Hexomancy Page 5

  “Sup,” Ree said, rubbing her temples. Her old prescription was too weak now, and since she couldn’t spend eight hours doing data entry with her eyes six inches from the screen, she’d given herself a headache by staring through prescription lenses at an old LCD screen the whole day.

  “Can you order dinner? With a side of migraine medicine?” she asked as she approached Eastwood’s Person of Interest wall, with a dozen flat-screen TVs hooked up to the wall to form a giant viewscreen. Below it was a table overflowing with laptops, desktops, video game consoles, and media devices older than she was.

  “Also, what’s with the Betamax player?” she asked.

  “I was doing research,” Eastwood answered.

  That was answer enough. Ree prided herself on her genre emulation skills, but when it came to magical ritual and research, Eastwood ran circles around her.

  Eastwood’s fingers ran like quicksilver over a keyboard, and a single screen loaded an image of an aged manuscript. “So, when I ran the recording . . .”

  Ree’s stomach grumbled. “Dinner?”

  “Didn’t you eat on the way?”

  “No. I’m at friends-with-detriments levels of familiarity with broke. Why else would I be working minimum-wage temp jobs on a Sunday?”

  “A sense of civic duty?”

  “I think being a superhero exempts me from that,” Ree said.

  “No tights, not a superhero.”

  “Except for the time that wearing tights saved your ass.”

  “I had the Duke right where I wanted him.”

  “Kicking your ass?” Ree asked.

  “How does Turbo’s sound?” Eastwood said, changing the subject.

  Ree made a most unladylike moan of pleased hunger.

  “I’ll take that as a yes.”

  “Always.”

  “You going to be okay to work before food, or do I have to banter with your hangry self until the food is ready?”

  “I’ll be good,” Ree said, crossing her heart.

  “So, I recorded the whole trial, just in case.”

  “Of course,” Ree said. “That’s not paranoid or intrusive at all.”

  “Paranoid and right,” Eastwood said. “When I ran Lucretia’s rant through the translator, here’s what I got.”

  The river runs astray, plagued water seeping into the bedrock.

  Sisters three come as the seasons turn,

  shears in hand, they will cut apart the rotten knot.

  “So you’re plagued water now? What’s up with that?”

  “Yeah, I don’t know. Poetic go-se. But when I went back to my sources on the Strega, it started to make a bit more sense.

  “When a Strega fails in her assignment, three more are dispatched to correct the error. One comes each season, striking when their powers are at their strongest.” Another run on the keyboard, and three more screens popped up with calendars.

  “The Autumnal Equinox, Winter Solstice, and the Spring Equinox.”

  “Well, the equinox is, like, three months off. Plenty of time to figure out how to take out the Strega. What do the books say about the others? Are they all like Lucretia?”

  “Each Strega has their own M.O. Some are up-close-and-physical; others use cat’s-paws and traps. We’ve got time, but just because the Strega’s powers are at their apex at the changing of the seasons doesn’t mean they can’t take swipes at us ahead of time to put us off our game or the like. We need to be ready every single day.”

  “You need to be ready,” Ree said. “You’re the plagued water here.”

  “And you were never supposed to become a Geekomancer.”

  Well, there was that. Unless that part was a line of bull. But why would Lucretia lie about that part, and not others?

  “So what? We’re in constant danger anyway.”

  “It means we need to stick together until we can get the Strega to call off the hit squad or we get through the next year.”

  “I changed my mind. I do need that food first.” Ree resumed rubbing her temples. “If we’re going to be Tonight You’re Mine’d for the next nine months, I’m going to need a better stream of income, unless you want to start working crap temp jobs and hanging out at Café Xombi.”

  “Frak that. You’re working for me.”

  “I thought you said you could pay ‘a little.’ I can’t live on ‘a little.’ ”

  “We’ll make it work. I’ve got some ideas on how to turn a better profit on the business here.”

  “If we’re going to talk business, I am definitely going to need that pizza first,” Ree said, picking up her phone.

  It picked up on the first ring. It was Cole, sounding hurried. “Pearson’s best, Turbo’s Pizzeria?”

  “Hey, Cole, it’s Ree. I’ve got a long night in front of me, so I’m going to need you to pull out all the stops.”

  “Hit me,” Cole said.

  Ree laid out a massive food order, sat for a while to rest her eyes, and then went to retrieve the pizza and prepare for an all-nighter.

  Chapter Five

  I Can Be Your Long-Lost Pal

  Fall

  Being a bodyguard was turning out to be not all that bad. In some ways, it was a simpler life. Ree didn’t have to run here and there doing crap temp jobs nearly as much and even got to pick up the odd swing shift at Café Xombi. But since Eastwood was basically nocturnal, it wreaked havoc on her social life.

  Three months passed almost without Ree’s notice, and before long, school was back in session, the U-District flooded with even more students than last year, which had seen record attendance.

  Ree clicked through to the next episode of Community when a velociraptor stirred in the room beyond. In reality, it was Eastwood, but thinking of his stirring sounds as a velociraptor was funnier, and Ree could use all the excitement she could get. Bodyguarding turned out to be four parts waiting around to one part playing big sister to a dude nearly fifteen years her senior.

  Ree checked her phone: 4:31. Eastwood was getting up later and later, like a grizzly bear easing into hibernation. He was about that hairy, too. Ree’d basically lived at the Dorkcave these last few months, with all of the TMI revelations that came with the territory. Twelve hours of covering Eastwood while he slept and did errands, then home for some blissful alone time and tiny snatches of socialization before crashing out and getting ready to do it all again.

  If she were a real bodyguard, for some teen idol or politician, she’d at least be putting away some serious money. As it was, Eastwood’s business tricks hadn’t done jack squat, and she was getting by on minimum wage, which only worked because Eastwood had media feeds that aggregated everything in the world of pop culture, bringing down Ree’s entertainment fees to basically nothing. She’d watched the entire run of The West Wing, Star Trek: The Next Generation, M*A*S*H, and a half-dozen other shows, deepening her love of choice properties to round out her Geekomantic skills.

  She found that being strategic was actually counterproductive. She could pick a show for its useful abilities, but she had to like it on its own in order to get any useful power out of it. She tried to give The 4400 another chance to expand her superpower range, but it just didn’t work for her—too much clunk and not enough zoom, character- and plot-wise.

  But several runs through the Clone Wars cartoon and Avatar: The Last Airbender had led to some respectively Jedi-and-bender-tastic outings with Eastwood, so it was definitely paying off.

  Eastwood emerged from his bedroom, toweling off his hair. “Morning.”

  “That’s a very generous interpretation of the word.”

  “I just woke up, it’s morning.”

  “How solipsistic of you,” Ree said.

  “I don’t taunt you when you’ve just woken up.” Eastwood zombie-shuffled toward the coffeemaker, where a fresh pot sat waiting for him
.

  That was another part of bodyguarding—it was also like being a personal assistant with a much higher risk of grievous bodily harm. Unless you were comparing it to being a PA in Celebromantic Hollywood. Then the risk was probably about the same.

  Eastwood poured himself some coffee in a House Targaryen mug and fished out a doughnut from the mini-fridge. Eastwood ate like a teenager with scurvy but never seemed to get any heavier, constantly carrying around a small spare tire that never inflated any further.

  Whereas Ree’s infrequent patrolling sessions with Eastwood, and more rarely, Drake, were barely enough to keep her in fighting form. She’d tried doing yoga in the Dorkcave for a couple of weeks but got bored and quit. She tried to get Eastwood to buy a treadmill desk, but that had gone nowhere, and Ree wasn’t about to lay out money to get one for her “workplace.” And Eastwood was up for sparring only once a month or so. Which left her with running boring circuits around the Dorkcave while listening to podcasts.

  “What’s the news from the world?” Eastwood asked.

  “Life goes on. No alerts, a few flame wars about fall TV, and a lot of buzz about the latest Iron Man.” Ree waved toward the TV screens, each turned to a different news site: CNN, Ain’t It Cool News, io9.com, and more.

  “You’re stir-crazy,” Eastwood said. “Let’s go out for breakfast.”

  Ree was on her feet, donning her jacket. “Burger Bin has happy hour starting at five.” So did Bites, but Eastwood’s tastes ran to the pedestrian.

  Eastwood retrieved his lighter trench coat, donning it like a member of the Kingsguard wears his cape, throwing it behind him and putting his arms through the holes all in one smooth motion.

  Ree had to admit that it looked pretty cool.

  “We’re two days away from the equinox. You still think the Strega are going to come aknocking?” Ree asked.

  “Definitely. If we get through the end of the week with no sign, then I’ll do more research. Plus, you don’t want to be out of a job, do you?”

  Ree made for the door, Eastwood following. He wasn’t quite as spry without his coffee. He called it “lubricating the servos.” “Out of a job? I could get a real job. I would kill for a real job. Grognard says that he’s on track to reopen in November. We get this wrapped up by the end of the month and maybe things can go back to whatever passes as normal in this town.”

  That got a chuckle. “Strange life, where running around on rooftops and drinking magic beer in a bar in the sewer is normal.”

  “What can I say, I’m a creature of habit.”

  The line at Burger Bin was already out the door, but not yet down the street.

  As they walked over, Ree texted Drake,

  On the town with Baby Bird. You up for some 2nd story action tonight?

  Ree and Eastwood chatted about Leverage while waiting in line. The Doubt would likely wipe away any magical discussion they had, but Eastwood believed, reasonably, that it was better not to press their luck.

  “Plus, you never know when you’re being watched,” Eastwood said, his paranoia comfortably familiar.

  To which Ree said, “I just assume I’m always being watched.” An inheritance of Millennial upbringing.

  Not expecting to hear back from Drake for several minutes, Ree slipped the phone back into her jacket and continued on.

  “After season two, the formula-breaking episodes become even more important. They’ve got the team dynamic down, but the formula starts to wear thin on even the best episodic show, which is why you need to innovate like Leverage did. Without smart writers willing to take risks, you end up with Law and Order.”

  “You take that back,” Eastwood said, stalwart L & O fan that he was.

  “Nope. Show is the background radiation of the cable universe. It’s always there, but it doesn’t seem to do much more than tell us that something interesting happened once upon a time. Not my scene.”

  “But Falling Skies is?”

  “Can’t help it,” Ree said. “I was raised on Spielberg. The family focus plays my heartstrings like a puppeteer.”

  “But it’s such bad science fiction,” Eastwood grumbled, taking another sip of his coffee. He never seemed to think it odd that he, a grown man, would wander around the neighborhood with mugs of coffee from home, even when standing in line for a restaurant that served its own (passable) coffee. But that was waaay down on Ree’s battle-picking list with Eastwood.

  Ree peeked ahead in line. There were only two cashiers working. Someone must have called off. At this point, Ree was a regular at Burger Bin. It was one of three places Eastwood liked enough to go out to eat, which meant she’d been coming twice a week for months, and that was on top of her occasional 3 AM milkshake run with Drake after patrolling.

  Her phone buzzed, and Ree pulled up the text message.

  Dear Ree,

  Unfortunately, I am engaged for the evening. I wish you the best with Baby Bird, and do try to find some time for yourself.

  I remain,

  Drake Winters

  One day, that boy would learn to be casual, but he still treated text messages like letters that were best hand-delivered by servants in order to inquire whether a gentleman could call upon a household of acquaintances.

  Five bucks said he was going out with Priya. They had been going strong for five months, maybe six, depending on when you started counting.

  That hadn’t been a nightmare at all. Definitely not. She was simultaneously very happy that Priya finally found a good guy, after several years of rolling critical failures on the Random Dating Encounter charts of OKCupid and Shaadi.com. But on the other hand there was the fluttering in her stomach and uncontrollable grin she got whenever Drake walked in the room.

  It was almost intolerable keeping a lid on her libido when he was around. In her real life, friends came first, but in the Underground, Drake was her patrol buddy and outlet for getting away from and venting about Eastwood. Talon didn’t patrol anymore, and no one else was up for the high intensity.

  Ree texted back,

  Got it. Have fun, loverboy.

  Twenty minutes later, they got to the front of the line. Eastwood ordered enough food for a basketball starting five, while Ree resisted the urge to have a milkshake for dinner/breakfast and went with their spinach salad, a concession to the crunchiness of the Pacific Northwest. It was a travesty to pass up the amazeballs burgers, but bodyguarding was too sessile, and she’d already had two Burger Bin burgers this week. The law of diminishing returns was seriously undermining her yen for dead cow.

  Ree escorted Eastwood back to the Dorkcave, then triple-checked the wards and security and made her way home. She’d been up for going on eighteen hours, playing watchdog since late last evening.

  She texted Sandra on the way home, hoping to get some aggressive normalcy on before crashing out for the night.

  When Ree arrived back at the Shithole, she discovered a note left on the dinner table in Sandra’s precise script, explaining the lack of response via text.

  Staying over at Darren’s for the weekend. There’s chow mein in the fridge!

  Miss you,

  Sandra

  Without a social outlet, Ree didn’t have anything more useful to do than catch up on some shut-eye, so she crashed, lightsaber on her bedside table, just in case.

  She dreamed about rooftop duels and long shifts staring at the door, nodding off, then being torn apart by razor-sharp tarot cards.

  Buzzing woke Ree from a stone-dead sleep. She clawed for her phone, then jumped several steps toward awake when she saw a text from Priya. It was a group MMS to the Rhyming Ladies.

  It was 3:25 AM, and the text was brand-new.

  EMERGENCY MEETING, my place. Bring booze.

  Chapter Six

  The Friend Signal

  Ree messaged back as fast as her fingers could type, muscle memory levera
ged hard enough that she avoided the typos.

  Whoa, what’s going on?

  The response from Priya came within seconds.

  Just come over, please?

  A minute later, as Ree was dressing, Anya piped in.

  I’m on my way. ETA 30 min. Have Jager, will travel.

  Ree threw on last night’s clothes, stuffed the lightsaber back into her jacket, and flew out the door with a bottle of Pinnacle whipped-cream vodka.

  She wasn’t unfamiliar with 4 AM, thanks to her magical superhero lifestyle, but that was usually at the end of her day, not halfway through her night, stumbling with bed-head and a bottle of liquor stuffed into her coat.

  There were only a few things that would prompt emergency meetings of the Rhyming Ladies at 3:45 AM without explanation, and very few of them were good.

  Priya lived far enough crosstown that Ree had to either jog for a half hour or take a cab, which she knew would be plentiful if she went deeper into the U-District.

  An entirely unaffordable $13 cab ride later, Ree buzzed at the front door to Priya’s apartment, a fourth-floor walkup in a shadier part of town, three blocks from a park that was largely ceded to drug dealers after nightfall.

  Priya buzzed her up, and after a far-too-tiring tromp up the stairs, Ree found herself at Priya’s door. Her friend had a shawl drawn around her shoulders. Her makeup was smeared—she’d been crying. The seamstress-engineer was dressed for a night on the town, her brown-black hair tied up and back with gear-bedecked pins, several locks loose as if she’d been . . . well, as if she’d been in a fight, frankly.

  Ree’s defensive instincts went into overdrive. She’d been out with Drake. What the hell would have gotten her into a fight?