Matt Archer: Redemption (13 page)

“You mean shaman static?”

“Something like that. So what’s your excuse?”

I turned to stare out the window. The sky pressed its darkness against the glass, giving me the uneasy feeling it was trying to get inside. “Just unsettled. Ann’s dead, the Dark Master’s proxy is roaming around out there somewhere and I’m worried—”

I stopped short. I didn’t want to talk about my nightmares. Tink was the only one who knew, and I wanted to keep it that way.

“You worry about your sister.” Jorge smiled when I turned around in surprise. “Matthew, that is a burden we all carry. She’s the light in our darkness, and we want her kept safe.”

That sparked a sudden memory of a horrible moment in my life. Colonel Black whispering something. What was it?

“He said—the colonel, when he died—he said ‘keep her safe from the dark.’” I stared into space, seeing him take his last breath, seeing him die, listening to the sound of men being hurt and killed all around me. Will being flung into the side of a Humvee by a monster. My father, shouting for help.

“Matthew.” Jorge’s voice was firm, but gentle. “Come back from wherever you went.”

I sucked in a sharp breath and the seat in front of me came into focus. “Sorry. I was remembering what he said. I think he was talking about Mamie. But how could he have known?”

“I’ve long believed that the dying get a glimpse of things we can’t possibly understand before they leave this place. Maybe he saw some future event, or heard a warning from the other side as his soul left his body.”

Always so intuitive,
Tink said sadly.
You know, he was truly the only one—ever—who could’ve bound us to the blades. All of you are the only ones—ever—who could do what we now have to do.

Speaking of burdens.

“So, my nightmares might be true.”

A possible outcome. But I think the colonel’s guidance was for you to keep her safe, and you’ve done all you can. What will happen will happen. We’re on a collision course now. At least we have the right players on our side. It took millennia to find you, but we did in the end.

“You told me I’d find someone who could explain that. When we were in Africa,” I said. “You told me someone was coming, in time, who could explain why you waited for us for all the ages of the universe.”

Jorge quirked a little smile, knowing I wasn’t talking to him, but I bet he was interested in the answer.

Soon. In fact, he’ll find you. He knows you’re coming.

He. “So the last shaman is a guy.”

Yes.

“Anything else?”

Hmm. Time to sleep?

“I was asking you a question.” A huge yawn made my jaw creak like an old floor. “Not fair.”

Jorge may not need much sleep, but you do. We’ll talk later.

Whatever protests I had came out as nonsense, then the black swallowed me whole.

* * *

I stared at the pile of crates in the warehouse outside of Marrakech. Our guide, Miram, patted the top of one with satisfaction. “Your Army does not pack light.”

Not this time, it didn’t. Strewn around the warehouse floor, there were assault rifles, Kevlar armor packs, mounds of ammunition, a couple of flamethrowers, and what looked suspiciously like a rocket launcher kit. A Humvee sat behind the crates, gassed up and ready to go.

Dorland, dark eyes shining, was caressing a shoulder mounted grenade launcher. “When they said whatever we wanted, they sure meant it.”

“Comes with being celebrity world-savers,” Lanningham said, eyeing the stash. “Thing is, do we even need half this stuff?”

“No,” I said. “Pack what gear and ammo we can into the Humvee. Leave the heavier stuff here.” That earned me a reproachful stare from Dorland. “We won’t need it.”

Hopefully.

We piled into the vehicle. “Blakeney,” I said. “How is it you’re driving again?”

“I’m the newbie—with the highest score in anti-terrorist driving school,” he said, flashing me a big smile in the rear view mirror. “You want me behind the wheel.”

“Okay, but don’t run over anybody. I’ve heard traffic here is barely contained chaos,” Lanningham ordered.

“Sir, yes sir.”

I soon saw what he meant as we travelled toward the center of town. We were headed to meet with “snake charmers,” many of whom insisted they knew where our monsters were hiding. I figured most of them were frauds, but we had to start somewhere.

“Somewhere” turned out to be choked, narrow streets outside the city’s oldest, most crowded bazaar, Jemaa el-Fnaa. If we hadn’t brought so much firepower with us, it might’ve been better to get out and walk. Instead, Blakeney used the bulk of the Humvee and the horn to force our way through traffic—both cars and pedestrians.

“Where do you want to stop, sir?” Blakeney asked.

“Try there.” I pointed to a fancy hotel near the market. “They have a garage; maybe they’ll let us park. Pull in and stay with the truck to keep an eye on our stash. I’ll take the others with me to meet our contact.”

If Blakeney was disappointed to be left to babysit the weapons, he didn’t say it. Instead, he negotiated with the valet, who stared at the Humvee with trepidation as if we were there to invade his hotel, especially since we didn’t have a reservation. Eventually they worked out a deal, a wad of cash changed hands, and we were in.

“Keep your radio on,” I told him. “Things go bad, I’ll call out directions and a shopping list.”

“Sir, yes sir.”

Lanningham was already out, making sure his rifle was secured to his back and his sidearm was loaded. We had special permission from the Moroccan police to go in armed. It’d cause a stir, but there was no way I was going anywhere without my knife, and Dorland or Lanningham wouldn’t go without a rifle.

We went to the street level exit, and Dorland held up a dark brown hand. “I’ll check out the alley.”

Even if the place was choked with tourists, old habits died hard. A moment later, he nodded and motioned for us to follow. Soon, we filed into the pedestrian traffic headed into the square and we drew a lot of attention. No wonder; Lanningham was the size of a small mountain, with his brown hair shaved down to a film, showing off a pale scalp. Dorland’s dark brown skin didn’t cause as much notice, but his “everything’s a target” gaze made more than one group of people to edge away from us.

Then there was me.

My face had apparently become so famous that crowds kept trying to get close. Some shouted, “Wielder Archer! Wielder Archer!”

Wielder Archer—that was what the media called me now, and the title had caught on. Dorland and Lanningham stayed close by my side, making sure I wasn’t stampeded.

A little boy, who didn’t seemed to be cowed by the big strong guys wearing camo and carrying guns, wriggled through the crowd. “Hero! Puis-je toucher votre main?”

I let out a nervous chuckle. “Too bad Cruessan’s not here. I think that’s French.”

“A lot of Moroccans speak French, especially to tourists.” Dorland smiled. “The boy wants to touch you. Ruffle his hair, then let me handle the rest.”

I shrugged and patted the kid’s head. The little boy leapt around, laughing, and shouted, “Il va nous sauver!”

“Nous allons essayer. Mais, s'il vous plaît, nous avons besoin d'espace. Danger nous suit,” Dorland told him.

Instantly, the crowd shrank back and gave us room. Lanningham and I turned to stare him. He flashed us a quick smirk. “What? I took four semesters of French in high school. I had a crush on the teacher.”

“I figured he did it for a girl,” Blakeney said in a crackle of static into our earpieces.

“I guess,” Lanningham said. “Now where to?”

Dorland nodded at a few men and asked them something. They spoke quickly in return, pointing to the center of the bazaar square.

“Merci.” He started forward. “There’s an old snake charmer inside. He said not to talk to the young ones—they’re tourist attractions. The old ones aren’t, he says, and this one knows about the monsters we’re here to find.”

The square was just as crowded, jammed with stalls selling everything from fruit to sandals, to very expensive rugs. One table we passed was hocking teeth—actual
teeth
—and another had whole chickens on stands next to big platters of olives.

The air smelled of strange spices and hundreds of people. On the surface, it seemed pretty benign—cool actually. A taste of another culture courtesy of the U.S. Army. But an anxious prickle caressed my neck, telling me there was something else here, and that it was hiding in a place where it could cause a maximum amount of damage among the crowds.

All along our route, people snapped pictures of me, waved or followed behind. Dorland kept shouting for people to stay away, but that didn’t seem to do much. As soon as his back was turned, our little parade grew bigger. At one point, it sounded like a fight broke out.

I didn’t stop to see what was happening, though. My concern wasn’t with ensuring peace with the crowd. It was with the older man wearing a traditional long shirt, trousers and cap, standing next to a giant cobra. When I came closer, the snake’s cowled head raised three feet off the ground and its tongue flicked through its fangs.

“I hate snakes,” I muttered.

“Doesn’t everyone?” Lanningham said.

Dorland heaved a sigh. “Pansies.” He went right up to the man and the snake, and had a quick conversation in French.

A moment later, the man leaned so he could look around Dorland to see me. Then he shouted something to the crowd and they scattered in all directions wearing fearful expressions.

The man, who was maybe sixty, had brown skin and deep, bright eyes. Not as keen as Jorge’s or Mamie’s, but something similar. We’d come to the right snake charmer for sure.

“You’ll want to see my father before you go hunting,” he said.

“You speak English,” I said, smiling in relief.

“Yes.” His own smile was mysterious. “For this purpose.”

“Talking to tourists?” I asked.

The man snorted. “So I could speak to
you.
Come, let’s go see my father before the hour gets too late. He sleeps early these days.”

Chapter Fifteen

Dorland fell in with us after the man packed his snake into a basket and slung it on his back.

“We think this is a good idea?” he asked.

Lanningham nodded. “This has happened to us before.”

“In Africa,” I said. “You weren’t with us when we met Zenka the first time, but Lanningham was, and Zenka knew me right off. It happens.”

“Weird,” Blakeney said. The static was worse than before. “Was he waiting for you?”

“No idea,” I said. Maybe it said something about how strange my life had become because I wasn’t bothered by a man saying he learned English in case I showed up.

“Sir? Do you know about the snakes hunting people in the city?” I asked him as we walked.

“I know snakes, and those
things
are not snakes,” he said, casting a dark look over his shoulder. “They are unnatural and should not exist. But to your unasked question, I know where they are.”

“Where?”

He sighed. “My father wishes to see you first. He’s waited a long time, and I don’t want you to risk your life before he has that chance.”

Let’s hear it for confidence in your local wielder. “We can’t stay long. We’re supposed to be hunting.”

“The things are dormant during the day,” he told me. “You have time.”

The man led us from the square to an older part of the city, where less garish stores lined the streets, and small stone houses were tucked into alleyways. It was into one of these houses we were invited.

“I’ll stand watch,” Lanningham said, taking up post by the single door. “Stay on com.”

I acknowledged him with a nod, then followed my host inside. The house was a single room. On one end, there was a cook stove, a dining table and built-in shelves holding dried fruit and bread.

On the other, a series of a mats lined the floor. There, a really old man reclined, and when I looked at him, his face lit up and he smiled through a thick white beard.

He murmured something and I turned to Dorland, who shook his head. “Not French.”

The man’s son leaned down to listen to what he was saying. “He asks if he may touch your hands.”

Dorland tensed.

“What?” I asked.

“That’s what the little boy out there asked,” he said. “Not for you to touch him, but to touch your hands.”

Now our friend from the square chuckled. “Must’ve been my grandson. We put him there to watch for you.”

“Why does your father want to touch my hands?” I asked.

“He wants the chance to read them,” the man said. “It’s not every day he is able to touch a legend.”

Static crackled in my ear. Blakeney, laughing. “Don’t let it go to your head, Archer!”

“Can’t get uppity if it’s true, sergeant,” Lanningham growled from outside.

Thinking this was getting too weird for everyone involved, I sat on the mat across from the old man. The wrinkles on his face were carved deep, and now that I was close, I noticed he didn’t have any teeth. He had to be at least ninety.

I held out my hands tentatively, not sure if I’d need to guide him or what, but he reached for them right away. Holding my right hand—my knife hand—in both of his, he flipped it over and drew his fingers over my palm. It tickled and was more than a little awkward.

This went on for a couple of minutes before the old man started telling his son a long-winded story. The son nodded gravely the entire time before turning to me.

“He says he was right. You are the one he’s been seeking. Our family is old, and a tale has been handed down to us, from the time of the Jinn.”

I must’ve looked confused, because Dorland rolled his eyes. “He means genies.”

Now it was the man’s turn to roll his eyes. “I meant the
Jinn
. These are not the friendly, wish-granting cartoons you Westerners think of, but powerful spirits. Some are good, some are neutral, some are evil. In the case of my family, a Jinn appeared to an ancestor, telling him of a boy who would walk unafraid in the dark, aided by light eternal. The Jinn told my ancestor to remember a verse for the boy, should he come, and to carry it from father to son until the time was right.” He leaned forward and pointed at my hands. “You, Wielder Archer, are that boy. And you wear light at your hip.”