Irregulars, page 27
Stepping out of time was a tricky prospect and Deven watched the edges of the time lock sizzle, blacken, and fly away like charred embers. He gripped his pen and drew a symbol in the air, conjuring the image of the grinding wheels of calendars. They had mere seconds before the calendars moved again.
“We’ve got to go, now!” The roar was deafening. Deven’s pen was nearly white, its inky power drained from it. He shoved it back behind his ear and grasped August’s arm. He stuck out his foot and smudged one of the symbols.
The floor beneath them split and cracked away in a perfect circle.
“Jump!” Deven shoved August toward the natural world.
August landed on the tunnel floor and spun. He looked back and went sheet white. Deven glanced down and saw the movement of thousands of glowing bones, felt the furnace of heat of the Aztaw world—his world—rumbling below.
Dangling from earth, Aztaw looked like hell incarnate. The smell of burning maize overpowered Deven.
August gripped Deven’s arm and jerked him up. The circle of earth beneath Deven’s feet crumbled and collapsed into the dark underworld. Everything Deven knew and had cared about was down there in that heat.
No, no, I want down, Deven thought, but August’s hand was warm in his and held him tight. As the tunnel floor plummeted into darkness August hauled Deven back into the human world.
Chapter Eight
When they emerged from the construction tunnel, filthy and exhausted, Deven saw city lights twinkling in the darkness. The smell of sewage and lime permeated Deven’s senses, reminding him he was in Mexico once more. A sick, nervous grief tore at his throat and left him ragged. If he’d only dropped...
“It wasn’t even noon when we entered the warehouse!” August complained, scowling at the soil stains on his designer suit jacket.
“Time locks mess things up,” Deven said, too exhausted to explain. The Aztaw bodies littering the entrance had already started to desiccate from the dry summer heat. He felt drained and realized he hadn’t eaten anything since last night’s burger.
“Food. Now,” he mumbled. His tongue still smarted when he spoke.
August nodded. He pulled out his phone, frowning at a new crack across the screen. “Damn it!” He punched numbers angrily. When he got someone on the phone, he issued orders, mentioning the pile of Aztaw bodies at the tunnel entrance, the two that had gotten lost in the darkness, and something about how they could be tracked by glamour bomb residue. Deven heard August’s tone change, becoming apologetic as he asked for another cleanup team. August finished his call, gave Deven an irritated look, then led him to the nearest taqueria.
The place looked dirty, but the rotisserie near the entrance smelled wonderful and the restaurant had chairs, which was all that mattered at the moment.
They both collapsed into plastic seats. August ordered two beers.
“Maybe I don’t want a beer,” Deven complained.
“You need a drink as badly as I do,” August replied. He rubbed his hands over his face. “Why, you want a soda?”
Deven waved off the issue. He rested his head on his arms. “If you’re going to control everything, order me one of whatever you eat as well.” He yawned and closed his eyes.
August spoke to the waiter in broken Spanish, then switched back to English as he made several phone calls. At first Deven listened, but the warmth and delicious smells of the restaurant made him sleepy, and he found himself unable to do much more than long for his hotel bed.
A heaping platter of tacos al pastor arrived. August dove into the meal like he hadn’t eaten in weeks. Deven took one of the small, soft corn tacos and fell in love with the first bite.
The flavor was hearty, sweet, and tangy with lime and cilantro. It seemed even richer after his brush with the underworld. There was a familiarity about the flavor, something that reminded him of his Mexican mother and his childhood, but like all thoughts of her, he couldn’t pinpoint anything more than a generalized good feeling.
He took a sip of his beer and was shocked by how good it tasted when combined with a corn tortilla. And as far as he could remember he’d never eaten a radish. The sharp taste fascinated him, although it caused the cut on his tongue to burn. He loved the radish’s colorful pink skin. It was beautiful, really.
“You could have saved us a lot of running, you know.” August watched him with half-closed eyes. “You might have done that time lock trick back at the warehouse.”
“I shouldn’t have done it at all.” Deven drank more of his beer. The alcohol warmed his stomach, sent heat down into his kneecaps. “As it stands, that might have been the last mistake I ever make.”
“How so?”
“I just showed my hand, didn’t I?” Deven reached behind his ear and pulled out his pen.
August took it from him gingerly. The pen had almost returned to its natural rust-red color, but it was still lighter than it should be—it would take more of Deven’s strength to feed it what it needed to remain whole.
“Beautiful,” August said, studying the intricate carving. It was a remarkable work of craftsmanship, something Deven was proud to be the guardian of.
“This is your house power,” August said, understanding dawning. “Why hide it?”
“Night Axe saw us in the warehouse. He no doubt observed the pursuit of his soldiers. And now he knows I have this.”
“You think he’ll try and take it?”
“I would.” Deven yawned again. “Not only will it open the gates between here and Aztaw, but it will give him control over the surviving lords now that their own powers have been destroyed. As for the Aztaw citizens who led the revolt? They’re dead as soon as he returns.”
August frowned at the pen. “I didn’t think time was so malleable.”
“Time itself isn’t, but the way it’s measured is,” Deven said. He took the pen back and pulled one of the thin paper napkins from the table dispenser. He drew three cogs of different sizes, showing August how they fit together. “Time works on a series of calendars. Every calendar is unique to a location. There are times when certain moments intersect between each calendar. When that happens, a schism appears between the worlds that someone can pass through.
“Other worlds have their own calendars, although date matches are rarer. Location matters as well. Mexico City has hundreds of calendars, so there are more opportunities to find moments that coincide between the natural and supernatural realms. But in, say, Iceland, there are no calendars that match up with Aztaw. In South America, there are a few, but their cycle is long. It may be only once a century that a date from the South American calendar coincides with the same date on the Aztaw calendar and someone can cross between worlds.”
August frowned. “If Night Axe wants to reenter Aztaw, he’s going to have to find a place where the dates align and make a gate.”
“Right. Unless he has this.” Deven wagged the pen. “This is the Jaguar dynasty house power. It rewrites the calendars, so it can force connections between dates. It allows me to slow down or speed up the turning of these wheels.”
“In the tunnel, you created a time lock,” August confirmed. Deven nodded. “So you basically wrote us out of the calendars?”
“Yes, but you can’t exist outside of time for long. As soon as the wheels start turning again, you’ll fall between them and disappear.”
August paled a little at that. “Good way to kill off your enemies.”
“It takes a great deal of energy to do that,” Deven said. “It wouldn’t be a problem if I had dozens of sacrifices to bleed into the pen, but since I’m the only one fueling it, I have only enough strength to do one or two tricky rewrites before the pen drains of energy and I’m exhausted.”
“Could you pass it to another human to use?”
“It would have to be someone with magical abilities, otherwise I’d have to drain their blood. And it would have to be done quickly. If the pen runs out of ink it will starve and die. A house power is like a living object. It must remain fueled to survive.”
August was silent for a moment, eyeing the pen. “How many dates intersect between the realm of light and Aztaw?”
“None,” Deven said. “That’s why he was sent there. Nor are there any dates that intersect with calendars in the natural world.”
“There aren’t any spatial portals between here and there either. It’s why there is such little information about the realm. Information comes to us secondhand, from some being who knew of another realm where someone had once seen an inhabitant there.” August frowned. “So a thousand years ago your Lord Jaguar used this pen and forced a connection.”
“Yes.”
“Is there another pen somewhere?” August asked.
“No.”
“Has it been out of your possession at any time?”
Deven smirked. “You sound like the man at the airport.”
“I’m serious.” August narrowed his eyes. “That isn’t a memento from a dead relative, Deven. It’s an extremely dangerous weapon. Did you ever lose it?”
“Of course not. It’s been in my sole possession since Jaguar gave it to me.”
“And when was that?”
“A little over a year ago.” Deven swallowed. “As the rebels laid siege to Lord Jaguar’s palace.” Nausea rushed through him and Deven dropped the remains of his last taco, no longer hungry.
August looked at the pen, seemingly poised to ask another question. Instead he signaled the waiter for the bill.
“For what it’s worth, something that valuable should be locked up in the Irregulars’ treasury, not perched behind your ear,” August said finally.
“It doesn’t leave my possession,” Deven stated. “I swore to preserve it with my life.”
“The one you made the promise to is dead,” August said quietly.
“That doesn’t matter,” Deven replied, feeling his anger rise once more. “Don’t you understand? I served Lord Jaguar from the age of ten. I watched him destroy enemy lands with a swipe of this pen. The ability to manipulate calendars is one of the greatest house powers in Aztaw. Time is sacred in Aztaw and this pen represents that great part of their culture. If the rebels succeed in destroying this, they destroy what defines Aztaw society.”
“But the soldiers have rebelled against that society.” August eyed the pen warily. “If they want to end the domination of the magical lords over them, I can see why they’d destroy the trappings of their servitude.”
Deven scowled. “It’s too important to be destroyed for politics. Besides, it strengthens their connection to the human world.”
“The new Aztaw realm doesn’t need connections to the human realm, does it?” August continued. “With the lords dead, and the house powers gone, human blood isn’t needed. You said the citizens slaved to support a sacrifice industry that took resources away from their own well-being. This may be exactly what the new, freer Aztaw needs—a break with contact from the human realm. A chance to live without spells and magic.”
Deven bit back his angry response and instead downed the rest of his beer. He hated how quickly August had moved to the side of the rebels, although he shouldn’t have been surprised. Of course an American would want a more democratic, unmagical world to thrive.
“How did the other lords succeed in forcing Night Axe through the gate between realms?” August asked, changing the subject.
“I don’t know. He was in a weakened state where he couldn’t change his body when they forced him through a gate.”
“Why didn’t your precious lord send him between the calendars?”
“He probably had used almost all the pen’s energy just to help capture him.”
“Well, thanks to his desire to save his little writing implement, that bastard is now back amongst the living.”
Deven was too tired to argue against criticism of Lord Jaguar. He clenched his jaw shut angrily.
August leaned forward. “If we have to fight Night Axe, we need to know how they weakened him.”
Deven shrugged. “He is mortal, although like any Aztaw his life span can stretch eons. Cut out his heart, cut off his head, stab him in the throat, like a human being. The only catch, of course, is that he can change his form.”
August drained the last of his beer. “We need a better way to see what he’s up to than your temperamental vision serpent.”
“You’re the one with all the technical gizmos pouring out of your pockets,” Deven said.
For some reason this was funny to August. “Gizmos,” he repeated. “Haven’t heard that word in a while.” He waved his credit card at the waiter.
Deven rose slowly from his chair, his body aching from the run and the blow to his arm. “I should cover my half,” he offered, but August shook his head.
“It’s all going on the agency credit card, don’t worry.” August flashed him a quick, magnificent grin. “Well, now that you’ve bared all, I’d prefer it if you whipped out your magic faster next time. My legs are killing me.”
Deven walked beside him out to the curb. “You run fast,” he complimented.
“It’s amazing what the threat of death can inspire.” August launched his arm into the air and flagged down a taxi.
Back at the Bristol Hotel Deven wanted nothing more than to collapse on his bed and sleep for an entire day. Instead, August started packing.
“Get your things together,” he ordered.
“Why?”
“Because your little Aztaw friend found us with no difficulty, I can’t imagine it will be any harder for Night Axe.”
Deven forced himself off the bed and did as he was told. It took less than a minute for him to finish packing. August was still carefully folding his shirts.
“You want help?” Deven offered.
“No.”
“You sure brought a lot of clothes.”
August’s cheeks turned a little pink. “How you dress says a lot about who you are.”
“Oh?” Deven sat on the edge of his bed, glancing down at his dirty cargo pants and dark T-shirt. “What do my clothes say about me?”
“That you don’t have any personal pride.” August turned and gave him a discerning look that unsettled Deven.
Deven swallowed. “Yeah? And I suppose if you wear tailored suede suit jackets it says you have a lot of pride?”
“No. It says I’m worried about what people think about me.” The corner of August’s mouth lifted and he looked almost shy. “Actually, you can help. Pack my computer, would you?”
“Sure.” They worked in companionable silence for a moment. “One of these days, can I see your knife? The one you keep pulling out of your pocket?”
“Of course. It’s a generation eight magical utility blade, but mine’s down to its last refills. I need to buy another, I haven’t gotten around to it.”
“Doesn’t the agency provide your weapons?”
“We get an expense budget, but the new generation ten models are over that. Carlos and I were going to get new ones for each other on Christmas.” August frowned. He held the shirt in his hand limply.
Again, Deven was at a loss as to how to offer support. His therapist had once told him, when he felt out of his depth, to offer a person a polite pat on the back. It insinuated good intentions and oftentimes physical touch said more than words ever could. So Deven reached over and patted August’s arm, a stiff, awkward movement that didn’t look nearly as good as it had in his mind.
August seemed touched by it, however. His eyebrow quirked up and he smiled a little. “Read about patting people in a book or something?”
Deven laughed nervously. “Or something.”
August cocked his head, studying Deven. “You know, for someone who grew up in hell and returned to the real world only a year ago, you’re doing pretty good, Deven.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome.” August swallowed. “And thank you. For what you did in the tunnel.”
Deven frowned, trying to remember. He touched the pen behind his ear.
“You saved my life.” August sounded a little annoyed that he had to say it out loud. “Twice. The guy with the knife? And the baton?”
“Oh. Right.” Deven shrugged. “I wasn’t counting.”
August stared at him.
Deven felt conspicuous. “You’re welcome?” he offered, not sure if there was some sort of protocol he was supposed to engage in after saving someone’s life.
Whatever it was that August was trying to say, he gave up and turned back to his packing. It was well past midnight when they checked out of the Bristol and checked in to El Angel Hotel a few blocks away. This one had a modern lobby and the room, while smaller, was more tastefully furnished and less inundated with wicker. Deven didn’t bother unpacking. He shut the curtains, lay down on the top of the comforter, and was out before August even started to unpack.
Chapter Nine
The following morning, it was August who woke Deven up rather than the other way around.
August looked refreshed despite the activities of the previous day. He was fully dressed in yet another suit, this one a lighter color, with a cream-colored shirt, unbuttoned at the neck to reveal a glimpse of his pale skin. His hair was clean and impeccably styled. His pale blue eyes stared down at Deven with a look of amusement.
“Wake up, sunshine.”
Deven scowled and drew back under the bedsheet he’d wrapped around himself at some point that night. He felt tired and unenthusiastic about his mission now that he knew who was involved. It had been one thing to tackle Aztaw lords he had understood. But Night Axe was out of his league; even Lord Jaguar himself had failed to defeat the Trickster. What luck was Deven going to have with nothing but a few knives in his pocket?
“Come on. Murdering monsters wait on no man.” August ruffled Deven’s hair. It was a gesture Deven hadn’t felt since before his mother died as a little boy and it brought a surge of complicated emotions. He sank further under the sheet to hide his face, afraid what he was feeling would be obvious.
“Do I have time to shower?” Deven’s voice was cracked with sleep.
