There’s something you should know about the people Mom works for.
They don’t exist.
I mean they really, really don’t exist. Really-really, like in ‘click your heels three times before you go to sleep and tell yourself they don’t exist’ don’t exist. The ruby shoes-day thing is optional. Because if they ever think you think they do exist, the red isn’t going to be your slippers. It’s going to be your you. It’s going to be your you while you bleed out and someone like Mom makes sure they were never there to start you bleeding. And there’s something else to know about them. Apart from them not existing, I mean. Because while they’re real busy not existing, they’re everywhere. Like, when the first rocket lands on Mars, someone in a little Martian office with lousy Martian coffee and great phone lines is going to be watching and phoning home. Probably while they keep a laser sight on some dumb astronaut’s ass. So when I tell you Cute Guy took me to one of their offices, which I’m not going to tell you because then I’d have to kill you, you can bet we didn’t have to go far.
No. I’m not telling you where it was. Maybe it was an old abandoned farm. Or the local library, where the librarians carry silenced Magnums to reinforce that thing about being quiet. You choose. Because they don’t exist, right? So Cute Guy didn’t take me anywhere. But we went there anyway.
There’s only two kinds of people get into the type of place Cute guy didn’t take me. The ones They know are on their side, and the ones They know aren’t. Well, there’s a third kind. The ones in between. But still, only one kind ever comes out. After they’d taken every weapon I had on me –and gone into some very personal places to find some of them (they make stun grenades real small these days) – I was figuring I’d better be one of the first kind.
Mom had told me about this stuff. Back in the day I’d have been strapped to a chair, plugged into wires while somebody asked me if my name was Minnie Mouse. But that was the old days. It’s called ‘fluttering’ now. The chair I was in didn’t have wires – none I could see, anyway. But I’d bet the allowance Mom was always forgetting to give me it was stuffed with vibration sensors, temperature probes and mikes. The room I was in would be a mess of ultra-infra-geek-speak light and sound intended to let people know not just what I’d had for breakfast last week, but whether I was lying about the calorie count. That’s why they hadn’t given me my clothes back after they’d done the weapon search, though they’d left my holster on. It was all partly to keep me off balance and partly so all the tech they didn’t care if I knew about got to know more about me. Me? I was trying to work out whether to be worried or pissed. Because even if every tech toy in the room was making the hot, naked chick its sole focus of attention, Cute Guy wasn’t. Which either meant he was gay, or it meant I was in deep shit.
Cute Guy put down his coffee. They hadn’t offered me one. Hot liquids running round inside the target screw up the tech toys. He shook his head. “You’ve got an interesting file, Maya.” At least he got my name right. “Actually, you’ve got two interesting files.” He raised an eyebrow and waited.
I figured if he was going to be a smart-ass, mine was smarter. I raised my own eyebrow and waited right back. I figured I had nothing to lose, so I concentrated for a moment. I smiled, while I felt my nipples turning into bullets. If that didn’t distract him some…
It didn’t. He picked up a clipboard, made a tick. “Ah, yes. Sven. And Maria.” He shook his head, made some more ticks.
Sven. And - I’d have smiled, but I wasn’t going to give him the satisfaction – and Maria. Mom had brought them home last year. Said too many jobs got screwed up by hormones. Two months of pyjama parties, without the pyjamas. I ended up sore in places I hadn’t known were worth getting sore in. But by the time the two of them were done, Mom was satisfied none of my jobs were going to get screwed up because some cute guy – or girl – smiled at me. Or didn’t. And that I was more than capable of, um, screwing anyone else up if necessary. I shrugged, and let my nipples relax. “So I guess you’ve been watching, huh?”
Cute Guy shrugged. “It’s what we do.” He paused. “Well, or part of it.” He sighed. “Shall we get this over with?”
I shrugged too. Apparently it was in style this week. “Sure. Whatever.” I thought for a moment. “My name is Kaitlyn. I’m fat. I worry about my math grade. I’ve killed six…” Cute Guy looked down at his clipboard. I sighed. “OK, I’ve killed eleven…” He raised an eyebrow. I shook my head. “Look, that guy in the parking lot doesn’t count! He stole my space!” Cute Guy waited. I sighed. “Alright, already. I’ve killed twelve people. I like marshmallows, walking in the rain, and my Glock 357. Oh – and I want my fucking clothes back.” See, that’s how it’s done. They have to see some lies, and some truth, so they can tell the difference. Before they get on to the real stuff. The stuff they really want to know. It’s called base-lining. So I figured I’d save some time.
Cute Guy made some more checks on his board. He looked up at the wall mirror I knew was one-way glass. A light above it flashed twice. He nodded, then looked at me. “Ah, yes. Your, um, fucking clothes.” He didn’t sound sixteen. He sounded older. He sounded hard ass, and professional. He sounded like – like Mom. He pressed a button. The guy who came in had my clothes – and my Glock. Cute Guy nodded at them. “So, Maya. How would you feel about blowing your fucking Mom’s fucking head off?”
December 1475, Near Bucharest
The target battled on. The Turks threw themselves on the blades and arrows of the Moldavian, determined the target was going to fall. Which was exactly what the man wearing the black leather duster and aiming the Barrett M82A1 had in mind.
He steadied his sight on the target.
At five thousand feet per second the seven hundred and fifty gram shell would go through Vlad Tepes like a knife through butter. The man in the leather duster knew there’d be no trace anyone would find that he’d been here. Gently, his finger began to squeeze the trigger.
As the girl in the leather jacket stepped from behind the tree the man turned, his eyes locking hers. She was amazed. Nobody ever saw her coming – nobody. Not that it made any difference. Her trigger finger tensed – and a 357 slug hammered into the man’s head.
The Barrett fell, the man slumped over it. The girl slipped the Glock back into her thigh holster. She moved in to clear the site. L would be real pissed if there was so much as a scrap of evidence. She looked up as the handsome sixteen year old stepped from behind a rock, a gun in his hand. “Hey, CG! I didn’t know you were riding shotgun!”
The boy looked round. He shrugged. “It's a good job I am, I guess. We've got a problem.”
“What problem? I don't miss. Like, ever. He's dead, CG.”
The sixteen year old shrugged. “That's the problem, M. Or rather, you are. See, you're supposed to be dead now too. Or gone. Or never here. One of those. But we can fix that.” His gun came up. There was a single crack, red fire burning from the sixteen year old’s gun. A second flare of red fire erupted from the girl’s thigh, and the girl slumped to the ground. The sixteen year old put another Hell round into the girl’s head, just to make sure. He walked over to the corpse and looked down. He lifted her skirt and ran his hand up inside it. He sighed. It was just too bad. If he hadn't been over a thousand years old, or if he'd ever actually reached puberty, he might have had a different reason for doing what he was doing. Well, if she was still alive anyway. Which she wasn't. For a moment, he thought he felt a flutter of life in her spirit – but then it was gone. He shook his head. His hand found what it was looking for and pulled. Even though she was dead, it wasn't easy. If she'd been alive it probably wouldn't have been possible at all. But she wasn't and the thigh holster came loose from her leg, dripping blood. He drew a crystal dagger from the sheath on his leg and kissed the blade. For three minutes his lips moved, his words a harsh whisper on the wind. When he was done the dagger blade glowed a sickly yellow. He cut into the thigh holster, slicing it open. Red fragments spilled out, a once-gem shattered by the boy’s hellfire slug. The boy took the fragments and put them carefully into the rune-box She'd given him. L was going to be pissed, but there was no way in Hell he was going to try to carry it with – he looked over at the dead man in black leather – the other thing as well. He'd come back for it. He grimaced. Come back. Like getting home wasn’t bad enough. He pulled a sheet of paper out of his pocket and wrote on it in thick black marker. Then he pulled a red gem, filled with a dull red glow, out of his other pocket and held it tight. He began to chant again – then to scream. As he screamed, the red gem began to glow brighter. Eventually he stopped screaming. Dull, dead eyes read the paper, holding the now burning gem tight in the same hand. With his other hand, he took a flask from his pocket. The smell of Unicorn Horn filled the air. He drank - and was gone. The sheet of paper drifted in the wind – then flared into flame, leaving only ash.
* * *
The slumped figure in the leather duster coughed, a hacking, rasping gasp. Above him the Paradox Storm twisted the sky. Nothing not Summoned was going to get in. He grinned raggedly, blood bubbling between his lips.. He knew there was no way he could draw a pentacle. But - he grinned again, even though it hurt - that’s what emergency kits were for. His hand jerked. Slowly, so very slowly, the hand struggled to a pocket in the duster. Reaching in, he dragged out a folded sheet. The man coughed again, more blood spurting from his mouth. He rolled, and dragged himself to one knee. He unfolded the sheet and laid it on the grass, a black pattern visible on the surface and a monogrammed H in one corner. He fell to his side, twisting to land away from the sheet. After a few moments of exposure to the air the sheet flared red fire and white lightning. The flames and lightning vanished, but the heat didn’t. The air seared, the grass shriveled, and the earth fused to rock under the sheet as it burned away. Rock scribed with a black pattern. The man in the black leather duster struggled to his knees. He pulled a small glass vial filled with a red fluid from a patched slit in the shoulder of the duster. His hand slammed down over the vial, smashing it into the center of the pattern. With his last breath, he cried a long and complex name, then fell face down over the pentacle.
The sky opened.