Stormbreak: Chapter 2 – Meetings in Odd Places

As promised, and hopefully early enough not to disrupt family/holiday events on America's birthday.  ~Eric  

***

I woke up early the next day, but then I always wake up early. I don’t know if it’s hardwired into my nature or a byproduct of my particular role in Stormbreak. Either way, I was up and getting dressed at dawn. The Queen was already gone. Apparently, she was an earlier riser than me. It was a relief of sorts. Next morning small talk wasn’t my forte, and it wasn’t like we had actual feelings for each other. About each other, maybe, but definitely not for each other. On the bright side, I was sated in a way I hadn’t been in quite a while. A pithier man might have said something about strengthening the inner man, but some itches can only be scratched by a long tumble between the sheets.

A guard was waiting outside the room. He gave me a curt nod and gestured that I should follow him. It wasn’t clear if he was there to act as guide or to ensure I didn’t wander. It didn’t much matter to me. I had a long walk ahead of me and wanted to get on with it. My werewolf cabbie would have cut his losses after the first hour or so of waiting the day before. There’s professionalism, but then there’s business. Giant slabs of red meat don’t buy themselves, after all. The guard took me to the front gate and closed it, quite firmly, behind me. I snickered a little to myself and started walking back toward the clearing. I came to an abrupt pause when I got there. A cab was waiting. A tall, distracted looking elf stood next to it while texting on a smartphone. He must have heard me thinking because his eyes swiveled over to me.

“Ah, good, you’re here. My wife seemed well pleased by you last night.”

I blinked at him a few times. You learn to expect almost anything when you live in a magical city. Stormbreak is the kind of place where, if you look down the right alley, you can see a pack of black-eyed children mug a Slender Man. You can find mad scientists cutting deals with mad gods, or things posing as gods, to bring improbable experiments to life. Of course, that usually ended with the experiments eating the mad scientists and running off to headline Vegas shows or to work as agents in Hollywood. It’s a place that permits monsters who swore off violence to open coffee shops where personified archetypes got together to bitch about the writers who don’t understand them. I’d once stumbled across a table of no less than five incarnations of the Cowled Vigilante sipping espressos and doing just that.

Most countries have a magical city. You’ve probably heard of a few of the more famous ones, like Shangri-La, Shambhala, or Zerzura. If your Spanish is good, you might have heard a story or two about La Ciudad Blanca, the mythical White City of Honduras. Most of them slip under the radar of everyday folks, by both nature and design. Although, I’ve heard that there’s one in England that teeters very near the edge of raw anarchy. How that place has remained a secret is anyone’s guess. They are the places where the abhuman go joyriding with the semi-divine in God’s stolen Caddy. The places where demons panhandle for loose change because they got sloppy drunk and someone stole their keys to the Pit. The places where destitute gods sell five minutes of enlightenment or damnation for rent money, assuming their permits are in order.

The point is that, when you live in one of these impossible cities, you come to expect the unexpected. Otherwise, the unexpected might leave you writhing in an ice-filled bathtub with half your soul missing, to say nothing of your kidneys. As inured as I’d become to such surprises, you never prepare your mind for certain things. Having someone casually mention how much their wife enjoyed sex with you is on that list. I blinked a few more times at the tall elf and then shrugged, because you can’t just ignore such a comment.

“Seemed that way to me,” I said, waiting for the other shoe or a magical nuclear strike to drop.

The elf grunted something before he gestured at the cab. “Let’s go. I have business in the city proper. I’ll drop you off.”

I regarded the elf and then the cab. It was a Wolfpack Cab or glamoured to look a hell of a lot like one. Whether the elf was on the level or going to kill me, I might as well take the ride. No need to die with sore feet. I walked over and got into the cab. The elf got in the other side, never taking his eyes off the phone. He told the cabbie he was headed to The Establishment. I lifted an eyebrow in surprise. It was one of those incredibly exclusive, invite-only operations that most people are never quite sure exists. The Establishment was shrouded in so much mystery that I’d never met anyone who claimed to work there, let alone anyone who claimed membership. The cabbie looked at me in the rearview, her blue eyes expectant.

“Keystone Diner,” I said.

She nodded and drove off at a sedate pace. Either she was less panicky than Willem or she didn’t know who she had in the back seat. I stared out the window as primordial forest gave way to the city I recognized. We don’t get sunrises in Stormbreak. The cloud cover prevents it. Then again, I wasn’t sure that there actually was a sun overhead. All we ever saw was just the gradual transition from darkness to light. I always find the idea of a sunless sky a little unnerving, so I usually push it out of my mind. I’d missed the sunrise for the first thirty-odd years I’d lived in the city, but you can get used to anything if you live long enough. The cab pulled to a stop outside one of a handful of buildings with an open sign in the window. I opened the door and stepped out. The elf glanced over at me.

“I’m sure Seraphina will be in touch,” he said.

Seraphina?

“Is that her name?” I asked. I hadn’t known.

He laughed. “Well, it’s certainly a name, at any rate.”

I shook my head and closed the cab door. If there had been a doubt, it was settled now. Elves were insane, but they also knew things, hidden things, dangerous things that might eat a man alive if he wasn’t cautious. Perdition’s Shadow, I thought. It didn’t sound warm and fuzzy. I’d have to look into it. First things first, though, I needed something to eat.

The Keystone Diner sat there in all its dubious glory, inviting me to enter and partake of grease and gossip. It had appeared, overnight, on the first of January in 1920. The particulars of the diner had evolved over time, but without recourse to anything to so mundane as a construction crew. The original aluminum lunchcar design gave way to a sturdier looking building with a foundation and wooden siding. Wooden siding gave way to vinyl. These days, it was sporting its lunchcar look again these days, because retro was hip or cool or some damn slang term I couldn’t remember. What the Keystone had going for it was that it was always open, day or night. It didn’t acknowledge Federal holidays, annual rites of human sacrifice, or anything in between. The coffee was always hot and usually fresh, and you could get any kind of eggs you wanted, provided they were fried or scrambled. I went in and took a seat at the counter.

A plump, granite-haired woman in her sixties came over with a coffee pot in one hand a mug in the other. I knew her name was Barbara, but everyone called her Mom. It didn’t matter if you were an Aztec god coming off a bender or a fresh-faced schoolgirl, she was just Mom. She put the mug down in front of me and poured the steaming brew until it nearly spilled over the rim. I nodded to her and made no move to touch the mug. It wouldn’t be safe to sip for a good five minutes. I glanced around and noted that I was the only person in the diner, which was strange. There was almost always some insomniac monster passing the time or a few early risers stopping in for their morning joe.

“Slow morning,” I commented.

Mom gave a non-committal shoulder movement. “It happens. Probably something to do with tidal forces or cosmic alignments throwing off people’s inner ear.”

“Or pixies.”

Her eyes narrowed to angry slits. “Or pixies.”

Don’t ask me what the tiny little creatures did to so enrage the omnibenevolent Mom. I’d never known them to be malicious. They’d done something, though. That much was obvious. The bell over the door tinkled and I glanced over out of habit. A severe man in a suit spotted me, walked over, and took the stool next to mine. His black hair was cut short, but I could see threads of silver sprinkled through it. There were lines around his eyes and mouth that hadn’t been there when I’d first met Lester Newport. Of course, no one called him Lester.

To the people of Stormbreak, he was Johnny Law, the living embodiment of order. I caught a flash of shoulder holster under his suit jacket that held a Detective Special .38 once carried by Eliot Ness himself. It was probably nothing but a curiosity back in the mundane world. In a place as sensitive to symbols as Stormbreak, though, it transformed an ordinary man into a law unto himself. Johnny Law answered to no one and nothing but his conscience and whatever moral code the gun imposed on him. He was one of a handful of people I’d slowly been ceding responsibilities to over the last twenty years. I approved of Johnny. His feelings about me were mixed.

“Emmett,” he said.

“Johnny.”

“Coffee, Johnny?” asked Mom.

Johnny nodded. “Thank you, ma’am.”

“You always mispronounce that,” she said, eyes twinkling as she poured him a cup.

He smiled at the woman, and it shaved five years off his face. “So, I do. I’ll try to work on it.”

“You boys hungry?”

“I’ll have the egg-white omelette with mushrooms and goat cheese,” I deadpanned.

“Grapefruit for me,” said Johnny.

He might or might not have been joking. It’s hard to tell with Johnny.

“Mmmm-hmmmm,” said Mom before she called into the kitchen. “Two number fives, Stevie!”

Mom intuited that Johnny had something to say to me and found some make work to do out of earshot. He seemed to be gathering his thoughts, so I tested my coffee. It didn’t scald my mouth, so that was a bonus. I took two more sips before Johnny finally spoke.

“Word is that you terrorized the lizardpeople yesterday.”

After making a mental note that the proper term waslizardpeople, I snorted. “That’s the word, is it? Let me ask you this. Are they starting reconstruction on their neighborhood today?”

“No,” he admitted.

“Lighting several dozen funeral pyres?”

“No.”

“Then the word is wrong. I roughed up a punk who didn’t have the sense God gave a banana. He even walked away under his own power. That sound like terror to you?”

He shook his head. “I still needed to ask.”

“No, you didn’t. So, what’s this really about?”

He knocked back most of his coffee like it was a shot of whiskey. Then, he gave me a steady look. “I thought you retired, Emmett. I figured that you realized the city doesn’t need the Hard Man anymore.”

I pondered on that for a minute while I sipped my coffee. I wanted to choose my words with the appropriate care. “Kids are so fucking stupid sometimes.”

“What did you just say to me?” His words were stunned, rather than angry.

“I called you stupid. Do you really think you replaced me? Honestly, Johnny, I thought you were brighter than that.”

He bristled at that. “I have replaced you.”

“Oh hell, son. All you’ve been doing is picking up the slack I let you have. More to the point, do you really think you did it all on your own?”

Uncertainty bloomed on his face. “What are you talking about?”

“You’ve got some power, kid, but nobody knew you from Adam. So how did you stop that Goblin riot from breaking out ten years ago?”

He frowned at me. “What?”

“Or that incursion by the Ether Witches a few years later. How’d you get them to stand down?”

He blinked rapidly as the implications settled on him. “I…” he started.

“I’m mighty curious to know how you dealt with that rogue djinn six months back. What did you use to drive him back through that dimensional tear?”

Johnny looked a little punch-drunk and embarrassed. I could imagine what was going through his head. He’d met some hard challenges along the way and overcome them. He’d imagined that he was pretty damn important. Only now, he was seeing himself in a slightly larger context, a step removed from the in-your-grill POV of daily life. Mom took advantage of the small break in the conversation to refill Johnny’s mug. She glanced at me, but I shook my head. She walked away, and I gave Johnny my full attention again. He was scowling at something unseen.

I decided to let him off the hook a little. “Don’t take it so hard. Someone had a very similar conversation with me once. You wouldn’t believe the shit I didn’t know was happening. We’re like plumbers. Sure, it’s important work, but it’s not the whole show.”

Johnny face cleared a little. He absently picked up his coffee and burned his mouth. Rookies, I tell you.

“So that makes you what? My boss?” He asked.

I frowned at that. It wasn’t like I got an org chart when I took the job. On reflection, I’m not even sure there were such things as org charts when I took the job. I supposed in some really abstract way I might be Johnny’s boss. I’d allowed him to operate in Stormbreak. I’d protected him from some powerful things that wanted the living embodiment of order driven out of the city or into an early grave. In the end, I shook my head. I had some level of control over what fell into his lap, but none over the man himself.

“No, I’m not your boss. By the same token, you aren’t my replacement. You won’t or flat out can’t do some of the things I do.”

He lifted an eyebrow at me. “Like what?”

“Necessary things.”

He looked like he wanted to press the issue, but Mom saved me. She walked over with two plates heaped with home fries, scrambled eggs, sausage, bacon and buttermilk biscuits. Mom didn’t believe in toast. Johnny and I ate in silence, which suited me fine. I’m not a fan of talking during meals, and Johnny seemed to have things on his mind. After a while, I pushed my empty plate away and swallowed the last of the coffee in the mug. Johnny was pushing a piece of sausage around on his plate but didn’t seem to be eating anymore.

“I’ve been warned about something,” I said. “I’d like you to keep an ear out and let me know if you hear anything.”

He gave me a half-smile. “Thought you said you weren’t my boss.”

I snorted. “Call it a professional courtesy.”

“Okay. What is it?”

“Perdition’s Shadow.”

He stared at me like he expected more. When I didn’t say anything, he sighed. “I’ll bite. Who or what is Perdition’s Shadow?”

“I have no idea, but it’s bad news.”

“How bad?”

“Bad enough for the elves to make sure I found out about it.”

“Christ,” muttered Johnny. “All rainbows and unicorns with you today, isn’t it?”

“I like to keep things upbeat,” I said, tossing some cash on the counter. “Breakfast is on me.”

I left Johnny sitting in the diner to contemplate his real place in the world. I stood on the sidewalk and considered my options. I needed more information about Perdition’s Shadow. Nobody knows everything, but I’d been operating in the city for the better part of a century and a half. You pick up a lot in that many years. It was unusual for me to not even recognize a name. There were old, powerful things that lived in Stormbreak that could potentially tell me what I needed to know. The Somber Speaker, Pythia’s Handmaiden, and the Bone Diviner were all possibilities. I knew of at least one eldritch horror masquerading as person who could probably shed light on the subject, assuming my sanity could endure the conversation.

I wasn’t in a hurry to go that route, though, because they all demanded payment in servitude, blood, or a pound of flesh. I don’t approve of such deals. It’s not so much a moral objection, but a practical one. More than one person had bargained carelessly and discovered, to their brief horror, that the pound of flesh came out of their brain or their heart. Then there were the ridiculous, wild declarations of undying vengeance down unto the seventh generation by outraged family members. Those family members came to me occasionally and I turned them away. Magical pacts were honored here. No one can force you into one, so I can’t interfere. If you weren’t smart enough to define the terms of your deal, then God have mercy on your soul. Darwin wouldn’t.

Sometimes the families would calm down. Sometimes they’d go looking for help elsewhere. There were independent operators that I tolerated. People like The Regulator, who dispensed beatings for hard cash in the right circumstances, and Maggie Silver, the Vendetta Witch. Then there were the operations I only ever heard about. Sorcerers and witches who laid down death curses, wraiths who consumed minds or souls, and entropic beings who simply unmade you. It was next to impossible to find them, let alone prove that they’d had a hand in a specific death. It was all a giant pain in my ass, which made me wish people would stop making the deals. As for me, I wasn’t sure I even could make such a deal. All power has limits, but it also imposes them. I serve the citizens of Stormbreak, to an extent, but my real allegiance was to the city. I had serious doubts that my bargain with the city would allow me to make or fulfill any bargain that compromised that allegiance.

There were a few other places I could go where the prices weren’t quite as problematic. I could consult with some seers, oracles and spirits who got it right sometimes. That was always tricky. The lower the price, the less reliable the information tended to be. After some hemming and hawing, I made up my mind about where to go and started walking. As it got brighter outside, the traffic changed. The shadier and more obviously lethal inhabitants faded into the background, while what passed for everyday people came out to go to work. They mostly ignored me as they nursed coffee in paper cups. Even in a magical city, most jobs were drudgery. They couldn’t care less who I was, let alone that I was going to The Library. They might be startled if someone told them because it’s a place with a reputation. They definitely wouldn’t care.

It wasn’t a library in the traditional sense. We have a few of those, and I’m still at a loss about who pays for them. They wouldn’t have what I needed. The Library is a private collection of magical texts owned by a paranoid, unpredictably violent, mercenary soul who calls himself Havisham Drake. It wasn’t his real name by any stretch of the imagination. He was well over six feet tall, built like a bear, and sported one of the thickest Russian accents I’d ever heard. On his best days, he reminded me of a bouncer. He still reminded me of a bouncer on his off days, just a bouncer recruited from the Want Ads in the back of Psychopath Weekly. He was the kind of man who might answer the door with a machete in one hand and a severed human limb in the other. The scariest thing about Havisham is that he’s one of the least frightening things in The Library.

I was closing in on the right neighborhood, waiting for traffic to clear enough to make a mad dash across the street, when a shadow detached itself from a wall and walked up to me. It slowly solidified into the form of a man with albino white skin and a long, black coat. His face was lean and somehow indistinct, like he’d forgotten what he should look like. The only thing that was clear on that face were the eyes. They were gray and blazed with an unearthly intensity. I knew him, and we were not glad to see each other. The man fished a cigarette out of a pocket and lit it. He took a long drag that made the tip glow orange and then blew smoke at me. He called himself Phantasmagoria. I refused to call him that on the grounds that it was a stupid name.

I decided to get things off the right foot. “What do you want, Fanny?”

“Don’t call me that,” he snapped.

“Or what?”

“You always were an asshole.”

“You’re the one who picked the stupid name.”

I thought he’d lose his cool again, but he surprised me by biting back whatever response came to mind. I could almost hear him counting backwards from ten in his head. I frowned at that. It wasn’t consistent with our established routine of verbal barbs and mutual loathing. He finished whatever mental exercise he was doing and spoke through clenched teeth.

“There’s a problem you need to deal with,” he said.

“What?”

Phantasmagoria fancied himself the premiere problem solver in Stormbreak. That is to say, he was the premiere problem solver for the very rich. I’d never say it to him or anyone else, but he was quite good at it. He’d shut down more than one threat and shut them down cold. He was even loyal to his current paycheck. I could probably have been civil to him, save that he just didn’t give a damn about anyone. More than a few bystanders were killed in the wake of his solutions. The first time it happened, I went looking for him with blood on my mind. I’d have murdered him too, but he was protected. He was the disciple of some shadowy deity no one would name. It had enough juice to literally stop me in my tracks, which is no small feat when my anger is on full boil. Five attempts to kill Phantasmagoria had all ended in failure. I’d gotten the message. He was off limits so long as his master was in the picture. For him to come to me with a problem was not good in ways I didn’t care to imagine.

“You heard me,” he said.

I stared at him for a long moment, saw a break in traffic, and walked across the street. I didn’t want any part of his problem. I already had a problem on my plate. He used his magic and reappeared across the street before I got there. I forget how fast he can hop through shadows when I haven’t seen him in a while. He stepped into my path.

“I’m not interested,” I told him in my best, stop-trying-my-patience voice.

“Well, you just better get interested.”

“You deal with it. I assume you’re already on someone’s payroll to solve this problem. Go earn your blood money.”

“Damn it, it’s not that kind of problem.”

I threw my hands up in the air. “Fine. Fine! What kind of problem is it?”

“The Cold King is back on his throne. He’s awakened the Under Folk.”

That news should have sent my stomach churning and dread crawling along my spine, but the true horror didn’t settle on me immediately. Instead, I nodded and said, “Well, shit. That’s not good at all.”