Undead to the World (12 page)

She grins back. “Yes. Out of all the bizarre experiences we shared, why am I not surprised
that’s the one you remember?”

And then the name claws its way out of my subconscious. “Azura? Your name is Azura?”

“Yes, Jace. I’m Azura. What else do you remember?”

There’s another
A
word that’s trying to break through. It almost sounds like Azura, but it’s longer.
And darker. “Asa … no.
Ahaseurus.
”

The smile falls off Azura’s face. “Yes. What do you remember about him?”

“He—hates me. Or loves me? And he’s bad, bad news.”

Now she looks grim. “He’s obsessed with you, Jace. He’s a sorcerer, very old, very
powerful, from
my
world. He’s the one who dragged you across the dimensional divide in the first place.”

“Why?”

“Initially, for the NSA; they needed your skills. But Ahaseurus wanted you here for
his own reasons.” She pauses. “A multitude of alternate worlds mean a multitude of
alternate yous—you get that, right?”

“Yeah, yeah. Red-headed me, President me, South-won-the-Civil-War shitkicker me. What
am I, Human Sacrifice me?”

“No, Jace. They’re all the human sacrifice version. You once explained to me exactly
what constitutes a ‘serial killer’; that’s what Ahaseurus is. And his choice of victim
is you—a different you in every world, but still you.”

I stare at the screen. And then I lean back and laugh.

“I’m sorry,” I say. “It’s just—this is getting to be a little much, you know? I have
an evil cult dumped in my lap, then vampires and lycanthropes, then alternate worlds …
now you’re adding a
magic serial killer
to the list? What’s next? Are there some
gods
out there I’ve pissed off, too?”

Azura looks uncomfortable. “Well, not recently.…”

“Okay, enough is enough. Just—just give me everything you got, all right? The whole
ball of deranged wax. I think I’d prefer a big whack of insanity all at once instead
of this constant drip, drip, drip of crazy.”

“I wish I could, Jace. But I don’t know much more. Ahaseurus kidnapped you and brought
you to the world where you are now. He’s got something big planned—he always does—and
obviously he decided to get you out of the way first. I can’t reach you physically;
it takes a sizeable amount of sorcerous power just to contact you. But I do have one
small consolation to offer.”

“I get frequent flyer miles for travel to other realities?”

Her smile comes back. “No, just the opposite. You acquired the dimensional equivalent
of jet lag when you were pulled here—returning to your own reality would have stolen
years of your life. You don’t look any older to me, which means Ahaseurus nullified
that effect when he took you this time. It probably doesn’t mean anything to you right
now, but it’s important; it means you can return to your home reality now without
Ahaseurus’s help.”

“Sure, great, fantastic. Hey, did I lend you my ruby slippers at some point? ’Cause
I can’t find ’em anywhere.”

“I’m doing the best I can from my end, Jace. We’ll get you home, I promise.”

“Home? Home? I can’t even
remember
my home! I don’t know who I am, I don’t know what’s
real
and what’s
not.
All I’ve got is two lousy names, yours and the guy who got me into all this. And
I don’t even remember what he looks like!”

“Well, there I can help you out.” She tosses her blond wig in the air, and it transforms
into an eight-by-ten glossy hanging in midair. “As I said, I may not be able to be
physically present, but information is the most important weapon—”

I gasp. It shouldn’t come as a shock, it should have been obvious from the start,
but the hook-nosed image glowering at me is someone I instantly recognize.

It’s Old Man Longinus.

EIGHT

“So,” I say carefully, “what would happen if this guy was, say, no longer in the picture?”

“What, you mean if he leaves the reality he’s stranded you in? That’s unlikely; from
the information I’ve been able to gather, he appears to be concentrating his mystic
resources there. In fact, it almost seems as if he’s setting up some sort of power
base—”

“No. I mean, yeah, I think he’s definitely left this reality, but I doubt if he’s
coming back. Of course, I don’t know how things work with evil wizards, so maybe I’m
wrong—”

“Jace. Are you telling me Ahaseurus is
dead
?”

“Not in any legally binding confessional kind of way, no. Otherwise, pretty much.”

Azura blinks. I notice for the first time just how large her eyes seem to be, almost
cartoonish. “You killed him?”

“No! No, I definitely did not. But I did sort of discover his body—after you told
me to ‘
seek Longinus
’. Which means you already know who he is and what happened—”

She puts up her hands. “I don’t, I swear. That was our first contact, and the link
wasn’t strong—I didn’t even
use
the name Longinus, it’s just what came through. What I was
trying
to say was
see Ahaseurus truly
but dimensional boundaries are tricky; they can change things around—”

“
See Ahaseurus truly
? What does that even mean?”

She sighs. “It means that—from what I can tell from here—you’re surrounded by illusion
spells. Things, people, even your own memories have been tampered with. If I could
get you to realize Ahaseurus was the one tampering with your senses, I knew you’d
figure the rest out. You’re like that.”

“Thanks. I think. So, evil killer wizard guy—really dead? Or another illusion?”

“How’d he die?”

“Someone got all stabby on him.”

She shrugs. “I don’t know. If he is dead, some of his more recent spells should start
unravelling—but he’s a powerful mage. A lot of his work will be self-perpetuating.
It’s more likely to mutate without him around rather than just falling apart. Magic’s
like that.”

I think about that for a moment. Ancient serial killer harboring a serious obsession
with yours truly has stuck me in a little town in the middle of nowhere. In another
dimension. In a place where I’m viewed as the local crazy, and where said killer has
apparently summoned a demon that personifies despair. It’s starting to all make sense,
and not the kind I want.

“This place,” I say. “He made it to torment me. I’m … I’m a rat in a cage, and he’s
a sadistic teenager with a can of lighter fluid and a book of matches. That’s how
a lot of serial killers start, you know.”

“I know. You told me.”

“He wasn’t going to kill me. He was going to see just how far he could push me. How
bad he could make things before I went over the edge.” My voice is starting to tremble,
just a little bit, and I hate the way it sounds. “This isn’t a town. It’s a dungeon,
filled with torture devices and traps. I can’t trust anyone, can I? Even you might
be part of it.”

Azura opens her mouth, then closes it again. She knows I’m right, and nothing she
can say will change that.

At that precise second, I know she’s on my side. It’s pure gut instinct, nothing else,
but it’s all I have right now. “And apparently it gets worse. If he isn’t dead, this
is all part of his plan to screw with my mind—and there’s nothing I can do about it.
If he
is
dead, then all the stuff he set up to torment me is still in place—only now it’s
going to activate randomly and in unpredictable ways. Either way, I’m trapped in a
maze full of booby traps and land mines. That about right?”

She nods mutely.

I cross my arms. “Goddammit,” I say softly. “You know, whether they were real or not,
I’m starting to miss the good old days on Ward C.…”

There’s a knock at the door. I hit the pause button on the remote and jump up. “Charlie?”

“No,” says a deep male voice. “It’s Sheriff Stoker. You and I need to have a little
talk, Jace.…”

*   *   *

I don’t know what to do.

After a second, I decide to turn off the television. I don’t know why, but I don’t
want Stoker to see Azura’s face. I’m running on instinct now, and don’t have time
to question it.

I open the door. “Hello, Sheriff. What’s this about?”

Stoker looks at me and smiles. Just a good old boy on his neighbor’s front porch,
dropping by to say hello. Sure. The brim of his hat cuts off the late-afternoon sun,
putting his eyes in deep shadow. “Just a few details I need cleared up. Couple questions.
Won’t take long.”

“Oh. Okay, come on in.”

He nods his head as if I just asked a question. “Yeah. No, the thing is, it’d be better
if we did this at the office. I’ve got some reference material there, didn’t bring
it with me. You don’t mind, right?”

I blink. Reference material. Implying some sort of police database he needs to access,
something he can’t do in my house. It sounds very reasonable and I know it’s a complete
and utter fabrication.

“Sure,” I say brightly. I grab my jacket, step outside, then close and lock the door.
I can feel his eyes on me the whole time, that focused attention you give a perp when
you think they might abruptly do something stupid. I’ve done it myself, more than
once—

I give my head a little shake.
I’ve done what?

“You all right?”

“Fine. Just a little dizzy.”

We go out to his car, where he apologizes for making me ride in the back and makes
a little joke about it. I pretend to laugh. Then we drive the few blocks to his “office.”

It’s a small town, so we don’t have much of a police station. It’s got an open-plan
reception area up front and a locked door at the back. Behind that door are four small,
thick-doored rooms that serve as cells; I know, because I’ve spent the night there.
I don’t even bother to act surprised when Stoker unlocks the door at the back and
motions me through.

But apparently I’m wrong about the number of cells. When Stoker opens door number
four, it shows me a slightly larger room, one with two chairs bolted to the floor
and a table between them. I take a seat without being told. Stoker closes the door
softly behind him and sits down across from me.

“Interview room, huh?” I say. “Didn’t know you even had one.”

“Had it put in recently. Got Bill Johnson to convert one of the cells. Gave me a good
price on the drywall.”

I nod. “Yeah, Bill does good work. Charlie got him to fix up that room over his garage.”

Stoker doesn’t reply to that. He’s studying my face, my body language, trying to get
a read on my mood. I don’t bother trying to fool him—I’ve never been that good an
actress.

I lean forward. “This is the part where you ask me, ‘Jace, do you know why you’re
here?’”

“And do you?”

“Sure. You want me a little shaken up, a little intimidated. You know I have a tendency
to motormouth, so you’re going to encourage that. You’ll be deliberately obtuse about
what’s going on, because my guesses will tell you more than asking direct questions.
How am I doing so far?”

He just shrugs, which makes me chuckle.

“Here’s what I think,” I say. “I
am
shaken up. I
am
intimidated. You can see that, right? But not because I’ve done anything, or seen
anything, or know anything. It’s because I’m an ex–mental patient with documented
authority issues, I forgot to take my medication today, and I just saw a really gruesome
dead body. I’m not doing so well, okay?”

“Okay.”

“So quit playing cop games and just ask me your damn questions. I don’t have anything
to hide except maybe the fact that I’m kinda nuts—no, wait, you already
know
that—so whatever this is about—”

“Maureen Selkirk is dead.”

Where did that brick wall come from? I swear it wasn’t there a second ago, and then …
I blink, trying to process what he just said. “Who is what?”

“Maureen Selkirk. I believe you spoke to her and Father Stone shortly before he died.”

“How—how did she die?”

“The same way Stone did. Technically.”

“What’s that mean?”

“It means she asphyxiated. Boy selling chocolate door to door found her in her living
room with the power cord from her air conditoner tangled around her neck. She had
it mounted up high, above her door.”

“And you think—” I stop, swallow with a suddenly dry mouth. “You think I had something
to do with it?”

“Right now, it looks like some kind of freak accident. But we’re still investigating—and
you were apparently the last one to talk to Selkirk and Stone, according to the witnesses
I’ve been able to track down. Mind telling me what you said?”

“Nothing. I mean, they invited me to attend services with them. That was about it.”

“Uh-huh. Can you be a little more specific?”

I’m about to deliver a zinger out of sheer reflex—
What, you want me to identify the church? It’s that pointy building with the oversized
dinner bell mounted on the roof
—when I realize that’s
exactly
what he’s asking.

Not just which church. Which
religion.

He stares at me calmly. I stare back.
Sheriff Stoker is second-in-command,
Cassiar said. Which means that with Longinus/Ahaseurus dead, I’m locked in a room
with the current head of a cult dedicated to making my existence one of eternal suffering
and despair.

And he wants to know if Stone and Selkirk spilled the beans.

“This Sunday,” I hear myself say. “They invited me to services this Sunday. I told
them I’d try to make it, but no promises.”

He nods. “That all they said to you?”

“That’s all I said to them. Then I made my excuses and left, because frankly I had
no intention of showing up.”

I’m thinking furiously while trying to look bored and impatient.
Internal power struggle? A schism in the Cult of Let’s Bedevil Jace? Someone staged
a coup and Stone and Selkirk sided with the wrong faction?