Lies of the Beholder (Legion 3)

“City fairgrounds. There’s an outdoor performance tonight. Starts in a half hour.” Audrey checked her phone. “Right at sundown.”

That sounded like Sandra. I tucked the paper in my pocket, then turned to go.

“Hey,” Audrey said, “you think … maybe you can imagine me a shotgun or something?” She bit her lip. “In case, you know, this goes south? And … the nightmares come to…”

“That won’t happen.”

“And if it does?”

“Break into J.C.’s room.”

“And set off the inevitable booby traps? You know he has them. Even if we haven’t seen them, he has them.”

She was right. He probably had a minefield installed under the floor or something.

Audrey chuckled as Stormy brought her a mimosa, and I left, a bitter taste in my mouth. If Audrey was worried, that was very bad.

The halls of the mansion were oddly quiet, contrasting with the disturbance earlier. I didn’t pass a soul, human or imaginary, as I walked toward the door. The place felt so hollow, I almost worried that they’d all just … vanished on me. Then I heard Ivans shouting from the conservatory, where another group had gathered.

I tried calming myself with some deep breaths, and checked outside. I spotted Ivy and Ngozi near the far hedge. Ivy was very careful not to put her arm around Ngozi, but her posture was encouraging. Eventually, the two walked over.

Ngozi was still wearing a face mask and gloves, but she removed the mask as she stepped up to me. I always forgot how tall she was; she easily had five inches on me. She spoke with a lofty accent, Nigerian with a hint of her British education. “I’m sorry. I … panicked.”

“Can you handle this?” I asked.

“Yes. If you’re sure you need me.”

I wasn’t sure. I couldn’t be sure what this case would require—but I had a hunch. Things were never simple when Sandra was involved. And if we couldn’t find anything at the coordinates Sandra had sent, Ngozi was our best bet at investigating a possible crime scene.

“I am sure I need you,” I said. “But there might be a crowd at the fairgrounds. Are you going to freak out, like last time?”

“Depends. Is someone going to try to give me leprosy this time?”

“One person sneezed on you, Ngozi.”

“Did you hear that sneeze? Do you know how many germs the average uninterrupted sneeze can produce? Projected into the air, hanging like little mines, sticking to your face, your skin, infiltrating your system…” She shivered, then held up a gloved hand to interrupt my next complaint. “I can do it, Stephen Leeds. I will do it. This is … a special case.”

Ivy and Ngozi walked to the limo, which was still parked by the curb. Barb was polishing the hood ornament, but she’d left the back door open, in case aspects needed to enter. Tobias sat inside already, reading a thick book to keep his mind off our troubles. That made three. I could handle three.

Four, I thought, checking my phone. There was no response from J.C., so I texted him. Did you stop to catch a movie or something?

A response came shortly after. Stupid Uber stopped and picked someone else up, then drove the wrong direction. I finally managed to get out at Seventeenth and State.

I sighed. J.C., did you just climb in a random Uber?

… Maybe.

What were you thinking!

I’ve got my stealth suit on. They can’t see me. Figured I could head the right direction, then get out and take another.

It was as close as he ever came to admitting he wasn’t real. Where another aspect would have been fine fudging things a little, catching an imaginary Uber, J.C.… well, J.C. didn’t play by the same rules. He tried to be real.

Or my brain tried to make him real. Or … or I don’t know. My head was pounding, and as I composed a reply, a large shadow fell over me. I glanced back and noticed Lua—a three-hundred-pound Pacific Islander—trying to read over my shoulder. Instead of his traditional survivalist gear, he was wearing his Cub Scout shirt. That’s right. Tonight had been pack meeting. He’d entirely missed the chaos inside.

“Hey, boss,” he said. He nudged his chin toward my phone. “You need me? I can do a J.C. impression. Grab a big knife. Glare at everyone.”

“No,” I said. “Thanks anyway.”

“You sure? If we’re tracking someone, I can track people.”

“We won’t be leaving the city—I’m hardly likely to get trapped in the wilderness or something.”

“No problem, boss,” he said. Then he clapped me on the shoulder. “Hey. Surviving isn’t just about making shoes from vines and an oven from mud and stones, you know? Keep your eyes up, boss. Shoulders back.”

“I … It’s getting hard, Lua. Harder every day. My own brain fights against me.”

“No. We’re your brain, boss. We fight with you.” Before stepping away, he clasped my arm and then gave me a hug.

And honestly, I felt a little better as I settled into the car. Meet us at the fairgrounds on Thirtieth, I told J.C. That might be easier.

I suppose, he texted back. But can’t you just wait?

Just meet us there. Don’t take someone else’s Uber. Here, I’m sending a cab for you. I had a few drivers around town who were willing to accept large sums to drive to a spot, open the door, then close it and drive an empty car to another spot. I should have done that for J.C. in the first place. I would have, if I’d been thinking straight.

Fine, he sent back. But be careful. Something feels wrong about all of this.

I mumbled to Barb where I wanted to go, and she pulled out. But I continued staring at the phone.

“You have to tell J.C. what happened, Stephen,” Tobias said from the seat beside me.

But I didn’t. Not yet. At least one of us could go on pretending, for a little while, that we hadn’t lost Armando. I locked the phone and tucked it into my jacket pocket.

FIVE

Dusk had fallen by the time we reached the fairgrounds, which—this time of year—was just a tramped-down field of dirt on the east side of the city. A large swell of people had gathered as if for a concert—they were common here—but were currently milling among vendors. The performance wasn’t to start for another few minutes.

Barb dropped us off at the curb. I absently bought us all tickets—paying for my aspects without thinking—then led us among the evening throng. The crowd made it difficult to see, but announcements were being made from a stage set up on the dirt ahead.

I hated crowds. Always had. It’s difficult for my aspects to maintain the illusion when people are milling around, mashed together, breathing the same stale air and conversing in a buzzing cacophony.…

So maybe Ngozi came by her germophobia honestly. She stuck closest to me, eyes forward, hand on my shoulder. I was proud of her, all things considered.

Ahead of us, the announcer quieted, and bright flares of light came from the stage.

“Are those fireworks?” Ivy asked from just behind us.

“No,” Tobias said. He dodged to the side, narrowly avoiding a collision with a little girl who shot past holding an ice cream cone. “I’ve read about what this is.” He gestured to an open spot up ahead.

We took refuge from the crowds under the eaves of a small toolshed for the fairgrounds staff, and I got my first good look at the performance. Men in protective clothing stood on the stage and threw molten metal up against a black fireproof backdrop.

The effect was dazzling, and for a moment the crowd seemed to vanish. Even my urgent worry about Sandra faded. The performers would dip a ladle into a bucket of the metal, then fling it up in a burning swirl. When the metal hit the wall, it splashed outward, exploding into thousands upon thousands of glittering sparks. These fell in waves, like molten rain.

It was like fireworks, but somehow more primal. No gunpowder or smoke. Just buckets, a steady hand, and perhaps an unhealthy disregard for one’s own safety.

“It’s called Da Shuhua,” Tobias said. “I’ve always wanted to see the performance in person. The story goes that hundreds of years ago, blacksmiths in Nanchuan, China, had no money for fireworks. So they came up with something else, using what they had on hand.”

The performers threw with frantic energy, ladle after ladle—as if they were trying to stay ahead of gravity and get all the fire into the air at once. The explosions of sparks created streaky patterns in the air, like tiny sprites flaring to life for a mayfly existence—one brilliant moment of life and glory, before succumbing to the cold.

“That can’t be safe,” Ngozi said.

“Wonder and irresponsibility are often bedfellows, Ngozi,” Tobias responded. I glanced at him, watching sparks reflect in his eyes. “The name Da Shuhua translates to something like ‘tree flowers’ and implies that you beat the tree and the flowers appear. You take something ordinary and make it extraordinary. All it takes is two thousand degrees.”

We watched until the performance reached an intermission. The crowd in the immediate vicinity started to disperse, seeking out food vendors or nearby carnival rides. I checked my phone, showing it to the others. Sandra’s coordinates indicated a spot ahead near the edge of the fairgrounds.

“We should be careful,” Ngozi said. “What would J.C. say?”

“Probably something vaguely racist and/or threatening,” Tobias noted.

“No, no, he’d say something like…” Ivy adopted a husky voice. “‘Guys, stop. Look very carefully. Do you see it? Do you see that? Is that … funnel cake?’”

Ngozi chuckled. But she was right, we should be careful. Fortunately, I’d prepared for this. I rounded the dusty fairgrounds, eventually positioning us a close—but safe—distance away from the coordinates. Judging by my phone’s map, our goal was a small path running near some trampled grass. That bench, I thought. I texted Barb, then settled down near some bushes where I could watch the bench without getting too close.

“Ngozi,” I said, unpacking some binoculars she could use. “Give that spot a look. Tell me what you see. Pretend it’s a crime scene.”

“What good is that going to do?” Ivy said. “She can’t just pretend there’s blood around.”