Wild Ride (25 page)

Mab frowned at her. “I don't know how to tell fortunes.”

“They're not hard,” Glenda said. “Most people ask the same questions. Love or business. You can guess the answers.”

“That doesn't seem fair.”

“You'll be better at it than you think,” Glenda said. “Will you do it? For me? And for Delpha?” She looked down at the urn in Mab's work bag, pointedly.

“Yes,” Mab said, grateful that it wasn't about killing demons. And besides, she owed Delpha.

“Good,” Glenda said, and got up and walked out.

“I should have asked if she wanted the ashes scattered,” Mab said to Frankie.

Frankie shook out his feathers.

“I guess that's a no,” Mab said as Cindy came down the counter to her.

“What's Glenda on you about?”

“She wants me to open the Oracle for the weekend.” Mab frowned after Glenda. “You know, she's really hard to say no to.”

“Tell me about it,” Cindy said as the door opened and two families came in, the kids crowding up to the counter, so Mab said, “I'll fill you in later,” and rolled off the stool. She bent to pick up her work bag and hesitated, seeing the dragon-handled urn in there. She pulled the work bag up and put it on the stool and looked at the urn, undecided.

When she glanced at the guy with the glasses beside her, he was looking at the urn, too.

“Nice dragons,” he said.

“Oh.” Mab nodded. “So what do I do with it?”

“Did you like her?”

“Her?”

“The lady in the urn.”

“Yes,” Mab said, realizing that she had. “I didn't know her long, but I liked her a lot.”

“Then put her somewhere she'd like and you can see her and remember her,” the guy said, and went back to his notebook.

“Okay, then,” Mab said to his profile, and put the bag over her shoulder and headed for the Fortune-Telling Machine to paint the last of the tiny silver fish before she opened the Oracle tent at noon. And then the park would be finished. And she would be, too. Done with Dreamland.

She hesitated, not happy about that.

Just finish it
, she told herself, and left the Dream Cream with Frankie and Delpha no more sure of her future after the past four days than she had been before.

 

T
hose same four days had Ethan trying to build a fighting team out of the Guardia and losing.

Glenda was adamant about sticking to the way things had always been done. Gus had put Selvans' chalice back in the rust orange Strong Man statue and had given Glenda the Dragon's eye key to keep, and was now focusing on the big day coming up on Friday, checking to make sure all the golf carts were running smoothly, since the media didn't like to walk, he said, and running the Dragon Coaster every night, still two rattles short. Young Fred didn't give a damn about any of it. And Mab wanted nothing to do with the Guardia, which reinforced Ethan's desire to go for a techno-natural solution to capturing the demons, rather than a supernatural one. He also had his hands full with Weaver, demanding his knowledge of demons every day and his body every night, not the worst situation he'd ever been in, although Carl Whack-A-Mole had not been happy about the loss of his big plush dragon and demanded a new one to the tune of seventy-five dollars, not mentioning that he'd been inhabited by a demon the night before, which confirmed for Ethan that people couldn't remember being possessed. Ethan winced at the seventy-five bucks but paid, figuring it was more than worth it for those nights with Weaver.

Then Carl said, “And who did you give two dozen bears to, big spender?” and Ethan hesitated and said, “They were possessed by minion demons.” “Oh, crap,” Carl said, “did you get them all?” “Uh, yeah,” Ethan said, and Carl clapped him on the shoulder and said, “Good work. Tell Glenda the Guardia owes me some bears,” and went back to work, leaving Ethan with the feeling that he had a lot to learn about Dreamland.

He and Weaver locked down and secured the Tunnel of Love: chains around the lead car and motion sensors covering every way into it. If Tura somehow found a cheater to drag into the Tunnel, she was going to have a hell of a time getting anywhere, and Ethan would know right away. And Weaver had come across with a lot more information during their times in the dark, the key piece being that Ray Brannigan had been seen bringing minion demons across the water and, presumably, into the park. “And you didn't think to stop him?” Ethan said, exasperated, and Weaver said, “My
partner doesn't believe in evil, he thinks everybody and everything can be rehabilitated or at least studied, so I promised him I'd only observe, not interfere unless human life is in danger.” “That must be hard for you, not being able to shoot on sight,” Ethan said, but he was grateful for the information, just the same. It was one more reason to take Ray out permanently as soon as they made it through Halloween.

But that was the only bright side, Ethan thought as he patrolled the tunnels with Weaver on Friday afternoon, his Mark 23 in one hand, a flashlight in the other. Gus had wanted to do it, but Ethan had sent him back to watch the park, in the safety of daylight, promising him to check the Keep while they were at it.

“I hate patrolling,” Weaver said conversationally as they drew near the Keep door. “I know it's necessary but—”

Ethan sensed a presence ahead, dropped to one knee, and drew his pistol with a practiced move, the light in his other hand pointing toward the Keep door.

The door banged open and a plastic pirate ran toward him, cutlass raised, toxic purple eyes glaring, and Ethan fired twice, the rounds hitting right between the glowing purple eyes, both bullets punching a single black hole.
Nice
, Ethan thought, but it kept coming straight for him.

Then a muzzle flash blinded him as Weaver fired her D-gun. He blinked, and saw the pirate on its back, the circular round of the demon gun embedded in its center, the plastic pieces dissolving around a puddle of dark, empty demon ooze, sizzling as it ate into the stone.

“There are more,” Ethan said, standing up, not seeing any more coming from the Keep, but sure they were there.

Something moved inside the Keep basement.

“Cover!” Ethan yelled, grabbing up his gun. He fired and so did Weaver, his bullets slowing the oncoming pirate, hers exploding it, and several pirates behind that one turned and scrambled for the stairs. Ethan pulled the clip out of the Mark 23 and slammed a fresh one home. “Okay,
you get me a damn D-gun.
”

“Yeah, yeah, yeah.” Weaver stepped into the Keep basement over the plastic pieces and demon goo and headed for the stairs. “Ursula counts
them every day now, and you know the deal, you tell me things and you let my partner examine you.”

Ethan followed her up the stairs and paused just before the door. There was no noise on the other side, but he had no doubt there was something waiting for them there. He could feel it.

He looked at Weaver. He held up three fingers and pointed at the door. She nodded.

They hit the door exactly the same way.

Ethan barely ducked the hook that slashed at him, firing as fast as he could pull the trigger, the muzzle of the pistol inches from the pirate. The big .45-caliber rounds slammed into the plastic, blowing chunks out the back. The pirate swung the hook past Ethan toward Weaver and then the entire arm—and pirate—disintegrated as she fired.

Acid purple goo splattered Ethan's Kevlar vest and etched itself into the surface as Weaver kept firing, blowing two more pirates away before the rest scrambled for the stone steps circling the wall, making chittering sounds that were probably demon for “They're not supposed to be doing that.”

They didn't seem to be expecting the demon gun.

Ethan scanned the big room, once the Keep Dining Hall, full of old restaurant tables and bentwood chairs but not, as far as he could see, any more demons.

“Only three?” Weaver said, sounding disappointed.

“With the two in the tunnel, that's five,” Ethan said. “There are twelve pirates on the pirate ride, so you're probably gonna shoot seven more any minute now.”

She reloaded.

They were on the first floor of the Keep, the drawbridge level. He looked around to see the massive wood-and-iron door taking up a good part of the outer wall, the side he knew that faced the boathouse and dock, with its smaller door in the center of the drawbridge, no other way out. “They're all gonna be up there,” Ethan said, and reloaded. “Ready?”

Weaver nodded.

They climbed the stairs, and Ethan paused once more, leaning close to
the door. Once more he heard nothing, and didn't sense anything on the other side.

“Not here,” he told Weaver. “They must have retreated to the top level. Be careful anyway.”

They went through the door, covering each other, but there was nothing there except the old restaurant kitchen, its stainless shelving dulled with dust. Ethan didn't pause, climbing the next set of stone stairs to the top level of the Keep with Weaver right behind him.

He stopped at the door and pulled back. “They're on the other side.”

“How do you know? I don't hear anything.”

“I know.”

Ethan kicked the door open and began shooting as the minion pirates charged at him, their eyes glowing with rage. His bullets slammed them, slowing their assault as Weaver fired the demon gun as fast as she could, but there were too many and they were too fast—

Ethan spotted movement to his left and spun to see the one-eyed pirate captain running toward him.

“That's their leader, take him out!” Ethan yelled to Weaver, and raised his gun to fire, but before he could, the other pirates turned on the captain, piling on him, bringing him down, tearing at the plastic that encased him as Weaver picked them off, rapid fire, spattering demon goo everywhere.

When the last one was a mess of plastic and sizzling spatter, Weaver lowered her gun. “What the hell?”

“I don't know,” Ethan said. “Maybe they don't like authority.”

“I've thought about doing that to Ursula,” Weaver said. “But they didn't even stop to defend themselves from me. I know they're evil, but you'd think they'd have some survival instincts.”

“They're demons. Not deep thinkers.”

Ethan turned and looked around, ignoring the oozing demon goo eating through the plastic remains and doing a light etch on the stone.

A five-sided wood table dominated the center of the room, five chairs circling it. Stairs went around the back of the room to the roof, and stacked under those were old trunks and boxes. A big armoire was to the right, and beyond that a weapons rack piled high with lances, spears, pikes, swords, and axes.

Weaver picked up a sword. “Nice.”

“Iron. So they didn't come for the weapons.” Ethan looked around the room. “Were they waiting for us?”

Weaver slashed the sword through the air. “Nice balance. I do like a classic weapon. Aren't you going to take one?”

“I have a knife,” Ethan said, and headed for the door. The pirate attack hadn't been random. They'd been lying in wait, which meant something. He just didn't know what.

But Glenda might know. Or Ray, if Ethan stepped on his neck. Somebody was going to start giving up answers. Now.

 

T
he park was filling up as Mab headed for the Oracle tent, media all over the place taking pictures of people in costumes screaming on the repainted rides, eating Cindy's ice cream cones, and laughing at the park staff, who were slathered in gray-green makeup and playing undead all over the midway. It was all going to be wonderful advertising as long as nobody tried to interview a demon. Mab opened the sliding doors of the Delpha's Oracle tent and went in, Frankie almost cooing on her shoulder, he was so pleased to be there.

He flew up to the rafters, and she put her bag down on the table, prepared to clean up, and found that Delpha had done it already. The only thing there was the cardboard box that Delpha had been packing the day she'd told Mab's fortune. Mab took her bag off the table and went around to the other side—
Delpha's side
, she thought—and dropped her bag on the floor, making Delpha's urn clink. She hesitated, but thinking of the guy with the Coke-bottle glasses in the Dream Cream, she put the urn on the table.

Delpha's shawl was folded neatly on top of her box, dark blue chenille shot with silver threads, with little silver stars sewn onto the ends. Mab hesitated, then shrugged off her paint coat—that would not inspire faith in the customers—and wrapped the shawl around her instead.

It was warm, deeply warm, like a chenille embrace. She tried a couple of different ways of wrapping it and finally settled for putting it over her head and shoulders and wrapping it in front of her because that provided
the most warmth. She was considering whether to go back to the Dream Cream for a hot tea when two people came through the open doors, a young blonde and her boyfriend, her giggling, him rolling his eyes.

“Hi,” Mab said, sitting down. “I'm Mab.”
I tell fortunes. No, really.

“It says ‘Delpha' on the tent,” the guy said, holding out one of the chairs for the girl.

Mab glanced at the urn where Delpha was ensconced in bronze and dragons. “Yeah, she's here, too.”

“Stop it, Bill,” the woman said, giving him a little push as she sat down. “He's a reporter,” she told Mab, “so he's kinda skeptical.”

“Yeah, Bill,” Mab said, feeling a little nervous now. “Knock it off. So, what's your question?”

“We have to ask a question?” Bill said, sitting down. “You don't just see our futures?”

Don't make this any harder than it already is, Bill
. “Do you have any idea how much crap there is in your future? Hours, days, months, years, full of stuff. How much time do you have and how much money?”