.”
“You know your history,” Heinrich said.
“I read a book once.” In reality, his tiny apartment was filled with them, and he’d visited every university library he could. He could devour a thick book faster than most educated men could get through the daily paper, and he never forgot any of it. People tended to equate well-spoken with well-read, but that was a mistake with Jake Sullivan. “It didn’t even have pictures.”
Garrett smiled. “You evaded my question rather nicely. Do you know where magic comes from?”
“I can only guess,” Sullivan answered. “Some folks say it’s hereditary, but you can have two parents with Powers, and there’s no guarantee their kids get anything. You have lots of cases where the same Power seems to run in a family. Those eugenicist assholes have been tinkering with that for generations, trying to breed Powers, and they’ve still got nothing. Rumor is that the Japs are heavy into this, even doing some scary medical procedures to the people they conquer to try and make more Actives.”
“I can tell you that the Soviets are doing it as well,” Heinrich said. “I’ve seen things with my own eyes that you would not believe. Cog science creating terrors beyond your wildest imaginings.”
“Disgusting,” Sullivan agreed.
“So you don’t like eugenics?” Garrett was curious.
“We’re people. Not horses.”
“Agreed,” Heinrich said, taking a
drink from his coffee. “There was a movement back home that espoused that sort of thing. Luckily, their crazy leader, some washed-up painter, got the firing squad. Good riddance.”
“So if it isn’t from . . .” Garrett paused, trying to think of the proper word.
“Mendelian genetics,” Sullivan said, pointing his fork at Heinrich. “Your people produced some clever monks.”
“Actually, he was Austrian,” Heinrich replied.
“Close enough.”
“So if it isn’t genetics, you’re saying that it must come from God?”
Sullivan shrugged. “Beats me. I don’t get real religious in my line of work. Sure, I believe in God, but I don’t think magic is his gift to man to make the world a better place, or any of that Father Coughlin radio show nonsense. If it was a gift from God, I think he’d be a little more picky in who he gave it too. I doubt God gave the Kaiser the ability to trap the spirits of men inside bodies that should have died ten times over, until they went crazy with a taste for human flesh, damned Teutonic zombies.” Sullivan looked over at Heinrich. “No offense.”
“None taken.” Heinrich gave a long sigh. His tone indicated that he had some familiarity with the Kaiser’s necromancy. “Please, do not discuss them.”
“Magic has revealed Hell is a place, so perhaps magic can come from both God and the Devil . . .”
Sullivan frowned. Garrett was fishing now, testing him. He concentrated, but couldn’t sense any intrusion into his mind. The Mouth was just getting a feel for his beliefs, not trying to influence him, so Sullivan answered truthfully. “Finders and Summoners have the Power to bring in beings from other worlds to do their bidding, and just because the easiest one to get to happens to look a lot like what we think of as Hell, doesn’t mean that it is. I’ve dealt with demons. Both sides were using them in the war, but they were basically really smart monkeys. The Summoned aren’t bright enough to be the fallen angels from the Bible.”