Finn Fancy Necromancy Page 8

  The stream of fleeing gnomes split in a move as coordinated and practiced as a marching band. Priapus shouted something in squeaky Gnomish, and with a “Crack!” the stone beneath the sasquatch fractured. Vines grew up around her feet, her ankles, and kept growing.

  At the same time, Mort threw a bottle at the male sasquatch—I named him Harry. What can I say, it’s hard to be original when you’re tripping your way through a suicidal charge to save your brother. The bottle struck Harry in the face and exploded in a yellowy liquid splash.

  The sasquatch screamed and wiped at his face with the frantic motions of someone fending off bees.

  I hit the edge of the circle, and this time I did stumble and fall down onto stone strewn with pebbles and pine needles. Pain burned through my palms and elbows, and pounded through my knees and shoulder as I scraped and rolled my way to a stop on the damp ground between Mort and the sasquatch.

  At which point I wondered what the hell I was doing.

  “Mort, run!” I scrambled to get my feet under me. My hands slipped in oily mud. Castor oil, probably mixed with marigold root, milkweed sap, and sea salt, one of the “potions” arcana kids learn when playing alchemist without the actual alchemy. Excellent natural defense if, say, a family of gnomes decides to turn on you, but little more than an irritant to sasquatches.

  My advice, it turned out, was unnecessary. Mort was already running. The female sasquatch—Harriett—grabbed him by the back of his jacket, however, and swung him around to knock down a line of gnomes who had turned to attack her. The gnomes went tumbling, tiny skulls cracking against the concrete. Harriett tossed Priapus aside, and the vines stopped winding up her legs.

  I scrambled toward Mort, but a hand the size of a medium pizza wrapped over the top of my head and jerked me to a neck-wrenching stop. Harry twisted me around to face him as I beat at his unyielding arm, then he grabbed me by the neck and lifted me off the ground. I began to choke, and I tore at his thick and matted fur, trying to get at the flesh beneath, but it was like digging through steel wool. Harry didn’t even flinch. I heard Mort screaming in pain behind me, but it sounded distant, as though coming down a tunnel, and the edge of my vision started going hazy.

  The sasquatch sniffed, and his brow furrowed. He drew me close and snuffled my head, surrounding me with his musky cedar scent, then growled in an annoyed tone and laid me gently down on the ground. As I coughed and sucked in gulps of air, the sasquatch stepped over me. I turned to follow his movement as he stomped across the mana vessel and bag of spirit stones toward Mort. Harriett held Mort dangling by one ankle, and with her free hand tore the last of the vines from her legs. The gnomes had disappeared.

  I began a painfully slow crawl toward them, freezing whenever I thought Harriett might notice. Not that I had any idea what I was going to do when I reached them. The only effective attack I knew of was to tickle a sasquatch’s feet, which at most would render them helpless with laughter. But to do that, I needed to get them off their feet. That didn’t seem likely. Not only could they pretty much tie me up like a pretzel if they chose, but those big feet made for an awfully stable base. And Harry’s feet were protected anyway.

  “Is yonman target?” Harry asked.

  “Yes,” Harriett replied. “And meself has the badbright magestick.” She showed the bone artifact Priapus had been trading with Mort. She dropped it, and Harry crushed it beneath his giant boot.

  Harriett nodded at me. “Why no skullcrush yonman?”

  I froze.

  Harry looked back at me. “Himself be the one bigwarned not to hurt.”

  I stared and wanted to say, “Watchoo talkin’ about, sasquatch!”

  Someone had told them not to hurt me? What the hell did that mean? Was it possible the Legion of Doom actually didn’t want me hurt? Yeah, it was possible: neither the attack on the Fey nor framing me for Felicity’s death would have led to my death, at least as far as I knew. Or perhaps someone else had sent the sasquatches. Either way, it surely didn’t mean anything good.

  “Allthis giving meself bad rumblings,” Harry said. “The gnomebrights rabbitted away.”

  “Gnomebrights not going tongue-wagging to the magemen for shine of getting holed theyself,” Harriett said. “Youself be shivershaking baby-heart.” She lowered Mort to the ground, still holding on to his ankle, and raised her foot to crush his head.

  I’d crossed a quarter of the space, but I was still too far away to do anything. “Wait!” I shouted.

  “Wait!” Harry said at the same time, surprising me. “Meself no baby heart. Rightsay, allthis not feel right.”

  Harriett lowered her foot to the ground, and lifted Mort back up, shaking him at Harry. “Boss say—”

  “Meself not liking boss, sister-mine.”

  “Youself not liking nothings. Youself tiny poopy foot.”

  Harry roared, a sound of frustration that echoed off the hillside. “Meself not … poopy foot! Meself not baby heart! Boss not goodentrue. We leave him, quickrun to mother’s cave ’til badbright stormings done.”

  “No!” There was an edge of panic to Harriett’s voice, and she clutched Mort’s leg against her chest like a doll. “Meself needs the boss’s brightjuice! Youself heartswore—”

  A sharp retort echoed from the hillside, and Harry was knocked off his booted feet as if hit in the head by the invisible fist of a giant. He howled in a sound of raw anger and pain.

  A battle cry filled the air, and then Zeke leaped into the concrete circle. I tried not to stare. The giant Norseman was dressed Miami Vice–style in an old enforcer uniform—white jacket and pants, and pastel blue T-shirt—and he’d shaved his white-blond hair into a Mohawk, Mr. T–style. He held one of those telescoping batons in one hand, and a Dirty Harry–looking silver revolver in the other. He must have followed me to the fort, hoping to catch me alone or breaking the law. At that moment, I didn’t mind.

  Harriett roared a challenge and tossed Mort aside.

  “Grab your brother and get down to the lower bunker,” Zeke said, then fired his gun at Harriett. She flung her arm up over her face and a puff of dust burst from a spot on her forearm. She fell back a step, then screamed and charged Zeke, while Harry pushed himself to his feet and shook his head.

  “Go, you fool!” Zeke shouted, then fired again. Harriett twitched to the side but didn’t stop her charge. She swiped at Zeke. He raised his own arm, and her clawed hand rebounded off the white sleeve of his jacket with a flash of blue light. He stumbled back, almost falling.

  I sprinted over to Mort, who lay moaning on the ground. “Come on,” I said, hooking a hand under his armpit and hauling him up. He staggered to his feet, and cried out in pain.

  “I think my back is broken!” he said. Another gunshot rang out.

  “Don’t be an idiot,” I replied. “You wouldn’t be able to move if it was broken. Now come on!”

  Together we stumbled away from Zeke and the two sasquatches. Harry was up now and charged Zeke from the side. Zeke fired his gun at the female again, hitting her in the stomach and causing her to double over. Then he spun low. His baton caught Harry behind the knee, sweeping the creature’s enormous booted foot out from under him and sending him flying onto his back once more.

  Then Mort and I passed over the rise and headed downhill in a stumbling run. Mort leaned heavily on me, and with his limping it felt like we ran a three-legged race. Again I was grateful that the changeling had kept my body in good shape, and that we were running downhill. We rounded a bend, and the vista opened up beneath us. The Salish Sea gray and choppy, framed by cliffs to the left and the lighthouse to the right. And directly below, between us and the beach, stood the three-floor concrete structure of Kenzie Battery.

  Kenzie Battery was a young boy’s fantasy fort. The lower level was a series of open chambers connected by a labyrinth of winding, lightless tunnels barely wide enough for a person to fit through, the ultimate playground for games of tag or hide and seek. The second level was a series of steel-
lined concrete rooms that had once held ammunition and supplies, and so had great rusting metal doors, and dumb-waiter-like alcoves and shafts meant to pass supplies to the upper level. At either end sat a concrete circle, perfect opposing bases for games of capture the flag. The upper level was open to the sky, a wide concrete slab, with paths that ran through the beach grass behind it down to the rocky shoreline.

  Two more gunshots behind us, then the sound of heavy boots pounding down the dirt trail.

  “Run!” Zeke shouted.

  Near Kenzie, a family speed-walked away from the concrete structure, a father, mother, and a little girl. They must have heard the gunshots. The father spotted us, swept the little girl up in his arms and they began running in the direction of the parking lot.

  Great. The last thing we needed was park rangers getting involved.

  Well, actually, the last thing I needed was to be fleeing sasquatch mercenaries to begin with, but life is what happens when you’re making other plans and all that. Thankfully, this early on a chill March morning, there did not appear to be anyone else exploring the battery at least.

  A flicker to my left, in the trees. Damn. The sasquatches were flanking us.

  “Watch ou—” I managed to shout before a ton of hairy unhappiness flew out of the trees and bowled me and Mort over. A giant hand shoved me aside, and Harriett advanced on Mort. A series of blue flashes at the edge of my vision told me that Zeke battled the other sasquatch nearby.

  I leaped on Harriett’s back, and tried to put a chokehold on her past the cushion of hair and thick muscle. But she just ignored me and raised a meaty hand to swipe at Mort.

  I scrambled up higher on her back and fumbled at her face until I found her nose and dug my fingers in.

  She roared in pain, and grabbed my wrists. She whipped me around her like a bullfighter swirling a cloak and tossed me to the side of the trail gently enough that no bones broke, though I’d have a nasty bruise. I flicked thick mucus off my fingers.

  “Stay out,” Harriett grunted at me, then turned back to Mort.

  Zeke plowed into her side. A blue flash, and she lifted up off her big feet and flew into a nearby tree. Zeke hauled Mort up and looked at me. A bloody gash across his forehead painted the left side of his face red. “Move!” he shouted, and shoved Mort at me.

  We all raced the rest of the way to the concrete bunker. We reached the sandy ground at its base, and passed beneath the arch of the concrete trilithon that stood before it.

  Zeke stopped and turned, facing behind us. “Into the tunnels, hurry!”

  Of course! The tunnels were too narrow for the sasquatches.

  Mort and I limped into the cool shadow of the nearest concrete room, and headed for a narrow gap that led into the tunnel maze. I let Mort enter first. The tunnels were barely wide enough to enter without turning sideways. Mort let the walls support him as he slid along into the darkness. We were just inside the tunnel when the shaft of dim gray daylight behind us was blocked. I turned to find Zeke’s enormous frame blocking the entrance. Then he shouted in pain, and grabbed my arm with one hand and the concrete wall with the other as his legs rose up behind him.

  I grabbed his arm. “Shit! Hang on!”

  I was no match for a sasquatch’s strength. Zeke’s fingers slipped free of their hold on the concrete wall, and I was dragged along with him back toward the concrete room.

  I had only one chance. It made me queasy even thinking about it, but there was no time for internal debates over ethics or risks, or even what I really wanted.

  I let Zeke go, and pulled his hand free from my arm.

  “Gramaraye!” he shouted. “I’m gonna get you, fool!” Harriett pulled him free of the tunnel.

  I charged the sasquatch as she turned away, and jumped on her back again. Except this time, I didn’t claw for her nostrils.

  I clawed for her soul.

  * * *

  I learned that I was a Talker when I was twelve years old.

  My best friend, John, and I returned from a bike ride to the little corner mart where we had spent two dollars snuck from John’s mother’s purse. The little store had recently added an awesome new arcade game, Sinistar, and every spare quarter we could beg, borrow, or steal was eaten by that electronic beast.

  “I hunger, coward!” John called from behind as we pedaled single file up the side of the road. “You want to stop and get some plums out of the corner yard?”

  “Sure!” I shouted back.

  “Sweet! Beware, plums, I live!” John gave Sinistar’s mwah-ha-ha laugh.

  “More like beware, you die,” I called back. “I keep telling you, you need to go for a free man on the first level.”

  “Whatever,” he replied. “So have you talked to that girl who moved in next door yet?”

  “Her name’s Dawn. She’s weird.”

  “Weird how? Because she’s black?”

  “What? No! Just weird. Come on, let’s cross the street.”

  I rode across the two-lane road. John didn’t follow right away, but took the opportunity to jump a driveway. He gave a whoop, then swerved out to follow me.

  The pickup truck smashed into him full speed.

  John and his bike went spinning off to the side of the road in a tangled mess. The truck skidded to a stop, then peeled out and drove off.

  I jumped off my bike and let it fall as I ran across the road to John. “Oh crap! Oh crap! John! Are you okay? Oh crap!”

  John was not okay. He shook in convulsing, rhythmic spasms of his entire body, and blood streamed from the corner of his mouth.

  “Oh fuck. Oh no. John, don’t die. Don’t die.” I fell to my knees by his side. I touched his head, his chest, gently, as though afraid I might injure them further, but I wasn’t sure what to do. I’d helped my father prepare a hundred dead bodies, doing patch-and-polish work to hide the injuries and incisions for the viewings. But I’d never had to fix someone still alive.

  The convulsions grew softer, less frequent, like a fading heartbeat. Then John made one last gasp, as though he were a fish needing water, and lay still.

  “John, don’t do this, man. Johnny!” I laid my head on his chest but couldn’t hear a heartbeat. I lifted his head and put it in my lap to make him more comfortable. He just stared up at me, his mouth and eyes fixed wide open. I closed my eyes and began to rock back and forth. “John, come back, come back. I’m sorry. We shouldn’t have crossed the road there. I’m sorry. Come back.”

  I felt a disorienting sensation, like when a carnival ride suddenly drops and it feels like you’re leaving some part of you behind.

  “Dude,” John said, “did you see that jump?”

  I opened my eyes. “John?”

  “Yeah?” he said. Except he didn’t talk. His eyes remained unfocused, his mouth remained fixed open, unmoving, and the voice sounded distant.

  I recognized what was happening. I’d seen my mother do it before. I was talking to the dead. I was Talking to the dead.

  John was dead.

  Yet the fact that I could still talk to him made it less awful somehow.

  “Are you … are you okay?” I asked.

  “Dude, you didn’t beat me that bad. You know if it was Tutankhamen I would have totally kicked your butt.”

  “No, I mean, do you feel okay? Does it hurt at all?”

  “Oh yeah, right, it hurts so bad. You got the high score, I think I’ll go home and cry now. So, have you spoken to your new neighbor yet?”

  I realized he was in a kind of shock, unwilling to recognize that he was dead. And I didn’t have the heart to tell him. I waited with John until the cops and the ambulance arrived, talking about things we had done together, about plans we had made and never fulfilled, about dreams we’d shared that would never come true. And then they took John’s body away.

  As I was led away from his body, I felt a pull, like a rubber band being stretched, and then it snapped.

  I vomited. And then I passed out.

  I remained
in a fevered sleep for nearly a week during which my mother nursed me with soup and potions and tears. I finally woke at home, starving and thirsty, and stumbled into the bathroom to find that I’d grown hair where none had been before. And my clothes had shrunk; they were all a little short on my now-skeletal frame.

  In one week I’d grown months older.

  Grandfather explained the facts of unlife to me. How Talking used my own life energy and aged me—the longer I Talked, the more it would age me, which is why Grandfather rarely used his ability, and when he did it was only to ask an important and specific question. I’d been lucky that John’s own life energy was still dissipating from his body when I Talked to him and had partly fueled the Talking session; otherwise, I might have aged years rather than months and died from the physical shock.

  I swore to never Talk again.

  Grandfather made me learn to control my “gift” anyway.

  * * *

  Harriett growled as I landed on her back.

  I wasn’t going to let Zeke die, not like Mother died. Not like John and Felicity died. Not after he’d risked his life for us. Not when I could do something about it.

  I called up the magic that glowed at the locus of my being, reached out for Harriett’s spirit, and summoned her.

  Harriett’s growl turned into a yelp of shock and pain. She dropped Zeke and fell to her knees, her hands clutched just below her heart. I held on to her back, and to the summoning.

  Magic and life energy both drained from me in a slow but steady stream.

  Attempting to summon a spirit still tied to a living brain was a bit like trying to start a car that was already running, or to talk on a walkie-talkie to someone you’re standing toe to toe with. It was pointless, and the screeching feedback was a bitch. I’d been prepared for the feedback. Harriett was not. She rocked her head in a violent figure eight, like Stevie Wonder singing punk rock, and screamed like a girl who’d just watched her cabbage patch doll and My Little Pony come to life and kill each other—a sound of shocked surprise filled with horror and fear and pain.