Accidental God -- Section 04

[Here's hoping I'm getting back into the swing of this story. Here's more of Tuck and Paul.]

    "I've always wondered why so many gods hang out in Seven Cities," said Paul. "It's not like it's a vacation spot, or something like that. No Mai Tai's on soft sands, or anything even close. Personally, I'd pick someplace with more museums."
    "More museums?" said Tuck. "You never even pay attention to art. You couldn't tell a Serat from a Cezanne."
    "That's true," agreed Paul, pushing open the door to the medical examiner's office. It was in one of the smaller tall buildings downtown, underneath other city offices and one of the police precinct offices, and already it smelled of everything sterile.
    "So if you don't like art, why a place with more museums?"
    Paul paused and grinned at his partner, pulling off his sunglasses. "I was just messing with you. I'd take the beaches."
    Tuck slipped his own sunglasses into his jacket. “That was funny,” he said.
    “Thank you,” said Paul. “That means a lot, coming from you. Some day, I might even get a laugh.”
    “That would be amazing,” said Tuck.
    “I know,” said Paul.
    Tuck adjusted the heavy, oversized duffel bag on his shoulder and moved past his partner, walking up to the security guard sitting at the desk.
    "Can I help you?" asked the man. He was round but solid, and didn't look like the sort of person who had much patience for being patient, so Tuck just pointed back to his partner and waited. Paul walked up, straightening his tie and smiling.
    "Hello, sir." He glanced at the name on the solid man's tag. "Roger Grimes? Mr. Grimes, we have someone we needed to see."
    The guard reached for his phone. "What's the extension?"
    "Extension? Oh, sorry. No, we're not looking for someone who works here. The person we need is dead."
    The guard's eyebrows weighed heavy over his eyes. "A relative?"
    "Goodness, I hope not," said Paul. "As best we can tell, the man is old enough to be my father, and I'd hate to think that my mother was lying all these years." He glanced over at Tuck. "Do I look Spanish to you?"
    Tuck considered it. "It's possible," he said. "Castilian, perhaps. Do you feel Spanish?"
    Paul looked thoughtful. "I don't think so. How do you tell if you feel Spanish?"
    Round and solid stood up, his hand heavy on his holster. "All right, funny guys. We're done here."
    "I love that," said Paul. "You know, when they talk in first-person plural, as if they could somehow read our thoughts?"
    Tuck glanced at the security guard carefully. "CAN he read our thoughts? He doesn't look like the type, but I didn't check him."
    "Nah," said Paul. "Don't worry about it. I've got this." He reached into his jacket and the security guard's gun came out of its holster. "Whoa, easy," said Paul. "Just getting my ID. I'm sorry we were joking around, but we don't mean you any harm. Look, I'll pull it out--really slowly--with my thumb and pointer finger. Is that okay? We're all okay, right? See, Tuck, I can do the first-person plural thing, too."
    "Sounds like you practiced that," said Tuck.
    "I have. Thought I'd be a nurse when I was younger."
    "Really?"
    "Messing with you again, Tuck."
    Tuck nodded, acknowledging the point, and Paul pulled out his wallet. Then, his wallet in his hand, he worked his magic.
    This was another reason that Tuck was happy to partner up with Paul. Every wizard has his own strengths and weaknesses. Tuck's strength was--well, it was easier to say that it wasn't in the way of working with people. Enchantment, illusion, glamour, they just weren't his forte, or his interest. Paul, however, loved people. He loved how they thought, he loved meeting new people, and he loved convincing them of things that couldn't possibly be true, messing with their heads, and burying them in a world of illusion.
    "There," said Paul. "Does that make things easier?"
    Mr. Grimes sat down in his chair, blinking. Now it was his eyelids that were heavy, and then his arms sagged and the gun dropped to the floor. Then he was snoring.
    "Impressive," said Tuck, sliding the duffel bag around to hang at his back. "I don't think I've seen you do that before."
    "You're not the only one who can read a book," said Paul. "Want me to show you how I do it?" He turned the wallet toward his partner, but Tuck reached out and closed it in his partner's hand. "Fine," said Paul, smiling. "I'll show you another time. Your turn."
    Tuck was already pulling his phone out of his pocket. A few button pushes pulled up his CPS program. It wasn't a Global Positioning System, it was a Corpse Positioning System. He'd worked out the software with some help from an Indian Guru and one of the three wizards who had led a certain software giant to virtual world dominance--and Tuck meant that in the literal sense of virtual. The little CPS program wasn't much, but Tuck found it useful on far more occasions than he was quite happy about.
    “This way,” he said, nodding down the hall. Paul fell in step and they made their way down the hall, floored with the same kind of synthetic composite used for hospitals and newer art studios: easy to mop, no cracks anywhere. They passed a few doors, an open office, and a confused look from a woman walking out with a sack lunch. Paul waved at her with the kind of natural smile that Tuck could never manage, and they turned down another hallway.
    "This place makes me think about death," said Tuck.
    "Really?" said Paul. "Why could that be?"
    “Sarcasm,” said Tuck. “Clever.”
    “Okay, Grim Reaper. Tell me why this place makes you think about death.”
    Tuck adjusted the bag on his shoulder again, grimacing. “Heavy,” he grunted. “It makes me think about death for all the normal reasons.”
    Paul blinked at him then laughed. “Crazy.”
    “Who?”
    “I am. I expected something deep. Unusual at least. Odd perhaps? Instead I just get ‘the normal reasons.’”
    “Aren’t you wondering what it makes me think?”
    “Beyond wonder, Tuck. I am officially beyond wonder.”
    “We go to such lengths to avoid death, but it does catch us all in the end.”
    “We who?”
    “We as a species. Humans.”
    “And demons,” added Paul.
    “Them, too.”
    “And gods, apparently.
    “That’s what I was really wondering about,” said Tuck. “All the security around this one god. Did he know someone was coming for him? He was a god. It’s not like any schmo on the street could pull a gun on him and have it count for anything. I’m still puzzling over how our assassin managed it at all.”
    “I thought you said it was a special bullet,” said Paul.
    “It was.”
    “And that’s not enough?”
    “Shouldn’t be. Not for a god.”
    “Even with the rotten wood?”
    “Even then. That bullet might have been enough for your upper-tier demon, say, or an archangel, or even a garbage collector.”
    Paul shuddered. “We are never fighting one of them again. Ever.”
    Tuck stopped in front of a door. “Agreed. And that bullet shouldn’t have been able to kill a god. They’re the real major league. As far as I know, there are only two people out there harder to kill than a god.”
    “Seriously? Two people?”
    “Yes.”
    “Who could possibly be—never mind. Is this the place?”
    Tuck nodded, putting away his cell phone and leaning in toward the electronic keypad that controlled the lock. He warmed up his fingertips then gently started tickling the underside of the little box.
    “That spell is so ridiculous,” said Paul.
    “But effective,” said Tuck.
    “That wasn’t a criticism,” said his partner. “I think it’s fine. Amusing even. But still ridiculous.”
    The keypad gave a brief electronic squeak that sounded remarkably like a giggle, and the lock clicked open.
    “See?” said Paul, reaching out to pull the door open. “Ridiculous, and it never gets old. Oh, crap!”
    The part of Tuck’s mind that wasn’t busy lurching sideways had to agree. A vaguely human form sliced through the space where Tuck had been a moment before. Tuck was fast enough to avoid the reaching claws that brushed past his face and took his breath along with them, but the thick tail—was the thing a lizard?—hit him heavily on the chest, launching Tuck backwards down the hall. One short flight later, and Tuck’s fall was cushioned by the contents of his duffel bag. He hoped vaguely that nothing in the bag was broken, but he had more pressing concerns.
    One pressing concern, really. It was around five-feet tall, not counting the tail, human in shape but covered in gray and red scales, and clinging to the wall using holds it had carved with its own claws—through brick and metal. That was disturbing, but not quite as much as the thing’s face. Human in shape, but where there should have been eyes, there was smooth skin; instead of a nose, parallel slits, flaring.
    It wasn’t moving for the moment, but Tuck knew that wouldn’t last. Gasping for breath, he forced his body to move, falling onto his side away from the duffel bag and trying to crawl and reach into his suit coat at the same time. Tuck’s fingers closed around the handle of his Desert Eagle, but not before he heard the roar of Paul’s Benelli M4, a shotgun that, against all probability, Paul kept hidden under his suit coat. A spray of metal darts buried themselves in the masonry where, disappointingly, the thing was no longer clinging. Tuck wrenched his pistol from its holster and rolled onto his back, aiming where the creature was clinging on the ceiling—no, back on the wall—other side of the duffel bag—ceiling again. Tuck tried to slow his breathing to get a clear shot, but even his reflexes weren’t up to it. It was a psychotic ping pong ball.
    Then the creature made the mistake of leaping straight at Paul. If Tuck had had the time, he would have smiled at that. Paul had three things he really liked in this world: people, talk radio, and guns. Those things hardly ever mix in positive ways, no matter what the combination is, but for Paul they blended together in some kind of Zen-like harmony. His affection for all three was an empty cup filled to overflowing.
    So if you’re not a person, and you’re not a talk radio host, and you’re flying through the air at Paul with really nasty, long claws, and Paul has a gun—something’s getting shot.
    Tuck sagged back onto the floor, letting his gun rest on the composite. “That was disgusting.”
    Paul looked around at the remains of the creature with satisfaction. “Yes,” he said. “It was.”
    “Do we charge our clients for dry cleaning?” asked Tuck, wrinkling his nose at his suit.
    “We should, shouldn’t we,” agreed his partner. “I’ll have Alice write it into future contracts. What do we do about the people who are going to start showing up very, very soon?”
    Tuck climbed up to his feet, adjusting his grip on his massively oversized handgun and walking toward the door that had held such an unpleasant surprise. “Can you make this room disappear for a few minutes?”
    Paul shrugged. “No problem. Now?”
    “Not now,” said Tuck. He leaped forward, gun at eye-level, and launched three fifty-caliber bullets into the room, two to chest, one to the head.
    Paul jumped, bringing his shotgun to bear on the door, then letting it drop. “What was that?! Do you realize how much energy I put into each one of those bullets? It’s like bleeding out my eyeballs! And you know what else? When you shoot, you’re supposed to be shooting AT something.”
    “I was,” said Tuck, holstering his gun. “Those things always come in two’s.”
    Paul walked over and looked at the mess in the room. “Matched set, huh?”
    “His an hers, maybe.”
    “That one’s a girl?”
    “Sure,” said Tuck. “Why not.”
    “What ARE they?”
    Tuck moved back over to the duffel bag and heaved it up onto his shoulder. “Make the room disappear first, explanations after.”
    Paul’s shotgun evaporated under his suit coat and he pulled a rumpled thread out of his back pocket.
    “What’s that?” asked Tuck, curious.
    “Used dental floss. Nobody wants to look at used dental floss.”
    “Nice.” Tuck pushed into the room as Paul hung the floss from the door frame. The duffel bag went onto one of two stainless steel tables and Tuck looked at the wall of small doors leading to refrigerated shelves. Paul joined him.
    “Any question about which drawer is our guy?”
    “The scarred and twisted door gives it away, doesn’t it,” said Tuck. “They’re a kind of energy leech. Ipthakorians.”
    “The creatures?”
    “Yes.”
    “Crazy. So they come after a dead guy who was a god.”
    “I suppose it would be a tempting target. Even the residual energy was enough to bring in a pair.” Tuck sniffed. “You want to get the door?”
    “I think it will take both of us,” said Paul. “That thing is seriously twisted.”
    Two minutes of heaving was enough to get the door open and the corpse pulled out on its tray. Paul twitched down the sheet.
    “He wasn’t a pretty one, was he.”
    “Let’s see what our friend thinks,” said Tuck. He unzipped the duffel bag and sat the man inside it up. The man was still in his pajamas—trains, which Tuck hadn’t expected on a forty-year-old—and his eyes were wild above the duct tape that sealed his mouth.
    “He looks upset,” said Paul.
    “I landed on him pretty hard,” said Tuck.
    “That must be it. So, Mr. Security, is this the guy who bribed you? Feel free to just nod.”
    They waited. From outside the door there were sounds of yelling and someone ran by the door.
    “He’s not nodding,” said Paul.
    “Not shaking his head, either,” said Tuck. “Maybe it’s the wrong question.”
    “Good thought. Should we take off the tape?”
    “He might call for help.”
    Paul thought for a moment. “Turn him to look at that Ipthawhatever.”
    “Ipthakorian.”
    “Just turn him.”
    The man’s eyes got even wider, which surprised Tuck, considering what size they had been.
    “You’d think,” mused Tuck, “that he’d never seen anything like this before.”
    “Probably hadn’t,” said Paul. “I can’t imagine that things like this would go after a full-fledged god.”
    “Not a chance. So do we say anything about it? Threaten this guy?”
    “Not necessary. He’s not going to be shouting out for anybody. Are you, Mr. Security?”
    That got a definite head shake. Tuck pulled off the tape.
    “It wasn’t him,” said the guard, adjusting his arms, taped behind his back. “I saw that guy once, but it was a lady who arranged it all.”
    “A lady?” asked Paul.
    That got a nod. “A looker. Like she was his business manager or something. He just sat in the back and acted serious.”
    Tuck glanced over at the body. “He does look like a serious person.”
    “Like you,” said Paul.
    “How like me?” asked Tuck.
    “I’m just saying.”
    “Saying what?”
    “That he’s serious and….”
    “And what?”
    Paul blinked. “Never mind. Mr. Security.”
    “Yes, sir.”
    Paul waved his hand back and forth in front of his face. “I’m not a sir. Look over here.”
    “You want me to describe her?”
    “Why would I want that?”
    The security guard stared.
    “That’s perfect,” said Paul. “Keep looking this way and imagine the face of the woman. Remember the color of her eyes, how her hair moved when she turned, what she smelled like.”
    “Peaches,” said Mr. Security, his eyes distant. “She smelled like peaches.”
    “Perfect,” murmured Paul. “Keep that in mind. Keep that exactly…in…your…mind.”
    Then Paul surged forward, planted his hand on the guard’s face, and slammed him backwards onto the table. Where the man’s head had been, suspended in the air, hung the glowing memory of a face.
    “That her?” asked Tuck.
    “That’s her,” said Paul.
    “So now we go find this woman.”
    “Just one problem,” said Paul. “She’s dead, too.”
    “You’re kidding.”
    “Not kidding.”
    “Interesting. I’m starting to sense a pattern.” Tuck looked at his partner’s face. “You thinking about something?”
    Paul nodded. “If those Ickthiwickthies—”
    “Ipthakorians.”
    “If they came after this body, they’ll go after the woman, too, won’t they.”
    “Almost certainly.”
    “And any other corpses in the line?”
    “If there are more.”
    “What about a new god who isn’t settled in his powers yet?”
    “Once again,” said Tuck, “it’s almost certain.”
    “Huh,” said Paul. “Sucks to be him. Of course, we’re just going to kill him anyway.”
    Tuck simply shrugged. When you try to steal the powers of a god, you have to expect a few problems to come with the package.
    “Should we do something with Mr. Security?” he asked.
    “Leave him,” said Paul, looking down at the unconscious man. “Let him bear the shame of choo-choo pajamas.”