last is the important part.
So what was he looking for?
I loosen the corpse’s straps and let it fall forward onto its knees. The corpse leaves scraps of hair, rotten uniform, and skin on the back of the chair.
There’s a long shallow divot cut into the wood where the soldier’s head was held back. Whatever was in the shallow hole is gone now.
I undo the straps holding her arms. They’re kind of glued to the chair with bodily fluids. I have to yank off each one, making sure to keep them wrapped in plastic so I don’t have to touch them.
There are divots on each of the armrests where the dead woman’s bare hands would rest on them. I pull her bare feet off the footrests. Divots there too.
I’ve wandered deep into the realm of What the Fuck.
Turn and scan the room for clues. Body bags. Rolling metal tables with drills, saws, and surgical instruments. A blackboard covered with what looks like machine schematics. A pile of empty bags. Rows of potions. Bet most are dope so the guinea pigs wouldn’t squirm while Mason worked on them with a chisel. I keep scanning the room but stop when I see myself pinned to the wall.
The last twelve years of my life are spread across fake wood paneling.
Photos of the dozens of Hellions I murdered. There are notes about how and when they died. There are shots of dead people on Earth too. I didn’t kill all of them. Everyone in the Magic Circle. Parker dead in a motel room with half his face missing. Doc Kinski. A shot of Josef the Kissi wearing his human übermensch face. A young vampire named Eleanor, her bitch of a mother, and her suicide father. Cabal Ash and his sister. Simon Ritchie, the movie producer. Snapshots of anonymous, well-groomed blue bloods, rich assholes that died during the New Year’s Eve raid on Avila. Mug shots of bald young teenyboppers and worn-out middle-aged White Power morons who probably died when I torched a skinhead clubhouse a few months back. Like the Hellions, they have date and death notes.
There’s a photo of Alice, the girl I left behind when I was dragged Downtown eleven years ago, off to the side by itself. I take it down and put it in my pocket. I’m not leaving her here in this madhouse.
There’s a shot of another young girl. I’m ashamed that it takes me a minute to recognize her. Green hair and pretty eyes. She isn’t wearing her uniform or ridiculous wire antennae in the shot. I like to think that’s why I missed her, but the fucked-up thing is that she’d slipped my mind. She was a counter girl at Donut Universe. Two Kissi murdered her right in front of me. She hadn’t done anything and wasn’t a threat to anyone. She’s dead for no other reason than that she happened to sell me coffee. And I forgot about her.
I take her photo and put it in my pocket with Alice’s.
Near the photos of the dead are shots of people who so far have managed to stay out of pine boxes. Candy. Vidocq. Allegra. Mr. Muninn. Carlos. Even Kasabian and Wells.
What the hell is this? How do a stalker photo album and a bunch of mutilated soldiers go together? Was Mason stone-cold crazy by the end, staring at my life while slicing up the only victims who’d willingly come into Norman Bates’s rec room?
I go over to the blackboard schematic. On a nearby table are wire cutters, soldering irons, a voltmeter, and other electronic hobby gear. Something like a computer or an elaborate radio lies gutted on the table, circuit boards and bits of fiber-optic cable scattered around it. It looks like someone was scavenging for parts. The device is vaguely familiar but I can’t place it. I push one of the circuit boards out of the way and find something I was hoping I’d never see again.
A Golden Vigil logo. It fell off the device when it was pried open. Now I remember what it is. It’s angelic tech—a psychic amplifier. I saw a few around the Vigil’s L.A. warehouse. Their Shut Eye psychics used them to supercharge their powers for interrogations and remote viewing experiments. As much as I want to be surprised, I’m not. Mason was working with Aelita, the old head of the Vigil. Maybe she dropped this off with a basket of blueberry muffins as a housewarming present.
I pick up a curled metal shaving from the table. Turn it over in my hands. It’s a dull silver and dense. Not like something that would go into a machine as delicate as the amplifier. There are more shavings and half-melted ingots on the floor. I kick through them and there, lying by the toe of my god-awful, shiny dress shoe, is what I’ve been looking for.
I pick up the metal and go back to the chair with the dead soldier. The metal fits perfectly into the divot behind her head. The same thing for the holes in the hand- and footrests.
I weigh the key in my hand. It’s heavy and solid and comforting. I never realized until now that I miss the weight of the key in my chest. This isn’t like my key. It won’t get anyone out of here but this possession key has its own charms, and with the psychic amplifier, I bet it’s how Mason got the thing to work and let him ride people back on Earth like a voodoo Loa.
I thought Mason’s workshop was upstairs, but the forge and tools were just for show. This is the real lab. And the dead soldiers were his first experiments as he tried to make the key work. These aren’t Lucifer’s clues and none of this gets me any closer to getting out of here, but it’s still useful. Whoever has the key must also have a working psychic amplifier, the one Mason was scavenging parts for. That means I don’t necessarily have to find the key. If I can find and smash the amplifier, it might kill the key’s power. Better yet, if I can find the key and the amplifier, I might be able to talk to someone back in L.A.
This is good news. Not break-out-the-champagne-I’m-coming-home good news. More like open-a-six-pack-of-malt-liquor-I-didn’t-drop-my-keys-down-the-toilet-at-work good news. But after the last three months, I’ll take any good news I can get.
The dissected Hellion is really starting to stink up the place. I want to go back to my room and sandblast my skin off but there’s one more thing.
By itself, in the corner of the room, is an ornate wooden table holding a black lacquered box. The box is perfectly square and featureless. When I touch the top, I can feel faint vibrations from inside.
I feel along the edges and find a subtle seam. Then others nearby. I push on one and nothing happens. Others move an inch or two. The damn thing is a puzzle box, but I’m not in a puzzle mood. I take out the black blade and bring it down hard, slicing off one side. No explosions or poison gas or snakes with machine guns. That’s a good sign. I hack off the other side, get my hands inside, and push. A second later, the box rips apart in a shower of splinters and black velvet lining. It’s kind of a pretty sight. Like an exploding ventriloquist dummy.
Something heavy and metal hits the floor. I try to pick it up, and rip the tip of my middle finger. Getting down on one knee, I slip the blade underneath it, raising it up like balancing an egg. In the light, I can’t see any sharp edges. Carefully, I rest it in the palm of my hand. It’s definitely a weapon but I’ve never seen one like it. When I turn it side to side, something weird happens.
As the light hits it from different angles, the thing changes shape. It’s a spiked ball the size of a tangerine. It’s a long silver dart with barbs at each end. It’s a spinning cone of fire. It’s ice knuckle-dusters. A parang. An elaborate Balisong, with six hinged joints that move at 180-degree angles to each other. Whatever kind of slice-and-dicer this is, it wasn’t made for human hands.
Fighters liked to tell tall tales around the arena. Stories about ultimate weapons they’d heard about that would make them impossible to kill. Over a few jugs of bitter Hellion wine (our prize for having survived the day), we came to the
