Wild Ride (24 page)

“It's part of a plan.” Glenda drew a deep breath. “Kharos has a plan, and somebody's putting it into practice for him.”

“Ray,” Ethan said.

“What happened?” Carl Whack-A-Mole said, trying to sit up.

“I'll take care of him,” Glenda said to Ethan. “You do a fast patrol around the midway. Make sure you didn't miss any minions.”

“Right,” Ethan said. “Teddy bear patrol.”

He left Glenda and Gus to deal with Carl and did a final patrol around the park. No bears. Then he sat down in the bright lights of the closed Dream Cream and took the D-gun apart and put it back together several times, marveling at Weaver's design. Finally as the Dream Cream clock chimed 2
A.M.
, he walked by the trailers to make sure Gus and Glenda were locked in and safe, and then went back to his sleeping bag behind the Devil's Drop. He lay there, alone, a rock poking him in the back, and stared up at the five red lights flashing at the top of the Drop through the leafless trees that surrounded him, considering his new life or what was left of it. Okay, so he was under a death sentence, but tonight he'd felt alive again, fighting teddy bears, taking down an orange demon. He hadn't even wanted a drink. What he wanted was—

Something was moving through the trees
. He sat up, grabbing the D-gun, prepared to waste more teddy bear ass.

Weaver stepped over some brush and into his clearing. “Why are you sleeping in the woods?”

“It's soothing,” Ethan said, lowering the gun.

“You're a strange man.” She came closer. “Thank you for not shooting me. Again.” She broke a green chem light and hung it from a nearby branch, then pulled her goggles off and shook out her hair in the dim glow. She took a small black case from a pocket on her vest. “I gave my report. Ursula isn't happy that you have a D-gun. Turns out this afternoon was monthly
inventory. Bad luck.” She opened the case and a needle glinted in the chem light. “I'm going to need some of your blood to placate her.”

Ethan sighed. “I thought you were coming here to see me.”

“I did. I came to see you to get the D-gun and your blood so Ursula will quit yapping at me. Sit down. Lie down if losing blood makes you woozy.”

Losing blood didn't bother him, but he lay down anyway.

“So,” she said, kneeling beside him. “Which arm?”

“This one,” he said, and reached up and pulled her to him and kissed her, and she kissed him back, hard, the way she did everything, which was good because he liked everything she did.

“Exactly what am I going to have to do to get this blood?” she said as she pulled back, breathless.

He took the needle from her and threw it into the woods. “How about if I show you?” he said, and rolled to trap her beneath him, and she said, “Ouch, there's a rock,” and then laughed, and then they didn't say anything at all.

 

I
t was after 3
A.M.
when Ray sat down beside the Devil statue, lit up his cigar, and said, “Look, it's been a bad weekend, and I don't want to hear any complaining.”

YOU'LL COMPLAIN
, Kharos thought.
ONCE I AM FREE—

“We're batting fifty percent, which ain't bad in the majors. The minions got Delpha last night, although she put up a fight. I had to wait outside that trailer a good ten minutes before they finished her. It was damn cold, too—”

WHAT ABOUT SELVANS?

“Look,” Ray said, blustering now. “I did what you said, I set him free. But Ethan was there and Glenda and then Gus and Young Fred. All of them. They got Selvans.”

DID THE MINIONS KILL THE KEEPER?

“Gus? Uh, no.”

WHY?

“Ethan saved him. Ethan and his girlfriend who has a gun that blows them to pieces. Which is the rest of the bad news. The minion demons I
brought in? They're all gone. I don't know where the hell Selvans went for the fight, he was probably lost in the Dragon struts somewhere, but the minions are now two dozen puddles of purple demon splat. What is that stuff? Antimatter?”

Kharos had a moment where he thought about telling Ray to put in the key to the Devil statue and let him out just so he could kill him. But it was too soon, and the Guardia were on alert now. . . .

Still, Delpha was dead. The Guardia would be grieving. That was good. And if they were harried and hunted, that would be even better.

BRING IN MORE MINIONS.

“Listen, I told you, I don't like them, and I'm not a demon chauffeur. I have—
hey
!” Ray looked down at the large clump of hair that had fallen into his lap. “You have a sick sense of humor.” He brushed off his lap. “All right, I get the message, I'll bring them in.”

SET THEM ON THE GUARDIA.

“Should I warn them about the gun?”

NO.

“Okay, then. You want the rest of the Guardia killed. Got it.” Ray got up.

WAIT.

Ray waited.

NOT GLENDA.

Ray raised his eyebrows. “You and Glenda got something going on? Because I have to tell you, it's been forty years since the last time you were out. She's changed.”

I GROW IMPATIENT WITH YOU.

“Yeah, yeah,” Ray said. “I don't think you appreciate what I do for you. The risks I take. My position in this town is not solid yet. They find out I'm bringing in demons, I don't think they're gonna let the fact that I'm mayor stop them from hunting me down.”

THEY KNOW THERE ARE DEMONS?

“They will if they catch me with a boatload of minions.” He shook his head. “I'm taking a lot of chances for you, and do you appreciate it? No.” He chomped on his cigar and walked down the midway, feeling his hair.

YOU'RE GOING TO DIE
, Kharos thought.

Then he thought about the Guardia overrun by packs of minion demons, opening the hell-gate, the pleasure of having fresh souls to torment—a buffet of despair, each one different—and felt better.

But Ray was still going to die.

 

M
ab came down to breakfast with Frankie the next morning semi-reassured about Joe, who had made her dinner, made her laugh, and made her come the night before. At least, there didn't seem to be anything to object to. She found Cindy slammed with a breakfast crowd again and frowned. A crowd on Sunday wasn't unusual; a crowd on a Monday in October was.

“What is this?” she said, going around behind the counter to help pour coffee and make change while Frankie flew out the door in search of his own breakfast.

“I think it's because of the new love potion flavor,” Cindy said, plates with waffles with pink ice cream in each hand. “Evidently What-Love-Can-Do works.”

“Really.” Mab looked out over the counter and noticed that everybody was in couples eating pink ice cream except for the guy in Coke-bottle glasses, if you counted Skinny and Quentin as a couple. Skinny was lecturing on the art of the sundae today: “You know what I think, Quentin? I think the tin roof has it all over the banana split. That's what I think.” Meanwhile, the guy in the glasses sat alone at the counter, reading his notebook as usual with his back to the crowd, but, Mab realized suddenly, with his eyes on the mirror behind the counter, not on the notebook. He was watching the room.

“It must be the cinnamon,” Cindy said, surveying the crowd. “Could you get that lady on the end a refill? And spill something on the loud-mouthed skinny guy, he's driving me crazy.”

By the time the crowd dwindled, it was after noon, so Mab made sure she had her work bag, waved to Cindy, and took off to spend the last hours of afternoon daylight painting the Fortune-Telling Machine, an absolute pleasure because the colors were so lovely and she could see so clearly where they went. That set up her rhythm for the next four days. Help Cindy sling
What-Love-Can-Do waffles in the morning, paint the Fortune-Telling Machine in the afternoon while talking to Frankie, make dinner and love with Joe at night. Mab had never laughed so much in bed, and the more she laughed, the happier Joe got. “You are a real clown,” she said, and he said, “Oh, yeah,” and tickled her and made her laugh again. He still wouldn't talk about demon-hunting, but he wanted to know everything about her life, her work, her dreams, and that was flattering. And disconcertingly illuminating.

The night before he'd smiled at her, holding the bony-hand stem of one of the champagne flutes he'd brought her earlier in the week. “So after this you're going to . . .”

“There's a little museum I do work for,” Mab said. “They were donated a dozen damaged carousel horses they want me to fix when I'm done here. That should be fun. And the gallery that takes my paintings said they'll take a couple more, which is—”

“What about people?”

“What about them?”

“Don't you miss them when you're gone?”

“No,” Mab said. “I'm not much with people.”

“You're not going to miss Cindy?” Joe said. “Glenda?
Me?
”

And Mab had thought about Cindy, smiling at her over waffles, and Glenda, flicking that cigarette as she told Mab to put a coat on because it was cold, and that guy with the Coke-bottle glasses handing her her bag, and Joe. . . .

If I joined the Guardia, I could live in Delpha's Airstream with Frankie, I could do paintings of Dreamland and work on the park and have breakfast with Cindy every day and make love every night with Joe. . . .

And she'd be a Batty Brannigan again, her whole life about demons, a credit to her whack-job family.

“Yeah,” she said. “You guys I'll miss. But I'm still leaving.”

She wasn't going to miss Ray, who stopped by to show her his will. “See,” he said, shoving the papers at her. “You're my sole heir.”

“This is dated yesterday,” Mab pointed out, and Ray looked annoyed and said, “The point is,
you're my heir.
” Then he handed her a sheet of paper. “Now just to be safe, you should have a will, too. I had my lawyer draw this one
up.” Mab looked at it. “This says I leave everything to you. Ray, I don't have anything. You want to inherit two suitcases and a raven?” and then she remembered: a tenth of Dreamland. “I don't think so,” she said, trying to hand the papers back, but he said, “You keep them and think about it,” and walked off, his cigar clamped between his teeth, not so much mad as determined. “I don't know about him,” she said to Frankie, and stuck the papers in her bag and went back to work.

Then there was Ethan and his new buddy, Army Barbie, who at least was making him something approaching cheerful. Ethan tried to talk Mab into joining the Guardia, just as Glenda had been trying to all week, but he did it with blunt force, which was a nice change. “How about if I give my power to your new girlfriend?” she said finally when he came by the Fortune-Telling Machine Thursday afternoon, and then hated the idea, but Ethan said, “No,” and Mab didn't offer again.

And of course, there was Vanth, who'd given up spitting cards at her and just talked to her telepathically now, asking random questions about almost anything: if all women dressed like Mab (“No, I'm an original”), if Mab had children (“No, and I don't want any”), if Mab had restored the rest of the statues (“Yes, but I'm not putting in any more keys”), and dozens of other miscellaneous topics. It was clear that Vanth was not a deep thinker, nor did she have much focus. But she was kind and interested in many things, and aside from a daily request to be let out, she was pleasant to have around, a kind of Mother-in-the-Box, popping up to tell Mab to dress warmer or be careful of strangers.

Even with all the interruptions, by Friday morning, the day the media arrived, Mab had the Fortune-Telling Machine mostly painted, only a few detailed touches of silver on the tiny fish remaining. “Do you need help this morning?” she asked Cindy when she got downstairs with Frankie. “Because I'm almost done, and the media—”

She broke off, seeing half a dozen strangers in the shop with notebooks and cell phones.

“—are here,” Cindy finished for her. “Not a lot of them, but enough. We're not busy, because I took What-Love-Can-Do off the menu. The crowds were making me crazy. Sit down and I'll get your breakfast.”

Mab took a stool at the end of the counter, the only stool where nobody
would be sitting beside her, one seat down from the guy in the Coke-bottle glasses, who was writing in his notebook again.

“You must really like Cindy's ice cream,” she said to him.

He looked over, his eyes sharp behind the thick glass. “She constantly amazes.”

“Yes, she does,” Mab said. “So, do you live around here?”

“No,” he said, and went back to his work.

Okay
, she thought, and then Glenda came and sat down between them.

“No,” Mab said. “Do not harass me today. I am almost done with the park and I want to savor my accomplishment.”

Glenda put a bronze vase on the counter in front of Mab. It was about a foot tall, heavily detailed with bronze appliquéd decorations, with two writhing dragons for handles and a phoenix carved on the smooth round side. “This is yours.”

“What is it?” Mab said, taken by how beautiful it was, but pretty sure there was a catch.

“It's Delpha. She picked out the urn a long time ago.”

“Delpha.” Mab drew back a little. “Delpha's
ashes
?”

“Just take it,” Glenda said, looking into her eyes. “You got her sight, you can take her ashes.”

Mab hesitated, and Glenda picked up the urn and put Delpha in Mab's work bag.

Mab looked at Frankie, who seemed fine with it.

“Okay,” she said.

“And now I need a favor,” Glenda said. “I need you to open the Oracle tent this afternoon. We need a fortune-teller for the last two weeks of Screamland. Just today and tomorrow and then next Friday and Saturday. That's all I ask.”