Attack the Geek (2 page)

Ree set her tray down on an empty table and passed out Redheaded Sisters, mozzarella sticks, and pints of Grognard’s Vorpal Bunny IPA. Back at the bar, the titular Grognard (Strength 14, Dexterity 10, Stamina 15, IQ 15, Will 18, Charisma 10—Geek 7 / Collector 4 / Geekomancer 3 / Brewmaster 5) kept an eye on the room, mixing drinks without having to look down. Callused and gnarled hands worked on autopilot while the bald brewmaster stared off into the distance the way he always did on Saturdays.

Grognard snapped back to attention when asked a question by Ree’s least-favorite member of the local Steampunk community, the self-appointed “Lieutenant” Abigail Wickham.

Abigail Wickham (Strength 13, Dexterity 14, Stamina 12, Will 8, IQ 14, Charisma 16—Old Money 4 / Mean Girl 3 / Model 2 / Blogger 2 / Steampunk 2) was a walking catalog page straight out of
Vogue
: Steampunk.

Three-paned goggles
, by Dr. Einsteinium = $299

Butterfly Cog hair pin
, by Lady Jaydite = $79

Resist!
earrings
, by Francesca Riviera de la Vega = $329

Whalebone
,
jade
,
and
ivory-boned bustier Shackles
, by Zenia = $899

Functional Pneumatic Needler gun
, by Dr. Einsteinium = $1,999

Crimson-to-black asymmetrical Bustle Skirt
, by Francesa Riviera de la Vega = $249

Custom brown duster
, by Lobelia Judgehammer = $1,499

Custom thigh-high leather boots
, by Made for Walking = $499

Every piece of gear had a story, a relationship, but even while wearing the work of a dozen master craftswomen and -men, Wickham still made it all about herself. She collected awesome craftspeople like they were Pokémon, their accomplishments and capabilities turned to her ends.

Wickham had made her distaste for the handiwork of Ree’s friends Priya, as well as Drake Winters, abundantly, self-righteously clear. Therefore, Ree made a point of never bothering with Wickham if she could avoid it, so she walked straight by the “Lieutenant” and returned to her duties, making a barback sweep to clear glasses and plates. Grognard refused to hire actual barbacks, instead relying on Ree to clear tables. It usually wasn’t a problem, even on Saturdays. Mostly it meant that she wore through a pair of insoles in a month.

On the upside, the extra runs gave her a chance to check in on the games. She’d played
V:TES
back in the day, usually after school and on weekends, when there had been time for a three-hour chunk of deal-making, face-pounding, and sudden but inevitable betrayals. It wasn’t quite as much fun as LARPing
Vampire
, but it took a hell of a lot less prep time, and cards cost less than makeup and costumes.

Uncle Joe, a Grognard’s regular, was handily in control of his game, his Nosferatu stealthy enough to make him a difficult target, leading the other players to take swipes at one another. On the surface, Uncle Joe looked like any one of a million milquetoast white guys: balding head, paunch, Pillsbury Doughboy complexion, topped off with a collection of sweater-vests. But when it came to card-flopping, he was a Monte Carlo shark.

Eastwood sat in the nearest booth, in Master Geekomancer mode, though like everyone else, he was observing the No Magic rule that applied to all tournaments.

Eastwood had gone from scruffy hero to full-on 90s-antihero-on-the-redemption-warpath since last October, doing penance by cavorting around Pearson night and day, thereby proving that the superheroes who patrolled actively were, in fact, totally insane.

Eastwood (Strength 11, Dexterity 14, Stamina 14, IQ 18, Will 18, Charisma 7—Geek 8, Astral Cowboy 4 / Geekomancer 5 / Thunderbolt 1) looked like he hadn’t slept in a week; he had deep circles under his eyes, and his beard was a full order more scraggly than usual.

Ree wondered if there was a connection between Eastwood’s strung-out-itude and Grognard’s especially grumpy Saturdays.

Maybe it has something to do with Mom,
Ree wondered. After ditching her husband and daughter, Ree’s mom had gone back to her Geekomantic ways and shacked up with Eastwood before dying under mysterious circumstances, which, as noted, had prompted Eastwood’s rampage through the Dark Side in an effort to get her back.

Ree chewed on that mystery while she cleaned the tables and checked the games. Three of them were in endgame, but the rest might stretch on for another couple of hours. The night was young.

Hauling a full tray back to the bar, Ree hip-checked her way into the back, where she dropped off the tray beside the dishwasher. Elbow-deep in suds, Drake was hard at work, scrubbing a huge glass jug that Grognard used for brewing. The room smelled of soap and sweat.

Ree had been working for Grognard since the start of November, but Drake had volunteered his services after a cluster-fuck of a night where the pair of them had lost Grognard’s traveling cart and several pony kegs of beer during a not-so-random monster attack in the sewer.

Drake’s sleeves were rolled up to his biceps, giving him a more decidedly working-class look, as his jacket was hung up on the coat rack in Grognard’s office. His suspenders hung down and back over his pants. The overall effect was deliciously retro blue collar-y.

A man out of time, Drake Winters (Strength 12, Dexterity 15, Stamina 13, IQ 16, Will 15, Charisma 15—Inventor 5 / Gentleman 2 / Steampunk 6 / Fae-Touched 3) was just barely taller than Ree, his riding boots set aside for the long dishwashing shifts. His short sandy-blond hair slicked to his forehead with the sheen of sweat and steam, and his hands were so pruny, they qualified him to be a backup dancer for the California Raisins.

“Good day, Ms. Ree. How are the games proceeding?” he asked, setting the jug down on the counter and wiping the sweat from his brow.

“Eastwood and Uncle Joe are kicking ass, Shade has all of his opponents paranoid, and Talon had an elder on the table before anyone could blink.”

Drake nodded politely, though as far as she could tell, he’d never played
V:TES
or any other CCG. He was a much older-school kind of geek, more about the gears and geegaws than the card-flopping and the fan-vidding. Which, coming from an entirely different dimension as he did, was entirely understandable.

“You doing all right back here? Need a drink?” Ree asked.

Drake chuckled, laughter brightening his already warm demeanor. “Strange that spending hours half-submerged in water and soap could leave a person dehydrated, but so it is. I would adore an iced tea or water, if it is not too much trouble.”

What Ree wanted to do was to wink suggestively and take a page from Rogue and say something like, “For you, sugar, anything.”

But since Drake was still dating one of her best friends, all she said was “Coming right up.”

Ree got herself out of the situation before she could say something stupid, and went back out onto the bar floor.

Thou shalt not fuck with one of thy best friend’s relationships,
she told herself, a refrain she’d had to repeat countless times.

During Ree’s brief stint as a screenwriter a few months back, superstar actress (and childhood crush) Jane Konrad had, upon observing her and Drake together, told her,
“And since he’s no longer the competition, I might as well tell you that Drake is crazy about you.”

Perhaps. But he was still with Priya, and when Ree had the ovaries to deal with the emotional roller coaster that came from seeing them together, they appeared to be perfectly happy. Which meant that she had to be a grown-up about it and deal.

Grognard caught her attention as she crossed his thousand-yard stare.

“Can’t afford breaks for you to moon at Captain Dashing right now. I need you to stay on top of the tables.”

And, of course, everyone knew about it but Drake.
Gods, kill me now and spare me the soap opera.

It was about then that the lights went out.

Chapter Two

Lightsaber Is My Nightlight

I was kidding!
Ree said to herself. Drama was still preferable to death, no matter how gut-wrenching.

“Balls,” said Grognard. Ree set her tray down on the bar that she knew was directly to her left, then reached into her apron for the penlight on her keychain.

The crowd started grumbling, which also had the effect of keeping her oriented.

“I’ll get the breaker,” Ree said, turning and walking back toward the office, hands out, since her penlight was barely up to the task of illuminating the door two feet in front of her.

Grognard huffed in the affirmative. “Everyone keep your shit together. It’s just a breaker.”

“My phone isn’t working,” said one of the players as Ree opened the door.

“We barely get signal down here on a good day. That’s why I open up the Wi-Fi,” Grognard explained with a tired voice.

“But I have a dedicated satellite signal, and I’m not getting anything either,” said Shade, Pearson’s local ’80s-New-Wave Cyberpunk Technomancer.

Curiouser and curiouser.
Ree pawed her way to the fuse box and threw the breakers. Nothing happened. She did it again, and the breaker shot out a burst of sparks that lit the office for a split second like fireworks on Chinese New Year before going dark again.

Ree hopped back from the fuse box, steadying herself on the wall.

“Boss?” she called. The Saturday Suck was really outdoing itself this week.

“What was that?” Grognard said. She heard the door swing open, then felt a heavy presence beside her.

“I wouldn’t do that,” Ree said, reaching for her boss’s arm as he moved past her.

Grognard brushed by and stopped in front of the fuse box. “What happened?”

“The fuse box gave off a shower of sparks. I suspect that we will not solve this problem easily,” Drake said from the sinks.

“Let me take a look at it. With these boots, I’m as grounded as someone can get,” he said.

There was a set of clicks, then another. No sparks, but no lights, either. Ree considered pulling out her lightsaber to use as a flare, but if it turned out that there was something hinky, she didn’t want to run down its nostalgia battery too soon. In her time as a part of Pearson’s magical underground, she’d learned that holding back the big guns kept you alive.

Grognard squinted at the fuse box, then sighed. “Okay, I’m calling it. Lock the register and help me lead people out the office exit.”

There were two ways out of Grognard’s—the big round front door that led out into the sewers of Pearson, and the employee entrance in the office, which led out and up into a mundane building.

“Got it,” Ree said, heading to the bar area.

“Okay, everyone, we’re going to have to close for the night,” Grognard said loudly.

That prompted a round of boos, some grumbles, and a load of shuffling, as people collected themselves (and their cards) in the dark. Ree heard a glass fall and shatter on the floor, then got a whiff of beer. She heard more shuffling, like someone trying to clean up after themselves.
Le sigh.

“Leave it; let’s just get going. We’re taking the office door, so just come with me, okay?” Ree kept talking to give the patrons something to home in on. “Last one out forfeits their entrance fee to the tourney, everyone else gets a refund.”

The shuffling got a bit faster, and Ree held the door open.

“Incoming,” Ree said over her shoulder. Then there was a loud
SMACK
.

Ree turned around to see the barkeep picking himself up off the floor.

“Hold that thought,” Grognard said.

“What?” said one of the customers.

“Say what?” Ree echoed.

“Office door’s warded.” A moment later, her boss added, “And they’re not my wards.”

Uh-oh
, Ree thought. The Occam’s Razor answer of “malfunction” was losing ground to “sabotage” by the moment.

“What kind of wards?” asked Eastwood from halfway back in the group. There were sounds of jostling as he pushed through the crowd and walked by Ree, his heavy steps setting him apart from the other customers. Eastwood always walked like he was stomping bugs underheel. Maybe it was something left over from his time as an astral-projecting cowboy, as if he was trying to make up for the spurs he’d set aside years ago.

“Can’t be sure from here. But when I tried to force the door, it hit me like a haymaker,” Grognard said.

“Screw this. I’m out of here,” one customer said, and then Ree heard a wave of steps and shoves as the assorted gamers and Geekomancers made their way to the sewer door.

Ree followed the customers out into the bar area, half out of curiosity and half to make sure no one swiped or broke something on the way out. Grognard had a handful of big-league artifacts that could cause some major damage if they fell into the wrong hands. Thankfully, most of them were locked away under glass.

The door to the sewers opened without incident, and most of the customers filed out, making their own light with props or simple spells, or they just dealt with the darkness—like Shade. But if
his
specs didn’t have magical functions, Ree would eat her apron.

“Everybody out that wants out?” Ree asked to the remaining customers. Ree guessed there were two, maybe three left inside.

She didn’t hear any other movement, so she hauled the huge circular door closed and secured it with the three warded locks. The locks’ magics were specifically designed by Grognard to interconnect and support one another, and so far, she’d never had reason to doubt them.