The shrill sound of a ringing telephone cut through the silence like a buzzsaw, sending a flock of birds exploding from the canopy in fright. Shasta sat up and looked around, shading his eyes with one hand. The phone sat on an ornate stand at the base of a nearby tree, its angular lines out of place among the rounded curves of the jungle foliage. Shasta glared at it then reluctantly got to his feet and walked over to pick up the handset.
“What?” he said.
“I have a job for you.”
“Collector, my dreams are not public property. Stay the fuck out, would you?” Shasta dropped the handset back on its hook and headed back to continue his interrupted nap, but before he'd taken more than a few steps he found himself stumbling into a small concrete room. It was bare of anything, including windows, except for the phone on its stand in the middle of the room. Shasta looked at it for a moment then sighed and went to answer it again.
“I have a job for you,” The Collector said, as calm and cool as ever.
“All right, lay it on me.” Shasta tucked the handset between his chin and his shoulder, and stood with his eyes closed, absently pinching the bridge of his nose.
“Some items from my collection were stolen from me last night. If you'll look on the table, I've sent you some images.”
Keeping his sigh silent, Shasta opened his eyes and picked up the file folder that had suddenly appeared on a table beside him. He flipped through it then spread the photos out on the table. The first two showed what he recognized as a world sphere, first on its own floating in darkness, then on a stand in what he assumed was the collection room. He put those aside and looked at the next four pictures, frowning. One pair of photos showed a slim, aristocratic young man with brilliant blue eyes; in one he was looking directly into the camera with a wary expression, and the other had caught him in profile, in the act of tucking his long hair back behind his ears.
“Those are your objectives,” The Collector said in his ear, making him jump. “The other photos are of your target. His name is Jones.”
Shasta looked at the next pair, studying the tall, scruffy-looking man pictured. The stranger looked thin and there was something unhealthy about his face, but his eyes caught Shasta's attention. There was grief and anger there, mixed together with a weird excitement—almost exultation—and a deep hunger that made Shasta feel uneasy.
“This... objective,” he said, dragging his gaze away from the photos of Jones. “Collector, that's a person. I don't do kidnappings or slavery.”
“It's a construct, Shasta. It's not real. Think of it as a doll or a robot. And it does belong to me.”
“Looks damn real to me.”
“I promise you it is not. Just get my belongings back, Shasta.”
“All right,” Shasta said after a moment. “And Jones?”
“Get rid of him. I don't care how, I just don't want him coming back. You'll get your usual payment as soon as my belongings are back in my possession.”
“Yessir. Can you take me back to the jungle?” he added, but his only response was the dial tone in his ear. “Okay then. Guess that means you want me to start sooner rather than later.”
He gathered up the photos and put them back in the file folder, tucking it under his arm. A slight gesture with one hand created a door in the nearest wall and he stepped through it into the darkness of his bedroom. Between one blink and the next he was back in his body and sitting up in bed, yawning. He put the file folder on his side table and pushed himself out of bed, stretching until his back popped. Then he picked up the folder again and went downstairs to grab a quick breakfast before he searched out The Collector's missing items.
It was the work of a moment to step into the between world. The fog swirled around him as he walked through it and something slipped under his shirt to tickle the small of his back, but he ignored it. Flipping open the file folder, he took out one of the pictures of Andraeon and one of Jones, looking between them to decide which would be easier to track. After a moment he tucked the photo of Andraeon back into the folder and concentrated on Jones's face, then tossed the photo down. The fog swirled around it and fountained up into the shape of a man, taking on vague impressions of Jones's features. It stood with its broad shoulders slumped and its head down, until Shasta tipped its chin up with one finger.
“Show me,” he said, and as an afterthought added, “Please.”
The Jones-shape turned and began walking through the fog, its eyes fixed straight ahead. Shasta paused just long enough to snatch up the photo and followed, forced to jog to catch up with the shape's long-legged stride.
“I should've made you shorter,” he grumbled when the shape finally stopped. “Thanks.”
He ran a hand down along the shape's spine and it wisped back into fog, twisting around his legs as he opened a doorway and stepped through. He found himself standing at the end of a long back garden, full of greenery that made him want to stop and examine it. Reluctantly he tore himself away from a group of flowers he hadn't seen before, and studied the squat brick house that the garden backed onto. Something was making the hairs on the back of his neck stand on end and he stayed where he was, cautiously trying to feel it out.
The back door opened and a woman stepped out onto the deck. Shasta made himself fade into the background, recognizing her immediately as a demoness. He could handle—and had, once or twice—a demoness but not on her own territory. He watched her as she studied the garden intently, obviously aware that something was out there; but her gaze passed over him twice then she turned and went back into the house.
He waited a few moments to make sure she wouldn't come back out, then he carefully made his way up to the house. He felt a muscle twitching in his jaw and realized he was gritting his teeth together hard enough to hurt. Forcing himself to relax, he traced an invisible alarm onto the wood of the deck with his finger, then moved around to do the same on the concrete walk leading away from the front door. He took a deep breath to try and calm his racing heart, and retreated to the back garden again, settling down on the thick grass to wait for movement.
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