Irregulars: Stories by Nicole Kimberling, Josh Lanyon, Ginn Hale and Astrid Amara (47 page)

“I don’t like it,” the director said.

“It would only be for a few seconds. I write very fast.”

“How do you know he has a portal in his lair?” Klakow asked.

“Most Aztaw lords don’t move far from them,” Deven said. “Time is sacred in Aztaw and temples and places of power are built around calendar intersection points. Besides, the evidence of the original victims’ locations, and the proximity to crossroads, suggests this is where Night Axe operates. There must be a portal nearby.”

The director studied Deven, obviously considering his proposal.

“You would have the element of surprise,” August said. “It may be the advantage we need.”

“I’d be putting a lot of trust in you, Deven,” Director Alonsa said, sighing. “My hesitance to bring you along isn’t only about liability should you get injured. I’m still not convinced your loyalties are where they need to be.”

“I’m not moving back to Aztaw.” Deven didn’t realize he meant it until he said it and felt surprised by the statement. He clenched his jaw. “My loyalties are here. I won’t let anything happen to Agent August.”

August cocked his head slightly. He gave him a small smile. “Good choice.”

“Thought you’d like that.”

August grabbed Deven’s hand.

Klakow moaned. “Please stop before I puke.”

Director Alonsa nodded toward the pistols. “Take one. But you follow August and Ortega’s orders and stay out of the way. You open the portal, get them through, and stay under cover until Night Axe is apprehended.”

“Yes, ma’am,” Deven said, mimicking Klakow’s words to her the day before.

“And this is for all of you: timing is critical and coordination essential. We have a five-minute window. August drinks the cyanide, the team apprehends the target, and the success is radioed to our doctors at the hospital, who will immediately administer the antidote to the rest of the victims. Dr. Hansing will inject the antidote into August. If we screw up our timing nearly thirty people will be poisoned, and we’ll lose an agent.” Director Alonsa eyed August meaningfully.

“Don’t look at me,” August said. “I’m not letting that syringe out of my sight.”

“Good. This isn’t the time for heroism, Silas. Show us where he is, take the poison, take the antidote. Nothing more.”

“I get it.”

“We’ll watch over him,” Ortega promised. He looked tired from the day before, a black-threaded gash on his forehead showing where the tzimimi had clubbed him. Still, he held a pistol tightly and looked ready to fight. Deven felt better about their chances.

Someone handed him a gun, ozone-like odor gassing out of the thin barrel.

“You ever fire a shard pistol, amigo?” one of the agents asked.

“No.”

“They’re illegal in the US,” August commented. “So don’t try to bring it back with you.”

Deven nodded.

“Hold down the trigger and brace yourself for recoil,” the agent told him. “And don’t fire on any of us, got it?”

Deven wished he had a belt to hook the gun on. He was about to pocket it when August wordlessly snatched it out of his hands, flipped a switch near the trigger, and handed it back.

“Safety,” August said.

“Thanks.”

As the van made its way through the city, Deven kept an eye on August’s artery. It pulled forward, then yanked to the side as the van turned the corner. The connection tightened as they moved to the center of the city.

“We’re close,” Director Alonsa told them. “Glasses on.”

The rest of the agents donned their sunglasses and made final adjustments to the small projectors in the pockets of their overalls.

It was the first time many of the agents had seen the artery emerging from Agent August’s chest, and an enthusiastic debate started about the nature of the blood vessel and the implications of something fleshy existing simultaneously in two realms.

The agents around Deven spoke excitedly and pointed at the artery. August seemed embarrassed by the attention, leaning against the wall of the van and resting his chin on his chest as if sleeping.

When the van stopped, Deven stumbled onto the street after the agents, blinking at the soft dawn light. He glanced up at the ruins of Templo Mayor and felt a moment of wonder that something so old could remain so very beautiful.

Spanish colonial-style buildings of grand stone and columns lined the streets and the entire neighborhood felt regal, important, and vacant at that early hour. Only a pair of police officers were in sight, leaning against their car beside the temple’s tourist entrance. Despite the hour, the smell of the subway wafted over the city and Deven wrinkled his nose.

The NIAD team followed the taut line of artery leading from August’s chest. The neighborhood grew more residential as they moved between the stone blocks of buildings. Deven pulled his pen from behind his ear and drew the cogs of the calendars on his other palm. There were dozens of calendars interlocking here, time gates piled upon each other in a dizzying array of options. It was no surprise that Night Axe had centered himself here.

As they walked, the team concealed their weapons but prominently displayed the props that accompanied their gas company uniforms. Agent Klakow carried an emission monitor and another agent wore a tool belt.

Deven noticed Agent Ortega’s clipboard. He tapped the agent’s shoulder. “Can I borrow that pen?”

Ortega handed it to him. Deven slid the pen behind his ear and pocketed his house power. The ballpoint wouldn’t fool anyone close, but from a distance, he hoped it would serve as a temporary ruse.

If he hadn’t needed the pen to create the gate, he would have left it behind. Watching how August’s artery thickened and pulsed as they drew closer to Night Axe’s lair set Deven’s heart racing faster. He’d brought what he valued the most to his enemy. He began to have doubts about his plan.

As they turned a corner, the artery led from August down into the pavement in front of them. August’s heart rate soared. At first Deven thought it was their proximity to Night Axe. Then he realized August’s heart was just beating fast. His hand rested at his pocket, hovering over the butt of his pistol.

Klakow pointed to where the vessel disappeared beneath them.

“What does that mean?”

“Most of these older neighborhoods were built on top of Aztec ruins,” Agent Ortega said. “And many ruins have never been explored. Perhaps there’s something buried under this neighborhood that Night Axe is using as his lair.”

Deven drew his calendars again. A powerful calendar tied the spot to numerous locations. “This is where we’ll leave.” He dropped to the sidewalk. As he started drawing glyphs, the other agents watched. Someone made some comment too quietly for him to hear, but several laughed until August growled back a response. They stopped laughing.

Dog, arm bone, reed, star, death, lizard..
.Deven drew symbols that had been ingrained in his memory as deeply as the spelling of his own name. He concentrated on the formation of each figure, knowing any error could create an alternate glyph and change calendars, sending them somewhere unexpected. As each symbol completed, the image sizzled, burning in his nostrils and making his heart race faster with thoughts of home.

The rushed, excited conversations of the agents around him hushed into whispers and silenced altogether as Deven crawled around them, drawing a large circle to enclose a dozen people.

Fatigue coursed through him. The pen grew cold in his hands as it drained of ink. The symbols shot a curtain of light upwards, drawing around them like a circle of fire. Deven finished all but the last symbol and paused, glancing up to ensure everyone was inside the circle and August was safely surrounded by the others.

“Ready?” he asked. August gave him a small nod.

Deven took a second to fully accept that, despite everything, he was returning to Aztaw. He was going home, even if only for seconds. Nervous excitement and fear percolated in his throat.

Before he lost his nerve entirely, he quickly drew the symbol of the jaguar. The last beam of light shot upward from the symbol, blinding him in a blaze of white light. The ground dropped from beneath, his stomach lurched upwards, and the party tumbled down into the eternal darkness of Aztaw.

Chapter Sixteen

Suffocating, vice-like heat pushed against Deven’s body. He gasped to draw the thick, burning air into his lungs. Each breath felt like swallowing fire and he coughed, his lungs protesting.

Around him, the coughing gasps of his companions sounded above the distant roar of a black river. His eyes adjusted to the utter darkness quickly, the enchantment spell bringing contour and depth to their surroundings. The agents huddled, reaching out to touch each other in the dark.

“Deven.” August sounded angry. “I can’t see you.”

“It’s fine. We’ll be leaving shortly,” Deven reassured him. He recognized the glow of approaching bones and suspected a raiding party had sensed the portal opening. In the distance he could make out the old palace of Lord River, a massive stone compound at the raging water’s edge, where a prominent pyramid used to stand. But even from afar Deven saw that the pyramid had been destroyed, its masonry pillaged and broken. Above the fortress wall a banner displayed a bony fist, the symbol of the rebellion, hanging limp in the stagnant, dry air.

Aztaw wasn’t large. For a moment, he entertained the idea of returning to Lord Jaguar’s compound. He needed to reassure himself that Fight Arm hadn’t been lying, that despite all odds, Jaguar’s legacy remained. The need to do so nearly overwhelmed him.

But there were fields nearby, Deven noted, and a settlement of civilian Aztaws. Life continued for the general populace, even if the great temples were gone. The heavy air stank of hot corn and cooking fires instead of heated blood and he heard neither crashing armies or human screams—only the murmur of the river and the pleasant hum of distant Aztaw children chanting rhymes.

Maybe being surrounded by humans altered his perspective, but Deven recalled his first impressions as a child.
This is not a place for me
, he had thought long ago, and after thirteen years, the sentiment held.

“Hurry,” August hissed. Deven snapped back to the task at hand.

He drew a calendar in the air. It burned brightly against the blackness, flush with the magic of the Aztaw world. Even the agents could see it and someone cried out.

“That’s me drawing,” Deven reassured.

“I can’t breathe!” someone complained.

“Take slow, even breaths,” Dr. Hansing suggested.

“I lived here for thirteen years,” Deven reminded them. “There’s enough oxygen and nitrogen in the atmosphere to survive.”

The glowing bones drew closer.

“Who’s coming toward us?” August asked, his voice low.

“I don’t know. Probably a raiding party.” Deven studied the calendars. He found the one he’d noted near Night Axe’s lair and began his connection. “No one move,” he said. “I’m drawing around you.”

One of the agents pulled out a utility knife that resembled August’s, and a beam of light shot forth from the end, scanning the area.

At once, Deven heard the shout of the Aztaw party. They broke into a run.

“Turn that off!” Deven hissed. “They know humans are here now!” He wrote faster, hand trembling and he scored the pen deep into the hard, burned soil.
Heart, pig, mirror, crane...
his brain struggled against growing exhaustion to remember the intricate pattern of the smoke symbol, which he’d only drawn a few times in his life. His pen lightened in weight and grew icy to the touch. He worked his way around the clustered bodies of the agents, gasping for breath and praying that he had enough strength to fuel the pen for the journey back to the natural world. Sweat broke across his brow and his hair grew damp and heavy. For a moment, he considered using his knife to bleed one of the agents to give his pen the extra power it needed to finish rewriting the calendars. The old Deven wouldn’t have thought twice about it.

But he saw August’s grim expression, heard the way he struggled to breathe in the fetid air, and changed his mind. August would hate Deven for doing such a thing, so Deven continued the spell fueled with his power alone, feeling sick with weariness, the pen dangerously brittle in his hand.

“Who is there
?” demanded the tallest of the soldiers.

“
Human Jaguar,
” Deven said. He didn’t stop drawing.

“
You have brought your power to ruin us,
”
the soldier said.

“
Take his pen and string him up
!” cried another. His glowing bone face came into focus, eyes dark and rolling. One of the agents swore loudly.

“
I am taking these humans and leaving,
” Deven told them. He nearly dropped the pen to reach for his knife. But he wasn’t sure he had enough strength to defend himself, let alone the other agents. He kept writing. “
We mean you no harm.
”