Celebromancy Read online

  So what are you so twitchy about, then? Ree wondered. Judging from the epic bitch-slap she gave Jane, her Celebromantic mana pool was at an all-time high.

  Curiouser. So how am I supposed to get close enough to get her to break the curse or find out how to do it myself? The Midnight Market was coming up that night, so she could pound the subterranean pavement herself, but traipsing around at the Market asking about breaking Celebromantic curses would be about as subtle as sneaking behind the counter to squeeze the HeroClix boxes looking for oversized figures. Not that she ever did that. No siree. Her record of pulling ultra-rares like it was her job was just a nascent manifestation of her Geekomancy. Yeah, that’s it.

  Charlie’s deluge of DMs had come to an end, so Ree checked her other messages (sure enough, more trashy Google Alerts) and perked up when Yancy called quiet on the set.

  • • •

  Yancy cut her loose around noon, though Ree knew there was a better-than-nothing chance he’d call again later in the day if something wasn’t working.

  She went home for a quick shower and a change to get ready for the long night in Geekville.

  The afternoon at Grognard’s was mundane enough that Ree could almost forget how crazy the place really was. A few clean-cut older folks came in at around four, browsed through hermetically-sealed merchandise, dithered about what to buy, then walked out with a couple hundred dollars’ worth of vintage lunch boxes and action figures.

  It wasn’t until she stopped and thought about what magic ritual someone might do with a 1987 Transformers lunch box and three different Starscream figures that the weird came back in.

  Grognard was in a particularly surly mood, as Ree had had to jump in and cut him off when the gruff geek started to berate a young Japanese woman in a Magical Girl outfit after she’d wandered behind the bar and picked up a glass case containing a heart-sized device that looked like H. R. Geiger on a Hello Kitty trip. Grognard had been reaching for his shotgun when Ree jumped in between the girl and the gun to say, “Please put that down, for the love of all that is decent and not exploded.”

  Watching Ree (and probably the shotgun behind her), the woman put the device down and stepped away.

  “Why?” she asked.

  Grognard’s voice came out as a growl. “Because if you think the wrong thing while holding that, you’ll go from Sailor Perky to Sailor Shoggoth.”

  The woman face-faulted. But not in the normal way that humans do, even on sitcoms. Her mouth and eyes grew to three times its normal size, scrunching up in terror.

  She just chibi-ed out! Ree thought. Holy crap. Ree marked one more on a tally in her brain that said Drinks I will drink tonight because my life is crazy.

  She was embarrassed to think about how many marks were already there, since it would probably be enough to blind a mule.

  The Magical Girl excused herself shortly afterward, leaving Ree to check in with Grognard.

  “Everything okay?”

  Grognard shook his head, rueful. “I’ve seen what that thing can do.”

  “Then why keep it?” she asked. “Wouldn’t everyone be better off if crazy-ass things like that just got tossed into Mount Doom? Or someplace worse, like an endless tire fire in Gary?”

  Grognard shrugged, replacing the shotgun in its home under the bar. “That thing will make me a helluva lot of money when I find the right person to sell it to.”

  “Who would that be?”

  “Someone stubborn and righteous enough to put up with it. Things like that have a tendency to get themselves free, like The One Ring or possessed items. Lock and key isn’t always enough. I keep it until someone comes along I can trust with it.”

  “So you’re waiting for Tom Bombadil to come a-browsing?” Ree asked.

  That got a satisfied grunt out of Grognard, who disappeared into the back room.

  Ree watched the store from the bar, scanning the room to check drink levels and try to spot anyone whose demeanor said I need help or I wish to exchange currency for goods and services.

  A minute later, with Grognard still in the back, the self-styled “Lieutenant” Wickham walked into the store like she owned the place. Lt. Abigail Wickham (Strength 13, Dexterity 14, Stamina 12, Will 8, IQ 14, Charisma 16—Old Money 4 / Mean Girl 3 / Model 2 / Blogger 2 / Steampunk 1) was a tall woman, standing nearly five-ten in her boots. Her outfit probably cost as much as four months’ rent on The Shithole. She wore a velvet-lined suede jacket over a low-cut linen shirt with hand-embroidered blackwork, and layered skirts pulled high for mobility (and for her to show off toned legs and her custom-fitted boots with compact hydraulic pistons running down from the knee).

  Wickham had unmockably natural golden-blonde hair, which she kept in a complicated braid and tucked under a military cap. Her goggles were polished gold with red lenses. She wore what seemed to Ree to be a permanent sneer as she crossed the room, walking straight to a stool and setting her rifle against the bar with casual distaste.

  “Jack Daniel’s Single Barrel, neat,” Wickham said, not meeting Ree’s eyes.

  I hate that bitch, Ree repeated to herself in a Lily Aldrin voice.

  Ree stepped onto a baseboard shelf to reach the bottle, then poured the drink with as much expedience and as little fanfare as she could, sliding the glass to Wickham. “Twenty-five.”

  The woman snickered, setting down a platinum card.

  Ree took the card and started a tab, wishing Grognard would come back so she could relocate to the game section. It wasn’t just that the “Lieutenant” was self-important and cruel, it was that she was self-important, didn’t make a single bit of her gear herself, looked down on poorer Steampunks, and had posted a two-thousand-word rant on her blog a few months back that had enumerated the many perceived faults of Priya’s totally awesome laptop casemods.

  But there was no joy in Geekville that night, since Grognard seemed to have properly disappeared. Ree made herself scarce at the bar, taking laps around the seating area to check in on the other patrons.

  Ree went to check on Joe, even though she knew he’d be fine, then, as she returned to the counter, Lt. Wickham coughed deliberately, waving her empty glass.

  Urge to kill rising . . .

  But homicide would complicate her already-ridiculous week, so instead she poured more whiskey, adding a mark to her To Drink tally.

  The door chime rang again, and Ree looked up to see Drake walk in. She dual-booted her response, happy to see a friendly face with one partition, worried about the imminent throwdown with the other.

  Lt. Wickham turned on the barstool and narrowed her eyes as Drake walked in.

  “Well, look what the Cait Sidhe dragged in,” she said, a cruel smile on her face. “Where’s your kindergarten-crafting lady friend, Drake? Got a paper cut on construction paper?”

  Drake stopped in place and sighed.

  “Good day, Lieutenant Wickham. It brings me the greatest pleasure to see that your life is still meaningless and unfulfilling enough that you feel the need to tear down other’s accomplishments to make your own seem to stand tall by comparison.”

  Boom! Ree thought, cracking a smile.

  “Today I acquired a collection of ray guns, posed for a cover spread, and wrote four thousand words of essay, including a reminder for my readers to avoid that terrible gallery show. What have you done?”

  “Science,” Drake said, annoyance shadowing his face as he crossed to the bar. The fact that Wickham could make Drake, one of the happiest, most blindingly optimistic people she knew, go to the angry place, should be proof of her vileness by itself.

  Grognard’s gone . . . Could I get away with a smackdown? How much would we really miss her business? Ree pondered an assortment of verbal and physical recourses while Drake and Wickham continued to spar.

  Drake took a position at the opposite end of the bar from Wickham, throwing back h
is duster as he sat. Ree met him at the seat, presenting him with an ice water. He nodded to Ree and held up the glass. “To your health.”

  Out of the corner of her eye, Ree saw Wickham glare. The rest of the customers were still locked in their individual worlds, with no seeming interest in the Steampunk Showdown.

  When Ree had asked Drake why Wickham was always after him, all the displaced magitechnician had said was that their priorities were catastrophically incompatible. Which, as far as Ree could tell was his way of saying I hate her. But Drake was too classy to come right out and say something like that.

  Ree, however, was not too classy, but she liked keeping her job. So she locked onto Lt. Wickham in her peripheral vision while talking to Drake.

  “How was the art show?”

  Drake’s smile was even wider than his usual grin. This was a grin sufficiently rakish that it sent shudders of implication down Ree’s back. That was an I got action kind of smile.

  “Quite fabulous. Due to having work in the show, we were able to attend the private showing, which included hors d’oeuvres, music, and a performance of one of the artist’s short plays. It is quite a community, Ree, and no small amount of comfort to be once again among people dressed in the manner of my home.” Drake considered for a second. “More or less.”

  “That sounds awesome!” Ree leaned in. “Did anything else happen?” she asked, making the leading question as clear as she could, Curiosity having since hog-tied Jealousy and left it in the alley.

  At this, Drake blushed, picking up his drink and taking a sip, breaking eye contact.

  “It did!” Ree said, a little bit too loud for the room.

  Drake pursed his lips, drawing back from the bar a shade. “I do not feel comfortable discussing those matters, Ms. Ree.”

  Ree wanted to push, to figure out just how tangled this love n-gon had become, but Jealousy had slipped its bonds thanks to Self-Restraint (irony!).

  “Fair enough. Glad it was fun. You headed to Market tonight?”

  “Indeed. Will you be Grognard’s purveyor of ale?”

  “You know it. Only booth babe gig I could stomach.”

  Grognard emerged from the back, as if on cue. “If you’re a booth babe, then I’m a shoo-in for a Sailor Moon costume contest.”

  Ree raised an eyebrow. “You saying I’m not pretty?”

  Grognard scoffed. “You don’t need to fish for compliments. You know as much about the mainstays of geekdom as nearly anybody there. As soon as you can give a full litany of all of the Robins in order, you’ve leveled out of ‘booth babe.’ Now come help set up the taps on the cart.”

  “Roger that,” Ree said with a grin. On her way to the back room, she looked over her shoulder and asked Drake, “You headed over soon?”

  Drake nodded once, then saluted Ree as he stood.

  Chapter Eleven

  Corner of Geneva and Talsorian

  Pearson’s Midnight Market is one of the oldest in North America, dating to 1963. Watch your step and your wallet. The Midnight Market is officially neutral territory, but squabbles and rivalries often simmer close to the surface.

  Local magicians and vendors hawk their wares, and there’s something for every discerning magician: a quartz for your summoning circle, an overclocked netbook that can dial directly to Spirit, or a rare graphic novel to complete your ritual.

  Be sure to catch the auction, but don’t bother bringing cash; all bids are for barter. And watch your back as you head home.

  —Not For Mundanes: Pearson, 2012

  The Midnight Market was a zoning nightmare. Or it would have been if anyone who cared about those codes could ever find the place. Somewhere along the line, the city (or maybe not the city) had built a football-field-sized hall beneath street level, complete with ten-foot-wide pillars and blank-slate walls. Most of the time, it stood mostly empty, but once a month, it served as meeting place, trading post, and town hall for Pearson’s magical underground.

  Ree had set up the Grognard’s Games and Grog cart in its place of honor, at the intersection of Geneva Lane and Talsorian Row. They weren’t actual streets, but since the Market had been active for more than twenty years, repetition had become tradition, and tradition had been enshrined. Folks told Ree the customary lanes of traffic had been named for a decade before people started making signs, but now, every intersection sported handmade signposts, with smaller signs attached at various angles, pointing the way to individual carts and booths, both the exits, and the auction area.

  The market reminded Ree of a small city convention crossed with Diagon Alley. And it was awesome. Well, when she wasn’t ambushed fifty yards outside the agreed-upon neutral ground of the Market . . . like the first time, with Eastwood. Screw you, Lucretia. My vengeance will be served with a side of dumping-beer-on-your-priceless-lacy-dress.

  But the Market itself was safe, at least tonight. Like usual, her neighbor to one side was Uncle Joe’s booth, where he broke open his CCG singles collections to show and sell (alphabetized by artist, of course). Across Geneva Lane, one of the main “streets,” was Kuo’s Komics, specializing in independent comics and merchandise. Kuo had his head so deep into manga and comics that when he spoke, speech bubbles popped up in front of him—a side effect of decades of genre emulation. He restrained the effect out in the normal world, but according to him, that was like intentionally speaking in another accent—not hard to start, but very hard to maintain.

  Across from Kuo was Mirrorshade Designs, the shop of a local technomancer who had come up in the ’80s and treated the oeuvre of William Gibson like a lifestyle bible. Some of the devices he sold were older than Ree, but they were painstakingly maintained, most of them in as good shape as a straight-off-the-line iPhone. Apple IIes stood proud beside ancient Ataris, boom boxes, and more.

  But Shade’s real treasures weren’t the refurbished units, they were the kitbash stuff he made himself. Shade restricted himself to parts from ’81 to ’90, which as far as she could tell was some ritual constraint for his magic. But what he did with them was astonising—cyberware, magical radar scanners, laptops that took thirty-year-old parts and outperformed a retina-display MacBook.

  To Ree’s left, across Talsorian Row, was Talon’s Blades, which looked like a generic Fantasy Sword Shop, complete with totally unrealistic blades and rows after rows of knives. Except Talon’s wares were all film and TV surplus, mostly lower-end, each one imbued with a special kick of one sort or another. Some were the knives used by sexy ninja chicks in bad action movies and would fly straight over twice the normal distance; some were holdout knives used by the hero to cut their bonds and would shear through steel cables.

  For the last three months, Ree had been ogling a hero copy of the knife Aragorn used in The Lord of the Rings while he was fighting Lurtz. But at two grand, ogling was all she could afford.

  Talon hopped across the row to order a beer. Patricia Talon (Strength 15, Dexterity 15, Stamina 13, Will 16, IQ 13, Charisma 10—Geek 3 / Blacksmith 5 / Swordswoman 4) was second-generation Scottish Sword Geek, born and raised in the Society for Creative Anachronism. She stood five-eleven in flats (six-one in her stompy boots) and kept her brownish-red hair back and up, a feminine approximation of a bushi’s topknot, without the pesky pate-shaving. She dressed in leather over leather, her look boffer LARP by way of the biker bar. She wore three visible knives: one at the hip, another on her thigh, and the third stuffed into one boot, and Ree bet there were another four she couldn’t see.

  “What gives, Ree? It’s dead tonight.” Talon was right. It was only eleven, but the crowd was still strangely thin. Ree’d been so caught up in her own drama that she had no idea if something else was going down. Drake had stopped by for a pint of beer with an awkward chitchat chaser, then wandered off to talk gears and gadgets with the merchants over in Clockwork Corner.

  Ree shrugged. “No idea. I haven’t heard of anything
going down. Maybe folks are taking a month off?”

  Talon quirked an eyebrow. “You’re still new-ish, but the last time this many people ‘took a month off’ was when a mob of Cinemancers tore through town trying to buy up merch and IPs like we were a boomtown waiting to happen.” Talon shook off a chill. “Give me a pint of the Dunkel.”

  Ree nodded, pulling a glass off the stack and pouring the drink. “Well, there are a lot of film crews here, right?”

  Talon shrugged. “Yeah, but it’s been like that from March to October every year since Mayor Yu signed the new regs. But most of those crews don’t have Big-League Celebromancers.” Talon’s look told Ree to expect what was coming next, so she sipped some of her own beer.

  “Hear you’ve been getting close with Konrad. I bet you don’t need anyone else to tell you that she’s trouble.”

  Ree handed Talon the full glass. “No, but coming from you, it sounds even scarier. If you think she’s trouble . . .”

  Talon took a drink, then set the glass down on the cart and indicated her ring. “Hey, I’m happily married.” Talon’s husband was an insurance lawyer, which had originally confused Ree. But then she’d heard how they met.

  “Yeah, to a former Tuchuk,” Ree said. The Tuchux were a Gorean society that played with the SCA but weren’t really part of it. They dressed in leather and loincloths, featured Dom/Sub pairings with slave contracts, and, according to Talon, were fucking terrifying to come across on the battefield, despite the fact that they nearly all wore the bare minimum legal armor.

  Talon laughed. “Dan never was much of a Tuchuk. He just fell into it with his buddies.”

  “You still have the best meet-cute ever.” The two had faced off in the championship match for an armored combat tournament at Pennsic. She’d beaten him fair and square, and his fratboy-turned-Tuchuk buddies had never let him hear the end of it. But he’d ended up with a wife and a way out of the Tuchux, so he called it a win. At least, according to Talon. He had mostly retired from the SCA and had never been into the magic world to begin with.