Chapter #45Joe Tells the Truth by: Seuzz   "I'd rather us stay together, and that's not just me channeling Frank," Joe says. "Don't you wanna be at Eastman with me? It'd be more fun."
"So go with me to Westside."
"That feels like a red herring. The box is at Eastman."
"I don't know," you groan. You collect the pizza box and stand up. "You're in charge. What do you want to do?" As you pass him on your way to the kitchen, you clap him on the shoulder.
"I want you to make us some masks so we can have some fun," he says.
You spin in surprise. And your surprise at his words is nothing compared to your shock at what happens next.
Joe swings around in his chair, his mouth open. A fire bursts in his eyes and he explodes out of the chair. Before you can react he grabs you by the shirt and thrusts you into the kitchen and slams you against the refrigerator. "What the fuck did you just do?" he cries.
"I asked what you wanted to do," you cry back.
He slams you again against the ice box, so hard your teeth rattle. "Answer me, motherfucker! God damn it, what did you do?!"
"Joe! I only asked--"
A deep roar, like a volcano in full-throated eruption, bursts from his chest. Your shirt rips as he hauls you into the living room and hurls you onto the sofa. He plants a firm foot on your chest; his eyes blaze and his mouth twists into a horrible snarl. For a brief instant you have a vision of being incinerated alive. Then he jabs a finger like a javelin at you. "Stay! You twitch so much as a millimeter and I swear by God's great name that I'll have your skin for a smoking jacket!" He swings on his heel and stalks from the room.
You're trembling. You faced down the Blackwell-possessed Frank, but during that fight you knew what was happening, and why, and had been psyching yourself for it. But this explosion from nowhere, from Joe, who has always been the model of kindliness and friendliness-- An icicle lodges in your chest. What if--?
Joe returns, very red in the face. In his hand he holds a pack of cigarettes; he tears it open and pounds a single cylinder from it. This he puts into his mouth, and his cheeks pucker. No match or lighter: the cigarette flares to life as he glares, and almost half of it instantly dissolves into ash. A great wreath of smoke goes up around his head. "I didn't know you smoked," you say weakly.
"Normally I don't," he says in a voice that is very firm but much calmer. "Dad hates these things, but there are worse ways of being disobedient." He leans over you, and there's a fell light in his eyes. "Repeat my next words exactly, asshole." His eyebrows arch threateningly, and you nod. "For the next sixty seconds," he says, "I will be totally truthful, so help me God."
"For the next sixty seconds, I will be totally truthful, so help me God." Your voice is very quiet, and you don't stammer or quaver. This is far too important, you can tell.
"What is your name?"
"William Prescott."
"Where did you find the Libra?"
"In Arnholm's Bookstore."
"Have you met or studied with any other magicians than Aubrey Blackwell?"
"Yes." At your answer, his eyes gleam ferociously. "You and Frank."
"Ha!" But there's no humor in the bark of laughter. "Why did you ask me what I want to do?"
"Because I want to know what you want to do."
"About what?"
"About investigating that box at Eastman. About finding any more people who have masks."
"Why did you touch me when you asked me that question?"
"Just to be friendly. You know, just to say 'You're my friend, you're my boss, I want to do what you want to do.' You know." You feel tears beginning to form behind your eyes.
"What were you thinking when you asked me that?"
"That I wanted to go to Westside, but I also wanted to do what you want to do, and that I don't want to argue with you, but I want you to let me go to Westside."
"Before you asked that question, did it ever occur to you that maybe I wanted you to make us some masks?"
"No. Or, I don't remember if I did."
"Are you a virgin?"
"I don't know," you say miserably after a fractional hesitation that left you feeling like you were choking on someone else's vomit. "I got a blow job at summer camp before my junior year, but I didn't cum or anything."
You expect that to draw a laugh or a snigger, but Joe remains very grave. "Alright, time's up," he says quietly. He looks at the cigarette, draws a short and thoughtful puff from it, then grinds it out--without flinching--in the palm of his hand. "I'm seriously, seriously freaked out right now, but I'm not mad at you anymore." Actually, he looks very pale. "We still have a lot to talk about, though."
* * * * *
"A lot to talk about" takes you deep into the early morning hours, and it is a very long grind. Joe gets a large sketchpad from his bedroom and sits opposite as you splay on the couch. He is indefatigable as he writes and questions you about all manner of very strange things--things about yourself; things you suspect or hope about yourself; things you never knew or suspected about yourself; and things that seem to have absolutely nothing to do with you whatsoever. You are still so frightened that you struggle manfully to answer with as much care and detail and honesty as you can, but you are loopy long before he falls silent.
That silence lasts long enough that you feel yourself dozing before Joe hurls the sketchpad to the floor in disgust. "I can't get a fix on you," he says, and glares again as though you've done something very bad.
"Is this more of that horoscope stuff?" you ask, remembering the oddball session at the Chinese restaurant ... how many days, weeks, months ago was that?
"Yes, but more in depth. I should be able to predict when you'll get married and have your appendix out based on the stuff I just pulled out of you, but--"
"I had my appendix out when I was twelve," you yawn.
He grabs up the sketchpad and frowns carefully at it for almost a full minute, then lets it slip from his fingers. "Maybe I'm just too tired to concentrate. Or maybe you'll have it removed again." He groans. "You're Sulva, that's blazingly obvious, but you're all goofy."
"Huh-hyuk!"
"Shut up. You're Sulva, but you should have a second planet as well. All Stellae have a second planet. But whatever it is, Sulva has it in eclipse. In fact, your probability envelopes have all the other planets in your chart in eclipse, and those envelopes seem to be in a state of constant dynamic flux." He pulls hard on his lip. "I'll have to talk to Kali. Sulva is the weird one and maybe I just haven't studied it enough," he mumbles.
"Can you at least explain why you got so pissed at me?"
The fire had gone out of his eyes--though they have been glittering with concentration--but now it rekindles. "You did something you shouldn't have been able to do," he says. "You made me tell the truth."
You blink at him--you're too tired to be afraid any more. "Are you saying you don't tell the truth?"
"Yes, but gilded. And there are a lot of truths I don't tell because it's impolitic. You made me tell the truth against my will--" He leans forward, and hisses out choking words. "And that's something only I'm supposed to be able to do!"
Again, you blink. "Say what?"
"It's one of my gifts, one of my 'magical powers,'" he says, making air quotes as if the sarcasm in his tone wasn't enough. "I don't use it, except in really, really important circumstances, because it's a really rude thing to do." He slumps back again. "As I've just learned to my own immense chagrin."
You sit up. "You're saying I acted like a fucking lie detector?"
"You did a lot worse than that, you son of a bitch! You ripped a secret truth out of me. Yeah," he says, and he slumps and turns very pale. "I'd really like it if you made up a mask for me and let me run around pretending to be someone else." He groans. "I'd love it!"
"Why?!"
He laughs weakly. "My dad was a con man. My real dad, my biological dad. I helped him. I was just a kid, but it was like a game. It was huge fun, even though I didn't understand it. Dad--that's Frank's and my dad, boss of the Stellae--stole me from him. Rescued me, saved me." He passes a hand over his eyes. "But I guess the fruit doesn't fall far from the tree." He blinks hard and rubs at his eyes. "Frank's right," he murmurs. "I need watching."
Silence reigns for a good long time, before Joe sighs raggedly. "Well, we should get at least a little bit of sleep."
"I didn't mean anything by that question, Joe, and I sure didn't--"
"I know. That was clear after I put you through that sixty-second game of Truth or Fuck Me Up the Ass with Hellfire. We'll talk about it tomorrow. You can have my bed. That's my way of apologizing." He smiles weakly.
* * * * *
The thing is, you feel quite confident that you could make him a mask, even without the Libra, which is with Frank. You shouldn't, of course, because you don't want to put temptation before him. But, you realize with a sinking heart, if you don't tell him it might look like you're hiding a secret of your own.   indicates the next chapter needs to be written. |
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