As the Moon Climbs

Part 7 of the serial Broommates. Start from the beginning or read the previous episode or click the “Broommates” link at the top of the page to see the full list.

* * * *

“So the dragon was trying to get through the door in the basement?” Miranda asked sweetly.

She wiped sweat off her forehead and glanced sideways at Booker, who stared at the basket in his hands. She had persuaded him to come with her on an herb-gathering expedition under the pretense of making sure she didn’t step on any proverbial toes by taking what she shouldn’t. She was still getting to know proper boundaries, after all. Really, she had decided he was the weakest link and wanted to pump him for information in private.

“I’m not supposed to talk to you about it,” Booker mumbled.

“Well, Anthony already told me that much,” she said, clipping a rose in full bloom and dropping the creamy pink flower in the basket. “I’m just trying to figure out where the door leads.”

Booker was silent. Around them, birds chirped and sang, bees hummed, and the occasional squirrel scurried up a tree and chittered at them.

“We need to know what to expect,” she continued. With another sideways glance, she added, “Think of what could happen to Beatrice.”

He blushed. “She can take care of herself,” he replied.

“I don’t know, I’ve had to pull her out of trouble a few times,” Miranda said. “Once we were in Pompeii and–” She froze.

“…And?”

“Shh.” The sounds of nature had been replaced by an uneasy hush. A twig snapped behind them and they both spun around, Miranda with a spell ready and Booker raising the basket like a shield.

A young woman faced them, eyes wide with fear. Her t-shirt and faded jeans were grubby and stained, her face strangely pointed but definitely Asian. Her hair was black but with a reddish tinge that made it look dyed. A giant flawless pearl hung suspended from a leather thong around her neck. She dropped to the ground in an obsequious bow, her forehead touching the dry leaves underfoot.

“Please,” she said. “You must help me.”

“Who are you?” Miranda asked.

“I am Tamamo-no-Mae,” she said, raising her head to look Miranda in the eyes. Hers were black as coal and slightly too large.

Booker inhaled sharply. “The kitsune?” he asked.

The woman nodded and he took a few steps backward in alarm. She bowed her head to the floor again, rocking slightly.

“I am not yako!” she exclaimed. “Please, I know there are tales of my past, but they are not true!”

“What did she do?” Miranda whispered.

“Killed an emperor,” Booker replied. “Among other people.”

“It was not me!” Tears streamed down her face. “I was accused unjustly and my spirit confined to a stone for centuries. The doors were closed while I was imprisoned and–”

“Now you want to go home,” Booker said.

She nodded. “Please.”

“Forget it.”

Miranda watched in silence as the woman pleaded with Booker, who was uncharacteristically stony. The gears of her mind spun at full speed. A kitsune was a kind of were-fox spirit creature from Below. The doors to the lands Below had been closed at the end of the last great magic war almost a hundred years before. If she was trying to get home and she had come here…

“Where are your tails?” Miranda asked. Tamamo’s already pale skin turned almost white.

“That’s right… You can’t have fit them in those jeans,” Booker said. He gasped. “You’ve become a ninko!”

“It was the only way to get out of the stone!”

“Kitsune-tsuki! Whose body are you possessing, then? Some poor girl from Nasu? Or maybe you got all the way to Tokyo before you–”

“I will leave her if you take me to the door, I swear it. If not…” Tamamo’s expression hardened. “I will stay in her until she withers, and then I will find a new host.” She rose to her feet gracefully and cocked her head to the side. “I have lived much longer than you, kōmōjin. I can be patient.”

Miranda slid her athame out and held it with the blade facing her elbow, concealed by her forearm. “Let’s be reasonable,” she said. “Booker, surely you’ve dealt with perfectly innocent stragglers such as our friend here? There are procedures in place?”

“Innocent?” he sputtered. “She’s possessed a–”

“Innocent until proven guilty. Which of you usually does the proving and how?”

Booker studied his feet. “It’s not just one of us. It’s sort of democratic, really.”

“What, you get together and vote people off the island?”

“That’s not fair! You make it sound like we’re some kind of… of…”

“Glorified bouncers?” Miranda approached Tamamo and clapped a hand on her shoulder. “Look at this poor creature. Go on, look.”

The kitsune contrived to seem more pale and helpless than before, shrinking in on herself and furrowing her brow.

“She’s come all the way from Japan,” Miranda continued. “She’s tired, dirty, probably starving, and you’re treating her like a criminal.”

Booker’s expression softened as doubt crept into his features.

“Go on. Look her in the eye and tell me that you think she’s evil.”

Tamamo and Booker locked eyes, black to sea green. A smile flickered on the woman’s face.

Quick as a snake, Miranda reached up and sliced the giant pearl from its thong around Tamamo’s neck. The kitsune screamed and collapsed to the ground. As Miranda and Booker watched, the girl’s features smoothed out, her eyes shrinking and narrowing and her hair losing its reddish tint.

Booker stared at the girl, then at Miranda. “Why did you do that? What if she was innocent, like you said?”

“What does it matter?” Miranda answered. “She possessed a girl. I voted her off the island. Her soul is stuck in her little rock here now, so we can decide what to do with her at our leisure.”

“How did you know to take her hoshi no tama?” Booker asked.

“Is that what this is called?” She held up the ball, which glowed softly. “I’d forgotten. We trained for this kind of thing in school. Weaknesses of magical creatures and all that.”

“What school?”

“Wouldn’t you like to know.” Slipping the ball into her pocket, she knelt down next to the unconscious woman. “Maybe I’ll tell you after we get this girl inside and figure out how to send her back where she came from.” She glanced up at him, smirking. “And then maybe you can tell me how the three of you fine gentlemen came to be in possession of the only remaining open door to the lands Below.”

* * * * *

Part 8: Passing Muster

Calliope Cervantes: The Art of War begins with Know Thy Enemy, or you can see the full list of Calliope Cervantes stories.

* * * * *

“Calliope Cervantes!” a deep, raspy voice shouted across the crowded IRS field office. Calliope stopped mid-stride to see the division chief barreling toward her, his exolegs clanking against the floor with every step.

“Agent Friendly,” she said when he reached her. “I’m on assignment. Just leaving, actually.”

“That’s what I want to talk to you about,” he growled. “I hear you’re hot on the trail of Titus Lynch.”

“What of it?”

“What of it?” He raised his metal fist and shook a finger at her. “You’re a loose cannon! I want you off that case or you’ll spend the rest of your IRS career teaching citizenship classes to five-year-olds!”

Calliope stared into his gun-barrel eyes and he stared right back, unflinching. His nostrils flared and beads of sweat formed on his upper lip. Her eyes narrowed. His widened.

Both of them burst out laughing.

“Hah! Citizenship classes,” Calliope said. “Seriously, Mack, can you picture me teaching a five-year-old anything?”

“How to disassemble a plasma rifle for cleaning, maybe,” Mack replied. “God, that loose cannon joke never gets old.”

“Not like you, eh?”

“Hey, all my parts still work,” he said, flexing his arm. “Not the parts I came with, of course, but they work. So what’s the plan for Lynch?”

“I just finished interrogating one of his people. Got a name that I was about to look up: Lorenzo Pratt.”

Mack chuckled. “I know that guy. Mid-level accountant. Ladies’ man. He won’t tell you a thing.”

“Really? I can be pretty persuasive.”

“Nah, he couldn’t if he wanted to. It’s all locked up in his wetware. Passwords, firewalls, you name it.”

“That’s what my source said.” She grinned like a shark at a fish buffet. “Luckily, I know someone who can get under a guy’s skin.”

* * * * *

The party at Club 42 was in full swing, lights pulsing in time with the rhythmic bass beat that boomed through the half-naked bodies writhing in erratic harmony. Both real and holographic dancers gyrated and spun in midair in the zero-G room while less adventurous people stuck to the regular lounge. Lorenzo was sitting at one of the bars when the two women walked in, holding hands and giggling. They were both short, but where the Eurasian one was lean and long-legged and supple, the other was some brand of Carib or New African, curvy in all the right places but muscular as well. He’d been about to take a turn in one of the VR rooms but he decided to put that on hold. The women sauntered over to the dance floor and proceeded to justify his decision with a delightfully provocative performance. Eventually they wandered up to the bar and ordered drinks, the Eurasian one making eyes at him and favoring him with a saucy smile.

He motioned for the bartender. “Give the ladies another of what they’re having, on me,” he said. This first effort was met with giggles and more smiling, as was the second; the third round of drinks brought the women over, tipsy and thankful.

“You’re such a gentleman,” the darker one gushed.

“I couldn’t be otherwise with two such beautiful ladies,” he replied, grinning. “May I ask your names?”

“I am Uzume,” the Eurasian one purred, her accent like Old Japanese. “This is Oshun.”

“Lorenzo. I was actually about to head for a classier place, if you’d like to join me? My treat.”

They exchanged a glance and again giggled. “Sure,” Uzume said. “Sounds fun.”

* * * * *

“And this is the bedroom,” Lorenzo slurred. A set of dimmed lights slowly faded to life, illuminating a huge four poster bed with strategically placed ropes and other accouterments. He couldn’t believe he’d gotten both of them back here, but then again, he’d spent enough credits to get a whale drunk.

“Are you trying to seduce me,” Uzume said, her voice husky. She ran a hand down the length of her thin chest, arching her back and smiling.

Lorenzo decided this was an invitation and promptly RSVP’d. They were both mostly undressed when he realized the curvy girl was missing.

“Where’s your friend?”

“She was not feeling so good,” Uzume murmured. “She will be here in a minute.” With a flip of her straight black hair, she slid onto the bed and gave him a show that was worth the price of admission. “Perhaps we can begin without her?”

He was more than happy to comply.

* * * * *

Calliope waited in the living room for what felt like an eternity, scouting the perimeter to be sure no unexpected guests were incoming. She’d had to leave most of her equipment at home, risking only the barest civilian tech on the off chance his apartment was wired with detectors. In the other room, low moans had signaled when Okame began her work; now, there was only silence.

Okame staggered out of the room, clutching her head. “We must leave.”

“Lorenzo?”

“Brain-dead. Nothing we can do.”

They scurried out the door and down the hall to the elevator lobby. “What happened?” Calliope asked. “And use small words so I can understand.”

“Later, please?”

“Now.” Calliope pushed the call button.

Okame’s eyes glazed over for a moment. “I penetrated his security–a challenge, but I am the Great Persuader. I downloaded many files before I noticed the virus, wiping everything I touched, coming for me. It was also sending out a signal–I could not see to whom.”

“Distress call.”

Okame inclined her head.

“How long until we’re up to our eyeballs?”

“That depends on how far away the–”

A soft chime signaled the arrival of the elevator. The doors opened and they nearly walked into a pair of burly men in flight suits, who eyed them suspiciously. Calliope almost unconsciously stepped back into a fighting stance.

“Well, hello there,” Okame said with a low whistle. “Are you fine men in a hurry?”

The beefier of the two grinned while the other rolled his eyes and elbowed his friend. Without a word, they rushed toward Lorenzo’s pad, leaving the women to step into the car and punch the number for the transport level.

“Have you ever met a guy who didn’t fall for that act?” Calliope asked.

Okame smirked. “Only the ones who prefer the company of men.”

“Of course.” The elevator chimed as it reached their destination. “Come on, then, let’s see what you’ve got floating around in your pretty little head.”

* * * * *

Next: Maneuvering

Part 6 of the serial Broommates. Start from the beginning or read the previous episode or click the “Broommates” link at the top of the page to see the full list.

* * * *

Carrie stared out the window of the car, watching trees yield to open farmland dotted with black and brown herds of cattle. Her sister Joanie was glued to a video game, as usual, and her parents were arguing, again as usual.

“It’s the next exit,” her mother said.

“The one after is closer,” her father insisted.

“But then we have to backtrack–”

“That takes less time than going straight there from this exit.”

Her mother crossed her arms. “Fine, great, there goes the exit anyway.”

“How about you drive on the way home?”

“I hate going to Grandpa’s,” Carrie mumbled. “He always does stupid magic tricks.”

“Don’t be rude,” her mother said, turning to look at her. “Your Grandpa loves to see you.” She launched into a lecture and Carrie tuned her out.

Soon enough they made their way down a dirt lane, a cloud of dust trailing behind them. Poplars and crepe-myrtles yielded to great oaks that arched their long, thick arms over the road, turning it into a green and brown tunnel. Old-man’s-beard hung in gray-green tangles that brushed the roof of the car, which had to slow down to avoid tree roots poking up from the ground.

“Nature’s speed bumps,” her father muttered. “Your dad should get them removed.”

“It’s his land,” her mother said. “He does what he wants.”

The house was as Carrie remembered: a two-story wooden mansion, whitewashed and spotless, lifted off the ground by brick pillars. A set of double stairs led up to the wraparound porch, whose white columns supported the grey shingled roof that separated the first floor from the second. Green shutters flanked every window, except for the one in the attic; those shutters were always closed.

Grandpa sat in a rocking chair on the porch, one of his large, wrinkled hands resting on his pot belly. His gray hair was smoothed back, neat as the white suit he wore even in the midday heat. As the two girls piled out of the car, a broad smile lit up his face and he stood to greet them.

“How are my little sweet potatoes?” he said, grabbing them both in a big bear hug. “Oh, you are getting so big! How old are you now?”

“Seven!” Joanie said, holding up her fingers.

“Ten,” Carrie mumbled.

“My goodness, but you are some fine young ladies!” He looked up at their mother, who blushed. “Do you want to see a magic trick?”

Carrie rolled her eyes and Jeanie nodded. With exaggerated care, Grandpa showed them that his sleeves were empty, then reached out and pulled a quarter from behind Jeanie’s ear. She giggled. He hid the coin in his fist, waved his other hand over it, and opened the fist to show a now-empty hand.

“It’s in your other hand,” Carrie muttered.

“Oh, someone’s getting sharp,” Grandpa said. With a smile, he showed her that both hands were empty. Carrie shrugged. “Check your pocket,” he said.

She did, but instead of a quarter, she found two dimes and a nickel.

Grandpa laughed at her frown. “Come on, then, into the house for some lemonade. You can go explore while your parents and I chat.”

Grandpa always put too much sugar in the lemonade, but Carrie drank it politely and then wandered outside with her sister. Joanie chased after the squirrels and butterflies, shrieking in excitement, while Carrie found a sturdy stick that became a makeshift sword. She swung at the flickers of light and shadow formed by the shifting leaves overhead until she found herself in an open area covered in grass, except for one place: a circle of rocks, or maybe mushrooms, large enough to fit a person inside. Moving closer, she stretched out her stick to poke one of the grayish-brown lumps that made up the circle.

“Time was that could get you killed,” a voice behind her said. She spun around, wielding the stick like a weapon, but it was only Grandpa leaning against a tree.

“That’s a fairy circle,” he said, ambling toward her. “Sacred to the Hidden Folk. Step into one of those and poof!” He showed her his empty hands as he had earlier.

“Fairies aren’t real,” she said.

He laughed. “Sure they are, pumpkin. They’re just a lot harder to find these days.”

“No, Grandpa,” she insisted. “It’s like fairy tales. Like Cinderella, or Sleeping Beauty. It’s all made up.”

“Like magic?”

“Yeah, like magic.”

“Then I guess you wouldn’t be too scared to get in that circle.”

Carrie eyed him warily. “Sure,” she said. “You first.”

“That’s my girl.” He stepped over to the stones–mushrooms?–and raised his leg, letting it hover in the air melodramatically. Carrie held her breath.

Grandpa put one foot inside, then the other. Nothing happened, not even a change in the wind or the cry of a bird.

“See,” she said. “No fairies.”

“That’s where you’re wrong,” he told her, crouching down and tapping the ground. “They’re all in here. Fairies and elves and duergar. All the Hidden Folk. Right on the other side of this door. Only it’s locked now. Can’t get in.”

Carrie backed away as Grandpa began to draw symbols in the dirt with his finger, muttering under his breath. She was almost to the trees when he looked up at her, his eyes black as the inside of her closet at night. He crooked a finger and she froze, unable to move or even blink.

“Nobody believes in magic anymore,” he said bitterly. “Not since the doors were closed. After the war.”

He made a curt gesture and Carrie’s legs jerked of their own volition, moving her forward like a stiff-limbed puppet. Like in a nightmare, she was unable to scream, her voice stuck in her throat no matter how hard she tried to push it out.

“Still one door open, though,” Grandpa said. Carrie reached his side and he pulled out a long curved knife, so sharp that she didn’t even feel it cut her arm. “Just need more time to get to it. More time. Some of yours…” Her eyes met his and she fell into their fathomless depths, flailing phantom limbs even as her body stood frozen, casting a lengthening shadow in the slanted light of the afternoon.

“Now,” he whispered. “Forget.”

* * * * *

The drive home was silent with the two girls sleeping in the back seat. Their mother drove while their father checked emails on his phone.

“Dad was looking good when he got back from his walk.”

“Fresh air and exercise, nothing like it.”

“He still drives me crazy, though. I don’t think he’ll ever forgive me for not being a boy.”

“Please. You have six older brothers. He has six older brothers. How many more boys does a man need in his life?”

“One more, I guess.”

“You see how he fawns over the girls. Relax.”

“Easy for you to say, you didn’t grow up with him.”

“We go over this every time we visit. You don’t have to keep seeing him if you don’t want to.”

“I…” She tightened her grip on the steering wheel, then relaxed it, a faraway look in her eyes. “You’re right. He really is attached to the girls. I wouldn’t want to take that away from him.”

* * * *

Part 7: Homeward Bound

I’ve been a fan of mystery stories since I was a kid. I remember sitting in the kitchen with my grandmother, watching Murder, She Wrote and Columbo after coming home from kindergarten. In books, Nancy Drew led to Sherlock Holmes and Hercule Poirot, and even as I indulged in epic realms of fantasy, I was always most attracted to detective stories. When I reach for one of Terry Pratchett’s Discworld books, three times out of four it will be one about Sam Vimes and the City Watch. There’s something about mysteries that works on both a visceral and intellectual level, challenging you to figure things out even as they goad you along with concern for whether the hero will get to the bottom of it in the end.

The novel I’m working on is urban fantasy, but it’s also a mystery: who is murdering homeless children, and to what end? This means that I have to consider all the tropes and conventions of a mystery novel while also juggling the expectations of an urban fantasy reader. I have to set up the crime even as I show the world and what makes it different from ours. I have to introduce the suspects as quickly as possible, which is a challenge when your main character isn’t a detective. I have to work magic into the methodologies of both the protagonist and the police, and I have to make it reasonable that the latter are failing where the former will succeed. I need to plant clues and red herrings and bring it all together at the end. And since the main character is a college student, I have to make sure she goes to class occasionally, even if her mind is elsewhere.

So far, my biggest problem has been pacing: how to fit the work of mystery-solving into the context of a college environment, and a magic college at that. How to deal with the trials and tribulations of a dyslexic freshman who also happens to be a murder suspect. Most intimidating is how to ratchet things up sufficiently in epicness so that the Final Battle is awesome instead of hokey; don’t want to turn the volume from three to eleven over the course of a chapter.

Anyone else have experience with meshing the worlds of mystery and something else? Mystery and science fiction? Mystery and fantasy? Mystery and romance? What challenges have you faced and how have you overcome them, or are you still struggling? Or, as a reader, what have been your experiences with straight-up mystery novels or mixed genre goodies?