Nightlord: Orb (20 page)

“That’s true.  I wonder how determined they are—is it a small group backed by the Church of Light, or is it the Church of Light and its devotees, or is it the Church of Light and hired mercenaries?”

What does it matter?  It’s all the Brightness Brigade.

“It matters for the sense of scale.  The first is a small group, but the Church of Light is giving them help without being fully involved in a political coup.  The second is a straight secular vs. sacred authority problem.  The third is the first step of a religion trying to muscle its way into being a theocracy.”

If you say so.  But what’s T’yl supposed to do about it?

“I don’t know,” I confessed.  “I’d like to hear from him, if only to find out what’s going on over there.  It concerns me.  Most of all, though, I want to know if he’s heard from Tort.”

Maybe you need a girlfriend,
Firebrand advised. 
I bet that Susan person would be willing.

“Shut up,” I advised, and went back to working on a blast shield.

Busy day.

The blast shield worked, after a fashion.  It took some experimenting and two fire extinguishers, but I never liked the carpet in the living room, anyway.  The metal crescents all nest together, up out of the way, joined only at the bolts on either side of the fireplace interior.  A wooden dowel holds them up.  When Firebrand wants to drop the shield, it focuses on that dowel—it’s set too far forward to be burned away by normal fireplace use.  Once the dowel burns away, the nested metal parts drop down, locking into each other as they drop, pulling the springs that keep them aligned, and making an almost-solid wall between the fireplace and the living room.

Some flame leaks out around the edges, but it isn’t aimed at anything.  Close enough.

I’ve also got a double hook set high up in the front wall of the chimney.  By holding Firebrand’s blade, I can hang it directly in the fire, point-down, and it can suck the flames right up the chimney.  This means the fireplace doesn’t give much heat to the room, but that’s not what I’m using it for, anyway.

After my shower—and my sunset transformation—I came back into the living room to check on Firebrand.  It was enormously happier.  I was happy it wouldn’t burn down the house if it had to launch.

The gate chime went off
again
.  At least they waited until I was out of the shower and dressed.  I should get an intercom, just in case someone does ring the bell while I’m dying.

I tried to check my makeup, forgetting for a moment I don’t show up in mirrors.  I can’t even use the electronic camera in my phone as a mirror.  I have to rely on being thorough in application and asking for touch-up advice from Bronze.

Mental note: I still need to repaint her eyes.  Making them glow like that burned the paint off.

Wait a second.  If I take a computerized cab at night, how does it know I’m there?  It can’t see me.  Or does it need to?  Does it detect the electronic presence of my skinphone?  Or are there pressure sensors?  Obviously, it can hear me order it to a destination.  How far does this lack of image go?

Magic meets technology and they both have a nervous breakdown.  No, wait—that’s me.

Still, I settled my shades in place and answered the door.  It was Gary.  He struck me as upset and more than a little nervous.  Maybe worried.  Certainly unhappy.  He stood there, shifting from foot to foot, and didn’t say anything.

“Problem?” I asked.

“Yeah.”

“What’s the matter?”

“Dad’s supposed to get groceries, but he’s not back.”

“I see.  And you’re completely out of food?”

“No… but I tried to cook some of it and it burned.”

I remembered to breathe.  Yes, I could smell burned meat—chicken, if memory served.  I looked in the direction of his house; it seemed every light in the place was on.

“Would you rather I came over to help you cook, or would you prefer to come in for dinner?” I asked.

“I’m not allowed to have anyone over when Dad ain’t home.”

I stood aside and gestured him toward the kitchen.  He went in, scooted a chair up to the kitchen table, and waited.  He kept his eyes on the table, as though looking around was a crime.  He didn’t have that attitude when he was with the other three, helping fix things.  He was more than merely nervous.  He was scared.

I didn’t say anything.  Instead, I rummaged in my cabinets.  Gary wasn’t the only one who needed groceries; I eat like three men, sometimes five.  I spread out what I had—sandwich stuff, cereal, the last of the milk, Susan’s cookies, and a microwave pizza.  At my urging, he put together a sandwich for himself while I microwaved the pizza.  I wasn’t worried about wasting it.  I couldn’t eat it tonight, but whatever he didn’t finish I’d send home with him.

“Your Dad hasn’t got groceries in a while?” I guessed.  Gary nodded.

“He was gonna get some last night, but he’s not home yet.”

“You’ve been on your own since Sunday?”

“Yeah.”

My opinion of his father sank two notches, which did not bode well for him
at all
.

“I saw you made it to school.”

“Yeah.”

“I’m proud of you.  You’re a good kid.”

He didn’t say anything.  He was too busy wolfing down his sandwich.  He seemed pleased, though.  The pizza was done when he finished; I plunked it down in front of him and poured him the last of the milk.

“What does your Dad do, anyway?” I asked.  Gary shrugged and blew on the hot pizza.  “You don’t know?” I pressed.

“He doesn’t talk about it.”

“Is he away like this often?”

“No.”  Gary chewed ferociously.  “First time.”

I watched while Gary ate.  He was definitely upset about it; I could see inside him.  He was pretty good about hiding his feelings, at least on the outside.  Lots of practice, I suppose.

“Do you even know where Mark works?”

“No.  Somewhere in the city, I think.”

“Do you have milk at your house?”

“No.”

“Then eat the cookies before you finish the milk.  I’m out, too.”

“Okay.”  He didn’t require much urging.  He likes oatmeal raisin cookies, the little weirdo.  Then again, who am I to talk?

Mark never struck me as a model father, but that was—strictly speaking—none of my business.  Now, though, I was feeding his kid because he would rather be out on a bender than bring food home.

That pissed me off, which never ends well.

After feeding Gary, I walked him home.  It wasn’t difficult to persuade Gary to let me in for a minute.  He wasn’t supposed to have anyone over, but he wanted someone to search the house for monsters, thieves, or anything else.  I went through the place and reassured him it was empty.

While I was there, I also helped clean up the mess in the kitchen.  He burned the chicken because he was out of microwavable and other easy-prep foods.  The pan he tried to fry the chicken in was ruined, so we threw the whole thing away.  I also took out the trash, helped him straighten up a little, and taught him the right way to fold towels.

I also swiped some of Mark’s hair from the comb on his dresser.  I planned to use it with the magic-detecting compass box.

The enchantment on the thing was old and solid.  Whoever built it did good work.  I learned my magic in a different school, though.  I didn’t alter the enchantment, but I did put a spell on it.  Think of it as hotwiring a car.  I added some spells like jump leads to short-circuit around some aspects of the enchantment, basically allowing it to do exactly what it normally did.  The difference was in the detection specifications.  I added a module to let me specify what sort of pattern it searched for.

I printed out a map of the city, called a cab, and did some triangulation.  Then I packed up the box, dismissed the cab, and took a walk in one of the more depressed and depressing areas of the city.  Within two blocks, I had a two-pack volunteer dinner come up to me and demand money.

One of the things about the way I see the world at night is the life inside people.  While I’m still able to see the skin of a person, my nighttime eyes tend to naturally slide into a different way of seeing.  I see vital energy coursing through people, the sparkling lines of nerves, the whirling vortices of blood in the veins and arteries—especially the big, red, pulsing thing slightly left-of-center in the chest—and even the formless, cloudy colors of the living soul inside.

So when they demanded money, I noticed two things immediately.  One of them really didn’t want to do this.  The other one was practically blasé about it.  He didn’t live long.

The other one I picked up by the belt buckle and pressed him against a wall.  He hit me several times, which I ignored—he had good reason, so I didn’t hold it against him.

“You,” I told him, around a mouthful of fangs, “need to find another occupation.  Anything will do.  Go talk to the employment agency and tell them you don’t care what it is.  You desperately need a job because this kind of thing will get you
killed
.”

I tossed him casually over my shoulder and walked away.  He limped the other way surprisingly quickly.

Farther along, I took out the box, took a bearing, and put it away again.  It wasn’t long before I homed in on a dilapidated factory structure.  It had a surprising amount of graffiti, with a combination of old fencing and newer planking closing it off.  I could hear the sounds of a party inside—quite a large one—but it was muffled by distance, doors, and depth.  I wasn’t sure it was audible to normal ears.  There were several ways in through the fence, but only one obvious way into the building.  This door was guarded by a pair of guys who might as well have tattooed “BOUNCER” on their foreheads.

Well, what the hell.  I walked up to them.

“What’ll it take to get in?” I asked.

“Fifty.”

I handed him fifty.  They knocked on the door, it opened, and I was in.

Huh.  That was easy.  No sneaking around, no ripping people to pieces, not even any mystically draining the life-force from the guards.  Am I disappointed or relieved?  Surprised, certainly.

The guy inside had a drug problem or a runny nose; he sniffled constantly.  We followed a rope on the wall as he escorted me through the place.  We went underground into a large, open area where the lights and music were all dialed up to eleven.  The place was full of strangely-dressed young people, screaming and moving about, presumably singing along and dancing.  No one took any notice of me, except to bounce off me as they staggered and whirled through whatever drug-fueled haze they might have achieved.  The smell of sweat and musk, alcohol and smoke, old rust and mold, all combined to make the place a cloud of noxious fumes.

I gritted my teeth and waited for my eyes and ears to adjust to the cacophony of sound and its concrete-and-steel echoes.  There are bad points to having ultra-sensitive sensory equipment.  The pounding beat and the flashing lights were unpleasant and distracting, even mildly painful.  Everyone else seemed to enjoy the seizure-inducing atmosphere.  I didn’t appreciate it at all.  I stayed against the wall because I didn’t think I could stand being pummeled from all sides by the noise and lights.  I already felt an urge to blindly rip my way through the crowd on my way to someplace dark and quiet.  Finding out how powerful the urge could get was an experiment for another place and time.

My sunglasses may have saved lives.  I was amazingly pleased I had my eye armor.  In the future, earplugs might not be a bad idea, either.

Working my way around the room, I searched for Mark and any other rooms or ways out.  I found the equivalent of a toilet; there was a crack in the foundation one could straddle, with sections partitioned off for the he’s, the she’s, and the undecided.  Water came from big plastic tubs set on platforms, with some pushbutton valves and hosing.  Someone had thoughtfully glued pieces of mirror to a wall.  I smelled human waste and lime.  At least they had the sense to lime their in-house outhouse.

Another side chamber was obviously the equivalent of a concessions stand and bar.  They sold prepackaged snacks, shots of liquor, and what were probably mild recreational drugs.

I also found the generator room; a couple of portable generators pumped their exhaust up through a pipe.  They provided power for the party.  This was obviously not the first such party here.  An unlicensed nightclub?  Or merely a favorite spot to rave?

Whatever it was, it was a firetrap.  The only way out was back the way I came.  No doubt the local law enforcement people would love to know about it.  If it was anywhere but underground, doubtless they would!

I stepped into the cacophony again and leaned against the wall until I could adjust to it.  I didn’t succeed completely, but it was beneficial to take the time.

As I worked my way around, along the walls, I spotted something out of place.  She didn’t look like anything more than another a pretty lady in the crowd.  Too much makeup, of course, but that applied to everyone in the room.  A red upper lip, a black lower lip, and rainbow eyeshadow from the bridge of her nose to her temples.  Far too much glitter for my taste; she practically sparkled.  The long, kinked, multicolored hair was also decidedly not my speed.  Nice eyes, though, with an intense, almost electric-blue color.  I squinted a little and saw they weren’t contacts; the color was natural.  Well, built-in.  For all I know they have cosmetics to alter your eye color.