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.

Charlie offers us beers; Cassiar politely declines, and I gratefully accept. Charlie gets them while Cassiar and I choose seats. He opts for the end of the couch, and I take an armchair. Charlie hands me my beer and picks the other armchair.

We study one another in silence for a moment.

“Okay,” I say. “Here it is in a nutshell. This town is going to do its best to try to kill us. Oh, it might only cripple me, since its ultimate purpose is more about making me suffer than expire, but you two are definitely going to die. Charlie, you were my partner. Cassiar, you were my lover. I’m not stupid; I can practically see the bull’s-eyes painted on your foreheads. I say we get in Charlie’s car, right now, and get as far away from this place as we can. Sound good?”

“And then what?” Charlie says. “I live here, Jace. I own a business. I can’t just … run away.”

“Sure you can. And Cassiar, you’ve only been in town for a few days. There’s nothing stopping you from leaving, right? Why don’t we just relocate to wherever it is you live and consider this problem from a safe distance?”

Cassiar nods. “That would seem to be the most prudent course of action,” he says. “But before we leave, I have to ask you one question.”

“Go ahead.”

He spreads his hands. “What good is a trap with an open door?”

“You don’t think we can leave?”

“I think we need to find out.”

“He’s right,” Charlie says. “There’s only one road in and out of town. Should be easy enough to check.”

“Then let’s do that,” I say. “Right now.”

“I’m not sure that would be wise,” Cassiar says. “What if the safeguards that prevent you from leaving are lethal to those close to you?”

Damn it, he’s right again. Just like Cassius—always two steps ahead. “So trying to escape with either of you could result in your death? Yeah, that sounds like exactly the kind of nastiness Ahaseurus would have set up. Which means I go alone.”

“No way,” says Charlie. “Not safe. Jimmy Zhang’s still out there, remember?”

“Oh, I’m not going alone,” I say. “But you two are staying here. You still got that streetsweeper?”

Charlie nods. “Yeah, but I don’t see it doing much good against a vampire.”

“Oh, it won’t. In my experience, guns are useless against the supernatural. Ammunition, on the other hand…”

Charlie leaves the room. He comes back with a shotgun in his hands—specifically, a Mossberg Over/Under and a box of shells. I ask him for some tools, a funnel, and a few other odds and ends.

“This has to be the strangest load I’ve ever assembled,” I mutter as I tinker. I put Charlie to work helping prepare the contents, while Cassiar watches from across the room.

“Something’s just occurred to me,” Cassiar says, getting to his feet. “This local boy you told me about on the way over, the one that’s just been arrested. He can’t possibly be the Gallowsman—and since Stoker is a member of the cult, he knows that. So why arrest him at all?”

“Good point,” I say as I work. “But I don’t see how it’s relevant. Terrance seems to be a proxy for someone in my life named Tair, a homicidal thrope I helped put behind bars. His being arrested here mirrors what happened on Thropirelem.”

“But it still makes no sense,” Cassiar insists. “I think we should investigate further.”

“Go right ahead,” I say. “But me, I’m getting the hell out of Dodge.”

“If you can,” Charlie says.

“If I can,” I admit. “But I won’t be gone for long, Charlie. I’ll come back. Azura and I will figure some way to defuse this. I’m not—”

“Abandoning me?” He shrugs. “I should be so lucky.…”

*   *   *

Charlie lets me use his car. I bring the shotgun with me.

There’s only one road out of town, the one that connects to the highway. I take it. I see a few people on the streets as I drive, though most folks seem to be indoors; it’s not that late, but Thropirelem tends to be pretty quiet after dark. The thunderstorm overhead is still threatening to break loose.

Dark, empty fields on either side. Two-lane blacktop, the occasional flash of lightning, and me. I think less about where I’m going than where I’ve been.

So I’m Alice, and this is the other side of the looking-glass. A distorted, warped version of my life, with familiar faces playing new roles. A remake, I guess. Can’t say I’m a fan, so far.

Certain patterns seem to hold true, though. Charlie’s my main ally. My dog’s really smart. Cassius is an authority figure with vital information at his fingertips, and Tair’s a jerk in trouble with the law.

Those are my friends—all the friends I can remember, anyway—and Tair’s more of a part-time ally than a friend.

Then there are my enemies.

Isamu. Zhang. Maureen Selkirk, whom I knew as Maureen Selkie, an Irish witch with a talent for shapeshifting magic and a member of the terrorist group called the Free Human Resistance. Father Stone, whom I encountered as Brother Stone, a suspect in a series of bizarre murders.

I suddenly realize something. My clearest recollections are of people who are now dead: Stone, Isamu, Selkirk. My memories of Zhang are murkier, almost dreamlike. Must be Ahaseurus’s spells, eroding. Makes sense, I guess; with the subject of the illusion gone—and no one to reinforce it—the spells are dissipating on their own.

That’s not why I remember Charlie and Cassius and Tair and Galahad, though. It’s because they’re all important parts of my life, in ways both good and bad. Bad guys come and go, but some people will always stick around. Whether you want them to or not.

Patterns, patterns, patterns … what else holds true? Well, both Zhang and Isamu were pires, and both of them became neckbiters here. But Cassiar’s not a pire, and Charlie’s not a lem. Is Terrance a werewolf? Possible, but unknown. Maybe that’s what he wanted to talk to me about—

There’s a flashing orange light in the middle of the road. I slow down, then stop. A traffic barricade straddles the blacktop, and on the other side there’s a two-foot drop onto rough gravel. I can see the hulking shapes of roadwork equipment, backhoes and steamrollers and dumptrucks, plus a number of construction trailers. The sign on the barricade reads ROAD CLOSED just to make sure I get the point.

I park and get out of the truck. Study the situation. As I’m standing there, a door opens in the nearest trailer and a man walks out. Big guy, dressed in dirty orange coveralls, work boots, and a yellow hardhat. He’s got a large mug in one hand, giving off steam, and he carries it carefully so as not to spill it.

He walks over and stops just short of the barricade. Looks at me with about as much expression as a prison guard.

“Evening,” I say.

“Evening.” He doesn’t sound happy to see me. He’s got a square, blocky face and the name JOE stitched over his right breast.

“Didn’t know there was any roadwork going on out here,” I say.

“Yes, ma’am. For some time now.”

“Looks extensive.”

“Yes, ma’am.”

“Is there an alternate route to get to the highway?”

“Not that I’m aware of.”

“Kind of inconvenient.”

“I suppose.”

“I guess I could just walk across the fields.”

“That’s not a good idea, ma’am.”

I smile. “Why not?”

“Storm coming. Lightning strikes are a definite hazard.”

At that precise moment, an immense blue-white bolt rips out of the sky. It smashes into an oak tree with a sound like the Jolly Green Giant hitting a home run with a telephone pole and a bowling ball, splitting the tree in two; both sides crash to the ground a few seconds later. The afterimage of the strike is burned into my retinas, a jagged glowing ghost I try to blink away; flames flicker redly at the base of the tree.

Joe takes a sip from his mug. “See?”

I nod. “Uh-huh. Yes, yes, I do. Think I’ll head back into town, now.”

“Probably a good idea.”

I head back toward the truck, then turn back. Joe’s still watching me, over the rim of his steaming mug. “You always wear a hard hat after hours, Joe?”

“Safety first,” Joe says.

*   *   *

Looks like leaving isn’t an option. I spend a minute wondering if that applies only to me, or if other people can come and go, then drop it—it doesn’t really matter. There’s nobody else on this world I can go to for help, anyway. This is my fight.

But at least I have allies.

My phone lets me know I have a call. It’s Cassiar. “Jace, are you still within town limits?”

“Yeah. And for the forseeable future.”

“Then you should come down to the police station. I’ve talked to a deputy here, Mr. Silver, and he has some interesting information.”

“I’ll be there in a few minutes.”

I pull up in front of the police station, but don’t go in right away. I’m still thinking about patterns; they’re always—always—the most important factor in solving a case. What’s bothering me right now are all the ways things are almost-but-not-quite matching up.

If Azura is right and the only other people Ahaseurus brought to this dimension with him—other than me—are one pire and one thrope, then who are all these other people that seem to be from my life?

Fakes, I think. Real people, but not supernatural ones. Human beings with implanted memories hidden inside their heads, little ticking time bombs. Until they get bitten by the genuine article—at which point they become incredibly strong, very hard to kill, and remember just how much they hate me.

Except some of them don’t, right? Some might be potential allies. But I don’t know which are which … and therein lies the fun.

But the worst part of all, the part I don’t want to think about, is the single, most obvious, glaring fact of all.

Charlie Aleph, my partner, is a golem. Not a pire, not a thrope. Ahaseurus didn’t bring any lems with him—so this Charlie is just another fake. And knowing Ahaseurus, he’s probably the most dangerous trap of all.

So why do I still feel like I can trust him?

I shake my head, then get out of the truck. I can’t explain why I feel this way, I just know that I do. And at this point, I have to trust someone.

Deputy Silver must have been waiting for me, because he steps out and hurries down the steps to meet me. “Jace,” he says. “Hi. I think we should talk.”

I let him steer me down the sidewalk, away from the station. “Where’s Cassiar?”

“He left. Said he had some things to get. Said you’d understand.”

I probably do. I’ve got a shotgun, but I’m sure a monster-hunter like Cassiar must have a few survival strategies of his own up his sleeve. “What’s going on, Quinn?”

Silver looks troubled. “I don’t know, Jace. Two deaths in twenty-four hours is bad enough, but … things are getting worse. You heard we arrested Terrance Adams for murder?”

“I heard something about it, yeah.”

“But I don’t know why. We don’t have a case—or if we do, the sheriff won’t talk to me about it. Keeps saying he has his reasons, but won’t explain. I tell you, it don’t make any sense.” He pauses. “Thing of it is, he’s got an alibi, a pretty damn solid one. Sheriff says he’s lying, but I can’t see how. So when this Cassiar fellow came by and asked to talk to the boy, I thought I’d let him, just to see what would happen.”

“And what did?”

Silver frowns. “Sheriff just about blew a fuse. Told me nobody was allowed to see him until he gave the say-so, not even a lawyer. Then he threw this Cassiar out—but not before he threatened to arrest him, too. It’s not like the sheriff to act like this, and I just can’t figure it out. Mr. Cassiar said you might be able to shed some light on it.”

Me? I’m dumbfounded. Why the hell would Cassiar dump this in my lap, then disappear? What, am I supposed to bring Silver into our little counter-conspiracy? And why would Cassiar think I was any more credible than he was? Not that anything in our story is even remotely believable, anyway.…

I give Silver a brilliant smile. “It’s actually really simple. Sheriff Stoker has … a secret.” I pause.

“A secret?”

“Yes. Haven’t you noticed how private the man is?” I’m making this up as I go along, which feels a lot like tap-dancing on a high-wire while wearing a blindfold. “How he comes and goes sometimes with no explanation? Mysterious errands and so forth?”

“Well … come to think of it, he has been kinda withdrawn lately. On edge, too.”

“Uh-huh. Exactly. Well, Terrance knows what’s going on. And he’s threatening to spill the beans all over the cat he’s going to let out of the bag.” I’m on a roll now. “So the sheriff’s trying to convince him otherwise. Get him to see reason, show a little discretion, clam up. Understand?”

“Not really. What’s this big secret he’s trying to cover up?”

“Oh, I can’t tell you that. Are you trying to get me locked up, too?”

He looks at me like he can’t decide which one of his legs I’m pulling, and how hard. I drop the smile and stare back impassively.

“Look,” I say in a low voice, “don’t take my word for it. Do a little checking around—especially on the connection between Stoker and Old Man Longinus. You’ll see what I mean.”

“Longinus? What’s he got to do with—”

“That’s all I can say.” I hope it’s enough; I want to get his interest, but not tell him anything that could get me locked up. Having a cop on our side would be one helluva plus—if nothing else, it might help keep Stoker off our backs.

My phone chimes and I quickly dig it out, glad of the excuse to end the conversation. I’m hoping it’s Cassius, but it isn’t. It’s Gretchen Peters, the librarian. Wait. Librarian?

“Hello, Miss Valchek? I’ve been looking through the town records, and I’ve uncovered some very unusual facts. I really think you should see them.” She sounds a little nervous. “And as quickly as possible.”

“I can be there in a minute.”

“That’s fine. The library is closed, but I’ll unlock the door. I’ll see you shortly.” She hangs up.

I’ve walked a few steps away from Silver, the way you do when you’ve taken a call on a cell phone, and now I just keep walking as I hang up. “Gotta go!” I toss over my shoulder. “Remember what I told you!”

“But—” he says. I’m already halfway across the street.

The door to the library is open, just like she said it would be. I pull it open and go in.

My brain is trying to get my attention. Something about Gretch. Gretch? That seems awfully chummy. Since when do you call Miss Peters Gretch? She can hardly stand you.

Most of the lights in the library are off, but I can see a dim glow coming from the end of a long aisle. I head that way.

I don’t think I’ve ever been in a library after hours. It’s a little unsettling, having a mundane, normally well-lit environment turned into something full of towering shadows. The passage seems awfully narrow, the shelves pressing in on me from both sides; I become uncomfortably aware that someone one aisle over could be watching me over the tops of the books. Someone could even reach through that gap with one long arm and grab me …

I make it to the far end without being ambushed. The light is coming from the open door of an office with a small plastic sign next to the jamb reading HEAD LIBRARIAN. I stick my own head in. “Gretch—uh, en?”

She’s seated at a cheap chrome and fiberboard desk, with a green-shaded lamp on it spreading a pool of light. Beneath it is a large metal tube, three feet or so in length, with roughly the diameter of a Mason jar.

“Good evening, Miss Valchek,” she says. “Please, sit down.”

I pull up a plastic-framed chair and do so, feeling absurdly like I’m about to be reprimanded for smoking in the girls’ room. “You sounded a little upset. Everything okay?”

“Yes, yes. Everything’s fine. But what I’ve discovered—well, it’s quite the find. I simply had to show you, straight away.” Her face seems a little flushed, and her eyes are practically shining; the look of an academic who’s successfully stalked and captured a prize piece of information.

I point at the tube. “I guess this is it?”

“Oh, yes. Just wait until you see.” She unscrews the cap on the end and carefully extracts a long, rolled-up piece of paper. Parchment?

She unrolls it, using four felt-padded clamps to secure it to the edges of the desk. I peer at it curiously. “What exactly am I looking at?”

“A very old map, Miss Valchek—can I call you Jace? Yes, a map made when this town was barely more than a few log cabins and tents. Hardly anything here at all … which is why this is so fascinating.”

It looks to me like someone’s gone to the trouble of marking out a bunch of streets, far more than you’d need in a settlement this size. Thinking ahead, I guess, or maybe just someone with grandiose ideas.

But then I notice something else: The streets aren’t exactly straight, nor are they arranged in an orderly grid. Some of them seem to run right through existing buildings. “Wait a minute,” I say softly. “These aren’t streets—”

“No. They’re tunnels.” I can almost taste her excitement. “Very, very old tunnels. In fact, I believe they were already here when the town was founded.”

I study the parchment a little closer. There are numbers marked here and there, and I realize they must be depth indicators. There are other marks, too, that I can’t decipher—but I recognize them just the same. They’re in the same unknown language Longinus’s book is written in.

Déjà vu surges through me, but not because of the symbols. It’s this situation: sitting in a room with this woman, studying vital yet arcane information. I know I—we—have done this before. “Any idea why the tunnels are there? What they were used for?”

She glances up, her eyes bright. She doesn’t seem quite so spinsterish any more. “That’s the intriguing part. They approach almost every structure in town—gathering places, residences—including the sites of buildings that didn’t exist yet.”

“So, a way to travel undetected from house to house? Secret entrances in basements, that sort of thing?”

“You’d think so, but no. They almost always stay below the level of the foundations, and when they do near the surface they skirt the buildings instead of going under them. It’s as if whoever roamed those tunnels wanted to be in close proximity to the residents, but not too close.”

I see what she means; the tunnels snake around Thropirelem like an invisible anaconda, but I don’t see any places where they intersect with the upper world.

Except one.

I tap the paper. “Look. The tunnel dead-ends right here. And the depth marking is only eight feet; that’s shallow enough to connect with a basement.”

She leans over to look herself. “I believe you’re correct. How odd that I didn’t notice that myself…”

It’s funny, how smells can trigger memories. When she bends her head, some stray air current in the room carries a trace of her perfume to me. I remember it well, because I asked about it once and Gretch told me she had to have it imported from a little aromatherapy shop in London.…

Gretch.

I remember.

“I’d like to describe someone to you,” I say. “Someone I think you may know.”

Her head is still down as she peers intently at the map. “Mmm?”

“She’s one of the smartest people I’ve ever met, an intelligence analyst for the National Security Agency. Born in London. Dry, razor-sharp wit. She has a child, Anna, whom she loves more than existence itself. She’d kill for Anna—in fact, she has. I was there.”

No reaction. She doesn’t even look up—but she’s suddenly very, very still.

“The father of her child was killed by a lunatic who nearly killed Anna, too. I prevented that. We’ve had a special bond ever since, which is probably why I’m Anna’s godmother.

“That woman’s name is Gretchen Petra. She’s a vampire. She’s you, Gretch.”

“I know,” Gretch says softly. She raises her head and smiles at me with two long incisors. Her eyes are as red as blood. “But that’s who I was, Jace. Not who I am.”

And then she has me by the throat.