Nine
Zee twisted sideways on the seat to stretch his cramped legs and ease the kink in his back. Nearly midnight, which meant he’d been sitting here in the cab of his pickup for going on eight hours, watching the apartment building across the street, number twenty-seven in particular.
An hour ago the bedroom light had gone out. No movement, no lights, anywhere in the apartment or the street, which left him nothing to do but think. He would have given a great deal to avoid this. His thoughts were conflicted and clashing, all sharp angles and opposing beliefs, and he could find no way to reconcile them.
George’s only message to him had been bizarre and meaningless: Seek Excalibur.
After ten years of patient waiting, this was the sole explanation he was to receive—a cryptic reference to a mythical sword. And with that, any hope he’d ever had of a relationship with his dream girl blown out the window by that scandalous book cover. Zee could only imagine what she was thinking, to have had a stranger paint her so.
He found himself considering the possibility that Jehenna’s accusation was true, that George Maylor had used him all these years as part of a dark and malevolent scheme. Whatever words had been written in that note had driven the blood from Vivian’s face, made the gray eyes wide with dread. Zee had wanted to take it from her shaking hands and read it for himself, had hoped she might be moved to trust him enough to confide. Maybe he would have done better to read it himself and see what it contained before deciding to put it in her hands. But he had promised the old man. Promises meant something; breaking faith was not a thing to be lightly done.
And it was still possible that the old man had been acting in good faith. Jehenna was a dangerous woman who would lie as casually as she pushed back that dazzling cloud of hair. Zee had absolutely no doubts about that.
All of the years of discipline and peace had not turned him into a virtuous man. The sight of blood welling along the edge of a hungry blade had waked a hunger he had only suppressed. If he joined Jehenna in the offer she made him, she would give him this in abundance. An adventure, an adrenaline rush, as long as he served her purposes and her needs; no illusions on this point—if he joined her, eventually she would kill him.
He thought he understood her, and George as well. What was unclear was how Vivian played in this twisted game of power the two of them had manufactured between them. Both of them wanted something from her, each claiming that the other was dangerous and of evil intent. He didn’t know which of them he should trust.
The solution, when it came to him, was simple.
It didn’t matter. Whether Jehenna spoke truth, or George, the outcome remained the same. Zee owed no loyalty to either of them. He had made Jehenna no promises, and his commitment to George was over. He had delivered the message and the book, done what he had said he would do. F*ck both of them. Vivian was in trouble and must be protected.
Acting on instinct, he had followed her earlier when she walked out of the store, had walked her safely home and watched her go into her apartment. She’d made it easy for him, walking fast, head down, hands stuffed into her pockets, not paying attention to her surroundings. Which was also a confirmation of his fears: She was no match for a creature like Jehenna.
He hadn’t wanted to leave her unguarded for a minute, but loitering for hours on the street corner in a town like this was not really an option. People would notice. Some busybody would call the cops. And so he had retraced his steps back to the store and prepared for a lengthy sur-veillance.
The knives were already in their holsters, the M1911 at his hip, extra ammo in his coat pocket. A thermos of coffee, a couple of sandwiches, and he was set. Walking out the back door, locking it carefully, he felt a tug of regret for the life he had lived here, a presentiment that he would not be back. He loved the profusion of books, had painted his soul into the pictures upstairs. Still, he strode out to his decrepit old Ford without a backward look.
He’d been watching ever since. People had come and gone, in and out of the other apartments. A dog had chased a cat up a tree and set up vigil beneath, until a child came and coaxed it away.
Nothing remotely out of the ordinary. Nothing to fear. In the last hour, nothing had moved. Not so much as a random car driving by. All of the lights were out. It was cold. It was tempting to run the truck for a while, create some heat, listen to the radio, but the street was too quiet for that; he couldn’t risk drawing attention.
He could find no reason for the unease that intensified as the clock ticked closer to midnight. Reason or not, he felt his body changing, the adrenaline surge creating a heat that drove off the chill, a new wakefulness sharpening his vision.
Not that there was anything to see.
Another hour he watched, two. His windows fogged with his breath, and he rolled down the passenger side so he could see.
At last he could bear it no longer. Knowing he was most likely jeopardizing the last tiny shred of hope that she would ever willingly speak to him again, he got out of the truck, careful not to slam the door, and crossed the street to her apartment.
His foot kicked a loose stone, and it skittered off across the pavement. Then he was on grass, crisp with frost, crunching under his feet. He paused on her porch, all senses on high alert. The fist-sized dent in the battered green door looked old. There were no other signs of violence or trouble.
He knocked, a thundering intrusion into silence, and waited for what seemed an eternity, but there was no answer. No sound of television or music. No footsteps. She’d been tired, he told himself. She must be sleeping.
Again he knocked, louder this time. Only a vast and enduring silence in response.
Walk away, he told himself. There is no evidence here of anything out of line.
He’d never been good at caution. It was an easy lock. Old skills came back to him, and with the aid of his credit card he had the door open as quickly as if he’d had a key, and he stood staring at another thing that was simply not possible.
No one had gone in or come out in the time he’d been watching. And there had been enough daylight left for him to see Vivian moving about her apartment.
And yet he stood looking at a scene of disaster. In the kitchen, drawers lay smashed and splintered on the floor amid their contents. The refrigerator door hung open. A broken plastic jug lay in a pool of milk. Flattened yogurt containers. Sandwich meat, bread. Fragments of dishes shattered on top of the mess. In the living area, couch cushions littered the floor, slashed, stuffing extruding from gaping holes. Books lay bent and broken, spines split, covers twisted.
Zee drew his handgun, jacked a round into the chamber, and pulled the door closed behind him. He crossed the room, avoiding stepping on books, picking his way through the rubble.
The bedroom was empty, bedding dumped on the floor, the mattress slashed open. Dresser drawers were staggered across the floor, clothing draped over them in clumps. The bathroom, also empty, more drawers pulled over and smashed on the floor with their contents.
Vivian was nowhere to be seen.
The one thing left intact in the apartment was her computer, and he wondered at this, but it made a kind of sense. The destruction was excessive but indicated a search. Somebody had been looking for something.
And he had recently met somebody who was looking for something directly connected to Vivian. If anybody could get in without being seen, Jehenna was the one who could do it. Not human, he thought with a shiver. Who knew what she was capable of? And a not-human might not even know what a computer was, might not know that it could hold valuable information.
He wiggled the mouse. The screen saver cleared and he was looking at Google Maps and an address across the mountains into Idaho. No way to be sure, but he had a pretty good idea who used to live at that address.
Sitting on the chair, he began a hasty search. E-mails first.
The door opened.
Zee was already on his feet, pistol up and aimed, before he saw the uniforms and realized he’d just drawn on two officers of the Krebston PD. Half an instant, and both of their service weapons were trained on his heart.
“Drop the weapon!”
Zee hesitated. I could take them both.
“Now!” There was an edge of fear to the voice, and he realized he’d already missed his chance. He bent and dropped his gun to the floor.
“Hands on the wall, and spread your legs.”
He complied. The older cop frisked him, confiscating the knives and snapping cuffs onto his wrists. “What are you doing here, son?”
“I found it like this—was checking to make sure nobody was hurt.”
“Yeah? Why didn’t you call it in?” The short cop looked like he’d woken up on the wrong side of his life and was pissed about the injustice. Zee stared him down, kept his voice calm and matter-of-fact.
“Don’t carry a cell phone, couldn’t find the landline in this mess. Look—I’m worried about Vivian—”
“You just let us do our job.” The older cop had a steady face, deeply lined. His eyes were intelligent. Looked like he’d been in the business for a while, and Zee figured he would like the guy, given half a chance. “Neighbors called, said they heard loud crashing over here. We show up, and here you are.”
No good answer for that one. Zee held his tongue.
An exchange of glances, a hand signal, and the pissed-off cop moved into the apartment, weapon drawn.
“What’s your name, son?”
“Ezekiel Arbogast.” No point lying. Everybody in town knew him.
“Am I going to find any warrants for you?”
“I’ve lived in this town for ten years, Officer. If I’d been in trouble, you’d know.” As long as they didn’t start digging. As long as they didn’t pull up his record. “Look—I can understand how it looks to find me here, but I’m worried about Vivian…”
“Tell me again, Mr. Arbogast, what exactly are you doing here?”
“I told you I was worried about her—”
“And why was that?”
Because she’s the new Dreamshifter, doesn’t have a clue what she’s doing, and there’s some sort of Superwitch out to get her already. Right. Silence was better than any lie he could come up with, so he held his tongue.
“And the gun?”
“It’s registered. I have a permit to carry.”
“Well, we’ll just check on that.”
“I wouldn’t have drawn on you, sir. Things were out of order. I thought maybe the bad guys were coming back in.”
“All clear.” The bitter cop was back.
“We’ll need you to come to the station—give a statement.”
“I have no problem doing that, as long as you dispatch somebody to look for her. Seriously—”
“Let’s go now, Mr. Arbogast. We’ll give you a ride.”
“Look, are you charging me with something? Because I’d much rather drive my own vehicle—”
“Book him now. Save time later,” the bitter cop said.
“Cool your jets, Sparky. We did startle him. Go to the car and radio in his name. See if he’s got a permit like he says, any warrants.”
“Fine. Waste of time,” Sparky muttered, stalking off. Every muscle in his body radiated disapproval.
“Now then, Mr. Arbogast. Tell me again why you are here.”
“We’re friends. I own the bookshop—she comes in to talk. Her grandfather died today and she was—distressed. I tried to call and she didn’t answer. So I came over—found this.”
“How did you get in?”
When you lie, make it simple. Keep the eyes steady, but not too intense. Don’t look away. “It was unlocked. Another reason I was worried.”
The officer had pulled out a small notebook and begun jotting notes. “Anywhere you know of that she might be?”
“You could try her boyfriend. Jared Michaelson. He’s with Baskin and Clarke, in Spokane.” That one was a guess—he’d seen an exchange of e-mails. It didn’t matter, really—all he needed was to talk his way out of this room.
“Anywhere else?”
“She works at the hospital.”
Feet stomped up the stairs. “He’s clean.” Sparky bristled with frustration. “No warrants. The gun is registered to him; got a permit like he says.”
“Any priors?”
“Not in Washington. Take a bit to run the other states.”
“All right, Mr. Arbogast. Turn around, I’ll get those cuffs off.”
Once free, Zee massaged his wrists, trying to rub away the all-too-familiar sensation. His heart pounded. This was going to get unpleasant. They’d dig up his past, sure as death and taxes. He thought uneasily about the knife locked in his strongbox. The blood on the blade. If they got a warrant and searched his place, he was going to be in a whole lot of trouble.
“Can I have my gun back? The knives?”
“They will be returned to you at the station.” The decent officer nodded at him. Sparky scowled.
Feeling their eyes on his back, Zee walked out the door, keeping his pace easy and unhurried, although he wanted nothing more than to break into a run. Outside, two more men in uniform stood discussing the situation. Zee moved past them, dipping his head in recognition. “Hey.”
They returned the nod without interrupting their conversation.
He crossed the lawn, got into his Ford. The thing was old—he’d owned it before George Maylor appeared with his unconventional offer, and kept it just to have something of his own, not paid for under the bargain. At the time it had seemed like a good idea—now not so much. The damned thing didn’t want to start. By the time it had turned over three times, only to splutter and die, the cops on the porch had turned to watch him.
On the fifth try, it decided to run. One of the cops gave him a small salute, laughing, and he waved back, driving carefully and well under the speed limit. He took a right and headed for the police station as promised. It was on Fourth and Guildford, a one-story brick building that could use a face-lift. An unmarked and a couple of panda cars sat out in front. One available parking space between a rusty Subaru and an SUV.
He slowed, then kept on driving, straight down Fourth to where it ran up the hill and headed out of town, watching for lights in his rearview all the way.
As soon as he hit the town limits, Zee kept his eyes out for a side road heading in more or less the right direction. The first choice turned into gravel, then a dirt track, until it ran out in a dead end. He backtracked and took the first turnoff that headed in the right general direction, a gravel road that wound through forest. Every mile or so, a barely passable drive led off the road to a trailer or a cabin. No visible people. No other traffic.
An hour later, he rolled into Metalline Falls. A small community, nicely isolated, but it had taken way too long for him to get here. By now they’d be looking for him. How hard depended on what they’d turned up with the background check.
He figured they were definitely looking for him.
Reviewing maps in his head, the Google Map in particular, Zee drove through the small town and turned off on a known but little-used route—a steep pass, narrow, and gravel all the way. Nobody would be out here this time of year except for the hardiest sportsmen, and most of them weren’t going to be bothered with hunting down an escaped criminal.
Ten years of good behavior wiped out in one morning. Part of him wanted to regret this; part of him felt an odd relief. No matter how hard he’d tried to channel the energy of his dreams into the actions of a peaceful and law-abiding citizen, somewhere deep inside he’d known that he was destined for another fate.
Nature or nurture? He’d spent a good bit of time debating this question in the light of his own development. When he was a child his parents moved constantly, always looking for a place where life was easier. This involved evading the wrath of local churches who had given handouts according to the dictates of charity only to encounter increasingly pressing demands without any of the expected gratitude or sanctity in return. Which meant, for Zee, every year a new school and a new band of small-town kids to whom he had to prove himself. Not easy for a dreamy kid who preferred books and pencils to sports.
The name didn’t help. Ezekiel Maccabeus Arbogast. Every year, he told the teacher his name was Zee. Every year, in front of the entire class, he was badgered to produce his given name. The church-educated kids were the worst, the ones who inevitably began singing “Dem bones, dem bones, dem dry bones” whenever he walked into the room.
And yes, his parents had named him after Ezekiel, the prophet who had the weird visions about the bones coming to life, and also after Judah Maccabeus, the warrior hero. God alone knew what they’d been thinking, but he guessed that reading through the Bible while smoking weed might have played into the decision. None of the kids seemed to know about Judah, but they sure did get the Ezekiel part.
At least once a year, somebody beat him up when they caught him alone. Walking home from school, out behind the church. Adults somehow never noticed when the beatings were going down, and his parents paid no attention to the black eyes and bloody noses, other than to tell him it was time he became a man and learned to fight back.
On his thirteenth birthday he took their advice.
Over strenuous objections on his part, his mother planned and executed a birthday party, inviting the entire seventh-grade class. Not in the cluttered single-wide, of course, but to a bonfire out in the field.
As soon as the cars and pickups started dropping off kids, Zee knew he was in trouble. All day he’d hoped against hope that nobody would show up. Instead there were fifteen kids. They smiled at his mother and called her ma’am; hummed dry bones under their breath as they greeted Zee and trooped out to the isolated fire pit.
Dem bones dem bones
“You kids have fun, now.”
Dem dry bones
His mother sashayed out of the firelight toward the trailer, limbs loosened by the six-pack she’d shared with his dad, hippie skirt swishing around her legs, long hair trailing in waves over her shoulders.
Toe bone connected to the foot bone
One of the boys wolf-whistled at her back.
Something inside Zee twisted. Careless and self-centered as she was, she was the only mother he had. One of the few decent things he’d learned from his father was to treat her with respect.
Foot bone connected to the ankle bone
“Nice ass,” another boy chimed in, insolent, his eyes pinning Zee in the shadows.
His name was Carl; he was on the football team and swaggered around school bullying the smaller kids. Worked in the bush with his dad summers, logging. He’d been the first to start the inevitable song. Not the kid you wanted to mess with.
“Shut up,” Zee said.
Ankle bone connected to the shin bone
“She’s hot for a mom,” Carl said.
“I said shut up.”
“Oooh, you gonna make me? Hey everybody, the prophet wants to pick a fight. Think God is on your side, prophet?”
Shin bone connected to the knee bone
A setup. Already they’d formed a ring around the campfire, with him and Carl closed in. The song was no longer only in his head; all of the voices took it up as a chant.
“I don’t want to fight,” Zee said, eyeing the circle. “I just want you to shut up about my mom.”
Carl stepped forward, put a hand at the center of his chest, shoved him. Zee tripped over a branch, stumbled backward and almost into the fire.
The chanters picked up the intensity.
Knee bone connected to the thigh bone
Thigh bone connected to the hip bone
Above, a sky crusted with stars, lancets of cold and distant light. The chanting ring of kids around the fire, faces flickering in and out of shadow. The smell of smoke. Fear. Humiliation.
Trapped, he ran at his tormenter, fists clenched, and sprawled flat on his face as Carl stuck out a foot and tripped him. Face pressed into the dirt, he struggled to draw breath into lungs emptied by the force of the fall.
Hip bone connected to the back bone
Back bone connected to the neck bone
Something broke inside him in that moment. He got to his feet another person. Cool, clearheaded, with an understanding of his opponent and his own body that he hadn’t possessed a minute ago.
Neck bone connected to the head bone
“Fist bone connected to the jawbone,” Zee said, and swung.
When they pulled him off his foe a couple of minutes later, his knuckles were bloodied but he was otherwise unmarked. Carl was not so lucky. His nose twisted off to the right and spouted gouts of blood over his face. His front teeth were missing. Both eyes were already swelling. He lay sobbing, only half conscious, his breath burbling over the blood in his throat.
One of the girls, more sensible than the rest, had run to the house for Zee’s parents, and his father staggered out to the fire, drunk and shouting imprecations at his son. The rest of the night was a blur. Subdued kids. Angry parents. And in the end the cops and his first trip to juvenile hall.
More important, that was the night the dreams began. Vivian. Himself as Warlord. It was the night he first began to hunt the dragons.