Dead Jack and the Old Gods, page 5
“Let’s go round the back,” I said, and followed another stone-lined dirt path that led around the house.
In the backyard, I found the wizard swaying from a tree branch, a thick noose wrapped around his thin neck. His head was bent at an almost ninety-degree angle.
“Crap!”
“Cut the rope, Oswald!”
I grabbed Wally’s legs and lifted him as Oswald stretched out an arm. The homunculus snapped the noose off the branch and Wally slumped into my arms. He was heavier than I expected for a korrigan. Life on the outside must have been too much for the poor guy. Wally had actually served all his time but preferred life behind bars. I laid the wizard on the ground, on top of a bed of daisies, got on my knees, and was about to start life-saving measures—when Wally said, “Don’t you even think about it, corpse.” His eyes flashed open.
He pushed me away. “You ruined my daisies.”
“I saved your life,” I said.
The wizard stood. His wrinkly face wrinkled further with anger. His pointy ears stiffened as he looked upon his flattened daisies.
“Why were you trying to kill yourself?” Oswald asked.
Wally stooped and lifted a limp daisy. It fell the moment he let it go. “I wasn’t trying to kill myself, nimrod. But your friend sure killed my daisies.” He stood again and dusted himself off. “It’s a game I play with Lucius. It’s all in good fun. He’s supposed to rescue me, but he’s obviously preoccupied.”
“Sounds like a riot,” I said.
“Lucius!” Wally yelled. “We have uninvited guests. Bring out the cheap wine and stale cheese.”
“How has life on the outside been treating you, Wally?”
He sat at a small round table in the middle of the garden. “They made me leave, you know? They refused to keep me locked up. They said it was ‘in everyone’s best interest’ if I just went home. Can you believe that? I’m thinking of moving to the Outer Lands. It’s quieter there. At least that’s what I hear.” He rubbed his neck. Red marks criss crossed his throat. I wondered how many times he played this game with ol’ Lucius. I never could figure out the relationship between the two of them.
A tray with wine and cheese and crackers floated toward us. That was Lucius. For the longest time I didn’t believe he existed. The tray landed on the table with a clink.
“Sit down,” Wally said as he started in on the cheese and crackers.
We sat and Oswald immediately popped a few cheese cubes in his mouth. Oswald ate on occasion, but I’ve never known him to poop, so let that sink in.
“I’m looking for a book,” I said.
“Have you tried Madame Bovary? It's quite good.”
“No. A magical book.”
“It’s quite magical. It’s about a woman trying to escape the banalities and emptiness of provincial life. It doesn’t get more magical than that. Right, Lucius? I read it to him not too long ago.” I heard a soft grunt from behind Wally.
“Stop messing around, Wally. This book could be trouble. Something or someone came through the vortex on Witch End, messed up a trio of witches—you should see their faces—something nearly scared them to death, and I think our strange visitor is here looking for a book to create some havoc.”
“Well, in my experience, a good book, like a good man, is hard to find. Sometimes you have to travel to another dimension to get one that satisfies you.”
“Wally, listen, if you saw what I saw on Abracadabra Hill, you wouldn’t be joking. Oswald had a dream and so did these witches. There’s some creepy sleeping god waiting for this book.”
“Cthulhu.”
“Who Lu Lu?”
“Cthulhu. The Great Dreamer. The Sleeper of R'lyeh. High Priest of the Great Old Ones.”
“Okay. I’ve heard the name but never looked into it.”
“I dreamt of a sunken city,” Oswald said.
“You dreamt of R'lyeh?” Wally asked.
“I’ve written about my dreams in my journal.”
“Don’t take out the journal,” I said. “What’s this all about, Wally? The sunken city, Cthulhu?”
“I think the book you’re talking about is the Necronomicon. Like you, I never took this thing seriously, so I never did much research on it. Cthulhu and R'lyeh always seemed to be a silly myth to me. A story you’d find in a cheap paperback. Not real magic. I can’t help you on this one.”
“Know anyone who can?”
Wally tossed a cube of stinky cheese in his mouth and chewed like an angry cow. “There’s an antiquarian in The Devil’s Reach who specializes in apocrypha and the occult. He might be able to help you.”
“Antiquarian? Apocrypha? Sounds like words Oswald throws into his stupid diary.”
“It’s not stupid,” Oswald said.
“Hopefully this guy has a dictionary so I know what the hell you’re talking about. What’s his name?”
12
Oswald’s Journal
Jack claims I jolted him with electricity during our exercise in Dr. Noctua’s office, but I didn’t. I swear. I don’t know what he’s talking about. Why would I electrocute him? I agree with the doctor. We are two parts of a whole and we need to be in harmony. But Jack is going to fight it tooth and nail, and ever since our failed therapy session, he’s been even colder to me. He’s barely said anything to me since then.
Jack’s been impossible since I woke up. Shouldn’t he be happy that I’m alive? I always felt that Jack was just messing around when he insulted me or blamed me for messing up a case. I never took him seriously. A lot of people don’t understand Jack’s sense of humor. Some people say he doesn’t have a sense of humor at all, but that’s not true. I think Jack is hilarious. Sometimes, anyway. He thinks it’s funny to say mean things to me, and I never minded before, but lately I don’t find him funny. There’s no humor behind his jokes now. Just mean-spiritedness.
I can’t help that I have a Jupiter Stone inside me and can do crazy stuff. Wasn’t it his idea that I cover the Pandemonium Device when Zara hammered it? Didn’t I help to save the world? Why doesn’t he think of that?
I think Dr. Noctua was right when she said Jack feels threatened. He’s always been in charge, but now I can do things he can’t. I know it gets him mad. The agency is all he has. His cases give him a purpose. Otherwise, what would he be but a hopeless, wandering zombie?
Maybe I shouldn’t have been throwing my powers in his face, but I need to show some backbone. I’ve never resisted Jack before and these little acts of defiance make me feel better. I need a sense of purpose, too. Don’t I?
13
From The Daily Specter
New Drug Sweeping the Five Cities
By Janus Sweeney
ShadowShade - Did you hear about the vampire banker who fell off the Midtown Bank roof and impaled himself on a spiked fence below? How about the gremlin cabbie who took a nap while at the wheel and plowed through a group of werewolf schoolkids on a field trip? These are the effects of a new drug that some say is plaguing the Five Cities, while others welcome it as an alternative to fairy dust—which as you know can be difficult to procure.
They call it Black Powder, because that’s what it looks like, and it’s the new craze. According to experts, it consists of mummy dust, dragon’s blood and possibly a sprinkling of fairy dust. But others insist there are other ingredients in Black Powder that have so far stumped the alchemists.
What does it do? As one user describes it, Black Powder puts you in a sleepy, drowsy state where you have vivid dreams. It usually lasts six to eight hours.
But for some the drug has been poison. An ogre in the Broken Lands reportedly took the drug two weeks ago, stripped naked, and began smashing store windows in Ogreville. Then there’s the witch on Monster Island who took Black Powder and allegedly killed her entire family with a flat iron.
A fairy source says even the Guild doesn’t know where the drug is coming from or who makes it. One dust insider said, “Black Powder just showed up out of the blue and already it seems to be everywhere. Some in the Guild wish they had distribution like that.”
Until there’s more information about Black Powder, ShadowShade Mayor Ed Varkiss is advising everyone in the Five Cities to stop using the drug, and to contact the proper authorities if you have any info on where it’s coming from.
14
Something Stinks at the Bookstore
“Mort’s Antique Books,” the filthy, crumbling sign read above the equally filthy door nestled between two display windows crowded with sun-faded books, most of which had pentagrams on the cover. The old bookstore stood in the middle of a forgotten street in the middle of a forgotten neighborhood in The Devil’s Reach, a desolate place on the northern edge of ShadowShade. Folks in the Five Cities didn’t care about books, magical or otherwise. They certainly didn’t read. Most of them would probably have a problem reading the directions on a shampoo bottle.
Before I stepped inside, I knew exactly how it would smell: moldy and dusty.
The door fought me when I tried to open it, but with a little push it became unstuck and we entered Mort’s Books. Just as I thought, the stink of books punched me in the face. It smelled like a mummy’s sarcophagus.
“Don’t you just love being around all these books?” Oswald asked. Books were everywhere. Stuffed in rickety old cases. Piled up in corners. Thrown on little tables. Overflowing from wooden carts.
“I’d rather listen to the radio,” I said. “Reading is for the living.”
“I’m working my way through the rest of Sherlock Holmes. Remember that case you tried to solve using one of his stories? I can always read you one of his cases, you know.”
“You can always read to yourself in a quiet room far away from me, you know.”
The store seemed empty. Typical for a bookstore. Not typical: It was dark and gloomy except for a few dull bulbs hanging here and there. Not very good for reading. Dust motes floated in the dim light.
Oswald picked up a tome from atop a cart and flipped through it. I walked around the joint. A black cat appeared out of nowhere and slunk along the counter at the back of the store. She plopped down beside the register and stared at me with huge green eyes.
“What are you looking at?” I said. The cat kept staring, its eyes widening. It made me uncomfortable. I turned to the front of the store. Oswald looked up from his book. “Remember that case when you were hired to find those missing cats?”
I discovered a bell on the counter. I slapped it like a maniac. Ting! Ting! Ting! A few seconds later a tiny gnome with spectacles came limping out from the back. A few wisps of white hair stuck up from his fat round head.
“Please, keep that down,” he said, his voice slow and hoarse. He placed his hand over the bell. “We’re not open. How did you get in here?”
“The door.”
“Damn thing never stays locked.” His voice trembled. He sounded like he was about to cry.
The book gnome must have been standing on a raised platform, because he was almost eye to eye with me.
“Please, go. We’re not open.” He stroked the cat and it purred like the engine of a big rig.
“I’m looking for information on the Necronomicon. Do you know anything about it?”
The gnome went white. Then he went rigid. I noticed blood trickling down the side of his head.
“Are you okay, Mort?” I asked. “You’re bleeding.”
It took a moment before he answered. “Oh, that,” he said, running his hand over his temple. “A bible fell on me. Hazards of owning a bookstore. You don’t realize how dangerous books are until you’re around them all day. Now, you must go. I insist.”
The book gnome picked up his cat and stepped around the counter. “Please, I have a lot of work to do tonight before I can go home.”
Now Mort’s head barely reached the top of the counter. “Please, you must go,” he said, as he walked past me.
As he made his way to the door, he lifted the cat toward his lips. I thought he might eat the poor thing, but he only seemed to give the kitty a kiss on the ear, though he did linger a bit longer than necessary. Book gnomes always struck me as creeps.
He opened the door.
“Can we come back tomorrow when you’re open?” I asked. “I only have a few questions.”
“Yes, yes, tomorrow. You can come back tomorrow.” Again, he sounded like he was about to cry. I felt bad. I didn’t want to keep the guy. He probably had some important reading to do.
We walked out to the street and the book gnome flung his cat out the door with us. He slammed the door shut and pulled down the shade. I heard locks and bolts clicking shut.
“What was his deal?” Oswald asked.
“I bet this isn’t even his cat.”
The cat continued to stare at me with her big eyes. I stared back, but she didn’t flinch.
“Come on,” I said. “Let’s get a drink. We’ll come back in the morning.”
The black cat followed us as we headed to the Studebaker.
When the kitty, black as pitch and quiet as the wind, caught up to us, she bit at the hem of my pants. I brushed her off, but a moment later she went right back to it.
I stopped. “What’s your problem, pussycat?”
The cat sat on her haunches and judged me with her big eyes. “What? What do you want?”
“She wants something,” Oswald said, uselessly.
The cat wrinkled up its nose in seeming reply, and then turned and walked back toward the bookstore. I figured it was over and I headed in the opposite direction.
Before I knew it, the cat was back to chewing on my hem. I stopped again and shouted at the cat, “Stop it or I’ll kick you to the moon!”
She stared back at me, turned again, and slunk back toward the bookstore.
“I think she wants us to follow her,” Oswald said.
“I’ve fallen for that before and it always leads to no good. Cats are more devious than you realize.”
So, we followed the no-good cat, who led us right back to the bookstore. She slid around the side of the building, stopped at the cellar door, and clawed at the lock.
“This alley cat just wants to get warm,” I said.
“I think Mort is in trouble and he couldn’t tell us why.”
“How did you deduce that, Sherlock?”
“The blood coming from his head, his apprehension, the cat leading us back to the bookstore.”
“So, you’re saying we should break into the bookstore?”
“Is it really breaking in if an employee is telling us to go in?”
“Who? The cat?”
“Sure.”
I stomped on the lock twice, popping it open.
I slowly lifted the heavy doors, which gave out an ancient scream, and we all descended the steps and entered the musty basement. The only difference from the upstairs was that the books down here were covered in more dust.
Maybe I was crazy following a cat into the cellar of an occult bookstore. Was Mort in trouble? Maybe the real trouble was keeping a bookstore running in the Five Cities.
The cat hopped from book pile to book pile. I followed along, bumping into piles of books and spilling them all over the floor. The cat stopped at the bottom of a staircase.
“Lead the way, pussycat,” I said.
The cat stared at me for a moment longer—I don’t think she liked me—and then slunk up the stairs. Me and Oswald crept behind her, the steps creaking in the dark. As we got closer to the door atop the stairs, I heard voices. One was clearly the book gnome. His voice was even shakier and more anxious than before. I put my good ear against the door.
“For the last time, I don’t know where the Necronomicon is,” Mort said. “Why would I have it here?”
“You must think I’m stupid,” said another voice, dark and husky. From the timbre of the voice I was pretty sure I knew what we were dealing with. “I know you have it.”
Looks like Oswald made a good guess about Mort being in trouble, and by the sound of it, Harbinger was behind that door.
“How do you want to do this?” Oswald whispered. “The smart way or the dumb way?”
“My way.”
“So, the dumb way.”
“No damn hoodoo from you and we’ll be fine.” I casually opened the door and sauntered in.
“Excuse me,” I said. “Do you have the new F. Scott Fitzpatrick book? I hear it’s a real hoot.”
I had stumbled upon a tableau of torture. More blood flowed from the book gnome’s head, sheer terror etched on his face. He was bound to a chair with rope. A white-maned werewolf in a leather jacket and denim jeans held a long curved blade at Mort’s throat. The wolf man looked like the type who rode a motorcycle and laughed at old ladies when they fell down the stairs. He bared yellow fangs. Saliva dripped from his beard.
The woof-woof pointed the blade at me and Oswald. “Who sent you, zombie?” His eyes were dilated and bloodshot. The blade shook in his hairy hand. I knew that look. Dust head. “Get any closer and the gnome gets a head-ectomy.”
“I was sent by the ShadowShade Women’s Book Club. This is a bookstore, isn’t it?”
“This is going to be an abattoir soon.” The werewolf let out a rumbling laugh that morphed into a howl.
I looked around the small, cramped office. I didn’t see the cat. She probably skedaddled. “You got me, Harbinger. I’m not much of a reader.”
The werewolf flashed his wet fangs again. “Harbinger? What do you know about Harbinger?”
“I know you came through the vortex in Witch End and messed with the minds of three witches.”
“Me? You think I’m Harbinger?” The wolf man let out a throaty laugh. “You know nothing, corpse.”
“What do you want with the Necronomicon if you’re not Harbinger?”
