Carl, and Sebastian, and the twins. We’re changelings.”
“Changelings?” I asked, recognizing the word from one of Warren’s lectures, but not what it meant.
The embarrassment in my voice touched her. She took my hand and swung it back and forth in hers, like we were schoolgirls on a playground. “We keep the secrets of the Zodiac and make sure the knowledge is passed on to the next generation. We need the agents to continue the battle of good versus evil, of course, so that the legends are put into print, but you need us just as much. Here, read this.” She passed me another manual, then waved for me to follow.
I glanced down as I did. “Why?”
“Because it’s the story of your troop’s emergence,” she said, facing me as she continued walking backward. “Your genealogy is in there. It’s a good place to start.”
“No…er, thanks,” I said, tucking it under my arm. “But I meant why do agents need you?”
She halted so suddenly I almost ran her down, but looked more amused by the question than annoyed. “Because we think about you. We read your stories and believe in you. Were Zane to stop writing them down, or die without passing the craft on to another, or were we to enter puberty without recruiting new changelings from the six and seven age group, your stories would cease to be told. Your alternate realities would fade, your portals would close forever. You would cease to exist.”
“Impossible,” I said, on a half laugh. “I exist whether you believe it or not. One thing has nothing to do with the other.” Though I thought about the Tulpa-how someone else’s thoughts had created him, how a group’s belief had strengthened him-and had to suppress a shudder.
Jasmine half laughed back. “You have an immunity to mortal harm and a chest that lights up like a Christmas tree whenever danger is near. Who’re you to say what’s possible or not?”
Shit. She had a point. I motioned for her to go on. The dimples flashed again. “All I know is belief in something is what makes it real, and not just paranormal episodes but regular things too. Love, hate, fear. Perception colors all our experiences.” She gestured back the way we came, to the shop front and those still there. “For instance, Sebastian believes the Shadows are going to win the fight for the valley, and it’s his job to convince other mortal children to believe along with him. They go home, read the manuals he’s given them, and begin to dream about a world where evil rules the day. Those dreams become energy that feeds and fuels the Tulpa, giving strength and purpose to his troop’s deeds.”
“Can’t disappoint their fans, eh?” I said wryly. At least I had a clear explanation as to why the kid couldn’t stand me. “Maybe we should lock Sebastian up in a cabinet until he reaches puberty. Then, poof! He’s gone. And no more Shadows either.”
I was surprised no one had thought of it earlier.
She gave me a smile a parent would give to a pouting two-year-old, and handed me a comic depicting a man being mutilated on the cover by an unseen assailant, body parts tossed into an abandoned freezer after they were carved up. Nice. “But then you’d have to lock me away too. I’m Sebastian’s opposite. I approach all the mortal children who are inclined to believe in the Light and I tell them the story of the Archer, how she not only survived, but overcame an attack that would have killed any other agent, how she made herself into something stronger, and how she’s the Kairos, fated to bring down the Shadow side in our fair city forever.”
Sheesh. The hyperbolic prose was bad enough. Now I had to worry about ruining some rugrat’s bedtime story. “Thanks…I think.”
“No problem,” she said sweetly, dimples flashing. “Like I said, I’m a changeling. It’s my…”
Jasmine’s gaze left mine as a look of astonishment passed over her face, and she looked through me, as if seeing something just on the other side of my bones. The manuals she’d plucked from the shelves fell to the floor, and she stiffened.
“Jasmine?” I said, putting a hand on her arm. She trembled beneath my touch, small warning shudders before a greater quaking overtook her. It was some sort of seizure, I realized, as her eyes rolled to white, her little mouth opening soundlessly. I didn’t know what to do. I knew CPR, but had no idea what to do with a seizure victim. Lay her down? Stick something in her mouth to keep her from biting her own tongue? I couldn’t even decide if I should try and help her, or if I should leave her and run for help.
What happened next decided it for me.
Her smooth skin began to shimmer, just around the edges at first, like she was backlit, but it soon spread to the center of her frame, like wind rippling over water, except that this was a human being. I felt the texture of her skin alter beneath my hands, softening like putty, and quickly let go when I saw what looked like bruises popping up beneath my thumbs. But the bruises lifted also, like they were attached to my hands, and I jerked away. Her skin, like rubber, snapped back into place. It must have hurt because Jasmine’s wide, rolling eyes seemed to fix on mine. Her open mouth shifted, like something had come unhinged inside, and her jaw extended into a gaping yawn. By the time I realized her teeth had grown unnaturally pointed and deadly sharp, her misshapen jaw was as long as my forearm and growing longer.
God help me, I thought, backing into the shelves with a startled crash. I was going to get eaten by a preteen!
Jasmine-or what used to be Jasmine-reached out to me with her hand, and I noticed the bruises I’d accidentally inflicted had spread. Her whole arm was that deep, shimmery color…and that hand had grown speared claws. I jerked away, dodged another swipe, and began to run across the great room, back into the tunnel leading to the shop, back to where little girls didn’t turn into voracious monsters.
Jasmine roared behind me.
I hurtled through the dark passageway blindly, banging like a pinball against the narrow walls, but keeping my eyes fixed on the pinprick of light at the other end. Was it me, or was this tunnel getting longer? And was the panted breathing behind me getting closer?
“Zane!” I yelled, picking up speed. “Help!”
I’d have stopped to fumble for my conduit, but the-child-formerly-known-as-Jasmine was closer now. I could hear the report of little feet slapping behind me, needy growls erupting from her elongated throat, and knew if I stopped she’d be on me before I could draw and aim. Besides, shimmering spawn of Dracula or not, did I really want to kill her?
Finally, as the light grew larger and the hallway shorter, I could make out the shop beyond the doorway. There were chairs and shelves and-far, far off-the front door. I ran faster. Jasmine roared again. A figure stepped into the doorway of the passage, and I heard a gasp before Carl came barreling toward me as well.
“Carl, no!” He must not have seen the monster on my ass. “Move!”
He did…just enough to send his shoulder barreling into me. My breath left me in a whoosh, and I ended up on my back, Carl on top of me…Jasmine poised for attack at the tip of my head. But she wasn’t looking at me. Carl was yelling, telling me to calm down and let Jasmine get in front of me. His other instructions were hurried, mumbled, panted-something about mask, identity, hide-but I got the gist of it.
“What, Carl? What is it?” I asked as Jasmine squeezed past us with feline grace, limbs blackened to the point of opaqueness, stretching, elongating, and retracting as needed. No wonder she’d been gaining on me. She was a life-sized Gumby! So fixed was I on the sight of her gelatinous legs, I almost missed what Carl said next.
“Joaquin.”
Jasmine roared again, and ahead of me a shadow moved to block the light from the shop. All the breath left my body on a shaky exhale. My conduit was out of reach, dumped on the floor when Carl tackled me, and my glyph had failed to fire in warning. But Carl was right. Joaquin had arrived. And Master Comics had just turned into the little shop of horrors.
7
He wore no mask, though I’d have known who he was beneath it anyway. Silhouetted in the doorway where Carl had been moments earlier, he wore a suit that accentuated his frame, making his shoulders as broad as a linebacker’s, but narrow at the hips. Sugar-coated heat rose in roasting waves from his body, and the air in the hallway gave way to a cloying sweetness that clung to my nostrils, coating my throat. The scent was unmistakable, as was the man. He took a determined step forward.
