Spyder started to walk away.
“I hope you aren’t running away, trying to cheat providence?”
“No way, José. I’m true blue,” said Spyder.
“You don’t wish to stay and watch us work?”
One of the Clerks had placed an elaborate metal brace into the policeman’s open mouth and was studiously sawing off his lower jaw.
“Why would I want to see that?”
“Because you’re lying. And most people want to know their future.”
Spyder backed away and quickly left the street of nightmares.
THIRTY-TWO
Dominions
Before this world, there were other worlds. Before this universe, there were other universes. Before the gods you know now, there were plenty of other gods.
Gods like to think of themselves as eternal. It’s what gets them through the eons, but there are only two true eternals: birth and death. Everything else is junk washed up on the beach. The tide goes out and the pretty pink shells, the gum wrappers and the dead jellyfish are all washed away. Gods and universes come and go this way, too, but a living god knows some tricks. A god can mold energy and matter into anything it wants, or nothing at all. Gods can appear in an instant. Gods can disappear faster than the half-life of Thulium-145.
To save themselves, gods can scheme and they can hide. Some gods learned to hold their breath and float like kelp in the elemental chaos that rules the roost when one universe ends and the next hasn’t quite kicked in.
Each of these trickster gods thought she or he alone had outwitted Creation by crouching in shadows of the universal attic. Then a young God called Jehovah took a band of rebel angels and tossed them, like week-old fish, from his kingdom into the dark between the worlds. As the burning angels fell, the old gods laughed and heard each other. For the first in a long time, they knew they weren’t alone.
Worlds collapsed as the old gods, called the Dominions, got to know each other and learn one another’s favorite games. Galaxies flickered and went out like cheap motel light bulbs. Whole Spheres of existence burned like phosphorous. Though this took a few million years in human terms, it was just something to do over lunch for the Dominions.
But the universe had its own agenda. When the Dominions tried to slip back into our universe from their refuge in chaos, they took a header out of the starry firmament, every bit as violent and humiliating as Lucifer’s fall from Heaven. Not coincidentally, the Dominions fell along the same path as the exiled angels, straight into Hell. But unlike Lucifer’s hordes, they didn’t stop there. The mass of these beings was so great, that they fell through Hell out the other side, into a dead universe, one whose last echo hadn’t yet faded away.
There was no life in this other universe except the Dominions themselves. Nothing to destroy but empty worlds. No one to torment, but each other. And no new games to play. The Dominions loved games. That’s why they devoured stars. The best games, to them, were the ones played in the dark where only the sounds of screams and the taste and smell of evanescing lives let you know when you were winning. Their plan was to go from world to world, playing different games until there was no one left to play with. Then, they’d hide in the dark between universes until a new universe came into being, and they’d start all over again. Now, however, there was no one to play with and no way out. They’d fallen out of the living universe and didn’t know the way back in.
In some stories, the Dominions have grown even madder in their isolation. They slash their empty worlds. They burn each other. But nothing makes them happy. When the Dominions sleep, they dream about us and how sad they are that we’re so far away and not able to play. Sometimes they gnash their planet-size teeth in the dark. They’re always looking, scratching at the edges of time and space for a way back into our universe. Sometimes they find a crack and peek through at us. When your skin goes cold and you feel like you’re being watched, but no one is there, it’s them. We’re their drive-in double feature, with a Cherry Coke and free refills on popcorn.
THIRTY-THREE
The Killer Inside Me
The plaza was full of papers, kicked up by sluggish crosswinds. The papers were pages from old books and yellowed newspapers. Spyder stood at the bottom of a mountain of books taller than the highest ziggurat in Berenice.
He picked up a leather-bound volume embossed in gold Cyrillic on the cover. Inside the book were equations, a swamp of calculus problems and diagrams. He tossed the book back on the pile and picked up a paperback copy of The Killer Inside Me by Jim Thompson. It had the same cover as the edition he’d read as a teenager. Spyder hadn’t seen a copy in years. He read a page at random and felt the same tingle at the base of his spine that he’d felt when he’d first run across Thompson’s spare, hardened-steel prose at fifteen. Spyder wondered what would happen if he put the book in his pocket and just walked away.
“An interesting choice,” said a man around the far side of the pile. “Considering the choices available.”
Spyder craned his neck to see a short, round man in a kind of leather kaftan. Over the kaftan yards of barbed wire had been looped, encasing the man in spiny metal. On his face, the man wore a wooden mask depicting some grinning Japanese demon. Spyder remembered that Shrike had said something about masks. Some of the humans in Berenice wore masks, she’d said, to keep lost memories from attaching themselves to them and becoming false memories of a life they’d never led.
“I had this book when I was younger,” said Spyder, tossing the Thompson back on the pile.
“I knew there was a reason and the reason was emotional, rather than an intellectual attachment. You picked up the book which moved your heart, not some great work of literature meant to impress others.”
“I was a junior varsity criminal and had a few run-ins with the cops, so the book was a big deal to me back then.”
“Of course it was!” said the round man. “If you enjoyed that, may I show you some other, rarer volumes at my stall nearby?”
“I’m just passing through. I’m not buying.”
“No, no. No buying. Just looking. Come. It’s a pleasure to meet a man of similar interests. I guarantee you will enjoy my wares. Books never written. Paintings never painted. Films never committed to celluloid. All only ever existed in the minds and hearts of the artists who dreamed them.” The man turned and said to Spyder, “I am Bulgarkov.”
“Spyder.”
“Are you Spider Clan?”
“Whatever.” Spyder followed Bulgarkov. “Nice zoot suit. You expecting a stampede?”
“Are you referring to my garments? The streets are full of dreams and men, two equally dangerous organisms. The mask keeps the hungry memories of men at bay and the wire keeps away the men themselves.”
“I don’t think I’m going to have time to look at anything,” said Spyder, intending to leave the man at his stall. Spyder picked up a copy of Poodle Springs by Raymond Chandler. He vaguely remembered the book. Chandler had died before finishing it, but left notes and a partial manuscript. His publisher had hired some other hack to finish the novel years later. There was no second name on this Poodle Springs title page. Spyder flipped to the ending. It wasn’t what he remembered in the patched-together version he’d read.
The stall was piled high with books. Paintings were stacked against the back wall and 35mm movie film cans were piled on wooden shelves and floor. The title on one caught Spyder’s eye.