Irregulars: Stories by Nicole Kimberling, Josh Lanyon, Ginn Hale and Astrid Amara (30 page)

Deven glanced at the mortician, unsure if he knew why they were there. Very few people were privy to the operations of the Irregular Affairs Division, let alone the presence of other realms and extra-human beings. It was one of the reasons Deven found himself a reluctant employee of NIAD—regardless of his feelings toward the agency, they alone had an inkling of his past experiences. He found himself drawn to those who knew the truth and now wondered how much information this guardian of the dead was privy to.

“Juan is with us,” August told Deven, as if reading his mind. “You can speak freely.” August cleared his throat, then pulled back the sheet covering Agent Rodriguez.

He had been a handsome man in life, Deven decided. His features were rugged and hard, but there was a softness to his expression, even after having died in fear. The back of his head was obliterated, caved in, collapsing the frontal lobe around the man’s right ear. His right eye bulged out from the pressure.

The rest of his body was white with death. Several scars marked his arms and chest, but these were old, healed and raised over time. His genitals were purple and nearly buried under his pubic hair. He had wide, thick feet and ugly toes.

But that wasn’t what he was looking for, Deven chastised himself. Truthfully, he wasn’t sure what he was supposed to find.

When the sheet was removed from Carlos Rodriguez’s sister, Deven noticed August avoided glancing at Beatriz’s face as he examined her body.

“What’s that?” the agent asked, pointing to a red bruise just below her heart. Her skin had turned gray in death, but the bruise stood out, red and garish.

The bruise wasn’t large, about the size of a quarter, but it was perfectly circular, as if made with a cookie cutter. Deven checked the dead agent and saw he had the same marking.

“He has one too.”

August turned. He reached out and touched Carlos Rodriguez’s bruise, which was directly over his heart.

“I’ve seen a few bodies with these markings before,” the mortician told them. “I assumed ringworm, although the skin isn’t scaly like a fungus.”

“Does it always appear on the chest?” August asked.

The doctor shrugged. “They are always on the torso but not consistently in the same place. There are so few cases, I considered it an environmental anomaly, maybe some form of rash. It’s never shown any evidence of relating to the death of the individual.”

August stared hard at the marking on his partner’s chest. He pulled out his phone and took several photos of both Carlos’s and Beatriz’s markings.

“Know anything about this?” August asked. It took Deven several seconds to realize the question was addressed to him.

“No,” Deven said. “Never heard or seen of any circular bruises on bodies.” Deven tilted his head, considering. “Of course, there’s little known about the tzimimi so it could be related to their attack, although I don’t see how.”

“Tzimimi?” August asked.

“Malevolent female night spirits,” Deven said. “I’ve heard of them only in passing. The way they’ve been described fits with the creatures that attacked your partner. But they’re supposed to have been exiled from Aztaw thousands of years ago.”

“Why didn’t you tell me this before?”

“Because I wasn’t sure they’re really tzimimi. I’m still not. They were exiled with the Lord of Hurricanes to the realm of light and there would have been no way for them to come back here. It doesn’t make any sense. No one has seen or heard from the Lord of Hurricanes or his minions in generations.”

August turned back to examine the bodies once more. He reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out what looked like a pocket utility knife. Deven felt a moment of camaraderie.

But it was quickly apparent this was no normal army knife. It had strange attachments and Agent August frowned as he poked through the various options before picking out a screwdriver-shaped metal prong. He scraped this prong across the bruise on Agent Rodriguez’s chest, collecting a strip of skin.

“What’s that?” Deven asked.

“It’s for spectral analysis,” August said. “I can run a check on other-realm signatures when I get my equipment at the hotel.”

Deven wanted a closer look at the knife. He’d heard that many Irregulars agents used enchanted technology in place of magical powers but had seen little of it in person.

But by the time he drew near August had already closed the blade and pocketed the tool. He quickly replaced the sheet that covered Beatriz but paused as he did the same to his partner.

“See you on the other side,” August whispered. For a moment his eyes looked almost glassy. He drew the sheet over his dead partner’s body and strode out of the room, forcing Deven to rush to catch up.

***

Outside the morgue, the sun was setting and for that Deven felt grateful. It had been a stressful day and darkness always brought him comfort.

Of course, all darkness was relative. Here on earth, he could see perfectly well at any hour, because even without the sun, there were stars and moonlight and street lamps and a thousand other sources of ambient light.

During the decade that he’d spent in Aztaw, darkness had defined everything. The Aztaw themselves navigated perfectly well in the dark, but for the few humans who visited, only the glowing luminescence of Aztaw bones provided contrast on the jet-black backdrop of the flat, endless terrain of the Aztaw realm.

The utter lack of any starlight hampered human interaction with the underworld and had probably contributed to his father’s eventual madness.  

Agent August sat next to him in the taxi’s backseat, silent once more. His body was completely still, eyes shadowed, and Deven would have thought him asleep if it hadn’t been for the chronic twitching of his jaw muscles as he ground his teeth.

“Have you been to Mexico City before?” Deven asked, not because he cared particularly, but because it was the question Agent Klakow had asked and therefore he assumed it to be a safe, normal conversation to have.

August nodded. “I vacationed here with Carlos and Bea a few times.” He rubbed the heel of his hand against his eye. “I’ll have to tell Teresa when I get home. God.”

“Teresa?” Deven asked.

“Carlos’s girlfriend.” August sighed loudly.

“She doesn’t know yet?”

“There hasn’t been time. I only heard of it this morning and came via the Fisherman’s Wharf–Mercado Sonora portal.” August ground his teeth and changed the subject. “Commander Carerra in San Francisco will want a report about your little trick with the mirror.”

“All right.”

“That’s something I’d heard of but never seen demonstrated.”

“There’s a lot of Aztaw magic that could be useful to the division.”

“Does the mirror work only for those who’ve died?”

“No, anyone can use it,” Deven said. “It can even tell the immediate future, but that’s rarely useful since it shows only a few seconds, and those seconds are usually just putting the mirror back in your pocket.”

August smiled at that. Deven was startled by how such a small gesture could transform the man’s face, how it made him look, for one moment, beautiful.

But August’s smile vanished as quickly as it came. “I’m surprised the Irregulars have allowed such a gap in knowledge about another realm to exist.”

“Aztaw isn’t very forgiving to human beings. There would be little opportunity to collect data.”

“You survived it.”

“Yeah, but I’m not particularly better off for the experience.” Deven was quoting his therapist, since he had no idea whether or not he would have been a different person had he not moved to Aztaw with his father.

August studied him. “Is that where you had your throat cut?”

“Yes.”

“Who did it?”

“Lord Jaguar.”

“Why?” August asked.

Why
was such a strange question to ask about anything, really. “I was his hostage. He decided to sacrifice me for my blood.”

“How did that happen?”

“My father was the first and last NATO Irregular Affairs ambassador to Aztaw and I moved there with him when I was ten. We were under the protection of Lord Knife, who was the most powerful of the lords at the time, and my father established lucrative trade agreements with Lord Knife’s house.”

“What did they trade?” August asked.

“Human blood in exchange for Aztaw-enchanted weaponry. My father thought it would reduce the number of humans kidnapped from the natural world and dragged down to fuel spells.”

“Did it?”

“I was too young to know at the time. And within two years Lord Knife’s supremacy was challenged. War broke out between him and Lord Jaguar’s dynasty, and Jaguar took me hostage and threatened to kill me if my father didn’t end his allegiance with Lord Knife and trade with him instead.”

August no longer looked sleepy. “What did your father do?”

“He told Lord Jaguar he’d rather have me killed than betray his allegiance with Lord Knife. He said it presented him an opportunity to prove his loyalty.”

August blinked. There was an uncomfortable silence.

“That’s pretty shitty,” August finally said.

Deven shrugged.

“So Lord Jaguar ordered your execution?”

Deven nodded. “I was held at his feet by a soldier and he slit my throat.”

August didn’t look at Deven with sympathy, which was a relief. Deven told this story to few people, and when he did, it usually led to displays of pity that made him uncomfortable. He didn’t want pity for something that wasn’t his doing.

“But you survived.” August eyed him keenly.

“Aztaws move slowly. I was able to kick the soldier restraining me and break free. I pulled his ankle and by luck he fell off the sacrificial dais, cracked open his skull, and died. Lord Jaguar was impressed with my reaction and speed and decided my life was worth more than a sacrifice in his ritual. He stopped my blood loss with a time trap and spared my life.”

“Is he still alive?”

“No.” Deven swallowed. “I regret I lost my opportunity to avenge his death when I fled Aztaw.”

August’s eyebrows came together. “He cut your throat and you feel guilty about not avenging his murder?” He snorted. “You’re more messed up than I thought.”

Deven felt his face flush with anger. “He was a great lord and I owe everything I am to him.”

“And what is that, exactly?” August’s mouth curved into a sneer. “You’re clearly not just an Aztaw magics expert. You keep reaching for that knife in your back pocket.”

Deven realized he was reaching for his knife and quickly let go, resting his hands in front of him.

“You’re a soldier then,” August continued, “or, worse, an assassin. When you are uncomfortable your instincts are violent. And clearly you lack the skills to blend in to normal society, otherwise you wouldn’t be taking shit consulting jobs for the Irregulars.” He shook his head. “You ever hear of Stockholm syndrome?”

Of course he had heard of Stockholm syndrome. His therapist had told him all about it. “You don’t know anything about me,” Deven said, his anger rising.

“True. Nor do I care,” August said coldly. “All I care about is finding out who killed my partner and my friend. If you have skills that help me, then you’ll be useful. If you’re just an under-socialized nut job who the division’s taken on as a charity case, I don’t have time for you.”

“I’m not a charity case.”

“Then why were you included on the guest list of the annual under-socialized nut job Christmas cookie-making party?”

Deven opened his mouth to respond, but August held out his hand. “We’re here.” He jumped out of the car before the driver had even put it into park.

Deven followed the agent out of the car, rage pulsing through him, deep and irrational.

For one thing, he’d hated that cookie party. It had felt demeaning.

And he despised it when anyone said anything about Lord Jaguar. He was too great to even be spoken of by the likes of these people.

He recalled his therapist’s shocked face when he’d first broached the subject of Lord Jaguar’s kindness to him. Everyone here saw him as a monster. They didn’t understand that, in a world of monsters, Jaguar had been Deven’s only friend.

They entered a mundane, industrial-looking L-shaped hotel. “Welcome to the wonders provided by government per diem rates,” August commented.

The Bristol Hotel was a nondescript cement structure overlooking a roundabout with a phallic statue in the center. The outward appearance resembled some sort of institution, but inside the hotel was clean and utilitarian. Tiled floors and white-painted walls lent the space an open air.

August gave their names to a young woman behind the counter. She smiled warmly as she handed over two plastic keycards. “You’ll be staying in room 210,” she informed them with a strong accent.

“We’re sharing a room?” Deven asked suspiciously.

August didn’t look very pleased himself. “Goddamn budget cutbacks!” He handed the receptionist his credit card. “Any chance it’s a non-smoking room?”

“All rooms are smoking rooms,” the woman told him.