December 1475, Near Bucharest
As we appear, I can feel, well, 'us' leaving. The Paradox Storm is burning over us. Dad's next to me, but he's also slumped over his Barrett, dying. “Dad!”
Dad-next-to-me raises an eyebrow. “Me or him?”
“You. I mean, him. I mean – you're fucking dying!”
Not today, kid. Not today.” Dad runs over to – well, to Dad. He takes the emerald fragments out of his pocket, and lays them on his jacket. The fragments sink into the leather. Dad slips the pentacle he got from leopard guy into his - - well, the other 'his' – pocket. Then he picks up the Barrett. He aims – and fires a single shot. On the battlefield, one man falls. Dad nods, like he's satisfied. He picks up the spent brass, then he crushes the last emerald fragment under 'his' nose.
Fuck. I hate time travel. I have an idea I know why leopard guy gets headaches.
“You ready, kid?”
“What for?”
“To quit your job.”
“To quit my....? Oh, Right.” I check my not-a-Glock in my thigh holster. “Fucking A... er, I mean, damn right, Dad. Where to?”
“Wherever your old holster is, kid. Think you can manage that?”
“Oh, yeah. Ab-so-fucking-lutely, Dad.”
We take out our flasks – and we drink.
* * *
Some-When. Middle-of-Nowhere, USA.
As we appear, I can hear the echoes of CG's scream. I see the gem crumbling in his hand. But it's not enough that's he's hurting. He killed me. And not just me. I pull my not-a-Glock, and I don't even have to aim. I squeeze off a round. It hits his head, and burning fire explodes from the hole it leaves behind as it smashes into the mirror opposite. CG falls, and I know he won't be getting up. It should feel good – but it doesn't. The speaker crackles. “Maya! So good to see you, dear. And I see you brought me a present! You do remember you were supposed to kill him, don't you? Now be a dear. FINISH HIM!”
I look at Dad. He shrugs. I look at the cracked mirror. “Fuck you, Mom. I quit!” I squeeze the trigger. Red fire and white lightning burn each time I hit the mirror. I look at Dad, one eyebrow raised.
Dad grins. “Hellfire. Direct from Hell. With some added extra – from the other place.”
I keep pulling the trigger. “How many loads?”
“It depends. Sometimes? As many as you need.”
I keep firing. The mirror shatters.
“YOU PATHETIC BRAT.”
Long black hair. Burning eyes. A really shitty complexion. Wings of fire and feet of – I look – a chicken. My big- scary Mom has chicken feet. I want to laugh – but I pull the trigger instead. “You need some fresh blusher, Mom.”
“MOM? HOW DARE YOU! I AM LILITH! I AM THE NIGHT-OWL! BRIDE OF SAMAEL, MISTRESS OF ILLUSIONS! I AM THE ONOKENTAUROS, BUT IF YOU TELL ANYONE THAT ONE, I'LL BLOODY WELL SUE! AND I’M NOT YOUR FUCKING MOTHER, BITCH! I KILLED YOUR MOTHER AND STOLE YOU, FOR I AM LILITH, THE STEALER OF...”
“You're a loud-mouth.” Dad isn't pissed. I think he'd be less scary if he was. His voice is flat, and he's calm. And he's loading his gun. “And I killed Vlad. So don't bother looking for him.”
“YOU KILLED – MY TALTOS? MY LORD OF WAMPYR? I SHALL REND YOU! I SHALL FLAY YOU! I SHALL – FUCK! THAT HURT! STOP BLOODY DOING THAT!”
Dad isn't loading his gun any more. He's firing. And his bullets burn red and white too. And he doesn't miss. Not-mom starts to bleed – smoke black and icky green. I start aiming for the holes Dad's slugs have left.
“LOOK. I SAID STOP BLOODY DOING THAT! I OFFER YOU POWER, SHADOWS! POWER OVER – I SAID STOP THAT!”
I want to grin. I want to laugh. I want to cry, for the Mom I thought I had, and the Mom I did. But I don't do any of them. I just pull my trigger.
“YOU HAVEN'T SEEN THE LAST OF ME, SHADOWS. EQVAM ITUL-QAT ATKIOS!” Not-mom scrawls a pentacle on the wall behind her. She steps through it. Or she would, if she didn't mash her nose on the wall. “I SAID FUCKING EQVAM ITUL-QAT ATKIOS! NOW OPEN THIS BLOODY DOOR!” She sighs, and looks at us. “YOU JUST CAN'T GET THE BLOODY STAFF THESE DAYS. WHERE WAS I? OH. RIGHT.” Not-Mom spits. “YOU HAVE NOT SEEN THE LAST OF ME, SHADOWS! NOW EQVAM ITU... OH. AND ABOUT TIME TOO.” Not-mom steps through the wall – and she's gone.
Dad shrugs. “Oh, well. Next time.” He looks round the shattered mirrors, the burning walls. “You quit pretty good, kid.”
I grin. But I know my heart isn't in it. “I guess. Dad?”
“Yeah?”
“Who was my Mom?”
1971, Washington D.C.
The White House is one of the most secure residences in the Western world. That had become even more so under Richard Milhous (‘Lucy’ to her friends – not that she had any) Nixon. There wasn’t a door could be unlocked, never mind opened, without lights somebody was always watching starting to blink, and alarms someone was always listening for starting to ring. Which didn’t seem to bother the owner of the hand unlocking this one. He twisted the pick – and the lock released. Somewhere in a distant room, lights didn’t blink and alarms didn’t ring. He might have grinned, but he wasn’t big on grins. This wasn’t fun. And this time – it wasn't just another job.
He stepped into the room, followed by the figure behind him. The sleeper was extremely well trained, her senses fine-tuned and her reactions hair-trigger. She was good. Better than good. But the man wasn’t just good. He was the best there was. He stepped silently over to the sleeper’s bed. His hand didn’t seem to move, but now it had a gun in it. From behind him something wrapped tight round his arm, pulling it down. Or trying to. “Do we have to? There’s got to be another way…“
The man shrugged. “Only two, P. Only two.” He waited.
The tentacle released from his arm. Not that it would have made any difference. The gun hadn’t moved from its position over the sleeping woman’s mouth. The second figure sighed. “You’re a bastard. I hate it when you’re right.”
Jack Shadow’s gun settled on the woman’s lips.
“If you were going to kill me, you'd have done it already. So I guess you want something from me. And since I pressed the silent alarm, but the room isn't full of men in grey suits and sunglasses firing guns, I guess you know more about this place's security than the guy who designed it.” The woman didn't open her eyes, or try to get away from the gun. “So what do you want?”
“I...” the man in the black leather duster blushed. The shade of red showed he hadn't had a lot of practice. “I want to get you pregnant.”
“You – what?”
The door opened again. A young girl came in, about sixteen. “Hey, mom.”
* * *
“So let me get this straight. You're going to – we're going to – you know, I think I'm getting a headache.”
The girl grinned, half sad, half happy. “Yeah. Dad does that to people. Well, and not people too. There's this Fallen Angel...”
“Fallen Angel. Like, Angel. Like, Fallen. Like, Servant of...”
“It's OK. I already did that bit, Mom.”
“Riiight. So you're going to – we're going to, like, to. And Maya here's what happens. And a demon queen is going to kill me, to steal her, so she can train her to kill you. Because not even a demon can do it – only your own kid can get close enough to take you out. Because she doesn't have a soul. Which she does. She kills you. But you want her to be born anyway. And that's supposed to makes sense – because?”
The man in black leather shrugs. “Because I'd rather be dead with her, than alive without her.”
“Dad!” The girl hugs the man in black leather. She's not very good at – as if she lacks practice.
“And I'm supposed to believe you.”
The girl looks sad. “No, mom. Not supposed to. You do believe him. You believe him because something's telling you every word is true – and even if you don't know what it is, you trust it.”
The woman sighs. “You too, huh?”
The girl shrugs.
“Perhaps I can help.” Tentacles snake out from the other woman in the room. One settles on the girl's head, the other on the woman's. After a while, the tentacles fall.
“Fuck.” The woman's eyes fill with tears.
“Damn, Mom.” The girl's eyes are equally full.
“Thank you. Whoever you are – thank you.” The woman smiles through her tears.
“Thanks, P. Really.” The girl smiles too, though her tears still fall.
The man in black leather raises an eyebrow.
“Oh, I just gave them the years they could have had. If – well, if they weren't them. And I showed them what She'll do if they aren't. Aren't them, I mean.”
The woman in the bed rubs the tears from her eyes. “And I guess I can't remember this either? Or the bitch will know you know she's coming?”
The man in black leather shrugs, his eyes sad.
“Oh, well. I'm sure your – your 'friend' can take care of that. I guess you lose some...” The woman looks at the girl. “... but I sure won some. Or I will.”
The girl's eyes fill with tears. “Mom!”
The woman in the bed shakes her head. “It's OK, Really, really OK. Of all the things I ever do – you're the best. Always remember that.”
The girl smiles. “I will, Mom.”
The woman grins. “Now get your ass out of here. Your Dad and I have some fucking business to attend to.”
* * *
From The Times Wedding Announcements.
We are delighted to report the recent marriage of Florence Wilkinson and renowned Coleridge scholar Professor Wilberforce Spencer.
Professor Spencer and Mrs Wilkinson first met when Professor Spencer attended Mrs Wilkinson’s appointment as Director at the Coleridge Museum in Nether Stowey, after the unfortunate death of the previous incumbent. Professor Wilkinson was present in his capacity as the new Curator of the British Museum. The former Mrs Wilkinson was attended by her son Robert and his friend Alice Drake...
* * *
Washington D.C. - 350 And Down
Jack sighed, and put down the pen. Bloody field reports. They were supposed to be history – he grinned – after he quit The Dragon. He looked at the kid, sleeping in the camp bed. He shook his head. Complicated wasn’t the half of it. Not now, not ever. But tomorrow was tomorrow’s problem. Right now he had to deal with yesterday. He closed the notebook and took a flask from his pocket. It wouldn’t be possible anywhere but 250. After all, how hard could it be for something that didn’t exist once to not exist twice? He drank – and was gone.
The Shadow cleared. Jack pulled his gun, just in case. He opened the door that didn’t really exist. The two men in leather dusters looked at each other. Both men grinned, and lowered their guns. Jack raised an eyebrow. “I thought you'd be taller.” The man on the other side of the door raised his own brow. “Me too.” Jack reached slowly into the pocket of his duster, and pulled out the notebook. He dropped it on the floor. “Let's not do this again, huh Jack?” He pulled a flask from his pocket, and the smell of Unicorn Horn filled the air.