The Crossover

I’ve been watching this fellow for a quarter of an hour now. He hasn’t done anything wrong . . . yet, at least, but he’s been acting suspicious ever since he came  through the door. I can’t detain him, one, since I’m a whole floor above the guy and two, acting a little funny isn’t a punishable offense. I’ve been keeping an eye on him anyway as he goes about his business . . . whatever mysterious business that happens to be.

            He’s looking for something, that much I’ve gathered. He’ll walk slowly up and down the row of shops, analyzing the interiors, studying the shoppers passing around him, and occasionally poking around the decorative potted plants. From where I am, I can’t tell if the guy is a human or entity. He looks like a human, certainly, but his behavior sets him apart from the human tourists we typically get. Mainly, he’s not wandering around with his mouth open and camera out. Pretty good way to differentiate between Homo sapiens and even the most humanoid of monsters.

            I radio the rest of security to give my colleagues a heads-up. “There’s a shady-looking character on the first floor by the big fountain. I figure we should keep an eye on him. I think he’s closest to you, Stacey. Can you tell if he’s human or not?”

            “The guy with the coat? Shoulder-length brown hair?”

            “That’s the one.”

            “Yeah, I’ve been watching him. Can’t tell what his deal is, though. Super overdressed. Like he’s going to a wedding. Not a shopper. Hasn’t bought anything. That is a nice vest, however. Wonder where this guy’s off to.”

            “Focus, Stace.”

            “Looks human, except for the tai—nope, that’s not a tail, that’s a scabbard. He has a scabbard. Not sure how I thought that was a tail.”

            “Where there are scabbards there are usually swords,” I say. Then, a bit concerned that she was apparently unable to differentiate between one and a tail, I ask, “Stacey, did you ever follow up on that physical you were supposed to?”

            “I did not. Doctor’s still all booked up.”

            “Well, I would suggest doing that. Let me know if you need assistance and I’ll be right down there to help,” I say. “Keep an eye on him. He’s giving me a funny feeling.”

            “Yeah, and he’s giving me a funny look.”

            I turn my full attention to the guy, watching him look where Stacey is stationed for a long moment before proceeding on his way. He puts a hand on his sword and I tense, readying myself to jump over the railing and fly down to beat him up if he gives my colleague trouble. But he doesn’t draw it, he just walks on deliberately.

            A mannequin torso crashes through a window farther down the mall. It lands roughly on the floor and its head snaps off its shoulders. 

            The suspicious guy freezes in place and watches the head roll a few inches. I go from watching the mannequin to him and back, trying to figure out what’s going on.

            “That’s it! I’ve had it!” someone shouts, and stomps out of the store the mannequin came from. It’s some college-age kid wearing an apron the color of the shop’s logo. A cashier, probably. She stomps around, shouting about how she isn’t paid enough, that she’s mistreated by the people in charge and that the entire system ought to be turned on its head.

            I’ve heard talk like this before. This is the same sort of malcontent that led to the Russian Revolution and eventually the rise of Communism. I narrow my eyes. I do not like hearing talk like this in my mall. Communism ravaged what used to be my home. I don’t want it ruining this one. Not when the mall and the people in it have been so good to me.

            More crashes sound around the mall, and lots of workers storm out of their stores and congregate around the first girl. They have signs, for some reason. No idea where those came from. They’re tied to mannequin legs and yardsticks and other things like that, and they say Eat the rich! Down with capitalism! Peace, land, bread!

            My colleagues on the first floor head over to the mob to disperse it. While most of the mall patrons turn right around to avoid the chanting and the weaponized mannequin pieces, who else but FancyClothes McGee draws his sword and charges right toward the mob.

            He has something to do with this, I’m sure. I’d better stop him before he does something more. Something worse. All the other security guards are busy with the mob. Nobody’s paying attention to this guy but me.

            I hop over the second-story railing and dive down to the ground floor in bat form. I aim myself at FancyClothes’ back, just between his shoulders. Mere inches before collision, I morph back. My mass and momentum take him down.

            The guy grunts in surprise when he faceplants and finds himself suddenly and passionately making out with the floor. Whatever he’s dressed so well for, I doubt it was this surprise date. His sword clangs to the ground and I kick it away, sending it spinning toward an elixir shop.  I hold the guy’s wrists behind his back and put my weight on him to keep him on the ground.

            The guy grits his teeth and squirms. “You idiot,” he says. Boy, can he seethe! The fellow sounds like a motorcycle made of snakes as he tries to buck me off. I steady myself and manage to get a pair of silver cuffs on him. Those usually subdue hostile entities, as silver neutralizes pretty much all magic, but they don’t, oddly. Not this time. That surprises me. He’s not weakened or subdued by them; he’s just handcuffed and a lot angrier. This guy’s either a human, or an entity immune to silver. But that can’t be possible. Entities aren’t immune to silver, they just aren’t. But he doesn’t smell like a human either, and if he was, I’d be able to restrain him without the cuffs, no problem. So what is he?

            The mob swells toward us. The shouts of “Seize the means of production!” are deafening. I figure I should get this guy out of there for his own safety. I’m not looking forward to moving him if he’s going to put up a fight.

            “Sir, I don’t want to use weapons on you, but if you continue to struggle, I might find that I need to. Now stand up and make this easy for me, would you? I’d hate for the both of us to get trampled.”

            I pull the guy to his feet and we start toward the detention room, then someone cracks a mannequin leg over my head and shouts, “Secret police! He’s working for the czar! Get him!”

“Secret police? What part of this is secret? I’m wearing a uniform,” I murmur.

The accusation confuses me enough so I’m taken aback for a second. Maybe I am secret police. After all, they were trying to prevent Communist ideas from being spread. They were working for the czar, trying to maintain order. And me, well, I work to maintain order. And I certainly don’t want Communism to be spread around like the deadly plague it is. Maybe the mall owner could be loosely interpreted as a czar, but—

No! Thinking like that is insanity. This is no real revolution, this is just some weird fluke. The mall is in no danger, I just have to do my job, take care of FancyClothes, and it will all go back to normal. None of my friends will be in danger.

            I yank my prisoner backwards as we’re swarmed. The route to the detention room is cut off, and we’re forced to make a hasty retreat backwards. I duck low and dive into the crowd, keeping one hand wrapped tightly around the guy’s arm. He follows my lead, thankfully not trying to break away from me, and we lose the attackers in the chaos.

            I’ve never wished for tunnel vision before, as it usually means there’s either some underlying trauma, or I’ve had too much vodka. Now, though, I want so badly for the capability to just tune out my surroundings and focus on the primary objective—find safety and handle FancyClothes. But I can’t focus. My attention is pulled every which way by almost everyone in the crowd. I see People in jeans and t-shirts one second, then they’re bundled up in thick coats against the falling snow the next. The women’s heads are wrapped in scarves and shawls. The men have thick rubber boots and ushankas. The vision vanishes in a second, leaving me in terror that something like that will happen again without me allowing it.

            The smell of sick and malnourished Russian protesters still lingers in my nostrils as I force my feet to shuffle forward and drag FancyClothes behind me.

            “No, no, no,” I say. I’m shaking. “Stop it. Stop. You don’t know what you’re asking for. Utopia is impossible. You’ll die for nothing—”

            “Are you speaking to me?” FancyClothes asks.

            I don’t say anything. I hardly even hear him. He’s right next to me, I know that because I’m squeezing his elbow, but his voice is distant and muffled. Everything is. I’m in a bubble and I can’t warn anyone outside of what will happen if they keep going down this path. The feeling of helplessness and numbness and the chanting crowd pressing against us give me an awful feeling of nausea. Beads of sweat form on my brow. My head is spinning. My head is hurting. I have to keep moving though or it will only get worse. I’m confused. I’m distressed. The nausea sharpens into a cramp that doesn’t fade.

            What’s happening? What’s making them do this? Will my friends be okay? Will I have to leave this place I’ve made my home? How many people will die because of this?

            A dozen steps later I get another vision of Russia in the early 1900’s. I freeze and let out a sharp cry, and then it’s gone again. Except for the smell. That’s unforgettable.

            I have to get out of this crowd before I succumb entirely to delirium. I still have a suspect to finish detaining, blin! What’s happening to me?

            I shake off the feeling as best I can and break into a run. We burst out of the throng and sprint to an abandoned cafe. It’s one I’ve been inside before, so I don’t need an invitation. I release FancyClothes and snarl at him to get to the back of the shop, then I grab the roller doors and pull them down so it looks closed. I don’t have the keys, so I can’t lock them, but maybe the mob will just see them rolled down and not bother.

            As an extra measure, I tip over a large table and usher my prisoner over to it. I tell him to get down and he takes cover. I’m not ready to think up a plan yet. My head’s still funny and I’m too wound up after the vision. I hop over the counter and take the lid off the big coffee machine. Water drips off the bottom and steam rises to meet me. I stand over it and take deep breaths through my nose, letting the bitter coffee smell drown out the scent of starving, dying people, and in the process, driving out the memories.

            I don’t even like coffee, but the pungent odor calms me enough so I can think clearly. I glance over to FancyClothes to make sure he’s still where I put him. He is. He’s looking severely ticked-off at being handcuffed and he’s giving me a scathing look of disdain, but he’s still there.

Good, because I’ve got some choice words to share with this urod.

I morph to a bat to dart across the café and shelter behind the table next to FancyClothes. I watch the mob for a few moments, relieved when it seems they either didn’t notice or no longer care about us escaping. In that case I can focus on my suspect. This whole thing must be his fault. Or maybe it isn’t, but I want someone to be mad at and he’s the only one around.

I grab two fistfuls of his fancy coat and yank him forward. “Listen, soplyak,” I say, showing my teeth, “you’re going to tell me what’s going on, what your role in it is, and how to get it to go away. Perhaps if I’m satisfied, I won’t punch your face in.”

He meets my glare—a sign of defiance against my attempts to scare him into obedience. “Soplyak?” he repeats, his pronunciation flawless. That irks me more than the eye contact. “You have the audacity to call me a punk when I’ve aggrieved none and have been wrongfully arrested, threatened, and assaulted by you?”

He has a point, but I’m choosing to ignore it. “Who and what are you, and why are you here?” I ask in a growl.

            FancyClothes gives me a level look. One I’d punch if I had less self-control. “A better question would be what you are doing here, Officer. I use that term loosely, seeing as you hardly act like a professional. Security is floundering and failing to contain the mob, and what are you doing to help? You’re hiding in a coffee shop, wasting your time detaining and interrogating me when I was trying to stop this catastrophe from occurring in the first place.”

            I smell blood on his breath when he talks, and that only angers me more. What is he? A vampire? No way. He has no fangs, he doesn’t smell dead, and most vampires are related to me. I’d recognize him if he was. He might be another sort of entity that feeds on blood. Or maybe he’s not! Maybe he’s just a human who’s a psychopathic degenerate. One I should beat up for my troubles.

            “Who are you? What are you? What are you doing in this mall?” I say slowly.

            “If you don’t read me my Fifth Amendment rights first, anything I tell you will be acquired unlawfully and won’t be admissible in court. Honestly, it’s like you’re trying to waste time. Perhaps you’re secretly on the mob’s side. Having prior experience with other vampires like yourself, I’m not particularly surprised that you’re pro-Communist.”

            “Pro-Communist?” I ask, aghast. “Pro-Communist? I work in a shopping mall, blin! That’s one of the most Capitalistic places imaginable! I eat Communists for breakfast!”

            “What the devil is that supposed to mean? That you enjoy those morally-depraved monsters?”

            “Yeah, I enjoy them. I enjoy hunting and eating them. Not much else those degenerates are good for.”

            “Disgusting.”

“Oh, I disagree. In a country where millions of people are diseased and starving, the monsters who profit off the hell they brought about are the only ones who taste any good. The only ones who are even the slightest bit healthy, actually. They have meat on their bones. Blood in their veins. Good stuff, that is. I only enjoy feeding on them. I despise their actions. They slaughtered thousands of humans and starved more, all for no good reason. They ravaged my country and they’ll ravage my mall if I stand by. I can’t let it happen. And if you’re going to be causing trouble and enabling them, then you can expect death at my hands.”

FancyClothes pauses. About time my words had an impression on him. He chews on them for a bit, and when he looks at me again, I don’t detect as much hostility. “Perhaps you’re not as bad as I thought,” he says neutrally. “I agree with you point for point where Communists are concerned, and with the same passion. Pardon my initial assumption.”

That’s not the impression I wanted! I think, then his words sink in and I deflate. Oh. He agrees. That’s—that’s cool. I guess I shouldn’t be so mad at him, then. I’m only alienating a potential ally. And looking at the mob and not seeing hide or hair of any other security guards makes me realize that alienating potential allies isn’t a bright idea.

 I turn back to FancyClothes. “You said you were trying to stop this insanity. You must know something I don’t about this whole . . . situation.”

He suddenly looks suspicious of me. “You certainly embraced the role of ‘nice cop’ quickly. What are you after?”

“Look, pal. The Russian Revolution is happening in my workplace. I’ve seen the Russian Revolution play out before, and it doesn’t lead to anything good. I want to stop it. You, allegedly, also want to stop it. I know from experience that you can’t stop a revolution alone.”

He ponders my offer. “Seeing as you’re the only other person in this mall who wants to or could even be capable of helping to stop this mess, it might not be a bad idea to work together.”

“In that case, fill me in. What’s your connection to what’s happening? What are you?”

FancyClothes scoffs and indicates the handcuffs. “Not some petty criminal, despite what your actions indicate you believe.”

I roll my eyes. “Alright, I’ll take them off. Turn around. What are you, then?” I ask as I unlock the cuffs. “Private investigator? Maybe some branch of another type of entities’ law enforcement I’m not aware of?”

“Indentured servant,” he says without skipping a beat.

I skip one for him. “What?” I skip a few more. “To who?”

“Maybe . . . ‘government contractor.’ Or mercenary. In any case, I’ve been tracking that impish phantasm all the way from Seattle. The little dissident continually eluded me and made himself comfortable here in your mall. My assumption is that he chose this place due to its portrayal as some . . . daemonic sanctuary.” He says this last part through a sneer.

            “Sanctuary for entities, not just demons,” I say, “and only the harmless demons. Which, to be fair, there are very few of. What’s this about an impish phantasm?”

            “This coup d’état is his doing. I was ordered to hunt him down and kill him, but he escaped before I could. Or rather, you pounced on me before I could.” He rubs his wrists once he’s freed and gets on his knees to peek over the table. He scans the crowd for a minute, then--

            “Look, there he is! On the ‘Death to the Romanovs’ sign.”

            “What Romanovs to they hope to find at an American shopping mall?” I grumble. “The Romanovs have been dead for more than a hundred years, they’re not going to—” I fall silent when I spot who the guy is indicating. That’s when it all clicks.

            Sitting on the sign is a wiry, translucent figure. He’s dressed as a cowboy, shooting two ghost pistols into the air and cackling giddily, Then the rim of his cowboy hat shrinks and his leather vest morphs into a Civil War uniform. He never stays the same for more than a few seconds. The details are liquid, forming and melting and re-forming. Attire, face, weapons, all of it. He’s a Confederate soldier one moment, a peasant wielding a torch and pitchfork the next, a minuteman with a musket and three-cornered hat after. Every form he takes is reminiscent of a rebellion.

            I ball my fists. “That guy again.”

            “You know of him?”

            “He’s banned from the premises and he knows it. I thought I got the message through to that debil last time I drove him off. Apparently not. I’ll make him pay for this. Maybe he’ll take the hint when I give him a few dozen spectral bruises to accompany it. You don’t just start a Communist uprising in my mall and expect me not to have a bone to pick. You can expect me to have bones to break. Because that’s what I’m going to do. With his bones . . . if he has them. Not sure if spirits have skeletal systems. I’ll have to ask Ben. Where was I going with this?”

“I think I’m starting to like you, vampire. Banned from the premises, you say? What reason?”

“Only for starting two separate revolutions leading to several lives lost, thousands of dollars in damages, and lawsuits everywhere. He’s the Spirit of Rebellion. Spore for short. I’ve dealt with this little parasite before. He likes to stir up dissent and cause chaos, I guess for his own weird gratification. At first it was the French Revolution. The carmagnole started to play on the speakers, people were remaking the calendar, there was the taking of the bar stools—”

“You mean the Bastille.”

“No, I do not mean the Bastille. This is a shopping mall, blin. You think we have a Bastille? No, they took bar stools from all the restaurants and welded them into a guillotine. And they used it. Then they used the leftover legs as pikes and stuck decapitated heads on them. They beheaded five people before we calmed them all down and exorcised the place.”

FancyClothes raises an eyebrow.

“And that was just the first time. There was also Christmas, where people stopped paying sales tax, started throwing hot tea everywhere, and—”

“Crossed the Delaware to attack the Hessians, like Washington. American Revolution, Correct?”

“Yes American Revolution, no attacking the Hessians, but yes attacking Redcoats, including people who aren’t really Redcoats, but were wearing red coats, including . . . the guy we hired to play Santa Claus. Since it was Christmas. He was tarred and feathered, the poor man. And the kids who were in line to see him . . . needed a lot of therapy after that.”

“That’s vile. What’s the slowest way to kill a ghost? I’m going to do that.”

“I just might let you, too, even though my orders are to keep suspects alive. Or undead if they happen to be that way. Just not dead-dead. I’m Damien, by the way. Damien Bryant.”

“Vladislav Dracula.”

I blink. “Dracula like—vampire Dracula? That’s funny, you don’t smell like a vampire.”

Dracula’s gaze hardens. “I am not one,” he says sternly, and says no more. I’m no mind reader, but I can tell he’s not a fan of me calling him that and he wants me to shut the blin up. Okie dokie. 

“We should head outside now and stop Spore before there are any casualties. I’d like my sword back if we can manage such a thing.”

“If you want to fight a ghost, my friend, you’ll need better than a sword. Seeing as he’s dead already, a blade won’t do much on its own.”

“Then what do you suggest?”

I crack my knuckles, showing off my silverweave gloves. “Beating the snot out of him should work. You want a glove? They’ve got silver fibers. They can punch ghosts.”

“Intriguing . . .”

“What hand are you dominant with? I’ll give you that one.”

“Right.”

“Blin. Me too. I’ll wear the other one, then. And I’ll wear it backwards, so the silver’s on my palm. You can punch him, I can smack him. It’ll be fun.” I toss him the glove.

“Yes . . . fun.” He says this as if the concept is foreign to him. “You can also handcuff if I’m not mistaken, unless that also wouldn’t work with ghosts.”

“My cuffs will, since they’re silver.”

“Excellent. You can cuff Spore and I’ll shoot him. Done and done.”

“Unless your bullets are silver it won’t do anything. And I’d rather not be firing off guns in here when there are so many people around, regardless of bullet material.”

“Fine. No hurting bystanders. Understood,” Dracula says. “Let’s stop this.”

I nod and we sneak out of our hiding spot to the roller doors. Dracula slides on my silverweave glove and flexes his fingers while I survey the outside. “Alright here’s the plan,” I say. “We find the rest of security and tell them about the real threat. Once their attention is off the mob and on our spook, it’ll be easier to get rid of Spore because we’ll have a whole team going after him.”

“You said Spore has caused fatalities?” Dracula asks drily.

I nod.

“Then why waste our time with the rest of security? What will they do for the ghost if they can’t even handle the crowd? I say we take care of Spore on our own before anything tragic happens.”

“A ghost and a violent mob are two very different things, Mister—”

My defense of my human colleagues dies in my throat when Dave walks past us, holding a sign and shouting Communist platitudes through a bullhorn. Dave, my own partner. You’re making it very hard for me to defend you debil, I think. I notice the rest of security also in the mob, chanting and waving fists and signs. They’ve all been corrupted. Spore has gotten to them.

“Change of plan, we’re doing what you said.” I roll up the doors and we scoot out of the café, weaving through people to get toward Spore.

Our lack of Communism must make us stick out, because he notices us. Spore leaps off the “Death to the Romanovs” sign and onto the top of a perfume kiosk. Dracula and I shove people aside to stay on his tail, and he flees. Spore leaps from one kiosk to another, always outpacing us, but just barely. I think he’s only landing and stopping to get on our nerves. It’s not like he has to, he’s a ghost. He can fly. If that is the reason, it’s definitely working. This merry chase is not too merry and more like horribly aggravating.

He stops on a striped fabric restaurant canopy, shifts into the form of a dissident peasant, and throws a pitchfork at us.

It embeds in the floor a few inches from Dracula’s feet and my companion stops short with a startled gasp.

I grab the handle with my gloved hand. The translucent wooden rod is solid under the silverweave fibers. I yank it free and hurl it right back at him. My aim is true, but Spore ducks and the pitchfork whizzes right over him. I swear.

“Decent throw,” Dracula says.

“Bah. It missed. Pitchforks work better against bears, anyway, which our suspect is not. Davai, before he gets away.”

Spore makes a face and blows a raspberry at us, then flies straight up toward the ceiling. Dracula growls and I hear the click of a handgun. I whirl and grab the muzzle of the magnum he drew, forcing it down to point at the floor. “Woah, woah, woah. Let’s not? There are still people in here.”

“He’s going to get away.”

“Relax, I’m on it. Wait here.”

I don’t check to see if Dracula acknowledges it, but I let go of the gun, morph into a bat, and fly after Spore. It’s hard to catch a ghost when you can’t see. It’s also hard to catch a ghost when you can’t smell them, hear them, or echolocate them.

I land on the second-floor railing in vampire shape to regain visuals. Spore has stopped his ascent to hover out of my reach and taunt me, miming fangs with his fingers and doing the Kazachok in midair. Alright, jerk, if that’s how you wanna play.

 I leap off the railing, arm outstretched, and grip his ankle in the glove. I fall for a second then jerk to a stop, then hang in midair, swinging a bit while I cling to the ghost. He yelps in surprise, then tries to fly away, but can’t because of me. I’m weighing him down like he’s a big balloon, dragging the rebellious little fellow back down to the ground. The fall is gradual at first, but the silver on his ankle eventually weakens him enough that we make significant progress downward.

We touch the ground and I pull Spore down to arm’s reach. Dracula winds up and socks Spore so hard in the face that the ghost’s head nearly pops off his spectral shoulders. I let out a whoop and my new buddy punches him again, this time in the stomach. Spore howls in pain, then morphs into a snake and writhes violently. I drop him with a surprised yelp. The snake zips over the heads of the crowd and out the automatic doors.

Dracula looks disappointed that I lost Spore. “What happened?” he asks me.

“He turned into a snake! Why a snake? What snake revolution am I unaware of?”

“It’s the Fall of Man, dingbat. He wasn’t a real snake, he was a representation of Lucifer.”

“Oh . . . right. That makes sense. Well he’s gone now, so . . . we win?”

Dracula shakes his head. “Don’t be so certain. The mob is still under his influence.”

I look around. The mall patrons are still protesting. The shouts of “Death to the czar!” and “Down with capitalism!” haven’t stopped. Signs and mannequin parts still pop up intermittently throughout the crowd.

I narrow my eyes. “Oh, boy. Better call a priest and get the place exorcised . . . again.”

“Indeed.”

“Maybe Ben can do something in the meantime.” I take my walkie-talkie from my belt and press the button on the side that auto-dials his office. It rings for a second, then he picks up-mid manic cackle.

He clears his throat. “Worry not, Czarina. Alexei’s hemophilia should be gone in a day or two. It’s just a minor arterial plumbing issue, can be fixed with nuclear therapy and a good night’s sleep. Make sure you keep him away from electric currents, though. Like, indefinitely. He will explode.”

“What are you talking about?”

“What? Oh hi, Damien. Forget what I just said. My office is definitely not full of royal czar blood.” He laughs nervously and conspicuously, for an uncomfortable amount of time. “How can I help you?”

“Can you get a priest here?”

“No need! I’ll fix the young czarevich myself. Where’d I put my chainsaw—”

“Please . . . please don’t, Ben. Please do not. You are not Rasputin. I know Rasputin. He’s my uncle. Please just get someone over here for an exorcism.”

Ben starts babbling about being able to heal Alexei himself, and that we won’t need any old priest to fix the czarevich when he’s skilled in “the arts”. I have a feeling he won’t be much help here, so I hang up.

“Well?” Dracula asks.

 I merely shake my head in response. “We’re on our own for this. Spore must still be close by, because the last two times, it all stopped as soon as we chased him off.”

“I’ll be on my guard, then. It’s likely he’ll return.”

“And I on mine. You can go look for your sword and I’ll search the area.”

We don’t have a chance to do so because one of the skylights shatters and someone lands on their feet in a fighting stance in one of the fountains. It’s a smallish man, balding, with a mustache and small beard. He’s wearing a suit and wields a rusty hammer and sickle like a middle-aged Communist businessman ninja.

I blink a few times. I recognize him, but at the same time my brain is trying its hardest to reject the fact that I’m recognizing him, purely because him being alive and here would be the weirdest and perhaps stupidest thing to happen this week.

“Wait, is that . . . ? Tell me that’s not Vladimir Lenin.”

“That’s Vladimir Lenin.”

“But he’s dead. Vladimir Lenin is very, very dead. I ate Vladimir Lenin. He’s definitely dead. I must be crazy. Tell me I’m crazy.”

“I’m afraid you’re perfectly sane, as that is him. Wait, what was that about you eating—"

“But why?” I ask.

Lenin wades through the fountain toward us. His eyes, which were usually dark with an intelligent desperation, are now glowing radioactive green.

“I find that being inconvenient in various, inconvenient and baffling ways is quite typical for both daemons and Communists.”

“But how? Lenin is dead and drained of blood. . . his body is back in Russia! Why is he in the mall? In Oregon?”

“I’d wager that Spore is possessing him. Lenin was embalmed after his death and has been immaculately preserved ever since. Were I a daemon looking for a body to inhabit, a clean, embalmed one would be a superior vessel to a rotting clump of bones and ligaments.”

“But why? He should be in the Red Square mausoleum, in Russia!”

“Ye—wait,” Dracula says, and strokes his chin. Lenin, meanwhile, climbs out of the fountain and staggers toward us, looking like a two-year-old getting used to his legs. It’s a common trait among possessed people to stumble along for a bit before they’re able to function without falling all over themselves. Sometimes it takes a while for whatever’s possessing them to get a good feel for the controls.

“He is, usually. But I think he’s on tour,” Dracula says.

“Why in the world is the body of Vladimir Lenin being toured internationally?” I shout.

“It’s part of a ‘Communists of the World’ exhibit I passed while on Spore’s trail. That’s probably where he got inspiration for this rebellion. As well as his vessel.”

Lenin finally gets used to walking and charges us, waving his tools around like a complete lunatic. Goodness gracious, he’s speedy. I leap back to avoid being cut open. That curved rusty blade is nasty-looking, and probably forty-percent tetanus bacteria. Dracula doesn’t react as fast and gets hammered in the temple. He grunts and fights back, punching Lenin in the throat, then the nose. He catches the hammer when Lenin swings again, wrenches it out of the corpse’s hands, and smashes it so hard into Lenin’s ear that I hear his skull break.

Despite the injury which should be quite debilitating, Lenin reacts as if it was a gentle caress—that is to say, he’s not stopped or even slowed. 

Bummer.

Lenin lunges at Drac and their weapons clash. Dracula’s grin is one of pure exhilaration as they struggle for the upper hand. He kicks his opponent in the chest and Lenin staggers back a step. Drac gives him no respite, bashing him in the head with his fist and the hammer. Lenin looks more battered after each blow, but he keeps fighting, completely unhindered.

Of course he’s unhindered, he’s a ghost. Dracula might be hitting him, but he’s not hurting him. He’s basically attacking a mech suit. You can’t beat a ghost in a fight through brute force alone. Ghosts are immune to that sort of thing. You’ve got to play smart to beat them. Use their weaknesses to your advantage.

I take out my handcuffs. Silver neutralizes entities. It weakened Spore well enough when I grabbed his ankle, it should work for my purposes now. Once he’s cuffed he should be easier to deal with.

Dracula’s keeping Lenin busy enough, so I sneak up behind and try to handcuff him. I can’t get too close, because he’s whipping the sickle around like a weedwhacker and I don’t feel like having my face sliced off. I also don’t want to be too obvious about my plan. If Spore figures out what I’m trying to do, he might abandon Lenin’s body and we could lose him for good. I retreat a little to think.

Something hard and light bonks me on the head. “Secret police!”

I turn around. It’s the guy who hit me with the mannequin leg! Why is he still focused on this? He swings and hard, plastic toes jab me right under my ribs. He swings again and I grab the ankle, teeth bared at him. I wrench it out of his grasp, then point to the other side of the mall, far away from us. “Go over there, sit down and be quiet,” I snarl.

“Why should I listen to one of the czar’s puppets?”

“Because you’ll be exiled to Siberia without a coat if you don’t, blin! Scram!”

Mannequin Leg bursts into tears and scurries away. I’m left with the white plastic leg. I could use this.

            I watch Dracula and Lenin closely, waiting for an opening. When I get one, I swing the leg at Lenin and sweep his own legs out from under him. He crumples, and I bop him on the head when he tries to get up again. I toss Dracula the leg and bend down to handcuff Lenin. After the second click, there’s a loud thumping sound. It’s the sound of dozens of signs, mannequin pieces, and even a few megaphones being dropped to the floor simultaneously. The crowd disperses. People trudge back to their places of work or their abandoned shopping bags, looking groggy and confused.

            Lenin, meanwhile, roars in fury and struggles like a crocodile trying to do a death roll, and I let him. He can’t do much else.

            “What did you do?” Dracula asks with a raised eyebrow.

            “Silver handcuffs. Spore, and all his rebellious antics are trapped in this body. As long as the silver stays on him.”

            Dracula nods slowly. “What do we do with him? Take him outside and fill him with silver bullets?”

            “Why don’t we send him back to the exhibit?”

            “What? Without killing Spore first? You’d just send him back? He’ll get out and wreak more havoc as soon as whatever museum caretaker takes those handcuffs off.”

            “I’ll have Ben do something to make sure Spore stays in there. Silver microchips, or something similar. Spore will finish up his tour and live out the rest of his days locked up in the Red Square mausoleum. He shouldn’t be a problem there. Not for a good long while.”

            Dracula scowls. “My . . . employers wanted him dead, but I suppose they’ll have to be satisfied with this. In that case my job is done here. I’ll be heading home.”

            “So soon?”

            “Indeed. But I don’t doubt I’ll return at some point. Considering the nature of this place, it’s likely that one of my future targets will turn up here. If that is truly the case, I wouldn’t mind working with you again, Officer Bryant.”

            “Please, my friends call me Damien.”

            “We are not friends, so I won’t do that.”

            “Ah. Okay.” I shoot him a mildly disappointed thumbs-up.

            “It’s nothing personal, Officer. My line of work would merely make a friendship with you or any of your kind incredibly inconvenient, as I kill you for a living.”

            “Understandable.”

            “That being said, I have met many a worse daemon. Compared to them, you’re not bad. I wouldn’t kill you unless I was given the order, certainly.”

            “Cool . . . thanks,” I say, and take a small step back. “And you’re not bad for a . . . whatever you are. I’m still not sure. But you’re not bad. See you around, Dracula.”

            “With any luck, you won’t.”