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CHAPTER THIRTY-SEVEN


The smell of freshly baked bread wafted through the portal in the moments before we stepped through. The bakery looked different in the light. An orderly queue of patrons waited their turn at the counter, while pairs of faux-Parisians sipped complicated coffees and nibbled delicate baked goods at a collection of tables that lined the street. We came out on the sidewalk across the street, Tembo leading the way with his dimension-altering staff. Bee and I set up a perimeter, then signaled the all clear. Saint Matthew and Chesa were the last ones through the portal before it closed.

“Are you sure about this?” Chesa asked.

“One hundred percent,” I answered, though my actual certainty hovered around the seventy percent mark. “Evelyn said the cage was in the sky, where we first met.”

“So that would be her house, right?” Chesa looked around the street uncertainly. “Shouldn’t we be there?”

“My first thought, too. But, first of all, that place burned down. Secondly, Evelyn told me that was wrong.”

“And you’re trusting her?” Bee asked. “The lady who tried to kill us? That’s what you’re going with?”

“I am,” I said. “The soul cage is here. I’m sure of it.”

“That’s some big Grace energy,” Matthew said, patting his belly. “I love it. Hope it doesn’t get us all killed. Do I smell donuts?”

“I thought the tower was the soul cage,” Chesa said. We were crossing the street, much to the startled concern of the café dwellers at their tables. “Lumiere kept going on and on about it.”

“Yes. I mean, partially. That’s where he kept most of his soul, and where he used the souls that Evelyn had gathered to complete his transformation into the Iron Lich.” We reached the curb in front of the bakery. The patrons outside scattered, abandoning their steaming cups of coffee and their croissants mid-nibble. The commotion was drawing the attention of the folks inside. “But we’re all forgetting the central concept of a lich. You can’t just kill them.”

“Because they’ve got their soul on backup,” Chesa said. “How did I miss that?”

“We’ve had a lot going on.” I stopped in front of the door. Inside, Pierre came out of the kitchens with a look of confusion on his face. When he spotted us through the window, he dropped his tray of madeleines and began running in tiny circles. “Trust me on this. I can explain later.”

“I’m in,” Bethany said.

“You bet,” Matthew answered. The others smiled or nodded, preparing their weapons. Chesa was the last to respond.

“Okay, John. I trust you.”

“Right.” I drew my sword, then shouldered my way through the door. The tiny bell tinkled as I entered the patisserie. The crowd, still waiting in line, stared at us in disbelief.

“Apologies, folks,” I said. “This is about to get weird.”

One of the things that marked me in my pre-Knight Watch life was that technology tended to break around me. It was inconvenient at times. My car was always breaking down, my phone dropped calls and occasionally turned into a deck of cards, computers bricked in my presence. Light bulbs dimmed and flickered as I passed. But once I assumed the mantle of the Unreal, it became a much bigger deal. Not only could I ruin technology by my presence, but I had to actively avoid artifacts of the modern world to maintain my mythic identity and powers. That meant a lot of boiled meat, and no books that hadn’t been copied by hand, usually with illuminations in the margins. As the Eccentrics found out, even the Gestalt was vulnerable to my presence. And when you get a whole group of technology-averse cosplayers in the same room, the effect can be dangerous.

If those cosplayers start manifesting magical powers, it’s only a matter of time before the Unreal takes over. As these lovely faux-Parisians were about to find out.

Folding the enarme straps firmly around my wrist, I transformed my shield from targe into wall shield, then planted it into the black-and-white tiles of the floor with a crash. Patrons scurried away, cursing in French and English and Martian. With a twirl of my sword, I invoked a barrier of shimmering light that spread out from my shield in either direction, then washed forward like a wave, upsetting tables and driving the remaining bakery-goers against the far wall.

Pierre emerged from behind the counter, armed with a rolling pin.

“Non! Ce n’est pas bien! Vous devez tous partir! Immediatement! Je ne vais pas—”

“Okay, okay, you’re kind of straining Mademoiselle Couturier’s lessons, Pete!” I shouted over the general din of confusion and outrage. “This will only take a second. Everyone, do a trick!”

Tembo started the ball rolling. Literally. He produced a marble-sized orb of swirling light in his palm. When he blew on it, it rolled across the floor, getting larger and larger until it struck the far wall, exploding into a cacophony of colored streamers, confetti, and tooting horns. I gave him an odd look.

“Birthday trick,” he said with a shrug. “I figured it was better than fireball, given the circumstances.”

“Unusual restraint from the mage,” Bee said. She hopped over the shimmer barrier of my shield, then started jumping from shadow to shadow, her form rippling into insubstantiality with each leap. The sound of her passage was like satin tearing.

“Come on,” I said, turning to the others. “It’s going to take everyone.”

The rest of the team got involved. Saint Matthew glowed brighter and brighter, until the light coming off of him was like lightning in the shape of a soccer dad. Chesa’s bow twanged like a harp as she sent flights of arrows into progressively smaller targets, bouncing arrows off walls and glassware. The small group of Gestalt citizens huddled in the back of the shop was properly freaked out by now. Pierre squatted under one of the tables, hands over his head, shivering. The effort was quickly depleting my magical reserves. I could feel the power draining from my bones like sand running out of a broken clock.

The change happened suddenly. A fog bank rolled down the street outside, obscuring the surrounding buildings. In the gloom, streetlamps turned on, devolving from electricity to gas to torches in a matter of heartbeats. The baked goods filling the display cases boiled and seethed, delicate pastries frothing into inchoate masses, croissants curling in on themselves like pill bugs, until nothing remained but pancakes. Stacks and stacks of doughy, damp, flavorless pancakes.

“Oh, thank Heaven,” Matthew said. He cut his light, then leaned over and rested his hands on his thighs. A puff of golden mist came out of his mouth when he spoke. “I don’t think I could have kept that up much longer.”

“I’m pretty sure you’ve given me a suntan on that side of my body,” Bee said, peeling back the collar of her leather armor. There was a sharp line of lobster-red skin next to pale white. “Ugh.”

Pierre cried out in distress. The diminutive baker threw himself at the nearest case, pulling open the top and sinking his hands into a messy stack of pancakes. Bringing the dough to his mouth, he licked the top of one of the cakes, then burst into tears.

“Why, monsieur? Why would you do this? C’est un crime contre le pain!”

“I’m sorry for your pain, Pierre. But this had to be done,” I said, then looked up at the ceiling. “There. Do you see it?”

Last time we were here, the ceiling had caught my attention. It was a beautiful painting, comparable to the Sistine Chapel or the video scoreboard at the Cowboys’ stadium in Arlington. Rosy-cheeked cherubs frolicked around gilt roses, and a sky of impossible clouds embraced a pair of figures at the center. There was a robed woman, holding a silver laurel over her head. She was standing on an iron platform, under which a crowd of skeletons was slowly being crushed.

“Immortality conquering Death,” Tembo said. “Like in the Palais.”

“It’s different in the Gestalt. Something about apples and barely clothed nymphs. But once you get into the Unreal . . .” I nodded, looking around. “We’re going to need a ladder or something.”

“My apologies to the proprietor,” Tembo said, then sent a bolt of lightning into the ceiling. The crack and shatter of plaster and plasma deafened me. Chunks of ceiling cascaded down, along with dust, lathing, and flakes of gilt. Chesa and Bee both sheltered under my shield, which I had reflexively lifted overhead as Tembo gestured upward.

Once the dust settled, we were left staring at the debris. It was not all plaster and wood. An iron cage lay in the middle of the floor. The bars were etched with runes, and capped with brass and other alchemical elements. There was no door in the cage. But inside, bound in copper wire, was a tiny doll, with button eyes, a scrap of real hair, and a disturbing resemblance to tanned human skin. A bright red line dimpled the doll’s face, cutting across one of the eyes.

“Well, that’s disturbing,” I said. Bethany leaned down and poked at the doll through the bars with her dagger.

“So, what, we’re supposed to destroy this somehow?” she asked.

“Seems like it.” I gave the cage a desultory kick. “Tem, can you get that thing open? Metal to mud, or something?”

“My reservoirs are empty, Sir John,” Tembo said. “As I suspect is true for most of us. We will need to find a mundane solution to the problem.”

“I could pick the lock, if there was one,” Bethany said. “There’s not even a door.”

“Right. Brute force.” I stood up, dusting my hands together. “Let’s see if there’s a hammer in the back. Or a pry bar. We should be able to—”

The little brass bell on the door tinkled again. The Iron Lich stepped into the bakery. He looked rough. Deep gouges covered his once pristine carapace, and the crack I’d put in his skull had spread to his jaw, leaving his mouth hanging loose on one side. His left leg looked like a candle that had been left out in the sun for too long, and every time he moved there was a loud clattering sound deep in his chest. But he was carrying a length of iron trestle that was sticky with blood, and he looked ready to use it. The few remaining customers screamed in terror and ran through the kitchens. Even Pierre, still mourning the loss of his croissants, had the presence of mind to flee.

“Unhand the doll,” Lumiere growled. “And then everyone gets hurt.”

“I think you’ve got that backward?” I said, putting myself between the team and the lich. “Aren’t you supposed to offer to spare us if we hand you your weird, creepy soul-doll thing?”

“My offer stands,” he said, then tried to take my head off with the iron beam.

I tripped as I backpedaled out of range of the swing. He limped forward, dragging the twisted remnant of his left leg behind him. Lifting the beam in both hands, he prepared to smash my face into the back of my skull.

Best I could do was scramble closer so I was inside his reach. The cudgel came down, smashing plaster and cracking the floor even worse. Both his elbows went into my shoulders. At least it spared my noggin, but I was forced to sit back down hard and fast. Tembo gestured toward the lich, and there was a flicker of light around his fingers, but nothing materialized. The big mage was still shaking his hand when Lumiere kicked me to the side.

“Don’t let him get the cage!” I shouted as I rolled against the display case. Bee obliged, vaulting over a broken table to scoop up the doll and its container. Lumiere roared and threw his beam at her like a javelin. It missed her, but the resulting explosion of plaster and paneling sliced her up pretty bad. She hit the ground hard, and the cage bounced away. Chesa went for it, but Lumiere grabbed her by her braids and tossed her against the wall.

“You think you can come into my world and do whatever you want?” Lumiere’s booming voice echoed through the bakery like a land mine. “You have ruined my family, my plans, and now my soul.” His steel fingers closed on the cage. Holding it up, he smashed Tembo in the face, then backhanded Matthew. Both went down. “The only way out of this is death. For all of you!”

“Pass!” I shouted. He rotated slowly toward me, the now bloody cage overhead. “You’re going to have to give me that doll, Claude. Before I get serious.”

He looked slowly around the bakery. The rest of the team was down. The room was in ruins. The civilians were gone. There was nothing but destruction and waste.

“Serious how? Seriously funny?” he asked.

“Worse.” I kicked my sword into my hand, gripping it in both hands as I took the best guard I could without a shield. “Seriously swordy.”

“That’s the dumbest thing I’ve ever—”

I charged forward, shuffling my feet through the wreckage to keep from tripping. Startled, Lumiere swung at me with the cage, but his footing was terrible and he overextended, stumbling slightly to his left. The tip of my sword rattled between the bars, piercing the doll inside. Lumiere gasped, grabbing at his chest. I didn’t wait, driving the sword all the way forward until my hilt cracked against the iron cage. Then I rotated on my right foot, driving my shoulder into his chest with the full weight of my body. Which, admittedly, isn’t that much, but it was enough to get him to drop the cage.

Lumiere grabbed at me as I pushed away from him. Whatever pain he felt was masked by the sheer terror in his voice. “Wait, I can save you!” he shouted as I ran past the counter. “Immortality! Think of it! No end to life!”

“I’d rather die a hero than live a monster.” I hit the kitchen door at a full sprint. Just as I’d hoped, the whole patisserie had descended into the Unreal. A broad hearth burned where the stoves used to be, with a roaring fire in its heart. I skidded to a halt and launched the cage off my sword and into the flames.

Lumiere’s soul burned like a flare. Spears of hot white flame jetted out of the doll’s head and hands, and then the whole effigy burst open. A fiery heart of pure white light roared, flickering into green and coruscating waves of blue and black. The iron cage melted like wax, sealing the blacked outline of the doll into the floor of the hearth. Behind me, Lumiere’s shrieks filled the world.

The Iron Lich burned from the inside out. The light erupted between his joints. Flames licked the metal plates of his chest, and crawled between the gaps in his hand. The crack in his skull bubbled with molten iron, which fell in hissing, spattering drops to the ground. He went to his knees, falling apart even as he reached toward me, hands clenching as though he meant to strangle me with his last breath. But there was no breath. Claude Lumiere was long dead. This mockery of a life drained out of him, burning away in a plume of noxious smoke and the screams of a man who clung to life so hard he crushed everything in it that might have mattered.

He toppled forward and came apart. Inside that frame of iron and bone and ivory, there was nothing that looked like a man. Only ashes, and the brittle machinery of science.


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