Nightlord: Orb (22 page)

I bit the heart and sucked the remaining blood out of it, standing so Mark had a good profile view.  He didn’t need to know it soaked into my skin as fast as I could drink it.  Again, I was going for a visual.  In moments, the heart was bone-dry; even the bloodstains vanished.  I dropped the dried heart to the floor and crushed it underfoot. I turned to Mark.

He stared at me with his good eye wide open.  Even the bad eye was visible, despite the swelling.

I moved close to him, almost nose-to-nose.  I let my tongue slide out, coiling upward to trace lightly over the bloodstains along the side of his face.  He shuddered at the cold, moist touch. I reached into his soul with dark tendrils to give his spirit an added chill.

Tasting his blood and touching his soul, I felt his existence.  A thousand images flashed through my consciousness in an instant—a montage of moments, photoflashes of events.  A mélange of feelings, thoughts, hopes, dreams, desires, regrets.  For an indefinable moment, I knew Marcus Zama Spotznitz, all the good, all the bad, and all he ever was.

I withdrew my tendrils and my tongue, leaving him to finish his shudder.  And leaving me alone again, unique, separate from everyone and everything.

That was new.  Have I always been able to do that?  I can see the colors and patterns of a spirit, of a soul, and see the good and evil, the brightness and the stains.  I can swallow a soul and gain some of its knowledge and power.  But I’ve never tried to… to taste it without eating it.  It seems strange, like licking a steak instead of biting it.

Weird.

On the other hand, I knew Mark infinitely better than I did before.  Nothing concrete, nothing definite, but something about him… now he was familiar to me.  If we lived for ten years on a deserted island, never speaking a word to each other, I might know him then as I knew him now.  I had an indefinable sense of him as a person, rather than facts about his life.

Now, how to approach this?

Still looking him in the eye at a range of inches, I ran a fingertalon along his jaw, from ear to chin, just barely drawing blood.  It focused his attention better than cigarette burns and bruises had.

“The food-man had no children to save him.  Do you?” I asked, gravel-voiced.

He nodded for all he was worth, hands clamped to the chair arms, back pressing against the chair until it threatened to snap.

“You are telling the truth,” I sighed, trying to sound regretful.  I stood up straight.  Mark visibly relaxed when the monster wasn’t in his face anymore.  “Do they know what you do?” I asked.  “Would your offspring be proud of their father?”

He stared at me with his one good eye and I watched his soul sink the same way icebergs don’t.

“If their father died tonight, would they mourn?” I pressed.  “Are you
worthy
of your whelps?”

He looked away, looked down.  Shame and anger warred for dominance in his heart and I could see it, see why he sometimes hit when he should hug.  He wasn’t evil.  He wasn’t even mean.  He was ashamed and he didn’t know how to deal with that shame.  There was so much more—there is
always
more—but I could see how his shame drove him to violence, which added to his shame, and enhanced the vicious cycle.

I wrapped cold hands around his wrists, clamping them to the arms of the chair and dragging his attention back to me.  I got nose to nose with him again so all he could see were the black, featureless orbs I have where humans keep their eyes.  I wondered if he could smell blood on my breath.  Probably not, given the way it sinks in.  Feeling my breath at room temperature, though—that’s subtly creepy, right?

“A child needs to be proud of a father,” I grated.  “Sometimes, children need that pride more than food.  And fathers need the love of their children in the same way.  So you are free to go—your life belongs to someone else, not to me.”  I grinned at him, deliberately displaying all my teeth.  “At least, not tonight.”

I used fingertalons to snip the plastic ties holding him to the chair.  He pulled the gag out of his mouth while I snipped through the ones around his ankles.

“What about Ortiz?” he asked, hoarsely.  “I can’t leave him here.”

“Why not?” I asked.  I was surprised he said anything at all.  I expected him to bolt from the room as quickly as he was freed.  It takes guts to quiz the inhuman monster that recently considered eating you.

“He’s my friend.”

“Perhaps you need better friends,” I suggested.  He looked at me, chose to look right into what I use for eyes, and that takes even more guts.

“He’s my friend,” he repeated, stubbornly.

Damn him.  I’m going to have to
respect
him now.  I still don’t like him, but… he’s arguing with a monstrous creature of the night for the life of his friend.  How can I not respect him?  How can I not agree?

“His life is important to you?”

“Yes.”

“I give it to you.  Do with it what you will.”

I cut Ortiz loose and helped stand him up, walk him around.  He seemed to come to his senses.  His gaze switched back and forth between me and Mark.  A quick communication between them in facial expression and body language told Ortiz to shut up and talk later.

They hobbled out the door together, Ortiz staggering with one arm around Mark’s shoulders. I steered them back the way I came, toward the party zone, avoiding the stairs to the packaging floor.

The factory workers didn’t notice the scuffle—or considered it none of their business when thumps and shouts came from the upstairs office.  To be fair, the machines made quite a bit of noise and their protective gear probably included sound muffling.  Nobody was coming up to bother me, so I looted the corpses and the two unconscious bodies.  Mr. Erudite had quite a bit of money on him, actually, which made me wonder if he was important.  His ID gave me his name, but no ideas about his occupation, aside from the obvious.

I went ahead and drained everybody.  Blood feeds the physical form, souls feed the spirit.  Neither should be wasted.  I also did some dismembering and other ripping.  It helped get the blood out of the bodies and left a clear impression something horrific happened.  It would help distract anyone who might wonder about the who or what or why, and maybe keep them from looking too closely at two low-grade nobodies who escaped in the confusion.

Then, while putting an eyeless head in a desk’s file drawer, I realized this wasn’t going to work.  Maybe it was all the members of the criminal classes I’d been eating; I tend to have a vague sense of familiarity for things my meals knew well.  If I’d sat down all my digested gangsters and mobsters and thugs to quiz them—assuming they would cooperate—they could have told me plainly what I was starting to suspect.

This whole incident might be viewed as some sort of particularly grisly mob hit, or something.  Some competitor trying to make a statement, maybe.  That would increase tensions and potentially start a war.  With Mark as a soldier on one side or another, he—and Gary—would likely suffer for it.

Crap.

The only way to make this go away was to make it
all
go away, to make it vanish.  If it could be disguised as an accident, or left open to doubt… yes, a competitor would want it to be obvious, to send a message.  If it could have been an accident, then it would probably be considered an accident.  This assumed, of course, there wasn’t an active conflict among organized crime currently going on in the well-known criminal metropolis of Oklahoma City.  Yeah, it seemed a good bet.

I wished heartily for Firebrand.  Ah, well.

After stuffing loot in a bag, I chased after Mark and Ortiz.  They were doing okay, going slowly due to wounds and darkness.

“This way,” I whispered.

“Are you…?”

“This way,” I repeated.  They glanced at each other, then followed the sound of my voice.  I led them to the door and showed them out over the unconscious guard.  I stuffed my accumulated cash in Mark’s jacket pocket.

“Who
are
you?” Ortiz asked.  That was a good question.  It deserved a memorable answer.

I resisted the urge to answer, “I’m Batman.”  It wasn’t easy.  Instead, I asked him a question.

“Are you afraid of the dark, Ortiz?”

“No,” he whimpered.  I leaned close and smiled, mouth open slightly to emphasize the fangs.  He could also see the rest of my teeth clearly.  They’re not sharklike.  Their sharpness is along the outer edges, making them sharp like knives are sharp, not like fangs.  Those edges aren’t perfectly flat, though; what pointiness they have is, for the most part, extremely subtle.  It takes a dentist to notice… or getting up close and personal, which we were.  It adds considerably to the impression of being an inhuman monster—which I am. 

I ran a sharp fingernail along the side of his face, drawing a thin line of blood to match the one on Mark’s face.

“I
am
the Dark,” I whispered.  Then I turned away and vanished into the shadows of the factory side, throwing over my shoulder into the echoes:  “Remember the reason you are alive.”

I closed the door, locking them out of the drug factory.

I went back to the office to wait a half hour.  Then I killed everyone on that side of the place and burned it.  It went up quickly; a lot of their supplies were flammable.  I spent a few minutes persuading people to evacuate the dance party—they needed a head start before the flames spread—but firing a gun into the DJ’s equipment gets immediate attention.

I don’t think anyone was actually trampled, but a few were injured.  I did my best to help them out the door.

Tuesday, October 19
th

It’s a good thing I carry makeup.  Getting home without a lot of funny looks could have been problematic without it.  Sure, it’s just a clamshell thing with some skin-tone stuff, but it’s a lifesaver.  Pity about the mirror being defective; I had to guess, as usual.  I don’t think I did too badly.  Nobody pointed and screamed.

I made it home before dawn.  After the sun came up, I called another cab for my overdue grocery run.

The cabs have complimentary video while you’re being ferried around.  I think it’s an excuse to bombard the passenger with advertising.  In between the ads, though, sometimes there’s something interesting.

According to the news, an illegal rave club caught fire.  It reported over a dozen bodies in the blaze.  That tallied pretty well with the body count I got.  Still, the news—or lack of it—told me the drug lab fire was being covered up.  Someone had clout with the local law enforcement, or the political machine releasing statements to the press.  I suppose it might have been kept quiet for some legitimate police reason, but I thought it more likely someone paid to keep it quiet and unofficial.  Either way, I was glad I burned most of the evidence.

I also picked up another makeup kit and more first aid supplies, as well as some extra extension cords.  I would have added to my bucket collection, but the Four already moved Luke’s drum kit into the hayloft.  It’s not too elaborate, but they’re real drums, so I now have my buckets back.

I remembered to pick up a jar of foam earplugs.

Seeing Mark’s face last night reminded me I have surprisingly little in the way of mundane supplies.  Aside from Luke’s splinter, I don’t recall the last time I applied peroxide or a band-aid, to say nothing of gauze or stitches.  It’s not like I can casually grab flesh and weld it together anymore; around here, that takes real effort.

It’s good to have a disaster kit.  You never know.  I also ordered some stuff online—flashlights, glow sticks, space blankets, vacuum-packed food, packets of water, all that survivalist stuff.  It’s possible I’ll never need it, but you have that sort of thing on hand because of the other possibility—or I might have houseguests who would.

I also checked the guns; they had no markings on them, so keeping them was illegal and selling them slightly more so.  There were also none of the newfangled cellular locator chips, which was hardly surprising in illegal firearms.  They wound up in a locked box in the attic pending resale some weekend.

My ingots of various elements arrived today, much to my delight.  Now I can start making a coil to fit them and experiment with the potential to warp spacetime.

Wednesday, October 20
th

I spent the morning downstairs with a bowling bag and the unearthed Sinister Sphere.  All the accumulated energy from the basement power circle went into a spell to further contain and suppress it.  My biggest issue was what sort of spell to put on the thing.  My idea was to improve containment on the Orb of Disaster in such a way that it couldn’t be detected and, more importantly, couldn’t reach out to persuade some sucker to pick it up.

My initial idea to contain it was a reversed Ascension Sphere.  It wouldn’t be all that hard, really—simply reverse two sequences of symbols and the whole thing will suck in power from both directions to reinforce its own spell structure.  Inside, it’ll drain all the power almost immediately; outside, it’ll act like an Ascension Sphere.  Whatever is inside it, though, won’t have any power to work with.

My problem was I didn’t understand the basic method of glassy containment.  Was it a dynamic containment, constantly using power to keep the Thing inside?  If so, a reversed Ascension Sphere would destroy the spells holding it and release the Thing inside.  Was it a physical sort of embedded trap?  If it’s bound in some way to the physical structure of the glass, I
should
reverse an Ascension Sphere and starve the Thing inside of power.

The real problem with analyzing it was an elementary one.  It’s a prison.  Physically, it’s glass.  Mystically, it’s like a small universe with a spherical firmament encapsulating it.  Considering the occupant, I would imagine it is not a pleasant place.  Sort of a custom-built, personal Hell.  I hope.  But I can’t reach past the edge of the sphere with anything.  Maybe I could open a gate inside it to look around, but there are obvious and unacceptable risks involved with
that
idea!

In short, I’m still not sure how the Thing is contained in there.

As a result, I have a spell on the bowling bag, instead.  This acts… hmm.  It acts like a voltage regulator, sort of.  The spell filters and smooths out the flow of energies through it.  If I direct a probe at the bag, it absorbs the spike in energy, stores it, and lets out exactly enough “normal” power to simulate the typical background radiation.

Wait, better example.  Imagine a closed-circuit television watching something, but with a computer patched into the circuit.  If something unpleasant comes into view, the computer switches to playing back some “normal” video, rather than a live feed, until the place looks normal again.

I suppose neither of those is much of an example, but it’ll have to do.  Sorry about that.

The good news, from my point of view, was I had enough power inside the circle to make the concealing spell a hybrid spell/enchantment.  The spell had some elements of an enchantment on it; it absorbed power on its own and was potentially self-sustaining.  Not in this environment, of course, but it would still last longer than if I only wound it up and set it going.  Plus, if I was careful, I wouldn’t have to cast it again.  I could direct power at it every so often to charge it up.

Even better, if the Thing inside could reach out, anything it did was going to result in charging the spell and wasting the Thing’s own power.  I
like
that.

Now the Orb of Evil is safely contained in the Bowling Bag of Blending In.  And buried under the floor of the tornado shelter again.  And locked in.

I really need to see about buying a rocket.  They make them.  There isn’t an actual city on the Moon, but they have people on it.  They have a space station.  You can buy a ticket and go to either one, if you want to badly enough.

Can I afford a rocket?  One just big enough to launch into the sun?  How much would that cost?

Right now, though, I need to clean up a bit.  I’m expecting guests.

Sir Sebastian was right on time.  The front gate chime went off at one minute to two o’clock.  Thirty seconds later, he rang my doorbell.  He was accompanied by a pair of younger men—younger than him; mid-forties or so—both of whom bore him more than a passing resemblance.  Well, I was dealing with a whole family, so I shouldn’t be surprised.

“Good afternoon,” Sir Sebastian greeted me.  “I must apologize; my sons asked to accompany me today.  I told them it was not up to me, but we would ask.  Do you mind if they observe?  I will readily send them out to the car to wait, if you so wish.”

“If people always asked me for things in so pleasant and polite a manner, there would be a lot less grief in the world.  Please, all of you, do come in.”

I let them in and sat them down, served cookies and asked if he cared for anything to drink.  I prepared for this with my grocery run; we settled on ginger ale.  I took a chair; he took a chair.  His sons took the couch.  Sebastian made introductions between myself and both Thomas and Reginald.  We agreed it was a pleasure to meet.

“I must say, your efforts have been most efficacious,” he observed, pointedly looking around the living room.  Taking out the carpeting revealed hardwood underneath.  I really should refinish it.

“I hope so.  It’s a work in progress, I’m afraid.  You know how it is with a house.”

“Of course.  Now, to business?”

“Certainly.  Before we begin, do you happen to have a small, relatively simple ritual spell you can work from memory?”

“I do.”

“Good.  I should have thought to make sure the last time we spoke, but, well, I wasn’t exactly prepared.”

“Think nothing of it.  May I ask why?”

“Rather than take my word for it, you can test the function of my arrangements for yourself.  Shall we go downstairs?” I asked, rising.  Sir Sebastian used his stick to help himself to his feet, brushing aside attempts by the younger men to assist him.  They followed me down through both doors and into the basement.  They all noticed the heavy doors and the locks, but pointedly failed to mention them.

“Here it is,” I said, gesturing at the empty basement.  “The containment circle on the floor is the important one, obviously; the others simply feed it.  The one here, on this wall, is a bit crowded due to the stairs, but the setup isn’t required to be balanced or anything.”  I explained, briefly, the functions of the circles.  He nodded, following along.

“What you are telling me,” he said, thoughtfully, tapping his chin with the head of his walking stick, “is that you can create—in the small scale, at least—something closely akin to a lesser nexus?”

“Um.  If by ‘lesser nexus’ you mean a power center with a higher level of available magic, then yes.  I’ve never owned a lesser nexus, so I can’t swear to the details.”

“As you say.  You mentioned I might make use of it?”

“Sure.  I discharged it this morning, so you can get a sort of a minimum function baseline.  Whatever has built up in the last four hours or so is yours to play with, which will give you an idea of how quickly—or slowly—it collects power.  Go ahead.  The circle doesn’t do anything but hold in the power, really; you can cross it without harm.  But,” I added, holding up a hand to bar his advance, “before you do, be aware it’ll break any spells you have on you by trying to absorb them, going in or going out.”  He frowned, obviously annoyed.

“Then, if I may pose the obvious question, what good is it?” he asked, somewhat peevishly.  “You cannot cast spells out of it, and any spells you cast within it will be destroyed when you leave?”

“Oh, you let it sit and charge up.  You go in, work your ritual, and that uses up all the power.”

“Ah, I see,” he realized.  “So, it is not a permanent emplacement?”

“Only in the sense that you can let it charge as long as you like.  The only way to really use the power is to do it all inside the circle.”

“But then it is expended?”

“Yes.  I suppose that does make a difference in the pricing—I hadn’t given it that sort of thought.”

“Indeed.”  He began divesting himself of various magically-charged accoutrements, handing them to Thomas and Reginald.

“If you don’t mind,” I said, “I’ll go upstairs and let you get on with it without any distractions.”

“I thought to ask, but had no polite way to phrase such a request,” he admitted.

“No problem.  The doors can be opened from this side; I’ll be in the kitchen.”

“Do I need to break the circle on the floor?”

“No, the lines are there to initialize the power-collection spell.  They don’t matter once it’s up and running.”

“You are most gracious.”

I went upstairs and left them to play with it.  I wanted a sizable snack and a look at the effects of my latest spending on my bank balance.  My accounts were okay, but I’d been dipping into my capital to pay for things.  I could either live rather frugally for the next year or two, or I could put fresh money into the accounts to make up the losses—more, really, to allow for the higher-than-expected living expenses.  Doing research with exotic metals alone cost enough to buy a truck.  To be fair, I did plan to sell any metal samples that didn’t have a use in the project, but I’d have to buy more of whatever did… and then Bronze might decide some of them were tasty.  That could get expensive, too.

I might have to go visit a local casino, or even bite the bullet and take that trip to Las Vegas.  Or even Monaco.  I never thought I’d grow up to make my living cheating at gambling.  My mother would not approve.

I wonder.  With a telekinetic trick applied to a racehorse, can I rig a horse race?  Maybe if I pull on one side of the bit, or pull back on it?  Or pick a nostril or an ear and gently pull to one side?  Maybe grab a hoof and keep pulling down, simulating more weight on one foot than on the others, to throw off the gait?  That would be effective, but I have to focus on one thing at a time.  I could make a horse
lose
, but I couldn’t guarantee a winner.  Still, I could definitely alter the odds substantially.  That might be an alternative.

Do they have horse races at night?  I could drain vitality out of horses as they go past where I’m standing—several horses at once, possibly all of them except the one I wagered on.  I’ll have to look into that.

Diogenes projected the amount of additional capital I’d need to continue at my current level of expenditure.  I whistled.  I blame some of that preposterous number on inflation, of course, but maybe the country really was having something of an economic depression.

Sebastian and his kids came up from the basement.  I didn’t know what he was prepared to offer for my services, but at least I had a good idea of what I needed.  If this wasn’t profitable enough, there’s always theft.

Once we settled in the living room again, I opened up the dialogue.

“So?  What did you think?”

“It is quite impressive,” he admitted.  “You have an accomplishment there and no mistake.”

“I’m glad you like it.  What do you think it’s worth?  —bearing in mind, of course, that it’s an expendable thing.”

“If I may, I have some questions about it.”

“Fire away.”

He wanted to know a number of things—could it be larger, would that affect the rate or the ultimate power contained, did it have to have multiple wall-spells, could it be put aboard a moving vehicle, did it have to be on a rigid surface, how long did it take to set up the basic spell and how much longer for any additional spells, and so on.  I never gave much thought to most of those questions, but the answers were pretty obvious to me.

With all that in mind, we haggled.  Let’s be kind and say “negotiated.”  We worked out a variety of prices depending on exactly what a client wanted.  Size, complexity, placement—he pulled out a notepad and started working out a matrix of services and prices for everything.  The man was a professional at this; he thought of
everything
.  He even had some suggestions on how to list the income on my taxes.

Including a point I hadn’t even considered.

“Now, quite candidly, I agree these prices are fair.  However, you may wish to charge more if you find your business is too demanding.”

“Supply and demand, right.”

“I do have one additional proposition for you, if I may?”

“Shoot.”

“In exchange for a percentage, I—that is, my family—can act as a broker for your services in this matter.  We would let it be known you have this service to offer, as well as negotiate with potential clients regarding the details.  You, of course, would do the work, but our brokerage fee is modest—a mere ten percent.”

Suddenly, I had a vision of a house of magi that had no vast library of ritual spells, no warehouse of magical paraphernalia.  They didn’t have a magical tome of power with the true names of spirits and demons.  Instead, they had an address book with the phone numbers of magi all around the world, a list of what those people wanted and how to provide it for them… for a fee.  Or a favor.  They might not be the most powerful house of magi, nor the most prolific, but certainly one of the ones you absolutely did not want to cross because everyone owed them something.

“I would be pleased to have an agent,” I agreed.  “Do you think you could keep me from working weekends, and preferably not more than twice a week?”

“If that is your wish, certainly.”  Sebastian made a note.  “We are in agreement, then?”