Christopher Moore - Secondhand Souls

“That light must be visible for twenty miles,” Audrey said. “Why isn’t traffic screeching to a halt on the bridge?”

“Because they can’t see or hear it,” said Minty Fresh. “Same way they can’t see the glow in a soul vessel but we all can.”

“I think we need to go now,” said Rivera. He led them across the parking lot to the steel gates of the fort. There was a single heavy door in the middle of the gates. It was wide open. Rivera stopped at the edge, looked in, went back against the wall. He could see all the way into the center courtyard of the fortress. The side they were on had been the barracks, more or less just reinforced brick buildings with rooms for quartering and feeding soldiers. The other side of the fort was an arcade, three stories of heavy arches, in which the cannons had once nested, facing out to the bay. But now the spaces were empty of cannons and resembled rows of small theatrical stages. No one was visible from the door: no guards, no rangers, no man in yellow.

The roar of the ghosts of the bridge was less like a jet now and more like an atmosphere, like the low rumble of a huge crowd, ten thousand voices in a small room. Rivera reached down and drew the Glock from his ankle holster.

“I’m going in first. I’ll signal when it’s clear to follow.”

Minty Fresh said, “You got some kind of death wish?”

“Apparently,” said Rivera.

“Oh, you can go first,” said Minty. “But put your gun away. You don’t know there aren’t guards in there might take someone sneaking in holding a Glock personally.”

“I’ll go,” said Charlie as he breezed by them.

Daddy!” Sophie called when Charlie entered the open courtyard of the fortress. She was standing four floors above him on a concrete gun platform. Lemon Fresh stood next to her. In the arched bay on the level below them, the Morrigan stained the bricks as tattered shadows. Only one of them still stood in three dimensions, cradling an arm with no hand attached. She hissed and Charlie jumped back a little.

“How you doin’?” said Lemon.

“Are you okay, honey?” Charlie said.

“I’m okay,” said Sophie. “But it’s cold and I haven’t had a snack in days.” She glared at Lemon. Her dark pigtails whipped around her face in the wind.

“Don’t be scared, honey. Daddy is here.”

“I’m not scared, Daddy. I just need some crunchy Cheese Newts up in this bitch.”

Lemon looked over at Sophie, who, because she stood on the gun mount, was eye level with him, “Where you learn to talk like that, child?” Lemon looked down at Charlie. “What you teachin’ this child?”

“She’s gifted,” Charlie said.

“More important,” Lemon said, moving his right hand in a stirring motion, “why ain’t you sleeping?”

Charlie looked around. Along the edges of the courtyard—the arcade on Lemon’s side, and the colonnade on his side—slept a half-dozen rangers. Not dead or injured: they looked as if they’d simply gotten tired and decided to take a nap. One woman was curled up around her M4 rifle as if it were a body pillow. Amid the whir of the ghosts of the bridge above, Charlie could hear one fellow who was sitting against a column on his side of the courtyard, snoring softly, his face under the cover of his Smokey the Bear hat.

“I guess I’m gifted, too,” said Charlie. He gestured for the others to join him. Minty Fresh stepped out of the shadows right behind him. Audrey was a few columns down, checking on a sleeping ranger. Rivera looked out from behind a column.

“New meat,” snarled Nemain. “This time you’ll stay dead. I’ll suck the soul from you while you’re still bleeding.”

“The fuck, Lemon?” said Minty Fresh. “Control your bitches.”

Lemon shrugged— What you gonna do? “Y’all act like I brought the ladies to the party, but they come on they own, cuz. A door open up out the Underworld, there they is. It’s y’all’s fault they here. All y’all let shit get so fucked up here they was drawn here like hoes to coke.”

“He took my hand,” said Nemain.

“And you said you killed him,” said Lemon. “Yet there he is, alive as a motherfucker, wearin’ some poor child’s pj’s.” With that, Lemon started to laugh, then bent over and wheezed a little bit, raising a palm to hold his place in the taunting. “Wha’chu wearin’, Minty?”

“I’m comfortable,” said Minty. “Why don’t you send that child down here to her daddy, Lemon. You and me talk this out.”

“Nah, she mine now,” said Lemon. He reached out to stroke Sophie’s cheek and his irises lit up like fire.

Inspector Alphonse Rivera had been a policeman more than twenty-five years, and in all that time, from working a patrol car, to narcotics, to homicide, he had never shot a person. He had drawn his weapon, of course, but he had never had to fire on a human being. He’d always been very good at assessing a situation and acting quickly and appropriately when he needed to, as if his mind could prepare dozens of if/then triggers that would put him in motion without hesitating. When Lemon Fresh touched Sophie’s cheek, one of those trigger’s fired. In a single motion, Rivera went to one knee, drew the Glock from his ankle holster, aimed, and fired four shots in quick succession. Everyone including the Morrigan jumped at the sound of gunfire.

Four copper-jacketed bullets hung in the air—stopped—about two inches from Lemon’s face. All could have fit in the space of a tennis ball. Rivera had never shot a person, but Nick Cavuto had been a bit of a handgun enthusiast, so the partners had spent a lot of hours together practicing at the range.

“Hooo-weeee,” said Lemon Fresh. He looked all around the bullets, getting a view from different angles. “This motherfucker can shoot.”

Nemain screeched and leapt out of the arch where she had been standing across the open courtyard toward Rivera, the claws of her only remaining hand extended. Rivera fired four times again, adjusting aim with each shot, catching her in the collarbone once and in the face three times, spattering bits of black, feathery goo into the air. She landed face-first on the concrete floor and slid several feet until she was only inches from Rivera, who held aim on her. As they watched she melted to an inky shadow and flowed backward, up the arches, until she joined her sisters as another tattered sillouette against the red bricks.

“Well, that didn’t work,” said Nemain.

“Told you,” said Babd.

“When we get the souls, he’s the first to go,” said Macha.

Rivera ejected the spent clip and snapped a full one from his jacket into the gun.

“Sho can shoot,” said Lemon. He made a fist and the bullets hanging before him dropped out of the air with a thud and clatter. “Yo standard-issue Negro wouldn’t stand a chance, but I am what…?” He deferred with a bow to Sophie.

“A dookie face,” she said.

“That’s right,” said Lemon, winking at her, “a Magical Negro.” He looked to Rivera. “And because I am only interested in nonviolence and harmony among all creatures, I am going to put you to sleep rather than crush you like a motherfucking bug.” Lemon waved his palm at Rivera like a hypnotist putting a subject to sleep. Rivera adjusted his aim for the movement, but otherwise did not move. Lemon repeated the sleep gesture. Nothing. He searched the courtyard until he found Audrey, who was checking the pulse of another downed ranger, and tried the sleep gesture on her.

“Yeah, nothing,” said Audrey.

“What, did y’all stop at Starbuck’s on the way here? Well, I tried. Ladies, I think you gonna need to go get you some breakfast. Go get him.”