
Prologue
In the Chinook Jargon, Devil’s Lake was
called me-sah-chie-chuck which means evil water. There are many
stories about malign spirits and creatures inhabiting the lake’s
clear turquoise waters.
“TESS NONCOIRÉ, Warrior of the
Celestial Blade, you really don’t want to do this,” Scrap
whispered.
In the chat room—that big, white, blank space
between the dimensions with portals to all of them—my
interdimensional imp had substance and size. He no longer fit on my
shoulder or on top of my head. So he stood beside me. His potbelly
looked thinner than usual and his bandy legs stronger—we’d been
working too hard. A lovely scattering of warts decorated his chest
and his bum. His tattered wings stretched from above his head to
his heels. They fluttered in agitation.
His normally gray-green skin flashed between
yellow and pink. He was scared and we were in danger.
I knew that. I was as scared as he. Maybe more
so.
My scar, which ran from right temple to jaw,
pulsed and burned, a clear warning that I needed to either fight my
way clear or flee. Rapidly.
I couldn’t accept either option.
“If this is such a bad idea, why’d you bring me
this far?” I asked, trying to keep my teeth from chattering.
“I brought you here to scare you into going
home.” Scrap’s actual voice came through deeper than his normal
telepathic communications.
I caught sight of the demons on guard duty in the
distance. Their bright blue, stacked-tire bodies with pink feather
ruffs at neck, wrists, and ankles loomed larger with each giant
stride toward us. Think the Michelin man decked out for an Easter
parade.
“B’Cartlins,” Scrap whispered. “Their stupidity
makes them more dangerous than their size. They need everything
repeated six times before they understand.”
“I think I want to hide.” No shadows presented
themselves in the limitless white. The B’Cartlins grew by the
heartbeat as they approached. Without a thought, either of them
could squash us to unidentified road pizza.
“No trespassing in the chat room,” one of them
boomed. Demons took seriously their duty to keep everyone in their
home dimension.
I covered my ears against the cannon roar of
sound.
“Imps go anywhere, anywhen,” Scrap announced to
them with authority and dignity.
“No imps outside Imp Haven. Those are the rules,”
they both repeated by rote.
Full blood, or Midori, demons aren’t terribly
bright.
“If we stay very quiet, maybe they’ll forget
we’re here,” I said quietly.
If we needed to remain quiet, why were we
talking? It was either that or run away and leave this essential
errand unfinished.
“I have to do this, Scrap.”
“I know. This is going to cost me some warts. I
worked hard to earn these!” He heaved a sigh that might provoke a
hurricane. “You couldn’t wait for backup?” He produced a black
cherry cheroot out of nowhere and lit it from a flamelet atop his
thumb.
“I don’t have backup anymore.”
“What about more information?”
“I dismissed my archivist.” I would not think
about Guilford Van der Hoyden-Smythe, PhD. I would not. I had to
cut Gollum out of my life and my heart.
I did not like where this conversation was
leading. So I took a couple of steps toward where I thought the
proper portal should be.
Scrap grabbed my arm and steered me in the
opposite direction. My frail human flesh began bruising beneath his
solid, unrelenting grip.
“Are you sure this is the right way?” I asked,
trying to peel his talons off my forearm.
“Unfortunately, I am.” He led me at a
ninety-degree angle to the guardian demons.
The burning along my scar flared higher. The
B’Cartlins were the least of my problems.
In the blink of an eye, an elegant brass door
with stained glass panels to either side loomed before us. It just
showed up to block our way. No dark spot in the distance that grew
larger as we approached. One minute nothing but white stretching on
forever, misting to more white to hide corners and angles where
floor or ceiling met wall. The next heartbeat the door became a
solid barrier.
Or a chance at salvation.
A blob of mottled bile green and sulfurous yellow
flesh pooled across the entrance, sort of growing out of the white
on white.
“You know there’s a reason Donovan told you that
few beings who faced the Powers That Be have survived the
encounter, and never a human,” Scrap grumbled, eyeing the blob
between the door and us.
“I can’t trust anything the former gargoyle says.
He betrayed his calling and his creation. For that he doesn’t
deserve to raise his daughter Lilly. He lies as easily as he
breathes.”
“He didn’t lie about this.”
“Then we’ll just have to make sure we get what we
want before they execute us.”
“Today is a good day to die.”
“As good as any,” I replied, not sure I believed
my own lies.
The blob stirred, raised a bulbous head with two
intelligent eyes and a parrot beak. At least eight legs stretched
outward, flicking their tips.
I recoiled before it could strangle me. Another
eight or more legs kept it anchored to the suddenly shifting
ground.
Or were those my knees shaking hard enough to
upset my balance?
“Mind if we pay a visit?” I asked.
The beak snapped once, hard enough to break my
body in two if it chose.
I accepted that as a yes, and stepped around the
beast—I didn’t want to chance it changing its mind and grabbing me
with one or more of those tentacles. With one deep breath for false
courage I grabbed the lion’s head door knocker and let it drop. I
wished I had some scotch to help with the courage thing. It didn’t
have to be single malt. A cheap blend would do better; I could
drink more of it faster.
A loud bong resounded around the chat room,
bouncing off walls that shouldn’t exist, compounding with each
repeat of sound. Tsunamis of noise built and echoed. The bong grew
louder yet, more insistent.
I had to grab my ears. Then I collapsed to my
knees and shrank within myself.
Still, the knocker flapped and boomed and let the
entire Universe know that someone had the audacity to approach the
Powers That Be without an invitation.
That’s me, Tess Noncoiré, Warrior of the
Celestial Blade, who bounds in where no one else dares, and bullys
my way through.