Dagger Key and Other Stories

On returning to my apartment, I found that the leather-bound volume I had taken from Amorise’s locker was no address book, but rather a compendium of arcana entitled Against Nature, authored by someone who called themselves Novallis. I asked the computer to search for information relating to the author—it could supply none, but informed me that in Europe during the Middle Ages, dabblers in the black arts often adopted Latinate noms de plume. The book itself was of ancient vintage—the pages waterspotted and brittle, the leather cracked. A strip of green silk served as a bookmark, lying across the opening of a section called “The Sublime Act.” It was written in archaic French, but thanks to my knowledge of the modern language, I understood that it described some sort of complex magical operation, one involving the manipulation of a large number of people in order to produce what Novallis referred to as “the Text.” Once the Text had been created, those involved in the operation would live out their natural spans (unless taken prematurely by act of God or man), but their essence (“elan vital”) would be collected by “The Host”, who would convey them through the years, keeping them safe for a period of time Novallis termed “the Interval,” at which point the Sublime Act would need to be performed again in order to ensure the rebirth and survival of its participants. There was a great deal of stress laid upon the consideration that the subjects must be perfectly suited to their roles, and finally a good bit of nonsense about the Many becoming Three, the Three becoming One, and the One becoming Zero. Also a long section whose essential theme I failed to comprehend, though the word “retribution” was frequently used.

Having deciphered this much, I tossed the book aside, went to my workbench, and called up my designs for Amorise’s house on my computer. If I were, indeed, infected by the soul of a dead poet, one spat into my body by a centuries-old witch—and it seemed such was the case—I refused to be her pawn. I did not intend to produce a text, and more, I resolved to put an end to the Sublime Act, and to Amorise herself. It was not merely anger that inspired me. As I examined the plans, determining what I might need to neutralize my defensive system, I experienced a feeling of revulsion in reaction to the Sublime Act, an apprehension of sacrilege, of unholy practice—I thought this might well be Villon’s reaction and not LeGary’s.

The message wall bonged, and John Wooten appeared. Sitting in his study, wearing a black dressing gown. He looked worried, and his first words to me were, “David, we have problems.”

“What are they?” I asked, returning my attention to the plans.

“I had a call from an attorney representing the Villanueva family. They’re planning to refile on the basis of new evidence.”

“The suit was dismissed,” I said.

“Yes, but not with prejudice. They have the right to refile.” He leaned back, lowered his chin to his chest so that his jowls flattened out like a fleshy ruff framing the lower portion of his face. “They’re also urging the district attorney to institute criminal charges. Negligent homicide. Reckless endangerment.”

“That’s ludicrous!”

“Perhaps. But it’s a problem nonetheless.” Wooten folded his hands on his belly. “What new evidence could they have, David?”

“You know, John,” I said, my temper fraying. “This is not my concern. You’re the lawyer. Find out what they have.”

“I’m trying to do just that. It would help if I knew what there was to find.”

“Nothing!” I slapped the palm of my hand hard against the workbench. “These fucking people! They could have heat sensors, motion detectors…but normal security isn’t enough. It doesn’t satisfy their urge to be trendy. So they hire me to devise clever little toys they can show off to their friends…”

“Calm down, David.”

“House pet assassins! Robotic freaks! Then when two Mexican rich kids don’t bother to read the manuals and zap themselves, I’m to blame for what happens? It’s bullshit!”

“I agree,” Wooten said. “But you’re the standard of the industry, David. I doubt the Villanuevas can win in court. They’ve already lost once. But you have to expect to be the target of litigation now and then.”

“You know what I expect?” I said. “I expect you to handle the Villanuevas. You’re the fucking lawyer. I don’t want to be bothered. If you can’t do it without calling me every five goddamn minutes, I’ll get someone else.”

“It would be unprofessional of me—if not unethical—to fail to consult you.”

“All right. You’ve consulted me. What else?”

Wooten appeared puzzled.

“You said there were problems,” I said. “Give me the rest of it.”

He was silent for a short count, then he said, “Francois…”

I looked up at him, calmer, as if he had spoken to some deeper part of me, though I was still angry at his intrusion. “What?” I said gruffly.

“Nothing…Never mind.” He broke the connection.