The Eloise May is the newest addition to the Arapahoe County library system.  It’s the government project that provides me with the sweet satisfaction of all those books I can’t afford on my patchwork salary.  It’s a nice place, with terrible parking.  (I only say that because I can rarely find a spot.)  They have a large selection of works in Russian, notable only because people have said a criminal element helped support its building.

I know differently.  Well, sort of.   I don’t actually _know_ if the Red Poets Society (as I’ve dubbed them) contains too many people with connections to the aforementioned brotherhood, but it wouldn’t surprise me.  Old sorcerors have interesting stories.  Alas, stories like that generally cost something to learn, and I was on a lean budget when it came to secrets.  I happened to stumble onto this one while in line waiting for the library to open one morning.

(In case you were wondering, ignorance can truly be bliss.  While I know knowledge only implies responsibility, it does it to the responsible types.  And with great power, well, you know the rest.  Ask Peter Parker for more details.  With practitioners, there are truly things that, to know them, causes unrest in that hurly-burly thing we tend to refer to as the soul.   For some people it’s just the minor discomfort like knowing your parents (and their parents before them – yep, grandma and grandpa) had sex.  For others, it’s like knowing someone in your family listens to conservative talk radio and takes its morass of ridiculous supposition on limited policy seriously.  Those are like, I don’t know, soul indigestion.  Beans.  You know, good for your heart.  Those things are, well, peanuts, at least, to what kinds of things you can learn when you’re in the business.  Imagine a soul kidney stone…and imagine it’s all that you have in order to save the world?  Knowledge is dangerous business.)

(If you’re wondering what happened at work, “It’s so easy a simulacrum can do it,” kind of handled it.  I did have one of the older ladies who works in finance ask me if I’m normally so quiet, but I just smiled and didn’t say anything.  That’s knowledge I can give you for free, but imagine what it would have cost the accountants if I explained in further!)

I used Wikipedia to catch me up on the three important periods of Russian poetry, so if the conversation actually wandered that way I could feel like I knew something.  I did not get very far in my study of the free Russian courses, but I admired that the language has fewer tenses than English, even if it does make you sound a bit like a badly scripted robot.  (I considered learning the word “exterminate” in Russian, but tossing in a bad Doctor Who reference amongst people who could level cities (with a half-day’s preparation) didn’t sound like a good idea.)

I do know a few words in a scattering of languages that relate to my practice.  I could maybe make a good attempt at “Where’s the water closet?” in a handful of tongues.  I wish I knew the trick that Maggie uses to do a magical translation, but I know when someone is being furtive.  There’s something about the esoteric arts that put them in a different tone of voice than ordering a sandwich, or gossiping on someone’s dress.

The Magster talks a lot about how words for “witch” generally split into two designs – that of danger such as poisoners and oathbreakers or the way of the wise and those who “know.”  To me that sounds a little too Illuminati.  Honestly, everyone wants to be one of those “in the know,” usually with all the power and none of the responsibility.  I take it with a grain of salt; similar to the one I take with a lot of her witchy subculture.

But… and yes, there’s almost always a “but,” enough that we could probably coin a magical rule on it… like calls to like, and magic is there for those who look for it.  So when I was accosted while trying to pick up some of my reserves with, “You are one of us,” I figured it out pretty fast.

(Actually, my brain kind of ran down a decision tree like, “One of us.  Um.  Male.  Yep.  White.  Yep.  Library-goer.  Yep.  Let’s skip to the part where we’re likely to make a point of it.  Oh.  One of US…”)

“Come to poetry night,” I was told.

“OK,” I replied.

Yep, I’m a master of snappy come-backs.   Of course, I didn’t expect to have a realm guardian, the mark of a shadow god, and the acquaintance of the Questor all in the few days before the meeting.  It might have changed things.

I considered trying to point out landmarks or something that might be of interest to a fey to distract Doloise along her way.  In truth, I was dreading the conversation that began, “Um, no, you actually can’t stay here all day.”  Guide and guardian.  I know she had some talent, sure, and was definitely in the heavyweight league, but I was more concerned about the creatures tied up in her.  I mean, was this a timeshare operation that was costing something outrageous? 

All magic costs.  Nothing’s for free.  I want to say there are exceptions to every rule, and sure, there’s fairytale magic that you don’t see the immediate costs of, but it’s a fairly strict equation.  If you’re in the big leagues, maybe the costs are tied to the rules, but even what I practice has its own co-pay, so to speak.  That’s one of the arguments between the shades of magic I’ve heard over and over again; “good” magic is sourced in the self or willing sacrifice, and “bad” magic is sourced in someone else or unwilling sacrifice.

Magda calls baloney on it and I’m generally in agreement (if not thoroughly convinced by her arguments, either.)  She points out that some of the strongest magic comes from repetition, the kind of will that is reinforced by the act occurring identically a multiple number of times.  While on a physics level (dirty rats, physicians…erm… that’s not the term) it certainly costs energy, once you start labelling sacrifice “willing” and “unwilling” you’re ignoring that will can be oriented somewhere else entirely and still have magical consequence.  The person opening a door to get somewhere is, most of the time, not caring that that opens the door for a thousand other things, from the cool wind or a gnat or a multitentacled being from beyond the grave.  (If the lattermost could be subtle.  They really can’t.  They’re not psychic neutral – they give off dread and despair like a real man sweats.  I, on the other hand, use a good antiperspirant.  Hmmm.  “Cool-thulhu.  Keep your cool in the direst situations.”  Advertising wasn’t really my medium.)   

So, to continue with the door metaphor, if it’s a hot day, the cool wind is going to have a small effect, and so is the energy required to open the door.  But the consequences stop being “willing” very soon on, so unless every opening of a door is an act of “evil” then we have to start to consider intent, and I don’t think anyone with a brain wants thought police.  (I’ve enough trouble keeping my mouth shut.  Imagine trying not to think the things I think!  Which is different than not being punished for them anyway.  Somehow, women always know…)

You also run into the problem (and here is where Maggie’s convinced) that unless you really are under the rules of “my strength is the strength of ten because my heart is pure,” while your “white mage” is exhausted, using her own energy (and maybe some given to her by her friends), the “black mage” is still going strong, her energizer battery being fuelled by everything she can possibly steal, kill, or otherwise grab.  If it’s a battle won by pure power, guess who wins?

There are those, however, who do try to think ahead that much, and I hope their talents are similarly untainted.  I also know practitioners who only do magic with their left hands and interact with the daily world with their right.  I don’t know that they drive that well, and tennis is just out of the question.

So when I was considering those behind Doloise and their interaction, I was concerned because someone had to pay for her.  Somewhere my name got involved in the contract, and since I didn’t get to read it, I was hoping it wasn’t one of those like from the hospital that says, “And if your insurance doesn’t cover it, you agree to foot the bill.” 

I know, I’m such an optimist.

Guide and guardian.  I guess I could test it – get myself in trouble, or something and make her get me out.   I was already worried as to how much having a simulacrum in my position set me back.  There hadn’t been any nasty messages, or, well, messages at all on my voicemail when I checked it last night, so I was guessing I was still employed.

That reminded me, then, that I had the ultimate fey distraction tool.  An iPhone.  (Well, an off-brand equivalent I’ve patched to be pretty awesome.)  I wonder if the fey like Ninja Ropes.

I was having the best dream ever.  Magdalena had rolled onto her back, smiling her “come-hither” smile, and I felt her hand pulling at the back of my neck.  She whispered something I wouldn’t repeat for the world, but that’s fine because it was meant for me, not the aforementioned planet.  I think it had something to do with the blissful sweetness of glazed doughnuts.

And then, of course, I woke.  Huh.  I had set the alarm afterall.

“What is your obsession with pastries?” Doloise asked.

It hadn’t moved all night, so as I could tell.  The community that called itself Doloise (I resolved to look up the meaning of the name later) still sat on the edge of the chair that delineated my bedroom from what lay beyond.  The edge because there was a stack of graphic novels piled up where one’s rump might normally rest.

I rolled off the bed and headed into the small pit of chaos referred to as the place where I drained my lizard.  Choose your euphemism wisely, padawan.  I took my time and brushed my teeth.  I decided not to shave.  I hesitated on the shower for a minute, but then decided I could use the sprayer as a club if I needed, and took the chance.

“My guide and my guardian.”  I spent what was normally my personal time considering methods and means to ditch her.  They weren’t as fun as my normal fantasies, I can tell you.

She was still there as I came out of the bathroom.  I stared back at her while I rubbed the towel over my chest.  She still wore those amber shades.

“I guess you’re welcome to stay,” I decided.  “I have to go to work.”  Because, you know, the phones won’t answer themselves, and, um, the e-mail won’t print itself out.  Oh wait, I know!  Someone needs to listen to the water cooler.

I’m not dissatisfied with my jobs.  I like having them.  The ability to maintain the variety of food, water, warmth, and shelter that makes my life worth living kind of requires them, or at least, the results I get from completing them.

I pulled some blinds down to check in the parking lot.   I’d given it even odds that my simulacrum could drive.  Looks like I’d have to pay myself, ’cause I won and lost the bet.  Um.    At least my car wasn’t in the normal parking place.   I had remembered that briefly from last night, now that the memory was triggered – we’d parked the stolen bike there.

“Are you still contractually obligated to the simulacrum’s position?” Doloise asked.

“Yeah, you could call it that,” I said, sighing.  That was pretty low, actually.  I had to have a day job – I didn’t like ramen.  I thought for a moment of asking my mom for money.  The conversation played out in my head.

“Mom, I have to escort this creature that looks like a girl but really is a whole bunch of different people’s identities and magic stuffed into a woman-shaped suit back to her homeland to get her to stop bothering me.  Could I borrow some rent money?”

No, no, what my mother would have to say would be either on the, “Does she have a real job?” leading to the grandchildren discussion of doom, the, “What happened to Magda?  I liked her,” discussion of doom, or the, “My son should not need to consort with prostitutes,” conversation of, well, doom.

Doom, doom, and doom.

“I’ll buy you a doughnut if you get me back to my car,” I told Doloise.

“Do you not have something more…” she hesitated on the word.

I couldn’t think of one, either.  Really, what’s better than a six-pack of convenience-store powdered doughnuts for a quick breakfast?  “This ain’t the Ritz, babe.  I think I’ve got a couple cans of chili in the cupboard, maybe some microwave dinners.  I am twenty minutes late if I want the bus, so do we move or do you want to stay here after waving your magic wand at the bike so I can get to where I need to go?”

Doloise stood.  I would say she seemed kind of flustered.  “We have not given you your payment,” she said.

“You got me home.  Let’s call it even.”

Her sunshades slipped down and I caught a flash of green.  “That is unacceptable.  A debt of gratitude may exist between us.  I remain your guide and guardian.  If we must partake of these…doughnuts, it shall be sufficient.”

I slipped on some shoes, having dressed in what was still basically clean resting on my bathroom hamper.  “Fine.  I know just the place.”

I glanced at my wall calendar on the way out, and swore.  Tonight was the Russian poetry meet.  I could tell it was going to be a long, long day.

Hi.  I’m Ed.  I squish things man was not meant to know.

Seriously, though, I’m just one of many footsoldiers against the forces of darkness.  In my case, I’m usually up against the squiggly things.  The astounding deviancy of  multilegged beings so unnatural to humanity they have chitin rather than backbones, as if they were the sticky spawn from a place far, far from the rocks from under which they crawl… um, end of Lovecraft moment.

So, I met E while working a low profile case at a condo west of Denver proper.  I was dressed in my working gear, which includes the little *fwt-phwt* machine you generally see guys like me carting around.  Mine blows a little air more than anything else.  I use it to disturb things.   Don’t get me wrong – I’m still probably played by John Goodman in the film of my life, but I don’t use poison unless I have to, and I certainly don’t spray the kind of xenomorph-blood acid Delbert did in _Arachnophobia_.  (Yeah, it was a dumb little fun movie.)

You see a lot of crazy in my line of work.  No, I wasn’t leaving out a word, although a few might fit there.  See, I’m a utility kind of guy.  Most of the time I’m not invisible, like water or power to the privileged suburbanite, but you want me to be.  If you have to call me, you’re in trouble.   You’ve already got a problem.

Most people don’t stop to count the legs.  That makes sense – if it skitters, it’s not likely a pet.  (Disclaimer: my boss has told me I cannot advertise small, untrained, yappy dogs as “pests” that can be “controlled.”  Nor their ignorant caretakers.  And contrary to the story Maggie tells, I did not leave a small child at the pound.)

These things didn’t just have too many legs; they crawled in and out of places that didn’t exist.

It helps that dad ran a small handyman business while I was in school.  I know what to look for in a well-joined cove base.  (It’s that area between the floor and the wall that collects dust that drives your wife crazy to stare at while she’s sitting on the throne.   Or, at least it did mine.)  That’s why I know these critters were not going through into the wall or floors.  They were doing some kind of crazy dance that didn’t have anything to do with cracks, spackle, or euclidean geometry.

“Canaries,” E called them.  I know he was referring to the coal mines, not pretty little golden birds upon which cats snack.

“They have a better name?”

“That’s their job description.  I’ve heard them called flitters, twinklings, umbrats, glints, and my favourite, shadow puppets.  Let’s just call them glints.  They’re attracted to certain kinds of magic use, especially quincunxial types.”

I did ask him if he was speaking English, even though I knew he was speaking Technical of a type I wasn’t a techie.

Then he did his magic.

I’m a sane, rational, reasonable man.  I’ve seen swarms, I’ve seen natural states of decay, and solifugids that have turned other men pale.  What I saw when bent down and did…whatever it is he does… to the glints wasn’t right.  It wasn’t a part of the world I knew.

Look, I’m a dude.  I have two and a half ways of handling that situation.  I can fight it, I can f… I can make friends with it.

I wasn’t fighting anything that can bend space and time like the engineering deck on an old Starfleet vessel.

And I don’t swing that way, anyway.

So, I became a convert.  I always recommended my customers learn how to close jars and windows anyway, so it wasn’t like I had to do too much changing of my spiel.  Now I look for the things that are, well, things, and not just members of entymological interest.  I call E in when I know it’s something on which bait, sprays, and the methods of this world won’t work.  He calls me in when he needs a cover to go looking someplace unpleasant.

It’s a working relationship.

Unlike what he has with Maggie, of course.

Yeah, yeah, I’ll keep out of it.  But if he’s smart, he’ll find someone who doesn’t drive him crazy.

I love E, man, like a brother, and he’s the best there is at what he does, but he’s not smart.