“Howard Russo.”
The grunter, who’d turned to watch Clay disappear, swung around and squinted up at the being on the throne. “Yessir.”
“You’ve come to honor your contract, have you?”
“Nosir.”
“No?” The voice was like smooth, musing thunder. “Then why have you come?”
“Brought friends to see you.”
“You don’t have friends, you wizened little toad. According to my information, these are the friends of Enid Blindman.”
“Oh. Yessir.”
“And where is Mr. Blindman?”
Howard’s eyes squinted to wrinkled slits. “Don’ know. Around. Haven’t seen him since-”
“Yesterday,” said Primal.
Howard blinked. “Yessir. Yesterday.”
He’d actually seen him about fifteen minutes ago. That was encouraging. It meant there were holes in Primal’s information.
The brass eyes swung to me. “You’re a lawyer.”
“That’s correct. I represent Enid Blindman and Howard Russo,” I said, and heard Howard mew in surprise. “Represent, Mr. Griffin?”
“You are the holder of a contract of which they are cosignatories. Recent events have caused revisions to that contract which neither of my clients have approved. Those alterations have resulted in severe penalties.”
Primal’s eyes seemed to glow brighter momentarily. “The Source Project,” he said.
“Oh, God,” Goldie murmured, and Colleen took a quick step closer to me.
“I’m … surprised you’ve heard of it.” I lied. Surprise didn’t begin to cover it. “How did you come by your intelligence?”
Primal laughed-boulders rolling down a hill. “My intelligence,” he repeated. “Let’s just say that… there was a leak.”
My throat had gone bone hard and dry. “What do you know about the Source?”
He put a massive hand over the perfect, unmoving mouth. “Mum’s the word, Mr. Griffin. Why do you care?”
“I believe the Source Project is responsible for… the changes in the environment.”
“You mean the hocus-pocus.” He waved an arm over his head. Neon pulsed wildly in the pattern of veins, and the hand extruded a smear of ruddiness that was nothing like light. It was viscous, gelatinous, and it hung in the darkness over his head, gleaming dully, before drifting downward.
The room around us gave up an audible sigh. I could feel people pressing forward, straining toward the oily gleam. The flares, high up in their tinsel forest, were drawn to it, too. The tide of desire was palpable; they wanted to lap it up, to bathe in it.
My gaze was drawn unwillingly upward to where the aqua glow of flares met Primal’s crimson and altered hue, becoming muddy, opaque, the color of clotting blood. I pulled my eyes away.
“I realize all this, of course,” Primal said, forcing my attention back to him. “My more superstitious people call it the Dark, or the Storm, or any one of a hundred other folksy and inaccurate things. It’s not dark. It’s blindingly bright.”
“And is that why you hide from it?” asked Goldie. He pushed himself up next to me, and I glanced at his face. He was sweating, pale-like an alcoholic fighting DTs.
Primal sat up just a little straighter. “And who, exactly, are you?”
“I’m irrelevant. You’re hiding from the Source, aren’t you? Pretty much the way the rest of us are.”
“Ridiculous.” Clay’s voice came from behind us.
We turned in unison to see him working his way through the cavernous room. He had, indeed, changed into something else. He had changed into a mime, replete with whiteface, Alice Cooper eyes, beret, white gloves, and leotard.
“Oh, jeez,” muttered Colleen.
“Primal is afraid of no one.” Clay came to a gliding stop in the same place Primal had bowled him over, as if it were policy to place himself in harm’s way. There was a smile painted on his face. I doubted it was echoed beneath the paint.
“Thank you, monkey,” Primal told him. “Your new attire suits you.”
Clay struck a dramatic pose, pointing a finger at Colleen. “The bitch doesn’t like it.”
“The bitch has a name,” said Colleen tartly. “Colleen. That’s Queen Colleen to you, monkey boy.”
“You dislike mimes, Colleen?” Primal inquired.
“Doesn’t everybody?” Colleen asked. “The only thing I hate more than mimes is clowns. They give me the creeps.”
Clay postured exaggeratedly, making a sad mime face, and for a moment, in the slow eddy of light and dark, the weirdly watery luminance of the flares, the strangeness of the room and conversation, I was sure I’d been tossed head first into a Fellini film.
“She’s scrappy, isn’t she?” Primal observed. “You could learn something from this young woman, Clay. She seems to have found the balls you misplaced.”
Clay was silent, his mime face smiling sadly into the insult.
Primal watched him for a moment more, then turned back to me. “So, you represent Misters Russo and Blindman, and you want to strike a compromise on their contract with us.”
“Actually, I’m here to effect their release from it.” “Release. I see. And why would I consider releasing either of them?”
“Quite simply because you have no choice. The contract is no longer binding. I’m here simply to inform you of that fact.”
All sound in the room stopped as if everyone in it had suddenly held their breath. Primal sat back in his throne and underwent a metamorphosis. His obsidian skin flushed with color until it seemed his entire body was cut from garnet.
“What do you mean, no longer binding? They signed the contract, Mr. Griffin. We signed the contract.”
“No. No one signed this contract,” I said, drawing the papers out of my jacket. I held them up before Primal’s bright gaze, which followed them as if they were a mesmerist’s charm. “This document and the stipulations in it have changed since the original was signed. Drastically. Those changes invalidate the agreement. In addition, I seriously doubt that you personally signed the original contract. If I’m not mistaken, you didn’t exist before the Change. At least not as you are now.”
I glanced down at the signatures on the page. “This contract was signed by Daniel Freemont, Glenford Blaker, and Shirley Cross. Are you one or more of those individuals?”
Primal changed aspect again, seeming to grow and inflate, his body blazing golden and glorious. “I AM PRIMAL.”
The voice was immense, room-shaking. Primal’s shadowy courtiers drew back in fear and Howard Russo cringed and quivered against my legs. I was struck with the absurd image of Dorothy and her three stalwarts quaking before the Wizard of Oz. Life imitates art. Except that I wasn’t going to rattle, cower, or shed my straw innards on Primal’s throne room floor.
“Irrelevant,” I said. “The legal fact remains: this contract is invalid. It is no longer binding on either Enid Blindman or Howard Russo.” I nudged Howard out from behind me and held the contract out to him. “Howard Russo, are you prepared to void this contract on behalf of yourself and your client?”
Howard blinked up at me and lifted an uncertain hand. Primal said, “DON’T,” with a voice in which wind howled and trees collapsed.
Howard squinted at the contract so hard his eyes watered. For a moment I thought he might run and hide. Instead he snatched the pages from my hand.
“DON’T.”
Howard stepped out of my shadow, faced the gleaming giant, held up the contract, and ripped it in two. It gave up a flash of sickly green light that lingered like the after-image of fireworks before weeping to the floor. This time the damn thing stayed torn. Howard grasped it with new vigor and ripped it again and again into tiny pieces. He flung them to the floor and danced on them. Then he pointed a finger up at Primal and said, “ Done with you! I am done with you!”