Marc Zicree - Angelfire

“Wraiths,” whispered Goldie. “They’re like lost souls.”

Colleen peered up at them. “Really? They look downright comfy to me. Well, as comfy as you can be on a leash.”

I didn’t have time to ask what she meant. Our progress through the long, cavernous room had stopped. I looked up to where Clay stood waiting for us. There was nothing there at first, only an inky, sticky blackness that filled the northeast corner of the room. But the blackness eddied and, as if on cue, light sprung up around it, revealing a dais, a throne, and the undisputed Emperor of the Red Zone.

Suddenly I was Alice. Having just eaten the wrong side of the mushroom, I was too small. I would have to flood the room with giant tears to get face-to-face with Primal. He was immense-seated, he was at least ten feet tall-and gave the impression of great mass. He was human in form, but his naked, coiled body gleamed blue-black, as if it were carved out of solid obsidian. It reflected the tendrils of light in the room and gave up a kinetic radiance of its own. Beneath the skin-or whatever passed for skin-delicate traceries of red pulsed, like neon tattoos, like veins full of luminous blood. His face had the smooth, perfect features of a pharaoh’s death mask, frozen but for the eyes. Those were the size of baseballs and bright as burnished brass. He was horrible and he was beautiful, and I was confused and disturbed by the paradox.

And the eyes were on me. On us.

Beside me, Colleen had come up short, her stance changing subtly, as if she meant to spring or run. She drew in a hissing breath and exhaled, “Holy shit.”

I don’t know if Primal heard her, but Clay did, and raised a hand to his mouth to hide a grin.

Primal spoke. In a voice like rocks being crushed, he asked, “What amuses you, monkey?” The aurora brilliance increased, spiking with reds. I didn’t see the lips move or the eyes blink.

Clay’s entire demeanor changed. His face went flat and colorless, as if made of wax, and he groveled-literally, groveled-rubbing his hands together in their obscuring sleeves, twisting his head sideways like a beaten dog. “I’m not amused, Primal. I’m pleased . Pleased that you have such… presence. You really wow ’em. It, eh, it tickles me a bit.”

“ Tickles you?” Primal repeated. Without preamble, he swung one huge arm in a sweeping arc. A flash of bloodred light rolled down the length of the arm, caught Clay under the chin, and tossed him a good six feet through the air.

Colleen shouted, flipped open her jacket and reached for the crossbow strapped to her hip. I grabbed her arm hard, stopping her.

Amid derisive laughter, Clay unfolded slowly upright, like a paper doll. He shook off hurt and derision alike, straightened his robe, and turned toward us, a smile on his lips. His hat was gone and blood from his nose had run over lips and chin to stain the silk.

“You’ve ruined your outfit,” purred Primal. “Why don’t you go change into something else?”

Clay merely nodded and bobbled away, stopping only to pick up his hat. The rest of the people in the room ignored him. Their attention was on us again.

“Howard Russo.”

The grunter, who’d turned to watch Clay disappear, swung around and squinted up at the being on the throne. “Yessir.”

“You’ve come to honor your contract, have you?”

“Nosir.”

“No?” The voice was like smooth, musing thunder. “Then why have you come?”

“Brought friends to see you.”

“You don’t have friends, you wizened little toad. According to my information, these are the friends of Enid Blindman.”

“Oh. Yessir.”

“And where is Mr. Blindman?”

Howard’s eyes squinted to wrinkled slits. “Don’ know. Around. Haven’t seen him since-”

“Yesterday,” said Primal.

Howard blinked. “Yessir. Yesterday.”

He’d actually seen him about fifteen minutes ago. That was encouraging. It meant there were holes in Primal’s information.

The brass eyes swung to me. “You’re a lawyer.”

“That’s correct. I represent Enid Blindman and Howard Russo,” I said, and heard Howard mew in surprise. “ Represent , Mr. Griffin?”

“You are the holder of a contract of which they are cosignatories. Recent events have caused revisions to that contract which neither of my clients have approved. Those alterations have resulted in severe penalties.”

Primal’s eyes seemed to glow brighter momentarily. “The Source Project,” he said.

“Oh, God,” Goldie murmured, and Colleen took a quick step closer to me.

“I’m … surprised you’ve heard of it.” I lied. Surprise didn’t begin to cover it. “How did you come by your intelligence?”

Primal laughed-boulders rolling down a hill. “My intelligence,” he repeated. “Let’s just say that… there was a leak.”

My throat had gone bone hard and dry. “What do you know about the Source?”

He put a massive hand over the perfect, unmoving mouth. “Mum’s the word, Mr. Griffin. Why do you care?”

“I believe the Source Project is responsible for… the changes in the environment.”

“You mean the hocus-pocus.” He waved an arm over his head. Neon pulsed wildly in the pattern of veins, and the hand extruded a smear of ruddiness that was nothing like light. It was viscous, gelatinous, and it hung in the darkness over his head, gleaming dully, before drifting downward.

The room around us gave up an audible sigh. I could feel people pressing forward, straining toward the oily gleam. The flares, high up in their tinsel forest, were drawn to it, too. The tide of desire was palpable; they wanted to lap it up, to bathe in it.

My gaze was drawn unwillingly upward to where the aqua glow of flares met Primal’s crimson and altered hue, becoming muddy, opaque, the color of clotting blood. I pulled my eyes away.

“I realize all this, of course,” Primal said, forcing my attention back to him. “My more superstitious people call it the Dark, or the Storm, or any one of a hundred other folksy and inaccurate things. It’s not dark. It’s blindingly bright.”

“And is that why you hide from it?” asked Goldie. He pushed himself up next to me, and I glanced at his face. He was sweating, pale-like an alcoholic fighting DTs.

Primal sat up just a little straighter. “And who, exactly, are you?”

“I’m irrelevant. You’re hiding from the Source, aren’t you? Pretty much the way the rest of us are.”

“Ridiculous.” Clay’s voice came from behind us.

We turned in unison to see him working his way through the cavernous room. He had, indeed, changed into something else. He had changed into a mime, replete with whiteface, Alice Cooper eyes, beret, white gloves, and leotard.

“Oh, jeez,” muttered Colleen.

“Primal is afraid of no one.” Clay came to a gliding stop in the same place Primal had bowled him over, as if it were policy to place himself in harm’s way. There was a smile painted on his face. I doubted it was echoed beneath the paint.

“Thank you, monkey,” Primal told him. “Your new attire suits you.”

Clay struck a dramatic pose, pointing a finger at Colleen. “The bitch doesn’t like it.”

“The bitch has a name,” said Colleen tartly. “Colleen. That’s Queen Colleen to you, monkey boy.”

“You dislike mimes, Colleen?” Primal inquired.

“Doesn’t everybody?” Colleen asked. “The only thing I hate more than mimes is clowns. They give me the creeps.”

Clay postured exaggeratedly, making a sad mime face, and for a moment, in the slow eddy of light and dark, the weirdly watery luminance of the flares, the strangeness of the room and conversation, I was sure I’d been tossed head first into a Fellini film.