The Strange Adventures of Rangergirl by Tim Pratt Read Free Book Online Page A

Santa Cruz, past boutiques and small restaurants, most of them already closed for the night. Beej didn’t care about the stores, though—he wasn’t out shopping, he wasn’t hungry, and human habitations in general didn’t hold much interest for him lately. He hadn’t been home in days. He’d been living outside, sleeping in parks and alleys, getting closer to the god.
    Beej carried a large black plastic garbage bag slung over his right shoulder. He’d spent most of the day gathering its contents: driftwood, pebbles, blue and green glass bottles with the labels meticu-lously picked off, the shiny circle of metal from the top of a tuna can, a sandal with duct tape mending a torn strap, hair swiped from the floor of the barber shop on Front Street, the skins of popped balloons, several flowers pulled up by the roots, and a tarnished brass cowbell rescued from the gutter. Beej inventoried the objects in his head, trying to decide if he’d left anything out, if there were any other elements essential for the ritual. It wasn’t like the movies, where people had magical books to consult, or where some wise shaman came along and told you what to do. Beej was operating from his inner resources, with no guidance other than what he could glean from his own mental tremors. He tried to
sense
the contents of the bag, their gestalt, and feel for gaps.
    He found one.
    Beej stopped, staring blankly at the concrete sidewalk before him. He couldn’t go to the altar yet, then—there was one offering still to acquire. Beej looked around, and saw what he needed right away: a potted palm near a wine shop. He whooped with delight, walked over to the plant, and set his bag down. Looking around to make sure no one was watching, he scooped out a handful of soil from the pot and piled it neatly on the sidewalk. He unzipped his pants, took out his dick, and looked at the sky, humming a swing tune. After a while his bladder relaxed—he always had trouble pissing in public—and a stream of yellow urine poured out, soaking the soil. After a while, he switched to pissing in the potted plant, so as not to supersaturate the dirt on the sidewalk. He finished and zipped up, then knelt and scooped a double handful of dirt from the sidewalk. It was damp and thick, now, transformed into mud by the water from his body. He opened the plastic bag, dropped in the mud, and wiped his hands unself-consciously on his pants.
    That took care of the mud, but he still needed fire. He walked a few blocks to the drugstore, going the long way to avoid the crowds on Pacific Avenue, wincing as he entered the well-lit parking lot. This was a night for shadows, not artificial lights. Beej went through the automatic doors into the store, and someone started yelling at him. “Hey! You can’t come in here!”
    Beej looked up, startled. “Are you closed?”
    The teenager, dressed in an ugly green vest with a name tag, hesitated. “No, we’re open. But . . . you can’t come in here to sleep, or just hang around. It’s only for customers.”
    “I am a customer,” Beej said. “Why would I want to sleep here? It’s too bright.”
    “Ah,” the kid said. “Sorry. I thought . . . sorry.” He nodded toward the plastic bag. “You have to, um, check your bag, though.”
    Beej clutched the bag to his chest, the bottles and driftwood clanking. “You
will
watch it carefully?” he said. “It took me a long time to get it just right, and if anything happened . . .”
    “Sure thing,” the kid said, backing off, stepping behind the protection of his cash register. “No worries.”
    Beej handed over the bag reluctantly. As soon as the cashier took it from his hands, Beej raced for the back of the store. He snatched up a can of lighter fluid and a box of kitchen matches, then ran back to the register. After dumping his purchases on the counter, he reached across and snatched his bag back from the boy’s grasp. Everything was still there, still potency-in-waiting, and