Christopher Moore - Secondhand Souls

“Did guns get worse?” asked Nemain, the venomous one, trying to hold on her left arm, which was attached by only a thread of pitch. “I was shot when I was above before, and I don’t remember it being this bad.” She tried to will herself to hold form, but melted back a flat shadow. She looked to the man in yellow, who sat in the seat of the skip-loader, leaning on one elbow.

“And it wasn’t the same one who shot you before?” asked the Yellow Fellow.

“Different. Bigger. Bigger gun. But I stung him in the heart before he shot my arm.”

“We’re going to need more souls to heal,” said Macha, who had reverted to the shadow of her bird form, a hooded crow. The cold, fog-diffused moonlight in the tunnel shone through ragged holes in her wings and breasts. “The five that were in the bookstore were barely enough for us to take form. Now…”

“I want to take the head of the banshee,” said Babd, the third of the sisters, who leaned on the wheel of a skip-loader for balance, her left leg gone from the shin down. She had wielded the terrifying screech that drove warriors to suicidal frenzy on the battlefield, so the more gentle screamer, the banshee, had always been especially annoying to her. “But I can’t do it with only one leg. We need souls.”

“Ladies, ladies, relax. I will bring you what you need,” he said. And he would. He hadn’t anticipated the setback of a heavily armed policeman who had been forewarned by a banshee when he sent them into the soul-seller’s store. They hadn’t been strong enough for that, and now they weren’t even strong enough to go above and hold a useful form, or, if necessary, face the Luminatus and her hellhounds. He wasn’t exactly sure he wanted them to be. They had torn his predecessor, Orcus, to pieces. It was a dilemma he needed to ponder. He would bring them what they needed to heal, but only what they needed.

“For now y’all can lick your wounds in the trunk of the Buick. I’ll be back in a butterfly wink.”

He limped off down the tunnel alongside the heavy equipment, limped not because he was injured, but as a matter of style.

When he was gone, Babd said, “How long is that? Is that more than a week?”

“He’s being colorful,” said Nemain. “He’s very colorful.”

“If I want any color out of him, I’ll open one of his veins,” said Macha.

“Ooo, I like that,” said Babd. “I’m going to say that to the banshee.”

“Not the same,” said Macha, shaking her shadowy head.

“Yeah,” said Nemain. “No blood.”

“Butterflies,” said Babd. “Yuck.” She shuddered so that even in her shadow form her feathers bristled with revulsion.

Thursday was similar to any other workday for Mike Sullivan, in that he got up, got dressed, and drove to the bridge. But this Thursday was a little different in that he wouldn’t be driving back. He was awakened by the knock on his door, and when he opened it, a thin woman with severe blond hair dropped a gear bag at his feet.

“What are you, about a forty, forty long?” she said instead of hello.

“Huh?” said Mike.

“Jacket size.”

“Yeah, a forty.”

“Yeah; me, too,” she said. “Thirty-eight actually, but I like shoulder pads. I have to have the waist taken in a little, too.”

“Okay,” said Mike.

“I’m Jane. I’m going to be your new sister.”

Mike shook her hand. “You wanna come in?”

“No, gotta go. I’m on the catch team. There’s motocross leathers in there. Not really leather, though, some kind of bulletproof fabric. They were my brother’s. Should fit you. If they’re snug, that’s good, they’ll hold your bones in place.”

Mike was suddenly wide-awake. It was the “ hold your bones in place ” line that did the trick.

“There’s plates over the spine, elbows, forearms, knees. All should fit under your coveralls without showing. I also threw in a kayaker’s

helmet—”

“No,” said Mike.

“Look, I’m just trying to keep you from getting too mashed up.”

“I’m not wearing a helmet.”

“You wear a hard hat on the bridge, don’t you?”

“Yeah, but.”

“Fine, wear that.”

“I will.”

“Okay, there’s also a five-pound paper bag of sand in the satchel. You want to throw that in right before you jump. I mean, right before you jump. You’re basically going to jump into the hole that the bag makes in the surface of the water.”

“How do I get a five-pound bag out onto the bridge unnoticed?”

“Do you ever bring your lunch?”

“Well yeah, but—”

“You aren’t going to need your lunch today. Take the sand instead. If everything goes right, you’ll just knock yourself out and drown.”

“You’re kind of being mean to me, considering…” He realized then that she hadn’t looked him in the eye once since she’d shown up. Now she did.

“I’m just trying to get through this, okay, Mike? I can’t get my head around what you’re doing for us, and it’s easier if I think of you as some random insane guy.”

“Sure, I get that.”

“Sorry. I’m sometimes overly stern with the mentally ill. I’ll work on that.”

“Uh, thanks?”

She held her arms out stiffly, offering a hug above the gear bag at their feet. Mike leaned over and shared an awkward, only-collar-bones-touching-back-patting hug with her.

“Okay. Good talk,” Jane said, pushing away. “You have the number.”

“Yes,” Mike said.

“So, unless something different happens with the weather, I’ll see you at nine?”

“Nine,” Mike said.

“Thanks,” she said. “Really.” Then she quickstepped away down the hallway like she was trying to get through a haunted graveyard as fast as possible without actually running.

They had rented a twenty-four-foot Boston Whaler from the marina by the ballpark. Rivera was to have been their pilot, but they’d agreed to call him off when they got news of Cavuto’s murder. Jane stood at the center console, steering. Minty Fresh stood to her side, holding the stainless rail on the console, towering over her. On the deck behind Jane, Audrey sat in the lotus position, apparently in some kind of trance, although she could move and react when they needed her to. Her head bobbed as the boat bounced over a light chop in the bay. Charlie, in his wizard robe and a dog’s life jacket that had come with the boat, was at the stern, wedged between the bait box and a large waterproof suitcase that Minty Fresh had brought on board.

“So, a green wet suit?” said Jane. “Bold choice.”

“I wanted it in a sea foam,” said the Mint One, who was already wearing his fins. “But the guy who was making it could only get neoprene in forest green.”

“Very froggy,” said Charlie, shouting to be heard over the big twin Mercury outboards.

“You need to consider your glass house,” said Minty.

“But hey, webbed feet,” Charlie said, wiggling his duck feet before him. “Nice, right?”

Jane glanced back. “I can’t even look at you like that. It’s just like Mom used to say, you’re a freak of nature.”

“Mom said that?” Charlie thought he was pouting, but since he had no lower lip to protrude, it looked more like his jaw was flapping in the breeze.

“Well, she did one time—she was repeating what I had just said when she asked me to drive you to school one day. Still.”

“Not for much longer,” said Minty Fresh, letting them both off the hook of family history.

“Shhhh,” shushed Jane. “We’re harshing Audrey’s chi or something.”

Jane throttled down the outboards a little as they rounded Alcatraz and the current coming in the Golden Gate kicked the waves up.