Geekomancy (40 page)

Ree waited, keeping her body hidden behind a cardboard stand-up of Raphael from the
Teenage Mutant Ninja Turtles
movie. She tried to catch Eastwood’s eye as he dodged the Duke’s attacks, occasionally counter-attacking, but largely his back was to her, the cauldron between them.

Screw this.

“Hey, dumbass!” Ree shouted at the pair. Both of them looked. Ree grinned and flipped the Duke the bird with both hands. “Come and get it, you cut-rate
Prophecy
knockoff!”

At this, Ree had the treat of seeing Eastwood crack a bloodied, doofy grin at the same time as she saw all humor instantly drain from the Duke’s face. He turned his back on Eastwood and started barreling toward her.

Definitely picked the right reference.
 Viggo was way hotter, after all, and there was no disputing it.

Ree had picked her angle carefully, putting herself just off-line with the cauldron so that the Duke stomped right by it in his charge. Ree fudged some math in her head, then dove sideways in her best
Hard Boiled
impression and screamed her lungs out. She screamed with all the pain of losing her mother just when she needed her most, the pain of watching her father struggle, the pain of families broken by lives ended too early—but she also screamed with hope, with her dreams, with the lives she needed to protect, even the ones she’d never asked to be involved with.

It wasn’t even a word, really. The scream was nothing more and nothing less than Ree’s whole heart poured out and made sound. The wave stopped the Duke’s linebacker charge entirely, then picked him up off the ground and lifted him fully ten feet in the air. Ree kept screaming, but the Duke hung in the air, buffeted up by the power but not moving backward.

The Duke flailed, trying to grab the ceiling, a nearby shelf, anything, but he was stuck, locked in the air as Ree screamed and screamed, drowning out all other sounds in the room.

The moment stuck, stretching on as long as Ree’s heart continued to pour out her rage, hope, fear, compassion, and everything else. What felt like an eternity later, Ree ran out of breath. Sputtering out the last of the air in her lungs, the scream ended, she fell to her knees, and her lungs threatened to implode.

The Duke dropped straight down and into the cauldron, fitting in like a circus diver dropping into a thimble. There was a crack of thunder and a flash of purple light, and then His Brilliant Marvelousness, the Thrice-Retconned Duke of Pwn, Chief of the Dork Lords of Hell, was gone.

Ree clawed at the ground and the air, trying to get her lungs to take in oxygen.
You can’t die here, Ree. This is not some hateful indie tragedy.
 She wobbled to her feet and looked over the lip of the cauldron, while Eastwood closed in to look as well.

She saw nothing. No Duke, no purple goo, nothing but the wrought-iron bottom of the vessel itself.

Ree continued to hyperventilate, and Eastwood’s eyes went wide. He pounded Ree’s back, and around the time she wondered if she was going to pass out, some physiological switch flipped and she could breathe again. She sat for a little while longer, Eastwood kneeling at her side.

When her breathing settled enough that she didn’t have to force her lungs to operate, she grabbed the side of the cauldron and pulled herself up. “Holy shit. That worked.”

Eastwood, who had never been a touchy-feely person in the weeks that Ree had known him, wrapped his arms around her and picked her up off the ground into a bear hug.

“Eep!” Ree said as she waved her feet, failing to connect with the ground. Eastwood set her back down, and Ree met his gaze with indignation wrapped around anger.
I’m far from done being pissed off at you, bucko,
she thought.

Eastwood’s smile was as broad as the Golden Gate Bridge. “Sorry.”

“Is it over?” she asked, looking around at the bodies, which started to dissolve one pixel at a time, like old 16-bit video-game characters.

“For now. Someone else can summon the Duke, and if they screw it up, he could get loose. Luckily, almost no one is dumb enough to summon a Dork Lord of Hell.”

Ree continued to smolder with pissed-off-ness, and Eastwood sighed. “I know.” He turned away and looked back to the overturned table and the scattered Pokéballs. “I’ve . . . I’ve got a lot to answer for. A lot of amends to make.”

“No shit,” Ree said, too conflicted to know what tone to put on the words. “You tried to get my friend to kill himself. I’d shiv you myself, but I’m so tired that I’d probably fall over.”

“You’re right. About everything,” Eastwood said, reaching down to the floor and starting to clean up. He looked up and around the Dorkcave, taking stock or avoiding eye contact, Ree couldn’t tell. “I’m sorry, Ree. I—I’m just sorry. Call me if you need anything. Anything, okay?”

Eastwood walked over to the table and picked it up, then went back to tidying, picking up bits of trash, broken props, and the bits of the maelstrom that the room had become.

Ree stood for a moment, watching. He’d spent who knew how long building this whole plan up, and all he’d gotten for it was a trashed room, a cranky apprentice, and what looked like about five hundred pounds of guilt that he wore around his neck like Marley’s chains. She wanted to clock him again, but she could tell from the way he moved that he was already punishing himself. And Ree was too damn tired to add to it. At least for now.

“We’re not done, you hear that? You’ve got four lives on your conscience, and another count of attempted coerced suicide, or whatever the hell that would be called. You’re going to need to pull some serious Mother Teresa shit to even the score, Eastwood.”

He didn’t turn, but he nodded, fighting with a chair that had gotten wedged into the steel struts of a shelf. Ree realized that she’d never seen Eastwood look so old in all their brief time together.

Shell shock.

Ree left Eastwood to his cleaning and turned to cross the Dorkcave one more time. She ran her hands along the steel strut and tried her best to process the last few weeks, put them into some kind of context that wasn’t totally insane. She searched for a way to deal with everything so that she could go back to slinging coffee and playing video games and trying to perfect that strange alchemy of writing a salable script.

I’ve read a thousand books, seen four hundred movies, and read a bajillion comics where the hero ends the story right where I am, on the edge of the Return, trying to figure the shit out. And most of the stories don’t bother telling what happens next. It’s just kill the bad guy, kiss the girl, and ride off into the sunset, or get married and ride off into the sunset, or get married in the sunset and kiss as the music swells.

Ree stepped up to the landing and opened the door out to the basement entrance. 
But this isn’t a movie, or a comic, or a video game, even though all of them seem like they can be as real as you make them, with the right tools and enough belief.

She stepped into the midnight air and felt cold rain on her head, heard the distant blare of sirens and the dull bass thud of a party somewhere nearby.

But where does that leave me?

Ree climbed up the steps, the dull pain in her leg where she’d taken the cut flaring back up. She sighed and walked slowly, limping along in the rain, feeling it on her face, her hair, hearing it patter against her jacket, and feeling it sploosh under her shoes.

Right here. Living. Aiming to misbehave or just trying not to fade away.
 Ree shook out the rain and forced a smile.
I may not have gotten Mom back, but I know who has her, and I’ve beaten him once. So screw the pity party, it’s time for a milkshake. And then I can call a cab and see what the crew is up to. And then sleep for a week, wake up, and figure it all out again.

Invigorated by the prospect of milkshakeitude, she picked up her pace and made for the Burger Bin in the U-District, planning out the specific combination of mix-ins and flavors that she would dub the Shake of Victory.

Epilogue

Shake It Out

When Ree woke up, daylight filled the room. She flopped in bed for what must have been another hour, stretching and yawning away the coma of recovery. Either she had managed to plug in her phone before she crashed, out of sheer habit, or Sandra had done it for her.

She never did make it out to see the gang, since shortly after she made it to her building, she passed out in the elevator. She’d been through the emotional wringer for what seemed like a straight month but really had been only about a week, between Jay, the Muse, Eastwood, the whole insane ride.

Which meant that now, Tuesday afternoon, according to her phone, she was hungry, thirsty, and probably unemployed.

Ree dragged herself into the kitchen and was able to make coffee thanks to years of muscle memory and a brutal desire for caffeine.

After the second cup of coffee, she could see color again and began to start thinking about considering making an effort to restart her life.

Ree called the café, hoping she’d catch Bryan before he left for the day.
It
is
Tuesday, right?

“Café Xombi,” her boss said, answering on the second ring.

“Brains,” Ree said. She had meant to say “hey.” She shrugged and started again. “It’s Ree. How is Aidan?”

“He’s fine. How are you?”

Ree blinked a couple of times and looked down to see that she was still wearing her outfit from the fight. “Alive, surprisingly. Do I still have a job?”

After a beat, Bryan sighed. “Ree, you saved Aidan. Literally saved him. You’re an actual hero to my family, and for that, I will always be grateful.”

I smell a
but
,
Ree thought as Bryan paused. “But I can’t keep the lights on with a hero, Ree. I love you, but I have to find someone else or promote Charlie. Things are too tight right now. I can’t make exceptions, even for you.

“I know it’s unfair. Wickedly, idiotically unfair. You’re welcome at our house anytime, day or night. But I have to run my business. If you’re done with your business, then we’re fine. But we both know that no one in that world can keep normal hours.”

Ree looked at her phone as if it were actually Bryan and not a miraculous device that digitized voices and hurtled them through the air to another very specific device that would decode the code and speak with her voice, leveling a hateful stare.

A moment later, she put the phone to her ear again. “Yeah. I get it. I could still bake for you sometimes, or do marketing, or babysit the twins, but right now I can’t guarantee anything about what’s going on with me.”

“I’m sorry, Ree. You’re like family.”

Ree sighed. “Yeah, but like you said. Tight.”

“Yeah. I can maybe ask some of the folks in the business association if anyone needs a part-timer.”

Ree rolled her neck, her bones cracking every one of the 360 degrees. The pain washed away some of the fatigue, and the soreness it left in its wake was welcome by comparison. “Hold off. Give me a couple of days to get my feet and figure it out. If nothing else, I will totally provide free Dumpster-cleaning services if you look the other way after taking out the stale bag.”

Bryan laughed on the other end of the line, and Ree could see the look on his face without seeing him. “I have no idea what you’re talking about,” he said in a dissembling tone.

“Certainly not. I’ll take Amy up on that dinner tonight, though, if it still stands.”

“Hell yeah. Come over anytime after four.”

“Thanks,” Ree said. “And don’t you fuck up the store just because I’m gone. I was keeping you in the black, old man.”

“Your baking kept me in the black, but it also kept me in a 38-inch waistband.”

This time it was Ree who laughed. “Damn right.”

“See you tonight, Ree,” Bryan said.

“Seeya.” Ree hung up the phone, then looked at it again with misplaced anger.

Foul harbinger, damned herald of suck.

At least I already had November’s rent paid.

That gave her two weeks to find something before all the bills in the world started to come due.

Easy. It’s not like we’re in a recession or anything.

Ree finished her coffee, checked her email, and wrapped herself in the trappings of mundanity for a few hours. She grilled up some chicken and assembled quickie quesadillas, wolfing a whole one down before it had even started thinking about cooling.

After breakfast/lunch/ohgodsohungry, she picked up the phone again, looking at the icon to dial her dad.

I should tell him.

No, that’s a terrible idea. It’d break him. He’s doing all right finally, trying to date. I can’t tell him, but I should.

She owed him at least a check-in. He’d be worried.

Ree poured herself a fresh cup of coffee and dialed her father. He might be at work, depending on the timing of his last appointment.