The Library at Mount Char (40 page)

“Oh? Do you think so? Do you
really
?”

“Steve, I—”

“Just, y'know, for future reference, I probably would have done your little jog for a small fee. Two hundred bucks, maybe? All that stuff with framing me for murder was overkill.” He nodded his head a couple of times, wide-eyed and exaggerated. “Yup. Overkill. Big-time.”

“OK, sure, but if you hadn't been resurrected, the dead ones would have—”

“Wait. Hold up. If I hadn't been
what
?”

“Um…nothing.”

“What did you
say
, Carolyn?”

She reached out, almost but not quite touching him. “Steve?”

“Hmm?”

“I'll tell you if you want. But you'd be happier not knowing.”

He considered this for a long moment. “Yeah. OK. Coming from you, I'm prepared to accept that.” He rubbed his temples. “Anyway, I've got the mother of all consolation prizes.”

“Right. Have you got any ideas about what you might want?”

“No. Not really.”

“OK. Well, think about it. We'll talk more tomorrow.”

“Did you bring, like, sleeping bags or something?”

“What? Oh. No. There are dormitories below the jade floor. I made one up for you, American-style.”

“How do you mean?”

“Well…I sort of borrowed a penthouse. Out of a hotel, I mean. Have you heard of the Al Murjan? It's supposed to be really nice. C'mon, I'll show you.”

“G
ood night,” she said. “I'll be upstairs if you need anything.”

“You're not going to bed?”

“Not just yet. I have a couple of things to take care of first.”

“Thanks.” Steve shut the door with a small measure of relief. The “hall” below the jade floor was like being inside the metal artery of some giant beast. But she was right—the penthouse, wherever she had gotten it,
was
really nice, if perhaps a trifle exotic for his taste.
The couch alone is probably worth more than my apartment
. It was comfy, though—Naga fell asleep on it immediately. Steve made himself a drink and explored a little,
then plopped down next to her. Naga stopped snoring, then raised her head and showed him a fang.

He rubbed her between the ears. “Go back to sleep, grumpypants.”

All of the writing on the remote was in Arabic, but On buttons aren't hard to figure out. The TV also had a split-screen feature. After a bit of fumbling he set it up to watch CNN, Fox, and Al Jazeera all at once.

David's damnation had progressed, it seemed. Now he was visible to the naked eye. It was still night in Virginia, but in places like Sydney, Beijing, and Fiji crowds of commuters drifted slack-jawed and motionless through city streets, watching the black dawn of this new age. As promised, David was warm enough and about sun-sized. But even at his brightest he was very faint, a dark gray disk against the backdrop of stars.

CNN had a bunch of astrophysicists on teleconference. Anderson Cooper was polling them about why the sun was black all of a sudden. What, pray tell, was up with that? Some guy from Harvard was going on about dark matter, how poorly understood it was.

Steve listened to him for a few minutes, then saluted him with his scotch. “A valiant effort.”

He flipped channels for an hour or so, increasingly drunk but too wound-up to sleep. MTV was doing a
Beavis and Butt-Head
revival, complete with videos. There was, of course, endless footage of the fire at the White House, the explosion at the Capitol. There had been a small earthquake in California—nothing to get excited about, really! They had some footage of the black sun filmed from the little cupola thing on the International Space Station, which was pretty. The vice president was governing from a secure, undisclosed location. A couple of Norwegian snowboarders claimed that they saw part of a glacier get up and walk away. That was obviously ridiculous, but before and after photos showed that a big chunk of the glacier in question had indeed gone missing. Also the moon might be just a bit wobbly. Gravitational anomalies, perhaps caused by the solar incident, were suspected—

“Yeah,” Steve said. “Fuck this.” He went out the double doors of the penthouse, leaving them open in case Naga got restless. “Carolyn?” he called.

The metal hall of the dormitories was rounded, arterial, maybe a hundred yards long. It was very dark.

“Carolyn?”

No answer. He went anyway, padding down the uneven metal in his socks. He was much drunker than he had realized, it seemed, but he found that if he moved at a deliberate pace he didn't stumble too badly. At the far end of the hall oak stairs, rounded and smoothed by the passage of uncounted bare feet, floated in midair. Steve climbed them to stand among the stacks of the Library.

He had worried about how he might find her in that vast space, but it wasn't hard. Carolyn hovered a couple hundred yards above the floor, spinning in place like a figure skater doing a pirouette. Her arms were thrust above her in a
V
. The loose, oversized sleeves of her robe fluttered as she spun. She was shouting at the top of her lungs, babbling in a language Steve didn't recognize, still covered in David's blood, now dry and clotted. Tears streamed down her cheeks. Steve couldn't tell whether she was sobbing or laughing.
Maybe both?
Beneath her, the jade floor glowed. Looking up, Steve saw the universe he knew, hanging suspended in the center of the Library. Carolyn's shadow lay over it like black wings.

Steve watched this for a time. He had come out there meaning to speak with her, to explain to her how bad things were outside, explain her mistake. They would have a laugh, after. But seeing her like this he could think of nothing at all that he might say. Eventually he turned, fled back down the metal hall to the “penthouse,” and slammed the door behind him. Naga raised her head at the sound.

He went into the bathroom, slamming that door behind him as well, then bent double over the toilet and threw up—once, twice, again. He spat thick drool into the bowl. Oily sweat beaded his forehead. He thought of Carolyn spinning, cackling, thought of the dispassionate, just-relaying-information tone in which she told of ax murders at dinner, told of children roasted alive.

Seeing her at the bar that first night he had thought, naturally enough, that she was like him. He understood now how wrong that was.

He went back out to the living room. Naga was waiting for him,
wide-awake, real concern in her eyes. Steve opened a bottle of water and patted her hindquarters. “It's OK. I'm OK.”

But he wasn't. He was beginning to understand, and he wasn't OK.
We're the only ones in here
, he thought.
No help. No one else is coming
. “What are we gonna do, huh? What are we gonna do?”

Naga didn't answer.

Back on CNN Anderson Cooper had gotten around to an old woman with bright-blue eyes. She had the words “Gretl Abendroth” and “Lucasian Professor” written under her head. She was answering Anderson's question, or trying to. Choking with laughter, tears streaming from her eyes, she said that the other professors were fools, said that current theory could never be stretched to include the black sun. She cackled at them, saying, “Admit it,” saying, “You don't know any more than I do. Our understanding is a bad joke. It always has been.”

Some of the panelists took offense to this. One of them said she sounded like a superstitious peasant. Another said something like “OK, maybe it's
not
dark matter; why didn't she explain it to them if she was so goddamn smart?” Anderson Cooper nodded, concerned.

Abendroth went quiet. Steve, a longtime viewer of talk shows, thought she might be on the verge of tears. But when she spoke she sounded calm enough.

“I think perhaps God is angry.”

Steve suddenly wanted very much to buy Dr. Abendroth a drink. In all the world, she was the only other person who really got it. “Well,” Steve said, “you're not wrong. But it's worse than that.” He cast a shifty, paranoid glance into the shadows. “I think she might be
out of her fucking mind
.”

Hearing himself say this, the thought came to him fully formed as from the void:
The vocabulary of such a creature would be different from what I am used to, different from what I know
.

It was in that moment that he first began to understand what he had to do.

A
little over a month later, Carolyn walked down the stairs from the Library proper to the dormitories. She was lugging a good-sized cardboard box, too big to see over. She probed each step with her toe.

The box held a bowl of popcorn, two bottles of Everclear, and half a carton of Marlboros. Steve had asked for the booze and smokes, but the popcorn was her idea. She didn't hold out much hope that he'd be grateful, but she thought there was a reasonable chance he might at least be civil.

She'd thought of calling down to him for some help, then decided against it. Steve didn't like the stairs. It bothered him that they hung in midair, unsupported. Steve said this “weirded him out.”

This wasn't surprising. The list of things that Steve found objectionable was long and growing. It included the Library itself (“How can the furniture hang on the ceiling like that? It's creepy.”); the jade floor (“Jade isn't supposed to glow.”); the apothecary (“What the hell is
that
thing? I'm out of here.”); the armory (David's trophies made him throw up); the Pelapi language (“It sounds like cats fighting”); her robes (“Did you borrow those from Death?” She hadn't.); and, of course, Carolyn herself.

Just ask. He'd tell you aaaaaaaaaaaalllll about it.

“My
robes
?” she muttered, peeping over the top of the box, trying to find her footing. “What's wrong with my
robes
? They're just robes, for gosh sakes.”

Carolyn vaguely remembered the way it had been for her at first—the vast spaces of the main hall, the sick, rudderless feeling of having
everything she knew snatched away. It was disorienting, sure.
But you'd think that after a month he'd be starting to adjust
.

He hadn't, though. Transporting the penthouse had been a hassle, but now she was glad she had gone to the trouble. Steve seemed determined to set up camp in there.

When she was younger, forming her plans and preparing, she had sometimes daydreamed about the things the two of them would do when they were together—picnics, little vacations, reading together by the fire. Instead, he mostly got drunk and played video games.

Well, not always. Sometimes he and Naga came up to play in the stacks, a cat's game where they took turns hiding in the shadows and pouncing on each other. And today the two of them were just back from a three-day trip to the Serengeti. Steve had invited her to come along, but when she said she was too busy his relief had been obvious.

She thought of Jennifer's voice, soft and pitying:
She has a heart coal
. And, worse,
It never works out the way you would think
.

“Fuck you, Jennifer,” Carolyn said. “I'll figure something out. I always do.”

The slick metal of the dormitory hall still felt homey underfoot after her months on American carpet and asphalt. Steve, of course, hated that, too.

The polished wood and precise lines of Steve's door looked alien against the hall's organic smoothness. She set the box down and checked her reflection in one of the bottles. She'd had one of the dead ones do her hair. It seemed like a good idea at the time but…

Well…it's different
. The problem, she decided, was that she wasn't really sure what hair was supposed to look like.
It's not
bad,
right? I mean…it's at least tidy
. Well, maybe. But she thought that it also smacked of desperation.
And what are you going to do if this doesn't work out, Carolyn? What then?
“I'll make it work,” she said again.

But she didn't sound sure.

She sniffed her armpits—they, at least, were good—then breathed out a stiff breath and arranged her face in something like a smile. Knock-knock.

After a long time Steve opened the door, just a crack. “Hi.”

“Hi! Can I come in?”

“Why do you bother asking?” At the side of his neck his carotid artery was pulsing. His sweat smelled like fear. “You could just come in. I couldn't stop you, right? No one could.”

“I…I wouldn't do that. Not to you.” Her heart sank.
Is he really
afraid
of me?
She shook her head.
Of course not. That's just silly
. She let a little of the misery she felt show in her face.

Steve's expression softened, a little. “Yeah. Well. OK. Come on in.”

Stepping inside, she stifled the urge to wrinkle her nose. The room stank of stale smoke and lion piss. She had brought in a kiddie pool and several pallets of Fresh Step, but by the time they convinced Naga to try it, the carpet was a lost cause.

“Have a seat.” Steve flopped down.

“Thanks.” It was a large sofa, but Carolyn chose to sit close to him. Back in the shadows, Naga studied her with golden hunter's eyes.

“How was Africa?”

“Dark,” Steve said. “How did you think it would be?”

“Steve, I—”

He held up a hand. “Sorry. Forget I said anything. Naga had a great time, though. She met up with an aunt of hers. And we ate some wildebeest.”

“How was that?”

“Naga loved it. It was a little undercooked for my taste, but it was very, very fresh.”

“Wait—they took you
hunting
?”

“Yeah. Actually they insisted.”

“
Wow
.”

“What?”

“That's a huge honor, Steve.” Michael had lived in the veldt for two years before he was granted an apprenticeship—and that was with the benefit of an introduction from Nobununga.
“Huge.”

“Yeah? Well, that's nice.”

She waited, but he didn't elaborate. Mentally, she shrugged.
Fine
. On
the coffee table a three-ring binder lay open, surrounded by overflowing ashtrays. “How's the studying going?”

“I'm making progress.” He turned and rumbled to Naga in the language of the hunt: “Thank you for not eating me today.”

Naga's voice came from the darkness: “Your affection is not meaningless to me, puny one. I shall devour you another day.”

“Not bad,” Carolyn said. Steve's accent was thick, but his pronunciation was better than she would have expected. “I think you've got a knack for this. The cat dialects are tricky.” She eyed the three-ring binder. He was well past the halfway point. “How soon before you need the next one?”

“Another week or so, I think.”

“OK. I'll get started on volume two. You'll like that one. It covers hunting.” Michael's texts tended to be about half diagrams, so translating them went relatively quickly. Even so, it was time she couldn't really afford. “Thanks.”

“You're welcome.”

Uncomfortable silence.

This time Steve cracked first. “So…what's up with the Farrah Fawcett do?”

“What? I—I'm sorry, I don't understand what that means.”

Steve traced the air next to her head. “Farrah Fawcett? The chick from the poster? Your hair is…” Seeing her expression, he trailed off. “Ah, forget it.” He sighed. “You look, um, nice, is all.”

She could tell he was lying, but it didn't sound like a cruel lie. “Thank you,” she said, which was safe enough. “Would you like some popcorn?” She peeled the Tupperware lid off the bowl and held it out to him.

He looked at her. “
Popcorn?
”

“Sure. Don't you like it?”

“No, it's not that.” He hesitated. “I just didn't figure you for a popcorn kind of gal, is all.”

“Well…it's been a while. My mother used to make it, when I was young. I remember that. I thought you might enjoy something, you know, familiar.”

“Yeah, sure.”

She set the bowl on the coffee table. He dug out a handful.

“Thanks, it's good.”

They munched for a little while.

“Have you thought any more about what we talked about?” Steve affected a casual tone when he said this, but he wasn't fooling anyone.

Mentally, Carolyn rolled her eyes. Steve refused to let go of the idea that David's light might be made yellow somehow. He brought it up every time they were together, at least once. “Steve, even if I wanted to, I couldn't.” At this point, she almost
did
want to.
Forsake a revenge that was fifteen years in the making? Sure!
Anything
to shut him up
. “It's just not technically possible. Why is that so hard for you to accept?”

He gave a knowing smirk, like she was hiding something but he was too clever for her. She felt like throttling him.

“Well, Carolyn, the last sun we had was yellow, and the sky seems to be full of stars that are—”

“The circumstances were different, Steve. David's spirit is crushed, and half his head is missing. Forging a connection to any plane besides anguish is going to be a problem.”

“But what if you—”

“
Enough
, Steve.” Then, calmer, “It's not going to happen.”

They sat silently for a while, munching popcorn and not looking at each other.

It was Naga who broke the silence: “My Lord Hunter? Have you given my question to the dark one?”

“Not yet, sweetie. I'm getting to it. Give me a minute, OK? Remember what we said.”

Naga bared her teeth. “Very well.”

Carolyn gaped at them.

“What?”

“Did you hear what she
called
you?”

Steve shook his head. “Er…no? I mean, I heard it, but I still have a lot of gaps in—”

“She called you ‘My Lord Hunter.' ”

“Awww,” Steve said, skritching Naga's ears. “Thanks, sweetie. That's nice.” Then, seeing the look on Carolyn's face, “What?”

“You really don't understand.”

He shrugged. “How is this surprising?”

“ ‘My Lord Hunter' is…it's like an honorific. More than an honorific. It's a term of extreme respect. Lions only dust it off for special occasions.”

“Oh.” He frowned. “So, it's a big deal?”

“Yeah, Steve. It's a big deal. It's the lion equivalent of getting your face carved on Mount Rushmore. And calling a person that…wow. I've never heard of such a thing. Never. What did you
do
?”

Steve shifted. “Er. Nothing. Not really.” Then, in a small voice, “We just talked.”

“About
what
?”

“Stuff.”

“Naga, what did he do?”

The lion looked at her. “My Lord Hunter will be the one to save us all. It has been foreseen. He will—”

“Naga!” Steve spoke sharply, cutting her off. “We said I was going to handle this, remember?”

Naga swished her tail, faded back into the shadows.

“Handle what, exactly?” Carolyn's tone was artificially bright.

Steve put down the popcorn bowl. “Have you been watching the news?”

Inwardly, she groaned. The last time they talked she had promised that she would, and she had meant it. But she'd gotten distracted running down a rumor about the Duke, and…“I'm sorry. It must have slipped my mind.”

Steve's jaw muscles jumped. But all he said was, “It's OK. I know you're busy. Would you mind if we took a look now? I want to show you something.”

She forced a small smile. “Sure.”

He pressed a button and the screen lit up. “Do you like the television? It's big!” It was, in fact, huge. She had hoped that this would please
him—Americans liked garish things, right?—but he didn't seem to care at all.

“Yeah, it's great.” He flipped through channels. “Here, this is a good one. Watch this.”

The writing at the bottom of the screen said
FOOD RIOTS IN OREGON
. There was handheld video of the inside of a supermarket. The shelves were bare, and there was blood on the floor. Out in the parking lot, blue lights flashed.

“Had you heard about that?”

“No.”

“There was supposed to be a train full of wheat coming in from Kansas, but it never showed up. Hijacked, maybe? No one seems to know how you can lose a whole train.”

“I could go look for it if—”

“That's nice of you, but that wasn't really my point.”

Carolyn felt Naga's eyes on her, watching from the shadows. “No? What then?”

“It was more about the riot. Those used to be fairly rare, once every ten years or so. Now there are at least a couple every day. And it's getting worse.”

“Oh? That's interesting.” Long pause. He was looking at her expectantly. “Um, why is that, do you think?”

“Well…people are a little on edge. What with everything that's been going on lately—the White House burning down, and the president being missing, and…the other stuff.”

He didn't mention David, but she knew what he was getting at. She tensed up another notch.

“People are scared,” Steve said. “Down in South Carolina there's a preacher who keeps going on about how these are the End Times. They call him Brother Elgin. He reminds me of a rabid possum, but there are a lot of people who take him seriously. He says he's the governor now. Supposedly he's seceded from the union.”

“Is that a big deal?”

“Bigish, yeah. The other day there was a firefight between him and the Army. Some tanks shelled the State House. Brother Elgin had a bunch
of college kids chained up out front as human shields. A couple hundred people died. They'll probably get it sorted out eventually. But just a few weeks ago everything was…y'know. Quiet. Normal.”

A few weeks ago?
“Oh-ho! So you're blaming
me
for this?”

“Should I?”

“Of course not! People are just overreacting.”

“
Overre
—” Steve cut himself off, then drummed his fingers on the end table. “OK. Maybe from your point of view that's true. I know you didn't intend for any of this stuff to happen. I'm guessing you probably didn't even notice. Am I right?”