Read Haruspex (Marla Mason) Online
Authors: T.A. Pratt
#
Rondeau chalked a simple pattern and summoned a powerful stink to drive the nightclubbers out, sending them to gag and vomit on their knee-high boots and translucent blouses. The few members of the special clientele out this early (mostly low-class cantrip throwers and apprentices) left at Marla’s forceful suggestion. When the Belly Killer came down the stairs and found Juliana’s deserted, would he expect a trap?
Probably
, Marla thought, shutting the front door. But he’d walk into the trap confident of his powers. Marla hoped that, being a dupe for the Thrones and otherwise uninitiated, he wouldn’t know about the eighth room. If he’d heard about it at all, he’d think it hosted live sex shows, or poker games with human lives for stakes, or some other silly speculation.
The stories said Thrones couldn’t see the eighth room, and certainly while in the club they seemed oblivious to its existence, slouching through the rest of the bar, blatantly spying. Legend said that once, before a building occupied this spot, a Throne had accidentally walked across the place now contained by the eighth room -- and simply vanished. What would happen if a man with the power of a Throne went inside?
Marla sat at a table, touching the stag beetle pin at her throat. She could have waited in the eighth room with Sauvage and Rondeau, but the Belly Killer might not find his way inside without guidance. “Besides,” Marla told them, “we can’t make it look too easy. We should make at least a pretense of protecting Sauvage.” She offered those reasons, but in reality she
wanted
to face the Belly Killer. He’d surprised her, and stolen her jaw, and pride demanded a chance for her to revenge herself.
When she heard his footfalls on the steps, and his giggle, she reversed her cloak.
#
In the purple, draped in the color of bruises and dead flowers, Marla barely noticed the now-familiar smell, or the crackling air. The door opened without drama, swinging wide, and Belly Killer stepped inside.
Marla got her first clear look at him. He stood just under six feet, scrawny, with greasy black hair hanging past his ears. Pockmarks made braille of his face. He grinned crookedly, his teeth speckled with green and yellow, and similar stains covered his white t-shirt and frayed khakis. He giggled almost spastically, a vocal tic. “Sauvage. The murderer. Let me have him.”
Marla gripped the edge of the table, her rational mind a buoy bobbing on an ocean of purple rage. She wanted to take off his arms, tear his face apart, grab his spine and twist. Through gritted teeth she said “He’s back there, behind the curtain. You’ll have to come through me to get him.”
The Belly Killer took a step forward, and the energies surrounding him became visible, white primary shapes rotating and revolving. A fire-spoked wheel. A translucent blue ball of lightning. A coruscating pinwheel, spinning wildly around his head. “I see the curtain,” he said dreamily. “It’s dim, but you can’t hide it.” He lifted his foot, sparks crackling from the sole of his ragged sneaker to the floor like lightning streaking to earth from a thunderhead. “I don’t want to hurt you. You can
save
me.” He licked his lips, blue fire sparking where his tongue touched. “I’ll tell you the future, the secrets of your death.”
“I’ll read it in your corpse,” she said, voice thick and fuzzy, her thinking-self overcome by the purple madness cursing through her. She jumped for him.
His eyes widened. A net of flashing light wrapped around her and, caught in mid-air, she clawed through. A purple shadow clung to her like a second skin, turning her fingers to claws, her teeth to blades. The Belly Killer’s fiery lace parted under her onslaught and she fell to the concrete with a thump. She scrambled at him, snarling, and in his human surprise he simply kicked at her. He drew back his foot, howling, minus his shoe and one toe. Marla tossed the shredded remains of both aside and went for his throat.
Remembering his power, the killer struck with glowing tentacles and hurled her aside. She hit the wall, bounced, and shot to her feet, going for him again.
He grunted, throwing up a barrier, and Marla clambered over, heedless of the burning damage done to her hands. If she survived, she would heal.
He won’t kill me!
her mind crowed from somewhere deep inside. He believed she could save him, somehow, someday, and so he held back. He
could
kill her, but if he limited himself to the merely defensive --
She came over his barrier, clawing for his face, and he threw her again. Just before she struck the wall, she remembered. She couldn’t kill him yet, shouldn’t even try. If she gave him no choice, he
would
kill her. She only needed to put on a good show so he’d go into the eighth room, unsuspecting, thinking he’d defeated her.
When she bounced to the floor this time, she lay still, struggling to overcome the purple madness. She reversed the cloak with a thought and watched the killer relax when he saw the white. He couldn’t know exactly how the cloak worked, but he knew enough to fear the purple. Marla’s injuries began to heal immediately.
The Belly Killer squinted toward the eighth room.
His human eyes can see it
, Marla thought,
but his Throne-eyes can’t.
He took a hesitant step forward, then another, more sure, then ran to the curtain and through it, glowing like a knight protected by the armor of the sun.
Marla scrambled to her feet and ran after him.
#
Sauvage stood holding the baseball bat in one casual hand. Rondeau prodded the Belly Killer’s unconscious body with his foot.
Marla looked at the killer, crumpled pitifully on the eighth room’s floor, blood trickling from his ear, and felt none of the triumphant bloodlust she’d expected. This pathetic man, his powers utterly dissolved by the eighth room’s nullifying effect, posed no threat anymore. He twitched in the flickering gaslight, a random muscular clenching, and Marla pitied him. Used by the Thrones, killing only in what he perceived as self-defense, driven mad by energies too tremendous for a human to contain -- how did he merit her hate? She’d done worse things than he had, for less reason.
“You do the honors, Marla,” Sauvage said, offering her a ceremonial silver knife with a hilt wrapped in red electrical tape. “Slice him, get a glimpse of your future. You earned it.”
Marla hesitated, then shook her head. Sauvage looked at her patiently, his reptilian eyes awaiting an explanation.
“I saw, in one of your bodyguard’s entrails, that this man will be important to you someday. I’m not sure why, but killing him could have terrible consequences for you.” The lie came easily. Marla’d had enough killing for a while, and the Belly Killer didn’t deserve to die. The Thrones, maybe, but who could punish them? Only their master, whoever that might be.
Sauvage tucked the knife back into his suit and leaned the ball bat against the wall. Rondeau watched them, his eyes betraying nothing. Sauvage frowned, suspicious but unable to see why Marla might lie to him. “Why didn’t you mention that earlier? When you told me your plan, you said we’d kill him.”
Marla did her best to look ashamed and uncomfortable. “I didn’t care. I just wanted him dead. Now I think having you alive, and grateful, could be worth more to me.” She shrugged.
Sauvage nodded, satisfied by the self-serving nature of her explanation. “Oh, I’m grateful. You’ll be rewarded.” He nudged the killer’s hip with his toe. “He’ll still be able to read the future, though his powers are gone?”
“I think so. That’s not really power, not like the rest, it’s just knowledge. Anyone can read the patterns, if they know how.”
“Maybe he’ll tell me something I need to know someday,” Sauvage said thoughtfully. “I might put him on the payroll.” Sauvage picked the Belly Killer up and draped him over his shoulder without so much as a grunt of exertion. The Belly Killer groaned softly, his Throne-power sucked out of him. “Take care, folks.” Sauvage saluted with his free hand and ducked through the curtain.
“Artie’s ghost is going to plague you,” Rondeau said, after a moment. Marla just nodded. “There are charms to alleviate that... but they don’t do much good.” She nodded again. “If you ever can’t take it, you can use the eighth room, free of charge. He can’t bother you here.”
Marla smiled. She put her hand on his shoulder. She didn’t kiss him, but she thought about it.
“I’ll help put your jaw back on if you like,” he said, looking away. For once, he looked as good in person as he did in her memory.
“I’ll take you up on that.” She left the room, limping a little from her injuries. As soon as she cleared the doorway, Artie Mann’s voice hit her like a hammer, making her wince. “--bitch, you swore, you promised to avenge me, you’ll never sleep again, you’ll suffer --” His voice stopped abruptly, with a click like a deadbolt turning. She heard a many-throated hum, an irritatingly dramatic celestial chorus, which quickly faded.
Absolution
, she thought. The Thrones came through after all. She’d accumulate new sins soon enough, she knew, but in the meantime she’d enjoy the unaccustomed lightness of grace. Maybe even add to it, a little, by giving Rondeau his jaw back. If she needed to get information from him in the future, she could just ask, couldn’t she?
STORY NOTES
“Haruspex” was the first story I ever wrote about Marla Mason (though not the first one published). I penned it (literally, with ballpoint in a college-ruled notebook) while working at an antique store in Boone, North Carolina, just after I graduated from Appalachian State University. I had recently read the Sonja Blue novels of Nancy Collins, and a Scott Baker story called “Varicose Worms,” and I think both those influences showed: mean tough heroine plus weird (and kinda gross) magic. I think of this as a proto-Marla story, since there was precious little of the humor, banter, and snark that typifies the later works. It’s pretty much just dark dark dark. I eventually published it in the fine but short-lived online magazine
Shadows of Saturn
in 2005.
The events of this story are quasi-canon, I guess. The battle with the Belly Killer takes up a few chapters of my short Marla prequel novel
Bone Shop
,
but the way the story is told is completely different, and this version has some weird details that are inconsistent with the series as it developed. Continuity errors, oh no! From little things (like electricity not working in the special conference room, and Marla’s totally effortless power of flight) to big things (like Rondeau not being able to leave the nightclub – that would have made the novels in the series a lot more boring, huh.
But it was the first time I wrote about Marla and Rondeau, and I’ve been writing about them for the past decade. I’m surprised at how many essential “Marla Mason universe” elements were introduced here – the cloak, Rondeau’s ripped-off jaw, and so on.
I’m still very fond of the story, even if Marla does need to lighten up a little.
If you liked this story, visit
www.MarlaMason.net
for links to more stories and novels about Marla.
Cover image by ©
Photowitch
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