Back From the Undead (11 page)

Progress, I guess—a whole three words. “How did you die?”

“I was old.”

“Yeah, that’ll happen.” But not to pires, which means she was either a thrope or a baseline human. “How long have you been dead?”

“Ever since I got here.”

“Were you a thrope?”

“Don’t know what that is.”

“Werewolf.”

“What wolf?”

“No,
were
wolf.”

“Oh.” She pauses and straightens up, looking around. Then she raises one arm slowly and points to the swirling mist behind the car. “
There
wolf.”

Stoker and I both swivel around and look out the rear window.

There’s a figure back there, standing in the fog at the edge of visibility. Its silhouette is that of a thrope in half-were form, tall pointed ears jutting from a canine skull, but that shrinks down to a more human outline before my eyes. The figure takes a few steps forward, resolving into a redheaded man of indeterminate age. His features are narrow, with a slightly Asian cast to them, but nothing definite; he could pass for Hispanic or Caucasian or even Indian without much trouble. He’s dressed in a tan trench coat over a dark olive suit.

“Hello, love,” he says. His voice is self-assured, amused, and right off a London street.

I look at Stoker. “I think he’s talking to you.”

“Talking to both of you, actually.” The man’s red hair is darker than most, and slicked back with oil. “I mean, I hate to interrupt what seems a
fascinating
dialogue between you and Ms. Rest-In-Peace there, but when you’re done discussing the relative merits of open versus closed caskets, I wouldn’t mind a moment of your time.”

I look at Stoker. He shrugs. “I think we can work it into our busy schedule, don’t you?”

“Who are you?” I ask the stranger. “And what do you want?”

“You can call me Zevon, Agent Valchek. And as to what I want? Why, I want to provide you with a much-needed service.”

“Let me guess,” I say. “Protection?”

He gives a throaty chuckle. “Not at all. Transportation—which is to say, a way out of this place. Interested?”

“What did you have in mind?”

“A deal, of course. You provide something, I provide something in return.” He gives me a grin, which is a little too feral for my liking. “What else did you expect?”

I sigh. “Something a little less cliché? Come on, guy with a fondness for red shows up in the underworld and offers to make a deal? Why don’t you just pull out a contract and ask for a blood sample?”

Zevon looks slightly indignant. “Please. First of all, you have your cultural references all mixed up; this is Yomi, not Perdition. Second: I much prefer green to red, as you should be able to tell by what I’ve got on; and third, if you mean to suggest I’m after your soul, I should point out that you’re already
here
. Honestly, if that’s what I was after I’d just kill the both of you.”

“You could try,” I growl.

He shakes his head. “No, no, no. That’s not my intention at all. I’m not Lucifer or Satan or anyone like that; I’m just a humble facilitator. Really.”

“Uh-huh. So what’s a humble facilitator charge for getting out of here?”

“Oh, it varies from customer to customer. Depending on the entertainment value.”

I start to see where this is heading. “How about I hook you up with free cable? I know a guy.”

His smile gets wider. “Oh, the reception in here is
terrible
. I know, I’ve tried. But you’ve got the right idea.”

Yeah. In an endless gray blankness, anything new and stimulating would be invaluable. But what a demon—and no matter what this guy claims, that’s what he must be—finds entertaining isn’t going to be pleasant. On the other hand, the lack of traditional Judeo-Christian torments here means it may not involve red-hot pokers or bodily orifices. “So tell me, already. But I should warn you that my singing voice is terrible and I can’t juggle.”

“Oh, I think you’re a
fine
juggler. Just think about how many balls you’ve got in the air right now—there’s the dojo you just started, your friends, your dog, your new lover … and of course your job, which really counts as more than one. All those cases you get dragged into because of your expertise in profiling, when what you really should be doing is concentrating on the one that’ll let you get back to your old life.”

He pauses, obviously enjoying the grim look on my face as he effortlessly defines my current existence. “But look! The biggest ball of all has just landed in your hand! Aristotle Stoker, Fugitive Number One, right there beside you. Exactly one half of your ticket home—you should be overjoyed. Well, half overjoyed, anyway. Maybe just joyed.”

“Get to the point.”

“Which one? There are so many, all of them quite tasty; a point buffet, if you will. Let’s start with a nice contradiction appetizer: the fact that you’re collaborating with someone you really should be arresting.”

“We have mutual concerns.”

Zevon mock-frowns. “Oh? Well, I suppose there is the fact that you’re both human. And single. And heterosexual. Which brings me to point number two…”

“You’re just here to annoy us, aren’t you?” I nod wearily. “Okay, go ahead. Beats us annoying each other.”

“No, annoying you is just a bonus,” Zevon says cheerfully. “Would you mind getting out of the car so we can talk face-to-face? More comfortable all round, I think.”

Why not? I feel like I could use a little distance from Stoker right now, anyway. I get out on one side, Stoker on the other. I cross my arms and lean against the DeSoto with one shoulder. “So make your pitch, already.”

“All right, here it is: I’ll return both of you to the mortal realm—if you’re willing to give up something near and dear to each of you.”

I’m beginning to see how an eternity of vagueness could be considered Hell. “Which is
what,
exactly?”

“Well, that’s the catch. You knew there was going to be one, right?” Zevon sighs. “That’s the problem with this place. Nothing
surprising
ever happens … anyway, it’s got be something you can both agree on, and acceptable to me. Let’s get those lines of communication open, eh? Full and frank discussion, all options on the table.” He beams at both of us.

“Not very subtle, is he?” Stoker says.

I shake my head. “Honestly? I’m a little disappointed.”

Zevon blinks. “I beg your pardon?”

“Well, it beats all the artificial sexual tension we were trying to generate,” Stoker admits.

“Maybe, but at least that was almost enjoyable.”

“I thought the slap was a little cliché.”

“Me, too. But hey, what about your leering redneck impression?”

“Over the top, I know. I was just trying to keep up.”

Now Zevon looks a little miffed. “Artificial? Wait a minute—”

I cut him off. “We’re not going to emotionally eviscerate ourselves while you watch, Zevon. Arguing back and forth over what really matters to us and what we’re willing to give up? Not gonna happen.”

“No,” Stoker says. He takes a long, deliberate step toward Zevon, then another. It’s that even, measured pace men use when they’re being confrontational, accompanied by a steady gaze and an impassive expression. “But I’ll tell you what will.”

He stops a few feet from the thrope, who’s looking at him more in curiousity than fear. Stoker leans forward—and says something too softly for me to hear.

Zevon grins. He throws an arm around Stoker’s shoulders, and they stroll quickly away. The fog swallows them in a second.

“Hey!” I shout, and bolt forward.

But it’s no use.

They’re gone.

SEVEN

I know if I get lost in that fog I’ll be even worse off than I am now, so I stay with the car. The car, and my new dead friend.

“I can’t believe he did that,” I fume. “Can you believe he
did
that?”

Ghost woman appears to think about it. “I’m not sure. Believing in things is
hard
.”

“Well, it wasn’t a request. Christ, I should have known he’d shaft me the first chance he got … what was I thinking, working with him? Did I leave my brain in my other pants?”

“I don’t know. I don’t have pants.”

“Or much in the way of gray matter,” I mutter. “Well, that makes two of us. Maybe we should team up—the Idiot Twins, Seventh and Eighth Wonders of the Underworld. Watch us perform amazing feats of stupidity without a neural net…”

“I’m not an idiot,” the woman says. There’s no trace of anger or any other emotion in her voice; she’s simply stating a fact. “I’m just dead.”

That shakes me up a little. The woman has so little presence that it’s hard to think of her as a person—but even if she’s no longer alive, there’s still some kernel of humanity there, some self-awareness that makes her more than just an object. She was born, she had a life, she died; she deserves more than my offhanded glib insults—

“You really smell,” the woman says.

“What?”

“No. That’s not right.” The woman pauses. “I mean you smell
real
.” There’s just the barest emphasis on the last word.

“Oh. I guess that’s because I am. Real, I mean.”

The woman nods. “Nothing here is. Not even me. We’re just … moving pictures. Gray light through film.”

That’s more eloquent than I expected, and an unusual metaphor; a comparison to shadows seems more likely to me than a cinematography reference. “What’s your name?” I ask, while doubting I’ll get a useful answer.

She surprises me again, though. “Jinjing. Jinjing Wong.”

“What did you do when you were alive, Jinjing? What was your job?”

“I was a cook. Many years. But only for my family the last ten. Retired.”

“Retirement. That sounds good, right about now.”

“Hated it at first. Always been useful. But found something else. Magic.”

Now,
that
gets my interest. If Jinjing here was some sort of shaman, maybe her ghost still has a little mojo—enough to get me out of here maybe, or at least steer me in the right direction. “You were a shaman? Shinto?”

“No. Not that kind of magic.
Movies
.” This time, there’s something approaching actual emotion in her voice. “So new. So wonderful. Light and shadow dancing, telling stories. I watched them all.”

I blink. I’m not sure when Jinjing died, but apparently she became a film buff in her old age. “All?”

“Yes. I loved Buster Keaton. Very Chinese, in his way.” A trace of a smile touches Jinjing’s lips, but it’s gone in an instant. “My friends didn’t like them. Disrespectful of reality, they said. But I thought films were more than real, not less.”

“I know what you mean. Life with all the exciting bits concentrated and the boring bits removed.”

“Yes. Like a good stew.” She pauses. “But now … nothing has flavor. There is only this…” She takes in the featureless landscape with one slow, all-encompassing look around. “Nothing.”

I shiver, but the cold I feel isn’t physical. I wonder if I’ll sound like Jinjing after being trapped here for a few decades …

Which is when Stoker strides back out of the fog.

“Hey, Jace. Ready to go?”

I don’t know whether to slug him or hug him. “What the
hell
was that all about?”

He reaches for the passenger-side door, but I block him. He sighs. “How about I tell you when we’re out of here, huh? A door is about to open and we need to be ready to drive through it.”

I give him a hard look, but if he’s telling the truth my questions will have to wait. The fog in front of the DeSoto is swirling around, looking like the eye of a hurricane as seen from space; we both jump in and I start the engine. A yawning black hole opens before us. I have time to hope this isn’t the proverbial from-frying-pan-to-fire routine, and stomp on the gas.

We roar into the darkness. My last glimpse of Jinjing Wong is through the rearview window, and she’s already turning away.

Back to oblivion.

*   *   *

Leaving Hell, it turns out, is considerably rougher than entering it. I have enough time to yell “Close your eyes!” to Stoker, and then we’re into the eye of the hurricane.

I’ve been across dimensional boundaries before. Sometimes the transition is hardly noticeable; other times it’s disorienting and unpleasant. Guess what it’s like this time?

The very first time I made a trip like this, the sorcerer who brought me across warned me to close my eyes, “for my own safety.” I finally understand what he meant.

The darkness doesn’t last long. It’s replaced by madness.

I can’t even properly describe it. An infinity of invisible eyes bleeding fire the color of pain. The smell of sideways hours. Gut-wrenching terror, overpowering déjà vu and hysterical nostalgia. Sharpness turned inside out and the taste of overcooked bleach. All of it pouring through my optic nerves, like my senses have narrowed down to one channel and everything’s overlaid on top of it. I really wish I could close my eyes, but the rational part of my brain that’s still working tells me that’s not a good idea while I’m behind the wheel of a car. Okay, this isn’t exactly driving, but I plunged into that portal at a pretty good clip and I’m probably going to come out the other end doing the same speed. I need to be ready.

It’s over as abruptly as it began, leaving my abused central nervous system gasping and flopping around. The car is—

Indoors.

I slam on the brakes. We plow through what looks like a roulette wheel, then a craps table, then a few round tables covered in green felt. Poker chips explode into the air like a million tiny, brightly colored Frisbees. I wish I could say we didn’t run anyone down, but at least four bodies thump off our fenders or grille. The last one hits the windshield face-first and sticks, an elderly Asian pire in a plaid cardigan who looks more offended than afraid.

We screech to a stop before we run out of casino—or gambling den, more likely.

“Can I open my eyes now?” Stoker says.

I look around at the room full of stunned gamblers. Some of them are starting to look a little upset, and the pire stuck to our windshield is shaking his fist at us and berating us in Cantonese.