Queen of the Dark Things (10 page)

Unlike most beings of dreamstuff, however, genius loci have incredibly short life spans, some living as long as a few decades while others live only a few short years. As the culture around it changes, the genius loci too begins to change, and as it shifts from one era to the next, it must re-create itself, becoming something entirely different from what it was before—something more representative of the new era. For example, the genius loci that oversaw Manhattan was very different in the sleazy Times Square era of the late sixties and seventies from what it is in the family friendly, commerce-minded era of the time of this writing. While a genius loci might keep many of the same traits, enough of it changes through each incarnation that it re-forms as a different being. Look, style, demeanor, and even gender might change as a result of its ever evolving surroundings.

Genii should always be treated with the utmost respect, as they are creatures to be feared. When encountering one you must always remember that you are on their turf, playing by their rules. When destroyed they will re-form, and when they do, they will remember exactly who wronged them.

C
HAPTER
12

B
ACK TO THE
C
URSED AND THE
D
AMNED

T
he Cursed and the Damned was as lonely a place as there was at this time of night. For all its business, it might as well be out in the mists of the moors or well off the highway in the barren Arizona desert. It was in the dead center of downtown, in the middle of everything, but there were few beings inside Austin left across the veil to enjoy it.

The only reason Yashar even kept it running at all was as a silent eulogy to Old Scraps. He stood there all day, most days, staring over the cheap, depressing innards of the place—its bulbs dangling uncovered on long cords from the ceiling, its gray concrete walls, mismatched tables, boxes and barrels in place of most chairs—occasionally wiping the counter out of habit, thinking about what this place
used to be
. Every once in a while he'd be reminded that some things just needed to be put down or left alone long enough to die. And every time that thought crept in, he thought about the times he and Colby spent drinking themselves into a stupor, the smell of Bill's smoke from the back corner, the sound of drunken angels laughing and falling out of their chairs, having to be hoisted back upright before ordering another round.

And in that moment he remembered why he was serving as life support for an ailing friend, keeping it alive long enough to see the last few good days it had left. This would prove to be just such a day.

Colby threw back the whiskey as if he was putting out a fire. In a sense, he was. He was still shaken, rattled, his heart pounding, gut lurching, fists clenched tight. All the color had drained from his face and he trembled—just a little—reeling from his encounter with Austin.

Yashar leaned over the bar from the other side, bottle at the ready, leather jacket and dangling baubles clanging on the countertop, eagerly hanging on Colby's next words. “Well,” he said, as Colby lowered his glass. “What's got you so spooked?” he asked, pouring Colby another few fingers of whiskey as he did.

“I met her,” said Colby.

“Who?” asked Bill the Shadow, looming darkly in the corner of the bar.

“The girl of your dreams?” asked Yashar with an interested smile.

“Worse,” said Colby. “Austin.”

Yashar leaned in a little closer. “Austin who?”

“
Austin.
”

Yashar sighed, deflating. “Oooooh. It's about time you met her.”

“Yeah, Colby,” said Bill. “How the hell have you gone this long without running into her?”

“She's cute—,” said Yashar.

Bill nodded, interrupting. “Yeah, she is.”

“But she's nothing to get in a twist over.” Yashar recorked the whiskey. This wasn't a story warranting the good stuff.

Colby slammed back the whiskey once more, shook his head. “She's pissed at me.”

Yashar eyed him suspiciously. “And how did you manage that?”

“I killed Beatriz.”

Yashar and Bill traded troubled, disbelieving glances. Then Yashar slowly uncorked the bottle and walked back over to Colby. “Say that again?”

“I killed Beatriz La Llorona. And Austin wasn't too happy about that.”

Yashar poured Colby another glass of whiskey, filling it almost to the top, then looked at him darkly. “Did she have it coming?”

Colby nodded. “Yeah. She had it coming.”

Yashar nodded in return. “Bill? You knew her, right?”

Bill nursed a beer, nodding. “Yeah, I knew her.”

“And?”

“And the kid's right. She had it coming. Crazy. Half starved. Damaged from the moment she showed up. She never gave the world a damn thing except drowned kids. The river is better without her.”

Yashar shook his head. “Then why the hell would Austin be pissed at you?”

“Because I'm not the sheriff of this town,” said Colby. “She is.”

“And she asked you to leave town?”

“Nope.”

“Then what's the problem?”

Colby took a deep breath. “Like you said. She's cute.”

“Aw, hell.” Bill groaned.

“Damnit, Colby,” said Yashar.

“What?”

Yashar put the cork back in the whiskey. “I thought this was serious.”

“This is serious. You've been telling me for years that I should find a girl. I finally find one and not only does she threaten to kick my ass out of town, but she's also powerful enough to do it. To make matters worse, she's the reason I ended up killing Beatriz to begin with.”

“Wait. You're going to have to explain the last part,” said Yashar.

“Yeah,” said Bill. “I'm a little lost as well.”

Colby sipped from his glass. “A woman came to me for help. Said she was being plagued by La Llorona. She got my name from a psychic.”

“Mother Ojeda?” asked Bill.

“Yeah,” said Colby. “How'd you know that?”

“The billboard psychic. One of the only legit working spiritualists in town. She's exactly who Austin would use.”

Yashar's eyes grew wide. “Shit, Colby. You got played.”

“Yeah, I did.”

“And that . . .”

Colby shot a longing glance across the bar. “Intrigues the hell out of me. Never met anyone before who could play me, put me in my place, and make me feel like I deserved it.”

Bill laughed and sipped his beer. “Kid's in trouble all right, Yash. Let the whiskey flow.”

“Colby,” said Yashar. “Did she threaten you?”

“Directly?”

“Yeah.”

“No. It was more of a warning against future endeavors.”

Yashar nodded. “So she got what she needed out of you and that was that, right?”

“Exactly.”

“Then you're in good shape. Austin is good people. That's her thing.”

“Her thing?”

“Yeah. Every loci I've ever met has had a
thing
. An ethos. A sense of purpose driven in one direction or another. It's what they impart to their people. For some it's progress. For others it's war. Some want isolation, others celebration. For years Austin was a bit of a party girl. She likes her beer and she throws amazing parties. But she's mellowed. Her thing has become less about the fireworks and more about the company, if you know what I mean. She wants her legacy to be a town where everyone feels welcome and nobody messes much with anybody else.”

Bill lit a cigarette. “Yep. She once told me that she wanted this city to feel like the buzz before the drunk. Laid back and worry free.”

Colby grimaced. “That doesn't sound like the girl I met at all.”

“Really?” asked Yashar. “And where did you meet your dream girl?”

Colby hesistated a moment. “At a bar.”

“Was she pissed?”

“No. She . . . she was actually kind of flirty.”

“Uh-huh. Was this the easiest piece of ass chewing anyone's ever given you?”

Colby stared down at the bartop, nodding.

“Then it sounds exactly like Austin.”

“S-so, then . . . ,” Colby stammered a little, swallowing hard. “H-h-h-how do, how do I . . . how do I tell her . . . ?”

“Oh, sweet merciful Christ,” said Bill. “This is happening.”

Yashar pointed a stiff finger at Bill. “Cut him some slack.”

“Nope. Not this time.” Bill took a drag off his cigarette then drenched it in the backwash at the bottom of his beer. He stood up and put a firm hand on Colby's shoulder. “She's loci. She knows. Don't be such a bitch about it.” Then Bill faded into the shadows, vanishing from the bar.

Colby and Yashar sat in silence for a moment, each taking turns sipping their whiskey.

“He's right, you know,” said Yashar. “She knows.”

“Well, then, what the hell am I supposed to do about it?”

“Nothing. You don't do anything. You've dealt with loci before.”

“Yeah. I've fought with them. Argued. Made peace. Avoided them when I've had to.” He paused, cocking an eyebrow. “Blew one to pieces. But I've never asked one out on a date.”

“It's kind of the same thing, actually.”

“I'm being serious.”

Yashar nodded apologetically, pouring more whiskey into Colby's glass. “I know you are. And I'm trying, really. But, well, I've known you since you were eight.”

“And?”

“And in all that time, you still don't understand women any better than you did then.”

“The hell I don't. I . . . get . . . women.”

Yashar took a sip of whiskey, never breaking his stare, not once so much as blinking.

“I . . .”

Yashar took another sip.

“Tell me everything you know.”

“Are we really going to have the talk . . . ?”

“Don't make this harder than it already is.”

“ . . . because this could take a while.”

“Tell me. Everything.”

Yashar pulled two ice-cold beers from under the bar, effortlessly popping off the bottle caps. “In that case, we'd better slow down on the hard stuff.”

C
HAPTER
13

B
USINESS

S
wallowed whole and deep by night, the Clever Man stalked quietly through the bush, listening rather than looking. He knew the land, every nook, every cranny, every rock, every shrub. The stars were out, bright beacons guiding him along the songline. The only thing that could surprise him here would be on the move. So, sound; he listened for sound.

He heard them at a distance—a mob of chittering spirits, rolling across the land like a storm, their scuttling bodies tearing through the night with purpose. High-pitched hoots, catcalls, guttural mumbling in incomprehensible languages, moans about half-forgotten agonies. They were headed right for him. He took a deep breath, bracing himself, closing his eyes.

Slowly he drew the bullroarer from his pouch—a carefully carved and painted piece of wood at the end of a frayed, time-worn cord. Then he whipped it around, one end of the cord wrapped tightly around his hand, slinging it through the air like a propeller. At first it hummed, then it sang, finally it screeched such terrible sounds, like a thousand souls loosed from their bodies all at once.

The mass of creatures swarmed in the blackness, surrounding the Clever Man on all sides, unseen, moving around him like a swirling school of fish, roiling just out of sight. A single shadow emerged, its thin, wispy arms nothing but nubs without hands, struggling to approach through the mind-shattering cacophony.

At first he could not see them, but they struggled against the dream, aching to speak. The shadow slunk into the starlight, creeping warily in case the Clever Man lashed out with a bit of unexpected magick. It was as if he was finally able to focus upon the things one sees out of the corner of one's eye only to realize that it still didn't look like anything at all.

“This soul is not for you, spirits,” said the Clever Man over the howl of his bullroarer.

“We don't want your paltry soul,” said the handless shadow, his mind reeling, manner unsteady, voice like air leaking out from a pinched balloon. “We come for larger prizes. We come with business.”

“You have nothing I want.”

“Oh, but we do,” it hissed. “We doooooooooo. We can offer you a great many things. Riches. Power.”

The Clever Man's expression remained blank, entirely loosed of emotion, as if he had no interest in anything at all. “These things do not interest me. Who are you, kutji? Who are you really?”

“No one. Just shadows.”

“Your name, kutji. What were you called in life? Tell me or this conversation is over.”

Mulling it over for a moment, its mind befuddled by the bullroarer, it said, “Jeronimus. My name was Jeronimus. And these were my crew.” The handless shadow waved his stump, presenting his drifting legion as they slowly melted in from out of the night, nearly formless, like nightmares crafted into dolls and blown awake by the last breath of dying gods, each half a dream of what they might have been.

“And who is your master?”

“We have no master.”

“Who created you?”

“A spirit of great power.”

“And who is this spirit?”

“A spirit of great power.”

“You said that.”

“A spirit of such great power that we dare not speak its name.”

“Now that,” said the Clever Man, “interests me.” He sat down, cross-legged, a wry smile on his face, his arm still whirling the bullroarer. With its name he had power over the spirit now; it could not hurt him. For a time. He swatted at the air, commanding the spirit to sit. “And what business could be important enough to involve me?”