Cold Hearted
Author: James Hunter
Date: 2000-01-01 05:00:00+00:00
Keywords: Fantasy Action and Adventure; Mystery Supernatural Witches and Wizards; Paranormal and Urban Fantasy; mage; Warlock; Dark Fantasy; Urban Fantasy; Fantasy; Fae; Magic; Mystery; Adult; Paranormal; Actio
Description: A deadly Russian necromancer has just escaped his prison. His first day out could be Yancy Lazarus's last. Yancy Lazarus just wants to be left alone. He wants to play his blues music, smoke a few cigarettes, and otherwise leave the supernatural world to fend for itself. Unfortunately, when an ancient fae godling kickstarts a supernatural coup by unleashing a necromancer, retirement isn't an option. Nope. If Yancy ever hopes to see the bottom of another beer bottle, he's gonna have to partner up with an FBI agent-an agent who's been hunting him for years-to bring down the nigh-immortal, doucheb
Publisher: Amazon Digital Services LLC - Kdp
Rights: James A. Hunter (Adam W. Strode)

Contents

Summary

ONE: Spelunking

TWO: Dark Night

THREE: Forest of Suicides

FOUR: Follow the Leader

FIVE: Wonderland

SIX: Fistfight

SEVEN: Nick’s Smoke House

EIGHT: Corpse

NINE: Interrogation Time

TEN: Lawyer Up

ELEVEN: Blackout

TWELVE: Horror Show

THIRTEEN: Team Huddle

FOURTEEN: Nonna Nicci

FIFTEEN: Cassius Aquinas

SIXTEEN: Time to Tango

SEVENTEEN: Catch a Bullet

EIGHTEEN: Train to Outworld

NINETEEN: The Hog’s Head

TWENTY: Dangerous Game

TWENTY-ONE: Saloon Shootout

TWENTY-TWO: Shootin’ the Shit

TWENTY-THREE: Mists of Fate

TWENTY-FOUR: Meatbags

TWENTY-FIVE: Merry Go ’Round

TWENTY-SIX: Good Stuff

TWENTY-SEVEN: Cookout

TWENTY-EIGHT: The Hag

TWENTY-NINE: Jimmy

THIRTY: The Farm

THIRTY-ONE: Dinner and a Movie

THIRTY-TWO: Preparations

THIRTY-THREE: Round Two

THIRTY-FOUR: Show Time

THIRTY-FIVE: Ace in the Hole

THIRTY-SIX: Happy Endings and All that Jazz

Books, Mailing List, and Reviews

About the Author

Dedication

Special Thanks

Copyright

Summary

Yancy Lazarus just wants to be left alone. He wants play his blues music, smoke a few cigarettes, and otherwise leave the supernatural world to fend for itself.

He especially wants to be left alone by the Guild of the Staff—the mage ruling body—where he used to work as a Fix-It man. But when a little kid gets nabbed by an ancient Fae creature from the nether regions of Winter and the Guild refuses to set things right, he just can’t seem to heed good sense and leave things be.

Nothing’s ever easy though. Turns out, the kidnapping is just the tip of one big ol’ iceberg of pain and trouble. It seems some nefarious force is working behind the scenes to try and unhinge the tenuous balance between the supernatural nations and usher in a new world order. So now, if Yancy ever hopes to see the bottom of another beer bottle, he’s gonna have to partner up with an FBI agent—an agent who’s been hunting him for years—in order to bring down a nigh-immortal, douchebag mage from a different era. And to top it off, Yancy’s gonna have to pull it off without his magical powers … Boy, some days just aren’t worth getting out of bed for.

ONE:

Spelunking

The tunnel stretched out before me like the throat of some monstrous serpent, icy blue walls radiating pale witchlight to guide my feet. I shuffled along the winding pathway, trying for speed and failing miserably. There was snow underfoot, but the powder was often interspersed with patches of slick ice, which made the going treacherous as hell. It didn’t help a lick that my feet were so numb I couldn’t feel my toes, even though I had on heavy boots and thermal socks. Every friggin’ step felt like a crapshoot and I wasn’t quite sure how the dice would land.

I heard a howl from somewhere back in the darkness, a warbling noise that echoed and bounced around the narrow tunnel. I glanced back for a moment, which is precisely when my feet skidded out from under me and I went down hard, my ass connecting on the slippery ground below. My hip ached from the tumble, but at least my head landed in a pile of snow instead of on hard ground. I lay there for a moment, staring up at the curved ceiling, simmering in indignation.

Why me? Why couldn’t I ever just keep my head down and mind my own friggin’ business? I felt like kicking my own ass for being such a gullible, softhearted mook. Shit, the least I could do was be a little more selective. Tell people I’d only do them favors if the location was somewhere nice and beautiful … like say, sunny, sandy, not-cold-as-balls Honolulu.

I guess, technically, Thurak-Tir—home to the High Fae of the Winterlands—was a beautiful-ish place, so long as you’re the kind of person who doesn’t mind the arctic tundra of Siberia. The buildings are impressive at least: slick spires of frost, carved and sculpted into a thousand wonders; a house fashioned to resemble a frozen waterfall; a palace made of snow and crystalline-rime in the image of Yggdrasil, the Tree of Life; a tower in the shape of a serpentine neck, complete with scales, topped by a massive dragon’s head. Under the light of day, the whole city sparkles like a diamond, and at night beautiful slashes of green and gold drift through the air, a semi-permanent Aurora Borealis.

But it’s also piss-freezing cold and only beautiful in the way a statue is—lifeless, still, too perfect. And the residents are all the same. Bunch of too-good-for-you, cold-hearted pricks. I absolutely hate Thurak-Tir. Give me a warm New Orleans night in a dirty bar with a crowd of shit-faced hobos any day of the week.

Down in the subterranean caverns below the city, where I happened to be trudging around, was even worse. Monsters, spirits, and a whole lot of frigid air. The light of day never penetrated these depths, so the cold … well, the cold seemed both malevolent and alive, like some frostbite-belching yeti.

More yowls and howls, followed by cackling laughter: Ice gnomes—not nearly as cute or cuddly as they sound—closing in, and fast. Time to move.

I scrambled onto my hands and knees, gaining my feet like a clumsy toddler taking his first steps, and shambled away from the chorus of mocking laughter. Creepy little twerps.

If I was going to make it out of this place in one piece, I needed better lighting. Thankfully, I’ve got something a little handier than a flashlight. I can do magic, and not the cheap stuff you see in Vegas with flowers or floating cards or disappearing stagehands. People like me, who can touch the Vis, can do real magic. Although magic isn’t the right word—magic is a Rube word for those not in-the-know. Users just call it the Vis, an old Latin word meaning force or energy. Simply put, there are energies out there, underlying matter, existence, and in fact, all Creation. It just so happens that I can manipulate that energy. Period. End of story.

I paused for a moment, and opened myself to the Vis. Power rolled into me like magma from an active volcano, heat and life and energy filling me up, sending renewed strength into my limbs. I was careful only to draw a little and push the rest away—unchecked, the Vis can be as seductive and dangerous as a beautiful woman with a grudge.

Weaves of fire and air flowed out around me as I shaped that raw force; a soft nimbus of orange light encircled me, granting both better visibility and a small pocket of comforting warmth. Sure, it would make me stand out like a dirty redneck at a posh country club, but there was nothing I could do about that.

I got moving again, huffing and puffing my way along. More frenzied cries floated toward me from the tunnel twisting away behind. I needed to move faster, but the gloom still hampered my progress, forcing me to slow down and take my time. Even with the combined illumination from my construct and the ghostly witchlight bleeding from the walls, I could only see a few feet out. This was a night place, a dark place that fought the intrusion of light and heat with tooth and nail.

Even going sloth-speed, I almost didn’t see the cliff until my feet were over the edge. I hollered and threw on the brakes in a panic—digging in with my heels and pinwheeling my arms as I fell once more onto my back. I landed with a whuff of expelled air and immediately sprawled out my arms and legs. The greater surface area seemed to slow me down a little, but not enough. My legs skittered over the side, drawing me onward and downward. I clawed at the unyielding ice with numb fingers, my thin winter gloves making it all the more difficult.

I pulled more power, more Vis, into my body, and pushed thin strands of fire out through my fingertips. Small divots blossomed into the ice-covered surface of the floor, little grooves where my digits could find purchase.

Unfortunately my gloves began to smolder from the flame, the leather sending up curls of gray smoke. I ignored the heat—survival was my first priority. I dug in, giving it everything I had, arms and hands straining with the effort.

At last I skidded to a halt, my slide coming to a premature stop though it was a damn close thing. The tension in my arms and hands eased up as I slowly, carefully, pulled my hips and legs back from the drop-off, though my feet still dangled out in the air. Past the drop-off was blackness all the way down with no bottom in sight. Admittedly, the soft glow surrounding my body didn’t do much to diminish the gloom. Hell, the bottom could’ve been ten feet down or ten thousand. Better not to find out by taking a leap.

My heart thudded hard against my ribs. I’m not exactly afraid of heights, mind you, but anyone would be apprehensive about the prospect of careening off a cliff into potentially unending blackness. I took one more glance over the edge and uttered a sigh of relief. Whew. Dodged a bullet there.

I heard a hoot of mirth just a second before something hard and heavy collided into my back—a wallop right between my aching shoulder blades.

My fingers tore free of their meager holds and over the drop-off I went, manic gnome laughter filling my ears as I fell. I tumbled down and down, flipping through the air like a fumbled football. I caught just a brief glimpse of a short, knobby form peering over the edge, his whole stumpy body shaking as he cackled. Asshole gnomes.

I lashed out with air—great columns of the stuff—directed down to slow my descent. That was a start, but the construct wouldn’t keep me from getting impaled on a giant icicle or busting my guts open on a rocky outcropping.

So next, I pulled in strands of artic cold, weaves of spirit and reinforced bands of fae power, floating through the air like so much dust. A shimmering bubble of green—shifting from emerald to pine to jade and back again—snapped into place with an effort of will, encompassing me in a tight globe of power, exerting a slight pressure on my body. A small safeguard against pointy things and an air pocket to cushion my body from the inevitable impact.

Splash-thud. The protection construct squeezed tight around me, the weight of water bearing down from every angle. My neck jerked first forward, then back. Green-tinged liquid encircled the protective construct as I sank into some sort of underground lake. Thankfully, the shield kept my innards from going all explody on landing, but there certainly wasn’t enough air to make me buoyant. Down and down, ever further I went, just like a lead weight on the end of a fishing line. I pumped with my arms and legs, but found no water to move. The shield worked damn well and would keep working until I hit the bottom, ran out of oxygen, and drowned. Awesome.

Only one thing to do about it, and I needed to do it quick before I descended further but, boy, was it gonna blow. I pulled in the biggest lungful of air I could manage and let the weaves for the shifting green sphere dissipate. The second my construct faltered, merciless waters, like liquid nitrogen, rushed in to fill the void, caressing every inch of my skin with icy hands, sending a wave of goose bumps across my flesh.

The cold was a knife in my brain, a swarm of angry bees crawling all over my body, filling up my clothes and boots, straining to gain entry into my mouth. I worked my arms and legs for everything I was worth—splashing, pumping, thrashing—slowly propelling myself to the surface. Too slow. Lungs burning from strain. Muscles seizing up from the chill. My nose, fingers, and toes were all numb, just useless chunks of ice attached to my equally useless body.

I strained against the burning in my chest and lungs, fought against the need to breathe as I swam. After a couple of long beats and some more floundering, I just couldn’t do it anymore. I pushed air out to relieve the strain. Water gurgled into my mouth, freezing my esophagus, invading my lungs. My vision narrowed and darkened around the edges.

I kicked harder, arms pulling down in frantic strokes, while I simultaneously used thick flows of Vis to push me upward. Then there it was. Air. Sweet, glorious, delicious air filled with life-giving oxygen. It stung against my water-drenched skin, but I didn’t give a damn. Not even a little. I sputtered out what felt like a bucketful of cavern water and gulped in more air as I continued to work my arms and legs.

My limbs each seemed to weigh as much as a small Volkswagen, and my soaked clothes continually threatened to drag me back down, so keeping my head above the water line felt like a nearly impossible chore. I treaded in circles, straining to see in the murk, searching for shore and safety. After a couple of turns, my eyes finally adjusted to the dark, and I caught sight of the cliff wall disappearing into the cavern above. Running along its edge was a small strip of icy land that curved gently right before connecting to a tunnel.

My breath misted in front of me as I struggled against the dragging weight of my clothes and the tempting embrace of cold surrender. I pushed my body, one arm, then the other, feet fluttering below, fighting against the water’s pull. Took me a minute or two to reach the lake’s edge, though that little dip seemed to last a couple of lifetimes.

At last I pulled myself up and onto the narrow strip of shore. I just lay there for a moment, gasping and coughing out still more water, too cold to even shiver. A particularly violent bout of hacking brought up my breakfast: an energy drink and a fast food ham-and-egg sandwich. I was too cold to care. Hypothermia couldn’t be far off. A small fire would give away my position, but if I didn’t get warm and quick, those little shit-eating gnomes would stumble across a mage-cicle. Warmth and shelter; these items were on the top of my things-to-do-to-not-die list. Everything else came second.

I drew in power, held up my left hand, palm out. A wavering tongue of flame, thick as my leg, burned into the icy cliff face. The wall let out a crack and a groan as thin fissures shot up its surface and steam, deliciously warm, flooded the air. The work was slow going, the ice and cold resisting the fire with an almost-living awareness. Ultimately, however, the fire won the day and I had me a cozy ice bunker, four feet high and four feet deep, gouged right into the wall.

I dragged my soggy, frozen ass into the shelter and conjured a floating orb of flame, six inches or so in diameter, which hung in the air across from me. Believe it or not, the space heated up awfully quick. Ice and snow are actually pretty amazing insulators. The air outside was well below zero, but the snow and ice stayed at thirty-two degrees even—no warmer, sure, but also no colder—which meant I could get the inside of my fort all nice and toasty. Relatively speaking anyway. My revolver was damp, but in its holster. I checked my pockets … good, still had a couple of spare aces in place for when things really got rough. Doubtless there would be some badass hard-charger running this show, so it’d be wise to have a few surprises standing by.

I cast an illusion across the narrow opening of my impromptu shelter, making it appear like a dark, unbroken wall. Wouldn’t do me any good to make a hidey-hole only to have the Midget Death Squad stumble across me while I was still too incapacitated to defend myself. Next, I wove thin strands of air, heat, and latent electricity into my pants, shirt, and jacket, wicking the remaining moisture from the fabric, drawing it out so my clothes could dry right and proper.

After a handful of minutes, I was warm enough to shiver again, teeth chattering in my head like a gossiping schoolgirl. Oh, the glamorous life of a supernatural fix-it man.

No-good, self-serving jerks in the Guild. This was all their fault. Should’ve been one of those bathrobe-wearing clowns down here, trudging around in frigid tunnels, falling off cliffs, doing laps in subarctic water, fighting crazed ice midgets.

Ben was a friend, and the little Gnomish fiends had kidnapped his grandson, Michael. So of course I’d agreed to help. But Ben was also a guild member, which meant the Guild had responsibility for him and this mess. It should’ve been them down here, dammit. But no. The Elder Council said there “wasn’t enough evidence of wrong-doing,” that it was just an “isolated incident.” Complained about not wanting to “initiate an inter-dimensional incident on Sovereign Fae territory.” For Pete’s sake, they called Ben’s grandkid “an unfortunate casualty.” Blah, blah, blah, so on and so forth. Really, it all amounted to a bunch of cheap, copout horse crap.

So naturally, Ben came to me. He knew I’d understand, which I did. The Guild had pulled the exact same bullshit when the Morrigan—Irish goddess and general badass—took Ailia from me years back. They’d even handed me the same company line. So yeah, I knew what it was like to be in his shoes. To lose someone. To be all on your own, shit outta luck and without a glimmer of hope in the world.

No worse feeling in the universe. And Ben … well, Ben had stood up for me in my dark hour, called the council on their hypocritical shenanigans. It hadn’t amounted to anything, but he’d stood for me, so I figured this was the least I could do in return. Still, here I was, not even a friggin’ member anymore, doing their dirty work. Again. Just like the old days. Irresponsible swamp-donkeys, the whole lot of ’em.

At least Ben was good enough to come down here with me and put his own ass on the line, even though he wasn’t a fighter, not by any stretch of the imagination. I was worried about him; those living lawn ornaments had ambushed us, separated us like a pride of lionesses separating the vulnerable prey from the herd. Ben was a grown man, though, and had lots of talent—admittedly, more in the way of illusion and healing—so I figured he could handle his business. As things stood, he was probably doing a fair bit better than I was.

After about ten or fifteen minutes, everything was mostly dry and I no longer felt like a frozen TV dinner. It was high time I made preparations to get sweet, sweet revenge on the sadistic gnomes skulking around these tunnels, hunting me, and otherwise causing mayhem.

I’d teach ’em a thing or two. There was a single tunnel connected to the narrow strip of land curving out from the cliff face—perfect for setting a trap. I pulled in more Vis and wove another small orb of fire outside my shelter, about halfway between me and the tunnel, where it was sure to be seen by any searching eyes. Then I crafted a rough simulacrum, basically an illusionary double of myself, sitting near the fire with its back exposed to the tunnel opening.

The simulacrum wasn’t a great piece of work, just a crude, unmoving mannequin, which kinda, sorta resembled me from a distance. An average-looking guy, about forty—even though I’m actually in my mid-sixties—with short, dark hair and unremarkable height and build. A pair of blue jeans (though I had long johns on underneath), some sturdy winter boots, and a thick fur-lined coat. Yeah, it resembled me all right, at least if you had bad eyesight.

Listen, I’m not the best with illusions. Glamours are more my thing.

Now in a lot of circles, the terms “glamour” and “illusion” are used interchangeably, and understandably so because they achieve nearly the same effect: they deceive. Even though they get similar results, they aren’t the same thing by a far stretch. Illusions, or veils, fool people by actually creating a different image, which is projected over a person, object, or scene. Illusions exist, in a manner of speaking, in real time and space; they work by tricking the optical nerves in the eye. Glamours, on the other hand, deceive not by tricking the eye, but by tricking the mind. A glamour doesn’t create an image that the eyes see and send back to the brain. Instead, a glamour suggests directly to the brain that something appears to be different than it really is.

But my illusion would work fine as bait. I mean, the thing was sitting out in the open, silhouetted by a fire, with its back exposed. Plus, gnomes aren’t terribly bright.

Then I hunkered in and waited, letting the sparse warmth in my shelter settle into my bones.

After another few minutes, I heard the soft and unmistakable sounds of garbled gibberish, which is what passes for the ice gnome language. They were closing in. I mentally patted myself on the back. Well played, Yancy, well played.

I wanted to pull my pistol and level these jerks, or maybe roast the whole lot of ’em with a column of fire—sort of my specialty—but both options were out. My gun was mostly dry now, but there was a small chance the bullets were still wet. Normally, that wouldn’t necessarily be a problem since, contrary to popular opinion, most firearms will work even when wet. But potentially wet rounds combined with artic temperatures? Bad idea all around. At arctic temperatures, the action could seize, the ignition powder could cause a hang fire, not to mention the gunmetal itself would be brittle as old china. Better to play it safe.

And tossing around flame here was as tricky as trimming lawn hedges with a set of plastic scissors. It’d get the job done eventually, but it’d be a helluva slog. I’d manage, though. I’ve always been good winging things on the fly.

I spotted a pair of the stumpy, blue-skinned creatures emerging from the tunnel, just at the periphery of the firelight’s reach. Squat and broad, like living chunks of ice, with fat legs and arms completely covered with crystalline spikes. Thick craggy beards of white hoarfrost (both the men and women have these, which is strangely disturbing) and the trade-mark conical cap, though razor-tipped. Little shits could head-butt like no one’s business.

They didn’t advance, however, but rather stood motionless, lingering, waiting. Maybe they could tell something was off.

The fire crackled lazily while I waited, biding my time, playing it cool.

With an effort of will, I made the simulacrum twitch, just a slight shift in posture—stretching out, cracking his neck, before settling back into place. The fire continued to dance, kicking up shadows along the walls, and at last the evil little bastards padded forward.

Not even a whisper of sound as their feet shuffled across the narrow strip of ice bordering the indoor pool. Close now, maybe only twenty feet. The stocky gnome in the lead raised a jagged club of ice nearly as long as its body. Little bastard was going to club me in the head. Sneaky, tricksy sons of guns, these gnomes. No honor in pushing someone off a cliff or clubbing them in the back of the head, which I’m totally cool with—fair fights are for suckers. Basically, I was about to pull the same trick on them. I almost wanted to chuckle in evil joy. Mwaahaha.

I shaped the energy raging through my body into something useful, intertwining thin strains of radiant heat and water, all wrapped about in flows of compressed air. A small smile split my face. These pointy-hat-wearing chumps were about to get some serious comeuppance. About ten feet out—close enough that I could see the firelight glint off frosted skin—I let loose a barrage of sharpened ice-quills, hurled with the force of a tornado. The foot-long spikes of frozen doom ate up the distance in a heartbeat, ripping into rigid flesh like a barrage of frozen bullets.

The one with the club issued a yelp before tumbling over into the artic pool, thrashing and flailing, trying to swim free. Though the gnomes looked a little like ice cubes, they didn’t float. Sons of bitches weigh as much as a boulder, and swimming isn’t exactly their strong suit. After a few seconds his desperate splashes grew faint and his head dipped below the surface with a final bubble.

Several of my missiles protruded from the torso and arms of the second gnome, though they didn’t seem to bother the little fella too terribly. He rushed forward, thick legs swishing back and forth, a slick dagger of glacier-blue raised above his head for a killing blow. He brought the blade down on the head of my illusion, which guttered and disappeared, leaving behind a very bewildered-looking gnome.

Like I said, not too bright—the guy would never win the Nobel Prize in physics. Shit, he’d be lucky to tie his shoes in the morning on his own.

I bolted from my hidey-hole. Drawing on air and fae power, I created my own club of ice, which I promptly smashed into the confused gnome’s head. Lots of better ways to take this guy down, but I couldn’t risk killing him outright or losing him to the water—I needed a guide to make it out of this maze, so better to just beat the little shit into submission. My crude weapon knocked the gnome back a few steps, but otherwise seemed to have little effect. In fact, the blow seemed to jar him back into action.

The creature shuffled forward a step and lashed out with his dagger. My club, too heavy and ungainly to maneuver with anything resembling grace or skill, was practically worthless against the quick blade. I lifted my arm just in time to intercept the slash; white stuffing bled out in tufts from my winter jacket.

Normally it’s not a terribly bright idea to stick your arm in front of a blade’s edge—unless, of course, you’re wearing ring mail or something else you might find at a Ren Fest. But beneath my bulky winter coat, I was sporting my leather jacket, a custom piece that handled the job, no problem. Imbued with Vis and lined with ultralight Kevlar and slash-resistant fabric, it’s quite a bit more resilient than it looks, though damn if the blunt force trauma from the blow didn’t smart.

With an awkward twirl, I smashed the club into the gnome’s outstretched wrist—there was a crack, like a tree exploding in winter’s cold, and his knife clattered to the ice. The creature’s arm hung at a strange angle. The energy of the impact reverberated through my arm; my fingers couldn’t control the weight of the icy bludgeon any longer, and it slipped free from my hand. I shot out a quick jab on instinct, connecting solidly with its bulbous nose. Terrible idea, that—blocky creatures made out of ice do not make good punching bags, so throwing down with a good ol’ bout of fisticuffs wasn’t a solid game plan.

Somehow, though, I’d managed to scare the dumpy Disney movie reject enough to get him to retreat. He was on his heels now, shuffling back toward the tunnel, away from me and well away from the pool. I love it when a plan actually comes together. I called up a gale of wind, which arched out from my hand and sandblasted the pint-sized tyke into the far wall, pinning him in place. Throwing around a column of hurricane force isn’t exactly a surgically precise procedure—had I tried the ploy earlier, I might’ve accidentally sent him right into the drink with his buddy, which was no bueno since I needed him to lead me to the kid.

I redirected a trickle of my power into the frozen wall behind the gnome. The ice boiled and oozed outward creating thick restraints of hard packed snow that surrounded the gnome’s hands and feet, securing them in place and leaving the little guy hanging on the wall a good three feet from the ground. He struggled fitfully, writhing against the wall, jerking arms and legs in a bid for freedom.

The whole while, he chattered at me incessantly. Unfortunately, he spoke only Gnomish. Since I don’t speak a lick of gnome, grilling him for intel was going to be as tricky as teaching a tiger to play the piano and drink good booze. Hey, on the plus side, I couldn’t understand all the hateful, four-letter expletives the guy was probably yelling at me.

I’d have to drop a compulsion glamour on his ass, nothing else to do about it. Compulsions are ugly things. They basically usurp the free will of a living, thinking being. They’re kind of illegalish—at least if you use them on another human—and they also make you feel all dirty and gross on the inside.

I wasn’t quite so apprehensive with the gnome since he was of the low fae. Monkeying around in a human brain can break a person’s mind, erase their personality, even twist them into something contrary to their nature. Fae of any flavor, on the other hand, tend to have very rigid and unchanging personalities, so compulsions generally don’t have the same negative side effects. The fae just don’t change—they are what they are, always. Even if that weren’t the case though, I’d still drop a compulsion on him; he and his buddies had kidnapped an innocent child and tried to murder me. More than once. The way I reckon things, he had a little payback coming his way.

I temporarily disarmed the Fort Knox strength mental wards preventing other creatures and mages from messing around inside my head. I reached out with my thoughts while weaving a fragile, pulsing net of spirit which settled in place over the gnome’s noggin, breaking down his will shotgun style, lowering his inhibition, and making him susceptible to my every suggestion.

His mind, his thoughts, stretched out before me like a sea of glassy sapphire lights, all of differing sizes and hues, some glowing, others blinking on and off. Orbs of consciousness—each tenuously connected to the others through a vast and elegant web of muted purple strings. Each orb was a memory or a dream, a feeling or some deep impulse. They worked together, separate yet one. Each pushing and pulling its own way, yet tied to the whole. Compulsion was simply a matter of navigating those waters, knowing which orbs to invade, which to subvert, and, in turn, co-opting the neural network so you could impose your will over the whole.

Brutal compulsions simply wiped the network, potentially destroying the person or creature, while more subtle methods could get the job done and leave little mess behind. I was good with subtle, at least where compulsions were concerned. It wasn’t much different from picking a lock really: just a light touch and knowing which buttons to put pressure on. I sifted through the orbs, bypassing the creature’s strange memories and alien emotions. There, a bundle of nerves responsible for motor reflex, navigation, and impulse control. I sent tendrils of thoughts snaking out into the handful of orbs, Vis flooding the system, our minds momentarily connected.

A dark shadow pressed itself into my awareness, a creature of spirit, a thing devoid of body, and seemingly made up only of voracious hunger and empty hopelessness. I’d been so preoccupied with not dying that I hadn’t even sensed the shifty bastard. Must’ve been following me, biding its time, waiting for an opportune moment to jump into my mental swimming pool.

Dark, ethereal claws ripped into my brain, the fiend’s awareness pressed into my own. A pulse of energy filled up my senses as the thing invaded my own internal network. A flash of light, and then … I was back at home, or what had once been my home. My wife—well, long time ex-wife—Lauren, standing before me. The scene was familiar; I’d replayed it a thousand times before. The day I’d walked out on her. Maybe the worst day of my life. Certainly in the top ten.

TWO:

Dark Night

“Yancy, please don’t do this.” Tears streamed down her cheeks in rivulets. “Please. We need you.” She wiped a hand across her cheek, smudging the tears on her skin. “The boys need you, Yancy. They need you. You can’t leave. You can’t.”

I didn’t say anything, couldn’t stand to hear myself talk or to look her in the eye. So instead I turned away, a travel-worn sea bag stuffed with pants, shirts, and some hygiene stuff, slung over my shoulder.

“Please,” she said again.

I turned back; she deserved something, anything. “You just don’t get it,” I said, trying not to sound harsh and failing. “You don’t know what it’s like, Lauren. Everything’s different now. Everything. It’s better this way. Right now? Right now I’ve got too much baggage.” And I sure as shit wasn’t talking about the sea bag. “Nothing’ll turn out right if I stay around. I’ve got nothing good to offer you anymore. The kids’ll be better off without me around, dragging you guys down.”

“Please, Yancy … I know things’ve been rough lately. I know it’s not the same. I do, believe me. But you don’t have to go. We can work through this, work this out. Whatever’s going on with you … I’ll—I’ll support you. I’m here for you.”

“Look, I just can’t stay. Or explain any of this.” I put a hand to my forehead; the pain was back again, behind my eyes, curling up and around either side of my skull like a set of ram’s horns. I rubbed at the bridge of my nose and then moved on to my left temple. Damn headaches. It was the dreams. Martin, dead, ropy gray guts and pieces of meat hanging from that Tualang tree. Hall, shot to pieces, gaping holes littering his torso, dribbling dark blood. Rat, burnt alive in an explosion and flash of white phosphorus. No one back home gave two shits about them. About the war. Nope, back stateside everything was the same. Except me. I’d moved on, but the world hadn’t taken notice.

The headache worsened, the dull throb moving down into my sinuses, pushing behind my eyes, urging me to see the energy. My hands grew warm, the stink of burning canvas wafted to my nose. Not this shit again. The fire. Fire coming right outta my friggin’ hands. Those freaks—called themselves mages or wizards or whatever the hell—said that was the reason for the headaches.

No, I couldn’t stay. Just too much wrong.

“Mommy,” a soft voice, a child’s voice, drifted from the doorway. “Is everything okay? Daddy, where you going?” My oldest son—a slight, tow-headed kid wearing a pair of rumpled green jammies. Good kid. But I wasn’t any good for him. I wasn’t cut out to be a dad, or a husband. All the responsibilities. Giving baths, reading stories, cleaning dishes. It wasn’t me. I couldn’t handle it, not on top of everything else.

“I’m leaving for a little while, champ. But I’ll be back. And I love you. It’s important you remember that. Whatever happens … remember, this is the best thing.”

“Please don’t go,” he said, his breathing too heavy, his eyes already red-rimmed. Must’ve sensed this coming for a while; he was sharp like that, perceptive. “Please, Daddy. I’ll be better, I’ll clean my room more, and do my chores on time. I’ll, I’ll help watch Jake, I’ll …”

“It’s not about any of that,” I said, my voice soft. “It’s not you, it’s not your brother or your mom. You guys didn’t do anything wrong. It’s me. I’m broken.” I couldn’t say anything else, not another word, or my traitorous tongue would betray me, would choke me up while I blubbered.

“Yancy,” Lauren said, voice flat. “If you do this, it’ll ruin us. It’ll kill them.”

I turned and marched toward the beat-to-shit ’66 Toyota Stout—paint peeling, shocks shot, window cracked—before I could change my mind. I’d be around, check in once a month, make sure everything was taken care of. Those freaks said they could set my family up if I left. It was better this way. Pick up the boys for the holidays maybe. I dunno. Shit. My heart beat too hard against my ribs, I couldn’t get enough air into my lungs. The sea bag slid down my shoulder, so I grabbed the strap and shrugged it back into place. My hands were too friggin’ hot. The sea bag started to smolder from my touch.

“Stop right there, Yancy,” came Lauren’s voice, but it wasn’t really her voice, and this wasn’t the way things were supposed to happen. This scene was nothing new to me; I’d seen it countless times. I walked to the Toyota, threw my bag in the truck bed, hopped into the cab, and cruised away. That was how it happened, end of story. She didn’t say anything else, not that day.

“Turn around you no good, deadbeat piece of shit,” she said. The words stung, but they rang true—they were my own and I’d said as much to myself many a time. So I did turn. It was a compulsion, outside my control; my body didn’t feel like my own. Before, Lauren stood by the door, arms curled around her chest, like she was trying to keep her heart from breaking free. Now, she was only a few feet away, arms open, lips drawn back in a rictus. She looked different. Sick. Bruises, nearly purple, encircled her eyes. Her skin was corpse white, pasty-pale, with cracks and fissures cutting into her flesh.

“I said it would kill them,” she whispered, “but it killed me. You killed me, Yancy.” She held out her wrists as an offering. Dark brown slashes ran vertically down the inside of each arm. “Self-murderers have no rest, no peace, y’know? It’s the Forest of Suicides for us.”

What the hell was this? No! I dropped the sea bag and backed away. This wasn’t right. Lauren was dead, but it sure as shit hadn’t been suicide. Cancer—it’d eaten her lungs right up.

“No,” I said, “this isn’t right, this isn’t how it happened.”

She snarled and lunged forward, dead hands distorting into elongated, hollowed out spikes, a little like the sucking, straw-like mouth of a mosquito. The claws were like straight razors, slicing through my skin and into the muscle below, pulsing as she kneaded the claws like a cat, drawing energy, life, Vis, from my body. I stumbled back and batted the hands away with a sweep of my arm. She vanished, and a moment later, reappeared behind me, hungry fingers slashing at my back. I could fight her, obliterate her with my power—a burst of flame or a lance of ice. My hands were so hot, burning up, I could do it.

The hell was I thinking?

No … no, I couldn’t. Not her, not after what I’d done, what I’d put her through.

She pressed in, but I couldn’t bring myself to raise a hand to her. Instead, I darted away from her and the truck, back toward the house. My son, standing in the lawn, now lurched at me with his own mosquito fingers extended. Whatever Lauren had, clearly it was catching. My youngest, Jake, was still in the house. Maybe I could spare him, save him from this disease, whatever it was. I shouldered past my eldest, knocking him to the ground, before hauling back the screen door and sprinting into the living room.

There was something in the corner, a dark shape, a long shadow with spidery arms and knobby knees, purple eyes and tearing claws. It looked familiar somehow … a flash—a frosty tunnel, a frozen lake, a blocky man hanging from a wall … things shifted …

The room blurred at the edges. I no longer stood in the living room. Now it was a great hall. I remembered this one, too: the night I left the Guild for keeps.

The hall was filled with old-fashioned, red-cushioned church pews, housing men and women dressed in flowing robes in a multitude of hues, all looking at me with stern faces unmarred by compassion or care. Walls of gray stone, smooth from the grinding passage of age, surrounded me on all sides like a prison. Slender candles, in silver, wall-mounted candelabras, shed dim yellow light. Stained-glass windows in greens, blues, purples, and reds all stared down on the unfolding scene. In one glass panel, some saint lifted a hand in benediction, while birds and other forest critters surrounded him. In another, Daniel—long beard and wispy white robes—stood unperturbed in the midst of a pride of hungry lions, gazing around, unworried.

Right now, I kinda felt like Daniel. All the mages around me seemed like a bunch of bloodthirsty lions, just waiting to take a bite. Unlike Daniel, I wasn’t under God’s protection, and I wasn’t sure I would leave the room without at least a few scratches.

I faced twelve robed figures arrayed in a semicircle on the platform at the front of the chapel—the Elder Council of the Guild of the Staff.

I locked eyes with the arch-mage standing center-stage. She was a striking woman with smooth skin, high cheeks, and bright green eyes, searching and calculating. Her hair was a mass of silver, hanging all the way down her back. Though she looked to be in her late fifties, Arch-Mage Borgstorm had to have a couple hundred years under her belt and was about as savvy as magi came. She was also cold, calculating, and political to her teeth. Had she been in the lions’ den, I would’ve felt bad for the lions.

“Now you listen here, it’s not right, dammit,” I said to the whole room. “The Morrigan can’t just take her without retribution. Ailia is one of us, she’s a member of this Guild, and we protect our own, right?” I looked around at the assembled men and women in the pews, not sparing them my wrathful gaze or the heat in my voice. “That’s why we have the Fist of the Staff. That’s why you recruited me to do all the shit I’ve done.”

“That will be quite enough, Mage Lazarus. We are fully aware of your contributions to the Guild. You are, however, a junior member without the experience to make these kinds of decisions. There is a very good reason you are not allowed to pick your own assignments.” Her voice was all no-nonsense business, her tone one that commanded immediate compliance. “You simply lack the requisite familiarity, which is so necessary to understanding the complicated and often delicate nature of the supernatural nations. We’ve been over this before, no need to hold up this assembly with your drama. Now, moving on.”

“Don’t feed me that line of shit.” Gasps of shock filled the room. Lots of these folks had a bone to pick with the arch-mage, but there are some things that just aren’t done. Just aren’t said.

Her gaze seemed to freeze me for a moment, energy built in the air around her. “Considering your current emotional state,” she said coolly, “I will overlook your gross breach of protocol and uncouth demeanor. But I expect you to be civil or you will be removed and penalized. Harshly.”

“I’m about to go uncouth all over everyone in this friggin’ chamber, you hear me!” I yelled, my face flaring with heat. “I’ve put my ass on the line for this organization. I’ve fought nightmares and monsters, saved members of this Guild, rescued family members. And now when it’s one of our own? When it’s my Ailia, you’re gonna turn your backs? Bunch of cowardly, self-serving, sniveling ostriches. Sticking your friggin’ heads in the sand. It’s no wonder the Morrigan felt ballsy enough to snatch up a full-fledged member—”

“Enough!” The word was a whip crack in the air. “The Morrigan is a powerful being and waging war with her could incite a large scale conflict with the greater Tuatha Dé Danann and their considerable allies in the Endless Wood. Not prudent. Better to let the slight go.”

“A slight?” The word tasted flat and sour in my mouth. “This is a person we’re talking about. And you’re just going to move for appeasement?” I turned to the assembled crowd. “It could be any one of you next time. Now that the Morrigan has shown that we won’t even protect our own, other monsters will come. You hear me? They’ll pick us off one at a time until we’re too weak to stop them.” I turned back to face the Council. “You just ask Hitler how well appeasement works.”

Arch-Mage Borgstorm was of Swiss and Polish descent and from the old-world, no less, so my remark had to have hit home.

“Remove him from the proceedings,” she said, her words calm, clipped, precise. “It is clear that Mage Lazarus is not currently of sound mind.”

Two men approached me from my left, a man and a woman closed from the right. I knew them all well, like family even. The other four members of the Fist of the Staff, the elite wet-works branch of the Guild. I was the fifth member.

“Let’s go Yancy, no need to make more of a scene here,” said the Fist Leader, Stanley Quinn, a stocky, powerfully built German man with a blunt face and muddy hazel eyes. Nearly as old as the arch-mage and hands down the best battle-mage the Guild had. I couldn’t take him in a fight if he was blindfolded, gagged, and had both arms and both legs tied behind his back. Scary good.

“How? How can you do this to me? You knew Ailia, how can you betray her like this?”

“Duty,” he said, creeping closer. “Our duty is to the wellbeing of the Guild first, and the Elder Council determines what is best for the whole Guild, not just a select few. Come now. We can finish this outside.”

I turned to the two approaching figures on the left, James Sullivan and Trisha Galindo. “You too?” I asked.

Trisha just nodded. James smiled an apology. He was my friend, like a fucking brother. “It’s okay,” he said after a moment. “Let’s just get outta here, huh? Grab a drink, some excellent Scotch maybe, work through this. Look, I know this is bushwa too, Yancy, but now is not the time or the place. Let’s go. Blow off a little steam, maybe light up a cigarette and get zozzeled.” Trisha nodded in encouragement with his words.

The betrayal worked its way into my gut, a sharp pang that kicked at my kidneys, a knife burning hot in my back.

“I’m done with all you cowardly sons of bitches. Done with you!” I screamed. “If you ever come to me again, I’ll nuke the whole fucking bunch of you!” Tears streamed down my face. These people were supposed to be my comrades, my family. I’d bled for them, left my real family for them. Given everything they’d asked and more. But now, when I needed them most? Finally, I saw the Guild for what it was—a load of shit. And it hurt. Deep, deep down.

Suddenly the members of the Fist were around me, except now they wore Ailia’s face, creamy white skin, soft green eyes with a few crow’s feet at the corners, and a big smile, all framed by waves of golden hair. I could smell the lilac scent of her skin. They were all over me, grabbing and pinching, tearing and biting. I beat at the four Ailias, desperate to have them off, frantic to be away from this friggin’ nightmare, from the pain of seeing her face again and the gut-wrenching agony of betrayal.

I conjured a construct of wind, propelling it outward with all the force I could muster, flinging the doppelgangers away in a sprawl of intertwined limbs. Then I ran, away from the council looking on in judgment without an ounce of pity, and fled toward the door and freedom.

The world seemed to turn on edge, the floor dropped away and the walls disappeared, replaced by dense jungle on all sides. An M-16 appeared in my slick hands—sweat, humidity, and fear making my grip unsure. I was hunkered down on one knee, thick foliage all around me, obscuring my view, though I could easily hear the clak, clak, clak of automatic gunfire reverberating in the air around me. A whomp somewhere far to my right: a grenade detonating in wet green vegetation. Screams—always screams in firefights—though dim compared to the report of rifle fire.

I remembered this scene as well, just like the encounters with Lauren and the council. This was my first kill. I’d been separated from the platoon when the rounds started popping into the bushes and trees around us with thwacks and thumps.

“Incoming fire!” Greg Chandler, my fireteam leader and bud, yelled, before pushing me hard, sending me into a tangle of jungle growth. Probably saved my life, again. The bark of rifles ripped into the air, and the louder thud, thud, thud of our M60 squad engaging. I low crawled into deeper cover, my belly dragging through sticky jungle muck. A scraggily grove of palms afforded me some shelter while I regained my bearings. This wasn’t my first firefight. My first had been when Martin died, blown all to hell by that 105 round. I’d taken a thigh full of shrapnel on the first go.

I’d been in plenty of firefights since though, and each and every one kinda felt like the first. Even with some experience, each gunfight basically amounted to a bunch of chaos and confusion. A horror show fueled by shaky-hand adrenaline—too many noises, too many sensations, distorted images, people everywhere and nowhere.

I pushed myself into kneeling, fumbling with my rifle, while I tried to slow down my panicked breathing. With one hand, I swiped sweat and dirt from my forehead and eyes, and brought my rifle up to the ready, pushing the muzzle alongside a tree trunk—

Just ahead of me, a branch snapped followed by the ruffle of palm fronds being shoved aside. Oh shit, oh shit! I eased myself back into the prone—a lower profile meant less chance of taking a round—and crawled free of the palm grove, foot by tedious foot, angling in and toward the sound. I stopped behind a copse of tangled green, leveling my M-16, pressing my dirty cheek up against the butt-stock as I sighted in. He was in front of me, maybe thirty feet, an easy shot with a pistol—and with a rifle from the prone? I’d blast him back into whatever subterranean tunnel he’d pulled his ass out of. The shot was perfect, clean and clear, front sight post trained center mass. An easy kill.

Except my finger wouldn’t seem to work. The mutinous little jerk had stage fright or something.

The Viet Cong killed Martin, I reminded myself, murdered McClellan and Hall. I was here to send all these pajama-wearing, rice-farmer clowns into whatever hell they believed in. They deserved it. Commy shitheads.

Except my finger refused to pull the trigger. Slow and steady squeeze, I commanded with a nearly inaudible mutter. But nothing.

He was just a kid, my finger seemed to argue. Shit, he looked younger than I did and I was just out of high school. Smooth-faced, this kid, with a narrow, caved-in chest, wearing one of those dirty and ill-fitting gray uniforms the VC slunk around in. Still. A kid. Probably didn’t have to shave more than once a month, tops. Fourteen or fifteen? Not old enough to have a steady girlfriend and certainly not old enough to be fighting in a war.

But he held a no-nonsense AK-47 in trembling hands, and had a little Chinese K-54 pistol tucked in the waistband of his trousers. Might’ve been a kid, but those weapons were all adult and all business.

Still, I hesitated. I’d been in a fair number of firefights, even sent some lead down range. But for all I knew, not one of those shots had ever found their mark. This was different … Intimate. Sure. Final. If I pulled that trigger, I’d kill him, I’d watch him die. No uncertainty to ease my conscience.

He stumbled forward, his face scrunched up in a grimace. I shifted, just a little. Somehow he heard me, heard the sound over the distant cries and the whiz of bullets. He raised the AK into his shoulder pocket, barrel trained at thigh height, sweeping the muzzle back and forth, eyes tracking the undergrowth. Oh shit, oh shit! The kid’s eyes widened as his gaze passed over my hiding spot. His finger twitched …

I pulled the trigger. Pop, pop, pop. Three quick shots—measured fire suppression, disciplined marksmanship—a tight grouping of gaping red wounds flowered on his sunken chest, tight around his heart. He looked around wildly, AK falling away while his hands explored the wounds for a moment. He coughed up a gout of blood and toppled over, chest heaving and racking, more red spurting out. It wasn’t like the movies. He didn’t drop dead instantly, nice and clean. I couldn’t pull my eyes away. He moaned for a while, the sound wet and choking.

Eventually, his twitching ceased.

Still in the prone, I turned my head and vomited my morning C-rats, ham and lima beans.

The kid’s body twitched.

That wasn’t right. He was dead, three to the chest, a tight group. I’d watched the life leak right outta his body. That was how it happened, that was what I’d seen so often before.

He sat up, and damn if he didn’t look different. He smiled and his jaw broke loose with a crack, shifting and elongating until his mouth opened wide as a shark, rows and rows of jagged teeth glinting in the dusky green jungle light. He gained his feet, his arms dragging on the ground, too long by double, and capped with monstrous hands sporting spider-like fingers, each hollowed out. What was this?

The creature—no longer just some young Vietnamese boy—sprang forward, leaping from tree to tree like a nightmare ape, before descending on me in a flurry of fingers and fangs. Teeth snapped into one of my arms while claws dug into the flesh around my ribs, seeking my heart like a barrage of homing missiles. I struggled weakly in its grasp. I needed to get it off me, but the pain was an alien presence clouding my thoughts.

After a moment, I bucked with a titanic effort, dislodging the unwelcome tick. He was still a lightweight, regardless of the other changes. I rolled onto my back, side drawing a little Smith and Wesson 15 from its leather holster at my belt—the gun had been a gift from my wife, sent all the way from the States. The creature crawled forward, his knees now inverted, allowing him to scuttle toward me like a monstrous crab.

I brought the pistol up in both hands, taking aim. The creature’s eyes, now strangely purple, seemed to mock and accuse me:

Will you kill me again? they asked. You already murdered me once. Can you do it again? You know this is what you deserve. This punishment is right. Why fight?

The words weren’t quite an audible voice, more like a whisper somewhere back in my mind, but I was sure the creature was speaking to me.

I pulled the trigger, squeezing off all six rounds, littering the torso and head with bullet wounds. I never could have done this to Lauren or the boys, I couldn’t hurt them, not ever. But this kid? I regretted his death, carried it around with me like a scar, but it’d been the right move. He was a child and he shouldn’t have been there. But I’d been a child too, and in that instant it was him or me. One of the worst memories of my life, but I’d do it again just the same. Sometimes you regret a thing, but know deep down that it was still the best thing, the only thing, you could do. This was like that.

The beast collapsed in a heap. It hadn’t expected me to shoot. Something clicked in my head and I knew what was happening here. When the creature, which had once been a boy, finally passed, a purple-black tether—sort of like an umbilical cord—shimmered into existence. The cord extended from the boy’s skull, snaking back into the jungle canopy like some grotesque python. There, in the trees: the cord connected to the rounded belly of the shadow creature I’d first sensed in the subterranean tunnels and later glimpsed in the living room of my old house. Except now I could see her clearly, she could no longer shield my mind from the truth.

Long legs and arms, a flabby belly and a pair of sagging breasts, all covered in purpled flesh, the color of a fresh bruise. Great gray wings jutted from her shoulders, oddly fluffy and elegant. Her face seemed equal parts human and owl, wide purple eyes flashing with human intelligence set above a sharp, tearing beak where a nose and mouth should’ve been.

Just my luck—a friggin’ harpy.

THREE:

Forest of Suicides

The harpy fled, leaping from tree to tree, the tight jungle canopy restricting her from taking to wing. She was pushing at me with her mind, trying to force me back, force me out of the mental link and into my own body again. Harpies liked to operate from a place of power, using illusion, regret, and fear to dominate their prey—feeding off the hurt and terror. Once you saw past their tricks, however, they could be harmed.

As the harpy darted away, the Vietnamese bush began to twist and distort, thick and winding green giving way to a forest of gnarled, stunted black trees—warped things that both mimicked and mocked the human body. There were faces on those trees, each one screwed up in a grimace of agony. In life, these trees had been men and women. Dante’s Forest of Suicides, home to the harpies, though not all the victims here were suicides, contrary to the forest’s nomenclature. Here were murderers, child abusers, drug addicts, and, yes, suicides. People filled to the brim with regret, each and every one.

The harpies waylaid such wandering souls, rooting them here in the forest, feasting until the regret was all eaten up, the souls just empty husks.

The trees were widely spaced, and the harpy lost no time in launching herself into the air, her great wings flapping in long powerful bursts. My power was weak here—Vis comes at least in part from the body, the material—but I could still feel it, a long way off and obscured by a thick veil of fog. Not beyond reach though, and I’d be damned if I was gonna let this owl-faced bitch fly away scot-free. No sir. I opened myself to the deep power, feeling it trickle in.

I wove flows of air, small invisible braids of power that zigzagged through the trees in a spider web of force. Unaware, the she-devil flew headlong into the construct. Her right wing caught one of the thin lines and she tumbled toward the ground, her arms and legs flopping, before catching another line under her chin and flipping over backwards. Down she twirled, like a busted-up fighter jet, sprawling into the dark earth with a thud, face skyward.

I didn’t give her a moment to recover, not a second. I rushed in, throwing myself on her, pressing my knees hard on her wings, wrapping my hands around her scrawny throat. Her skin was slack beneath my fingers, like a turkey’s wattle. She snapped her beak with a sharp click and proceeded to squawk at me with harsh, frustrated fury. Harpies have some nasty tricks, but they’re not much of a physical threat. Get past their glamours, illusions, and mind-games and there really isn’t much to ’em.

She struggled beneath me, but I had no problem holding her in place.

Something about this whole thing was off. Harpies are rarely seen by living folk. Generally, their kind won’t stray far from the forest, and because they’re beings made almost entirely of spirit, access to the inner regions of the Fae isn’t an easy thing to achieve. And the fact that this creature must’ve been stalking me through the subterranean tunnels, waiting for an opportunity to strike, seemed like too big of a coincidence to stomach. Someone—someone with access to the Vis—must’ve helped her get through. Nothing else fit.

“Why were you following me? Who brought you out of the forest?” I commanded, sure I was on the right track, sure this was no accidental encounter.

She squawked again and continued to resist, fighting wildly.

“I know you didn’t get into Thurak-Tir on your own. Someone brought you over. Who? Why?” A picture appeared in my mind: the harpy flying free, flashing me the bird. Ironic.

Fine, if she wanted to play it that way, I could too. Harpies can’t be killed—at least I don’t know how to do the deed—but they can be hurt. Melt their flesh away or carve them up like a Thanksgiving turkey? Nope, that won’t do it. They’re beings of spirit. This forest might have looked physical, but it was an illusion in its own way. We were deep in the spirit realm, and I was running around in my soul. Look, Ma, no meat suit.

But there were ways to hurt a creature like this.

I opened my mind and pushed my awareness toward her. She struggled, trying to wall off her thoughts, but I was stronger and I had her number. I had it in spades …

I was in a smoky pool hall. Beer glasses clinked around me, while a piano man cranked out some gritty blues tunes from the stage. The bar stool beneath me creaked as I shifted my slight body. I was tired; it was ten already and I should’ve been in bed hours ago. Mama was gonna be pissed at Dad something fierce for keeping me out so late. I didn’t care though, it was Friday and I was out with Dad. He’d even let me have some beer for the first time. It didn’t taste good, not really—all bitter and kinda sour—but I drank a couple of big ol’ mouthfuls while he smiled. Just another one of the guys.

Now I felt kinda fuzzy around the edges and a little too warm, but in a pleasant sorta way, like being in front of a big fire during a cold spell. He was playing poker, beer in one hand, cards fanned out before him in the other. I’d watched him play often enough to know bad cards when I saw ’em, but he was still betting, driving up the pot. He glanced back at me, offering me a look at his hand.

“What d’ya say, boy?” he asked. The rest of the players eyed me for a tell, peering over their cards or beer mugs. Dad wasn’t a great gambler; I was already old enough to know that. He lost a lot more than he won. He and Mama were always fighting about the money. Not tonight though. Tonight, he was riding a lucky streak a mile wide and as long as a rainbow. “Take these jokers for a ride or what?” He flashed me a wink and a grin.

“Take ’em, Pop,” I said.

He laughed and pushed his formidable stake of chips into the center. “You heard the boy. All in. He’s a poker prodigy, I tell ya. Someday he’ll be taking y’all to the cleaners too.” The warmth in my stomach flared bright, sending out a pulse of pure bliss. He was a hard man and spare with compliments.

The harpy wailed and shrieked, her thrashing growing wilder with every second, but I didn’t yield—not an inch. Harpies were emotion-leeches, sustaining themselves off feelings, and for them, the darker the better. Sorrow, hate, rage, regret. A banquet buffet, each with their own flavor. And the thing that hurt them the most? Happy thoughts. That’s right, Tinker Bell, happy thoughts—like friggin’ harpy arsenic.

“Wanna talk yet?” I asked. She shook her head and sent me another image. Me flat on my back, her straddling my center while she tore into my chest and throat with her cutting beak, great gobs of blood and gore staining her purpled skin and angelic wings.

“I don’t think so, sweetheart. You aren’t going anywhere, and I can play this game for a good long while yet. Maybe I’m not Mr. Rogers, but I’ve got enough good memories to do you in, I’d wager.” Her thrashing slowed, her sharp eyes locked onto my face. Was I bluffing? She wasn’t sure.

At last, her thrashing ceased altogether. Whatever she saw in me convinced her to give up. She sent me a new image: me letting her go, backing away, while she fled further into the dark woods, safe from me and my bright, sparkly memories.

I nodded. “Just tell me who brought you over and why.”

She seemed reluctant, but eventually, something inside her broke. A face floated into my thoughts. Round cheeks unevenly covered with rough stubble, a double chin, a balding head, and a set of broad square glasses like the ones they issued back in boot camp. We called them BCGs—birth control glasses. Guy looked like he might’ve lived at home in his parents’ basement. Unfortunately, the face meant nothing to me; I’d sure as shit never seen him before. No idea, no impact, but presumably, this was the joker responsible for bringing beak-maw into Thurak-Tir.

The face faded, replaced by a figure I knew well. Ben.

The harpy lurked in the shadowy ice tunnels, hiding, waiting, then launching herself at Ben. At least, that’d been the plan. He’d been the target, not me.

“Why’d you attack me then?”

I saw through her eyes. She clung to the walls, slinking from shadow to shadow in her spirit form, tracking Ben and me as we trekked through the passageways, patient, hungry, waiting. Waiting for the gnomes to separate us, waiting for the most opportune moment to strike at the target, to incapacitate him—like maybe when Ben stumbled upon the body of his grandson. Terrible grief can effectively eliminate the mental barriers most magi instinctively keep in place.

From her vantage point, concealed amongst the shadows, I witnessed the thickset ice gnomes spring the ambush, just as she knew they would. The gnomes focused their efforts on me, forcing Ben to flee down a connecting tunnel way, all according to plan. But as Ben turned, he simply disappeared, vanishing into the air as though he never was.

Rage filled me, a hot-burning coal in my belly—the harpy’s hate at being denied prey. She’d been promised a meal by the mage in the glasses and more victims to come, if she was successful. But now, the target was gone, vanished, yet her hunger remained. A dull throb in her middle demanding to be filled. So she whirled and followed me instead. She would eat, would have her fill.

Dammit. None of this made a lick of sense. If someone wanted to off Ben, there were about a gajillion better ways to go about it than this elaborate scheme. Why not just have the gnomes take him out? Shit, if this guy was good enough to get a harpy into the Thurak-Tir, he probably could’ve contracted a demon to do a hit job. So why a harpy? Sure, they had their tricks, but they were better at prolonging suffering than killing outright. Whoever was running this thing had kidnapped a member of Ben’s family and had hired a harpy to make him suffer. This was about revenge, had to be. I needed to get Ben back to find answers.

I wove a set of muddy restraints into place, securing her while I eased up and scuttled away to a safer distance.

“All right, I’m gonna let you go now, okay?”

She squawked in response, dark eyes rolling in her head.

“Now you better leave me and my friend be, comprende? ’Cause I swear if you come back at me, I’m gonna pin you down and think about my wedding day, the birth of my children, and the day I got back from Nam. So many glittering unicorns and jolly rainbows your head’ll explode.”

She nodded and twitched. I backed away further, releasing her bonds while I faded away, back toward my body. She scrambled onto her feet and hands, loping along like a dog for a few steps before bounding into the air and taking flight. True to her word, she flipped me the bird before I faded completely. I swear, I get less respect than a half-crazy, dirt-caked, hobo … wait a minute, I guess that kinda describes my life pretty well. Ugh.

FOUR:

Follow the Leader

It felt damn good to be back in the ol’ meat sack, though there were a hundred different aches and pains, plus my arms and legs felt surprisingly cold and my face oddly numb. Walking around in the spirit, wearing nothing but your soul, is hazardous business. Though we often think of ourselves in terms of our flesh, the truth is, we are not bodies with souls, we are souls with bodies. The soul is the real you, the essence, and without it the body won’t live long, at least not without extraordinary life support measures.

All right, business time. My mind was already open and the weaves for my compulsion construct were already half formed. It took just a thought to finish the working and force it into place with a shove of will. At first, the gnome struggled as the foreign presence invaded his thoughts, legs and arms jerking against his restraints. This was almost exactly what the harpy had done to me, so I could sympathize. After a moment or two, his thrashing subsided and his body went limp against the wall, almost as though he’d fallen into a deep sleep.

I dissolved the icy manacles holding him in place. He dropped to his compact legs with a thump, swaying gently, looking up at me with glassy eyes. He jabbered at me, and though I still couldn’t understand the words, I knew the general gist: What do you want? How can I help? Anything, please. Not all compulsions achieve the same effect or go about using the same method. This one created a sense of adoration within the victim. Underneath, the subconscious might struggle, might resist, but on the surface? They became devotees, fangirls or boys in the worst possible way, willing to do anything. Like I said, compulsions are bad, and they’re illegal for a damn good reason.

Okay, so I had myself a gibbering gnome tour guide, but now the question was where should I have him take me? Maybe he could help me find Ben—poor shmuck was lost down here somewhere, stumbling around alone in the dark. It’s not like I could call him; cell phone reception doesn’t work so well out in the far-flung reaches of the Outworld, so we’d have to search for him the hard way. Who knows how long that’d take, not to mention there could be a bajillion piss-head gnomes to go through. Better to just go for the kid.

From behind me, I heard the distant warble of a Gnomish hunting party.

Yeah, the boy. Ben would want me to go after the kid—at least, if I were in his place, that’s what I would want—and really, Ben would probably turn up there anyway. Guy was twice the mage I was, at least where subtle workings like tracking constructs or illusions were concerned. He’d have some trick up his sleeve, some way to find the kid.

So I put Ben out of mind. “Stumpy, take me to the kid, and I want the most direct route, but I don’t wanna run into any of your buddies. Understand?”

The gnome nodded enthusiastically, bending his whole body doing so, before turning and waddling down the passage he’d originally come from. The tunnel sloped gently up for fifty or sixty yards, the footing slick and treacherous, before banking left and curling down for fifty more. At the bottom, the path leveled out and split into a fork, one branch leading right and up, the other a sharp switchback, zigzagging back and down. Of course, the gnome took the switchback without hesitation, leading us deeper into the subterranean heart.

Another fifteen minutes—and what seemed like twenty turns later—brought us to a dark, narrow tunnel dead-ending at a massive chamber brimming with energy and power. Even though the chamber was still a good forty feet off, I could feel Vis practically oozing from the walls. Awesome.

Again I heard the distant echoing chatter of the hunting party, closer now, though still a little ways off.

“You follow my lead, Stumpy,” I said to the gnome as I crept forward. Couldn’t linger here long, but neither did I want to charge into the highly suspect chamber, which would probably turn out to be the supernatural equivalent of an anti-tank mine.

Slowly, slowly I skulked forward, drawing near. The chamber was like something out of an Indiana Jones flick—the originals, mind you, not that terrible Crystal Skull one. Thick slabs of cut ice fashioned into massive bricks, thin columns of lacy frost, carved with wintery scenes from a thousand different nightmares. In one, gnomes pulled a man limb from limb, a scream permanently etched onto the victim’s face. In another, an old man with a twisting beard and a wickedly pointed shepherd’s crook decapitated a terrified woman.

Someone had also been doing some serious renovating.

At the far end of the ornate room stood a pair of massive figures, statue-still, flanking a high-tech metal door, with a cardkey reader set into a stone panel. They were stag headed creatures, complete with colossal pointed antlers, torsos of solid granite, and limbs made entirely of old roots and knobby tree branches. Spriggans—ancient beasts of the Endless Wood, low fae of the Summerlands, and treasure guardians. Nasty-looking critters and tougher than a building full of MMA fighters. The hell were a pair of Summer Fae doing down here? Well, guarding something obviously. I bet they were pissed, enthralled and stuck in some frozen cavern to guard beings of Winter. Talk about a slap in the face.

The door they were standing watch over looked awfully complex, even for the high fae. I mean the fae weren’t exactly cavemen when it came to tech, but this kind of thing wasn’t usually their specialty. Plus, it was a steel door: cold iron, which is deadly to the fae. It’d make a helluva barrier against other, unwelcome creatures of the Endless Wood, but a human would’ve had to install that puppy. No doubt about it.

On the chamber walls and floors were sigils of power, old and complex things I didn’t understand, containing some serious mojo, though I couldn’t tell their purpose without a proper examination. What I could tell, however, was that it wasn’t the work of some low-talent ice gnome. Sure, the pintsize jerks had some freaky fae power, could manipulate water and ice—that sort of thing. But this? No way. They couldn’t do this any more than a goldfish could grow a pair of wings and fly to the friggin’ moon. Not even the high fae could do this … well, they could’ve achieved the same effect, but not in this way. Most of the high fae had power leaking right out the wazoo, but it wasn’t the same as what us magi have.

The work before me was topshelf—shit, probably more complex than anything I could throw together. Definitely a mage. And with this caliber of workmanship? Probably someone with the Guild.

Crunch—

The sound of a foot stepping on tightly packed snow. It came from in front of me. I pressed myself up against the wall and dipped back into my well of power, drawing from the Vis, shaping flows of air into a concentrated javelin of wind.

Crunch, crunch. A sharp intake of breath.

“Yancy. No!” More feet shuffles, a flourish of movements, and suddenly Ben stood by the tunnel wall, just before the entrance to the chamber. “It’s just me, don’t … don’t shoot!” His hands were up, chest rising and falling with the rapid pace of panic and adrenaline. Ben is a good guy, but Mad Max he ain’t—no nerves of steel there. Although, he was down here, in a dark and dangerous ice maze, facing monsters despite his natural disposition. I guess that had to count for something.

With a glance back over my shoulder—one last check to make sure Stumpy was still attending—I walked up to Ben and threw an arm around his narrow shoulders.

“Boy,” he said, “almost gave me a heart attack … you feel soggy. And cold.”

I stared at him, blank, unamused. “This place has a great indoor pool,” I said. “Decided it might be nice to take a little dip—the water looked so inviting.”

He winced. “Sorry. What’s up with the gnome? He looks strangely …”

“Compelled?” I offered. “Yeah, that’s because I compelled him.”

Ben frowned at me, lips pulling down at the corners. “This is why you’re always on the wrong side with the Guild. It’s illegal, Yancy.”

“No it’s not. Gnomes aren’t human, and why do I give a hell about what the Guild says? I’m out.”

His frown deepened into a grimace, he was part of the Guild after all, a member of the Junior Council, even.

“All I’m saying is—”

“I know, you’re looking out for my best interests, making sure my potential doesn’t go to waste, blah, blah, blah. Whatever. There’ll be plenty of time to morally berate and lecture me later.”

He blanched. “That’s not fair. You know I respect you too much for that.”

“Yeah … later, okay? Right now, there’s a roving band of murdering ice toddlers heading our way. So let’s save your grandson and beat feet. Then we can chat and feel all warm and fuzzy.” I nodded toward the chamber. “So how do we get past this deathtrap?”

“Right, right.” He turned back toward the room and absently passed a hand over his head. “Well … I’m not sure how we’re going to do that, actually. I’ve been here for fifteen minutes maybe. The room was easy enough to find—”

“Easy to find,” I muttered, thinking back to my snorkeling expedition. “I want to punch you in the face right now.”

“Right. Well. First, let me say thank you for not punching me in the face.”

“You’re welcome, but don’t push your luck. Now, you were saying?”

“Well, I was saying that this thing”—he waved toward the room—“is quite … formidable. The whole room’s a binding construct, multiple layers of protections and failsafe mechanisms. Very formidable.”

“Alright, give me a sec. I want to get a looksee.” Using the Vis still pumping through my body, I formed a wispy probing construct of spirit. Power trickled out and into the room. Spider-web-thin strands of energy swept the space, alighting on the various sigils, the metal door, and the statues. Damn. Serious Mojo, with a capital M. Some kind of strange barrier lingering at the room’s entryway. If we stepped over that invisible threshold without the proper … keycard, maybe … things would get real ugly, real fast.

Like Ben said, the sigils were binding constructs, holding captive the two spriggans guarding the fancy-pants door.

One toe over that barrier and those things would spring to life all Pinocchio-like, unleash all that pent-up fury, and turn us both into little red smears on the floor. There wasn’t a damn thing we could do about it, either. There wasn’t any way around these bindings: they were too complex for me to make heads or tails of. Maybe in a couple hundred years I’d be able to put something like this together.

“So,” Ben asked, “what d’ya think?”

“In my professional opinion, we’re screwed … unless—hey, Stumpy.” The gnome bowed at the waist in acknowledgment. “You got a keycard for the door and the Guardians?”

He shook his body no and began to jabber.

“Tell him to slow down,” Ben said.

“You’re kidding right. You seriously speak friggin’ gnome?”

“No, High Fae, but this has similar features. Syntax, gender, some vocab.”

I rolled my eyes. “Whatever. You heard the man, Stumpy, slow it down and start over.”

Another painful couple of minutes passed, the little guy speaking his gibber-speak both too loud and too slow, like someone talking to a particularly dense and partially deaf foreigner. Ben bore it patiently, nodding enthusiastically in places, asking for repetition in others.

“Okay,” he said, “so our friend here—Razelfran, not Stumpy—says only a few of them have access to the chamber, something akin to their military officers, I think. Razelfran’s just a low-level private. The guards will attack if he crosses the entryway.”

“Right,” I said, “so we’re screwed.”

As though to emphasize my point, the approaching pack of ice gnomes chose that moment to send up a war cry. Close now. Too close. They’d hemmed us in: gnomes behind, death trap ahead, and no way to backtrack. The shrieks came again, and I could hear footfalls in the snow.

“Can you make a veil good enough to hide us from the spriggans?” I asked.

“Probably.”

“Probably? I need a yes or a no here.”

Ben shrugged apologetically. “Probably is the best I can give you.”

I sighed. Just perfect. “Okay,” I said, “long shot’s better than no shot, I guess. Look, I have a plan. Sort of. Get the weaves ready for the veil, and be ready to move when I tell you.” He looked a little green, but nodded his head in understanding. “And Stumpy”—I turned toward the gnome—“you stick close to my side. No noise, no unnecessary movement. ’Kay? ’Kay.”

I sent my probing lash back out, searching the intricate sigils again. Swirling strands of spirit and air all bound together in ice and reinforced with cables of dark energy—the unwilling sacrifice of something formally living. A delicate, pulsing lace extended up from the strange markings and fed into the fae guardians, carved with similar markings.

“Yancy, they’re coming,” Ben whispered, lips nearly pressed against my ear. “They can see us!” he squealed, voice tight with barely restrained panic.

Laughter, sharp and crazed, followed by a round of crooning hoots and the shuffle of feet over ice.

“Oh my God, I think I know which one has the keycard.”

I glanced back, just for a second. Bringing up the rear was a beastly creature three or four times the size of his brethren, easily the world’s tallest gnome. Coarse white fur running over thick muscle, built for tearing apart lesser creatures—like puny humans, maybe. Blue face with the same wispy hoarfrost beard, though its lower jaw hung open revealing rows and rows of crooked, yellow fangs. A massive set of curling ram’s horns protruded from either side of its shaggy head. And, of course, a pointy gnome hat, which really kinda ruined the killing-machine badass thing it had going. Still, I bet no one would knock this guy over if he was sitting on the front lawn.

Right, double screwed, so back to work.

There! I found the strand responsible for the primary directive. Basically, the sigils and runes carved and painted around the room summoned and held the spriggans in place, but they also supplied the creatures with a rudimentary set of orders. Namely, smash anything that doesn’t have the correct keycard. I couldn’t dispel the working, but I could disrupt the programming. Shove a stick into the bike spokes, so to speak. Sure, I couldn’t make something like this, but busting it up? Yeah. Breaking something really intricate is a lot easier than making something really intricate.

I hardened my probe into a scalpel of spirit, and, with surgical precision, severed the minuscule strand responsible for the basic orders.

I pulled Ben into the chamber, Stumpy trailing behind.

“Now, do it now!” I hollered.

Several things happened at once:

First, the gnome death squad tore into the chamber a few steps behind us, beady eyes focused, clubs and rough ice-sickles—not the same as icicles—swinging back and forth in anticipation.

Then, Ben’s illusion snapped into place with a barely audible pop and the world around us became a little hazy and slightly distorted, like seeing through a dirty fishbowl.

Finally, the spriggan guardians lurched into motion, giant wooden feet carrying the monstrosities forward with loping strides, crashing into the gnomes, scattering them like so many bowling pins. The first two or three gnomes went down easy, shock evident on their crude, icy faces. Huge knotted fists smashed into weaker flesh, caving in a skull here, turning an arm to mush there. The gnomes scrambled to react, scattering throughout the chamber, a mad rush to put distance between themselves and their traitorous Summer allies.

Ben’s face was painted with terror and horror in equal measures, the reaction of one not accustomed to violence. “What did you do?” he whispered, voice trembling.

“Corrupted the basic guard command—instead of smash anything without the proper access card …”

“Smash anything,” he said. “If they see through the veil they’ll smash us too.”

“Yeah, maybe, but I don’t think so. Spriggans are Summer—no friggin’ way do they like waiting hand and foot on some Winter goons. I’m guessin’ that they’ll go for the guys with the pointy hats.”

We fell silent as the carnage unfolded. A pair of gnomes clung to the back of one of the creatures, trying to cleave into its torso with blades of frost. The spriggan spun in response, charging backward and throwing its hulking shoulders against the chamber wall. The unlucky stowaways let out screams as gore—chips of blue flesh and black blood—erupted in a stream on either side of the guardian. The other spriggan picked up a gnome by the head—its hat toppled to the side—and shook its little form in a terrible grip before repeatedly smashing it into the floor. A perfect ad for the gnome version of Don’t Shake a Baby.

The massive horned gnome lumbered into the brawl, throwing a wrecking ball punch into the spriggan’s face. The Summer Fae stumbled back a step. The gnome advanced—a booted foot flashed out, colliding with a knee, which broke away with a crack. The spriggan crashed to the floor and the room shook and rattled with the impact. The gnome commander hurled his beefy body through the air, a linebacker making a reckless tackle.

The other Guardian caught the beast midflight, pulling it from the air like a pop fly, tree-root arms snaking around its neck. The gnome struggled, throwing spiny elbows into the spriggan’s center to no effect.

The downed spriggan reached over and grabbed its amputated leg, pulling it in place while fae power knitted the limb back together, little vines and branches merging and twisting. It stood up, lips drawn back from crude blunt teeth, and it advanced on the brutish gnome. It wrapped wooden hands around the gnome’s horns and pulled. The horns came away, a gout of blue blood spraying into the air, and the gnome howled in anguish. Not for long though, because the spriggan promptly shoved the horns inside the creature’s skull. The howl cut off and the creature twitched for a moment before growing still.

The last surviving gnome turned and fled back down the hallway, abandoning his dead or dying fellows to their fate. The spriggans weren’t having it, no sir. Dropping the broken body, both shambled down the hall like a friggin’ mudslide, the chamber rumbling with their passing. Bloodied and broken bodies lay around the room, heads crushed, limbs absent, guts burst open and smeared against the walls. Better them than us, but still … brutal.

“Let’s go,” I said, walking free of the illusion and over to the formerly horned gnome commander. I surveyed the fresh corpse from a couple of feet out, one hand over my mouth and nose to block out the stink. Nasty scene, and I wasn’t too keen on rummaging through his blood-soaked pockets if I could help it. Thankfully, I saw the keycard—just a rectangle of hard black plastic with a sigil painted on the back in orange—tucked away in his boot.

I pilfered the card and walked over to the card reader. “Come on, Ben.” I ushered the other man over. “I don’t think those things’ll come back, but they could. Best to scoot our happy asses along. Hey, that means you too, Stumpster. Keep close, but don’t get in the way.” The gnome shrugged its shoulders and bowed, as though to say, Whatever, dude, let’s just get this over with.

We wound our way through the corpse-littered floor, careful not to touch any of the bodies or the puddles of sickly fluid.

I placed the keycard on the reader. The locks disengaged and I pulled the door open on oiled hinges. Time to show whoever was running this circus why taking kids was a big no-no.

FIVE:

Wonderland

A gen-u-ine winter wonderland lay behind that metal door, like the set of Santa’s workshop only about a thousand times creepier. Thick powdered snow covered every square inch of the cavernous floor—pristine, unblemished, and sparkling like a thousand gemstones, so bright I could hardly look. But when I put foot to the snow, there was no crunch underfoot. It was as solid as a winter lake, but with better traction. Massive icicles jutted from the floor and ceiling, natural columns, catching a few trickling shafts of sunlight from above and breaking them into a smorgasbord of color—gold and red, azure and deep purple, just about everything else in between.

Neato Toledo, not that I’m the kinda guy to wax poetic or anything.

Against the far wall was a sight far less lovely. A cage, holding a slumbering kid of eleven or twelve, all wrapped up in thick blankets, his brown hair poking out. Ben’s grandson. Next to the cage sat a massive throne, all lacy curves and flowing lines, carved of ice in a thousand shades of blue and white. Swirls and flourishes ran over the surface of the chair, dancing with delicately wrought pictures of men and women being tortured.

A man, sawed in two. A woman, drawn and quartered. A couple being torn apart and eaten by gnomes. Pictures inside of pictures, until the eye lost count. The fae are so friggin’ creepy—can’t just have a pretty frozen paradise. No, they need to go and remind you that they’re all homicidal jackasses.

“Quite amazing, isn’t it?” said a voice from behind us.

I spun, calling up an energy shield, preparing for an assault. I shouldn’t have worried about it. The guy standing behind us, just inside the metal door, looked a breath away from turning to dust. Old, old, old. A long wispy beard of hoarfrost, similar to the ice gnomes, trailed down to his belly. Pale-blue skin so ancient it wasn’t even wrinkly, just thin as cheap toilet paper and stretched tight against a lean skeleton. Gaunt, this guy, every bone obvious on his frail and desiccated body. Nearly naked, save for a dirty cloth caked with ice covering his nether regions—thank God for small miracles—and leaning heavily on an old shepherd’s crook of plain dark wood.

This guy didn’t look like much of a threat. Shit, part of me wanted to walk him across the street, maybe help him find his seat at the Golden Corral, and then get him hooked up to his oxygen tank.

“Took me two centuries to make it, you know.” He paused, wheezing. “A reminder of my greatness while I waited out my exile.” And then he was gone, a breeze of wind fluttered past, and I spun again to find him sprawled on the throne, a skeleton king dead in his chair.

“I know well how I must look to you,” he said, “much like I look to the rest of the fae, I imagine. Old, harmless, mayhap? A lion without teeth or claws?” He chuckled.

“Even the mage underestimates me. He sees only a weak old man, that one. He brought in the harpy to make you suffer. Idiot idea. Didn’t trust me to do the job myself. As though some winged spirit whore could best me.” He scoffed. “Ever since the high fae ousted me, usurped my kingdom, everyone thinks me weak, but I’ll show them all. Take back what’s mine.”

“Oh shit,” I said, putting the pieces together in my mind: old man, ice cave, shepherd’s crook, stolen kingdom.

His tale wasn’t much more than a shadow of a legend; told, retold, and practically forgotten hundreds of years before I was even a glimmer in my pop’s eye.

Once upon a time, long, long ago—or so the story went—Winter had a nasty king, a merciless creature more brutal and dastardly than all of his kin and kith combined. He was a tyrant with a terribly heavy hand. Basically, the king of pricks. One cold day the King of Winter ventured out of his icy lands to visit the Black Lodge, home to Arwan the Horned, Protector of the Unfettered Fae.

While en route, he ran across a gentle and noble spirited hippalectryon—part horse, part rooster, all genetics-experiment-gone-wrong—and slew the beast because he was a colossal dick. But in doing so, he pissed off the wrong fairy, Gyre-Carlin, Mistress of the Unfettered and a violently protective wildlife activist. She didn’t take kindly to the Winter King offing ol’ Horsy McRooster-face, so she swore revenge, orchestrated a massive uprising, and eventually drove the evil king into exile, end of story.

Except, maybe it wasn’t the end of the story. I had a feeling that said ousted king was the old fogey sitting before me.

“You’re Old Man Winter,” I said.

“Give the meat monkey a cracker,” he cackled, still unmoving. “Aye, and Jack Frost too. Used to be I ruled all of Winter. Sadly, my power has somewhat diminished. But with this new vessel”—he tilted his crook toward the boy in the cage—“I shall be young again. Powerful enough to redress old grievances.” He smiled, his teeth sharp points of black ice.

“Look Mr., err, Winter, I guess. This doesn’t have to get messy,” I said. “Give us the kid and we’ll up and ditty-bop our asses right outta here, no problem. Leave you to hang out in the fae retirement home, watching your shows all afternoon. Whatever. Bygones be bygones and all that.”

He laughed again, the sound as raspy and dry as old leaves, his body quivering. “Such a petulant child. So disrespectful. Let me tell you about bygones, young man. In bygone years, I’d have frozen off your fingers and toes, blackened your arms and legs with frostbite, and left you nothing more than a useless lump of flesh. A torso, forever suffering, never dying.” He laughed again.

“Wow,” I said, “sounds like you were a real people person back in the day.”

“Look here,” Ben interrupted, “I don’t care who you are. We aren’t interested in playing any kind of game with you. I’m here for my grandson, and you’ll return him now, or face the full weight and wrath of the Guild of Staff.”

Another choking round of laughs. “Nonsense, Benjamin Altschuler, we all know it is just you and this … this …” he waved his feeble hand in my direction, “washout down here. The Guild did not approve of your incursion.” He thumbed his nose. “No, you are down here because you are desperate.”

“Hey there, Golden Oldies,” I said, “I’ve been desperate plenty of times, and it usually turns out poorly for the other guy.” I pulled out my revolver—big ol’ mean-looking son of a bitch—and pointed it at him. I knew it probably wouldn’t fire, but maybe he didn’t.

“Now I know you supernatural folks don’t give a shit about mortal weaponry. Understandable, since most mortal weaponry doesn’t even function out here in the fae boonies. But this? This is a special peashooter, amigo. Bullets are cold iron, Jack, and last time I checked, you fairies don’t much care for cold iron.”

I thumbed the hammer back. A revolver doesn’t have a safety, only a double action trigger mechanism. With the hammer back, it meant the trigger was only a hairsbreadth away from sending lead downrange … well, in this case the gun probably wouldn’t actually fire—might explode in my face. But in principle, hot lead was only a hairsbreadth away.

“Posturing, young man. We both know your aptly named peashooter won’t work down here.”

He waved his shepherd’s crook. A portal at the far end of the room shimmered into being, an opalescent sparkle running across the surface of the air in rippling waves. On the other side was an alleyway I knew well, one outside a banging bar and blues house back in New Orleans, right in the French Quarter.

“Yancy Lazarus—former wet-works man of the Guild of the Staff—I know you. You’re angry, disagreeable, prideful, self-confident, despicable. You’ve even resorted to compelling one of my minions.” He swung his arm lazily through the air, and the binding I’d placed on Stumpy fell away.

“You,” he said, looking at my former gnome tour guide, “are dismissed. Go see to your fallen brothers and sisters out in the chamber.”

The gnome bowed and scooted out of the room, chattering angrily at me the whole while.

“Yes”—he redirected his gaze at me—“really quite deplorable. I very much like those things about you. They remind me of myself as a young man, and they are exactly the kind of traits I cultivate in my own hired help. I have no quarrel with you, nor even with your friend here.” Old Man Winter nodded at Ben. “He is simply a casualty in something much greater.”

He paused, drumming his fingers against his crook, tat-tat-tat. “Change is coming, the old way of doing things will soon be done with and you … you, Yancy, are exactly the kind of talent we’d like in the new order. So walk away, back through the portal.” He waved a hand toward the shimmering gateway. “Or stay here and die. It matters not.”

I glanced at Ben, his shoulders tight, his face bunched up in anger and fear. If I left he’d be dead, no question, and the kid with him. If I stayed, there was a good chance we’d all end up dead. Despite his crusty and frail appearance, Old Man Winter was a literal force of nature to be reckoned with—maybe not at the top of his game, but probably still throwing around enough power to hand Ben and I our collective asses.

“Yeah, okay,” I said after a second, holstering my iron and putting my hands up in resignation. I walked toward the portal, keeping my eyes on Old Man Winter the whole while.

“Smart too,” the old fae said. “Willing to see the winning side and play accordingly—even better. I’ll be in touch, Lazarus.”

“Yancy,” Ben said, panic creeping in. “You can’t leave me down here … my grandson, he’ll kill us.”

“He’ll kill me too if I stay. Nothing personal, Ben. At least I tried, more than the Guild would do.”

I edged past Old Man Winter, keeping well clear, hands still up, no sudden movements to trigger an attack.

“I guess I know where your loyalty lies,” Ben spat. “To yourself. Fine, I can do this alone.” He spread his feet and lifted his hands into something vaguely resembling a fighting stance. After a moment a small orb appeared above each open palm: one a bobbing ball of purple-red flame, flickering from color to color. The other, a faint blue mist that smelled like the breeze of a new spring day.

Woo boy. Those weren’t regular Vis constructs. The power in each little orb was fae magic, the friggin’ things were Tokens … kinda like a loan I guess, probably from someone high up in either the Spring or Summer Courts. I let out a low whistle—Ben must’ve called in a huge favor to get those puppies. He must’ve known more than he’d let on when he’d told me about the kidnapping.

"Listen,” Ben said, “I am young and strong. You cannot frighten me. Surely you know who I am?” He intoned the words, his voice carrying the rhythmic quality of an ancient Native American chant. “Do you not feel how warm my breath is? Wherever I breathe, the plants grow and the flowers bloom. Where I step, the grasses sprout and snow melts away. The birds and the animals come to me. See how long my hair is? Your hair is falling out now, Old Man. Wherever I travel I bring the sunshine and you cannot stay. Do you not know me, Old Man? Do you not hear my companion, the Fawn? She is the South Wind.” He held up the hand with the blue orb. “She is blowing on your lodge. It is your time to leave."

Rage contorted Winter’s mug, screwing up his paper-thin lips and nose, his ice-chip eyes honed in on Ben.

I edged closer still to the portal, seemingly forgotten for the time being. That’s the thing about creatures like Old Man Winter—they simply don’t understand how someone could act against their own best interest. Beings as old and powerful as he rarely take the time to try and see from another perspective; for them, everyone acts in exactly the same fashion they themselves would. He dismissed me because he assumed I was like him—willing to turn tail to save my own skin. I edged closer still.

“Defiler,” the fae being swore, “you would dare to bring tokens of Spring here to my home? Dare to incite the words of my enemy, Kokopelli, Young Man Spring? You would bring the breath of Lady Fawn here? You will suffer a never-ending winter, Benjamin Altschuler.” He said the name with the force of a bomb, the words reverberating in my chest. “You will live entombed in ice, frostbite gnawing at every patch of flesh, every limb, every bone. You’ll watch me raise this child.” He waved toward the cage. “I’ll teach him to hate you, flesh of your flesh will torture you night and day, until I kill him before your eyes and take his body.”

I was close to the portal now, close enough that a solid leap would carry me through to the other side, back to the Big Easy. I was also damn close to Old Man Winter, close enough for a down and dirty cheap shot, right to the kisser. I reached into my coat and brought out one of my two pocket aces: a Ziploc bag full of iron filings. Cold iron filings.

Old Man Winter thrust out his crook, and a beam of arctic light zipped toward Ben like a lightning bolt. Ben’s globe of flame danced and weaved, blooming into a sheet of flame like a bonfire on a cool summer’s eve, cutting the room in half with Ben on one side, Old Man Winter and me on the other. The beam of frozen death fizzled on contact, steam leaking off and freezing into a soft rain of sudden snow.

Timing couldn’t be any better. I leapt, not toward the portal and safety, but toward the distracted Old Man Winter. I conjured a column of air—heated with a faint pulse of flame—opened the Ziploc bag, and let my gust catch up the fine shavings into a mini whirlwind of fae doom … well, fae discomfort at least. Like I’d ever bow out of a fight when a friend and a kid were on the line. Gramps was gonna find out what this “washout” could do.

SIX:

Fistfight

The Old Man turned as the cloud of iron dust bowled into him, each speck igniting with a blinding flash of white as it struck frail skin. He stood from his chair, arms and legs whipping back and forth, lashing about with his crook. Gusts and gales of freezing air swirled and danced as he howled in rage and pain. We wily human folk might be outgunned in the magic and muscle department, but damn if we aren’t tricksy little hobbitses. Maybe I couldn’t kill this glorified snowstorm, but he’d be feeling the burn for a good long while. Score one for team awesomesauce.

I darted around Old Man Winter’s flailing form, barely avoiding the wild and random zaps of energy from his staff, angling toward the frozen cage containing Michael on the other side of the throne.

Old Man Winter continued to howl, raking at his skin, desperate to beat the iron specks away. “Stop them!” he shouted, though damned if I knew who he was talking to—

A giant fist, all snow and ice, collided into my side like a friggin’ Mack truck, lifting me from my feet and launching me back toward the entryway.

Ben’s wall of fire leapt into my vision as I reeled through the air, its heat pressing up against my chilly skin. At the last moment, the wall parted, allowing me to pass through unsinged, before melting back into place. I crashed into the floor near Ben, and though the snow wasn’t exactly freshly fallen soft powder, it was still a damn bit softer than concrete or granite. My face-first landing hardly hurt at all. Nothing compared to the fire in my ribs.

I pushed myself back to my feet, shaking my head to clear the specks of white floating in my vision. Must’ve knocked something loose there, because I was seeing things. Flanking either side of Old Man Winter lurked a pair of abominable snowmen, presumably conjured up to beat Ben and I into meat paste. Great. And these fellas weren’t your typical yetis, and absolutely nothing like the brooding and tragically misunderstood Bumble, who might just help you hang the star on the Christmas tree.

No, these guys were mindless fae war machines. No thought or feeling. Just big, mean, ugly, fearless sons of bitches. Towering beasts of solid snow and razor-honed ice—not to mention they were probably immune to most types of Vis attacks. True, out in the real world, I could probably turn these fellas into a couple of tepid puddles, but at the heart of winter? Naw, my fire wouldn’t do so good here—I wasn’t slinging fae power like Ben.

Ben kept up the wall of Spring flame containing the baddies on the other side, while the orb in his other hand—a token of the South Wind and the Springlands—gusted out, blanketing the room in an unnatural heat, making sure Old Man Winter and his cronies weren’t operating at full capacity. So at least there was that.

“You okay?” I shouted to Ben.

He nodded, eyes still locked on Winter. “Just get Michael.”

“On it,” I said.

Looked like it was up to me. Also looked like we were gonna have to do this the hard way—because, let’s face it, my life sucks and I always end up doing things the hard way. I slipped my hands into my pockets, pulling on my second ace in the hole: fae beat-down gloves. Really, they were just fingerless biker gloves, with a bit of padding along the fingers and knuckles. I’d added a few extras though—a little steel plating crafted into place over the finger padding, short silver studs protruding from the knuckles. These puppies were perfect for tangling with fairies or shape shifters.

Kind of like Lex Luthor’s Superman-killing kryptonite gloves … well, Lex’s gloves if he were a gambling degenerate instead of a highfalutin corporate billionaire. And fighting fairies instead of spacemen … yeah, kinda not the same at all, I guess.

I wiggled my hands into place, the gloves cold and rigid, iced over in spots and fighting against me. Damn it, why hadn’t I put those in a Ziploc too? Idiot. This would’ve looked a lot cooler in the movies—hands go into pockets and come out decked in spiked-gauntlets of badassery. Instead, I just stood next to Ben and spent a good five seconds wiggling the things into place over my winter gloves, feeling pretty stupid the whole while.

At last, I got my gear into place. “Cover me, Ben,” I shouted as I ran toward Winter, toward the abominables, toward Michael.

Ben just grunted his response, his face stiff with concentration. The shifting wall of orange opened once more to admit me into the fray before snapping closed. I had to give the guy props; keeping a group of ice fae at bay in the middle of their seat of power wasn’t small beans and birthday balloons.

As I waded back into the thick of things, the first abominable—Frosty the Unfriendly Snowman—swung a colossal fist which I ducked under with ease, darting in and throwing a series of quick jabs to the creature’s midsection. Bright flares of light flashed with each blow, the crack-hiss of a static burst, followed by the scent of ozone.

I danced under another sweeping blow, keeping in tight, circling toward the outside, keeping my gigantic sparring partner squarely between me and the second abominable. The creature lashed out with a low kick that took me in the shins, sweeping my legs out from under me. I crashed down onto my side and immediately barrel-rolled right, avoiding a crushing, though cumbersome, stomp from my frosty foe.

Oh shit—

I rolled back left, passing right beneath Frosty’s upraised foot as a set of vicious ice spikes sprouted from the ground I’d occupied a split second before. Old Man Winter, tossing around a little power. He must’ve nearly recovered from my dirty face-full-of-iron ploy. Damn, like taking out Frosty all by my lonesome wasn’t tough enough.

I pushed myself into a crouch before launching myself back toward the snowman. Another massive kick. This one I avoided, stepping inside the strike, pumping my fists as fast as I could throw ’em, working Frosty’s torso and kidneys—not that this thing had organs, mind you—like Rocky Balboa going to town on a side of beef.

The creature fell back from the onslaught, pieces of his conjured body falling away with each blow. An elbow the size of a dinner plate zipped past my face. I ducked low and grabbed hold of the passing limb like a little kid hitching a ride on Papa’s oversized arm. The creature tried to shake me loose, but I held fast, scampering up hand over hand until I could wrap an arm around its neck in a sleeper hold.

I wasn’t gonna try to choke him out, more like I was taking a little piggyback ride. Frosty twirled and shook before backpedaling toward a wall. I’d seen exactly how well this particular maneuver had worked for the gnomes who’d tried the same trick on the spriggans: smashed flat, guts and gore decorating the cavern wall like some grisly art deco piece. So I needed to be quick before I met the same fate.

I conjured a flow of fire around my gloved hands—my fists suddenly surrounded with an uncomfortably warm pocket of air—and began to pummel the creature’s exposed neck and skull with my free hand. Snow and ice gave way like butter in a hot skillet, sizzling and melting. A fist-shaped trough formed in the creature’s neck.

Still, Frosty streaked toward the cavern wall, speed accelerating with every step. A final blow punctured all the way through its neck—I’d punched its head off, kind of a cool trick, actually—and the body went limp, falling into a pile of snow and ice chunks. I tumbled down, landing with a poof in the powdery corpse of my former enemy. I’ve been around the block a few times, and this was still a new one to check off the bucket list.

I slogged free of the snow pile, readying myself to repeat my stunt again with Frosty Number Two—Revenge of the Snowman—but Ben had things well in hand. In fact, he was doing a helluva job handling both the abominable and Old Man Winter. And here I’d been worried about him, thinking I’d have to babysit. Sure, he was using the borrowed power of some ancient fae beings of Spring to get the job done, but still. Go Ben.

What had once been a flickering wall of flame was now a pair of fire serpents, each with a long body, covered in flashing emerald scales of flame, and monstrous snapping jaws. The tails of both creatures led back to the orb floating above Ben’s outstretched hand. One of the serpents twined around Frosty Two, encircling its legs, torso, and arms, melting thick, coiled grooves into the creature while simultaneously sinking fangs into Frosty’s thick neck. Nice.

The second serpent-of-awesomeness harassed Old Man Winter, striking from one side and then the other, always moving, always harrying. Grandpa’s crook flashed out with a surprising amount of vigor and strength, turning each blow before the serpent could land a strike. Maybe the snake hadn’t closed the deal yet, but he was sure keeping Old Man Winter on his toes, leaving absolutely no time to think about little ol’ me.

I called up more Vis, pulling power into my body as I constructed a quick illusion to mask my movements. This little number made me into an amorphous white blob that kinda sorta blended in with the snow. Hey, better than nothing, and with the Old Man so distracted I probably didn’t need it anyhow.

I sprinted forward, muttering “gladium potestatis” under my breath, bringing forth my Vis sword—a thin, single-edged azure blade, about three feet in length and looking as fragile as lace.

I couldn’t kill Old Man Winter—like literally not possible—but I could end this. Just needed one solid blow, quick and decisive. I raised the sword to waist level, elbows slightly bent, blade canted to the right of my body, legs still pumping, breath too loud in my own ears.

The old man thrust out his crook to turn another strike, his twig-thin wrist stretched out. A perfect target. With a heave, I twisted the blade through the air, throwing my hips and shoulders into the attack, yoko-giri. The horizontal side-slash technique was meant to disembowel an opponent, spill their guts onto the floor, but it would do just fine for Old Man Winter’s bony wrist.

Grandpa was so preoccupied with Ben’s fire snake that he didn’t even notice until my blade passed through his arm with a slice and his staff clattered to the floor—hand still firmly attached. I let my blade disappear, dismissed my rough illusion, and dove through the air, snagging the staff from the floor and rolling back to my feet. I pivoted, bringing the crook to bear. Old Man Winter had fallen onto his throne, legs sprawled out, amputated wrist held up as he looked on in bewilderment.

The wound should’ve bled—cutting off someone’s hand is major surgery—but no blood flowed, not even a trickle. Just a frosty rim of red coated the end of his arm.

The second snowman crumbled to the floor, gone as quick as it’d come.

“What have you done?” He suddenly sounded his age. Gone was his cackling merriment, and I knew why.

The loss of a hand wasn’t such a big deal to a fae being—he’d regrow the appendage in a couple of months. But losing the crook? That was big. It was a friggin’ portable powerhouse of energy. Fae power pumped through the reedy stick, which pulsed with cold life, waiting to be used, eager to freeze and kill, to bring on the black and cold. The thing was alive, possessed by a sort of shark-like sentience, a thing of living purpose, and it didn’t give a rat’s fuzzy ass who it served.

The sentience reached out toward my mind, offering me scenes of endless winter: frozen spires reaching up to the sky; the whole Earth carpeted in thick, flawless snow; a field of endless white sparkling in chilly sunlight; bodies without number, petrified in perfect crystalline stillness. The world a mimicry of life—all of the beauty and none of the mess. No child would ever laugh there, but no child would ever cry. No one would smile or be warmed by a hug, but neither would anyone starve or feel the gnawing pain of cancer. Everything and everyone, beautiful forever. Everything and everyone, surgically sterile.

The shepherd’s crook wanted these things, and it urged me to want them. It bartered with the things it knew I wanted, calling to the darkest part of my heart.

The power to crush the Morrigan who’d wronged me, who’d robbed me of Ailia years ago. You could have her back, it whispered. It could show me how.

The power to crush the Guild of the Staff, exact retribution for people like Ben who’d been denied help and justice because it would’ve been too messy, too difficult.

A kingdom, the crook promised, all mine for the taking … and when I grew weary of reigning? Endless Winter. It could be patient, helpful, until I grew bored.

It appealed to my pride and vanity, my hunger and lust, my anger and vengeance, my sorrow and pain. Thing sure as shit knew how to manipulate the human heart—would’ve made a killing selling time-shares.

I pushed it all down, away, back into a little box in my head for later examination. Right now I had a mission—ice the old man and get Michael back. The crook nearly quivered in my hand, all too eager to turn on its former master in exchange for freedom.

I raised the staff, Old Man Winter’s stiff hand still clinging tight, and let out a burst of raw power, trusting the crook to shape weaves I’d never used before. Thick fetters of thorny black ice burst from the old man’s carved throne, wrapping around arms and legs, torso, neck, and head, pulling him tight against the chair. Not killing him, of course—the fae couldn’t be dispatched so easily—but tying him down for a good long while, I’d wager.

“I will get free,” he said as though reading my thoughts. “Eventually I will be loose and you will pay. Perhaps I will rot for a thousand years, perhaps you will be but dust in the ground when I escape, but still you will pay. I will hunt down your offspring until your seed is wiped from the face of the Earth. I swear it true, I swear it true, I swear it true. Thrice have I sworn it, so mote it be!” And then he laughed, an echoing whisper in the quiet room. The crook pulsed in my hand; a gag of ice filled Old Man Winter’s mouth, cutting off his laugh fest. I could still see it in his eyes, though—the promise of death.

“Yeah well,” I said, “you’re gonna have to take a number, pal. Lots of folks already have dibs on wiping me out.”

This was different, I knew, though I wouldn’t say it out loud. I’ve made a lot of enemies in my days on this hunk of rock—other mages, the Guild of the Staff, even some minor godling types—but Gramps meant business. The fae are implacable, dogs worrying ceaselessly over a bone. When they hold a grudge, it’s for keeps. For humans, most grievances dim and fade, diminished by the passage of time and the failing of memory. The fae have lots of issues—a friggin’ fleet of dump trucks’ worth—but flagging memory isn’t one of ’em. Old Man Winter would remember, would feel the anger as sharply as he did right now, and he’d do something about it. He’d sworn so thrice. An unbreakable oath of power.

I waved the staff toward the cage holding the slumbering boy. The bars melted away without a thought, the crook doing the work with ease. Power really needs to have limits, it should be difficult. Even the Vis isn’t a fix-all. It takes time and practice to learn, there are lots of melt-your-face-off dangers to contend with, and there are consequences. Not this crook though, just raw, easy-to-use, ready-to-go power. More dangerous by far, but in a different way.

I wanted to throw the thing into the heart of a volcano or into the San Andreas Fault. Another part of me wanted to start caressing the thing, glaring around all shifty-eyed and whispering “My precious.”

“Get the kid,” I said to Ben, never taking eyes off Winter, held hostage on his throne. In my periphery, Ben scooted off toward his grandson, knelt down, and gently urged the two glowing Tokens of Spring toward the limp form. The orbs danced forward, spreading and seeping into the kid’s too-pale skin. A minute passed, nothing happened.

I waited, occasionally shifting my gaze between Winter and the boy, my heart breaking a little with every second that ticked by. Another minute. Nothing.

Another. Tears trickled down Ben’s cheeks.

I was about to go over and put a hand on Ben’s shoulder, try to offer condolences, when the kid finally gasped, pulling in a deep, shuddering breath followed by a cough. Color returned to his thin face; lips—formerly tinged blue—took on a pinkish cast. He opened his eyes, saw Ben, and threw his arms around his grandpa’s neck.

Made me think of my boys, all grown up with kids of their own. I have grandkids too, though I’d never met any of them. Sometimes I’d pay ’em a visit—watch from a distance, make sure they’re okay. Even have a trust fund set up for the whole brood. But I’ve never held them like Ben was holding Michael, never felt them pull me tight into a hug, or had them be glad I was around. It was better that way, really. Too dangerous for me to be involved in their lives—much harder for guys like Old Man Winter to get to them if I didn’t have contact.

Bet it was kinda nice though, having a family, having some little scabby-kneed, booger-machine give you a squeeze like that.

The crook flared, a pulse of thought: I could make them safe. Could make it so Old Man Winter never had a chance to make good on his promise. I pushed the voice away.

“It’s okay now, Michael. I’ve got you,” Ben said, scooping the kid up and holding him against his chest, one hand brushing the back of his hair. “I’ve got you. Shhhhh, now.”

“Let’s vamoose,” I said, averting my gaze from the scene, feeling like an intruder. “Don’t want to hang around for any more surprises.”

SEVEN:

Nick’s Smoke House

I blew out a plume of smoke and took another big ol’ pull from the fat cigar hanging from my lips—a fat, dark brown Sancho Panza Madrid. Normally I’m a cigarette smoker, not ashamed either, but sometimes only an expensive cigar will do the trick. Cigars are for celebrating. Surviving the subterranean caverns beneath Thurak-Tir, saving Ben’s grandson, and beating the pants off crusty-ass Old Man Winter seemed like cause enough for celebration. Who am I kidding, getting a senior citizen discount on beer is cause for celebration in my book.

Ben sat across from me, trying to fan the smoke away—a losing battle in a place like Nick’s Smoke House—and looking damn annoyed while doing it.

It’d been a couple of days since we’d made our getaway from the frozen heart of Winter. The portal had dumped us just outside of Nick’s Smoke House in the Big Easy—one of my favorite places on Earth. Good food, lots of beer and whiskey, tobacco smoke so thick it hangs around like fog. And music, hard thumping classic rock, twangy swamp jams—all bayou and banjos—mixed with good ol’ blues of every flavor: a little Muddy Waters, some Blind Willie McTell, and a little Robert Johnson for good measure. And it was warm here … well, low sixties—it was December—but after Thurak-Tir it felt downright pleasant.

Ben and I hadn’t been able to compare notes after our jailbreak from Old Man Winter’s lair. Michael had needed a hospital a damn bit more than Ben and I needed to debrief. Poor kid ended up with a severe case of hypothermia. Ben had done what he could—he’s a world-class healer—but that damn fae power is tough to combat even with the Vis. Doctors were still holding him for observation, though Ben said they’d release him in the morning, which meant Ben and I needed to figure out where to go from here. Old Man Winter was temporarily down for the count, but there was still some renegade mage running around out there. After all, someone had called up ye olde harpy, enslaved those spriggans, and nabbed Michael in the first place. And whoever it was had a serious axe to grind with Ben.

“Do you have to blow that poison right into my face?” Ben asked, before stifling a small cough with a fist.

“Sorry, not my rules,” I said. “I was nearly murdered by a bunch of evil gnomes and a fae fossil. My code of ethics demands I enjoy a celebratory cigar with you. Nothing to do about it.” I held out the cigar in a gesture of peace. “Want a drag?”

He rolled his eyes, then shrugged. “Fine, fine, one ‘drag’”—he used air quotes—“and then you put it out. Fair?”

“We’ll see.” I handed him the delightful bundle of nicotine heaven. He eyed it suspiciously, like it might suddenly transform into a radioactive cobra, before finally puckering up and taking a little puff. He immediately started coughing, and offered me a pleading and apologetic look.

My turn for an eye roll. “Jeez. Fine,” I said, drawing in a trickle of Vis and snuffing out the glowing cherry. I’d save it for later. I reached into my pocket and withdrew a creased sheet of notebook paper with a crudely drawn face on it: round cheeks, patchy whiskers, double chin, balding head, and broad square glasses. My best attempt at replicating the image the harpy had shown me—my number one suspect for ass-hat mage.

“You recognize this joker?” I asked, laying out the paper and smoothing the creases with one hand.

Ben squinted against the smoke, eyeing the sketch. It wasn’t exactly the Mona Lisa or anything, more like something you’d find in the back of some high school kid’s social studies notebook, but it should’ve been close enough to do the trick.

“I don’t know,” he said after studying the drawing for a solid minute. “It’s not exactly a photograph.”

“Thanks for being so gentle,” I said. He hardly seemed to notice, lost somewhere in his own thoughts.

“You think this is the man responsible?” he asked.

I nodded.

“I’m not sure … I guess it looks a little like someone I might know, but it doesn’t make any sense. If I had to take a guess, I’d say this is Randy Shelton … but it can’t be.”

“Why?”

He looked up from the sketch. “Well, Randy is the only guy I know that looks anything like this, but it can’t be him. The constructs down there were designed by a master. Those bindings were advanced beyond anything I’ve ever seen. Randy doesn’t have the talent for it. He’s not even quite strong enough to qualify for the Guild.”

I thought about Winter’s crook, currently locked away in a lead safe where I kept quite a few dangerous items. I thought about all the power lurking in that one frail piece of twisted wood. Maybe, once upon a time, Randy had been a small fish, but there are lots of things out there in the big wide world that can give you power if you’re willing to pay the price. So the real question was not whether he had the muscle, but rather did he have a motive?

“Okay, so he couldn’t hack it once upon a time,” I said. “Couldn’t make it into the Guild. But can you think of any reason why he might want to get back at you, want to make you suffer? I mean overall, you’re a likable guy. Did you cut him off in traffic or something?”

“No, no,” he said, “I hardly know him. I’ve only met him a couple of times, and then only briefly.”

“What were the meetings for?”

“I was discharging my responsibilities as a Junior Council Member.”

“What responsibilities?”

“Randy applied for admission into the Guild. I know you never went that route, but that’s usually the process. When someone applies, the three members of the Junior Council are charged with assessing skill, evaluating mental stability, and determining whether a candidate is Guild material.”

“So you’re the gatekeepers into the super-secret-squirrel mage club?”

Ben blushed, his cheeks growing red even in the low light. “Yes, I suppose that’s an accurate assessment.”

“How’d Randy do?”

“Well …” Ben wriggled in his seat. “He didn’t make it in. His base power was just shy of being in range, though his ability with the craft was sufficient for his age. It was quite clear that he’d studied extensively. He was also fairly talented in technomancy. Sigu Nakajima voted for admission. The second, Maxim Kozlov, voted no. I was the deciding vote, and ultimately I had to side with Maxim.”

“Why?”

“Well, not because of Randy’s power, or lack thereof—it really could’ve gone either way, I think—but his mental state … he was unwell. Desperate for approval and validation, which I can understand. He’s a young man who has been an outsider for most of his life, but he was desperate enough to do almost anything to get in. He tried to hide it, of course, and he managed to fool the others, but I could read it in him. Prideful, vindictive, spiteful, juvenile. So I said no, too. Denied him admittance … Oh.”

“Yeah,” I said, “oh, as in bing-o.” Sounded like a helluva motive to me. Ben and Michael were safe for the time being, but with Randy running around making bargains with old things to grab power, who could say for how long? Sounded like I needed to check up on Maxim Kozlov, make sure he was okay, and then track down my fellow Guild of the Staff reject. Sounded like I was gonna have a fun couple of days. Yay, my life.

EIGHT:

Corpse

The corpse sat bound to the wood frame of a chair, naked, skin practically flayed off him. Chunks of surgically removed flesh dotted the carpet, blood pooled below, thick and nearly black, while a streak of brighter crimson decorated the far wall and ceiling. Arterial spurting. Gross. It seemed that after being tortured mercilessly for who knew how long, the killer had finally done the poor bloke in by lazily slashing his throat. The guy wasn’t long dead either. Sure, his body had started to stiffen, but the blood wasn’t even completely dry yet.

Maxim Kozlov, top-notch Russian mage and chair of the Junior Council of the Guild of the Staff. Dammit.

That was it. I lurched out of the bedroom and vomited onto the hallway floor. Listen, I have a strong stomach and I’m not new to violence—I’ve killed people that needed killing—but what had happened in there? That was murder, and there is a difference between murder and killing, even if the line is fine enough to split hairs. Shit, that wasn’t just murder. That was worse than murder. What had been done to the stiff in the other room was Himmler-level evil, and it had almost certainly been done with the Vis. Flaying a person tied to a chair can’t be easy going, so using knife-sharp flows of air was about the only way you’d be able to manage the thing.

Son of a bitch—everything always has to get more complicated. Nothing can ever be easy. I tried to get ahold of Kozlov through the regular channels—too easy—so of course I hadn’t been able to make contact. So I’d driven out to his Wyoming home from the Big Easy, thinking I’d pop in and find him all safe and sound. Oh no, not with my luck. I mean seriously. Why couldn’t I show up and find Kozlov reading a good novel by the fire or maybe playing a little D&D with some dorky friends? Hell, I’d have preferred to find him snuggled in front of the TV with a bottle of baby oil and a porno. Also gross, but much less gross than happening upon a slashed-up corpse.

Kozlov’s death did make my job easier in one respect, though. It narrowed my suspect pool down to one. Randy Shelton—some two-bit practitioner, with more ambition than talent. Before showing up at Kozlov’s pad, I hadn’t been sure that Randy was the culprit. Now there was no doubt in my mind. Someone had already tried to do Ben in, and now Kozlov was worm food. The only guy with a good motive for both attacks was the Guild reject.

I wiped the spittle from my lips with the back of my sleeve, then padded back into the room, mentally preparing myself to catalog every detail laid out before me. There might be some clue in there, but in order to find it, I’d need to look at everything.

I surveyed the body once more. I couldn’t see any sign of defensive wounds, which meant Kozlov must’ve been initially incapacitated. Maybe drugs? I guess Randy could’ve slipped Kozlov a roofie or maybe shot him up with tranquilizers. But I had to imagine Kozlov had been alert and awake when Randy was cutting away skin—torture like that is all about inflicting pain and suffering. Randy would’ve wanted Kozlov to be awake so that he could watch him squirm and shriek.

If Kozlov was awake, though, it’d mean he had access to the Vis, and Kozlov wasn’t a slouch when it came to the Vis—guy knew his shit. It seemed unlikely that some hack like Randy could do him in. The little Guild washout must’ve gotten his pudgy hands onto something powerful—

“Yancy Lazarus,” a voice spoke.

I spun, my mean ol’ Frankenstein-looking pistol drawn, finger on the trigger, ready to unload. A face floated in the surface of Kozlov’s bedroom mirror, a face I’d seen briefly once before, shown to me through the mind of a harpy. No-good, harpy-binding, mage-murdering, ass-clown Randy.

Except he looked different. Before he’d had a double chin, and too much chunk hanging on his frame. Now, it had all melted away. He was thin everywhere, skin tight and nearly translucent, blue veins pulsing slowly beneath the surface. Cracks and wrinkles ran from the corner of his lips and along his forehead. Dark purple bruises encircled eyes that had once been muddy brown, but which were now fallout-green and slit in the middle like a cat’s eyes.

What the hell had he done to himself? Poor schmuck. I could spot a rotten deal when I saw one, and Randy had definitely bitten off more than he could chew. Shit, he’d probably bitten off more than a hot-dog-eating champion could chew.

“What’ve you done?” I asked, not really expecting an answer. “Shit, man, this is bad. You look terrible. Listen, Randy, you’re in over your head, we’ve all been there … just let me help you. Turn yourself over, I’ll get you to the Guild, get someone to look at you. You’re sick, but it’s not too late,” I said, because I didn’t know what else to say.

“Oh no, it’s far, far too late.” The voice from the mirror was hollow, distant, and creaked like old floorboards. “We are bound now, he is mine, and I his, our minds intertwined. And those fools in the Guild … you would turn us over to them? Faw. Spineless, imbecilic, self-righteous do-nothings. Couldn’t even recognize true talent, like ours, when it was right before their noses. It is, as it has always been. They don’t have the power to separate us—they tried to contain me for a time, but I found my way free.”

“Those are fair points.” And damned if they weren’t—spineless, imbecilic, self-righteous do-nothings—yeah that was damn close to the mark in my book. “I couldn’t agree more about the Guild, but running around, offing people? It’s got to stop.”

“We didn’t expect to see you here,” he said, ignoring me. “You almost ruined a good partnership for us. Old Man Winter was furious at your theft. Even still, your actions were not so damaging that the situation is beyond repair.” He paused. “Even without the crook, Old Man Winter is a powerful being. Still, you are making yourself quite a nuisance. So far, we have overlooked your involvement. But no longer. Too often you are ignored, disregarded—to the detriment of your enemies. We will not make the same mistake.”

I heard the warble of sirens. The cops? You gotta be kidding me. Kozlov lived all the way out in B.F.E. Wyoming—cattle land all around and not a neighbor for a friggin’ mile. I highly doubted Kozlov had managed to get a 911 call in, which meant someone else had done the deed.

“We hear them,” the mirror echoed, laughing. “Your doom draws nigh.” The image in the mirror blinked out, leaving behind a thin vertical slash of light for a moment, which faded until nothing of the illusion remained.

Idiot. I should’ve known not to indulge in witty banter with the villain. Baddies only ever do the whole monologue shtick for two reasons: One, they perceive their victory is imminent and need you to know how much better, smarter, and generally more awesome than you they are. You might be thinking, That’s dumb, but it’s a proven fact, folks. There’s a reason serial killers taunt the police or send letters to journalists—they need their work and brilliance to be validated. A good villainous plot is all the better when someone knows how clever it is.

And the second reason? Stall tactics. Dammit.

I slunk over to the bedroom window, carefully cracking the blinds and hazarding a peek out onto snow-covered plains stretching out into the distance. Couldn’t see much. Darkness wrapped the land like a thick blanket, but that only served to emphasize the alternating flashes of blue and red speckling the snowy driveway—just one car, but there’d be more I had no doubt.

Yep, there it was. Another patrol car pulled in behind the first, followed by an ambulance, its tires crunching over thick ice. A third car pulled in a handful of seconds later, this one an SUV that drove off the road and circled out of view. Probably to cover the back door. Ugh. Here I am, a wanted man, standing over a fresh murder victim, with literal blood on my hands—that’s where they get that whole “caught red handed” thing from—and no way out. How? Had Randy, the evil villain, seriously called the fuzz? That was his nefarious game plan to eliminate me? It seemed somehow … I dunno … a bit of a letdown, I guess. Kinda pedestrian as evil villain plans go.

But it was also pretty smart. If he’d sent a giant, slathering doom-beast after me, I’d be able to do something. But I wasn’t going to hurt a bunch of cops just doing their jobs. Apparently Randy had done his homework and had my number. Stupid moral compass.

I ground my teeth and let the blinds snap back into place. Okay. Whatever. I could still finagle my way out of this downward-spiraling vortex of magical bullshit. Throw a little glamour down on all those cops, maybe? No, that probably wouldn’t work. There were a lot of ’em, they were all running around on high alert, and there wasn’t anyone else out here. A glamour might work if they were chasing me down a heavily crowded street. But out here in the middle of nowhere without another soul in sight, save for the officers themselves? Stupid plan. Think, dammit, think.

I could push the glamour maybe, strengthen it almost to the point of compulsion. No … I wouldn’t do that. Maybe it would work. Maybe. But I’d enthralled that ice gnome just under a week ago and doing the same thing again, so soon … dangerous. That kind of power is too addictive. And if I slipped up and actually enthralled someone—a real, live person, complete with freewill? The Guild would actively start hunting me without batting an eyelash. There had to be something better than that.

An illusion? Yeah, I could do it. Just stand in the corner, shroud myself in darkness, wait for the good guys to secure the scene, and leave. That could take a good long while, and sure, it’d be uncomfortable, but I could manage it—thankfully I’d just taken a piss before I’d gotten here. Might be standing around for a while.

A car door slammed out front, followed by the bark of a German shepherd. Oh shit. More barking. A pair of German shepherds.

Illusions aren’t my strong suit to begin with, and creating a construct sophisticated enough to fool a German shepherd’s nose? Yeah, not gonna happen, at least not by me. This whole thing was coming apart at the damn seams, and I was right smack dab in the middle watching it unravel.

I could always try to pry open a doorway into the Hub … probably blow myself to pieces.

Maybe take out some of the cops in the process—absolutely unacceptable. Shit, even if I managed the thing, I’d probably just dump myself into the clutches of some unspeakable demonic horror from a Lovecraft tale. I thought back to my tussle with an Eldritch being called a Dara-Naric, big as a small moon with a forest of tentacles. Yeah, didn’t want to run into something like that if I could avoid it.

Some combination of illusion and glamour was my best bet. Definitely.

“We know you’re in there,” came a voice, thundering through a bullhorn. “We have the house surrounded, so just surrender and you will not be harmed.” I heard a sharp crack—the splintering of a doorframe—followed by the pounding of footfalls. I darted for the closet at the far end of the bedroom.

“Living room, clear,” someone shouted.

After a second, “Kitchen, clear,” someone else echoed.

I pulled open the sliding door, shoved aside a bunch of shirts and trousers hung with meticulous care, crammed myself into the back of the tight space, and slid the door shut behind me.

“Bathroom, clear.” More footfalls, the slams of doors, the huffing of dogs tracking a scent.

I opened myself to the Vis—the power and energy underlying Creation—ready to throw up some quick and dirty constructs. Instead, my hands flared with a white-hot pain. Kozlov’s blood seemed to boil against my flesh like flaming oil. Sharp spasms shot along my arms and legs, muscles grew tight and tense, seizing and contracting in the throes of some neurological electric surge. My teeth chattered. My brain exploded with an ache so intense my vision narrowed at the edges while white pinpricks of light filled everything else.

I felt all of that, but not even the tiniest trickle of Vis. Not a friggin’ drop of power. It was still there—I could feel it, nearly taste it, even through the blinding pain and racking muscle seizures. But I couldn’t touch it. Like a sheet of immoveable and unyielding glass between us.

After a few seconds the pain subsided, leaving terrible fatigue in its wake. I shook my head clear and tried again, opening my mind and straining toward the power beyond.

Another trip on the merry-go-round, this one worse than the first. So bad it left me curled in a ball in the back of the closet. And still nothing. My power was gone, inaccessible.

The bedroom door banged open. I watched through the canted slats in the door as two men entered, a pair of flashlight beams bobbing and weaving across the room, cutting the darkness in swaths. They cleared behind the bedroom door and under the bed, their movements quick, efficient, and practiced.

The closet door slid open, and I found myself squinting against the bright beam of a flashlight, attached beneath the black staring eye of a shotgun barrel.

“Eyes on! Eyes on!” the man wielding the shotgun bellowed. There was a chorus of shouts, the bark of dogs, and suddenly I found two more weapons trained on me—one a Glock, the other an M-4.

“Drop your weapon,” Shotgun said. Oh right, despite my muscle cramps, I’d somehow managed to hang on to my gun. I raised my free hand high, palm out, while carefully placing my revolver on the floor in front of me, and then raised that hand, too. Officer Glock darted in, sweeping the gun away with his foot, before retreating to a safe distance.

“Carefully, slowly,” Shotgun said, “place your palms on the floor, and lay flat on your stomach. Do not attempt to resist.”

“No problem, guys,” I said, placing my hands out flat and crawling onto my belly. “Just a big misunderstanding, I swear.” Yeah right. If they bought that line, I had a nice piece of real estate on Jupiter to sell them.

My stomach connected with the carpet. Someone’s knee pressed into my shoulder, while someone else straddled me across the hips, pinning me to the floor. The guy straddling me wrenched both arms back, sharp twangs of pain jolted through my shoulder blades. Cold metal snapped around each wrist with a ratcheting click. Handcuffs, and secured just a scooch too tight for comfort.

They hauled me up by the arms, manhandling me out of the room, out of the house, and into the tight confines of a police cruiser, all while reading me my Miranda rights. Son of a bitch—sure hadn’t seen this coming. Despite all the enemies I’d faced in the past, this one somehow seemed more dangerous by far. There are a number of federal agencies looking for me, and without my power … I didn’t have a clue how I was gonna pull my ass outta this fire.

NINE:

Interrogation Time

I sat handcuffed in an interrogation room. Harsh fluorescent overhead lighting illuminated stark tile walls—white and beige—a metal desk, and a chair that had made my ass fall asleep ages ago. As far as I could figure, I’d been here for damn near a solid day. Twenty-four hours, give or take, without talking to anyone, without seeing a lawyer, without food, sleep, coffee or an energy drink. At least they let me use the toilet. Needless to say I was a friggin’ mess—there are literally insane, gibbering, knife-wielding sewer weasels more put together than I was just then.

Worst of all—worse than any of that other shit squared—was the fact that I couldn’t even come close to getting a handhold of raw, delicious Vis. It wasn’t burnout—at least I didn’t think so. I could still feel the power out there, like the warmth of sunlight on cold skin. But trying to get ahold of it? Like catching the wind. Couldn’t do it. I’d never realized how addictive that power was either, not until now. Not until it was gone. I was jonesing bad. The Vis made everything sharper, more clear. With the power in me I could’ve heard the filaments in the overhead light flickering. Could’ve smelled the BO and old coffee from the station beyond. It was like someone had stolen an extra sense I hadn’t even been aware of.

It hurt. And what if my power never came back? The thought sent gooseflesh running over my back and arms, a cool sweat breaking out on my brow. Never touch the Vis again? Never taste its sweet life and vitality? Shit, would that be a world worth living in? How long would I even live? It was handling the Vis that gave us mage-folk such long lives. If I couldn’t touch it anymore did that mean my clock was already used up? Even more worrisome—I had a metric-ass-ton of enemies, folks who would tap dance with glee at the thought of catching me without the ability to defend myself.

I’ve been in some tight spots before, but none of them had felt quite so dark, quite so hopeless.

The door opened, interrupting my train of thought, and a striking woman strode into the room like she owned the friggin’ place. Hell, she strode in like she owned the station, the town, the state, and everything in it. Including my ass. Tall, just shy of six foot, with medium-length black hair tied back into a tight ponytail. Strong features, Mediterranean complexion, brown eyes sharp as daggers, and enough athletic muscle to give me pause. I’ve done many different martial arts over the ambling course of my life—been in a shit ton of scrapes too—but without the Vis, I was pretty sure she could kick my ass up one side of the street and down the other.

Despite the Amazon princess demeanor with which she walked, she wasn’t covered with tattoos, ninja swords, or a small personal armory. She just wore a black suit—well made, but not flashy—with a practical white blouse, a holstered Glock on one hip, and a golden FBI badge on the other. That was it, nothing over the top. Her confidence was all about attitude, and she had enough attitude to go around a couple of times over.

Agent Nicole Ferraro. We sorta went back a ways, and though I wasn’t shocked to see her, neither was I happy about it. She’d been dogging my trail for the better part of three years, so it kinda made sense that she’d be the one to get the call after the police had booked and fingerprinted me.

Once upon a time in Memphis, Agent Ferraro had me dead to rights on a murder charge—even managed to pin me inside of an abandoned warehouse. Of course the murder rap was bull, the thing I killed wasn’t close to human, and I’d done humanity at large a pretty damn big favor. Still, I slipped away before Ferraro could get me in a pair of sparkly new metal bracelets, and she’d never forgiven me. She’d been hunting me ever since. Woman was scary.

“Jonathan Driscoll,” she said, dropping a plain manila folder on the table. That was the alias I’d been going under at the time she nabbed me … well, almost nabbed me.

“Or is it Lawrence Wazowski … maybe Mark Frasier? Aron Nord? Or maybe I should just call you The Fixer. That seems to be a name I hear a lot.”

I sat up just a little straighter in my chair. She’d been digging around hard to turn up that many of my aliases. Probably meant someone with the Feds was monitoring those bank accounts. Thank God I hadn’t used those names in a good long while. Still, I’d have to move my money around, see some folks over in the Hub—make certain aliases vanish, bring some new ones to life.

Wait, what was I thinking? I’d be lucky if I ever saw the outside of a prison cell again. I needed to focus, dammit. I had to deal with the present and let everything else go until later. If there was a later.

“Whoever you really are, it doesn’t matter,” she said after a moment. “Eventually I’ll figure out your real name. We’ve got lots of time, and there’s no chance of you slipping away this time.” She opened the folder and a stack of glossy photos spilled out—photos that both turned my stomach and brought back more than a few unpleasant memories.

The first picture was of an old man, gaunt with wispy hair, lying in a pool of blood, chest cavity split wide like a gaping mouth, all the organs gone. Except his intestines. A couple loops of ropy gray wrapped around the guy’s neck. I remembered it all right, the poor schlub had been eviscerated—still living—and then strangled to death with his own guts. Cruel. Brutal. Ugly as a mutant pit bull in a tutu.

The next picture was close enough to the first that I didn’t bother looking. So were the third, and the fifth, and the tenth, and the fifteenth. The victims were all different: old folks, a few middle-aged people, men and women, white, black, a few Hispanics. The killer hadn’t discriminated.

She fanned the photos out. “Look at them.” She nearly spat the words. “Look, long and hard.”

“Put those away.” I dropped my gaze, chest too tight. “You know I didn’t do those killings. The evidence never pointed in my direction.”

She smiled, a cold, feral grin like a wolf. “You know what? I believe you. For a long while I thought you’d murdered the whole lot, chopped them up, and stole the organs. But I’ve been doing some digging. A lot of digging. And no, I don’t think you’re responsible for those killings.”

I looked up. Well, that was news to me. Maybe even a little good news—that would certainly be a nice change of pace.

She scooped up the lot of photos, returned them to the manila envelope, and then reached into a black leather briefcase. She rooted around for a second and withdrew another dossier filled with more photos still. She laid the first one out on the table, adjusting it primly. A young man of maybe twenty-five with white smooth skin, brilliant straight teeth, clear blue eyes, and hair cut short at the sides, though long and slick on top. The guy looked like a pretty boy fashion model, or maybe an up-and-coming politician. Had one of those faces most women would consider handsome and trustworthy. Underneath that pretty flesh mask lay a nightmare from the deep, dark regions of Outworld. Richard Hemsworth, monster and murderer.

She tapped a finger on the glossy headshot. “Despite relatively little evidence to support my theory,” she said, “I think our friend here killed those people, all fifteen. But I know you killed him … not a doubt in my mind, and I’ve got the evidence to prove it.”

She smiled and laid out a second photo, this one of a woman in her late forties. A little heavyset, though with a pretty face, her brown hair pulled up in a bun. She could’ve been a librarian, maybe, or a PTA-attending soccer mom. Christy something-or-other—hard to keep track of all the names. Banshee, killed seven or eight young men quite a few years back, exploded their hearts right outta their chests, burst their eyeballs to boot. Messy as hell. And yeah, I’d killed her too. Guild contract, that was, back when I was still working for those bathrobe-wearing yahoos.

The next photo hit close to home, a recent case. The guy smiling into the camera had light brown skin, a square jaw covered with a five-o’clock shadow, hazel eyes, and a big shit-eating grin. Arjun Dhaliwal, a rogue mage, responsible for unleashing a friggin’ demon on a bunch of bikers, all in a bid to kick start a regional Armageddon, and, in time, reunite India. Bat-shit crazy, that guy, but it’d been tough to see him go—though technically, I hadn’t actually pulled the trigger on him. Everything up to his demise was all me, sure, but the final deed had been done by someone else’s hand.

Another photo. A little girl with porcelain skin and bright eyes—a Tiktik, who’d lured a handful of small children to their death. Another still: an obese black man with a strangely thin neck and delicate birdlike facial features—lesser Bacalou, responsible for mutilating and murdering a group of working girls down in the Big Easy. Another: a gorgeous, scantily clad redhead, all long legs and mountainous breasts—a succubus who preyed on middle-aged, white-collar types.

Dead, dead, dead.

Agent Ferraro laid out four more snapshots—each meticulously placed next to the others—all murderous monsters from some corner of existence. And yeah, I’d hunted down and killed each and every one of those sons of bitches, too. Most had been Guild work. I’d been part of the Guild’s wet-works team for damn near twenty years, and I’d seen a lot of bad shit in those years. A few others, like Arjun, were … I dunno … freelance work, I guess. One thing was true about all those murderous monsters, though—they’d all had it coming, and I wouldn’t do a thing different. Just thinking about all the evil shit those monsters had done got my blood boiling.

These ten weren’t all of ’em—not by a fair margin—but still, Ferraro must’ve been thorough as an airport cavity search to find this many. A bunch of powerful folks had gone to a lot of trouble to bury those cases and to keep them buried. Color me impressed. Oh, and scared. Very scared. Absolutely nothing more terrifying than a strong, razor-sharp, determined, and competent person with you square in their crosshairs. Well, maybe centipedes, but you get the point.

She pursed her lips into a tight line, tapping each photo in its turn. “Now, I can’t prove you killed all of these people, but I’ve got a pretty good hunch that you were involved somehow. Funny thing, though … I think all of these people may have been serial killers. All of them. Probably not enough evidence to go to court—some awfully bizarre circumstances in a lot of these cases—but I think you somehow found these people before the cops could put it together and took them out. Hell, you should probably get a medal for all your years of service.”

Damn right I should. Someone out there ought to appreciate the river of crapola I’ve waded through in my days. But I knew Ferraro didn’t actually feel that way. She was trying to play me, trying to appeal to my ego, trying to play nice, so maybe I’d open up and brag just a little. If she didn’t have much evidence—and it was doubtful she did—then a confession was her golden ticket.

“Can’t tell you the number of times I’ve thought about doing it.” She sat down on the edge of the metal table, looking at me over her shoulder as though confiding in me. “Bunch of scumbags, getting their kicks by torturing and killing innocent people. Sick. And a lot of them get off scot-free, escape the law, escape justice. So I get it, really. Tell me how you did it. How’d you identify them? How’d you know what they were doing? You know, maybe if you work with me, give me some details about these cases …” She smiled a secretive just-between-us grin. “Who knows, the D.A. might be willing to play ball. Show some significant lenience, even. After all, you were only mopping up the filth.”

I snorted. Lenience. Yeah, right. Probably the most lenience I’d get was a needle to the arm instead of the electric chair. “Listen lady, I get that you’re just trying to do your job, I get that you think I’m the bad guy, and you’re just doing your part to get me off the streets. Working hard to close some cases. Bring some closure to families. Whatever. I get it, I do. But this isn’t my first rodeo, I’ve been on this ride before.” I could feel her tense up, shoulders knotting, muscles going tight.

“You think you can schmooze me a little,” I said after a second, “play the sympathy card, bat your eyes at me, and tell me how you understand. Think if you play it right, I’ll fold like a bad hand of poker. Well, you obviously don’t know me as well as you think. I won’t give you a thing, because I didn’t do anything wrong. And I want a lawyer before I say another word.” I made a curt shooing gesture with one hand, the handcuffs rattling against the tabletop.

I didn’t really want a lawyer—what could a lawyer do for me anyway? Even if Ferraro couldn’t pin all those homicides on me, she surely had enough to put me away for a couple of lifetimes. Which would suck a pile of cow patties, because hypothetically I could actually live long enough to serve two or three life sentences.

But hopefully a lawyer could gum up the works a little, maybe buy me some time. Right now, they were holding me in some little podunk police station, with, I dunno, ten or fifteen cops tops. Probably fewer. My power had to come back eventually. I could still feel the Vis out there, waiting for me, and it’d be a damn bit easier to slip outta here than some big, maximum-security prison. Time was definitely my friend, and it would take a fair amount of time to wrangle up an attorney at this hour—an hour or two at least. Maybe even longer. It had to be late, and it’d been snowing when they brought me in. More time.

Ferraro stood up, nodded, and then slammed her fist down on the table with a loud clang. “Yeah, okay.” No smile now, no sweet, alluring, understanding woman. “I’ll get you a lawyer, but don’t think it’ll help. I’m going to nail your ass to the wall. Do yourself a favor and confess. Tell me about the victims. Tell me how you escaped in Memphis and maybe the D.A. will take the death penalty off the table.”

I snorted again, and waved her on.

Ferraro reached for the door, but before she could grasp the handle, it swung in and another woman strutted into the room like an overconfident peacock. Damn if my jaw didn’t just about hit the table. She was kind of a plain-Jane, thin and petite, with shoulder-length brown hair hanging down in a loose sheet. Her face was thin and sharp, too harsh to be beautiful exactly, though she was handsome in her way. She wore casual business attire: a charcoal-gray skirt, a navy blouse, a pair of moderate heels, and black rectangular glasses. I didn’t know her name, but I’d met her once before at a bar called The Lonely Mountain in the nightmare city of the Hub.

I didn’t know much about her, save that she’d helped me run down a lead in exchange for goodwill between us at some future, unspecified time. My guess was that now was that time. I also knew she wasn’t human.

TEN:

Lawyer Up

“Who the hell are you?” Ferraro asked, placing her hands on her hips—one suspiciously close to her holstered weapon.

“I’m his lawyer, of course,” the woman said. She smiled, awkwardly maneuvered her briefcase, and extended a welcoming hand. Ferraro looked at the proffered limb the way I might look at a coiled rattlesnake. I couldn’t blame her.

My … well, my lawyer, I guess, just shrugged and brushed past the surly agent, setting her things on the table. “I’m Jessica Fortuna. It’s a pleasure to meet you, Special Agent Ferraro. I’m afraid I’ll need some time alone with my client, please.” She turned back to her briefcase, leafing through papers, the agent clearly dismissed and forgotten. I watched it all, not quite sure whether I should be cheering or cowering in the fetal position.

At last, Ferraro rolled her eyes and stormed out of the interrogation room, the door slamming shut with a bang.

The lawyer, who was certainly something much more, pulled out the metal chair across from me and sat, crossing her legs and smoothing her skirt.

“Mr. Lazarus,” she said, “it’s good to see you again.”

“Hey, ixnay on the whole real name thing, lady.”

“We can speak freely and frankly without any worries for the time being, Mr. Lazarus.”

“Okay, Ms. Whoever-you-are, so I’m guessing that you’re here to offer me some kinda deal in exchange for me doing something generally awful and probably life threatening. Am I on the right track?”

“Of course you are. As you said to Agent Ferraro, this isn’t your first rodeo. But remember, you did promise to hear me out, to show me a little goodwill if ever the time came that I should require your assistance. And really, I’ll likely be of greater assistance to you than you will be to me—you’re really in a pickle here.” She stared at my cuffs, a small grin turning up the corner of her mouth. “And you can’t even use your power. Tsk, tsk,” she said, which got my full attention. “Quite a pickle.”

“Yeah, it’s a real shitpickle alright,” I said. “Let’s not beat around the awkward conversation bush here. What in the hell do you know about my powers? What happened to them and how do I get ’em back?”

“All in due time, Mr. Lazarus, please be patient.”

I grunted, annoyed to my toes and feeling about as far from patient as the sun is from the moon.

“As I said to Agent Ferraro, my name is Jessica Fortuna.” She paused as though expecting some kind of recognition to dawn on my face.

I just sat there starring on like a moron. What can I say, sometimes my devastatingly keen insight and wit surprise even me.

“F-O-R-T-U-N-A,” she said again, slow and loud as though speaking to someone especially hard of hearing.

Nothing. Bunch of crickets chirping in-between my ears—I’d just have to chalk it up to the fact that I was over-tired, over-hungry, and in a state of near shock. Totally justifiable idiocy.

She rubbed at her temple. “You,” she said. “I can’t believe she chose you to be the Hand. My name is Fortuna … the root of the English word fortune.”

“Fortuna …” Things started turning in the ol’ hamster wheel I call a brain. “Wait, are you Lady Luck?”

“No, I’m For-tuna, the overseer of the great sea-tuna. Yes, of course I’m Lady Luck. Dolt.”

I took another inventory: plain-Jane, a little mousy, dull brown hair, business wear. “You’re different than I’d imagined.”

She rolled her eyes and quirked an eyebrow. “Oh? Did you expect me to look like some trampy dancer from the Vegas strip? Maybe a red-headed pinup girl with a pair of double-D’s, bouncing around in a cocktail dress?”

“Well, yeah, actually. That’s how Lady Luck is always pictured.”

She rolled her eyes again and sighed. “Men. I swear,” she said, but didn’t imbue her words with the scorn of the truly offended. “Luck is important. Modern man has lost sight of this essential truth, I think. Here on your continent I’ve been relegated to the casinos and backroom gambling dens. Ridiculous.

“Now the Romans,” she said, then paused for a moment as though reminiscing fondly. “They had a proper perspective on things. By my hand battles are won or lost. Vast treasures come or go. A lucky harvest can mean plenty or starvation. Why, with just a little fortune—or misfortune—whole nations can rise or fall. Men and women might live or die by my interference or lack thereof. A bullet which lands in your shoulder instead of your heart? Luck. A car zooms through a red light and narrowly misses a child crossing the intersection? Luck. Just a little of my aid can go quite a long way. Serious business, fortune.”

“Got it—not the good-natured stripper with a heart of gold.”

“Indeed not,” she said with a voice as dry as the savanna in summer. But still, a little grin flashed across her lips.

“So you’re here to spring me?” I asked.

“Ummm.” She pressed her lips into a grimace. “No, not quite that simple, I’m afraid. My patron has sent me to lend you aid, provided that you agree to finish the task you have already undertaken.” She pulled a glossy photo out and set it on top of all the other, carefully arrayed pictures of dead monsters wearing human faces. The picture was of fat-faced Randy.

“This is Randy Shelton, the man behind the murder of Maxim Kozlov, which, of course, you already know. Randy is currently setting in motion forces beyond his control which may well unbalance the destiny which the Three-Faced Hag, Lady Fate—my patron—has been entrusted to preserve. Now, he is but a pawn in some larger scheme, which yet remains unknown to me and my lady, but Shelton must be stopped. And you … you, have become something of a lynchpin in the whole bloody affair, it would seem. So my lady has dispatched me to be your patron and guide until your role in this little drama is played out.”

“Sounds like all upside to me—I get to knock Randy down a peg, and you help me get my powers back and break outta the hososgow. So what’s the catch? In my experience, if it looks too good to be true, something is probably about to try to turn your insides into your outsides.”

“Quite apropos, actually.” She pulled out another photo, this one of a crude silver ring, old, worn, etched with runes and glyphs inside and out, a giant ruby affixed to the top.

“What’s with the gaudy costume jewelry?”

“The gaudy costume jewelry,” she said without missing a step, “is the first catch. A thousand years ago or more there lived an evil mage called Koschei the Deathless. As his name implies, he’s deathless—a Lich, actually. Except someone did kill him … well, imprisoned his immortal soul in the ring at any rate. The details are hazy at best. The ring itself has been locked away, guarded by the Guild of the Staff. Yet Randy has it, thus Koschei has him.”

That had some serious implications. If the ring had gone missing from the Guild’s vault, it meant someone on the Guild was one dirty little birdy—though I couldn’t even begin to fathom why someone would want to release a nasty old Lich into the world.

“You said that Koschei was the first catch. What’s the second?”

“The second—yes, the second. Since I work for the Three-Faced Hag, I am granted a somewhat limited knowledge of the future. I have foreseen that shortly, this station will go on lockdown due to a terrible winter storm stirred up by Old Man Winter. Koschei will then use the atmospheric disturbance to unleash something horrific to hunt you down and murder anything that gets in the way—like a building full of police officers.”

I let out a low whistle. “Wow. That’s a hell of a catch. But if you break me out, then it stands to reason that the monster won’t hang around, right?”

“Yes, that assumption is quite astute. Unfortunately, I will not be breaking you out at all. Fate’s a bit of a tricky thing, you see. The White King”—she pointed to the ceiling—“has decreed that the freewill of human beings not be unduly infringed upon. So our involvement is necessarily limited. Hence the reason for your involvement. You will be Lady Fate’s Hand, her mortal agent, in this matter. Quite literally, the Hand of Fate. Now, as your patron, I can nudge things this way or that, providing a lucky break at just the right moment, but major intervention? No. Not my thing. Couldn’t do it even if it was my thing.”

“You’re not gonna get me out? There’s a friggin’ blizzard about to descend, plus a face-eating monster on the way, and you’re just, what … bailing on me? What the hell is the upside to having you in my corner?”

“Well, as the saying goes, forewarned is forearmed. Aren’t you better off now than when I first entered?”

I thought about it for a moment, and I guess she had a point—a very small point, which, pragmatically, was almost useless. Better than nothing, though. “And what about my power?” I asked again. If I had my power it would be a completely different ball game.

“Oh, right, your power,” she said while tapping a finger thoughtfully on her chin. “No, I’m afraid you will not have access to your power. Hopefully that shouldn’t prove too problematic.”

I felt like smashing my head into a wall or maybe jumping off a bridge. Hell, if there was a shark tank in the room, I’d probably throw myself in to save myself the headache—getting torn to bits by a shark was probably the less painful option. At least the shark would be quick.

“My power will come back, right?” I asked, and my voice broke a little. There had been plenty of times in my life where I’d wished I was just a normal guy, without all the supernatural bullshit to contend with. But, in truth, my power was a part of who I was—what the hell would I be without it?

“That depends.” She withdrew a third photo, this one some kind of funky-looking drinking flask: beaten bronze set with seven rubies that formed a cross on its front. Sticking out of the bottom was a strange key-like protrusion a couple of inches long. Looked like something you might find in one of those old-timey antique shops. Fortuna was quiet a long while, her eyes slightly unfocused, seemingly lost in thought, or maybe catching some vision I wasn’t privy to.

I snapped my fingers a couple of times. “Hey, Earth to Lady Luck. You gonna tell me about Antiques Roadshow there or what?”

“Sorry.” She shook her head, her eyes refocused. “Yes, right, that. The Holy Grail, actually. You have been poisoned with an ancient toxin, the making of which has been lost for ages. But Koschei the Deathless is ages old and is one of the few creatures living that knows how to brew it. He used the poison to incapacitate Kozlov, and you unfortunately were poisoned by touching Kozlov’s blood. You will remain powerless indefinitely. This artifact, however, can cure you. And I know where it is. If you survive the night and find a way to escape, I’ll help you get it.”

“You’re the worst,” I said. Dammit! Screw the shark tank—a wood chipper would be more merciful than this. “So just to recap—you’re going to abandon me to the hands of a FBI agent who wants to see me fry, while expecting me to fight off some living nightmare in the middle of a blizzard, and then orchestrate a jail break … without the Vis.”

She nodded vigorously. “Yes, I think that’s a good summation. Glad you’ve been paying attention.”

“Just the absolute worst.”

A shrill ring emanated from her purse. She fished out one of those fancy, newfangled iPhones, thumbed the screen, and lifted the phone to her ear.

Someone jabbered on the other end of the line, just a faint hum of noise on the outside range of my hearing. Fortuna nodded a couple of times. “Yes, I’ve given him the brief.” More senseless jabbering. “I’m not sure … No, he seems compliant, but you know how these mortals can be—fickle and ungrateful.” She shot me a playful look over the top of her glasses. “Yes … Okay … I’ll be on the way shortly—and tell her not to start without me.” She hung up the call and slid the phone back into her briefcase.

“Mr. Lazarus.” She smiled. “It’s really been quite the pleasure to see you again.” She reached across the table and took my chained hands in hers. She smiled gently, almost sadly. The lights flickered overhead, while the wind howled against the station. “That’s my cue, I’m afraid. The best of luck.” She giggled at her own pun and stood up. “I kill myself.”

“I wish,” I muttered under my breath.

“Oh, play nice … One last thing, get friendly with Agent Ferraro. Be open with her, honest. Tell her everything if you must. You’re going to need her help if you plan to live through the night.” She packed up her briefcase, stood, turned heel, and banged on the two-way mirror, thump, thump, thump. A few moments later the door swung open and Ferraro strode back into the interrogation room.

“All done?” the grumpy agent said, folding arms across her chest and staring daggers at Fortuna then me in turns.

“Oh yes. My client has waived the right to counsel and has decided he will cooperate with you to the fullest extent of his ability—which, I’ll readily admit, is limited. Not the brightest crayon in the box, this one.” She turned back to me for just a second. “Again, good luck, Mr. Yancy Lazarus.” She giggled again and shot me a wink.

I wanted to shoot her something in return, but it damn sure wasn’t a wink—I was thinking about something with a much higher caliber.

She walked from the room, accompanied by Ferraro, and the door swung shut behind the pair. My life.

ELEVEN:

Blackout

“Yancy Lazarus,” Agent Ferraro said, sounding pleased. “That’s a new one—I’ll have to add it to the list.” She took out a notepad from her pocket and casually scribbled the name down, then slid the pad back into its place. “So you’re going to cooperate … That seems unlikely.”

The lights flickered again, the wind sounding unnaturally loud in the night—man, this was like the set-up for a bad horror movie. There was energy out there in the night, I could feel it even without being able to touch the Vis. That no-goodnik Old Man Winter was manipulating the weather—calling up a storm and simultaneously weakening the bonds between Earth and Outworld. With all that distortion, it’d be easy for Randy to conjure up some tentacle-clad horror-show. My life just wouldn’t be complete without one of those.

This was going to turn out terribly—there was no way it couldn’t.

“Look Ferraro, I’m not interested in confessing. Not exactly—that lawyer … she’s a little off kilter. But maybe there are a few things we should talk about. Just kinda clear the air a little. That sort of thing.”

“Oh, I’m listening.” She pulled out the chair across from me and took a seat, seemingly at ease, though I knew it was all show. My guess was that Ferraro was never at ease—lady probably took a bubble bath with a glass of wine in one hand and her Glock in the other.

But I needed her help. Something was coming—I could feel it swell, rise, and fall, like some invisible tsunami inbound for our little slice of Earth. A hazy cloud seemed to melt through the roof, a rolling, bubbling pool of black—visible to me, but invisible to Ferraro. The energy lashed out at me, its weight settled into my bones and around my shoulders like a heavy winter jacket. Sinking down, into my skin. I shook for a second, just a brief muscle spasm that probably looked like little more than a set of chills. It was a helluva lot more than chills, though, let me tell you.

I’d just been cursed.

Well, cursed in a manner of speaking. Douche-waffle Randy had just anchored his summoning construct to me—whatever was about to break in from Outworld wouldn’t stop until one of us went down for keeps. I’m a gambler by trade, and I was gonna call in my bet for the other guy.

My time was running out damn quick. “Shit. Okay, look … so those people.” I picked up the photos and leafed through them, looking at each face. “They weren’t really people. And yeah, maybe I had some part in their … let’s say disappearance, but you gotta believe me—they were monsters. And not in the metaphorical sense. These were the kind of monsters with fangs and spikes and fur. Or bat wings in some cases.” I pointed at the picture of the little girl, the Tiktik. “Underneath this kid’s flesh mask, she looked like a Walking Dead cast reject—except with a five-foot tongue and a pair of bat wings. Crazy shit, right there.”

“You son of a bitch,” she said. “You’re going for an insanity plea—that’s your game plan, huh? Well, it’ll never stick. I’m gonna see them lock your ass away in the Florence Supermax until they put the needle in your arm.”

“What? No. Look, I’m not trying to game the system here. And no, I’m not trying for an insanity plea—though that’s a hell of an idea. Listen, these things were no-shit monsters—supernatural creatures from the darker parts of reality. At the time it was sorta my job to deal with them, to keep regular folks safe. Like a cop I guess. See, I can do magic. Well, we don’t call it magic—I can use the Vis, which is kinda like doing magic. Sort of …” Boy, to some Rube cop, I bet this sounded like crazy-banana-pants, madman gibberish.

“Magic,” she said, her voice as smooth, flat, and cold as a frozen winter lake. “Prove it. Do some magic for me.”

Dammit all to hell. Stupid Randy. Stupid, deathless Koschei. Good-for-nothing Lady Luck. “Well … I can’t exactly do any magic right now.” I tapped my fingers against the tabletop. “It’s complicated, but I’ve temporarily been poisoned by an evil mage …” I just trailed off at the end and finished with a sigh. Hearing myself, even I thought I sounded about five cans short of a six-pack. No one would ever buy this, at least not until the monster showed up.

“How convenient,” she said. “You have to know that no grand jury in the world is going to be stupid enough to buy that line.”

I sighed again. What I wouldn’t do for a cup of coffee. “Fine. Whatever. None of this even matters right now; what’s important right now is that the shit is about to hit the fan, explode through the ceiling, and turn into something out of a Tales from the Crypt episode. Some kind of monster is about to bust up in here and turn this station into a Wes Craven movie. Seriously. There are officers here that will die. Shit, we might all die, unless you let me go. Unless you help me—”

“Just stop,” she spat. “Who knows, maybe you really do believe what you’re saying. But don’t try to suck me in to your delusion. This isn’t my first time around the block either. Monsters. Please.” She smirked.

The lights died half a second later and complete blackness enveloping the room. The howling of the wind and my own heavy breathing filled my ears. With a buzz and a click, the backup generator kicked on, casting the room in muted amber light.

“Manegia. Smalltime, B.F.E. police departments,” she muttered, her smirk melting away.

The door popped open, and an older officer with brown hair sprinkled with gray poked his head into the room. “Sorry to bother you, Special Agent Ferraro, but we might have a situation down in the basement.”

She slammed her manila folder down on the edge of the table, got up from the chair, and headed for the door. She shot me the most vicious glare I’ve seen in years. “Don’t think I’ll fall for your head games. We’ll continue our chat in just a few … Why don’t you use this time to think about your story—see if maybe a little bit of honesty would be the more prudent move.”

“Agent Ferraro, I’m telling you, this is it. Get those officers armed. Tell them, please. Flak jackets, riot gear, shotguns, assault rifles, whatever they can get their hands on. Call the National Guard, maybe.” She opened the door and stalked out. “Tell them to get ready!” I called after her. She just kept walking, not even sparing me a backward glance, swinging the door closed behind her.

I needed out—I wasn’t about to sit here, chained to a friggin’ table like a meat buffet for some freaky-deaky creature. Just a set of handcuffs and a door between me and safety.

Thankfully, my means of escape sat right on the edge of the table: a small metal paperclip, attached to the outside of the folder Agent Ferraro had so carelessly set down. In any other circumstance, she probably never would’ve made such a mistake—she was sharp, and even relatively minor missteps were beneath her. But these were extraordinary circumstances; plus I had Lady Luck on my side, and this was nothing if not a lucky break. Still, stupid, no-good Fortuna.

A paperclip is such a small thing in the grand scheme, almost not worth thinking about, but in the right hands—in my hands—it was a one-way ticket to Freedomville. Sure, I didn’t have my power, but I still had all my other unsavory skills, including the ability to pick a lock. And handcuffs are easy peasy. Standard-issue cuffs—like the Smith and Wesson model 100s on my wrists—have been around since the early 1900s and have remained almost unchanged since their inception. Someone with a bobby pin or a paperclip and the right set of skills can get through ’em in about ten seconds.

The dossier was too far to reach with my bound hands, so I doubled over at the waist, cramming the table’s edge into my gut and laying my chest flat against the tabletop. Having my hands all bunched up underneath me hurt, and the whole thing was as awkward as a teenager in puberty, but I could grasp the folder between my teeth. I snaked back to my seat, wiggled the paperclip free, and bent it into shape, working out the kinks and curves until only a single straight strip of metal remained, then bending it in half, so I had a U.

I went to work, and though it was tough going, the cuffs ratcheted open after a minute of tinkering, leaving me a mostly free man. I rubbed at the red rings around each wrist—the officers had made sure the things were tight as a second skin. Not an ounce of wriggle room. Smart move—it’d made picking the locks a mite more difficult.

No one burst in to arrest me yet, so that was good, lucky even—probably there weren’t many officers working in this station. Small regional place like this, at night, with a bad snowstorm in place. A small staff would be scrambling to get the power going, handle traffic calls, and deal with any other issues.

I padded across the room and tried the door.

Lo and behold, it swung open, which was good news since the door didn’t have a lock at all—it was one of those buzz-in mechanisms. Ferraro had shut the door, I’d seen it for myself, but the bolt hadn’t fully clasped. Maybe the power outage had temporarily disrupted the locking mechanism? Another lucky break in any case—fine, I guess having Lady Luck for an accomplice was a little cooler than I’d initially thought.

Still, a paperclip and an unlocked door weren’t exactly jackpot wins … Jeez, if I were the personification of luck I’d sure as shit have done things with a little more flair. Would it really have been too much to ask for Agent Ferraro to offer me a cup of coffee and have the cup turn out to be the Holy Grail? Now that would’ve been lucky.

The hallway was mostly dark, the emergency lights shed only small pools of illumination, leaving great swaths of darkness. An open door stood off to my left. An observation room, furnished with a table, a couple of worn office chairs, and a view of the interrogation chamber via a one-way mirror. The room was blessedly empty and it looked like whoever had been there had vacated in a hurry—a couple of cups of coffee, still steaming, sat on the table.

I loitered for just a second before deciding to dip into the room and snag one of the coffees. Now, I want no judgment here—you’re probably thinking, What? Don’t do that, there’s a monster on the loose, which was true. Your point is valid, but—and this is a helluva big but—it was coffee, the bitter nectar of lesser gods. I’d been up for hours, hadn’t slept in what felt like ages, and was dragging ass big time. The wonderful, life-giving caffeine in that cup might well save my neck. Plus, coffee. I love coffee, and if I was going to die, I wanted to go after having a cup of joe. ’Nough said.

I grabbed the fuller of the two cups, blew a couple of times, and slurped the hot liquid into my mouth—so strong, black, and bitter that I thought it might actually be straight jet fuel. Absolutely perfect, no one makes better coffee than the cops do. Hot, but not too hot—I got down a good couple of mouthfuls, set the cup back on the table, and headed back out into the hallway. The situation still looked pretty grim: too quiet, scary-ass hallway, bathed in weak yellow light with oceans of darkness in between. Right, life was still terrible. Check. But now a little less terrible, because, you know, coffee.

I crept down the hall, my feet nearly silent on the carpet, though my breathing sounded positively thunderous. I came up to a T-intersection, with hallways jutting off left and right. I pressed my back against the wall and carefully glanced each way. To the right lay a few closed doors with metal placards on the front of each—likely offices and conference rooms for the brass. To the left was a hallway with a closed door at the end. I could see a blur of movement through the frosted window.

“Now stop right there,” came a muted voice from the room beyond the door. “I mean it buddy, stop right there—put your hands into the air and get onto your belly or I’ll shoot. I swear, I’ll do it.” The speaker sounded just about scared out of his wits.

“STOP!” he hollered again, followed by the bark of several gunshots. I broke into a run, not away from the shots but toward them. Confession time—this was phenomenally stupid. Pro tip: when you’ve been arrested for multiple murders and have just managed to escape capture, the best policy is not to run toward armed police officers. At least not if freedom or life is important to you.

With that in mind, I couldn’t leave some poor cop out there going toe-to-toe with some preternatural baddy who was here hunting me. I didn’t want to see some guy or gal die a horrible death on my account. So instead of heading toward the offices and trying to find another way out, I charged right toward the shooting, and whatever lay beyond.

TWELVE:

Horror Show

I burst through the door to look on a scene that really did belong in a horror flick—a bad one, with a shoestring budget. The little office room was trashed. Desks overturned, computers smashed to pieces, broken glass littering the tile floor, sickly light coating the whole scene. The far wall was a bank of large windows, which looked out onto a raging blizzard—white snow swirling and turning, beating up against the glass before plummeting to the earth somewhere down below. Directly in front of me stood Officer Out-of-His-League, maybe early fifties, balding on top, with a slight paunch straining against his uniform.

Directly in front of him stood the biggest, scariest-looking son of a bitch I’d seen in a good long while. Maybe six and a half feet tall and four feet across the shoulders, with a prodigious gut and giant flabby arms stained and spotted with blood and shit. Literal brown shit. Guy had to weigh in at four hundred pounds, easy. A black rubber apron—like the kind a butcher might wear—strained around the guy’s torso, and a crudely stitched together pigskin mask covered his face. In one meaty fist he held a massive cleaver and in the other he clutched a pitted meat hook. A couple of small bullet holes dotted the maniac’s apron, but he wasn’t bleeding, nor did he seem to be particularly bothered by the wounds.

Awesome, this would be easy. Fortuna gave me a paperclip, an unlocked door, and a cup of coffee. In return, I got to deal with a giant pig mask wearing freak with a cleaver. Ugh.

The officer scrambled back, scooting around an overturned desk, dropping his spent clip and reloading another from his belt pouch. The Butcher lumbered forward and swatted aside an overturned office chair with one clumsy swipe of his hand.

Crack-crack-crack-crack, the officer’s gun barked, and a few more holes bloomed across the Butcher’s chest—a few tore through the pig’s mask and into Big-and-Ugly’s head. Guy didn’t flinch, didn’t slow down, didn’t give two shits about a couple of measly ol’ human bullets. With a prodigious overhand strike, the Butcher drove his meat hook through the desk between him and the officer. With a tremendous heave and a flick of his hook, the desk toppled lazily over to the side.

Then, a swift horizontal slash with the cleaver. The officer ducked beneath the blow—keeping his head for the time being—but tripped over a downed computer monitor and sprawled onto the floor, his impending doom now towering over him like a mountain.

My heart thumped in my chest, fear and terror clawed at my insides like a pack of angry, gibbering chimpanzees protecting their young. Though it was cold as balls—the building heat must’ve gone with the power—great fat drops of sweat rolled down my face and coated my palms. Surely this was what a small, defenseless, caged animal felt like as the hunter approached: panic, doom, terrible impotency. Some deep reptilian thing in my brain demanded I creep back out the door and find cover, find some safe place to hole up for a while. Some place easily defensible where I’d have more control. Gigantor over there was gonna split that poor cop like a log of wood, and what could I do to stop it?

A day ago, fighting some pig-faced asshole would’ve been terrible, but, simultaneously, familiar ground. Well, sort of—I’ve never actually fought a pig-faced, supernatural serial killer, but after the first dozen death-dealing monsters, they all kinda start to blend together. A day ago, I would’ve blasted this shithead with my Vis-imbued hand-cannon, maybe blown him back into the Dark Ages. Or I could’ve charbroiled him with a gout of flame powerful enough to be seen from space. Shit, a day ago I could’ve whipped up a whirlwind of smashed office furniture.

And today?

Today, the best thing I could do was run.

So I sprinted.

Not toward the door and safety, but rather toward the downed officer. As much as I wanted to, I couldn’t just turn tail and scram—if I didn’t step in to help, that poor cop would wind up hanging from the rafters on the business end of a meat hook.

Fear is okay. Shit, it’s better than okay. Fear and I are close buds, and he’s kept me alive more times than I can count. Generally, it’s wise to be afraid of a guy bigger than a pro wrestler with a pig-mask and a cleaver—ignore that fear to your own detriment. But neither should fear be your master; it’s a warning beacon, but sometimes you need to act in spite of that gut-gnawing badger chewing up your intestines: that’s courage. Courage can make you do some inanely stupid and heroic things, so try not to use it too often, but once in a blue moon, it’s the right thing to do.

I scooped up the base of an office telephone and launched the square of plastic with all the might I could muster; it plowed into the side of Pig-Face’s head and bounced away uselessly. Yesterday, awesomesauce supernatural powers and specialized monster killing equipment—today a busted-ass plastic telephone. So this was how monster fighting was for all the other mortal folk out there … boy did it suck a bag full of asses.

Pig-Face turned from the officer, honing in on me.

“That’s right, ass-bag.” I bent over and picked up a desk lamp with no shade and a busted lightbulb protruding from the end. “You leave him be … I’m your Huckleberry.” I’ve always wanted to use that line, but somehow I felt a little less cool than Val Kilmer, all doped up on opiates with his badass Doc Holiday pistols. The lamp just wasn’t the same.

The Butcher shambled toward me, his movements slow but powerful. Yay, I’d saved the cop, sort of.

Whoosh, the cleaver chopped down—I swatted at the Butcher’s wrists with the lamp, diverting the chop away from my body. The meat hook flashed out in my periphery—I jumped back and swung the lamp in a loose arc, catching the creature across the knuckles. More blows followed: slash, stab, chop—an awkward kick, a vicious overhand hammer blow. I wasn’t in top fighting form, but I still was able to dance away each time. Deflecting or parrying here, dodging others outright there. My movements sharp and economical, no wasted energy.

This guy was a tank, meant to take damage and deal it out in turn. He wasn’t fast and he wasn’t terribly skilled, but I certainly wasn’t going to take him out by playing a safe, defensive game. I needed a better weapon … There: a cross-body slash so friggin’ telegraphed it would’ve made Samuel Morse—inventor of the actual telegraph—proud. I slipped under his arm and thrust the jagged edge of the broken light bulb into the Butcher’s other wrist. I dropped the lamp and grabbed hold of the meat hook, pulling at it with a jerk, expecting to come away with the pitted weapon.

Yeah right. Like trying to pull the sword from the stone; not an inch of movement—the guy was strong as a bull and had a pair of forearms that would’ve made Popeye spinach-green with envy.

A brutal knee landed in my gut. I fell back and toppled over a felled desk. My legs flew out from beneath me—ass over teakettle I went—sprawling to the floor, now near the far wall and the bank of windows.

In the debris next to me I spotted what may well have been my salvation, a saltshaker. Haha, salt—if this thing was some kind of poltergeist or spirit given temporary corporeal form, salt would jack its day up ten ways from Tuesday. I grabbed the shaker and bounced back to my feet before the Butcher could chop me up into little parcels of meat for the market. I circled left, my feet crunching down on broken pencils and shattered glass as I hastily unscrewed the shaker’s lid.

The creature moved like an avalanche, rolling forward as he slashed and hacked at me with his cleaver—I ducked low, shot around his side, and scampered up onto his back.

The Butcher bucked like wild, swinging his shoulders to and fro in an attempt to dislodge me, but I held fast. A jagged seam zigzagged up the back of the mask—I jammed the saltshaker in and released my grasp, tumbling away and crashing into a bunch of busted office equipment. My leg collided with the metal edge of a desk, which gave me a charley horse so fierce my whole leg tingled. Whatever—it’d be worth it when this jerkwad melted into a pile of goo.

Any minute now.

He turned around and pawed lazily at the back of his mask.

Any. Minute. Now …

After a moment he pulled free the saltshaker and dropped it to the ground with a tinkle. Guess he wasn’t a spirit. Guess this was pretty much where my lucky streak ended.

What else did I have to work with?

Not a friggin’ thing, so maybe a little tactical retreat was in order here.

Except there was nowhere for me to retreat to. Maybe five feet to the rear was the bank of windows—three stories from ground level—and the Butcher loomed between me and the doorway I’d entered through. There was another door off to my right leading to the stairwell, but I’d never get there without having to tangle with Monster-Mash. I didn’t have a weapon, I didn’t have a way out, and I didn’t have a prayer—and the Butcher knew it. He was probably grinning like a lunatic beneath his mask. Pleased as a fly on shit.

He lurched forward and I reacted, doing what I’d practiced a thousand times before: good ol’ Yoko Tomoe Nage, a variation of a Judo throw I’d learned years ago. Once upon a time, before I’d been a mage, a fix-it man, or an itinerant gambler, I’d been a dumb kid in the Marine Corps with a love for martial arts stationed in Okinawa, Japan. I’d spent years working at the art and I’ve had more than my fair share of chances to use those skills since.

I shot inside his guard, grabbed hold of one beefy wrist in one hand and the fabric of his black apron in the other. His weight plowed into me like a linebacker sacking some unwary quarterback, but that was good, I could use that momentum against him. Son of a bitch was too big to ever try a static throw on, but rushing at me like a semi? He’d do all the work. Japanese Jujitsu—and to a lesser extent Judo—is all about redirecting force, not stopping it outright. He was bigger than me, sure, but he was already in motion, and I was just redirecting that motion in a slightly different direction. An object in motion stays in motion—this was applied physics at its most practical.

As his body slammed into me, I dropped down, pulling him with me. I bent one knee and rolled onto my back while simultaneously bring my other leg up into Gigantor’s fat belly. I flexed and strained the leg stuck in his gut, pressing him up and away from me—bastard needed to go on a diet—and pulled him right over the top of me in an arc.

I let go and gave one final thrust of my leg, propelling him, headfirst, through the air—he collided into the window behind me. Generally, throwing someone through a window isn’t as easy as it looks in the movies—but he had a lot of mass and acceleration working for him. Needless to say, the window didn’t stand a chance.

I just lay there and watched him careen into the night air, arms and legs pin-wheeling, quickly swallowed by a swirl of white as he plummeted to the ground three stories below. The fall wouldn’t kill him, but it did buy me some time. My guess was that the creature would take a little time to regroup and maybe come up with a different game plan. Probably he’d come here expecting to find a weak, defenseless mage—easy prey. Finding someone with a little pep in their step, however, might make him change tactics. Worse long term—he’d be better prepared—but a real lifesaver in the here and now.

Snow whirled into the room, white specks quickly sticking to my face, arms, and chest. Balls, was that cold, but it also felt damn good after my scrap. I slowly gained my feet and brushed the fresh powder free before trudging over to check on the officer.

“Stop right there,” he said, crouched behind a desk, gun pointed steadily at my chest. “You just stop right there. I want you down on your face, you’re under arrest. Again. And no funny business, y’hear, I’m having a bad night, so just give me an excuse to shoot.”

I sighed. Lucky, phff. “Yeah, okay,” I said, lying facedown, hands above my head in resignation. “But maybe we could hurry this along—that freaky, pig-faced guy will be back. I guarantee. Oh, and you’re welcome.”

The patter of footfalls. The officer planted a knee in my back and slid another pair of handcuffs around my wrists, securing them in place behind me.

“Seriously? I could’ve escaped, could’ve run off and let that guy turn you into a ham sandwich—I saved you and you’re still gonna cuff me.” It wasn’t a question, more like a statement of utter disbelief.

He pulled me to my feet. “Sorry buddy … thanks for the save. I mean it—I have a wife and three grown kids who’d miss me. Even got a grandkid on the way. So thanks … but the rules are the rules, and so far as I know, you’re still one dangerous sonuvabitch. So let’s just get to Agent Ferraro—she’ll know what to do about all this.”

I just sighed again—sometimes, even when you do the right thing, you still get the shit end of the stick.

THIRTEEN:

Team Huddle

We found Agent Ferraro three levels down in a basement storage room—the scene was a bloody mess. One of the officers that’d checked me in earlier was in pieces on the floor, and I’m not talking about being some kind of emotional wreck. He was literally in pieces: body parts torn away and strewn carelessly about the floor while dark red blood marred the walls in long, jagged streaks. A young guy, still fit and trim and sporting the last remnants of late teenage acne. A look of shock permanently carved into his features—his eyes too wide, his mouth contorted in an unending scream.

Messy. Ugly. Terrible. For a moment I forgot I was surrounded by a bunch of cops who had me under arrest and thought me a crazed serial killer. For a moment I was just among a bunch of people—all card-carrying members of the human race—good people, who were trying to do right in the world, trying to make a difference. For a moment I wasn’t an outsider with secret powers and hidden knowledge, I was just some guy looking on a stomach wrenching scene of unspeakable violence. Just a guy, feeling small and scared.

Maybe my past had finally caught up with me for keeps—maybe I’d survive the night and Ferraro would lock my ass away for an eon. But whatever, I couldn’t change the past, because by killing all those monstrous freaks, I’d managed to save lots of people from ending up like that poor kid on the floor. Small consolation, but I’d take it.

Ferraro sat on her heels, hunched over the kid’s torso, seemingly lost in thought, her gun in hand, though resting on her knee. The other officers—six, not counting Ferraro, the dead kid, or the guy holding me in custody—stood around the room in pairs of two, guns drawn, eyes searching restlessly. Each officer scanned the room as though the office chairs, stacked against the far wall, might come alive and maul folks any minute. Good for them, man-eating furniture wasn’t outside of the realm of possibility.

A female officer with short blonde hair pulled back into a bun cleared her throat as we entered.

“What?” Ferraro asked, not bothering to take her eyes from the grisly scene.

“Guests, ma’am,” the officer said, before resuming her scan. Ferraro swiveled, caught sight of me, and shot to her feet, a frigid glare on her face that probably should’ve frozen the blood in my veins. Thankfully, she spread that glare between me and the officer restraining me—as though she didn’t know which one of us to start in on.

“I left you upstairs to watch him,” she said, finally settling on the officer, “not to go gallivanting around with one of the most dangerous serial killers this country has seen in the last two decades. You’d better have a damn good explanation, Officer, or so help me God, you’re going to work as a meter maid until you retire. Thankfully for you, that probably won’t be long.” She nearly growled the last part. Suddenly, I wasn’t sure whom I was more afraid of—the Butcher from upstairs or Ferraro. I felt like I had a way better handle on the Butcher; at least I had some clue what I was up against there.

The officer was silent for a good long while, his eyes roving over the scene of carnage. “Shit, Larry,” he said after a little while, as though he couldn’t quite square the mess spread out before him. Then he rounded on Ferraro, eyebrows furrowed, gaze hard as a diamond. “Now you listen to me, Agent—I don’t care who you think you are, but your shit stinks just like everyone else. That officer lying in pieces on the floor was my partner, Larry Ravel, a good friend, and a good cop. So you just save your ass-chewings for someone who gives a damn. Now, get off your high horse, ma’am, and open up your ears, ’cause we got some real trouble brewin’ here.”

I couldn’t help but stare on in slack-jawed awe—usually I’m the underdog with the death wish and the sharp tongue. But here this guy was, not a lick of power, and still willing to stand his ground and shoot straight. If we lived through this, I’d have to take him out for a beer.

“All right,” she said, donning a false smile. “Officer Harvey, is it?”

He nodded his head.

“You’ve got my full attention and apologies. Now, why don’t you tell me what happened before I die of a brain aneurism.” She rubbed at her temple with one hand.

So Officer Harvey told the story. Apparently, he’d been watching me from behind the one-way mirror when there’d been some kind of commotion from down the hall, near the office cubicles. He’d checked it out and found himself confronted by the business end of a cleaver for his trouble. He went on to explain my timely intervention, and offered a brief recount of the event—though he totally left out my Doc Holiday reference, which kinda sucked. After he finished his tale, the room grew silent—Ferraro pressed her lips together and tapped thoughtfully on her chin.

After a long pregnant pause: “This whole thing is your fault.” She had me fixed squarely in her death gaze. “Do you have an accomplice? What’s the story here—I have a dead cop and at least one psycho running loose … maybe even more than one. So you’d better start spilling it.”

“What, accomplices? Are you kidding me? Someone’s gonna have to smack the crazy outta you—didn’t you even listen to his story?” I bobbed my head toward Harvey. “I saved this guy, threw some pig-mask-wearing freak-o through a window. As a very important side note—he’ll probably be up and moving around by now. Probably trying to figure out how to kill us all in the most unpleasant way possible, so high alert, code red, all that jazz.”

“You think this is some kinda joke?”

Ah yes, my blood officially formed ice chunks with that look.

“No, you’re the one that must think this is a joke,” I said, “because you’re the one that isn’t taking me seriously. I told you something was coming, I told you it’d kill people, but you blew me off. And lo and behold, there’s something running around offing cops. So maybe you should get off your high horse and listen up, like Harvey said.”

“Take you seriously? That you can do magic, that your murder victims were all scary monsters out of some bad fantasy novel? Harvey, shut him up, we’ve got serious issues to deal with.”

“Dammit, Ferraro—if you ignore me more people will die.”

Officer Harvey gave me a rough shove and pulled up on my cuffs—a sharp pain lanced up into my shoulder blades. “Sorry, but you heard her, buddy. Better to work together in a crisis,” he whispered in my ear.

Ferraro turned back toward the officers fanned throughout the room. “Okay, we’ve got one, maybe even two perps on the loose. They are armed and dangerous—take extreme caution when dealing with these individuals. Use deadly force if necessary. There is a blizzard, which means these assailants are trapped somewhere in this building. We will break up into three teams: Adams, Rodriguez, Fallen, you’re team one—you’re going to secure the basement then move up to ground floor and clear the building perimeter. I also want your team to try and get the power back up. Those breakers have to be down here somewhere. Jansen, Moody, and Gorski, you’re team two—help team one get power going, then you’ve got the second floor. Harvey, you’re with the prisoner and me. We’ll head up to three.”

“We’re splitting up?” I asked, the incredulity in my voice thick enough to choke a horse. “That’s a terrible idea. Haven’t you ever seen like, I dunno, any horror movie ever? Let me just recap: blizzard, power outage, monster. If everyone splits up, everyone dies. The practical thing to do would be to hunker down in a room with one entrance and wait until morning.”

“You done?” she asked, folding her arms under her breasts, clearly unamused.

I just nodded.

“Good. Now, here’s what you need to know. The people in this room aren’t a bunch of stupid, drunk college kids in some B-horror movie. We are law enforcement officers—sworn to uphold the laws of this country and dedicated to protecting its citizens even if it’s costly. There are killers out there somewhere—killers who could escape and murder more innocent people. So we don’t have the luxury of ‘hunkering down’ and playing it safe. Now, if you’ll stow it so we can get to work.”

Whew, that was one gutsy gal. I’ve run into trouble more times than I can count, but it’s always as a last resort—I’ll be the first to admit I’m no hero. Sometimes I act against my better judgment and do ridiculously irresponsible and dangerous things that some might consider heroic. At the end of the day, though, I’m a pragmatist who’d much rather steer clear of gunfights, monsters, murderers, or life-threatening situations of any sort. That shit’s for the birds.

Ferraro, though, was a friggin’ Amazonian warrior princess and it elevated her in my book. She wasn’t just a cop hounding my trail, she was a genuinely good person—maybe a little rough around the edges and kind of unlikeable, but genuinely good nonetheless—trying to make the world a better place. I’m not one of those people, but the world would sure be a better place if there were more people like her in it.

“Everyone switch to channel two,” Ferraro commanded, followed by a flurry of movement as officers adjusted radios at their hips. “Team leaders, I want radio checks every ten minutes. Everyone stick together—no one had better take a piss without battle buddies present. Check?”

Everyone nodded.

“If you spot a perp, I want a radio call, ASAP—call for backup, no one play at being a hero here. I want to see every one of you walk out of here alive. All right, let’s move, people.”

The groups split up, squads one and two moving out to check for the breakers, while our team headed up. Ferraro in the lead, me in the middle—still cuffed, of course—and Harvey bringing up the rear, one hand holding his weapon, the other holding the cuffs securely behind my back.

Bang, Ferraro kicked open the door into the stairwell, ducking through—in one arm she held a flashlight, in the other she had her Glock. She pivoted at the hips: right, up, left, flashlight beam cutting a swath across the poorly lit stair shaft, her gun muzzle following her eyes. She sidestepped, batted at the door, and cleared the backside. The whole process took seconds, her movements were natural and well rehearsed—would’ve made any Jarhead combat instructor beam with fierce joy.

“Clear,” she called. Harvey nudged me forward and shut the door behind us. We climbed a couple of flights of stairs and exited into the office space where Pig-Face McGee and I had tangled. Ferraro cleared this room too before ushering us in. It was cold as hell in here; snow had piled into a small bank in front of the busted out window where I’d given the Butcher his impromptu flying lessons. The temperature in the room had easily dropped fifteen degrees since the last time I’d been in here. I just stood there and shivered as Ferraro glanced around, surveying the scene with a meticulous and well-trained eye, seeming to note and file every detail.

“Harvey,” she spoke softly as she moved around the room. “What else can you tell me about the suspect?”

Harvey shifted behind me. “I told you everything.”

“No you didn’t—I’ve been in this business long enough to know when someone isn’t being honest with me. What’d you leave out?”

Harvey hesitated for a second, which told me Ferraro had hit on something.

“It’s nothing relevant to the case, but the getup he was wearing … we’ve got a local legend around here. An old urban legend about a guy that used to have a farm around about these parts—years and years ago, mind you—who dressed like that and would hunt down unruly kids. He’d catch ’em, butcher ’em, and hang their bodies in his barn. My older brother used to scare the pants off me with those yarns. But it’s coincidence. That was ages ago, and as far as I’ve found, no such man ever really existed. Just an urban legend. Probably every county in America has a story like that one.”

Shit, that might not have meant much to Ferraro, but it sure as hell meant something to me.

“You said there were two perps. Why?” I asked, the cogs twirling away in my head. “Did someone see something downstairs, something that didn’t look anything like the Butcher?”

We moved from the office into the adjoining hallway—Ferraro pulled open the door and made a quick sweep before stepping through.

“What’s it to you?” she asked, still creeping forward, slow and steady without even a backward glance over her shoulder, intent on the hallway intersection coming up before us.

“Look, I know you think I’m full of horse crap from my eyes to my toes, but I’m not making any of this up. I can do magic—those people who went missing were supernatural monsters, real as you or me, and we’ve got another one on our hands right now.”

The radio squawked at Ferraro’s hip:

“This is team one, all accounted for, no sign of the perp. Adams is working on the fuse box—should have power back any minute, over.”

“This is team three, received, out,” Ferraro said. The second team followed suit, reporting in before falling silent.

She glanced at me. “For what it’s worth, Adams swore he saw some kind of werewolf clown—fuzzy face, sharp teeth, long claws—but dressed up in some kind of circus clown outfit.”

To Officer Harvey, the attacker had appeared as a local legend, straight from his nightmares. And if I had a chance to gab with Officers Adams, I’d bet dollars to doughnuts that he had a real childhood fear of both clowns and werewolves. The thing I’d tossed out of the window wasn’t a spirit, nor was it an actual pig-mask-wearing serial killer. It was a metus. You could fit what I knew about the metus onto the back of a restaurant napkin, with plenty of room to spare. But what I knew for sure was this: they could shape shift into your worst nightmare.

The lights went out completely—even the emergency power died—propelling us into darkness.

Something rustled behind us, the sound of fabric flapping in the wind.

FOURTEEN:

Nonna Nicci

A moment later, the lights flickered back to life, team one must’ve gotten the power situation sorted out.

I turned—felt like moving through water, everything was sort of in slow motion, like in a dream or nightmare.

A woman lurked at the end of the hall. Old and crusty with wispy thin hair, so gauzy it seemed almost like silvered spider webs. Tan skin like ancient leather and rheumy brown eyes, which stared at us, seemingly blind. She wore a pale-blue nightgown, stained yellow in spots and dark brown in others. Snow swirled at her back, like a cape of white, blowing around her nightgown.

“Nonna Nicci,” Ferraro exhaled the name from behind me in a whisper. “No, you can’t … can’t be here. Impossible.” She shoved past me, jostling my shoulder as she took a position in front of Harvey and myself. Then she raised her weapon and assumed a shooter’s stance, feet placed about shoulder width apart, one foot slightly forward, weapon held with both hands, arms extended, but slightly bent at the elbows. If I was right, the woman at the end of the hall was Ferraro’s worst fear, yet there she stood, head-on, gun drawn, professional to her toes. Ballsy as all get out. Had to admire that.

Though Harvey still had a hand on my shoulder, he too had his weapon out and at the ready.

“Ferraro,” I whispered, trying to prevent the creature from noticing. “Shooting that thing isn’t gonna do dick, let’s just scoot along, find a thick door to hide behind—maybe a set of thick steel bars.” I didn’t know for sure, but it was a distinct possibility that the metus was a denizen of the Endless Wood, which meant one of the low fae. I wasn’t exactly sure about that, but it was kind of a reasonable guess, which meant thick iron bars would keep us safe … then again, if this thing wasn’t fae, we’d be stuck in a teeny-tiny room with no hope of escape. Sometimes the number of good choices to pick from can be a real burden.

Ferraro ignored me completely and continued to stare down the well-weathered invader at the end of the hall.

“You are not my Nonna, ciuccio. I don’t know how you’re doing this, but I’m going to make you pay.”

“Come now, my little mia nipote, is that any way to talk to your grandmother?”

“Don’t say another word,” Ferraro said, her voice sharp as a knife. “Raise your hands into the air, slowly, and get down flat on your face.” The crone just stood there, beaming with a haggard smile and staring with her watery eyes.

“Harvey,” I said, figuring a change in tactics might better serve me here. “Get these friggin’ handcuffs off—I bailed your ass out of a serious shit creek last time, maybe letting me help out would be a smart move, huh?”

He ignored me too, because I get less respect than the president of the high school comic book club does.

“I don’t know what game you’re playing at,” Ferraro said to the grandmotherly thing at the end of the hall, “but I’m gonna give you to the count of three to put your hands in the air and lay flat on the ground, facedown. I have one dead officer already, so failure to comply will result in your death. I can assure you, I’m not playing any game.”

The woman laughed, a raspy, dry sound like the passing of a cool fall breeze through leafless trees. Then she staggered forward a step, just a little shuffle really, but a movement filled with promise: I’m not gonna stop, it said, I’m gonna keep on coming until your blood is in my mouth, until I tear your flesh from your bones. I’m not going to stop until you are with me: cold and in the ground, food for worms.

“One!” Ferraro shouted. “I’m warning you … Two.” The woman took another shuffling step, this one a little surer—then she looked right at us and smiled, her thin mouth filled with rows of barbed needle teeth. Harvey fidgeted beside me, dipping a hand into his pockets and coming out with the handcuff keys.

“Three!”

The woman lurched forward, mouth wide, eyes bulging in her head, twig-thin arms extended toward us, yellow claws jutting from the ends of her gnarled fingers.

Ferraro pulled the trigger, and sound filled the hall along with the bright flare of muzzle flashes—bullets rocked Granny back on impact. For a moment, the hag just tottered drunkenly, absently examining her bloody wounds, before she toppled to her back and lay unmoving on the floor, brown eyes staring up at nothing. Harvey let out a sharp breath. “I’m gonna have nightmares for years—the psychiatric treatment is gonna break the bank. Just gonna retire. It’s the only sensible thing to do. Retire, and move someplace where’s it’s sunny all the time. Should’ve listened to my wife.”

“Harvey, I feel for you. But in order to retire, we need to survive, so less talky-talk and more unlocky-lock. Kay?”

Harvey seemed to have forgotten what he was about, though, which was too bad, because that old lady wasn’t gonna stay down.

Agent Ferraro took a tentative step forward, weapon still extended, her bearing screaming caution as she moved.

“Dammit, Ferraro. Just stop—please listen to me,” I said, my plea carrying in the hall without any need to shout. “Please, don’t take another step.” Whatever she heard in my voice connected, because she ceased her advance.

A moment later the old woman sat up, mouth still wide and grinning, silvered hair blowing in the breeze. She spat blood from her needle-filled jaws.

“Nicole, dear, that wasn’t very nice at all. I think you’ve been terribly naughty, a very bad little girl, a very, very bad—”

“Stata zee,” Ferraro said, brandishing her weapon as though to ward off the unspeakable words.

“A very bad girl,” the old woman continued. “And we both know what happens to bad little girls, don’t we, Nicky … they get snatched up by L’uomo Nero.”

“L’uomo Nero isn’t real. A fairytale boogeyman you tried to scare me with,” Ferraro spat. “You’re not real. This … this isn’t happening. Can’t be.” She said the words, but didn’t lower her gun. Smart move.

Oh, it was happening all right, and boy was Ferraro gonna have a rude awakening when she found out most of the “fairytale” monsters were real, nastier than the books would have you believe, and hanging out all over the world. Probably including her L’uomo Nero—though that wasn’t a name I’d ever come across before.

“Ferraro,” I said again. “Ixnay on the banter business, let’s just get our asses in gear and boogie.”

She never took her eyes from the creature, disguised as her presumably dead Nonna, but she nodded and started slowly walking back toward Harvey and me.

“The interrogation room,” she said, “get there quick—Harvey, stay with the prisoner at all costs.”

“Smartest thing I’ve heard so far, ma’am,” Harvey said, and started pulling me along, still neglecting to unlock the handcuffs.

“‘Bout friggin’ time someone listened to me,” I muttered, gladly letting Harvey maneuver me away from the freaky-ass hag just cooling her heels at the end of the hallway.

Grandma zombie chuckled again. “Mia Nipote, L’uomo Nero is not a myth. I thought you learned better than this … a very bad girl.” Her head snapped to the left, crack. Right, crack. Up, crack. Down, crack. The movement jerky, sporadic, and each made with bone-shattering speed … over and over, the sound reverberating down the hallway, sounding for all the world like machine gun fire—she fell to her back, body contorting, hands outthrust, yellowed nails beating out an unsteady rhythm on the linoleum hallway floor. Like a scene out of The Exorcist. I wanted to just turn and sprint outright, but the horror show was oddly captivating.

Ferraro’s Nonna had undergone one nasty makeover; the thing at the end of the hall still had Nonna’s face, but everything else had changed. The old woman was something new: her flesh now the pasty white of a maggot’s body, her legs transformed into a fat worm’s tail—long, slick, and segmented, though still partially covered by her nightgown, now solid black. Strangely, she also sported a dusty black stovepipe hat, which didn’t make a damn lick of sense to me. She pulled her body along with oddly shaped arms: too-thick forearms, strangely thin biceps, and clawed hands that belonged on a grizzly bear. Drag-thump, Nonna went as she wormed her way forward, rheumy eyes never losing us for a second.

Ferraro fired the remainder of her shots, but the bullets merely plowed in with meaty thuds and disappeared into wormy flesh.

“Run,” Ferraro said, the word tight and controlled. She turned and pushed Harvey and I to get us moving. Trust me, I needed no motivation whatsoever. Generally, heroes don’t run away from the bad guys, shrieking like little girls—and no, it was not Ferraro screaming—but as I’ve mentioned a time or two, I’m not a hero. Sometimes running away is the absolute smartest game play there is: like when you’re facing down a crazy worm monster called L’uomo Nero while powerless and handcuffed. Yeah, if you ever find yourself in a similar situation, you just run, I won’t think less of you. Honest.

We bolted toward the adjoining hallway, me unashamedly in the lead, followed by Harvey, with Ferraro bringing up the rear. I slid around the corner—drag-thump, drag-thump, drag-thump, the sound pursued us down the hall. Faster and faster the noise came; Grandma Slug was gaining momentum like a freight train of grossness.

Drag-thump. Closer. Drag-thump! Closer still.

I zipped by the observation room on my right, paying it no mind, and headed straight for the interrogation room. I slammed into the door, chest first, thinking it would swing open, but, of course, it was locked up tighter than a bank vault. Despite the fact that I knew I hadn’t shut the door all the way when I’d exited, there it was: locked. Mocking me with its safety, while I leaned against it handcuffed, waiting for some terrible end. Lady Luck, my ass, this had to be one of the crappiest, most unlucky nights of my life.

“Move dammit,” Harvey grunted, elbowing me aside, fumbling for the cardkey attached to his belt.

DRAG-THUMP—I could practically feel the slug queen’s hot, fetid breath on my neck.

I heard the sound of a magazine reload. “Any day,” Ferraro practically swore, followed shortly by the bark of more fired shots.

DRAG-THUMP! Finally, Harvey worked the card free from his belt clip and flashed it over the card reader—the door unlatched, and Harvey bowled me through the door in a bid to get to safety. I stumbled forward, tripped, and couldn’t do a thing except crash like a felled tree right onto my face because that jerk Harvey had failed to uncuff me.

DRAG-THU—the door crashed shut behind Ferraro, all amidst the sound of muffled curses and labored, heavy breathing. But other than that, it was sweet, glorious silence. Slightly creepy silence. Grandma wasn’t banging on the door, the observation window didn’t shake and shudder in its frame. Just a stillness, occasionally broken by the soft moan of the wind. I rolled onto my side, the motion awkward.

“For Pete’s sake, can someone please take these cuffs off?” I asked. “If some slug-body nightmare is gonna make me into lunch, I’d at least like to be able to punch her in the belly a few times.”

“Unlock him,” Ferraro said, stalking back and forth across the length of the room, gun still in hand. She plucked the radio from her hip, “Teams one and two, this is Ferraro, we have contact with the suspect on three. Hold your positions, over. I repeat, hold your positions, and wait for further instructions. Out.” She latched the radio back to her belt.

“Should’ve retired,” Harvey said again, while helping me to sit up. Finally, at long last, he unlatched the cuffs and I was free.

“Why isn’t it trying to get in here?” Ferraro turned, her eyes settling on me like a weight. “You’d better start talking. What the hell was that? I want to know how it was able to look like that—to say those things.”

I propped my back against the wall and dabbed at my nose, checking for blood, though my hand came up dry. “Finally ready to listen to me?”

Her eyes narrowed, and I thought for a moment that she might start shooting me to get the answers she wanted, but then she sighed and nodded.

“I need you to tell me about the thing in the hall,” I said. “The woman, who was she to you? And the whole bit about L’uomo Nero?”

She hesitated for a moment, her gaze seeming to turn inward to some buried, long-dead thing inside herself. “My Grandmother Nicci,” she finally said, “from my mother’s side. We all called her Nonna Nicci. She always scared me as a little girl … so old and fragile. Like a skeleton. Her breath smelled like beans and rotten vegetables. She was strict—old school, ultra-conservative Catholic. And superstitious. Always told me stories about L’uomo Nero—he’s Italy’s version of the boogeyman. She would pinch my cheeks whenever she would come to visit—pinch my cheeks and sit at my bedside with her rancid breath. Telling me how L’uomo Nero would come for bad little girls …”

“Jeez,” I said.

“When I was fourteen,” she said after a pause, “Nonna came to visit. I wanted her to die, I wished for it. A terrible thing to wish for, but I was just a child. The next morning my mother sent me into her room to wake her for breakfast. She was dead. I found her in bed, her middle bloated, her legs swollen, her face pale and thin. For years I blamed myself, I thought that maybe something had heard my wish, my prayer. That maybe L’uomo Nero had come for her. I’ve never forgotten the way she looked that morning.”

“That’s enough,” I said softly. “I just needed to confirm a suspicion. I’m pretty sure we have a metus on our hands. If you’re ready to listen, I think we can kill this son of a bitch and send it back to wherever the hell it came from. I’m gonna need your help, though—I’m gonna need everyone’s help.” I looked at Harvey. “So are you ready to play ball or what?”

“Seeing is believing, in my book,” Harvey said, shaking his head slightly as though he couldn’t really believe what he was saying.

Ferraro looked at me, her eyebrows dropping low, a frown creasing her mouth. She twirled a long finger in a curt, okay, move it along gesture.

“Right now, the metus is probably gathering strength to make its final play.”

“You keep using that word, metus. What does that mean?” Ferraro asked, annoyed and angry.

“Metus—the freak show from the hall—it’s a type of fae creature, I think. Basically, an evil fairy, sent here by the guy who actually killed Kozlov.”

“An evil fairy.” She crossed her arms beneath her breasts.

I grimaced, fully aware of how ridiculous this would sound to an outsider. “Yes, an evil fairy. Well, maybe. But it definitely feeds off fear and death—the more fear, the more killing, the stronger it’ll grow. It expected me to be an easy meal … but things didn’t turn out so well, so it’s probably biding its time, gaining strength until it’s sure it can take me out. It’s playing a conservative game, it’ll want to wait until it has a sure thing, but I think we can use that against it.”

“I literally can’t believe what I’m hearing. Can’t believe I’m falling for this.” She shook her head in disgust then ran a hand through her hair. “Okay. Fine. So how do we beat the evil fairy?”

“Well, you’re certainly not gonna beat it with that bad attitude,” I said before pausing to think. I rubbed at my chin. “Okay. You’ve got my gun here right?”

Ferraro looked to Harvey.

“Yeah, we got it secured in an evidence bag down in booking.”

“And my El Camino?” And before you ask, yes, I drive an El Camino. An El Camino with a camper shell attached to the truck bed. The Camino is badass squared—part car, part home, part mobile armory, and all kinds of sexy. Plus, it’s the only real home I have, so tread lightly ye of the sassy commentary.

Harvey nodded. “Out back in the parking lot with the cruisers.”

“Good, good.” I rubbed my hands together. “Ferraro, we need to assemble the rest of the super friends—round up the crew—and get my pistol and some supplies out of the Camino.”

She hesitated for a good long while, chewing on her lip as she thought. “Fine, okay,” she said at last, sounding tired for the first time that night. She grabbed the radio off her belt. “Team one, team two, this is Ferraro, report, over.”

The radio hissed: “This is Adams, team one, all accounted for, over.”

“Gorski, team two, all accounted for, over.”

“Good, everyone rendezvous on three in the interrogation room. The perp is still out there and is extremely dangerous—shoot on sight. Copy that?”

“Copy that,” came Adam’s voice, followed shortly by Gorski repeating the phrase.

“Good. Get to three and stay frosty. Ferraro, out.”

FIFTEEN:

Cassius Aquinas

Half an hour later found Ferraro, Harvey, and me in the snow-filled parking lot of the police station, sitting in the back of the El Camino under the camper shell while the engine ran and the heater blasted warm air into the little space. We’d briefed the other six officers and left them clumped together up on three in the interrogation room, behind the locked door, with plenty of flashlights and weapons. Hopefully, since I was the metus’s primary target, it would leave the cops in the building alone.

I was sitting on the truck bed and my pistol lay on the floor before me; a small Tupperware container with about two inches of water sat near my left hand. In my right I held a silver penknife.

“You’d better do whatever you’re going to do fast,” Ferraro said. “I’m starting to lose my patience, and my trust is wearing thin.”

“Shit, just hold your damn horses for a second,” I said, bringing the penknife up to my left hand, tracing the blade along my palm—a fat line of red welled up as the blade moved across the surface of my skin and dribbled into the water. Damn that hurt. In TV shows and stuff, people always do this kinda thing all stoically, never flinching, never complaining. Load of crap. It hurts to have your hand cut open, even if the wound isn’t terribly deep.

The blood mixed with the water, curling, rippling, and dancing in swirls, turning everything a soft shade of pink. “Alright,” I said, looking at Ferraro, “get ready for some magic. Cassius Aquinas, Undine of Glimmer-Tir,” I intoned. “I call you forth by the power of blood and water, sealed by pact, and bound by Vis.” At first nothing happened, but then after a moment, the water shifted and stirred, twirling and spinning upward, a miniature vortex of water and blood. The vortex slowly resolved into a figure, maybe seven inches tall, made of pink water, who perfectly resembled me. He was my instinct, my subconscious, a living being of sorts, permanently bound by the Vis with a water-elemental from the Endless Wood.

I breathed a sigh of relief—I hadn’t been sure this was going to work. Usually when I needed to chat with my subconscious passenger, I used a tub of water and a Vis construct. But without the ability to access the Vis, the only way to talk was to bring him out. Even though I couldn’t touch the Vis, the power was still in my blood, still a part of my being. So by shedding that blood—all chock-full of power—into the water and using the undine’s true name to call it forth, it had allowed the little guy to take form. Thank God for small miracles.

Harvey gasped as the little figure looked around the Camino’s camper. Ferraro shifted nervously beside me.

“You look like a bag of ass,” I said to the little figure, and it was true—he could barely hold himself together, almost looked like a melting wax figurine.

“Ditto, dipshit,” he replied. “It’s the poison, it’s affecting me, too. Draining the substance right outta me. You need to fix this train wreck quick or it’ll be both our asses.” He looked down at the bowl of water, then surveyed my slashed hand. “Smart move, using the water and the blood.”

“Thanks. And yeah, I’m working on getting this whole thing straightened out, so just hang in there.”

“Sweet God, what is that?” Ferraro finally said, her voice holding equal parts skepticism, fear, and awe.

“I’m an Undine—water spirit. Look lady, don’t worry about it. Just sit tight for the time being, then do what my boy says”—he nodded at me—“and maybe, maybe, everyone left gets outta this alive.”

She looked shocked, and honestly it kinda brightened my mood a little. I liked Ferraro, sort of, she was a strong, smart woman who knew her business and kept a level head in a tight spot. Plus she looked good—hey, I can be a little superficial, looks aren’t everything, but they are something. With that said, she’d also been busting my balls all night, so it felt nice giving her a little payback. Petty, sure, but I’m not totally above a little bit of pettiness.

“Now, this guy”—the Undie waved at Harvey with his little G.I. Joe arm made of blood—“he’s alright. Kind of a by-the-book fella, a little uptight maybe, but I’ve got a good feeling about him.”

“Uhh, thanks … I guess,” Harvey muttered before falling silent.

“Business,” I said.

“Business,” he repeated.

“So what’s the deal with the metus?” I asked. “How do I take this B-rated horror flick to the cleaners?”

“First, I think you might be mixing metaphors a little. As to the metus … hold on—we read something about them once.” He froze, motionless, limbs perfectly still and unmoving. “Right,” he said after a handful of seconds. “Okay, so the metus are fae, but special sauce-like. Cold iron will only work while they’re hanging around in their true form, but while on Earth they’re almost never in their true form.”

“Okay, so cold iron’s out. What else you got?”

“I’ve got a theory, but that’s all,” he said. “I think—and I could be wrong here—but I think that when a metus transforms it literally becomes whatever it transforms into. If they take on the form of a vampire, they temporally become a vampire. At least until they take on a new form. That kind of thing. So maybe, while transformed, they’ll have whatever weakness that particular thing has. That’s all I got.”

“Hum.” I pressed my lips together. “Not as helpful as I was hoping for.”

He shrugged. “Take it or leave it. I’ve got to go—I can barely hold myself together …” His limbs were drooping, fat drops of pink falling away. “Friggin’ poison. Get this shit ironed out,” he admonished again before falling into a puddle.

“Well … that was something, all right,” Ferraro said.

“Yeah,” I said noncommittally, still focused on my task—I wasn’t quite done, not yet. I carefully set the knife down and picked up the medical vial, holding it below my slashed palm before squeezing blood from the wound, drawing the red liquid down into the tube.

“What are you doing now?” Ferraro asked, weariness coating the words. Obviously I still hadn’t earned her trust completely.

“Don’t worry about it. Just magic stuff, not any of your concern.” The way I figured it, if I made it through this mess, managed to get the Holy Grail, and put Shelton down, it’d be good to see if I couldn’t whip up some kind of antidote against the toxin. Probably I’d never be dosed with that kind of poison again, but with my luck, I wouldn’t completely count it out either. After a few minutes, the vial was nearly full, so I carefully stoppered it with the plastic cap and stowed it away in a small built-in fridge for later.

“Hey, help me patch this up,” I said, holding out my bleeding palm to Ferraro. “The first aid kit is on that shelf over there.” She grabbed the kit and set about pulling out gauze, scissors, and paper tape.

Harvey shook his head. “I don’t even know what to think,” he said. “I just … I can’t get my head ’round this.”

“Listen Harvey,” I replied, “this shit’s tough for the mortal mind to process—you’ve got a crash course here, but there’s still a good chance that your mind will reject this whole experience. In a week or a month or a year, you might just be able to convince yourself that it was a bad dream. Everything will blur around the edges, fade with time. The human brain isn’t really equipped to handle the truth, not this truth anyway.”

“I just don’t know.” He looked down at the camper floor.

“Look, most of the monsters try to keep things under wraps—at least marginally—but even if they were walking around in broad daylight, most people wouldn’t really see ’em. They’d think it was a joke. A guy in a costume, maybe. Most people only see what they want to see, and they’ll go to extreme lengths to explain away the obvious. So don’t feel bad, what you’re going through is normal—don’t sweat the details.”

He glanced up and placed his hands on either side of his head, like maybe he was trying to keep the crazy in. “And if I don’t forget? What do I do then?”

“If you don’t forget?” I shrugged. “Start drinking. Whatever you do though, don’t tell anyone, ever. If you do, your family and friends will disown you, think you’re on drugs, or maybe decide you’ve slipped a cog in the old mental machine. So just bottle it up and keep it inside. If you really need someone to talk to, I can put you in touch with some people who can sympathize.” I’d give him Greg’s number—an old bud from my Vietnam days, who actively hunted all the freaky-deaky hoodoo that preyed on folks.

“So this creature,” Ferraro said, while taping the last bit of gauze into place. “It can shape shift into anything?”

“Yeah, sort of. It can take any shape, but it can only take a single form at a time. Usually, it’ll assume the most horrific fear of the first person to spot it. That’s what everyone else will see, until it locks on to a new target.”

“So because I saw it first, it turned into my Nonna … but how did it know what to say about L’uomo Nero? About all of that?”

“They can peer into your mind,” I said, “peer into the part of your brain where terror lurks, and see the memories tied to the particular fear. It can make itself into exactly what your mind finds most disturbing, and create it. But we can use that. We can use this thing’s power against it … Ferraro, tell me again what Adams thought he saw.”

“I’ll do you one better.” She pulled the radio from her belt and thumbed the button on the side. “Adams, this is Ferraro, over.”

“Go for Adams, over,” a male voice squawked from the radio.

“Tell me what you saw again, over.”

Silence for a moment, as though the guy were trying to decide how to phrase it in the least bat-shit crazy way possible. “It looked like a werewolf. Brown fur, long muzzle, sharp teeth, big yella eyes. Except it wore a clown suit—baggy yella-and-red outfit with multicolored puffballs runnin’ right up the middle. Big oversized shoes, though he had a mean set of claws.”

I reached out for the radio, and Ferraro reluctantly gave it over. “A werewolf, you sure, over?” I asked.

“Yep, I’m sure. I’ve been scared of werewolves since I was a kid—I know what a werewolf looks like. It was a werewolf—err, except for the clown suit, of course. Over.”

“Out,” I said, ending the radio communication.

“Yeah, finally a good hand to work with,” I said, smiling for the first time in a while. Since checking up on Kozlov, I’d been having a pretty shitty go of things: no power, arrested, pressed into the service of Lady Luck, and stuck battling a shape-shifting fear-monster. But now I had a plan. Sometimes, even without power, you can still outthink even the most dangerous opponents. I opened up one of the small drawers underneath my bed and took out a few necessary items, a couple of Vis imbued doodads that might just give us a fighting chance against this Friday Night Creature Feature.

“Alright,” I said, looking first at Ferraro, then at Harvey. “So listen up and pay attention. This might get a little hairy, but I think we can shut this shit-licking, pig-face-wearing clown-wolf down for keeps.”

SIXTEEN:

Time to Tango

I was standing in the chilly, snow-filled room where I’d tangoed with the Butcher earlier in the evening. The door to the hallway—where Ferraro’s Nonna had appeared—was behind me, firmly shut though not locked. That was my exit route, the way back to the interrogation room where I’d finish off this shape-shifting bastard. Assuming, of course, I actually managed to make it back to the interrogation room.

Right now I was putting fifty-fifty odds on that. I wasn’t handcuffed, awesome, and I had some of my gear back: my coat, pistol, and a Vis embedded K-bar—old-school Marine Corps-issued knife, with a black blade and a round wooden handle. I even had a twelve-gauge, eight-shot Mossberg, courtesy of the police department.

I didn’t have my powers though, and I couldn’t actually use my pistol, not yet—I needed to save that for the final act of this drama. I also didn’t have any help.

Everyone was locked up nice and tight in the observation room, which looked into the interrogation room via the one-way mirror, Ferraro included—though damn if that hadn’t been one helluva fight. I’d grabbed a bunch of barrier sticky notes from the El-Camino, yes, sticky notes. These were little blue ones with a variety of seals covering the front and back; they were rudimentary wards that made it more difficult for supernatural beings to pass by.

If the metus really wanted to get into the room housing the officers, it probably could with some time and effort. I was sure, however, that it wouldn’t be too interested in them. After all, I was its primary target and I was standing out in a big, poorly lit room all by my lonesome. Powerless. If the metus was smarter than a brain-dead amoeba—and I had no reason to believe otherwise—it’d know this was the best chance to rip my limbs off, drink my blood, and wear my skin like a Batman cape.

Though I had a plan going into this little throw down, there was a damn good chance that Fear-Factor was gonna punch my ticket. But sometimes them’s the breaks. Just gotta roll the dice and see whether you come up elevens or snake eyes.

“Alright, ass-pirate,” I called out to the empty room. “I know you’re lurking around here somewhere, biding your time … but here I am, so if you want a piece of me … well, this is your shot. I’m tired of you taking pokes at a bunch of innocent Rubes, so let’s just do this dance, dickweed.” No better way to piss off a bully who wants you to be afraid than by choosing to be brave. And yes, sometimes calling bullies silly names is brave.

I shuffled around the room a little, shotgun tucked into my shoulder pocket, the moonlight playing off its black barrel. “Ba-cock,” I shouted, flapping my arms up and down, the best chicken impersonation I could manage while holding a shottie. “Someone a wittle scared? Maybe you’re just some kind of spineless, chicken-shit huckster, only taking a chance when you think you’ve got a sure thing. Ba-cock, Ba-cock.”

Click-click-click. The sound came from the far wall—near the window and the stairwell entrance—from the deep shadows in the far corner, maybe thirty or forty feet away.

I love it when a plan comes together.

A rustle of movement, and then something seemed to materialize out of the dark. Inky blackness giving birth to life and horror. Except the thing that stepped out wasn’t some freaky-deaky monster-movie baddie, nor was it some repressed childhood fear. It was just … me. A mirror image, at least from the waist up—everything below was wrapped up nice and tight in a cloak of black.

“I think you’re the one who’s a wittle scared,” it said with my voice. “Scared of yourself. Of all the terrible things you’ve done. The people you’ve hurt—everyone who gets close to you pays the price. Lauren. Your kids. Ailia. Your friends. You’re a menace. A danger. A plague. You hide behind tough words and snarky comments … but underneath? A damaged, broken little boy, too scared to look in the mirror.” He smiled, a flash of its teeth—my teeth—and scuttled further into the wane light of the room.

The shadows around his waist receded, melted away as he drew closer. Oh God, his bottom half was the chitinous form of a centipede—a long segmented body of rusty-red snaked out into the darkness. Legs, hundreds of white, vaguely luminescent, prong-like appendages, clicked against the tiled floor and rubbed against one another. Slick, bobbing antennae burst through my doppelganger’s forehead, the skin cracking and rupturing with gouts of blood. His lips peeled back and giant mandibles worked their way free, snapping back and forth in angry chewing motions.

So yeah, I was afraid of myself, sure, but centipedes won that race hands down, with no runner up even close to the finish line. But if my two greatest fears had a baby? This would be that thing … the attack of Centi-Me. And yes, it scared the great good bejesus outta me. I backed up a step, not wanting to be within touching distance of that thing. My knees wobbled just a little, my hands quivered, refusing to hold the gun barrel steady. Shit, shit, shit, it’s all fun and games until you’re alone in a dark room with a manipede.

I didn’t have time for fear, though, this wasn’t the place to let myself be scared. No, this was the time for action, brainless heroics, and adrenaline. Lots of adrenaline. I could have nightmares later—I was sure I would—but for now, it was time to put this bad dream to rest. So I focused. It was harder without the Vis pumping through my veins, lending me power and, in turn, courage. But I focused nonetheless.

“Good,” it hissed through its mandibles in a voice that no longer resembled my own. “I can taste your fear,” it moaned in delight, “so rich, so full of power. I can’t wait to eat you.”

“Eat this.” I know it’s terribly cliché, but hey, how often do you get a straight line like that? I leveled the shotgun and worked the trigger with one hand and the pump with the other, boom-boom-boom-boom. Take that, Centi-Me, and take that fear. Sometimes the only way to get over your worst fears is to face them head-on and then pump ’em full of lead with a friggin’ shotgun.

The sound of the shottie was deafening, the muzzle flashes painting the room with short-lived light and flickering shadows. I wasn’t firing buckshot either, these were big slugs, and they tore away great chunks of meat and exoskeleton in their passing. Centi-Me hissed and shrieked, rolling forward with a liquid, insect grace: weaving around fallen junk, surging over a downed chair, legs clicking along the floor.

I backpedaled, feeding more cartridges into the chamber—I managed to get four loaded before my back pressed up against the wall. Centi-Me was almost within striking distance, so I went to town with what I had to work with. I fired my remaining cartridges, and then ditched the shotgun, drawing my K-Bar from the sheath on my belt and fishing out a tiny glass bauble—a little smaller than a tennis ball—from my coat pocket. The orb glowed with a soft light, full of shifting hues—from ruby-red to jade. I guess it kinda looked like a Christmas ornament, the kind that has the lights inside.

It was a premade Vis hand grenade. I’d only had the one in the Camino, a leftover from some past job, but it turned out to be a pretty lucky find considering the circumstances. Stupid Fortuna … One trinket sure wasn’t enough to get her off the hook. I mean, why couldn’t I look in the Camino and suddenly discover I had the Magical Sword of Metus Death—and no, that’s not a real thing. But boy would it be lucky if it were. I had one measly grenade and I only had one chance with it, so I had to make it count, plus I had no illusion that it would actually kill the baddie. Hopefully, though, it’d hurt that son of a bitch something fierce.

Centi-Me raised one of its hands, its previously human fingers replaced by long white claws, similar to its scuttling legs. Though the beastie was still ten feet away, it lashed out, a lightning strike—the blow fell well short, but its spiked fingers detached with a snap and hurtled through the air, five deadly spears of bone aimed at yours truly. I ducked and dove behind a nearby overturned desk. The spikes collided into the wall where I’d been standing, though one of the little things thudded into the desk and drove nearly the whole way through.

I popped my head up, grabbing a peek just in time to see the creature wind up, ready to unleash another wave of finger spears. I didn’t give him a chance. He was close now, maybe five or six feet away—the best damn chance I’d probably ever get to use the Christmas ornament of destruction. I crunched down on it with my hand, sending a wave of spider web cracks along its surface, and then casually pitched the ball at Centi-Me’s exposed belly.

An angry flare of light, like the death of a small star, flashed in the room, and a tidal wave of Vis conjured force rippled out in a circle, kicking up a cloud of papers, Styrofoam cups, and office debris. It also kicked me toward the hallway door and nearly ripped Centi-Me in two.

I pushed myself to my feet, K-Bar out and at the ready. Creature-Feature lay fifteen feet away, his fractured and bleeding body draped across a tipped over cubical wall. But it wasn’t dead. The lower half of its body connected to the torso by a hunk of flesh no thicker than my wrist, yet its numerous legs still rustled and twitched—a score of eager arms waving in the air. Even as I watched, Centi-Me pushed himself up into a sitting position, slimy mandibles clacking, while sludgy blue-black tar knitted its body back together. I had no idea how to kill a giant human centipede, but apparently chopping it in two wasn’t the ticket. Which kinda made sense in its way—it takes a helluva lot more damage to kill a regular centipede, too.

I didn’t waste any time—I bolted for the hallway, pulling the door open and running for the interrogation room. A glance over my shoulder revealed that Centi-Me—though still recovering—was already in hot pursuit.

We’d already played this scene out once before, and I could tell this son of a bitch wasn’t content on letting me get behind the safety of a locked door, he was in it to win it—which, in this case, meant eviscerating me. But that was okay, because I wasn’t too keen on letting him get away either. This was end game for one of us.

I tore ass around the corner and sprinted for the interrogation room—the door stood wide open, all nice and inviting. Centi-Me was clicking and clacking his way up the hall, hissing its displeasure, but I paid it no mind—I needed to get inside the room, there simply wasn’t any other option. Get to the room or die. Period.

Five feet away: I put on an extra burst of speed, dropped low on instinct, and ducked right into the room. A few seconds later, I heard the sharp twang of bone-spears colliding with the far wall.

I silently thanked my lucky stars and scooted around to the far side of the room, putting the steel table, bolted to the floor, between the doorway and me. Centi-Me flowed into the room seconds later, a look of smug glee painting his face—mandibles opened wide, little crow’s feet forking at the corner of its eyes. My eyes.

“Nowhere else to run now, little mageling. Powerless, backed against a wall, dead meat in the making.” Its grin widened, its terrible jaws opening wide, wide, wider—ready to tear into all my soft and tender bits.

“I could say the same thing for you, shitheel.” I dove left, coming up just to its side, lashing out with my K-Bar, a thrust to its midsection, a slice to the inside of its arm. The creature reared back, shrieking as its thousands of legs batted at the air. I moved left, working my way toward the door. The creature must’ve seen the ploy, and scuttled to intercept me.

I reversed the grip on my K-Bar—now the blade ran along the outside of my forearm. I cut right and dashed inside its guard, working the blade back and forth across its plated belly, hacking through parts of limbs here, and tearing great rifts in its belly there. A normal K-Bar might not have done the job, but this one was Vis imbued—sharper than any knife had a right to be.

The creature retreated at my assault, maneuvering to get a little distance, likely so it could try to impale me with more of its deadly finger spears. I seized the instant, seized the day, bounding back toward the door. “Veni, vidi, vici!” I shouted, which is precisely when I tripped backwards and fell right onto my ass.

That’s what showboating will get you.

SEVENTEEN:

Catch a Bullet

I’d fallen just outside the interrogation room and into the connecting hallway, which was a plus, but still, I was sprawled out on my back and Centi-Me had a perfect shot. It didn’t hesitate to take it, not for a moment.

It wound its arm back …

I desperately scrambled to my feet, groping for the door edge, eager to slam the door home and seal Centi-Me away.

I had the door moving on loose hinges, but not quite quick enough—the finger spears tore loose and flew through the air, on a crash course with my chest, neck, and face, my death warrant written all over those puppies and not a damn thing I could do about it either.

I’d like to say that my life flashed before my eyes, that I saw everything in that last blink, and that I was satisfied with what I saw. But that’s bullshit. I didn’t see my life flash before my eyes. I saw Harvey, the slightly dumpy, should’ve-retired cop, flash before my eyes.

One minute I was staring down the business end of a bunch of deadly incoming bone projectiles, the next I saw the back of Harvey’s head as he stepped in front of me, pushed me back with one arm, and slammed the door shut with the other. I’d been so absorbed with Centi-Me that I hadn’t even seen the guy open the door from the connecting observation room.

The metal door clanged shut—on the backside of the door was one of the blue sticky note wards. The creature thrashed inside, howls of impotent rage only slightly muted by the door. But with the sticky note in place on the door and another one on the one-way mirror, it’d take that creepy son of a bitch a good long while to bust its way clear of the room. Which is exactly what we needed: a little more time.

I pushed myself upright and crawled over to Harvey, his body crumpled on the floor—Ferraro was already in the hallway hunched over his form, bright streaks of red smearing her blouse and pants. Harvey was alive, but he wouldn’t be for long. Four of the white finger spears protruded from his chest and stomach, the fifth was buried in his throat.

I choked up a little as I crawled to the poor schlub who’d taken a fucking bullet for me. Who’d saved my life.

“Harvey, you crazy son of a bitch.” I leaned over his body, taking one of his clammy hands in mine. Ferraro said nothing, did nothing. This wasn’t a time for words, and Harvey was well beyond saving. “Why?” I asked, since no other words would come.

He briefly glanced at Ferraro, then met my eye. “I’m a …” A gout of blood, frothy and too bright, pumped up from his neck wound. “I’m a cop.” His breathing was so heavy, his eyes already starting to take on the glazed sheen of death, his skin waxy. “It’s what we d—” A last fitful spurt of red, his lips went still, his body limp. Dead. Do. It’s what we do.

Them’s the breaks—the reality is that sometimes the good guys don’t win, sometimes they die. Sometimes, the breaks suck ass.

The creature continued to howl and thrash in the other room. I wanted to do the same. I wanted to howl into the night, wanted to break things, smash furniture, throw rocks through a couple of car windows. I wanted to call up the Vis and make the world shake, wanted to call up a whirlwind of fire and watch the metus burn. I couldn’t do it, of course—for now, I was just another average human. But because of Harvey’s fearless actions, I could still put an end to this, could cap the metus for good, and send it to oblivion.

“You okay?” Ferraro asked after a minute.

“No,” I said, shaking my head before gently laying Harvey’s body on the floor. “No, I’m not. But I can leave that for later. For now … for now, let’s toast this creepy-crawly son of a bitch.”

A few minutes later, everyone remaining stood in the observation room, or rather we all crouched low against the wall beneath the one-way mirror. Everyone except for Officer Adams, who stood tall as a flagpole, staring through the one-way mirror like there was nothing he wanted more in the whole world than to fix the shape shifter in the other room with a nice little toe-tag. He was nearly bristling in anticipation, I could feel his tension, excitement, and fear. Needless to say, everyone left alive felt exactly like Adams: eager as a half-crazy, near-starved badger for a honey-pot full of sweet, tasty revenge.

“Everybody remember the game plan, right?” I asked.

Everyone nodded except Ferraro, who, of course, just had to pipe in. “I know you all have already paid a heavy price—two dead is no easy thing, but that monster in there isn’t dead yet, so let’s keep focused, keep our eyes on the target until this is all over. If we don’t, there’s a good chance that more of us will end up like Harvey, check?”

Again the officers nodded.

“Alright, Adams,” I said, “I’m gonna flip the light switch on three—just remember, whatever you see, it can’t get to you, not through the blue sticky note.” Boy would that not have reassured me if I were in his shoes—I mean I knew the sticky notes held enough latent Vis to keep the metus at bay for a little while, but from his perspective? A thin sheet of glass and a Post-It hardly seemed like much of a defense against a giant human centipede.

“One … Two … Three.” I reached up and hit the light switch, the fluorescent light above flickered to life.

Just a quick note about one-way mirrors is in order here. Now, let me start by saying that I don’t really understand all the scientific mumbo-jumbo for why one-way mirrors work the way they do. Sure, I could probably Google it—or hell, I could’ve even asked Ferraro, she’d probably know the how—but I had more important things to do: like kill a shape-shifting cop killer. With that said, I’ve seen the inside of a police station (and no, not always as the suspect) often enough to know that one room—the interrogation room—needs to have the lights on full tilt and the connecting room needs to be dark. Not necessarily black, but pretty close, otherwise the mirror just won’t work.

If you flip on the lights in the connecting room, that one-way mirror becomes regular ol’ two-way glass—you can still look into the interrogation room, but whoever’s in interrogation can look right back. So when I cranked the lights on, it made sense that Centi-Me would stop his thrashing around long enough to get a good long peep into the observation room. And what did he see? Why, Officer Adams standing tall and proud like the mascot at a Notre Dame football game. And Officer Adams was the only thing that son of a bitch in the other room saw, because everyone else was hunkered down against the wall, out of sight and out of mind.

I killed the lights almost as quick as I’d put ’em on and hazarded a peek into the other room, once more concealed. As expected, Centi-Me was undergoing a terrible transformation. White legs melted away, segmented body bubbled and oozed, a swirling blob of liquid black motion. The metus’s body continued the shift, its limbs stretching and contorting, taking on new dimensions and proportions—coarse brown-black fur sprouted from slick black skin.

Its nose elongated into a muzzle, mandibles gave way to jagged, tearing teeth, inch-long and stained yellow. Whipping centipede antennae rippled and reformed—a hunk of clay repurposed—into overlarge wolf ears. Multicolored pom-pom buttons sprouted along the creature’s midsection, strange flowers growing from twisted flesh, while its torso grew silky fabric. Red and yellow patchwork material, just like Adams had said. The whole thing took maybe five seconds—what had once been Centi-Me was now one freaky looking werewolf, decked out in a ridiculous clown suit.

I heard a round of stunned gasps, followed by a whispered, “Holy shit.”

“Told you it was a werewolf dressed like a clown,” Adams muttered a tad smugly.

“That’ll do, kid,” I said, gaining my feet. “You can rub it in later.” I pulled out my massive, monster-murdering pistol, filled with six silver bullets. Well, they weren’t actually solid silver bullets, mind you, these puppies were just regular lead rounds with a dash of finely powdered silver thrown into the mix and infused with fine flows of Vis—much easier to make and just as effective. Now, that probably seems pretty incredible, right? I mean, why would I have silver bullets in my Camino? Simple, I had silver rounds because there are lots and lots of different types of animal shifters out there and they’re all vulnerable to silver.

There’s nothing mystical or magical about it either—for whatever reason, weres of all flavors have a substantial silver allergy. If someone had a shrimp allergy, and you sunk a couple of shrimp laced bullets into their chest, they’d die too … well, admittedly, the actual bullets would probably finish them off first, but—suspend your disbelief for a moment—if the bullets didn’t do the job, the shrimp juice would put that poor sucker into death-inducing anaphylactic shock. Same thing with weres.

I was working off the theory that when the metus transformed they literally became the thing they transformed into—with all their strengths and weaknesses. I didn’t have a clue how to kill a giant human-centipede, but I sure as shit knew how to cap a werewolf—even a goofy one dressed like a circus clown.

“Alright,” I said, “everyone get ready to run. This is only a theory … so if this doesn’t pan out, you all need to be gone. When I shoot, it’ll break the barrier sealing that thing out. It’ll come in here fast and hard. Comprehend, folks?”

I got a bunch of scared stares, but everyone made their way to the hallway. Except for Ferraro—she couldn’t follow an order to save her life. Literally.

“I’m staying,” she said, drawing her sidearm and taking a shooter’s stance near the door. “If this plan of yours backfires, I can buy the rest of these officers a little time to get away, get safe.”

“Whatever.” I shrugged. “Your funeral—if this is where you want to die, who am I to tell you no?”

I raised my pistol and aimed in. Ten feet away, easy shot, and one I was more than glad to take. Payback’s a bitch, and sometimes revenge is exactly what the doctor calls for. For Harvey. I pulled the trigger four times, pop-pop-pop-pop, the sound oddly quiet. My piece is a special custom job, handcrafted by the Dökkálfar and acid etched with runes of power. Even has the Vis equivalent of a silencer.

The silver rounds burst through the glass in a cacophony of sound—glass falling in sheets—and tore into the world’s least funny clown like a pack of junkyard dogs. A pair of rounds punched solidly into its chest, another took it in the gut, and the fourth sunk deep into one of its arms. Odd blood, nearly purple and twisted with swirls of black, oozed free of the wounds.

The creature looked hate and daggers at me; its body began to twist and change, to transform back into my fear … but then, distorted flesh snapped back into place. Now rigid and fixed. The silver bullets were working, were killing the son of a bitch, locking its werewolf form in place. More blood splattered free. A swollen tongue—turning from pink to black—emerged from its jaws, its eyes swelled in its head. One claw tipped paw went to its throat, the other reached for me.

Score one for allergies.

The metus was at death’s door and it knew it … with the last of its strength and will, it bolted around the table and hurtled through the remaining glass.

I unleashed my last two rounds—another gut shot, and one that grazed its neck. The creature rocked back from the impact but didn’t stop.

Don’t look at me that way. I know a head shot would’ve been better, but listen, shooting in a stressful situation isn’t easy, okay. And when that stressful situation happens to involve a rampaging werewolf who looks like a member of Cirque du Soleil, multiply that stress factor by about a thousand. Plus, I usually have the Vis running through my system, which allows me to bind with the gun in such a way as to grant me far greater accuracy. Considering the circumstances, I think I did pretty damn good.

Just not good enough to keep Wolfie from colliding into me and ramming black-tipped claws into my exposed gut. I went to the ground, hard, the metus on top of me, gaping mouth a foot or two from my neck, my face. The scent of its reeking breath, like old dead meat, filled my nostrils. My guts filled with liquid fire—the beast’s nails gouging into me like a set of hot steak knives passing through butter.

The bark of gunfire, and the creature fell away, tumbling into the conference table behind it. Angry purple wounds dotted its face and neck. It looked on for a few seconds more before finally pitching over to the side, its body swollen and still at last. A handful of seconds later, the body started to melt: fur, claw, tooth, clown costume dissolving down into a puddle of green Jell-O, not that you’d want to eat what was left of the metus. In another hour or two, even the goo would be gone, leaving behind nothing by way of physical evidence that the metus had ever been here. Save, of course, for the carnage and corpses.

Boy were Ferraro and the officers gonna have a helluva time writing this up in a report. Even if they had video footage—doubtful considering the blackout—it’d still be a tough sell. No police chief in their right mind would sign off on the “shape shifter did it” explanation. Talk about career suicide.

Hopefully I wouldn’t end up taking the fall, though it had been an especially unlucky couple of days for me, so I wouldn’t hold my breath. Shit, I couldn’t hold my breath even if I wanted to; my guts hurt too much for it.

Ferraro rushed over to me, holstered her weapon, and took a knee by my side. “Bet you’re glad I decided to hang around after all,” she said with a tight smile as she began to peel my shirt up to check the gut wounds.

“I’d have figured something out.” I said, wincing as her finger probed four messy wounds. “Besides, who needs their guts anyway?” I coughed, which hurt like a bitch. “I hear there’s like thirty feet of intestine in there—seems a little excessive, I could probably live without a couple of feet, give or take.”

“Shut up, idiot,” she said. More probing. I tried not to groan and give away how much her doctoring hurt. Plus—as I’ve previously mentioned—she was pretty good looking, and generally, squealing like a piglet isn’t the manliest way to impress a woman. So I just tried to clamp my teeth closed and endure it. But boy did I want to squeal. Stupid, manly pride.

“I’ll need to stitch these up, but I don’t think the injuries are life threatening. The punctures are messy, but not very deep—I don’t think the creature managed to perforate the abdomen wall.”

“Thank you, Dr. Quinn Medicine Woman, for your highly professional assessment, but it seems like a hospital would probably be a safer route.”

“No hospital,” she said. “You are escaping.”

“Come again now?” I asked, thinking I’d surely misheard her.

“I said, you’re escaping. And I’m coming with you.” She took a long pause, looking down as though she wasn’t sure she could meet my eyes. Finally she looked up. “Maybe I was wrong about you—after tonight … well, maybe I was wrong. But that doesn’t mean there’s not a killer out there. You said someone sent this thing—the same someone who killed Kozlov. That means I have a murderer responsible for at least three deaths, two of them cops. I want to make sure this guy gets justice. And I need you to do that … so, you’re going to escape. And I’m going to follow you.”

Damn, I hadn’t seen that one coming. Normally, the idea of taking some almost-Rube on a hunt for a dark mage channeling a semi-immortal Lich wouldn’t seem like a great idea. But Ferraro was pretty badass and seemed handy as hell in a tight corner. And without my powers? I needed all the help I could get.

“Alright.” I smiled. “Let’s go nab us a bad guy—but you better buckle up, lady, ’cause you’re in for one bumpy ride. Before we can get this perp, I’m gonna have to track down the gen-u-ine Holy Grail, and I got a bad feeling that we’re gonna have to go into the backwaters of Outworld to get it. So get your game face on.”

She grinned; it was not a nice smile. Check, game face on. Time to get the show on the road.

EIGHTEEN:

Train to Outworld

“I can’t believe this place—can’t believe this has been right under my nose for so long, and I never saw. Never knew,” Ferraro said from the train seat across from mine. The FBI agent, my former enemy, was on sabbatical leave after the crazy-ass goings-on that had taken place in a police station a few days back. The two-week sabbatical hadn’t entirely been her idea, but she’d seemed happy enough since it allowed her to help me track down the actual shithead responsible for the whole fiasco.

To be honest, I was happy too—I had someone to help me out in a tight spot and that someone also happened to be a good-looking, highly competent woman. So win-win for me.

I watched her for a moment—at just shy of six foot, she was a tall woman with short black hair, strong features, and darkly tanned skin. She looked scruffier now than before: dirty rumpled cargo pants, white undershirt with a red plaid shirt over the top. She glanced at me before looking back out the window—watching the Hub trickle past, rubbing at the bridge of her nose with one hand.

The muddy brown sky peeked down on a strange city filled with jagged buildings of every shape and size, made from almost every imaginable material. Blood-red brick places with lurid women dancing in the windows. Towering apartment complexes of pitted concrete painted in shades both too loud and too strange—glowing-yellow here, sewer-shit-green there.

Thick swathes of power lines snaked overhead, frantic things running from everywhere to everywhere with no sense of order or even purpose. And above those, the Royal Helicutter ran on a massive set of tracks—larger than the roadway proper—hanging high in the air, supported by huge metal columns jutting at intervals from the sidewalk. The whole scene looked dirty, sleazy—garbage everywhere, grime coating every surface, gaudy neon lighting advertising everything. Women, men, sex, pain, drugs, secret knowledge. Everything could be had here.

We were on the ground train, chugging along for the Hinterlands.

Outside our train window a Victorian-era carriage—pulled along by a zombified horse with greenish flesh, a wispy mane, and gobs of meat missing—trotted by in the opposite direction. The driver, a rail-thin man in black wearing a top hat, flashed us a grin and a wink, as though he were privy to some inside secret. Shit, here he might’ve been.

On the left sprawled a strangely lopsided building of lime-green stone sporting thick power cables, towering antennas, and high-tech steel-shuttered windows and doors. “What the hell is that?” She jabbed her finger.

“The Cult of Akroid,” I said, wanting the ride to be over, and knowing it wouldn’t be for a good long while yet. She was new to all this, so her curiosity, excitement even, was entirely understandable, completely justifiable, but utterly exhausting. “One of their operation facilities, anyways. Technomancers and plastic surgeons. Offer people high-tech body upgrades, mechanical retrofits, that kind of thing.”

Once we passed the edge of the Hub, metal curtains would close over the train’s windows, affording me a break from her intense questioning. She was an intense kind of woman, which was fine in small doses.

“Unbelievable.” She shook her head. “And those things?” She gestured to a pair of men, each with fat, bulbous bodies, no legs, and disproportionately large arms and hands, which they used for walking.

“I dunno.” I shrugged. “Don’t look like pure-blood anythings—so probably just halfies of one variety or another.”

“Halfies?” She arched an eyebrow at me.

“Yeah, halfies. Sometimes things from the Hub will go to Earth—Inworld—and reproduce. The babies that come out are different—not entirely one or the other. Halfies. Look, there are a gajillion things here … just try to enjoy the ride, huh?”

“I can’t.” She was practically bouncing in her seat with pent-up energy. “This is too much. It’s crazy—how is it possible that this has remained hidden?”

I shrugged again. “People see what they want to see, and ignore everything else, I guess. In the West, we believe in science, we believe in the rational—and this”—I flashed a hand across the window—“is not rational, this is not science. So people make excuses not to believe. But yeah, you’re right, shit’s crazier than a friggin’ psych ward.”

And it was. I’ve been living as a mage for years, but I started out as a dumb Rube, and sometimes I still found it hard to believe and I’d had years to adjust. But Nicole? Why, a mere two days ago, she’d been holding me in custody on a series of grisly murder charges, completely oblivious to the supernatural world. And today? Today she was sitting across from me in a private train compartment, zipping through the sprawling supernatural city called the Hub, en route to one of the most dangerous parts of Outworld.

The fact that she was accompanying me as an ally instead of as an arresting agent was almost as crazy in its own way. Personally, I just never would’ve seen that one happening. Guess it all goes to show that sometimes life has a way of getting complicated, getting away from you, and leading you in some very unexpected directions.

“Tell me more about where we’re going, again. I want to be ready.” She ran a hand over the Glock at her hip, the motion one of instinct, maybe comfort.

“Fine, then a little quiet, okay?”

“You are a wanted fugitive,” she said, her tone saying no nonsense would be tolerated. “You’re free because I’m allowing it, so I expect full cooperation, Mr. Lazarus.”

I ground my teeth in frustration. Even though I did my time with the Marines, I’ve never been great with authority. “Fine. Cooperation. The Hinterlands is outside the Hub, but not technically a true part of Outworld. It’s kind of a wasteland, sort of a crazy version of the Old West—except with monsters, demons, post-apocalyptic cities, and nuclear fallout. It’s bad, dangerous, yada, yada, yada. Keep your head on a swivel, so on and so forth, and all that jazz. We’ll meet my contact in a bar called the Hog’s Head. Happy?”

“Not even remotely,” she said, staring back out the window, but saying nothing more.

I don’t know if she slept or not—if I were in her shoes, I’m not sure I could’ve—but I dozed on and off for the next couple of hours.

When I woke, Ferraro was awake, alert, nursing one of those tasteless energy bars health nuts go for. She’d ask me a question or two, I’d respond with all the enthusiasm of a dental patient about to receive a root canal, and then I’d drift back off again. One lesson I’ve learned in my days on the road is this: take sleep when you can get it, especially if there’s a pile of shit and a fan close by. You just never know when you’ll get another chance, and being well rested can make the difference between life and death.

We traveled that way for maybe seven hours, give or take; time can be a little wonky in Outworld—trains will often pass through drifting time pockets, which could either slow things down or speed ’em up. I didn’t give it much mind. I was still worn out from my scrap with the metus and, because of no-good Randy, I didn’t have access to the normal strength and fortitude the Vis lent me.

So yeah, I slept. As well and deeply as I could, considering I only had a hard little bench to curl up on.

After a good couple of hours, Ferraro nudged me awake with the toe of her boot. I cracked an eye from my place on the bench and stifled a yawn. Outside the window, a dusty town—made of equal parts wood, concrete, and steel—stretched away into the distance. Gusts of dirty wind swept through the town, revealing buildings for a moment and then swallowing them in a cloud of brown. Men and women, human-looking and not, trudged about the street—heads down, eyes often hidden behind brass and leather-trimmed goggles, while sleek ventilation masks covered noses and mouths. The sun hung low over the horizon—maybe an hour or two until the sun set for the night—casting lurid red light along the streets.

Bradshaw Landing: one of only a few thriving, semi-civilized cities in all of the Hinterlands.

“This us?” Ferraro asked, simultaneously slipping on a tan, military-grade backpack. She rooted around in her cargo pocket for a minute, not waiting for my reply, and fished out a pair of goggles and a mask of her own, which she promptly donned.

“Yeah, this is our stop. Hurray.” I sat up and stretched out cramped back muscles—should’ve paid for the upgrade; first class had genuine beds to sleep on. It wouldn’t have fit with our cover story, though: just a couple of world-weary, and mostly human—definitely not mage—travelers. Still, my back was not happy about our cover story.

I reluctantly stood, pulled on my own bag, followed by goggles and respirator, and then snatched up my guitar case. That was part of the cover story, too—I was keeping my head down by going around as a bona fide Song-Slinger, which was true even if not exactly the whole truth.

With bags and gear in hand, I pushed past Ferraro and led us down a narrow interior hallway running alongside the train rooms—especially tight considering my guitar—to a set of stairs that took us to the platform. Well, there wasn’t actually any platform, not like you might be thinking. The “platform” consisted of the dusty ground in front of the rusted tracks, a row of cheap wooden benches, and a single tall post with an old clock affixed to the front.

Hot air, dry and dusty, washed over me. “God, I hate this place. Even with this damn ventilator on I can still smell the reek. Shit and garbage …” I took another long pull of air. “Burnt garbage.”

Ferraro dropped down from the train, carefully brushing her hands along the front of her shirt.

“I hate the Hub,” I said, “but I hate the Hinterlands even more.”

“Aren’t you a ray of sunshine.” Her voice was slightly muffled by the respirator. “We’ve got a job to do, so let’s get it over with, and then we can leave this place behind.”

“Yeah, yeah, I got it.” We trudged into town, the buildings sprawled along the hard packed boulevard like drunk and disorderly bar goers: staggered, lopsided, leaning drunkenly every which way. A boardwalk ran in front of shops and homes on both sides—we took to one, mostly to avoid the traffic meandering up and down the street. Old rusted-out cars, a few horses, a malformed water buffalo, a host of Tri-skiffs—three wheel taxis in a riot of hues—and mopeds. Heaps and heaps of zippy little mopeds.

The Hog’s Head wasn’t far and was easy enough to find—right on the main boulevard with a giant rotating mechanical hog’s head held high in the air, protruding from the end of a thick metal pole.

“Alright Ferraro,” I said as we trotted up to the batwing bar doors—damn place was like the cover for a bad Meatloaf album—“we need to keep our heads down here. Don’t talk to anyone if you can help it. Don’t stare anyone down, pick fights, or generally do any of the things your alpha-female brain compels you to do. Kay?” I glanced back at her over my shoulder. She nodded.

I peeled off my ventilator and goggles—Ferraro followed my lead—and pushed my way into the bar interior. Nice digs, these. The wood floor was covered in straw, wet beer stains, and, in a couple of places, blood in varying colors. Round card tables dotted the room with a variety of players, most of them definitely not human, drinking from dirty mugs and talking too loudly. A large chandelier of bone, fashioned from antlers, deer skulls, and human bones interspersed throughout, hung over the whole lot of tables. Against the left wall, and near the back, a narrow set of stairs ascended to a second floor, which probably served as guest rooms or a brothel. Along the back of the room ran a long hardwood bar, complete with a horizontal mirror spanning the length of the wall.

This was the spot, this was where Fortuna—Lady Luck, my temporary boss—had told me to find her. But there wasn’t hide nor hair of her. Dammit. Why would I have expected it to be that easy? Idiot. Well, I couldn’t just stand around in the doorway until she showed—I was aiming for inconspicuous. So instead I sauntered up to the bar, trying to appear casual and unruffled. Ferraro clung to me like a shadow. She might’ve been tougher than old boot leather, but she knew when subterfuge was the best policy, so she kept her head down too.

The bartender wasn’t even close to human: gnarled old goat’s face with blunt teeth, curling horns, amber eyes, and giant, cancerous growths protruding from his face, neck, and arms. A halfie and a mutie … the Hinterlands were contaminated, so longtime residents often ended up like the barman. “What’ve we got here?” he said, his voice raspy. “You a real, legitimate Song-Slinger?” he asked me, eyeing the guitar on my back.

“Yessir,” I said, bobbing my head. “Name’s Bobby, Bobby Haskell.” Then I held out an arm and drew back my sleeve, revealing a tattoo in shifting gold and silver, just below the crook of my elbow on my forearm. An intricately wrought harp in gold, bordered by a ring of silver.

“Hot damn,” the barman whispered. “Union certified, huh?” The tattoo was fake. Ben had done it up right before smuggling Ferraro and me into the Hub. A Union-certified Song-Slinger was a great cover for me since I could play—not to mention that Song-Slingers were rarely hustled, even out in the Hinterlands. After all, everyone likes to listen to a good tune and out here in the Hinterlands, where advanced technology was often unreliable, entertainment could be hard to come by.

“Well …” He paused, scratching at his wispy goatee (Ha … goat-ee). “We already got us a Song-Slinger, of sorts.” He waved a deformed limb—part cloven hoof, part human hand—toward a balding, fat man in a bowler hat pounding away at an upright piano in the corner. The piano was a real beaut: an upright Emerson, 1880s, beautiful dark wood, carved front panel and fallboard, real ivory keys. Made my fingers itch to play it, bet the action was great.

“Ol’ Sappy there ain’t certified,” the barman said. “A queer-fish too, but he gets the job done.”

“It’s alright, partner,” I replied. “I’m just meeting someone here, then passing through.”

“Damn shame,” he said, “I could find you work here—ask around at the other saloons. There’s always call for a Union Slinger.”

“Thank ye,” I said, nodding again. “But we’ll just take a couple of whiskeys and wait for our friend.”

Ferraro nudged me hard in the ribs. “Your lawyer just walked in,” she whispered in my ear.

NINETEEN:

The Hog’s Head

I turned in time to see the batwing doors swing closed; Fortuna, Lady Luck, who had also briefly served as my legal counsel, stood just inside. Thin-faced with black-framed glasses, brown hair tied up behind her head, and wearing a charcoal suit—professional to her toes and completely out of place in these parts. She would’ve fit in nicely on Fifth Avenue in Manhattan or in any courtroom or board meeting. Here, however, a place where dusty western attire was the norm, she looked downright suspicious. Almost certain to draw unwanted attention and trouble along with it.

“What’s your lawyer doing here?” Ferraro asked, voice low and sorta threatening-ish. I got the feeling that Ferraro was more of a planner by nature—probably liked to know everything and have all the details before going in. Not really the way I did things. I’d kinda neglected to mention all of the nitty-gritty specifics. Specifics like, say, Lady Fortuna.

“Not my lawyer,” I whispered. “She’s our contact here, must’ve forgotten to mention the connection.”

Ferraro stared daggers at me. I could practically feel her eyes boring through my skull and into my brain—lady could mean mug with the best of ’em.

“You can kill me later. For now, just smile, play along, and don’t make a scene.”

I walked toward Fortuna, who’d already claimed a small open table not far from the stairs. Ferraro growled under her breath behind me, but followed along without any overt threats.

“Mind if I sit?” I asked, pulling out one of the two free chairs without waiting for a response. Ferraro followed suit, turning her chair so she could keep one eye on the meeting and one eye on the room full of potential inhuman threats. “I’d say it’s good to see you,” I said, “but I’m trying to lie a little less these days.”

“It’s good to see you too, Lazarus—”

“Not Lazarus.” I grabbed her wrist, hard, though she didn’t seem to notice. “You’re mistaken. Name’s Bobby Haskell …” I said it real slow, making sure to emphasize every syllable. “I know you don’t seem to mind nearly killing me, but maybe a little discretion would be nice, eh?”

“As you say, Mr. Haskell.” She rolled her eyes as though exasperated with my silly human desire not to be murdered horribly. Old Powers like Fortuna, nigh immortal beings, just don’t seem to understand that dying is something we humans really care a great deal about.

“And Agent Ferraro.” She positively beamed. “I’m so glad to see you. I wasn’t certain whether you’d accompany Bobby.” She gave an obvious wink. “Freewill is so difficult to predict—but I’m glad you made it. Your presence in this matter increases Mr. Haskell’s overall chance of success by thirty-one percent. Great news, really great news. Additionally, his overall chance of survival bumps up by a noticeable twelve percent.”

“Wait, what?” I asked. “My chance of success increases by thirty-one percent, but my overall survival only increases twelve percent? For me, surviving is success.”

She nodded, as though there were absolutely no discrepancies with these figures. “Yes, you are thirty-one percent more likely to recover the Grail and prevent a nightmarish future from unfolding. Whether or not you live past collecting the Grail is of secondary importance to me and my patron, Lady Fate.” She said it as if she was reading off a memo sheet at an office meeting.

“I’m sorry,” said Ferraro, “I’m not tracking here. Start over.” It wasn’t a question. Good for her; usually people lose their minds—quite literally—when they stop being a plain ol’ Rube and get clued into the supernatural. Ferraro hadn’t just adjusted, she’d even managed to keep her take-no-crap-from-anyone attitude. Even a woman like Fortuna, who was somewhere in the minor godling power range, wasn’t safe from Ferraro. Nice.

Lady Fortuna seemed unruffled. “Yes, yes, I suppose proper introductions are in order here. I’m Jessica Fortuna, Lady Luck—agent of Lady Fate, the Three-Faced Hag—and Bobby”—she nodded at me—“is temporarily acting as Lady Fate’s mortal agent, her Hand.”

“Wait, the Lady Luck?” Ferraro asked, even more perturbed than before. Yeah, maybe I should’ve mentioned Fortuna earlier.

“Yes,” Fortuna said, “do try to keep up—I’ve got places to be, as do you. Now”—she looked at me—“is it at least safe to assume that she knows about Randy and Koschei?”

I nodded.

“Right, well, at least there’s that. Now, before you two can redress the issue with Randy and the Lich, you must first restore his”—she nodded at me—“power. Hold on a minute.” She reached down into a briefcase—the same one she’d been carrying when I’d seen her at the jail—and fished out a dossier. She pulled out a glossy photo of what almost looked like a drinking flask.

“This”—she pointed at the photo—“is the Holy Grail. Ancient and holy relic of the Church and the White King. It was once a cup, the one Jesus drank from at the Last Supper, but which was later used by Joseph of Arimathea to collect Jesus’ blood during the crucifixion—obviously it has been altered a bit, but the Grail it remains.”

“Jesus, Joseph, Mary,” Ferraro said, not as a curse, but more as an invocation, crossing herself as she spoke. “This is real? The real Grail?” She put out a hand and touched the photo.

“You a true believer?” I asked Ferraro. Now, I’m kind of a believer myself—though I’m not exactly on friendly terms with God, I absolutely believe in Him—but I wouldn’t have pegged Ferraro as being the religious type. Not that there’s anything wrong with having belief or conviction in something better—especially if that conviction leads you to be a less shitty human being. But it’s not my cup of tea. My cup of tea suspiciously resembles a dirty shot glass full of Gentleman Jack. And Ferraro, well, she seemed too … I dunno … too no-nonsense I guess, to have religion.

“I’m a recovering Catholic,” she replied. “But this …” She touched the photo again. “The Grail?”

“Yes,” Fortuna said. “It’s a big deal, obviously.” She quirked an eyebrow at me, as though to say, Pay attention, this is important. “Now, the Grail has long been a sought after artifact—Joseph of Arimathea brought the cup to England, as legend holds, and eventually Sir Galahad, son of Lancelot, knight of King Arthur’s court recovered the item—”

“Alright,” I said, “I’m just gonna stop you right there.” I spread my hands flat against the table, trying really hard not to throw something—like a saltshaker maybe—at the living incarnation of luck. “I got the scoop. There’s a magic—”

“Not magic, holy,” Fortuna corrected.

“Fine, ‘holy’ drinking flask. Whatever. Check. And we need to find it. I’m all up to speed here, so let’s move this horse and pony show along, huh?” I lowered my voice. “I want to spend as little time as possible here—I’ve got a bad feeling that things are gonna get messy if we cool our heels in this shit-hole too much longer. Just a hunch, but it pays to listen to your hunches.”

Lady Luck stared at me over the top of her narrow glasses, her face the very expression of exasperation—it was the look an exasperated librarian might offer to some unruly school kid. “The history of this matter is quite important, so the less you interrupt me, the faster you can be on your way.”

I sat back in my seat with a sigh “Yeah, fine,” I mumbled, annoyed. “Whatever.” I crossed my arms. Some people.

“As I was saying,” she continued, “Sir Galahad recovered the Grail, and was charged with returning the cup to the holy city of Sarras. The Grail never made it. During the last leg of the journey, Sir Galahad received a vision of Joseph of Arimathea, who charged the knight with protecting the Grail. Galahad was granted life unending to fulfill his task. You will need to both find the Chalice and free its Guardian, Sir Galahad, from whatever predicament he’s managed to get himself into. Understand?”

“Wait, so you’re telling me this poor schmuck got bamboozled into taking care of this cup until the world stops spinning?” I asked. “Man, did that guy get a shitty deal.”

“The Grail,” she said, “is a tremendously powerful artifact—among its many attributes is its ability to cure any sickness, heal even the most egregious wounds, and treat any poison. It’s very important and the task was a blessing bestowed upon Galahad, not a curse. Regardless of your feelings on the matter, you need to get the Chalice and the knight—he is the only one who knows how to use the Grail. You get cured and get your powers back, Lady Fate gets to prevent an unfortunate future, and I get a little good will from the White King above for freeing his Guardian. It’s a win-win-win.” She smiled.

“So let me see if I understand correctly. We get to rescue a knight, save the Holy Grail, and track down the murderer responsible for killing Kozlov and those officers?” Ferraro asked. “I got into the wrong line of work. Does Fate have an internship program?”

I wasn’t entirely sure if she was joking or not.

Fortuna just smiled, a big goofy grin that looked strange on a being as powerful as Lady Luck. “I’m glad someone realizes what an honor this is,” she said after a beat.

“Yeah, honor,” I said. I turned and looked at Ferraro. “Before you get all gung ho and sign up for the mailing list, Ms. Smitty McSmiterson, you should really look at the fine print. It’s all fine and dandy to say, Yeah sure, we’ll get your cup. But here’s the thing—Fortuna, here, wouldn’t ask us to do it if she could do it herself. Which means getting the holy drinking flask back isn’t gonna be a school trip to the art museum.” I turned and stared at Fortuna. “So how do we find it and what are we up against?”

Fortuna smiled, her narrow face pinching up, the grin mischievous and telling. “Perhaps you’re not quite as dumb as you look. Finding it won’t be so difficult, just ride east from here—toward the Salt Marsh—and into the Bog Fog.”

“The Bog Fog.” My voice was flat, unamused, which mirrored my face and general attitude perfectly. “The Mists of Fate. You’re sending us into an alternate Time Lap.”

“Yes.” She nodded enthusiastically, apparently not picking up on my obviously bad attitude. “In legend, Galahad is purportedly taken to Heaven, but in reality, he was transported to the Mists of Fate, wandering through endless dimensions, always guarding the Grail. He has been trapped in a possible future, which is becoming increasingly more probable due to the presence of the Grail. You see, the Grail is extra real, granting the holder—and thus his reality—more weight, more pull on the present.”

She reached back into the folder and withdrew a small printed map, apparently taken from Google, showing a few square city blocks in Seattle. “Finding the Grail should be the easy part. Ride into the Mists, Lady Fate will exert her will and bring you to the right Time Lap, and then you do your part from there.” She pointed at a little red X drawn on the map.

She stuck a hand into her pocket and rooted around for a moment, before bringing out a smooth stone, carved with an ancient rune that shimmered like a trapped moonbeam. “Once you have freed Galahad and have used the Grail, weave a little spirit into the rune—Lady Fate will extract you from the Time Lap and send you on your way. Easy, really. You won’t even have to travel back through the Hinterlands or the Hub.”

“I hate you,” I said, staring at the map, tracing my finger along the streets. “If it was easy you wouldn’t need us. What else haven’t you said?”

“Well …” She shrugged. “You might find a little resistance. A small army of genetically altered zombies. An insane cult led by a mutated psycho named Cannibal Steve. Just a few minor details, nothing you can’t handle.” She offered a small apologetic smile. “I’m sure you’ll both do fine.”

The loud crack of a gunshot rang out, followed by a brief shriek, before the bar grew silent—the gentle background piano music gone and the barroom chatter stilled.

“Sakes alive!” the bartender shouted. “Now why in the Sam Hill did you go and shoot ol’ Sappy? You know damn well how hard it is to get a musician out in these parts, Fast Hands.”

A gruff, stocky man—though only a man in the most liberal sense of the word—with a blunt flat face, complete with a flickering snake’s tongue and matte black eyes, grinned at the barkeep. His fangs were sharp and deadly looking. He flexed massive arms covered in copper scales, muscles rippling, and twirled a six-shooter back and forth in rapid arcs. Back and forth it went, the weapon passing from hand to hand in a blur of movement. Eventually, he tucked the revolver back into a black leather holster at his hip.

“All right,” Fortuna said, “I’ll leave you to it. Best of luck.” She quickly stood, popped her folder back into her briefcase, and ducked out of the bar, all without garnering a hint of unwanted attention. Lucky her.

“Come on,” I said to Ferraro, “let’s beat feet, huh?” I nodded toward the door.

The gunman, Fast Hands, belched and swayed a little. “That ol’ queer fish been past his prime for a long while now. Couldn’t even play me ‘The Piano Man’ by Billy Joel. What kinda piano-man can’t play ‘The Piano Man’?” He turned his flat reptilian gaze on Ferraro and I just as we were standing to go. “’Sides, who cares ’bout Ol’ Sappy, we got us a new Song-Slinger.”

“Sorry, Slick,” I said, offering my most winning smile, “but we were just going.”

In a blur of movement, his gun was out of the holster and leveled at my chest. “That ssso?” he asked, his voice a raspy thing that drew the sss’s into a hiss. He ambled up to me, his face mere feet from my own, his black eyes staring into mine, his flickering tongue inches from my skin—guy obviously didn’t know about personal boundaries. He also didn’t seem to know about dental hygiene since his breath was rank with the smell of fetid meat.

“And it ain’t ‘slick,’ name is Fast Hands Steve … You smell wrong,” he said, his tongue whipping around.

“Funny,” I replied, “I was thinking the same thing.” I backed up a step, keeping my hands low, but preparing to draw my hand cannon—tucked away beneath my coat—if needed.

“Some kinda comedian, huh?” More men—some humanoid, other clearly halfies of one variety or another—stood, taking the scene in with suspicious eyes, hands moving uncomfortably close to weapons of all shapes and sizes. Bad odds, those. Folks out here could be a little twitchy; a lot of them had records, many were fugitives, and most just didn’t trust a soul. “You smell like magic, like Vis. Sick though, polluted. What are you.” It wasn’t a question.

“Just another halfie—a changeling,” I said, trying my damnedest to play things cool. Just needed to be cool. “Pop was a fir darrig, outta the Spring Court. I got a touch of the fae in my blood is all.”

He flicked his tongue out once more, breathing deeply through slitted nostrils. “You don’t look like no fir darrig I ever saw.”

He was right about that—fir darrig were about five and a half feet tall, all whipcord muscle and burnt red hides of tough leather. No fir darrig would ever grace a model runway, that was for damn sure. But as a halfie? I could pass for a halfie. There was never a “standard” way for a halfie to come out: sometimes they looked like Mom, sometimes like Dad, sometimes it was a little bit of a mix. And sometimes—like with Fast Hands himself—halfie babies popped out looking like nothing anyone had ever seen before (though my guess was that Fast Hands had a dash of naga somewhere in his lineage).

“What can I say, I got all of Mom’s good looks,” I replied.

He stepped closer, now half a foot from being chest to chest with me. “Could be, could be.”

“Look, bud,” I said, “I’m glad we had a chance to talk about my folks—really, I am, but like I was saying, partner, we’re going.”

He pressed his gun into my chest, its barrel digging in even through the fabric of my shirt. “How ’bout instead of doing that, you shut yer cock holster and play me ‘The Piano Man.’”

Ferraro reached toward her waistband where she had her Glock secreted away. Couldn’t say that I blamed her, the guy was obviously drunk and clearly dangerous, plus he’d told me to “shut my cock holster,” which warranted a punch to the nose on general principle. I waved her down though—she was a good shot, sure, but I didn’t think she could draw, shoot, and kill Fast Hands before he did us both in.

Well … maybe she could draw, shoot, and kill him before he shot her, but I’d be shit outta luck. He’d moved that pistol awfully quick and he already had gun in hand. Plus, there had to be a damn good reason why his nickname was “Fast Hands.” Challenging him to a fast draw would be like challenging a four-hundred-pound guy named Eating-Machine Doug to an eating competition. Just not a prudent move.

Sometimes holding your tongue is the very best policy, though damn if my pride didn’t take a licking. As I’ve said before, though, it’s better to let your pride take a hit than to actually get hit—in this case hit with a bullet. Plus, what’s the point of coming up with a clever and elaborate cover story if you’re just gonna blow it right out the gate?

“Hey, whatever you say, boss. Whatever you say.”

TWENTY:

Dangerous Game

Ferraro sat at our table by the stairs, back to the wall while keeping her eyes on me and one hand cautiously close to her waistband. But I didn’t let the situation get the best of me. I was actually having a pretty good time, considering I was being held hostage at gunpoint while a scale-covered human-viper played a game of cards and got crazy drunk. Believe it or not, this was actually kind of par for the course, I felt on familiar ground here. Even though I’ve been a lot of different things over the years—Marine, mage, fix-it man—at my heart, my core, I’m just a rambling, gambling bluesman.

So I smoked cigarettes and played tune after tune, “The Piano Man” followed by Lynyrd Skynyrd’s “Gimme Three Steps,” then on to the Allman Brothers Band’s “Ramblin’ Man,” trailed by Memphis Slim’s “Let the Good Times Roll Creole.” Saloon-goers bought me cheap beer by the bucket and dropped tips into an old copper bowl, which sat next to me on the piano bench. I took requests, as any proper Song-Slinger would, and hammered out tunes on the black and whites while belting out the songs amidst the hubbub of the room: glasses clinking, the scrape of chairs on wooden floors, rough laughter, and coarse shouts, followed, occasionally, by a gunshot or two.

No one else died though, and despite Fast Hand Steve’s earlier threats and posturing, he seemed more than content to go back to his table and his drink once I’d played his request.

He still kept an eye on me though, taking long, calculating glances over every time I stopped for a break or needed to grab a drink. He’d smelled my power, even through the sickness raging in me—and I had the distinct impression that he’d never completely bought my changeling story. I could practically see the doubt in him.

But those glances were coming fewer and fewer as the hours stretched on and the night grew late.

The more he drank—shit, the more everyone drank—the less I seemed to draw eyes. All to the good. Something I’ve learned from all my years of gambling is this: sometimes, it’s best to play real conservative, so that when it’s time to make your big play, folks don’t even see it coming.

My time was getting close, but it wasn’t quite right, not yet. If I just held out a little longer, played a little harder, let those fools drink themselves into a stupor—or into liver failure—I’d be that much better off when it was time to go. Another ten or fifteen minutes and I could probably slide away under the guise of taking a piss, grab Ferraro, and just slip right out the back with no one the wiser. With the crew being as drunk as they were, no one would probably notice until the next morning.

So I pounded out “The Man Comes Around” by Johnny Cash, and killed more time. Patient as a mouse, hunkered down, waiting for the pesky cat to lose interest.

I saw my carefully laid plan start to fall apart about thirty seconds later, halfway through my Cash set. No good, shit-faced, scale-covered Fast Hands was up and lumbering his way toward Ferraro. She glared at him so hard, I thought his serpent blood would’ve frozen right in his veins, but he didn’t seem to notice. Not a lick.

Too friggin’ drunk to see trouble staring him right in the face like an ill-tempered tiger.

He pulled his shooter from its holster and twirled it back and forth, demonstrating a surprising amount of dexterity considering his current level of shit-facedness. I’d seen him put down a fifth of the sludgy brown whiskey the barkeep was serving. I’d had a few pulls, and let me tell you, that shit was strong enough to strip paint and turn you blind.

Fast Hands bumped into the wall, eyes dull and glazed, though his pistol never stopped its frantic twirling.

“Hey ssssweetheart,” he hissed, “how’s ’bout you head up to one of the rooms wit’ me—I’ve had my fill of gambling and liquor. But I sure haven’t had my fill of you.” Then he belched, a long gurgling noise. Classy to his toes, this guy.

Ferraro smiled, a sultry look as far from demure as the light was from the dark. But I knew Ferraro, and that sultry look never touched her eyes—the look in her eyes said, I’m about to unleash a world of hurt on you. “Okay,” she practically purred, standing slowly, straightening her back so her breasts strained against the fabric of her undershirt. She snaked her left arm through the crook of his elbow—Fast Hands, apparently thinking easy game was afoot, spun his piece one last time before sliding the heavy iron back into its holster.

“You big city girls are just as easy as I heard tell.” He smiled, his fangs gleaming in the low light, his forked tongue flickering out then in.

“No, you’re the easy one,” she said as she slipped her right hand to the small of her back, bringing out the Glock in a quick no-nonsense draw, pressing it hard into the tender flesh surrounding his throat.

“Feisty little bitch,” Fast Hands said, apparently not too terribly concerned. “What’s a city woman like you, travelin’ around with some Song-Slinger, packin’ iron for?” His eyes flickered over toward me.

I stopped playing and stood, getting ready to draw, to shoot, to run and dodge and hide. Dammit. I had a pretty good feeling how this was gonna play out.

The room had grown strangely still. I looked around—the laughter had died away, no cards hit the table, no beer glasses clicked, no one moved … the air was heavy with anticipation, pregnant with impending violence. This was the eye before the storm—the calm before everything went to shit and people started dying—and that eye seemed to be staring at me. Everyone in the saloon watched on, glancing between Ferraro with her prisoner and me, as though unsure what to do. Unsure who the threat was.

“Now, I’m done with this game,” Ferraro said loud enough for the whole room to hear. “Me and my partner there”—she nodded to me, though never taking her eyes off Fast Hands—“are going to leave. Now. And if you, or any of your drunk buddies, decide to stop us, I’m going to make sure your new nickname is Limp Dick Steve.” Her left hand flashed out, grabbing Fast Hands’s crotch in a death grip that made me whimper in sympathy. The guy was a drunk disgusting monster who definitely had it coming, but still. Uncomfortable zone for any guy in the room.

Fast Hands blanched just a little, but otherwise seemed unruffled. “I’m gonna ask again, Sugar Tits. What’s a little city girl like you packin’ iron for?”

Oh shit, oh shit. We weren’t walking out of here, not without a fight—I could hear it in Fast Hands’s voice. I needed to do something … anything was better than standing around without cover waiting for someone else to take a shot. So I pulled out my gun, not as quickly as Fast Hands could’ve managed, but quickly enough all the same. Ferraro’s piece was a compact, sleek Glock—matte black and professional, exactly the kind of gun an FBI agent would carry, though nothing really exceptional.

My gun was very different: .44 Magnum, dark hammer-forged steel, six-inch barrel—sleek barrel ports running along the top, reducing muzzle flip and recoil—dark wood grip encircled with golden filigree. Etched in the steel were runes and mystic symbols, swirling and twisting with artful flourishes. There was a subtle glamour on the weapon making it seem slightly less extraordinary, but anyone with a working pair of eyes could tell this wasn’t any ol’ run-of-the-mill handgun. Fast Hands knew it too.

“Alright, Drunkzilla, you want to play it hard—we can play it hard,” I said, pointing the muzzle right at Fast Hands’s ugly mug, ready to move in an eye blink. “Now everybody listen up.” I looked at the mass of men and women filling the saloon—though I kept my pistol trained on Fast Hands—who all stared at me with uneasy gazes. “My name’s Bobby Haskell—” I didn’t want any of these sons of bitches to know who I really was “—I’m a judge with the Guild of the Staff.” That statement, at least, wasn’t entirely untrue. Once upon a time, I’d been a member of the Fist of the Staff, which technically fell under the Judges.

“I’m searching for a dangerous fugitive … Now, I know that fugitive is not anyone in this room. But you bunch of shitheels have already blown my cover, potentially putting me and my partner at risk, so I’m about a hairsbreadth away from burning this whole friggin’ bar right to the ground.” I brought up my left hand, holding it out toward the assembled masses as though brandishing a weapon, which, if I’d had my powers, would’ve been the truth.

“Here’s what’s gonna happen,” I said. “You jolly, card-playin’ drunkards are gonna sit back down at your tables. You’re gonna drink your drinks and you’re gonna look the other way while my partner and I vamoose, and you’re gonna forget we were ever here. Pretend like this was all some bad alcohol-induced nightmare. Okay? And if any of you try to stop me from walking out, so help me God, I will melt the hide right off your bones. You hear me?”

No one said anything, the room was quiet, deathly still; everyone seemed to be holding their breath, waiting to see how this all would shake out.

“So do it,” Fast Hands hissed, a terrible grin splitting his hideous reptilian face.

“Do what, Shit-gecko?” I asked.

“Let’s see your power, mageling, let’s see you burn this place to the ground.”

“Come again?”

“Do it.” He spread his claw-tipped hands in invitation. “Maybe you’re a mage, but I smelt you true, and there’s something wrong with you. I think you’re full of pig shit … so I say shoot, Luke, or give up the gun.”

I hesitated—Fast Hands had gotten a peek at my cards and knew I was playing with a bad hand. Dammit. The stillness in the barroom broke like a wave; one moment everything was static, though tense, and the next moment pandemonium erupted.

Men and women started hollering, bodies moving this way and that, tables flew up on end—hastily constructed firing positions—and the sharp whip-crack report of gunfire filled the air. Of course, this is how it had to play out. I shouldn’t have hesitated—I should’ve shot Fast Hands right in the friggin’ skull. The saloon-goers had seen the uncertainty in my face, the indecision in my eyes, and they’d reacted according to their nature, cruel and violent.

TWENTY-ONE:

Saloon Shootout

I threw myself back and down, taking cover behind the far side of the upright piano. Bullets plowed into the wood with a shriek. More rounds ripped into the piano’s guts—pinging off hammers and strings. Shame, that. As I said, I’m a musician at heart, so it pained me to see the Emerson go down in a blaze of glory. But better it than me. Bluesman yes, but pragmatist even more so.

I pressed my back against the piano and kept my head low. If one of those rounds did manage to punch through, my jacket would stop it cold. I glanced left: Fast Hands was struggling to free himself from Ferraro, wrestling against her grip; she seemed reluctant to shoot him, though damned if I knew why. The scaly son of a bitch twisted free of her grasp, turning in a flurry of motion, hand darting for his weapon.

Ferraro ducked inside his guard as he made the draw. She hooked one arm around his body, pivoted at the hips, and dragged Fast Hands up off his feet, across her back, and then sent him flipping through the air; a classic Judo throw called O Goshi, which was ideal against a larger opponent like Fast Hands. The snake man collided with the floor, though he’d somehow managed to complete the draw, even while in midflight. Ferraro didn’t even hesitate, not this time. She aimed her Glock down and blew off several of his fingers, simultaneously sending the gun spinning off across the floor, now covered in bloody gore.

And here I’d been worried that I was gonna need to save her. At this rate, she was probably gonna be the one who ended up saving my ass.

I glanced toward the front entrance. The batwing doors were now blocked by a trio of men—all hard-looking types with even harder-looking firearms—no way out there. Ferraro saw it too. She shot me a quick look and then slipped an arm around Fast Hands’s throat, his dark eyes looked dull with shock. She dragged him to his feet, positioning him in front of her body. A human—well, humanish anyways—shield. She slowly, deliberately backtracked toward the rear of the bar and the steep, narrow staircase which led to the second floor.

Tactically, going up was not a great option: our escape routes would be limited and we’d be boxing ourselves in. Still, there would likely be windows up there and a two-story drop was survivable. Not to mention that the other option was staying down here in a room full of angry, inhuman thieves and killers, most of who were brandishing weapons and trying to murder us.

If there was a back way out—which there probably was—I didn’t see hide nor hair of it, which meant getting out down here would require breaking past the posse blocking the door. That’d be one helluva tough row to hoe. So, in this case, it seemed like the path of least resistance was the best choice.

Now all I needed to do was get to the stairs safely without getting shot into itty-bitty mage pieces. Behind the bar—that would be the safest way to maneuver the length of the room with all that incoming lead. If I had the Vis, I could’ve created a friction shield and just walked over to the bar, but I didn’t. If this were a badass western flick, I could’ve rolled the piano while staying all hidden, super sneaky like. Unfortunately, in real life, an upright piano weighs nearly eight hundred pounds, so I wasn’t gonna be rolling that heavy, busted-up S.O.B. anywhere.

I took a deep breath, steeling myself for what I knew I’d have to do … I glanced back out at the assembled horde. There was still plenty of gunfire going on, though a few of the mob had turned weapons on each other—apparently taking advantage of the chaos to settle some old debts. Still, there were eight shooters paying attention to me. Thankfully, they were all firing old-timey revolvers, mostly with six-round cylinders (though a few of them had two guns). I waited for a few of the shooters to run dry and then pivoted out, staying low, hefting my cannon and firing into the crowd.

The noise was a minuscule thing, really, but the damage … the damage was awe-inspiring. A table exploded, sending up a shower of wooden shrapnel followed by a chorus of shouts and curses. Another round plowed into the stomach of one of the shooters—a nasty looking guy with lime-green skin and a pair of misshapen feathered wings protruding from his back. He doubled over, grabbing at his middle. I don’t like killing, it’s never an easy thing to end a life, but sometimes the way of the gun is the only way.

I aimed high and shot out the rope tethering the massive overhead bone chandelier in place. The chandelier came crashing down, shattering on an overturned table and a human looking shooter crouched behind it. Chips of bone flew away like a bomb blast—chunks of ragged bone shrapnel nicked flesh here and there, causing a great many of the outlaws to duck low.

Time to move.

I turned my back toward the crowd and darted across the small open space to the bar, keeping my back, and coat, to the crowd. Though it wasn’t really much more than an eight or nine foot gap, the distance felt like the length of a friggin’ football field—it also felt like that football field was filled to the gills with defensive linemen all trying to tackle me into the dirt. Except these linemen were also wielding guns. The crack of pistol fire followed, the whine of bullets zipping through the air, but none of them came close. Thank God.

I vaulted over the bar, sliding across the surface, knocking over a few beer mugs and a bowl of peanuts in passing. Unfortunately, I massively failed to stick the landing and instead bowled over the edge and dropped right onto my ass with a thump, which hurt like a son of a bitch. Probably bruised my tailbone, certainly bruised my ego. If the Olympic judges of bar sliding had been present, the hard-nosed Russian judge would’ve given my performance a negative thirteen for sure.

A second later a round of bullets crashed into the silvered mirror running the length of wall behind the bar—I was actually kinda surprised it hadn’t already been shot out. A moment later, jagged chunks of mirror started raining down on me—slicing my cheek and the back of my left hand—because yeah, that was just what I needed … more scars, plus a literal blanket of glass to crawl across. I was working for Lady Luck, how was it possible that I could get the shaft so often? Ugh.

At least the bartender was nowhere to be seen—guy must’ve seen his fair share of saloon brawls and knew well enough when to duck away. I wish I’d had that same foresight. But I hadn’t because I’m a shortsighted, unlucky idiot. So instead I resigned myself to crawling all the way across the glass-strewn floor.

I shuffled along for a few feet before cautiously poking my hand above the counter and firing blind in the general vicinity of the crowd. I reloaded, crept forward another few feet and repeated the process, making sure I was laying down enough suppressive gunfire to keep the jokers from advancing beyond their hastily constructed wooden defenses.

After what felt like a geological epoch, I managed to reach the end of the bar—and hey, I only had a few nicks on my hands and knees and cheek, not so bad in the grand scheme of things. The stairs were close, maybe four feet of uncovered space. I hazarded a glance over the top edge of the bar, gathering a split second lay of the land, trying to decide on the best course of action here.

Most of the women had cleared out, leaving only armed and dangerous killers. Check. Of the original eight shooters who’d been taking shots at me, only five remained. One of the eight was surely dead, one more looked like he might’ve been close, and the third was badly maimed—gun arm completely missing.

The batwing doors were still being blocked by the trio of toughs, none of who were actively engaging in the gunfight, but still … that left me against eight possible threats, with Ferraro upstairs. I had a relatively safe firing position—good enough, in fact, that I might’ve been able to win this little gun battle, but the best option still seemed like following Ferraro’s lead and heading upstairs.

I inhaled deeply—breath filled me up—and I held it until my lungs strained under the pressure. Then I breathed out, pushing the spent oxygen away along with all my worries, anxieties, and fears. It was an exercise I regularly did when drawing on the Vis—having all that extra emotional baggage while tapping and handling the Vis could be deadly. Though this time I couldn’t draw on the life giving power underlying Creation, I still found the routine to be calming. Inhale, hold. Exhale, freedom. After another few breaths, I pushed myself into a crouch and lunged for the stairs and safety.

More shooting. More thunder cracks. More furniture exploding. A flare of white-hot pain lanced across the back of my outstretched calf, like a knife slice, leaving a shallow slash in its wake. I paid it no mind. The adrenaline running through my blood was a drug keeping the pain at bay. I tucked my gun into the rig running along my ribs and proceeded to scamper up the stairs on hands and feet, like some kinda deformed and especially ugly gorilla.

I crested the top of the stairs a moment later. A wood-floored hallway stretched out before me with a handful of rooms on either side. All the doors to the right were closed up tight, but that was okay since I was pretty sure Ferraro wouldn’t have picked one of those puppies. The rooms on the right would’ve been positioned above the barroom below, meaning a stray round could easily come through the floor and take you out from below. The room windows on that side would also let down in front of the bar, making our escape more noticeable. Ferraro was more than smart enough to know that, so she’d be in one of the rooms on the left.

There were four of them, two with open doors, two with closed doors—she’d be in one of ’em, though I couldn’t be sure which. I drew my iron and moved in a crouch, keeping low and constantly peeking back over my shoulder to make sure there weren’t baddies trucking up the stairs. The first door was closed, but the knob turned freely in my hand—it swung open on creaking hinges, revealing a small room decorated with a set of drawers, a wrought-iron lamp with a rawhide shade, and a large bed, the sheets peeled away in disarray.

There was also a woman: a buxom gal who’d seen better days, her skin a shade of chalky-blue, a messy pile of curly red locks hanging around her face, and most of her clothes strewn on the floor near the mattress. She stood in the corner near the outside window, one arm wrapped around her front concealing gigantic breasts. The other hand held a sheet around her ample waist.

“You ain’t gonna hurt me, right, sug?” she asked, purple eyes widening slightly in pleading.

“No, no ma’am,” I said, dropping my weapon to show I meant her no harm.

“That’s real good,” she cooed, smiling.

Then, of course, she dropped the sheet clinging to her hips and pulled out a dainty pistola from a shimmering white garter belt gun holster. I ducked around the corner just as the bullets smacked into the wall. Idiot. Never should’ve dropped my gun, not in a place like the Hinterlands.

I scooted along to the next room as quick as I could manage, my calf squealing in protest, though bearing my weight okay. The door was open, so I peeked around the corner and nearly got shot by another woman—this one I knew. And no, it wasn’t an ex of mine, though that’s a pretty fair guess as things go.

It was Ferraro. Thankfully, she had enough training and fire-discipline not to pull the trigger on an impulse, which certainly saved my neck. She still held Fast Hands in a chokehold, her gun tucked up under the corner of his jaw. He just stared blankly down at his ruined hand, all the fight seeming to have gone out of his body.

“Took you long enough,” she said.

“Sorry for taking my sweet time—I wasn’t standing right next to the friggin’ stairs when someone decided to pick a fight in a room full of trigger-happy killers.” I carefully closed the door behind me and slid home an old-fashioned iron bolt, sealing the room.

She scowled at me, her lips slightly turned down at the corners in disapproval. “He was trying to solicit me—called me easy.” She glanced down at the disheveled Fast Hands as though there were no greater insult known to man. For Pete’s sake, the son of a bitch had told me to shut my cock holster, and I’d still managed not to Judo flip him into the floor and start a Wild West shootout.

So I scowled right back. “Yeah, he did. So what? Haven’t you ever worked undercover before? Sometimes you’ve just gotta play along a little. That’s how the game works, especially when you’re working in enemy territory and playing with a shitty hand of cards.”

“Don’t take that tone with me,” she said. “I’ve done my share of undercover ops, but there was no way things could’ve gone down any other way. If I’d turned him down, it would’ve ended the same way. The only other option was to separate—a terrible idea—and go with him upstairs by myself, which wouldn’t have ended well either. No way was I going to play blow-up doll for a disgusting snake-man named Fast Hands Steve. Now, let’s stop bickering, act like a couple of professionals, jump out this window”—she nodded to the glass pane behind her—“and steal a couple of horses.”

I paused for a moment, not sure what the expected response was to such an outlandish and completely hilarious statement. Then I snorted, because hey, how often does an FBI agent dress you down before telling you to jump out a window and steal a horse? “Yeah, alright,” I said, walking past Ferraro to grab a glance at the street below. A narrow thoroughfare—not much more than a wide alley, really—of tightly packed dirt running off in either direction. As straight as an arrow between shops and buildings on either side. And sure enough, there was a pair of horses tethered up behind one of the adjacent buildings.

There was also a staggered row of mopeds: chrome and brass and dusty paintjobs in various hues. Now that I could work with.

I grabbed up a wrought-iron lamp off the dresser and proceeded to bust out the thick, cloudy glass, taking a little time to make sure there were no large protrusions left sticking up to cause me trouble.

“Alright.” I pointed at Fast Hands. “Put him out cold, okay?”

She just nodded and, with a flash of her hand, pulled the gun out from under his jaw and bashed him in the base of the skull with the pistol grip. The guy dropped like a sack of concrete, sprawling on the floor, ruined hand splayed out and leaking blood in a steady stream. “You think we should do anything about his hand?” she asked. “He could bleed out if we don’t do anything.”

“It’s probably better that way,” I said. It was a cold thing to say and I felt like a real son of a bitch, but it was true. Probably, we’d get away free and clear from the Hog’s Head, but it seemed to me that Fast Hands Steve was the kinda fella who might just hold a grudge. If I ever ran into him again it would probably end up being pretty ugly.

Ferraro said nothing, only stared at me with narrowed suspicious eyes, a kind of weighing judgment—I could practically hear her voice in my head: Maybe he is the killer I always suspected him to be.

I sighed. “Fine. I’m going on the record right now, though; we should kill him. I’ve been around the block a time or two and I know a real bad apple when I see one.” I pointed at Fast Hands with my pistol, still thinking about pulling the trigger. “That overgrown snake in the grass is a knife in the back just waiting to happen. Trust me, I know from experience.” I rubbed at my lower back with my left hand, remembering a Rakshasa who’d stabbed me a little over a year ago. “So if this comes back to bite us in the ass, it’s all on you.”

I limped over to the bed—my calf felt tenderer by the minute, though I could see I’d only been grazed. I pulled my K-Bar free from the sheath at my hip and cut pieces of linen from the dirty white duvet. I bundled the material up, a quick pressure dressing, and shoved it into place around Fast Hands’s missing digits, securing it in place with a few tattered strips of fabric.

I took the last of the material and struggled to tie it around my calf. It doesn’t sound that tricky, but securing a pressure dressing in place on yourself isn’t as easy as it looks. At least the wound wasn’t too bad, just a scratch really. After a few fitful minutes, I got the damn thing in place and stood up to test my leg—it felt good enough all things considered.

“There,” I said, once everything was ready. “Happy, Miss Goody-friggin’-two-shoes? Now the villainous snake-man will survive. Sure, he’ll probably kill us both at some later date, but whatever … we did the right thing. Yippee. Now, can we please get a move on?”

TWENTY-TWO:

Shootin’ the Shit

She smiled, just a little, but overall seemed pleased with my decision not to end Fast Hands, which I understood, at least in part. Still … I had a feeling about Fast Hands. Guy was trouble just waiting to happen. I’d already made up my mind, however, so I stowed my knife and went back over to the window, pushing my legs through, then lowering myself down until I hung by my fingertips. The drop was maybe only eight feet or so, and hardly hurt at all. Oh wait, that’s not true, it hurt like a bitch because someone had shot me in the friggin’ calf. Assholes.

I moved out of the way and secured my ventilator and goggles in place; a few seconds later Ferraro dropped down beside me. She likewise geared up, then immediately headed over to one of the horses: one with tan-colored hair, spotted with patches of white, and a saddle on its back. Looked like a boy horse—stallion I think they’re called—from the goods underneath, but I don’t know shit about horses. Precisely why I made my way over to the mopeds and searched around until I found one that had the key in the ignition. A nice little orange one with a wire basket on the front—even had a full tank of gas. There’s a lesson here, I think: kids, don’t be lazy and leave the keys in the ignition of your moped or some delinquent bluesman will steal your shit.

Ferraro pulled herself up onto the mount—made it look pretty easy too—and then motioned me over to the other horse. A grayish she-horse, I think. Yeah, she-horse. What I know about horses has mostly come from bad fantasy novels and old western movies. I just shook my head nope and then hopped on the moped and turned the engine over; it hummed to life with all the fury of a purring kitten. So maybe Ferraro would look a lot cooler riding off into the sunset on her horse than I would on my scooter, but the scooter wouldn’t ever get a wild hair up its ass and buck me onto mine.

“What are you doing?” she asked, a look of incredulity spreading across her face, followed by a flash of annoyance. “Get on the other horse.”

“No way, cowgirl, this city slicker doesn’t ride horses.”

“Get. On. The. Horse.”

I backed the moped out of its place. “Horses are big,” I said over my shoulder. “Horses have a mind of their own. I don’t like horses and I don’t know how to ride a horse. So it’s this sexy-ass moped for me all the way, you dig?” I revved the engine—sounded like some kid’s starter dirt bike—and then putted away, leaving Ferraro and her horse to follow.

The alleyway let us out onto a main boulevard, lined with traffic moving in both directions. No one seemed especially interested in us—apparently we managed to leave all the wackiness behind at the bar. How long it would remain that way was uncertain, but for now I counted it as a lucky break to be exploited—don’t look a gift moped in the mouth, they say. Well, that’s what I say anyway.

We rode eastward for a good hour, taking our time, maneuvering through occasional stop and go traffic, taking in the dusty sights of Bradshaw Landing until the city finally dwindled behind us. The town gave way to low foothills, which stretched out before us: short, arid sweeps full of sagebrush reaching off into the distance before the darkness of night swallowed the landscape entirely.

Full night had come long before and the moon overhead, just a thick thumbnail in the sky, didn’t shed much by way of light, so we stuck to the road. Trying to ride through the sage would’ve been damn near impossible for me. In town, the road had been a wide, hard-packed thing, but out here it turned into a thin, winding cut, barely wide enough for a single compact car to navigate—though we had no problem even in the dark, thanks to my scooter, which I mentally dubbed Sir Zippy. Horses might be better than mopeds in some ways, but no horse I’ve ever seen has a headlight. Score one for Sir Zippy.

This part of the road saw little use—no one with any sense had reason to go east from the Landing. To the west lay the Sprawl, a harsh desert with a few isolated towns and pockets of insane mutants living in broken cities, chock-full of radioactive fallout. But past the Sprawl lay the Spine: a jagged set of mountain peaks cutting across the sky like a nasty shark bite. And lots of people made for the Spine.

Big mining town out that way, right at the base of the mountains—locals just called it Base Camp—full of folks seeking to eke out a living mining into the deep darks below the mountain. A lot of money to be made in those mountains, but also a thousand terrible deaths for the unwary: poison clouds that could seep up from the rocks below, caverns filled with blue-skinned, malformed Kobock clans, slumbering ancient gods—there was even rumor of an old-world, stone-dragon dwelling in the mountain heart.

Still, there was some reason to go west. To the south lay the Hub, and the train ran further north for another week before dead ending at the Endless Woods—the Realm of the fae, high, low, and all five courts. But east? No one with a friggin’ lick of sense went east—what that says about me I don’t really want to know. East from the Landing lay the Salt Marsh, which eased into the Hinterlands Swamps, a dark place filled with twisted things. Twisted things and the ever-shifting Bog Fog, which no one wanted to venture into, since the Mists of Fate randomly drifted throughout like an unpredictable bear trap, just waiting to snag you in iron teeth.

We rode another hour into the night, wanting to put a little distance between us and the Landing, but taking things nice and slow. Driving at night isn’t easy and I doubted riding a horse was any better. Plus, we were both tired and I’d had a beer or two too many, though I was a far cry short of drunk. And before you judge, it would’ve been odd as a duck in a toupee for a Song-Slinger not to down a few drinks while playing. I’d only been keeping in character, honest.

Once the city lights were firmly behind us, I pulled to a stop and motioned for Ferraro to do the same.

“We should set up camp for the night,” I said. I pulled my goggles up and slid my breather off.

“Is it safe?” she asked, taking a glance around the plains yawning out around us.

“No, not really.” I slumped forward in my seat, tired right down to my bones. “But we can’t make the Salt Marshes tonight. It’ll be maybe another three or four hours, I think, and I can’t do that without a little sleep first. There are predators out here—muties, mostly, but a lot of them are slow and dumb. The ones out here in the plains are scared of fire. So we’ll build us a little camp and make a fire. We’ll take watch shifts … it’ll be okay. And we don’t really have a choice.”

We pulled off the road a little way, into a small dirt-filled clearing mostly devoid of sagebrush, and began setting up our impromptu bivvy. I’d lost my bag and guitar, which meant I had no food rations, extra clothes, or my camping supplies. Thankfully, I’d kept all the really important stuff on me—gun, knife, jacket, goggles, ventilator. The things I needed to absolutely not die. Ferraro had managed to keep hold of her bag though, so she gave me a box of fire-starter matches while she went to work doing horse stuff. I gathered up some dry brush—plenty of that around at least—and built up a little fire, which took away some of the chilly nip in the air.

I settled and waited for a few minutes while Ferraro finished doing whatever the hell she was doing with the horse. After a while she joined me by the fire, sans goggles and breather. She pulled out a small travel blanket and a couple of brown-packaged MREs—meals ready to eat, the new C-Rats of the military—from her pack, before handing me some chow … I got pot roast and mashed potatoes, which wasn’t so bad even if not exactly good. Ferraro had meatloaf, so I got the feeling that she’d done me a real solid.

She bit into the congealed meat and chewed for a moment, staring at the fire. “You know, I was only kind of kidding with Fortuna,” she said. “I really do think I got into the wrong line of work. No, not the wrong line—I love catching bad guys—but maybe I joined with the wrong branch. Back in interrogation, you told me you were like me. You said you were a cop, kept regular people safe from monsters. Who’d you work for? How did you get involved in all this in the first place?”

I ate for another minute, taking a plastic spoonful of mostly tasteless mashed potatoes. “Once upon a time,” I said, “I worked for the Guild of the Staff. It’s the mage ruling body. It’s sorta like the mage ‘government’ I guess, if there is such a thing. If you’re a member you belong to the Guild, to the nation, and you have certain rights and privileges. You’re also supposed to have a certain degree of protection. If some supernatural monster or one of the other supernatural nations knocks you off, the whole Guild is responsible for avenging you.”

“So is everyone in the Guild a supernatural cop?” she asked.

“No. Every member is responsible to the Guild, and yes, technically, every member is expected to defend the Guild from its enemies if necessary. But in reality? There aren’t very many actual enforcers. Inside the Guild there’s a group, the judges. They’re, I dunno, a combination of cops and military infantry, I guess. There’s not a lot of them—maybe two hundred all across the globe. Mostly, they handle routine affairs: monitor potentially dangerous practitioners, enforce rules, take care of low-level problems, handle most investigations, that kind of thing.”

“Okay.” She nodded in understanding. “So you were a judge.”

I dipped my head yes and took another bit of pot roast—even warm, the meat was squishy and unappetizing. Southern-style ribs this was not. “Yeah … well, sorta,” I said through a mouthful of packaged meat. “It’s complicated. See, inside the Judge’s Office, there’s another group, a group of five, called the Fist of the Staff. They’re the wet-works department. The friggin’ secret police is what they really are … hunt down the worst of the worst, kill at will, have a blank check to break any rules they need to, and they report only to the Arch-Mage of the Guild.”

I picked up a nearby stick and poked at the fire, watching a few loose embers kick up into the night air, swirl for a moment and then die. Usually I didn’t talk about the Guild, didn’t talk about the Five—everyone who knew me, really knew me, knew those were off-limits topics of conversation. But Ferraro didn’t know any better, she was new to this crazy world and couldn’t possibly be aware of all the history I had. She didn’t know me, but she deserved some answers. She’d proven herself gutsy and good. She’d stuck her neck out for me when she didn’t have to, had stitched up my wounds, and traveled to the dark heart of a different world.

“Used to be I was one of the five, the junior member. Officially, I still am, even though I gave them my notice of resignation years ago. They appointed a temporary stand-in for me, but I still have the title. Hand of the Fist. They used to call me The Fixer, ’cause I got called out to fix the worst cases … Most of the Elder Council still thinks I’ll come back eventually, thinks that with enough time I’ll get my head on straight. Magi live a long time, so a few years isn’t so much to these folks. They think it’s just the ‘hot-headedness of youth.’ But I’m not going back. Never. Whole Guild can go fuck themselves sideways.”

The firelight flickered, casting shadows that danced against the ring of sage surrounding us.

“They recruited me after I got out of the Marine Corps,” I said. “I served in Nam, you know.”

“You were a Marine?” She sounded like she was about to raise the bullshit flag right to the top of the pole. “In Nam? How old are you?”

“Sixty-six.”

“Sixty-six.” She looked at me with appraising eyes, weighing and measuring, parceling me away. “You seem spry for an old guy.”

“Hey, what can I say, one of the perks of being a mage—we age well, just like good Scotch. Like good Scotch, we also get more potent with time.” I arched an eyebrow at her, which earned me a scowl in return.

“I never would’ve guessed you were more than thirty-five,” she said after a moment. “Forty, maybe. And it’s not just your looks.” Her lips compressed into a thin line. “You seem …” She paused—the long kind of pause folks use when they’re looking for the most tactful way to say something brutally honest and usually mean. “Less emotionally mature,” she finally finished.

“What, you think that just because I qualify for retirement that I should be some sage old man smoking a corncob pipe and dispensing wisdom from my rocking chair?”

“Just an observation—I wasn’t trying to be offensive.”

I snorted, a little piece of gelatinous meat slipped through my teeth and I sucked it back in. “It’s fine, I’m just giving you a hard time. That’s what the rest of my vanilla friends think too—at least the ones who know about what I am and how long I’ve been around. My buddy Greg—he and I go back a long way, served in the Corps together, though he’s a regular mortal like you—even has a theory: since practitioners don’t age properly, he thinks the increase in longevity stunts ‘emotional maturity.’” I air quoted the words.

The flat look on her face told me right away that she wasn’t buying it. “That what you think?” she asked.

I shrugged. “Maybe there’s something too it. As you get older, feel older, see the road getting shorter, I think it changes your perspective a bit. But me? I don’t look old, I don’t feel old, and I’ve got lots of time left … well, theoretically at least.” I held for a beat, thinking.

“Heck, I guess it might be true,” I continued. “I mean, I’ve met fae beings a couple of thousand years old and they’re like capricious, teenage shitheads. They get older, more powerful, more cunning, and dangerous. But they don’t really change. They just become more of what they are with time. Maybe using the Vis makes magi the same way to some extent. Shit, I’ve run across a lot of other magi like me—well, no one’s like me, exactly. What I mean is, I’ve met other mages that seem ‘stuck’ in the past. I dunno. Could be.”

I stared at the fire while I pushed the question around in the old noggin. “Mostly, though, I think maturity is more a state of mind than an age. I’ve met thirty-year-old mothers and fathers who are more mature than folks twice their age. I’ve also run into tons of geriatric, shit-caked hobos living out of cardboard boxes who have the emotional maturity of toddlers. Personally, I think I just fall on the shit-caked hobo end of the spectrum. I’m just an old man who never grew up.” I grinned, though I didn’t really feel like it.

“For Pete’s sake,” I said after a second, “I live out of an El Camino. I travel from bar to bar playing music. I gamble for a living. I drink a lot. I smoke like a chimney. These are not things mature adults do. The way I figure it, I’ve spent most of my life doin’ shit I didn’t really want to do—working for people who were all too happy to kick my ass to the curb when I was done being useful. I don’t want to do that anymore. I don’t want to whittle away my life jumping through flaming hoops like someone’s trained monkey. I’ve been there, done that. Way I figure, I’ve got one life to live—regardless of how long I live—and I don’t want to waste it trying to be something I’m not.”

I fell quiet, my cheeks burning a little—talking about the real me was uncomfortable. Felt awkward as running with two left feet. Don’t get me wrong, I love being around people, I love shootin’ the shit, and I can smoke and joke with the best of ’em, but few people know my history. It made me itch a little to just lay it out there for Ferraro.

It was quiet for a while, both of us just eating while little night bugs chirped around us. “I served too,” Ferraro said eventually. “I was a logistics officer with the fifteenth MEU, out of Pendleton. Ran a truck company during OIF. Did two tours in Iraq.”

“Get outta here?” I shouldn’t have been surprised, not really. Although I didn’t know much about Ferraro, there was something familiar about her. Her mannerisms. Her attitude. Her unflinching dedication to duty. It made sense that she’d been a jarhead too, I could just see her standing in front of a platoon of Motor-T drivers, handing out safety briefs or convoy lineups. “Well Semper Fi, Devil. Semper Fi,” I said. “I should’ve guessed, the way you stared down that metus in the hallway.”

She didn’t respond. Maybe she felt uncomfortable talking about herself too—there was a thought. “So,” she said after a long pause, “you said the Guild recruited you after the Corps? Why?”

She was probing, asking a lot of leading questions, the kind of thing a cop does with a suspect. But I let it go; probably this was just the way she was. Sometimes if you do a thing for long enough—like interrogate criminals—it just gets into you and becomes second nature.

I poked the fire some more, watching it spit up more tongues of flame. “There are three types of people,” I said by way of an introduction. “There are folks who won’t ever be able to touch the Vis, the energy undergirding all of Creation. The vast majority of humanity falls into that category. Then there are a few who have the right bent”—I canted one hand—“the right inclination. Folks who can learn through study and practice to touch the Vis. People who can learn range in ability from those who can barely light a candle to full-fledged magi on the Guild. Heck, most of the magi in the Guild learned. They weren’t born with the talent.”

I set the stick down, pushed more pot roast out of its plastic sleeve, and took another mouthful while I thought. Ferraro seemed to pick up my unease and didn’t push, but rather took a bite of her own meal. Giving me some space.

“A few people are inborn with the ability to use the Vis. They will use it at some point—it’s in their blood. Most people with the gift come from the union of two serious practitioners, but once in a while … someone is born with the gift, and grows up without ever training. Without ever learning. I was like that. While I was in Nam … well, something happened that triggered my gift. But that’s a whole other story and one not worth talking about—some things are like that, you understand?”

She nodded, her eyes unfocused and far away, like maybe she was seeing her own unpleasant memories. She’d been in the Corps, had been to an active combat zone, so maybe she did understand.

“And then?” she asked.

I shrugged. “After that, the Guild tracked me down. I had military training, was naturally gifted, and powerful … Put two and two together. They convinced me to abandon my family—I had a wife and a pair of boys. They convinced me to leave ’em behind. Said they’d be better off without me. Told me I was dangerous to them. And I was. Without proper training, I could’ve accidentally burned my whole house down while I was asleep. They trained me and after a few years offered me a spot with the Fist. The rest is history.”

“They made you leave your family?” Her voice was soft, not filled with anger or outrage. Pity, maybe, which was worse.

“No,” I said, shaking my head. “They’re a bunch of shit-covered chickens, but I can’t lay that at their feet. Not entirely. They gave me a helluva sales pitch, but I made that choice. There was a part of me that wanted to go. I was afraid to be a dad, to be a husband. I spent most of my marriage in the Corps. Was gone a lot. It was easy being an absentee husband and dad. But after the Marine Corps was over?” I paused for a minute, not sure how to continue, or even if I wanted to continue.

“I was scared,” I said eventually. “Everything changed. I had all these new responsibilities that I wasn’t ready for. On top of that, my body was going through a change I didn’t understand and I was just getting back from a bad tour. The perfect shitstorm. The Guild offered me a way out. Even offered to set my family up. Provide them with a fat check every month, look in on them to make sure my boys didn’t have the gift. The Guild took advantage of me—I was young, inexperienced, and in a bad place. And they took advantage of me. But at the end of the day I made the choice to go. Me, not them.”

“Is that why you hate the Guild—why you left?” she asked.

“No.” I scrunched my lips into a grimace. “No, this was all years before I left the Guild. Leaving my family is why I hate myself. I have issues with the Guild for another reason.” We were quiet for a time. I shuffled over a few feet, grabbed some more brush and twigs, and fed the whole lot of ’em to the flames. The crackling and popping of the fire filled up the air with its noise.

“I was married, once,” she offered, “to a Navy lieutenant. This was back in my Marine Corps days. My marriage didn’t outlive the Marine Corps either. Once I left for the FBI things just fell apart. He deployed a lot, and when he wasn’t gone, I was—either training or on assignment. It wasn’t sustainable.”

We finished our respective meals in silence. Afterward, we packed up the trash and tossed the remains into the fire, watching it smoke, burn, then smolder in turn.

“Why didn’t you ever go back to your family?” she asked after maybe ten or fifteen minutes. “I mean after everything. After you left the Guild.”

“I dunno.” I sat for a while, the silence stretching between us, pushing us apart.

“At first,” I finally said, “I planned on going back. I planned on seeing them more. But the longer I waited the harder it was and the more depressed I felt about it. The guiltier I felt, the less I wanted to deal with it—so I’d push it off. Volunteered for Guild assignments, did just anything not to think about it. After a while … I started to think I didn’t deserve to be in their lives. Like I’d given up the right to try and fix things with them. It’s a cycle, you know? Guilt, depression, self-loathing, all that shit. One big, nasty cycle. After four or five years, Lauren married someone else. Seemed like a nice guy, good dad—not like me at all. That kinda put the nail in the coffin.”

I pulled out a pack of cigarettes, and held the pack out to Ferraro as a peace offering. She just shook her head no, so I shook a smoke free from the pack for myself. I leaned over and lit the smoke off the fire. “Enough of this bullshit,” I said, before taking a long drag. “You’re probably tired of hearing me bitch and whine. I’m sure tired of doing it.”

She didn’t say anything, but nodded as if to say she understood.

We ended up talking for another couple of hours despite the fact that we should’ve slept, but not about anything serious. Not about the Guild, or monsters, or my life. Still, though, we talked, and it was kinda fun, actually. It’d been a damn long time since I’d opened up to someone new. We talked Marine Corps—she’d been an officer, while I’d been enlisted—so we talked shit to each other about the brass and enlisted, respectively. We compared notes about tours of duty and joked about boot camp. We told stories about the worst meals we’d ever eaten: mine was the Ham and Lima Beans C-Rats, hers was the Omelet MRE.

After a long while she called it a night; I told her to hit the rack while I took the first watch.

After three hours or so, I woke her up and took my rest. She, in turn, woke me up three or four hours later as the sun was cresting the horizon, sending orange arms reaching across the desert. We ate a couple of granola bars—health food is worse than MREs, let me tell you—and then mounted our rides, her on the horse, me on the moped, and rode.

It took us five hours to reach the edge of the Salt Marsh—desert, sage, scraggly trees, and foothills gradually giving way to mucky ground, pools of stagnant, reeking water, tangles of moss-green water plants, and biting bugs of one variety or another. The road devolved, turning into little more than a footpath, but still I managed to scoot along on the moped—little suckers are more resilient than they look.

Another hour into the Marsh brought us to what could only be the Mists of Fate.

TWENTY-THREE:

Mists of Fate

The mist came on slow at first, just a low clinging cloud of silver, maybe half a foot off the ground, rolling and dancing in some unfelt breeze. It was cool against my skin, sound seemed to dampen and distort as we rode in; the hum of my moped died to a low drone, the clopping footfalls of Ferraro’s horse faded to a whisper. On we rode, ’cause what the hell else were we gonna do? But damn did this place give me the friggin’ heebie-jeebies.

Another few minutes and the mists became complete and all consuming, just an endless wall of gray in every direction. As sight faded away, so too did the world—things sorta thinned out, became fluid and somehow less substantial.

“You okay, Ferraro?” I called out, unable to see her in the gray soup around us.

“Yeah,” she said, her voice sounding far away and distorted, even though she was likely no more than a couple of feet from me. “I feel a little sick though. Woozy, lightheaded. I think I might vomit. Is … is this normal?”

I nodded my head, then felt like an idiot since there was no way she could see me. “Yeah. It’ll pass in a bit,” I hollered, knowing she would be having as tough a time hearing me as I was hearing her. “We’re tripping. I’ve been in the mists once before, on assignment with the Guild years back. Right now we’re stumbling our happy asses into a Time Lap, a shadow of the future. Once we breach, the sickness will pass.”

There was power in the fog, Vis, moving and flowing like a stream, blowing across my skin like a stiff breeze—damn, did it feel good. Being so close to all that energy—even if it was outside of me instead of inside me—was like getting a taste of a cigarette after a long dry spell. Secondhand smoke, but still divine. The power almost felt alive and purposeful, which I guess it was in one sense. To be honest, the construct swirling through the fog felt like a conjuration—and I had the funny notion that Ferraro and I were the ones being conjured. Being conjured into a different world by our unseen benefactor, Lady Fate. Kind of strange being on the other end of this equation.

Then, the power shifted, changed, boiled, and the thinness in the air stretched tighter still—everything began to blink and flicker: black, gray, black, gray, black-gray, black-gray, blackgray. Faster and faster as reality distorted and transformed into something else.

Flicker … The world stretched taut and became as thin as cheap toilet paper, sound faded and died away completely—I couldn’t hear the moped beneath me, couldn’t feel it vibrate and hum along the ground. Even my own breathing was a noiseless thing. Cool mist filled my chest with every silent breath, spreading out snaking tendrils of suffocation into the rest of my body. My hands and feet went first, pinpricks doing a boogaloo in my fingers and toes, creeping up my limbs, turning my body numb and dumb.

Flicker … I was floating along and for a second, I could’ve sworn I was nothing more than a thing of mist and spirit, a ghost detached from the world, just another wisp of fog. The sensation was sorta pleasant and peaceful, I guess. I couldn’t feel my body, but that also meant I couldn’t feel the aches and pains—the dull throb in my calf was gone. Being a thing of mist was easy, it was the loss of responsibility and care. Of desire, striving, or failing.

Flicker … And then the sensation was gone. Sound came back first, followed closely by the sense of feeling in my hands and feet, the vibration of the moped purring between my legs again. The sound of Ferraro’s horse: hooves clacking down on pavement instead of sparse, marshy ground. The mists receded around the edges, revealing buildings that jutted up along the skyline. Big skyscrapers of concrete and glass. Finally, into the real world again … well, sort of. A possible future, but a possible future on Earth, not in the Hub or the Hinterlands. A win’s a win, even if it’s only a small one.

The Space Needle reared up on spindly legs—its spire stabbing into the sky like a magnificent middle finger to the world—which told me this was Seattle. God it felt good to be back in some place relatively normal. And Seattle was mostly a great place to wind up.

I’ve never spent too much time out in Seattle, the scene’s always happening, but the friggin’ weather never really agrees with me. Soggy, dark, and rain slickers galore. Pass. But the scene? Yeah, lots of music, which is always up my alley, tons of good coffee shops to grab some joe—even if the coffee purists are a little hoity-toity for my liking—and beer. Lots of good beer. So once a year or so, usually around late July or August, I liked to get up that way for a week or two, bathe in all the glorious seventy-degree heat, full of nice bright days. Certainly could’ve been worse places to get dumped.

The mists peeled away at last—I glanced back and found an honest-to-goodness wall of fog, thick as soup, and maybe thirty or forty feet high, stretching into the sky. It also snaked off left and right for as far as I could see, curving just out of sight around the perimeter of the city. Surreal. Overhead, the sky was as gray and dreary as a shitty retirement home. Laid out before us was a massive multi-lane boulevard, edged by rough concrete dividers—a green-and-white sign suspended across the road on iron beams proclaimed we were on the I-5 North.

Ferraro had guided her horse off to the side of the road and sat fiddling with her pack, searching through the contents before finally liberating the map Fortuna had given us back at the saloon. I pulled my moped over to her and killed the engine, waiting for her to finish her survey.

“You doing okay?” I asked.

“Fine,” she said, eyes still scanning the map. “You were right, the nausea passed with the fog. Still”—she gave a brief shake of her head—“that’s something I’d like to never, ever do again.”

“Hey, that pretty much sums up my whole life.” She didn’t laugh, didn’t crack a smile even—and that was good material. “You sure you’re okay?”

“I’m nervous.” She finally looked up, eyes scanning the highway. “This place feels wrong. There’s something bad here. It’s midday here, but there’s no traffic. There aren’t even abandoned cars. And it’s too quiet for a city.”

She was right. There were better odds of winning the lotto than finding a highway this size empty during midday. And there were no noises, absolutely zero. No horns, engines, squawks from pedestrians, or thumping radios. Not even the chatter of birds. It was daytime here, but heavy gray overcast made the whole city look somehow sick and muted. This place was on its deathbed … or maybe the coroner had come and gone long since.

“Fortuna said this was a bad future,” I replied. “She said there were genetically altered zombies running around here and a cult leader named Cannibal Steve. Cannibal Steve, for cryin’ out loud. There’s a reason Lady Fate wants to prevent this future from happening. It sucks balls. Let’s just do this thing, get the hell outta here, and then go kick Randy’s ass, huh?” I glanced around for a minute, not entirely sure which way to go. I’d glanced at the map when Fortuna had shown us back in the saloon, but I’ve always been sorta lousy with directions—and yes, I know that’s ironic, considering I’m a former Marine and I basically live out on the open road. Google all the way, baby. “So where to, master navigator?” I finally asked.

She looked down at the map again, chewing on her lip as she went over it. “I think we need to take the next exit into the city—should let out at James Street and 7th Avenue. Looks like we’re going to head past the city jail, and then head out toward the bay. From there, we’ll head over to the Four Seasons, if you can believe it.”

“The Four Seasons?” I asked. “Swanky. Apparently Cannibal Steve has pretty refined tastes.”

“That’s sick.”

“What’s sick about liking the Four Seasons?” I asked.

“Maybe you should refrain from putting the word ‘cannibal’ and ‘refined tastes’ together in the same sentence. Just sick.”

“Oh, got it. Just a terrible misunderstanding … Hey, that sums up the rest of my life.”

That earned a small crack of her lips at least. “All right, let’s get this over with.”

She nudged her horse forward, I started the engine on my scooter, and we cruised for another quarter mile or so, before taking the next sloping exit ramp. Two hundred or so feet of steadily slanted roadway dropped us at an intersection with lifeless stoplights, James Street and 7th Ave.

Everything looked stone cold dead and long abandoned by those with the ability to leave. Looked like a tomb for everyone else. Jeez, why can’t I ever be strong-armed into doing a job in a decent place? Just once, I’d like to be sent to the tropical island of beautiful women, where vicious monsters—composed entirely of southern-style barbeque ribs and frosty beer—are running amok. Why can’t that be my life, just once?

A few solitary cars rested on the street, a few more dotted a large parking lot, sprawling underneath the overpass. From the dust and debris littering those few lonely vehicles—cars, trucks, and SUVs—it was pretty damn clear they hadn’t been moved for a good long while. One car rested on its top, scattered glass lay around it like spilled blood, scorch marks revealed someone’s attempt to burn it.

Welcome to the bright and sunny world of tomorrow, kids. It only gets better from here.

Ferraro glanced down at the map. “This way,” she said, now more sure and confident. She guided her horse left, under the overpass, and I followed along, trying to keep my head on a swivel—friggin’ place felt like the set of some Hollywood zombie flick. Had me all kinds of nervous.

On the other side of the underpass, a slew of bleak buildings lined either side of the roadway. Directly on the right was a rough concrete parking garage and to the left towered twenty or so stories of dirty tan stone, which absolutely had to be a jail.

You never see city jails painted in bright and happy colors, or decorated with subtle landscape paintings—I’ve never, not once, mistaken a jail for anything else. They’re always the most depressing-looking building on the block, like the kind of building you’d expect to find in George Orwell’s 1984. A large multistoried glass building a little further up on the right proved to be the Municipal Court of Seattle, confirming my suspicion that the neighboring building was in fact the clink.

The hair at the nape of my neck tried to stand up and salute. Someone was watching us—which sounds kinda paranoid, I know, but, as they say, it’s only paranoia if it’s not true. “I officially hate it here,” I declared in a whisper only loud enough for Ferraro’s ears.

She glanced back over her shoulder and nodded at me. “The eyes? Watching us?”

I nodded. “Hey, hold on a second.” I pointed over to the sidewalk running out in front of the glass-faced municipal court building. A series of blue, white, and red metal newspaper bins, running along the sidewalk, caught my eye. “I’d bet dollars to doughnuts that whatever shitstorm hit this place, it didn’t happen overnight. Bet the newspaper has something about it. Just hang on one sec.”

I steered the moped over to the news bin, killed the engine, and slid from the seat. The bin was coin operated, as was only fitting since I didn’t have any change, but thankfully my pistol grip was a universal opener for anything with a glass front. I whipped the screen with my pistol—the crunch and tinkle of broken glass was so friggin’ loud. Like making a racket in an utterly still library, assuming, of course, that said library was filled with man-eating freaks.

Careful to avoid the jagged shards of glass that were still intact, I pulled out a crumpled copy of The Seattle Times—the very last copy too, lucky me. Thanks, Fortuna. The front-page story showed a picture of dead bodies stacked up like cordwood out in front of some CDC quarantine area. The title read: “The Infection Spreads.” I flipped to 1A.

The Infection Spreads

Despite all attempts by the CDC to suppress the spreading epidemic, the infection seems more virulent than ever. The “Green Death,” as it has been dubbed by the masses, continues to hold residents of Seattle enthralled as it sweeps through the streets and ravages those still living. An estimated two hundred and fifty thousand residents—nearly half of Seattle’s population—already lay dead, while scores more seem to be dying by the day. Many residents have fled the city only to be quarantined by US Army soldiers who have established containment camps at every major exit route.

Reports trickling out of the containment camps indicate that the epidemic is moving even more rapidly among detainees, likely due to cramped and unsanitary living conditions. Detainees are additionally suffering from a wave of famine, brought on by severe food shortages, and lack of administrative personnel within the camps.

More troubling still is the number of infected individuals contracting a new, more virulent, strain of the disease, a strain which appears to mutate the infected. If a friend or family member contracts the plague but does not die within a day of presenting symptoms, then the CDC advises blockading the individual in a secure location and distancing yourself immediately. Mutation brings on extreme bouts of violence. The city has opened the King County Jail, located on 5th Avenue and James Street, as an infectious detainment center for the violently infected.

Plague. Craptastic. And not just plague, but freaky-deaky plague that mutated people and turned ’em into violent killing machines. Even better, the collection point for the “violently infected” was only a couple of hundred feet behind us—the very place I’d sensed we were being watched from. Craptastic squared. I glanced back down at the paper—there was something wrong with it.

The date, in the upper right hand corner, kept changing, cycling through date after date, like it couldn’t make up its mind just when this nightmare future had hit: January 16, 2020 … September 15, 2018 … May 13, 2022, July 24, 2029 … On and on the dates flashed, some almost solid while others appeared misty and faded on the page.

“So?” Ferraro asked. “What’s it say?”

“Scary-ass zombie plague is what it says. So I’m thinking we should get our asses moving a little quicker.” I jerked a thumb at the jail. “That’s the place where the government was rounding up all the mutated shitheads.” I ripped 1A from the paper, folded it up, shoved the article into my pocket, and hopped back on Sir Zippy. “It’d be just our friggin’ luck to get away from Fast Hands and his posse, only to get chewed to pieces by infectious monsters.”

The squeal of a door on rusted hinges rang through the air, loud as a crack of thunder in the silent city.

The sound had come from behind us.

TWENTY-FOUR:

Meatbags

I swiveled in my seat, eyes searching for the noise—pretty sure it’d come from that damn jail. But nothing moved down the length of the paved road. No door stood open. No breeze stirred the stale air. Shit, there wasn’t even any freaky horror movie music to announce the imminent approach of something terrifying. If only real life could be as simple as Hollywood—I would have killed for a menacing horror movie sound track.

Despite the stillness, I had the terribly uncomfortable feeling that we were on the edge of a cliff. It was as if the city was holding its breath, and one great exhale would blow Ferraro and I right over the edge. I had to wonder just how long ago that newspaper article had been written: a day, a week, a year, ten years maybe? Hopefully, ten years. Genetically altered zombies probably couldn’t survive in a place like this for ten years, right? But if the article had been penned a week ago … we could be standing right at ground zero.

Something moved ahead and just to the left—a faint rustle of motion right out of the corner of my eye, near a shop up ahead. A red-brick, single-story convenience store with a wraparound window front and a dead neon sign reading “Lotto.” Nothing moved in there now, but dammit, there had been something. I’d put my impeccable reputation as a smartass on the line, I was so sure.

Ferraro shot me a look—she’d seen the movement too. Then she nudged the horse to the opposite side of the road and kept moving down James Street. Tall buildings gave way to smaller places of brick and stone—mostly boutiques or family eateries—many of the windows broken out or boarded over. Lots of greenery though; a bunch of trees lined the sidewalk on both sides of the road and everything seemed vibrant and healthy. Too healthy—I’m naturally suspicious of anything that doesn’t look at least mildly sick and broken. Damn trees looked like they’d been shooting up Miracle Grow. Didn’t trust a one of ’em.

More movement … couldn’t pinpoint it though, seemed to happen everywhere, like the whole city had finally let out that breath. This place hadn’t died, it’d just gone into hibernation like some kinda giant, hungry animal that’d run short on food. I got the oddest sense that maybe we’d woken it up with all our clomping around.

Ferraro leaned toward me and whispered, “Behind us.”

I looked back and sure enough, there was a man-shaped something or other standing on the sidewalk, framed by a yellowed wooden door that let into a diner, Hole in the Wall Bar-B-Que. Animals, even monsters, should know better than to defile a barbeque joint.

Now, to call the thing in front of the shop a man was a generous use of the word; I’ve seen a fair number of halfies that look closer to human than this thing. Really, the best I could say about it was that it was man-shaped. Kind of.

Son of a bitch was a lump of deformed, twisted white skin and ropy muscle. Copious amounts of black-green flaps, what could only be rotted flesh, dotted its form in places. An eyeless face of creamy white—head canted inquisitively to the side—regarded us from above a gaping fish-like mouth filled with jagged saw-blade teeth. Really, it was the tattered blue jeans and the shredded flannel shirt clinging to its body that gave away the fact that this guy had once been a card-carrying member of the human race.

The skinny jeans and flannel also told me he’d been a hipster … great. Not just a zombie—a snooty, hipster zombie. My worst nightmare. On the upside, he’d probably refuse to eat me since I was chock-full of deadly carcinogens from my many years of smoking.

Two more pasty white meatbags—one clearly female from the shriveled up tits and thin build—emerged from a doorway further up on 2nd Avenue. I heard the shuffle of more lumbering footsteps from ahead of me … I swung back around to face forward. Ah, excellent, two dozen creatures edged toward us from the direction of the jail, clad in the remnants of orange jumpsuits, all marked “DOC.” Now I really did feel like my head was on a swivel—looking back and forth, trying to track all the clusters of evil zombies circling around us. Another creature, a lone woman, wandered out from an alleyway up ahead while four or five more staggered onto the sidewalk from an enclosed parking garage.

Yet another small mob—these all sporting what had once been business suits—emerged on the street before us. They’d boxed us in nice and tight, leaving absolutely no route for escape, which had probably been their intention from the start. How these ugly, stupid bags of flesh and rot had coordinated between themselves was a mystery, but one that ultimately didn’t matter. We’d been outsmarted. Outsmarted by brain-dead zombies. Jeez. That one definitely wasn’t gonna make it into the Christmas letter.

This just kept getting better and better. So far, none of the creepers seemed especially interested in mauling us or eating our brains, but I remembered the warning from the paper: “Mutation brings on extreme bouts of violence.”

“Well shit,” I said to Ferraro, shifting my gaze from one pocket of doom to the others. “This could get interesting.”

“Che palle,” she swore. “What should we do?” She gave me a brief look, before turning away—trying to watch everything all at once.

“Right. Do. We do need to do something.” Talk about Captain Obvious, but you try putting a game plan together under those circumstances. I mean, a man on a moped and a woman on a horse ride into Seattle with a pack of zombies … it sounds like the set-up for some morbid joke. You just can’t plan for shit like this. I was just hoping that the punch line didn’t end with: then the zombie hoard eviscerated them.

“Alright,” I said, trying to sound cool, calm, and collected even though I really wanted to pull my hair and shriek like a little girl. “Stay close, follow my lead. Gun out, try to conserve ammo—there are a lot of these meatbags. If we get separated, move your ass, and make it to the Four Seasons. That’ll be our rendezvous.” I took a deep breath, trying not to hunch over and vomit on myself. This situation downright scared the bejesus out of me. Deep breaths, one, two, in, out. Calm the mind. Shut away the fear, the worry. What would be, would be. “Ready?”

“Oh, I’m ready,” she said. “How about you? You sound shaky. Listen, if you’re not up to the challenge, you can just sit this one out—I can handle it without you if you need the breather, old-timer. Oh, and never tell me to move my ass again—I’m a federal officer.” She smiled a little when she said it though, obviously she’d seen through my naturally cool and unruffled demeanor. That’s one thing I love about Marines, regardless of whether they were officer or enlisted: Marines always know how to smile at the Devil and spit right in his eye when they need too. Even in the worst situations they can somehow find a way to be ornery, irreverent, and tough as steel.

Once upon a time, at a little place called the Chosin Reservoir, Marine General Chesty Puller found himself in a situation not too dissimilar from ours … well, no zombies, and he was in Korea not Seattle. But that’s really just semantics. Chesty and his battalion were surrounded on all sides and outnumbered twenty-two to one, with no possible hope of escape. The Army had pulled back, giving the unit up as a lost cause. Without batting an eye, Chesty turned to his lieutenant and said, “They’re on our left, they’re on our right, they’re in front of us, they’re behind us … they can’t get away this time.”

It was time to pull a Chesty and spit right in the Devil’s eye.

I drew my pistol, a thin scrape of metal rubbing leather. The ugly sons of bitches were moving now, slowly—lazy even—but they were getting closer and their numbers seemed to be multiplying by the second. Time to rock and roll, baby, show these slow moving shit-heels why cannibalism doesn’t pay.

“Just try to keep up,” I said as I revved the engine of my moped—zing-zing-zingggg—before zipping away toward the alleyway guarded by the solitary woman-thing. The scooter put her in my range half a second later—I leveled my pistol while zooming forward like the Flash on a Rascal, and pulled the trigger. Just a single squeeze, followed by a soft pop. Her head exploded from her shoulders; her neck and the lower half of her jaw simply vanished in an arc of greenish gore, while the top half cartwheeled through the air. The head landed with a sickening wet thunk, her body fell to the side, arms and legs thrashing with sporadic movement.

That seemed to be the straw that broke the ugly, cannibalistic, mutated camel’s back. The whole horde—what the hell did you even call a group of zombies? … Murder, yeah, definitely a murder of zombies—broke into action, surging onward, as though the act of violence against one of their own had unlocked some need for vengeance. A sea of eyeless faces, molted skin, and sharp, tearing teeth bore down upon us like an ocean tide crashing on the shore.

I scooted into the alley, and Ferraro raced in behind me on her horse. The alley was maybe ten feet wide, with red brick to one side and rough gray concrete on the other. Not a great fighting position: the murder could still approach four or five abreast. Still, it was a helluva lot better than being swarmed and crushed in the world’s grossest and most uncomfortable doggy pile.

I holstered my pistol, planted one foot, cranked the brake, and brought the moped about-face before redrawing my gun. “Stay mounted,” I called over my shoulder to Ferraro, “alternating fire pattern. Groovy?”

“Got it,” she shouted, her Glock already in hand.

“We’ll just thin ’em out a little, then we’ll blow this nightmare popsicle stand.”

The murder of meatbags from the parking garage were the first to make contact, lurching into the alleyway with all the grace of drunken frat boys after a long bender—staggering, stumbling, and jockeying to be the first at getting a nibble. I leveled the gun and started firing, not slow, but not fast either. I was scared, but measured and accurate fire would serve me far better than desperate pray-and-spray shooting. Plus, these guys made it as easy as target practice at the range. These freaks were dead things that didn’t seem to be afraid of pain or death, so they weren’t struggling to find cover and they weren’t shooting back.

They just staggered along, five of ’em in a rough row, and walked right at me. Idiots.

So I took my time. Inhale. Exhale. Pop. The barrel raised a fraction of an inch and I let it reset naturally. Inhale. Exhale. Pop. Nice and easy, slow, steady breaths. Rinse and repeat. Each bullet careened into a neck or face, dropping corpses left and right, twitching bodies hitting the floor. As a side note, these sons of bitches were far hardier than those brain-eaters you see in most films these days. Decapitated heads continued to work jaws—if they still had them—and bodies still floundered and flailed on the ground, even though they were rendered dumb and impotent.

I ran dry after the first five zombies fell, but more meatbags flooded in, stumbling momentarily on the pile of corpses blocking their way. The bark of Ferraro’s Glock cut into the air, her pace faster than mine, but still even and purposeful. The Glock carried more rounds but couldn’t dish out the same damage my hand-cannon could. So Ferraro was compensating by firing three shot groups: crack-crack-crack, two to the chest, one to the head.

That was her training asserting itself. Even though I’d told her to conserve ammo, I was glad she wasn’t skimping, but was instead going with enough to make sure the job got done and done right. Here’s a pro tip for you: if you’re faced with an enemy who just needs killing, like yesterday, use that second or third round and make sure you do it proper. No need to go overboard, but don’t skimp either. Just don’t do it, it might come back to bite you in the worst way.

I slipped a hand into my coat pocket and pulled out a speedloader—a circular metal plate with six rounds already loaded in position. I flipped out the cylinder, shook the shell casings free, pushed the loader into place, released the fresh rounds, and swung the cylinder closed with a click. I only had one more speedloader ready to go, so after that I’d be stuck feeding in shells by hand; a much slower and more tedious process.

Ferraro’s gunfire stopped—and no, I wasn’t counting rounds, unless you’re Rain Man, leave that for action heroes—she’d added four or five new bodies to the pile (it was tough to tell exactly with all those tangled and intertwined limbs). So I went back to work, a shooter on the range, a camper chopping wood, just a guy with a bit of business to be about. The bodies were forming a nice wall, but we couldn’t hold here for much longer. Yeah, these freaks were falling in droves, but there was a metric shit-load of ’em—swelling and bunching up at the entrance, the mob was growing more and more impatient to reach us.

I wasn’t too worried about them. But, and this was a game changer, there were new things starting to poke disgusting-looking heads into the fray. They waited at the back, standing a little apart, assessing the situation with cold, calculating gazes—their eyes dark as fresh-laid tar, which looked almost human and smart as hell. One: covered in lustrous white scales with a small ridge of black spikes running from its head to its back. Another: maggot-white like the others, but with strange double-hinged legs and a tearing beak like a crow. A third: this one almost arachnid, crouching low to the ground with too many eyes and a slew of limbs splayed out around it like a halo.

I finished my round of target practice—the bodies were really starting to pile up now, a nice barrier to give us a lead when we turned tail and scrammed. I ran dry and reloaded quick while Ferraro laid into the murder, blasting wounds into chests and faces. Gun loaded, I holstered my weapon, about-faced my scooter once more, and rode past Ferraro.

“Be right there,” she hollered before hauling out a matte black cylinder with the words “Grenade, Hand” and below that, “Offensive MK3A2 TNT” stenciled on in yellow lettering. With a twist and a pull, Ferraro removed the pin, and tossed the can back at the pile of bodies and the swelling mass of zombies. I kept zipping along, Ferraro followed close behind. As we neared the alley exit, a huge BOOM peeled through the air and the ground rattled beneath us, followed by a brief flare of heat.

I glanced back, just for a second. That hadn’t been a frag grenade, MK3A2s were concussive grenades—i.e. big explosion. Huge chunks of the bodies had simply been torn apart, vast numbers of the creatures burned in flickering orange fire.

The sight was awful. Watching them burn like that made me feel sick to my core. I was doing these things a favor—I mean, nobody would want to live on like that—but I also knew that at some point these things had been people, so I couldn’t brush off their deaths without feeling a sharp pang of guilt in my gut. I shook my head, pushing the thought away for later.

“A grenade?” I shouted over the commotion behind us.

“Hey,” she hollered back, “a woman’s entitled to a few secrets.”

We rode through another alley—Ferraro pulling in front and leading us along—which dumped us out onto a street a couple of blocks over. A small ground-level parking lot lurked off to the left, a few dusty cars filled the spaces along with half a dozen more meatbags. But they all just milled around without direction or purpose. They turned curious faces on us for a moment, but seemed mostly uninterested in doing anything more than shuffling around on stupid feet.

Ferraro led us left on Cherry Street before hanging another left onto 1st Avenue. We took it for another seven or eight blocks, catching occasional glances of the blue expanse of the Elliot Bay and a few sporadic pockets of creepers. But the murder of meatbags, like the idiots from the dusty parking garage, seemed intent on leaving us be. Maybe they’d gotten the memo that messing around with us didn’t work out well unless you wanted to end up as extra-crispy barbeque.

After ten or fifteen minutes, the Four Seasons finally reared up before us, a huge expanse of broken windows and sleek metal curves. No guards out front, no waiting convention of brain-dead goons. Just a formally beautiful building reduced to a burnt out husk. But this is where Fortuna’s map said to go, this is where the knight, Sir Galahad, and the Holy friggin’ Grail—my cure-all—waited. Probably, it was also the home to Cannibal Steve. But hey, it wouldn’t be my life if I didn’t have to get my ass kicked by someone to get to the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow. Time to save our damsel in distress—in this case a millennia-old Knight of the Round Table. Talk about role reversal.

TWENTY-FIVE:

Merry Go ’Round

Ferraro and I left our rides in front of the building. I felt bad about the horse … I mean what if one those roving packs of mutants came strolling by? But there was nothing to do about it. Couldn’t take the horse on the elevator with us or march it up thirty stories’ worth of stairs. Ferraro didn’t tether the poor critter, so at least it’d be able to make a break for it. As for me, I was really gonna miss Sir Zippy—the little guy and I had bonded.

We pushed our way into the lobby of the Four Seasons; the interior looked like the set of some post-apocalyptic flick—completely trashed, furniture overturned, old blood drying on the walls in scribbles of graffiti and old world runes of power. The lights were miraculously on, so it wasn’t hard to make out the raised wooden platform, some kind of stage, against the far wall—a massive thing painted black with red velvet drapes hanging to either side. Gaudy strings of Christmas lighting ran along the stage’s edge and along the metal pole supporting the curtain.

And right smack dab in the center of the lobby sat a great fire pit, maybe ten feet wide, surrounded by a rough wall four feet high, the bricks blackened with soot. A giant spit—like you might use to roast a pig—ran across the fire pit, and the blackened remains of something that resembled a human hung strapped across the bar. There were huge hunks of flesh torn free, leaving streaks of rusty-red and pink streaking through the burnt-out wreck of a corpse. So gross. I didn’t even want to guess what in the hell went on here, but I was sure as shit glad that the dining/entertainment hall was currently closed for business.

Ferraro placed one arm across her mouth, a feeble guard against the burnt stink in the air. “This world is so fucked up,” she said, “maybe I would’ve been happier in ignorance.”

“That’s how I felt when they first recruited me,” I said.

“Does it ever get any better?” she asked.

“Sure, it gets better. Improvement is, however, directly tied to alcohol consumption.”

She pointed to the elevator banks on the right. “You think the penthouse?”

I nodded. “Evil douchebags almost always have some sort of god complex. He’ll be at the top for sure …” I considered the elevators for a moment. “But let’s take the stairs to be on the safe side. I don’t know if this place has video surveillance or not, but they have power, so maybe. Trying to survive a fall in an elevator from fifteen stories up doesn’t sound so hot.”

We headed across the lobby to the emergency stairwell and hoofed it up like twenty flights of concrete stairs. I huffed and puffed the whole friggin’ way. I’m not in bad shape—slim, natural athletic build—but I’m not rippling with muscles, I don’t like going to the gym. Running? No thank you. And yeah, I know, Marines are supposed to love running, exercise, and shit like that, but let me tell you, it’s all a bunch of phony hype. Mostly, I love beer, brats, burgers, and ribs—ribs most of all—and I like ’em in large quantities.

Sometimes, though, I kinda wish I had the self-discipline to be more health conscious—particularly when climbing up a gajillion steps in the world’s tallest building (well, it felt like the world’s tallest building). When we finally made it to the top, I bent over trying to catch a little air, one hand clutching my side where a nasty cramp gnawed at my middle. Ferraro had barely broken a sweat; she just stood there, one eyebrow raised in amusement, tapping a foot as though to say, Any day now, old timer. After a minute, I righted myself and pulled out my gun.

“Okay …” I said, still panting. “You … ready?”

“We can take another minute—maybe you should do some warm-up stretching before we go in,” she offered.

“Har-har … Funny stuff, Ms. Chuckles … When did you get so witty?” I bent over and grasped my knees, pride be damned. Another few seconds wouldn’t hurt. Maybe it was time to considering give up the smokes … I kid, I kid.

“You just make it so easy,” she said, totally deadpan. “Now, if you’re done?”

“Yeah, sure.” I righted myself, breathing mostly under control. “I’m fine. Hey, I don’t suppose you brought a flashbang?” I asked. Boy, wouldn’t that makes things easier.

She shook her head. “Just had the one grenade. Now can we do this?”

“Okay, okay.”

We slipped past the door and into a long hallway, the lighting poor and the wallpaper slashed. The hallway contained only a single door, all the way at the end: the penthouse suite. We padded along the thirty or forty feet, moving quiet as a pair of paranoid field mice, just waiting for the door to explode outward and a hail of machine gun fire to erupt. Except it didn’t. As we got closer, I heard music, the thump and tinkle of piano keys intermixed with laughter. They were playing “The Piano Man” in there.

The hell? This all felt strange. I pushed my back up against the wall … this was weird. I mean everything about this situation was off, but hearing “The Piano Man” made me uneasy all the way down to my toes. We’d come this far though, so there was nothing left to do but put foot to door SWAT-style and put an end to this mess.

“Mind if I breach?” Ferraro asked, stepping around me without waiting for a response, so that she was now closest to the door. I could’ve protested or made some stupid comment about how I was the man and I wouldn’t let a woman go through first. But I didn’t, because I’d seen her in action, both at the police station and at the saloon, and I knew she was better at doing a military-style breach than I was. I’ve had a lot of training and experience, but I’ve also relied on the Vis for a very long time and having that kind of power changes your tactics in a big way.

So instead, I just nodded and let her go, confident in her ability to kick ass and take names with the best of ’em.

She looked back, raised her left hand, and gave me a silent three count before pivoting inward and lashing out with her right leg, delivering a devastating blow just below the doorknob. The door swung in without a hitch, almost like it hadn’t been shut right, like maybe it’d been open for us. That was a worrisome thought, but I put it out of mind because Ferraro was already on the move, sweeping left, pistol raised. I ducked in right, sweeping my muzzle back and forth. The room was long and open—a bank of windows above and on the left filled the room with soft gray light.

An odd sense of déjà vu swept through me. There was lots of blood on the walls and floor—it was obvious the lobby and penthouse had been decorated by the same bat-shit crazy interior designer—but the room also looked like a very close cousin of the Hog’s Head back in the Hinterlands. A long bar stretched across the right hand side of the room, with an upright piano near its far end. Straw covered the carpet, a few round card tables dotted the room, all filled with strange pale creatures like the ones we’d found below. Overhead hung a huge chandelier of bone—the very same chandelier I’d shot down on the outlaws back in the saloon.

At the far end of the room, sitting on a hulking throne of spiky white bone, padded with crushed red velvet, sat Fast Hands Steve. Cannibal Steve … Fast Hands Steve. Son of a bitch. Fortuna had to know—rotten, no good, misleading jerk.

I knew I should’ve killed that asshole when I’d had the chance—it pays to listen to your gut. Even worse, it looked like good ol’ Steve had also contracted the plague. He was Fast Hands, sure, but he was also more than what he’d been. His burnt copper scales had gone pearly-white, his legs had merged into one long, fat coil of tail.

His upper body looked grotesquely deformed—his left arm hung on the floor, too long, with a withered bicep and a forearm as thick as a light pole. Proportionally, his right arm looked more normal, but his hand—the hand Ferraro had maimed once upon a time—was now a thing of shining metal, chromed and polished to a high sheen. He lazily twirled a familiar gun about his mechanical digit.

My eyes immediately went to the floor next to Fast Hands’s gaudy and terrifying throne: a regular human, bound around his neck, arms, waist, and legs with a thick chain that glimmered and changed color with the light. Tall guy, probably six foot four, good shape, blond hair, scar running down one cheek and dipping below his jawbone. I couldn’t help but roll my eyes. That dude just had to be Sir Galahad—he looked the way a knight was supposed to look. He looked, I dunno, friggin’ gallant, I guess. Probably thought he was better than everyone else too. He had goody-two-shoes-douche written all over him.

But that douche was my ticket to wholeness, the ticket to having my power back.

The laughter cut out as Ferraro and I came through, the music dying away—a grotesque piano man with a score of white tentacle arms regarded us with serious black eyes.

Fast Hands slithered from the chair, one great fist on the floor while he continued to twirl his pistol. “It’s sssso good to see you again,” he hissed. “I couldn’t believe it when my security chief showed me the monitor and I saw you two running through my building. The Big Boss told me this might happen—that the two of you might show up—but I didn’t believe him.” He paused, his tongue flickering in and out. “Do you know that in this world, you’re both dead? Dead long, long ago.” He slid forward, his giant left arm dragging uselessly behind him. “Sadly, I didn’t kill you, Yancy. No, the Savage Prophet did you for. But Ferraro”—he seemed to savor her name, like a fine-tasting Scotch—“you I killt slowly. We had many a long night together, you and me, before you gave up the ghost.”

I circled right, toward the bar, thinking I could use it for cover just like I had in the saloon. Ferraro caught the motion and followed suit, moving slowly.

“Listen, bud,” I said to Fast Hands as I drew closer, trying to make it look like a casual swagger and not the fearful shuffle it really was. “I know it’s probably been years and years since you last saw us, but it’s only been a couple of days from our end. I remember what happened in the Hog’s Head—we beat the shit outta you ten ways from Tuesday.”

The bar was next to me now, running just to my right … I could throw myself over if necessary, and Ferraro was just a step behind me. “So,” I continued, “this thing can play out the exact same way—you, busted up on the ground—or you can give us Princess Leia.” I pointed toward the knight. “And the Grail, and we can mosey our happy asses along. You and your boys, here, can go back to playing cards and throwing cookouts. Whatever.”

Fast Hands laughed long and hard, a slithery sound like sandpaper rubbing against slick stone—the noise made my skin crawl like a basket full of snakes.

“I don’t know how this happened, but I count myself twice blessed and thank providence,” he said as his chuck-fest finally wound down, “but I’m glad I’ll finally get the chance to kill you myself … and Ferraro, I relish the idea of killing you. Again.” He stared around at the tables, all full of his fellow freak-show cronies. “No one does anything … they are mine.” He looked hard at a bat-winged hulk nearest the throne. “Mine, Ringo—y’ hear?” Batwings—Ringo, apparently—nodded. “But I’m a benevolent ruler … so once I see this fool killt”—he pointed his pistol at me—“you can all dig in.”

Great, if I lost, I’d be finger food for poker night. My life.

But at least we had a chance—I was powerless, true, but I wasn’t alone. Ferraro was a sure hand and the two of us against just Fast Hands? Yeah, we could do that. Once Fast Hands was dead, we’d have the whole crowd to contend against, which didn’t seem like such good odds, but a fighting chance was a helluva lot better than no chance at all.

“Take one bite,” I said, glancing around the room at all the assembled baddies, “and I’ll give you the worst friggin’ indigestion you’ve ever heard of. No amount of Pepto will save you. And you”— I swiveled my gun till it tracked on Fast Hands—“I’m gonna put down like Old Yeller.”

I pulled the trigger twice. Fast Hands’s monstrous left arm, giant and deformed, whipped up almost faster than my eye could track. The rounds bloomed into the meaty flesh of his massive forearm, flattening out and clunking to the floor without so much as breaking the skin. Huh, how ’bout that. Apparently Fast Hands, plural, was still an appropriate name for the guy.

“Nice try.” He dropped his arm back to the floor. “Now let me learn you how it’s done.” His gun stopped spinning mid-loop and flicked into place—I dove for the counter, but not fast enough. A bullet slammed into my left kneecap, a terrible heat like Greek fire burned in my leg, tendrils of black misery crawled into my brain, circled around a couple of times and settled in like a dog ready for a long nap. I spun and toppled through the air landing on top of the bar, my left leg splayed out at a strange angle.

“NO!” Ferraro screamed. There was a sound of more gunfire, the crack of Ferraro’s Glock. Then, the wheezy cackle of Fast Hands’s laughter.

“Take her, hold her,” Fast Hands commanded before slithering into view. More shooting … the howl of something inhuman shrieking. “Stop being such a bitch,” Fast Hands called over his shoulder to one of the henchmen in the room. And then Fast Hands was above me, looming over me, larger than life and twice as ugly as a breathing, slithering pile of dog shit. I knew I should do something, maybe pick up my gun, try to defend myself, try to save Ferraro and stop this awful future. But I couldn’t. Couldn’t even think.

With his left hand, he pulled aside my jacket lapel, and, with his right, pressed the pistol into the meat of my left shoulder. “The boys like it when the meat gets all juicy and tender. But don’t fret, partner, I won’t kill you—they like it when the food squirms.” He pulled the trigger, bone and muscle flew apart with a bolt of agony, a fine warm spray of pink misted my face. I screamed. Moaned. A blackness filled my mind, the agony in my knee and the agony in my shoulder beating like twin hammers against my body. Knee, throb, an inferno blaze. Shoulder, throb, a meat cleaver sinking home.

I blinked open my eyes and looked down at my ruined arm—a gaping red hole, pulped and mashed, scorched around the edges. I was lucky he hadn’t blown the limb clean off.

Fast Hands leaned in close, his serpentine body writhing. “Not done yet,” he whispered, his tongue flicking against my ear. “Payback and all that.” He pulled away and smiled, his mouth a wide slash full of curved teeth. He worked the gun into the palm of my left hand, positioning the muzzle just below where my ring finger connected. Oh God, I knew what was coming next. This is what Ferraro had done to him—taken his fingers, maimed him, and left him ruined.

My bladder went—not my most heroic moment, I’ll admit—urine, warm and wet, trickled down my bloodied pant leg, making the fabric heavy and warm. Undignified, that. But sometimes life is unfair and undignified, sometimes them’s the breaks and there isn’t a damn thing you can do about it.

He pulled the trigger a third time. A bright hot sun flared in my hand, a spatter of too-hot blood ran down my wrist. I cried, the tears were wet against my cheeks, but words wouldn’t come. Nothing would come. Now the pain was everything, my whole world—I was pain—it was impossible to distinguish between the three burning stars; the brain can only handle so much before it eventually collapses under the weight and shock of trauma. Cold was in my limbs, radiating numb through my body. And it was a sweet relief.

“One more, for good measure,” Fast Hands said as he watched me wriggle and moan on the bar top. “Just to make sure you don’t go anywhere before the meal starts.” The gun went into my side, a little poke I hardly felt, right below the ribs on my right side.

I wanted to say something clever and snarky, but the pain was too much—making it hard for me to see anything else, to think about anything else. “Go fuck yourself,” I breathed out, a mere whisper, but better than nothing.

“Not today,” he laughed. “Today I have company to keep me entertained.” A searing railroad spike of agony lanced through my skin and into my guts. I choked and sputtered, blood frothing up around my lips. The force of the impact drove me from the bar’s smooth wood surface and onto the floor behind the bar.

TWENTY-SIX:

Good Stuff

I lay looking up at the glass ceiling overhead, struggling to remain conscious, knowing these were the last few minutes of my life. This was all she wrote. Maybe I could’ve survived the knee wound, the shoulder injury, and even the missing fingers. I’d be maimed and crippled for life. I’d never play piano again, never play another chord on the guitar. I’d never run again—be lucky to walk after taking damage like that. Still, I could survive it. Grit my teeth and bear that shit. Life wouldn’t be the same, and I’d have to figure out some kinda new normal. But with the gut wound? Shit, with the gut wound, I was more done than burnt toast.

I craned my neck back. Sir Knight was not far from the end of the bar and completely unguarded. I couldn’t save myself, but maybe, maybe, I could break that joker loose. And if I broke him loose, maybe he could save Ferraro. That was the kind of thing knights did, save damsels in distress. Not that I’d ever call Ferraro a damsel in distress, at least not to her face—she seemed like the kind of lady that would kick my ass up and down the block for saying something like that. But right now it applied. So free the knight. He’d save her. Shit, he could probably even stop this shitty future from happening.

A terrible consolation prize for me as these things go, but better than nothing.

I posted my good right arm and, with a heave, flipped myself onto my belly. My guts screamed, jolts of pain like a good blast of lightning flared up in the back of my skull. My leg and arm shared in the protest, though my wounded hand was silent. The limb felt dead and well beyond hope. I glanced down, looking at the extent of the damage: my pinky, ring, and middle fingers were gone—I spotted one of them off to the side. Just the very tip remained whole. Oh God. I turned my head to the side and vomited a small puddle of bloody granola.

The retch sent a renewed wave of misery skipping through my body.

Well, at least I wouldn’t live much longer. Death was actually looking pretty good in the face of all the pain and suffering dancing and grooving through me. So many hurts—it was like my body had become a college kegger party for pain: my knee, the loudmouth drunk in boxers doing keg stands. My shoulder, the fat, shirtless guy playing beer-pong-o-pain, and winning big. My hand, that socially awkward comic-book guy lurking in the corner, staring out with creepy stalker eyes. And the gut wound … the gut wound was that crazy, mohawk sporting, punk-rocker anarchist setting your curtains on fire and instigating a general revolt against The Man.

I reached out my good right arm and worked my left leg up—bringing my knee toward my gut felt like having someone dig a friggin’ red-hot poker into my guts and then wiggling it around. Ignore it. Block it out. I pushed with my leg and pulled with my arm, the motion clumsy, inefficient, and about as much fun as dragging my body through a kiddie pool full of broken glass, razors, and piranhas.

The bar was maybe fifteen feet long, but damn if it didn’t seem to stretch out like the Sahara desert. Right arm, left leg. Pull, push. Right arm, left leg, pull push. I crawled past the edge of the bar and pulled my ass around the piano—an Emerson, just like back at the Hog’s Head—thankfully devoid of its tentacled piano man.

So tired. Breathing was a herculean effort, moving seemed like a Sisyphean task designed by the gods solely for my torture. Now that I had line of sight, I glanced back into the room proper. The mob stood circled around Ferraro, grubby, disgusting hands holding her, touching her. Fast Hands slithered back and forth, bragging about all the terrible things he would do to her.

Ferraro fought, lashing out with legs, catching the occasional unwary monster with a fierce kick. She bucked against her captors, raking with her nails, swearing with enough passion and inventiveness that even the most salty drill instructor would blush. Damn, she was a piece of work, fighting to the end. She was also buying me time—every eye was fixed on her, leaving me free to slug my way across the floor.

I could save her. I would save her, dammit. I’d dragged her into this mess and though she was certainly a big girl, I felt responsible. She could live. She needed to live—the world needed people like her.

Right arm, left leg. Pull, push.

Right arm, left leg. Pull, push.

Over and again, until at last the knight was there, almost in front of me—one booted foot close enough that I could reach out and touch it with a bloody hand.

“Gotta … save … her,” I sputtered, fine droplets of blood spraying against the straw floor. “Help. Her.” But as I looked up at him I noticed that there was something wrong with him too. Aside from being wrapped in coil after coil of shimmering chain, his eyes looked hazy—the look of someone sailing high as a kite on something powerful.

“Can’t help,” the knight mumbled, the noise hard to make out over the din of the saloon goers. “The chain. Magic—clouds. Mind … He ….” The knight lazily bobbed his head toward Fast Hands. “He has key. Metal … hand.” He uttered the last word like an asthmatic blowing out a candle.

I lay my face flat against the floor, rough straw poking at my cheek. All this for nothing. Nothing I could do. Nothing anyone could do. This knight was as good as useless and my whole body was finally going numb from shock and blood loss. I’d bleed out here, in this nightmare future. Ferraro would be tortured, tormented, murdered, and eaten. And it was all my fault. Randy would go free, kill more people, and maybe bring this horrible future to pass. I’d never eat another good meal, never play another set, never get a chance to ask Ferraro out to a nice dinner.

Tears crept down my cheeks, partly from the pain, but also from the weight of despair hammering down on me—

I caught a twitch of movement out of the corner of my eye—the knight flopped his head over to the side, the motion seemed to take a tremendous effort of will. “Grail,” he whispered, rolling his eyes up and to the right, directing me to Fast Hands’s throne. I hadn’t seen it when I’d entered, because Fast Hands had been occupying the seat, but the Grail had been inset into the back of the chair. Right in the center amidst the red velvet padding. Fixed in place like a key in a lock.

“Drink,” the knight finished, a slur in his words, before his eyes fluttered shut completely. Damn chain must’ve been some heavy-duty badassery to put a Knight of the friggin’ Round Table down like that.

An ember of hope flared to life inside me, no larger than the glowing red cherry of a burning cigarette. The Grail.

I didn’t have much left in the gas tank, and what gas I did have was currently on fire and threatening to blow up the car. But there was still something there and with that hope in my belly, I dug deep and pushed my tired, broken body along the floor. Right arm, left leg. Pull, push. So close now. I grasped one of the throne’s carved white legs with my good hand and pulled hard, dragging my chin up to the seat, using my face for leverage to climb a little further into the chair. After a few grueling seconds of agonizing, teeth-being-pulled-without-Novocain-level pain, I managed to prop my chest and bleeding gut onto the seat—probably looked like a contrite saint in prayer.

And I was praying. For this hurt to end. For Ferraro to be all right. For Fast Hands and his crew to get some payback of epic, world-ending proportions. I yearned toward the grail with my good hand, fumbling at it with numb fingers—the blood loss taking greater effect—the edges too smooth in my blood slicked hand. It took a moment of finagling, but eventually I worked the Grail free.

I regarded it for a moment—there was power there, it thrummed and hummed beneath my hand, a mega generator of Vis. This close it felt like a pocket-nuke worth of pent-up energy. I have to admit, though, that if I were going on looks alone, it was kind of unimpressive as holy objects of unimaginable power go: a little larger than a pack of cigarettes, made of worn bronze. A little cap topped one end, and jutting from the other was a two-inch length of metal with an intricately shaped key head. Whatever, I certainly wasn’t about to judge based on appearances.

I worked the cap free with my good hand and pulled the little bottle to my face, a splash of thick liquid silver, like mercury, trickled onto the seat, but I paid it little mind. I got the bottle to my lips and, with a jerk, splashed some of the Grail’s contents into my mouth. I got less than a mouthful of strangely cool liquid—an itty-bitty sip really—but it was enough. Maybe too much, even. Stuff was pure rocket fuel for the soul.

It tasted like water, but not that shitty water that comes outta the tap—every water I’d ever tasted was like oil-contaminated saltwater compared to this. This … I dunno. This was like gulping down a mouthful of water from some pristine and unspoiled mountain waterfall after being thirsty in a barren desert for a lifetime. Like drinking for the very first time. Power rolled across my tongue—the taste of pure life, free from death or suffering—dribbled down my throat and into my belly. Energy shot out to my limbs like jagged bolts of raw electricity, racing along my nerve endings and speeding through my veins and arteries like miniature NASCAR drivers of awesomeness.

Shattered bones mended with warm bursts of pleasant heat, flesh tingled for a moment with a crackle of energy and then knit itself together again, whole and hale as though I’d never been shot. A sunburst of sensation exploded in my ruined left palm—I held up my hand and watched, my jaw literally dropping open, as silver bubbled and swirled from the stumps of my three missing digits before coalescing into brand-spanking-new fingers. Hot damn, was that a sight. Made me want to dance a jig while flipping Fast Hands the mother of all middle fingers.

And best of all—better even than my repaired kneecap or fancy new fingers—I could touch the Vis again. The empty place that’d been in my chest, the place where the Vis filled me up … it was wide open again. And not just wide open, but more powerful than ever before, like the silver liquid had supercharged my abilities well past their normal capacities, at least for now. I had a surplus of energy just waiting to do something with. And, as it turned out, I had a whole group of shitbag mutants that were in serious need of some retribution.

I pushed myself up from the chair, the Grail still in hand. I screwed the cap back in place and slid the flask, err, Grail, into my coat pocket. A wide smile broke across my face, and it was not a nice, friendly, let’s-go-grab-a-beer smile either. It was an ass-smiting-of-doom smile if ever there was one. Probably I looked like shit, tattered clothes and bloodied garments, but damn did I feel good. I breathed out all my worries and anxieties, emptying my mind. I breathed in sweet, wonderful, delicious Vis.

TWENTY-SEVEN:

Cookout

“Hey shitheads,” I said—not yelling, but loud enough for the room to hear me even over their hooting, catcalls, and swearing. Every eye turned to me—Ferraro still held fast, but momentarily forgotten—Fast Hands twirled last, anger flashing across his ugly grill. “Payback time and all that jazz,” I said.

Fast Hands didn’t speak—his pistol was simply up in a flash, the thunderous roar of gunfire filling the air. Say what you will about the shifty snake-man, but at least the guy was smart enough not to waste time on stupid villain banter. Unfortunately for him, he’d shown a remarkable streak of stupidity by not finishing me off when he had the chance. Now … now it was too late.

His bullets streaked toward me, but I wasn’t concerned—for stopping those bullets was simply a matter of thought. Now normally I’d have whipped up a quick-and-dirty friction shield—my go to construct for dissolving incoming bullets. But today? Today I was feeling good with a capital G.

So instead I wove a delicate sphere of air, interlaced with strands of raw spirit and braided through with magnetic force—a shimmering bubble of shifting, semi-translucent quicksilver sprung to life. The bullets plowed into the shield, their forward momentum ceased, redirected, and suddenly I had five slugs circling lazily about me like little planets. I’d seen another mage do this not so long ago, and I’d worked out how to do it myself, though this was the first live fire test. Surprisingly, even with all the Vis pumping through me, it was harder than I’d anticipated—magnetic force has never been my strongest suit.

But it did work and it was a damn cool trick—even better were the looks of terror on the faces of the monsters still crowding Ferraro. I flicked out my left hand, healthy again despite Fast Hands’s best efforts, and the circling bullets zipped free, colliding with a strangely rat-like creature on the far right of the monstrous pack. The rounds tore through the son of a bitch, carving great bloody wounds in his torso and face, lifting him into the air for a moment.

“That’s right.” I looked around the room; the creatures, once so confident, slowly shifted back toward the entryway, fear evident in their movements. Except Fast Hands, he didn’t look scared, he looked pissed—like I’d just crashed his birthday party and taken a piss right on his cake. Hopefully, I could rectify that.

“You okay, Ferraro?” I called into the sudden stillness.

“Fine. But this cagherone”—she nodded toward Fast Hands—“is really getting on my nerves. So if you could move this along—”

Fast Hands spun, gun raised, aimed right at Ferraro. “Hold yer tongue, whore bait,” he spat. “You”—he looked back at me—“better give up now, or I’ll blow this bitch’s head clear from her shoulders, y’ken it?”

“I’m tired of hearing you run your mouth,” I said. “So how ’bout you shut yer cock holster”—throwing his words from the saloon back at him made me feel all kinds of warm and fuzzy on the inside—“and let her go. Maybe if you and your roaches scuttle back to your dark holes I’ll let you live … though the one you should really worry about is her.” I motioned to Ferraro with my newly restored hand.

Fast Hands didn’t move, not an inch, but the rest of his posse was not quite so steadfast in conviction.

“Ferraro,” I called out, slicing the tension in the room like a knife. “Don’t move.” I sent her a wink and then slammed a foot down on the ground. A lot of things happened: first, a blue dome—an energy shield that’d prevent bullets, knives, or claws from getting anywhere near Ferraro—snapped to life around her with a nearly inaudible buzz.

Second, the floor shook from my stomp and I channeled the Vis down through my foot and into the ground, an unseen ripple of power snaking beneath the straw and carpet—jagged spikes of underlying concrete jutted up, impaling the four creatures toward the back, nearest the door leading to the hallway. Green-black blood spilled down grotesque and malformed bodies, pooling as the creatures thrashed and howled. Good.

The spikes also served another function: a blockade of doom, preventing anyone from leaving the room. Despite my promise that they might live, none of those clowns were leaving here. Not a chance.

With my right hand, I summoned a beam of fire and force as thick as my wrist, which smashed into Fast Hands’s outstretched gun and sent it whipping through the air—it collided with the window and fell to the floor eight or nine feet away.

Things got a little hazy then—the surviving meatbags realized they weren’t leaving alive, so they all broke in different directions, every man, err, creature for itself. A couple tore ass toward a connecting bathroom. One dove over the bar, just as I had attempted to do earlier. A trio bolted toward the spike barricade—trying desperately to climb over the bodies of their dead and dying buddies.

Fast Hands just stood there seething, casting glances between the dome-shielded Ferraro and me, struggling to figure out who he should try to kill. “Ringo,” he barked to a small mountain of thick muscle with wings poking out the back, loitering near the rear. The creature nodded and opened a maw, which cracked and unhinged, revealing a dark gullet and a pair of ginormous yellowed fangs. He charged me like a bull elephant—I almost wanted to laugh.

With a flick of my right wrist and a snarl on my lips, I sent out a rolling wave of silvered mist which flooded the room, wrapping serpentine limbs around Ringo and all the other fleeing minions—even the one behind the bar—lifting them all into the air, save Fast Hands. Him, I left to watch. I threw both hands forward, a conductor before his orchestra, and purple flame hit the mist like a match to gasoline.

Boiling fire engulfed the ensnared creatures, melting flesh and bone in flame so hot it singed my eyebrows a little bit. Color me impressed. Only Ringo, the winged hippo man, seemed to be at all resistant to the terrible construct. So, with a jerk of my hand, I smashed him through the window, chunks of glass shredding his delicate wings. Then I let the son of a bitch fall.

Now, as a quick side note, I’ve never done so many over-the-top, badass constructs on the fly in my life. Or really ever, on the fly or not. I wouldn’t have tried that mist-flame combo on my best day—it was uber-knock-your-socks-off cool, but I could’ve juggled a quartet of slug bugs with the amount of energy it took. Today, however, was better than my best day. Today was the day I held the Holy Grail in my pocket and had a belly full of power—power more potent than anything I’d ever dreamed to touch.

I cut the flow of my constructs off, mist and flame died away, leaving only charred corpses smoldering on the floor. Of his crew, only Fast Hands remained.

“Do it already,” he hissed at me. “You’ve won. Finish it like a man.”

I wanted to walk forward, maybe pin him to the ground, cut him up a little bit while I gloated and performed a long, drawn-out monologue about how nothing could possibly stop me now. Maybe I’d even do the banter thing with ol’ Fast Hands—he could ask me how I managed to show up and stop him. But I’ve been on the receiving end of that monologue too many times to count, and it almost invariably turns out poorly. So instead of checking that one off the evil overlord list, I decided to do the practical thing.

“Like I said, Fast Hands—go fuck yourself.” Then I called up another javelin of flame and lit him up like a bonfire. He burned for a few moments, let out one last holler, and crumpled, unable to hold himself up, now just a smoldering pile of snake-meat that smelled vaguely like burnt chicken.

“Is he dead?” Ferraro asked, her words muffled by the dome still around her.

“I’m gonna make sure,” I replied, stalking forward, stopping just outside of Fast Hands’s potential strike range. “Gladium potestatis,” I muttered with a whisper of will—my Vis sword, a single-edged blade of blue, popped into my hand. With a quick slice, my blade parted through tough scales and bone—his charred left arm fell away, then his right, just above the metal gauntlet, which served as his hand. With a heave, I cut his head away at the shoulders, revealing raw, pink meat underneath. I sure as shit wasn’t gonna make the same mistake Fast Hands had. “Yeah,” I said, standing over the corpse, “definitely dead.”

Like I said, if you have an enemy who just needs killing, like yesterday, make sure you do it proper.

I let the sword and the shield, still guarding Ferraro, dissipate.

She looked at me with uncertain eyes, then glanced at the bodies impaled on spikes and the spattering of burned creatures around the room. “Guess you really can do magic.”

I bent over and picked up Fast Hands’s metal fist, the only part of him not burnt—not even warm to the touch. “Not magic. Magic’s a Rube word. You aren’t a Rube, not anymore. The Vis is just energy, the energy that holds the world together—holds all the worlds together—and keeps everything spinning. I can touch it, manipulate it. More like physics than magic … Hey, I know this is kinda sudden—but you wanna grab dinner with me after we sort all this shit out?”

“Are you sure this is how you’d like to ask me out?” She glanced around again and frowned.

“Yeah, well … I almost died. Figured I should ask before someone else punches my ticket. One of those things I’d regret not doing.”

She shoved me hard, though there was a little smile on her lips. “Business first. Then we can talk, Mr. Romance.”

“Yeah. Right.” I looked down, feeling a little embarrassed, which was new. I hadn’t felt embarrassed around a woman in a long, long time. But then, I hadn’t really cared about a woman in a good long while either. Not since I lost Ailia to the Morrigan.

With the key in hand, we walked back over to Sir Galahad—guy was still passed out cold beneath the weight of the chain. I placed Fast Hands’s metal fist over a fancy lock of gold, it clicked open without a hitch. I grabbed hold of the chain and my arm fell asleep almost at once, pins and needles racing up and down through my nerve endings.

The hell was this chain made out of? I let go and feeling returned to my limb.

“Ferraro.” I looked back over my shoulder at her. “You’re gonna have to unwrap our hero here.” I nudged the guy with my boot.

“Why?” she asked.

“I can’t.” I shrugged. “This chain is some kinda freaky strong hoodoo.”

She walked forward and wriggled at the chain, pulling coil after coil off the knight without any sign of difficulty. It took a couple of minutes to unwind the guy, but only a few seconds for him to come to his senses after the chain was free.

He stood up, edged away from the chain, and stretched his arms out with a groan.

“Quite the improvement,” he said. “I cannot thank you both enough. Really. Fast Hands had me chained up there for weeks … speaking of which, I need to see a man about a horse. Desperately … Just, give me a moment, please.”

He trotted over behind the bar, turned his back toward us, and relieved himself—he wasn’t joking, the guy seriously had to go. While the knight busied himself with a makeshift urinal, I strolled over and collected my pistol—wouldn’t want to forget that—slid it into its holster, and headed back over toward Ferraro.

After a minute Sir Galahad joined us again.

“Ahh,” he breathed out, “loads better. That chain completely incapacitates the body—locked me up in stasis. Like I was saying, thanks a bundle.”

“You’re welcome, I guess. I’m Yancy—”

“Lazarus,” he finished for me. “Yes, I know. And you are Special Agent Ferraro with the FBI.” He cast a devilish and charming smile at her, which really made me want to punch him in his stupid perfect teeth. “I’ve worked with both of you in other alternate futures. I’m Gal.” He stuck out a filthy, dirt-caked hand.

Since my hand was similarly filthy, and he didn’t seem to mind, I took his hand and pumped it a couple of times.

“Gal’s a girl’s name,” I said because the guy was so unnaturally wholesome that I needed to knock him down a peg on general principle.

He just laughed it off. “That’s what you say every time I meet you. Well ... I know you have places to be, agent of Fate and all that. So if I could just take the Grail.” He held out a hand.

“Right. The Grail.” I carefully pulled it from my pocket and toyed with the lid just a little, before finally placing it in his hand. It was actually hard to let the trinket go. Now don’t get me wrong, I have absolutely zero desire to walk through time as the Grail Bearer, but holding the little flask made me feel good. Both physically well, but also complete somehow. Though I’d held it for a few minutes tops, there was a part of me that wanted it. To keep it. To own it. Having it there near me was so … right.

“That’s some awfully good shit,” I said.

He smiled in a knowing way. “Don’t I know. It’s not blood, you know. This thing was a cup once and it did catch His blood.” He motioned toward the ceiling. “Now, though, now it holds living water, the stuff flows right from the throne of God. The very essence of life.” His smile widened.

I didn’t quite know what to do with that. I mean, I know the Big Guy exists, just like I know demons and crazy alternate futures exist, but having someone talk so matter-of-factly about Him made me a little uneasy. In my mind, God was big, powerful, and goodish, but mostly He kept His distance—which I was good with. Safer that way.

“Hey.” I paused, looking at the loop of multicolored metal on the floor. “What’s the deal with the friggin’ chain there? Crazy thing made my hand want to fall off.”

The knight regarded the chain on the floor. “Yes, I don’t know how the heck Fast Hands got a hold of that particular item. It is a section from the Great Chain, forged by Hephaestus on behalf of the true God—it is part of the chain meant to hold Lucifer for all eternity. Very potent piece of work, that.” He kicked at it, like it might be a living serpent.

“So you’re really a Knight of the Round Table,” Ferraro asked, clearly much more impressed with the guy than I was.

He smiled and nodded.

“Alright,” I said, before Ferraro could invite him out to dinner, “we better get moving, now that the future’s all right as rain.” I pulled out the smooth, rune-carved stone Fortuna had given me back in the Hog’s Head.

“Just one moment.” Gal grabbed my arm, not hard, but with enough force to let me know the guy had real power. “Before you go … I wanted you to know that not everyone can open the Grail. Just holding it offers a certain amount of power, but only a few can open it. Fast Hands never managed the deed—that’s why he kept me alive, thought he’d eventually be able to get the secret out of me. But there really is no secret. The Grail will only open for one with pure and noble intentions, Yancy. It opened for you. So maybe you should show yourself a little grace now and again, yes? I know there’s a lot of brokenness in your life, but you’re not as bad as you think.” He grinned, all his teeth white and even, almost sparkling. Guy should’ve done an ad for Crest.

“Thanks, Dr. Phil,” I said, shaking my arm free of his grip.

He smiled again, even bigger, and rolled his eyes, all good-natured like. Irritated the crap outta me.

“It was a pleasure to meet you,” Ferraro said, a little too friendly. She shot me a wink that told me she knew exactly what I was thinking.

I wove a tiny trickle of spirit into the stone and a vertical slit slashed through the air, rotating and stretching until a doorway, seven feet by four feet, hung suspended before us. “Hasta la nachos,” I said to the knight before gently taking Ferraro by the hand and leading her through the portal, bound for home.

TWENTY-EIGHT:

The Hag

I’m not sure where exactly I was expecting to step out—maybe L.A. or the Big Easy—but a cave with rough stone walls, lit by sparse torchlight, was absolutely not what I’d envisioned. I pulled more Vis into my body, feeling so good to have the power roaring through me again, readying myself for a potential attack, because, let’s face it, that’s the gist of my life: hop from one shitty situation to an even shittier one.

“Oh excellent—Ladies, our guests have arrived.” The voice was matronly and came from behind me. Ferraro and I both spun almost in tandem, me with both hands upraised, prepared to unleash a firestorm or a force shield, her with Glock held level. A single woman, stooped with age, wearing a homespun gown and a gauzy veil draped around her head, stood in a … let’s go with rustic … living room.

The walls of her room were still rock, but the stone was smooth and polished, a few pieces of needlework hung in yellowing frames. There was a quaint wooden table with a trio of chairs, a well-worn rocking chair in one corner, a closed cupboard, and a great stone fireplace with a tremendous kettle brewing over a green fire. Looked like the Twilight Zone version of Little House on the Prairie.

“Please take a seat, we’ve been expecting you,” the woman said. “Oh, pardon us, dearies, pardon us, we”—she offered a little curtsy—“are Lady Fate, the Three-Faced Hag, the Wyrd.”

I glanced at Ferraro, not entirely sure what to do here … even for me, this was sorta outside the realm of usual.

“Please,” she said again, “sit, sit. We’ve got tea on.”

“I’d love some, ma’am,” Ferraro said, breaking the mounting tension, striding forward and pulling out one of the sturdy wooden chairs around the table. I followed suit reluctantly. I’m not particularly inclined to trust supernatural creatures, especially ones that live in creepy caves and who might have some kind of personality disorder. I mean she used we an awful lot for just being one lady. Maybe it was the royal we. Still, very odd, though in for a penny in for a pound I guess.

“Good, good.” She busied herself for a moment, shuffling around the cavernous (get it cavernous—’cause she lives in a cavern) house, procuring cups, saucers, and a kettle filled with something that smelled potent enough to burn away my nose hairs. She placed a cup before both Ferraro and I, then poured a dollop of pitch-black liquid into each mug. Ferraro took her cup and sipped—she sputtered, coughed, and wheezed, then set the cup down and carefully pushed it away, before muttering, “Thank you.” Our hostess hardly seemed to care one way or the other.

She turned her veiled face to me. “Now you, Yancy. Refreshments must be offered and accepted, a sign of peace and fellowship between us.” Then she cackled like a deranged Bond villain, which did nothing to boast my overall confidence.

Old-world types could be particular about rules of hospitality though, so I reluctantly lifted the tea and took the smallest sip I could manage—the stuff tasted like rancid hot tar. “Geelach.” My faced scrunched up in a grimace. “That’s awful. Really, really awful.”

Lady Fate sniffed in disapproval. “It’s an acquired taste.” Having welcomed us and playing the part of hostess, she moved over to the rocking chair in the corner and sat down with a groan. “Well met, you two. Well met. We are so glad you both made it out alive. Uncertain, aye. But we are pleased. It’s been quite a day. Quite a day.”

She reached up and removed the wispy veil covering her head. Ferraro stifled a gasp. The old woman cackled again, infinitely amused. The creep factor ratcheted up another few notches.

“Oh the honesty of the young and innocent,” she said. “For us old salts, Yancy, there is little that will shock and dismay. But for youth, especially one young to this strange world of ours, everything is so fresh: a bright and endless summer full of sweet roses and hot passions … to be so young again,” she sighed fondly. “To be so naïve. Delicious.” She laughed again, this one a low, throaty gurgle.

I tried not to appear shocked, because I’d already insulted her tea and it’s even more impolite to throw up when someone shows you their face—but I totally understood Ferraro’s response. Lady Fate spoke from a horribly disfigured mouth, lopsided by stroke on one side and haggard, with cracked flesh and an army of wrinkles.

And on either side of her head—where ears should have been—other faces protruded like cancerous growths: one a young woman with creamy skin, high cheekbones, and flawless lips. The other, a middle-aged woman, cheeks too thin and hollow, worry wrinkles sprouting across her forehead, around her eyes, and at the corners of her mouth. None of the faces had eyes, just empty sockets, dark as the grave and murky as the future.

She raised her hands, each wrapped in wispy white gauze, her fingers tipped with black talons. A hovering eye sat in the center of each palm—the irises were the color of shimmering rainbows, shifting from emerald to ruby to cerulean.

“Yancy,” she said, “Lady Fortuna, our handmaiden, is really quite taken with you, you know.” She smiled, which did absolutely nothing to brighten her overall demeanor. “We can see why, oh yes … if we were a younger woman, we might be taken with you too. A rogue, aye, but with a good heart we think… and none too hard on the eyes.” A sickening pop, and the old women’s head rotated, the face of the young woman peering out at me with empty eyes.

She fluttered her eyelashes for a moment and then shot me a sly wink. “We could teach you a great many things, if you’d be bold enough to learn,” the young face said with a voice like silk. “A great many things indeed.” Another wink and her neck popped and the old woman’s face took center stage again.

Hit on by a three-faced hag, gross to the nth degree.

“And you.” She turned a bit in her rocking chair, looking right at Ferraro as though the younger face hadn’t spoken at all. “It really is a pleasure to meet you dear, so lovely. Your involvement was uncertain, but much appreciated. Putting this whole matter to bed would have been near impossible without your help. But pleasantries aside”—she paused, then sighed as though she lived for the pleasantries—“we really should talk shop, as you mortals say.”

“Okay,” I said, “you wanna talk shop—how about the fact that Cannibal Steve and Fast Hands Steve are really the same friggin’ guy. If you wanted to prevent this future from happening why in the world would you involve us? Our involvement with Fast Hands is partly what led to that future in the first place.”

She smiled and rocked back and forth in her chair, longs nails clicking against the wooden armrest. “It would seem that way to you, yes, but Fate is a funny thing, a tricky bit of work. You think we control Fate, but we do not. No, no. We are a servant of Fate—able to see it, yes, to influence it yes, but control it? No, no. To some extent, the intangible Fate, the tapestry of existence, is a Being in its own right, and we are its servant as much as it serves us. Fate—history past, present, and future—is obdurate, as stubborn and unyielding as an old mountain. And the Grail makes it more so. The future is unwritten, the freewill of humankind makes it thus, but some futures are more likely to happen than others. Aye, it is so.”

“Yeah, I got it. But if you wanted to prevent the future with Cannibal Steve, then you just should’ve recruited someone else. Or heck, you could’ve just had Lady Luck meet us somewhere other than the Hog’s Head. This doesn’t seem like rocket science here.”

“Aye,” she said, “but it is much more complicated than that. The Grail lends extra weight to whichever reality it stays in … as that reality locks into place, the past will begin to conform in order to fit the future that must be. In order for that future to occur, either you or Ferraro needed to wound Fast Hands, and in order for that to happen, we needed to involve you, and you needed to be at the Hog’s Head. By possessing the Grail, Fast Hands managed to compel us—as a servant of Fate—to involve you, thus bringing about a greater likelihood of that future taking hold.”

I frowned. Her answer made sense in a strange circular logic kind of way, but damn if it didn’t hurt my head. “Fine,” I conceded, “maybe it’s a little more complicated than I gave it credit for.”

She smiled, though only half her face raised—the other lay flat in a grimace. “Yes,” she said in a grandmotherly tone, “it is just a little more complicated than you gave it credit for. We think that is an accurate statement.”

“Since you feel like talking about the future,” I said, “care to tell me who in the hell the Savage Prophet is? Future Fast Hands told me that the Savage Prophet did me in, sure as shit got my attention.”

Lady Fate sat still and silent for a moment, hands moving up and waving through the air, fingers swishing back and forth like she was searching through a library card catalogue.

“Ah,” she said after a moment. “Sadly there are some things that may not be revealed. There are rules, you know. As we said, Fate is a delicate thing, which will only tolerate so much interference. And telling you this … could ruin a great many things.” She smiled again, but it was a sad look on her withered face. “Aye, a great many things. Besides, much of this future has been veiled, even from us, by a power we do not fully understand. Rest assured though, we will help as we are able.”

“This is all fascinating,” Ferraro said. “Fate. The Grail. All of it. But I still have a job to do. Look, I signed on in order to bring Randy Shelton—the man who murdered Maxim Kozlov, Larry Ravel, and Ray Harvey, two good officers—to justice. I’ve gone through a world of hurt to do that. I’ve had my whole life flipped upside down. And Shelton? He’s still a free man. It’s time to change that. We’ve done what you needed us to do, now it’s your turn to deliver us Shelton.”

“So you’ve backbone enough to speak? Good, good. We knew our homely appearance wouldn’t faze you for long. Be patient just a little while longer, dearie, and then we’ll give you what you need to handle Shelton. We are the Wyrd—it is our role to play, and we shall do it true. But before you go, we have three boons—past, present, and future—we must yet give to our servant.” She nodded to me.

She held out one hand, luminescent eye canted toward the ceiling. At first, light seeped into the air, then it coalesced into a picture, a miniature, semi-translucent hologram, like you might see in Star Wars. In the air hung a man: tall, thick with muscle across the chest and shoulders, wavy brown hair, and green eyes. I knew him. James, a fellow member of the Fist of the Staff—second in command—and maybe my only true friend in the Guild.

Lady Fate’s neck cracked, suddenly the maiden stared out at me with empty eyes. “Past,” she intoned, “this man is the key to your past. Your present. Your future. His role is clouded to us, obscured, and blocked from our sight, yet he is the center. You must seek him out.”

Crack, Lady Fate’s head swiveled again, the middle-aged matron now front and center, a disapproving scowl distorting her lips. The picture of James swirled, shifted, melted, and reformed: the Crook of Winter—the prize I’d taken from my rescue trip into Thurak-Tir—hung suspended in the air. “Present,” the Mother said. “The crook’s power is immense, and the Lich will stop at nothing to have it. You will beat him only with its aid, but only after the Lich holds victory in hand.”

“Damn,” I mumbled, “that’s not super vague and cryptic.”

Matronly Lady Fate frowned at me in disapproval before letting out a sigh. Crack, the Hag present once more. “Hush now, child,” she said as the image once again shifted into something new. An old timey set of scales, the world spinning merrily along on one end with me standing above it. On the other end, an identical globe burned with red flame, the shadowed silhouette of a man hanging over and above it.

“Future,” the Hag said. “There is a man seeking to make himself a god—a man who will unbalance the world in his passing. A man forging new alliances, and breaking old ones asunder, sowing chaos in his wake. A mage of the Guild with great power—he is responsible for unleashing the Lich, Koschei, upon the world. What’s more, the future you journeyed through to get here will be the future of his design. He must be stopped.”

She paused as though searching deeply into murky waters. “For a time,” she said at last, “you shall be a fulcrum.” The light faded away, pulling back into Lady Fate’s palm.

“Okay, back it up,” I said. “If this is some kind of ‘chosen one’ bullshit prophecy thing, I’m just gonna walk away. I didn’t sign up for this—I don’t want this. I want to be alone. I want to play my music and drink some beer. That’s it. I’m not interested in being anyone’s savior. I’m done being everybody’s errand boy. I’ll take out Randy—that was the deal—and he has some vengeance coming. But after that, I’m out.”

She chortled, a low grinding sound. “Have you ever heard of Frank Foley?” she asked.

I shook my head, unsure where she was headed.

“Frank Foley,” she continued, “was a member of the British secret service, working in Nazi Germany as a humble passport clerk during the Second World War. Through guile and courage—and at great personal risk to himself, might we add—he saved almost ten thousand Jews from execution or deportation to the concentration camps. At times, he even went into internment camps to help smuggle Jews to freedom. Would you say that Mr. Foley was a chosen one?”

The question hung in the air, but I couldn’t answer it. I didn’t know. Maybe. Yes. No.

“No, Yancy,” she answered after a time. “He was just a man. A man in a terrible situation who found himself with the power to save a great many people. He could have chosen not to, chosen the path of the irresponsible or the morally weak—Heaven knows most people in his position decided not to do anything—but instead he intervened because he was able and willing and brave.”

Her rocking ceased and she leaned forward in her chair. “So it is with you,” she said. “There is no prophecy, no compulsion, no obligation. Rather, you, like Mr. Foley, find yourself at a volatile point in history, and your choice to intervene—or not—may well tip the balance and save a great many people …”

“But”—she slumped back in her seat and shrugged her narrow shoulder—“it is your choice. Should you decide to act, there is no guarantee that you will succeed or even live. If you do nothing though—if you simply fade back to the bar, to your music, run away as you have always run away from responsibility—a very bad man will do very bad things, of that we can assure you ... Don’t you humans have a saying? ‘The only thing necessary for the triumph of evil is for good men to do nothing.’”

Normally, I’d say something smart here, but I didn’t. Her words stung me right to the heart and to speak now would both cheapen the moment and validate her accusations. I could sense that there was a lot on the line here, and like it or not, I couldn’t walk away from that kind of thing. I’m an immature, selfish jerk, but I don’t like seeing people get hurt. There’s a reason I got saddled with the nickname The Fixer in the first place. Sometimes, I just don’t know when to keep my friggin’ head down.

I sighed. “I’m not making any promises. Let me just deal with Randy and … well, I guess we’ll see where things go from there. Hell, maybe by taking Randy out, I’ll even manage to get some info on the big bad pulling the strings and stirring the pot.”

Even though I hadn’t promised jack-shit, I could feel approval nearly oozing off the old woman.

“Now how the hell do we get out of here—I need something a damn bit stiffer than that awful tea.”

“Just ask, dearie,” she said. “From this place, we may send you anywhere you so desire.”

“You can send us anywhere?” I repeated.

“Not to a person, no. But to any place, yes.”

I thought for a moment, tapping a finger against my chin. The first image Lady Fate had shown me, James. Lady Fate said he was key, said to seek him out. If there was shady business going on with the Guild, he’d be able to tell me. And he would.

“Boston,” I said. “Drop us off at a bar called the Black Shamrock, near Tremont and Massachusetts Avenue in South End.” I glanced at Ferraro. “I’ve got to talk to an old friend,” I said to her, “so it looks like you’re going to get to meet some of the Guild after all.”

Lady Fate nodded her head. “But before you go, let us see you properly prepared.” Her hands shot into the air, fingers skimming back and forth as though working through the threads of some great and unseen tapestry. “Aye, there it is,” she said, more to herself than to us. She hooked a clawed finger and then carefully plucked something from the air. She held a thin strand of glimmering fabric, maybe half an inch long, between her thumb and index finger.

I looked down—my clothes were no longer covered in blood or urine, no longer sporting holes or tears. I wasn’t even dirty anymore—no stains, dirt, or even B.O.—as if I’d just popped out of the shower, all fresh and clean. I glanced at Ferraro; she too looked as fresh and pristine as when we’d first set out for the Hinterlands. Craziest of all, I hadn’t felt a thing, not the merest trickle of power. If this was a thing of the Vis, it was well beyond my understanding.

“Neat trick,” I said, sounding less awed than I actually felt. It was times like these that I got a firm reminder that there were a great many things that were far beyond my power.

“Yes.” Lady Fate bobbed her head. “Sadly, most such tricks only work here in our realm. Still, we are glad to serve. Before you depart—you have the stone my handmaiden gave you, yes?”

I shoved a hand into my pocket, dug around for a second, and liberated the smooth stone with the glittering rune on its surface.

“Good, good,” she said. “Take it as a final aid—twice more may it be used to bring you to this place. But use it wisely, for no man, not even our Hand, may see us more than thrice”— she held up three fingers to drive it home—“and live. Now, to Boston with you.” She snapped her withered fingers and the world collapsed beneath me.

TWENTY-NINE:

Jimmy

The Black Shamrock was an old-timers bar in Boston, occupying one of the brownstones dotting the roadside. Once upon a time, smoke and laughter would’ve filled this place up, but now it was little more than a snubbed-out-cigarette-butt of a bar. Sweet tobacco perfume no longer billowed here, new laws and health regulations had put an end to the old ways. And the clientele … well, there wasn’t a smiling soul among them. Mostly, they were world-weary construction workers—though I spotted a few off-duty cabbies—all beaten down by a lifetime of hard work.

The joint really used to be a hopping place, one of my favorites out this way, but I had an inkling it was on its way out. Now it was just a dark, dank spot filled with the clink of beer bottles and the chatter of TV sportscasters, one jabbering hockey stats while on another TV someone talked football. The clack of billiards was at least familiar, though it was only a single pair of guys shooting an unenthusiastic round of snooker in the corner. The damn place sure could’ve used some tunes. Dark, dank, and depressing aren’t so bad so long as you have the right soundtrack for it.

At least the food was still top-shelf.

I took another bite of ribs, tangy barbeque dancing across my tongue; after nearly a week of terrible meals—mostly MREs, military field chow, and granola bars—I was in taste bud heaven. Ferraro sat across the table from me, her back against the padded booth, a big burger half eaten on her plate. When I’d originally asked her out to dinner, I hadn’t thought it would be quite so soon after leaving the Hinterlands, but I really couldn’t complain.

I mean a couple of hours ago, I’d been in a parallel future, surrounded by freakishly mutated humans, sporting more than a few wounds. Shit, I’d had my kneecap obliterated, half my left hand blown away, one arm nearly torn off, and a bullet riding in my guts. And now? Now I was riding high and feeling good—my power back, my body whole and healthy, a nightmarish future temporarily prevented, and dinner with a good-looking woman. A dinner with ribs.

Yeah, there was still a killer out there possessed by an insanely powerful undead Lich, and yeah, there was some treacherous mage in the Guild, scheming and maneuvering to make himself a god. But that was for later. Right now was all about celebration—you can only dodge the big end so many times before you realize that the future really isn’t promised.

“God this tastes so good,” Ferraro mumbled through another chomp of burger.

I set my ribs down for a second, picked up a mug full of Coors and gave her a nod. “Amen, sister. I’ll drink to that.” I took a long pull that wasn’t near as good as the living water from the Holy Grail, but which, in that moment, seemed pretty close.

“Well,” Ferraro said, setting down her burger and dusting her hands free from crumbs, “let it never be said that you aren’t a class act. I haven’t had a first date like this since my days back in Pendleton.” She offered a genuine smile that lit up her face. Pendleton was the main Marine Corps base for the entire West Coast, nestled right in the lovely, rolling hills just outside Oceanside, California.

“It’s the almost dying that does it,” I said, “makes everything better.”

She grunted and took a sip of frosty Pilsner. “So how much longer before this friend of yours shows up?” she asked after a moment. “I’ve got a feeling that after the food’s gone, this place is going to lose its charm.”

“Shouldn’t be too long. But cut him some slack, he’s a busy guy, plus he has to commute all the way from Somerville and there’s half a foot of snow on the ground. If you get bored, you’re always welcome to go cool your heels out in Snowageddon while I wait in here drinking beer. Might even order a cup of hot coffee—the place makes a pretty mean apple pie too.”

She picked up her burger without comment, took another bite then set it back down, leaned back in her booth and undid the top button of her cargo pants. She was a thin woman, though not scrawny, with lots of long muscle, but the Black Shamrock served up some big burgers. Unbutton-your-pants big.

“I want no judgment,” she said, eyeing me as though she knew there was some smartassery on the way.

“Fine.” I smirked. “No judgment. Just not the kind of thing I expected.”

“You’re a sixty-six-year-old, blues-playing magic-man who lives in a car,” she said before picking up her drink and taking another sip. “We’ve been in more than one firefight together. I’ve stitched up wounds that a shape shifter carved into your stomach. We just traveled through a parallel future and met Fate. In my book, we’re past the awkward first-date jitters. Besides, you could’ve chosen to have Lady Fate send us anywhere and you chose here. A dumpy bar in Southend. So I can’t image this”—she motioned to her pants—“will bother you much.”

“Fair enough … though, as a side note, this bar is not ‘dumpy.’ It just has character, nothing wrong with a little character.”

“If this place gets any more ‘character,’” she said, “the health inspector is likely to close it down for uncleanliness—which, I admit, would be unfortunate.” She pointed at the chunk of burger remaining. “This is phenomenal.”

The tinkle of a brass bell mounted over the entrance sent out a shrill call as the front door swung in and a man shuffled his way in amidst a flutter of snow. He stomped his two-tone wingtips—yes wingtips, feel free to laugh—on the entry mat, shaking the snow free, and hastily unwrapped the scarf draped around his throat and face before peeling off his black pea coat. Wingtips aside, Boston winters were chilly.

He was taller than me by more than half a foot—six-four sans the fancy shoes, which added an inch or two—with thick muscles across his chest and shoulders that made him look like a professional athlete or a movie star. Definitely the type of guy women noticed. It was more than his looks though, he carried himself a certain way—like he was a man who knew things you didn’t, a guy who maybe should’ve been hobnobbing with influential politicians or drinking cocktails with the rich and famous instead of gabbing with you. Hoity-toity, better-than-you, uber prick. But for all of that he was still a good guy.

He wore dark tweed slacks, creased down the middle, which rode a little too high to be fashionable, a matching dinner jacket with a waistcoat underneath, and a crisp white button-up with a fat striped tie disappearing below his vest. His hair was short and wavy brown, styled up in a neat little 1920s hairdo that most people would probably consider retro. Hell, the guy looked like he should’ve been on set for The Great Gatsby.

Except for him it wasn’t retro. James had spent his late teens during the roaring twenties, and had never really left them behind. At least not the fashion. Though over a hundred years old, he looked maybe forty—he aged even better than me, which I attributed to his healthy eating habits, regular exercise routine, and generally clean living. Blech. No thanks.

I shot up an arm and waved it back and forth. He spotted me and threaded across the room, a shit-eating grin spreading across his face. It’d been a couple of years since the last time we spoke and even longer since I’d actually seen him.

We were on speaking terms, though things were a little uneasy between us. Shitty situation—James was a member of the Fist of the Staff, one of the most badass battle magi on the planet, and he’d been a mentor to me, a brother. Taught me most of what I know. But he’d also sided with the Guild about Ailia. Well, maybe not sided—he’d backed me up and argued vehemently that the Guild had a responsibility to kick the shit out of the Morrigan. When the Guild ruled, however, he toed the company line. Maybe Ailia had been my gal, but she’d been his friend, and friends don’t let shit like that go. No matter what.

Still, it was good to see him.

I slipped out of the seat as he walked up and threw my arms around him. He hugged me back, even lifted me off the floor a little—great big ol’ son of a bitch.

“Yancy,” he said, setting me down and backing up to arm’s length so he could get a good look at me. “You look …” He paused, lips pressing together into a thin slash. “Awful,” he finally declared. “Just terrible. Too much booze, too many cigarettes, too much junk food—it’s starting to show. You shouldn’t look so worn down for another fifty or sixty years at least. You’ll never make it to four hundred at this rate. And who in the world dresses you in the morning? A blind chimp?” His eyes roved over my attire, disgust plainly evident. “Just atrocious.”

“It’s good to see you too, dick. You look too healthy. You also look like a colossal douchenozzle. Now, come on, sit down. Can I order you a beer or something?” I slid into the booth next to Ferraro, while he glided in across from us.

“A tonic water,” he said. Guy was such a weirdo. I waved down a waiter—a rail thin guy, with a ratty shirt—and placed the order. The waiter shuffled off with a brief and unenthusiastic grunt.

“And who is this vision?” James asked after a moment, eyeing Ferraro appraisingly. The words would’ve been completely corny coming from anyone but him. From him, they just seemed like part of the package.

“Special Agent Nicole Ferraro, FBI,” she said, apparently unimpressed, “and I’d like to ask you the same.”

James leaned back in the booth, considering her, cataloguing her, trying to figure out where she fit into all this. I hadn’t told him much over the phone, so Ferraro was a piece of the puzzle he probably couldn’t place yet. The waiter came back and dropped off James’s tonic water in a spotty glass with a few bobbing ice cubes.

James shifted his focus to the glass then casually pushed it away. Bit of a neat freak. “Well,” he said, looking up at Ferraro, “I never like to disappoint a lady, but I’m afraid you should really leave this be. Yancy,” he said, “we really should do this alone. It’s very good to see you, but there are some pressing matters that we simply must discuss—matters which it might behoove us to talk about privately. Pardon, Madam Agent, but frankly this is none of your affair.” He smiled his best movie-star grin, but his words hung heavy with threat.

“Hey, take it easy, alright?” I said. “She’s okay, I’ll vouch for her, and this sure as shit concerns her. We just finished a friggin’ trek through the Hinterlands, walked through a shadow Time Lap. Nasty business, part of the reason we need to talk.”

“Really.” It wasn’t a question. “And she knows about the Guild?”

“Don’t talk around me,” Ferraro said, staring James down like a criminal suspect undergoing interrogation. “Yes, I know about the Guild. Enough anyway.”

“She’s quite a bearcat, isn’t she?” he said to me with a smirk, the tension seeming to bleed away. “Consider for a moment, Agent, that some of the information I’m about to divulge could make you a liability and a danger to certain … parties. Are you sure it’s worth the risk? You can still walk away, walk back to your safe, sweet mortal world. I can easily forget I saw you here tonight. Your involvement in this matter need not continue.”

She crossed her arms, a small frown turning her lips down. “You don’t need to protect me. I’m more than capable of taking care of myself, so I’d appreciate a little professional courtesy here.”

He carefully plucked at a nonexistent piece of lint on his sleeve. After a long pause, he looked up—eyes fastening on Ferraro with laser-focused intensity. “Very well, though don’t say I didn’t warn you. I’m James Sullivan, Lieutenant Commander of the Fist of the Staff—the Guild’s special enforcement division. Now”—he turned his steely gaze on me, all the humor gone from his voice—“Yancy, I’m here of my own accord, but you should know that there is currently a standing order to arrest you on sight and bring you in for questioning. It is only because of our history that I haven’t done so already.”

“The hell are you talking about?” I asked, genuinely confused. “Why would the Guild want me in custody—up until now they’ve seemed pretty content to let me go my own way.”

“Up until now, you weren’t the prime suspect in the murder investigation of one of the members of the Junior Council, Maxim Kozlov.” His tone was soft, not threatening, but I’d seen James like this plenty of times before. Though he looked like a flamboyant dandy out of an oldies catalogue, he was more deadly than a cage full of tigers and he always got quiet before violence. The calm before the cyclone.

“What? No, Jimmy—you can’t believe that.”

“Obviously, I’m not convinced,” he said, “or we wouldn’t be having this conversation. And you know I hate it when you call me Jimmy.”

“Look, I was only at Kozlov’s place following up a lead. I helped find Ben Altschuler’s kidnapped grandkid and figured out a Guild washout named Randy Shelton was targeting the members of the Junior Council who’d denied him admittance into the Guild. Kozlov was the other no vote against Shelton. So after helping Ben out, I called Kozlov up—when I couldn’t get through, I stopped by to check up on him and found him dead. That’s it.”

After I finished, James looked away and ran one hand over his slick hair. “No,” he said after a moment. “You must be mistaken about Shelton. I remember the boy—I administered his combat test. Four or five months ago, this was. He was …” He paused, thinking. “Passable. Yes, passable, but not in any way exceptional and certainly not strong enough to kill a formidable mage like Maxim. The man was a former judge, you know. You must be mistaken,” he said again.

“No, James. I’m not.” I placed both hands flat on the table, leaned forward in my seat, and fixed him with a level stare. “Look at me. I’m not wrong about this. I saw Shelton. But Shelton has a new friend: Koschei the Deathless, the Lich. Someone in the Guild is a traitor, James—someone high enough up to gain access to the Guild vault.” Silence spread between us like a thick curtain.

He looked down, considered the tonic water in the spotted glass, and then took it up and drained it. He set the glass down and wiped a hand across his mouth—a sure sign of his shock, James would never do something so lowbrow as not use a napkin. “Those are some very serious accusations. Death penalty accusations. You’re sure of this?”

“Oh yeah. I’ve seen Shelton and it’s not a pretty sight. Plus, I’ve got a very highly placed source that assures me it’s Koschei.”

“All right,” he said, “start from the beginning. Tell me everything.”

I gave him a brief rundown—told him about Old Man Winter, about the poison, the jailbreak, and our trip into the Hinterlands. He had a bunch of questions about the Time Lap, the Grail, and Fast Hands Steve, though overall he seemed to be handling everything well. I did leave out the info about the Crook of Winter and my inside source, Lady Fate.

After I finished he sat quiet for a long while, deep in thought. “If this is true …” he said, trailing off. “You must come in with me, stand trial, tell the council what you’ve told me. Offer proof, evidence—we’ll search the vault and if Koschei’s ring is gone it should get you off the hook. Can you corroborate any of this?” he said, looking at Ferraro.

“Most of it, yes,” she replied.

“It’s settled then,” he replied, “there’s nothing else to it. Turn yourselves in, the both of you. Let the Guild conduct the investigation, the Fist can handle Shelton. Mop up this Fast Hands Steve.”

“Not an option,” Ferraro said, shaking her head. “If someone on the council is responsible for giving Randy the ring in the first place, then that’s the worst thing we can do. Anyone could be the suspect, and if that person is highly placed, there’s a good chance Yancy will take the fall. Not to mention whatever will happen to me. Turning ourselves in would be a mistake, I just know it.”

“She’s right,” I said. “There’s no way I’m going to the Guild with this. Not a snowball’s chance in hell that I’ll throw myself on the mercy of those jackasses, present company mostly excluded. I trust you, but that’s as far as it goes. Plus, Shelton is not gonna get off so easy—that dickweed has a reckoning coming his way.”

“God,” James said. He stuck up an arm and flagged down the waiter again. The man plodded his way over.

“Yeah,” the kid said, bored to his toes. “What can I get you?”

“I’m going to need something a little stronger,” James said. “Why don’t you just bring over a bottle of Scotch, not panther piss either—the good stuff.”

Ferraro looked at me and mouthed the words, Panther piss?

“He’s a fossil,” I whispered back, “even worse than me, can’t stop talking in 1920s speak—he means shitty booze.”

James fished a hundred-dollar bill out of his lapel pocket and handed it to the kid, who suddenly looked a mite bit more interested. “As a tip,” James said. The kid hurried to comply, jogging across the floor and returning a few heartbeats later with a bottle of Auchentoshan Three-Wood single malt. Best stuff in the house, though still cheap as Scotch went.

James unscrewed the cap, poured himself a large sip, and tossed it back in a single long, slow pull. He poured another shot. “All right, you can’t go to the Guild. You’re absolutely right—with your history it might well end up as a kangaroo court. At least let me help you. Yancy, you’re a passable battle mage, maybe even good, but a Lich? No, that’s out of your league, I’m afraid. I, however, am a better battle mage and between the two of us?”

He picked up his glass and swirled the contents, as though the answer might lay somewhere inside the amber liquid. Likely, he was running through possible combat scenarios—guy was sharp as a friggin’ K-Bar. “Yes, between the two of us, it could be done.”

He was right, the Lich was out of my league; there was a damn good reason that ring had been locked up in the Guild’s big vault. Being a powerful mage isn’t just about how much raw Vis you can handle—there are techniques, skills, and complex theorems that take a long, long time to learn and even longer to master. Several lifetimes. Though the Lich was constrained by Randy’s natural Vis threshold—the amount of power Randy could safely draw and handle—he was still more knowledgeable than any mage alive, which made him a deadly opponent.

James was also right about being a better battle mage than me—though not quite as strong in raw power, he was a master combat strategist with twice my skill and a whole helluva lot more experience. But I had the Crook of Winter in my corner, which he didn’t know about, and besides, I wasn’t about to feed James’s gigantic ego by admitting I couldn’t do it without him.

“First, screw you—you’re not that much better—and second,” I said, “it’s better if you don’t help. If this all goes south, I don’t want to drag you down. Besides, having a set of eyes inside the council is the better long-term play.”

He fidgeted in his seat, a look of irritation distorting his normally suave features. “Well if you don’t want me to help, why did you even bother to call?”

“Oh, I do want your help, just not in the way you’re thinking. First, I need to find Randy, and I think you can swing it with your contacts in the spirit world. That son of a bitch is ours”—I waved a hand at Ferraro—“and we are the ones that are going to bring him down. Second, you need to warn Sigu Nakajima, from the Junior Council—she voted yes for Shelton, so she’s probably okay, but better to play it safe. Then you need to look in on Ben and his grandkid—make sure Ben knows what the deal is and finds someplace safe to bunker down.”

“Of course I can warn Sigu and Ben. But finding your man? What you’re asking for … it will be a costly endeavor. If there really is someone in the Guild orchestrating these events, then poking around like this could make me some serious enemies. But I can find Shelton—I’m James bloody Sullivan.” He nodded then took another drink. “Since you’re already asking me to move mountains, is there anything else I can do for you? Would you like the Hope Diamond, perhaps? Or the Crown jewels? Why, maybe you’d like me to lobby the Elder Council and nominate you for the position of Arch-Mage?”

“I asked for your help, not your sass,” I replied. “But yeah, actually, there is something else. You need to start looking for who leaked the ring in the first place. My source says whoever did this is looking to do much, much worse—turn themselves into a god, break apart all the old alliances. Shake shit up in a big way. No friggin’ clue who it is, but they’re high in the Guild.”

“Who is this source?” he asked. “If I’m going to stick my neck out, I’d at least like to know whose word I’m acting on.”

I dithered for a moment. I knew Lady Fate was trying to do the right thing, but supernatural beings like her were often regarded with more than a little suspicion by magi—usually for good reason. They could be sly, fickle, and occasionally deceitful … maybe more than occasionally. Fine, almost always. So, if I told James, there was a damn good chance he’d walk away. Shit, there was a damn good chance he’d arrest me. But Lady Fate had rescued me from prison, helped me get my powers back, and had treated fairly with me so far. She seemed genuinely on the level. Time to roll the dice.

“Lady Fate,” I said finally.

He laughed, just a little bark. “The Crone? Yes, I suppose she might involve herself in something like this. She’s appointed you Hand of Fate in this matter?” he asked.

I nodded.

“And you trust her?” He rolled his eyes and sighed. “You’ve never been the best judge of character.” He paused and readjusted his tie. “Let’s say, just for a moment, that I believe you … where would I start? I’m an enforcer, not an investigator. I much prefer to leave the gumshoeing to the judges.”

“Start by narrowing your suspect pool down,” Ferraro said. “The perpetrator will have to be someone with power and access—means and opportunity. Though I don’t know how large the Guild is, there can’t realistically be many people with the credentials to get the ring out if it’s as dangerous as you both make it sound. That should cut your list of potential targets down significantly. And don’t forget to account for people you might normally overlook—maintenance workers, cleaning crews, law enforcement officials. All of them are potential suspects. Probably, you’re looking for someone that only has a moderate amount of political clout, otherwise they’d likely be making a more overt power grab. This is subtle, which suggests the suspect doesn’t have the muscle to move in the open. Not yet.”

I stared at her, my mouth open just a little too far. “Damn,” I said, “what she said.”

“What?” she replied, a frown of disapproval dancing across her face. “I’m part of the FBI for a good reason. I’m very good at my job.”

“Any other tips, Sherlock?” I asked.

“Well,” she said, more or less ignoring me, “once you’ve narrowed down your suspect pool to those who had the means to commit the crime, then look for motive. Who would actually want to commit the crime—who might benefit from it.”

“That’s the problem,” James said. “I can easily figure out who might have been able to do the thing, but I can’t, for the life of me, think of a compelling reason why someone would want to do this. I remember Koschei—bringing him down was one of my first major assignments with the Fist, we have a bit of history. Nightmare doesn’t even begin to cover it.”

“Well,” I said, “if whoever is pulling the strings behind this mess wants to rule the world, then he’s gonna need a shit-ton of loyal muscle to do it, right? Shelton was an outcast with a chip on his shoulder bigger than the friggin’ Titanic. So if someone gave a guy like that power and a chance to belong to something, he’d create a loyal, capable underling and a powerful ally later on.”

“That’s true,” Ferraro said, “but why Shelton specifically? There’s probably a large pool of potential candidates that our suspect could have chosen from, but he picked Shelton. There must be a reason for it.”

She paused, drumming her fingers against the table. “Shelton was unbalanced,” she continued, “angry at the Junior Council—so giving him the ring was like giving him a loaded gun, one that was pointed at the members of the council that rejected him. Whoever is behind this had to know exactly what Shelton would do, whom Shelton would target. Which means that either Ben or Kozlov was likely the actual target and Shelton just a convenient means to an end. So look for people who’d have a good reason to hurt one or both of them.”

A little light bulb flicked to life in my head. “Shit, I think you’re right. But I bet the motive isn’t personal, or at least not solely personal.” I shifted in the booth to look at Ferraro. “You wouldn’t know this since you’re not a member of the Guild, but the Junior Council can propose legislation. They also act as the tie-breaking vote when the Elder Council can’t come to a consensus.” I looked back at James and bounced my hand on the table—this was the right track, I could feel it in my gut. “So take a hard look at folks who would’ve benefited politically by having a change in the Junior Guild membership. Maybe someone on the Elder Council is trying to stack the Junior Council with lackeys that’ll give him an edge somehow.”

“But what about Old Man Winter?” James asked. “How does he fit into the whole sordid mess?”

I tapped my chin. “Yeah, I’ve been trying to figure that out too. When Shelton went rogue, he immediately reached out to form an alliance with Winter. But from everything I’ve heard about the kid so far, that just doesn’t fit. This kid wants revenge and he wants to belong, he’s not after power. So why make a deal with Winter? That must be an order from someone else. No question about it. Damned if I can figure out exactly how he fits into the bigger picture … Still, I guess you could also look for people who might stand to benefit by a power shift in the Winter Court. Kind of a thin lead, but it’s better than nothing.”

James picked up his glass and took another drink before squeezing his eyes shut tight for a second. “God, maybe I should’ve been taking notes. Are you sure you don’t want to take this to the Guild?” he asked one last time. “This feels … big. Maybe too big.”

“No,” I said, “just us. It’s safer that way. Can you do it?”

He sighed again. “I can get you a location for Shelton—someone out there must know something and I’ll get them to talk. As for the rest”—he raised his hands and shrugged—“well, I’ll do my damnedest.”

“Hey, that’s all I can ask for.”

He snorted. “You’re asking quite a lot, actually. What will you do in the meantime? Back to your dewdropper ways—leaving everyone else to do your work?”

“Har har, asswad. Real funny.” I sat for a moment—what were we going to do, what would our next step be? “No,” I said after a time, “I think we’ll keep our heads down, get a little shuteye, and stay far away from anyone in the Guild. We’ll pay a visit to the Farm—get ready to kick some wrinkly, old, Lich ass.”

THIRTY:

The Farm

Ferraro and I stepped out of a portal from the Hub and into the brisk morning air of a Colorado winter. Colorado can get downright frigid in the winter months, but there wasn’t much by way of snow—the constant influx of sunshine had kept the powdery piles mostly at bay and after Boston it practically seemed like a sauna. We were behind a Walmart—the Walmart, actually, since Gunnison was a one Walmart town—and only a couple of miles from the El Camino. It was still early, four thirty in the afternoon, but already the light was starting to fade and die, casting orange and pink fingers into the sky.

Ferraro followed closely on my heels. “I don’t think I’ll ever get used to that.”

“Hey, you’re preachin’ to the choir—I hate the Hub. I stay away whenever I can.”

“Convenient for travel, though,” she said.

“There is that.” Convenience was the reason we opted for the Hub in the first place. After battling the metus up in Wyoming, I’d driven the Camino down to Gunnison while Ferraro had squared away the reports with her superiors—I’d done the trip in a single go, which had been a long slog—just over four hundred and fifty miles and about eight hours all told. It had been worth it, though. I couldn’t stomach the thought of my Camino sitting in some impound lot up in B.F.E.

Some things simply can’t be tolerated.

Plus, Gunnison was home to the Farm—my bolt-hole, complete with my personal stash of weapons, armor, and other supernatural badassery acquired over the years, including the Crook of Winter. That puppy was currently locked away in a giant steel safe, lined with lead, coated with silver, and covered inside and out with binding sigils.

Damn crook was powerful as hell and as dangerous as a wild honey badger—The One Ring dangerous even. But Lady Fate said I wouldn’t beat Randy without it, so there was nothing to do but snag the thing.

“So where to now?”

“I’ll hitch us a ride—we’ll pick up the Camino and then head over to the Farm.”

“The farm?” she asked.

“You’ll see when we get there.”

I walked away to flag down a ride before she could protest further, which she would, because she hated being kept in the dark. But, I didn’t want to talk about the Farm. I trusted her, but not that much. Shit, I didn’t trust anyone that much. Greg, one of my best regular human friends on the planet and an actual monster hunter, knew of its existence, but even he wasn’t privy to its location. I’d taken him a handful of times, but he’d always been incapacitated until we arrived. As much as I loved the guy, compulsion could make him talk even against his will. If only I knew the location, it was that much safer.

I spotted a good ol’ boy driving a huge red Ford, with an extended cab and no passengers present. I waved him down, summoning the Vis and weaving a very subtle glamour to make sure he noticed me. He pulled over—the engine idling like a friggin’ big rig—and rolled down his window.

“Hey ya, partner,” he said. “Y’all need a hand?” That was the glamour working, though the folks down here were a friendly lot, so there was a good chance he would’ve given us a lift even without the construct. I nodded and waved Ferraro over before heading around to the passenger side and hopping in.

The ride wasn’t long, ten minutes of fairly uncomfortable silence—I dropped just a little more glamor on the driver to give us some peace and quiet—couldn’t afford to have him asking questions or remembering us. We merged onto the US 50 W and got off a few minutes later, turning down a couple of side streets before finally pulling to a stop at a nearly empty parking lot outside of a bar called the Last Chance Grill. A tiny single-story place that was just on the wrong side of run-down, with an auto body shop across the street and not much else around for miles. The bar and eatery was called the Last Chance for a damned good reason—it sat right on the edge of town and there wasn’t much for a good long ways thereafter.

After kindly thanking our generous driver, we slipped out of the Ford and headed for the Camino. I’d left the car parked in a long-term spot behind the bar, which normally wouldn’t have been the smartest idea, but I’d taken precautions. Underneath the car, spray painted onto the parking lot asphalt, was a sigil of power—a glamour ward, much like the one built into my jacket. This is always where I parked my baby when leaving it for a while.

The result? First, the spot always stays open, waiting just for me. And second, people just don’t take notice of the Camino when it’s parked there. They’d see it, sure, but somewhere in their brain that info would fade, be pushed to the background as unimportant, which meant she was sitting prime and ready, waiting just for me. No, I didn’t get teary-eyed, but it was close. Man did it do my heart good to see her again: 1986, midnight-blue, black camper shell, with a mean engine, and a sound system that would leave even the most stalwart rockers reeling.

Seeing her again was a little like coming home.

I fished out car keys, unlocked the driver side door, slid into the seat, and leaned over to unlock the passenger side. Ferraro slid in, took one look around, and rolled her eyes. “I almost forgot that you drive this ridiculous thing. I mean I knew consciously, but somehow I must have tried to repress the memory. An El Camino with a camper shell. So tacky. I’m surprised I didn’t find you sooner—can’t be many cars like this on the road.”

“I’ve got glamour sigils built into the door panels—makes the car much harder to spot. But before we go any further, let me just establish a few ground rules,” I said, caressing the steering wheel. “Let me say that you’re a special lady, Nicole.” The use of her first name seemed to catch her off guard just a little. “We’ve been through a lot and you’re growing on me—but the Camino? We don’t say bad things about the Camino. This is a line in the sand for me. You don’t have to say anything nice, but refrain from saying anything mean or you’re gonna find yourself walking. Okay?”

She scowled and crossed her arms over her chest. “You’re such a juvenile … man. Fine. Your car is wonderful. Amazing. Not ridiculous or childish at all.”

“Thank you,” I said, ignoring her obvious dig. “Now, before we go any further, I’m gonna need you to trust me. I’m gonna have to weave a construct over you—temporarily incapacitate you, Sleeping Beauty-style.”

“Excuse me?” She arched an eyebrow. “You want to put me in a temporary coma?” she asked, glaring at me like maybe I’d just asked her to chop off her arms and legs. “Absolutely not. Like you said, we’ve been through a lot and you’re growing on me—but my mind? No, you don’t get to touch my mind. This is a line in the sand for me.”

I ground my teeth, irritated. She was being totally unreasonable. “It’s a safety precaution. Where I’m taking you—you can’t know its location. I’d just blindfold you, but even that’s not enough. If you have any sensory input—sounds, smells, directional sense—it could be extracted from you … it’d be more than unpleasant. Please.”

“No.” Her scowl deepened.

“Fine,” I said, “if you really aren’t interested I can head by a hotel and drop you off for the night, swing by and pick you up tomorrow morning.”

“You really won’t take me unless I’m comatose?”

“I know how it sounds, but this is important. Look, I’ve worked with the Guild for a long time, but I’ve always had some suspicions that not everyone there was totally aboveboard. That’s one of the important lessons I learned during my fix-it years—bad people are everywhere, and it’s important to protect yourself. So … I took certain precautions. Came across a lot of items of power that I didn’t want to see end up in the Guild vault for one reason or other. Useful stuff and dangerous shit. Like the Crook of Winter. I can’t risk someone else finding the place.”

She looked down and fidgeted with the seat belt for a moment, before finally snapping the buckle in place and sighing in resignation. “If you mess up anything inside my head—anything, you hear me—the things I do to you will make Fast Hands look tame. You understand?” She paused, locking her most murderous death gaze right on me. “I’m serious.”

“Yes ma’am,” I said, with a mock salute, “loud and clear. I’ll be very, very careful—you’ll wake up feeling like you had a long nap.” I opened myself to the Vis, drawing fire and life—swirling chaos and meticulous order, in equal parts—into my body, the sudden influx of power was so friggin’ exhilarating. Time slowed, taking a deep breath, my senses sharpened—I could hear Ferraro’s heartbeat, just a little too fast, smell the sweet scent of her. I exhaled and let those thoughts go, bending the power to my will.

The flows were fine things, a weave made of delicately wrought water, air, and spirit—I cast out my hand, like flicking some water free, and a few flows of blue smoke drifted free, darting into her nose and mouth like a plume of cigarette smoke.

“Sleep,” I whispered under my breath, a gentle suggestion laced with the power of Vis. Her eyes fluttered for a moment, then her head bobbed down and back up, like she was nodding off after a long day of work.

“Lean back,” I said softly. “It’s okay, just a little nap. Don’t fight it.”

She looked at me for a moment, groggy, eyes heavy, then nodded and leaned back in her seat, head arched back. Her eyes fluttered one last time before closing completely, her chest already rising and falling in the steady rhythm of deep sleep. I let go of the Vis and fished my iPod out of the glove box—way more handy than carrying around a crate of CDs, let me tell you—hooked it up to the stereo and put on “None of Us Are Free” by Solomon Burke. As the funky jazz beat filled the interior, I popped the car into gear, pulled out of my spot, and cruised out of the lot, bound for the Farm.

The drive was a couple of hours along the US 50 W, with a few twists, turns, and switchbacks thrown in for good measure. There wasn’t much of a chance that someone had followed us from the Hub, but better to play it smart.

The ride was peaceful, exactly what I needed after a shitty couple of weeks—relaxing to some good tunes, out on the road surrounded by a whole lot of natural beauty. The road curved and arced around looping mountain turns, rocky hills covered with evergreens off to my right, while the lake—Blue Mesa Reservoir, a giant expanse of blue stretching into the distance—sat off to the left. I even rolled down the window for a bit, sure it was chilly, but I turned the heater on blast and let the clean scent of mountain air fill the cab. Now don’t get me wrong, I’m not some kinda nature purist—I like the city with its dirt and grime and life—but once in a while it’s nice to be someplace so quiet and unspoiled.

Occasionally, I’d take a peek at Ferraro as she snored softly in the seat next to me. Watching someone sleep is kind of creepy and stalkerish, I know, but it was hard not to stare a little. She was a naturally good-looking woman … but sleeping, she became more. Sleeping she transformed into something beautiful. When awake, she was so serious, weighed down by responsibility and some hard years, but asleep … well, her normal scowl vanished and she looked almost happy. It’s amazing how much a little change like that can affect things.

Eventually, the US 50 W arched over the Gunnison River and shortly after I turned left onto a cutoff road, which bobbed and weaved back into the tree-covered hills. Another ten minutes of slow and careful driving—the snow wasn’t deep, but it could make the going treacherous—and I turned right onto an unobtrusive dirt road snaking its way even further into the boonies. The access road, just wide enough for the car, hooked and wandered for about a mile before coming to a cattle fence with a metal gate that had a “Private Property” sign posted on its front.

On the backside of the sign was a powerful sigil, made of silver and bronze, welded into place, then painted over so it was almost unobservable to scrutiny. The ward was a costly one, but it was a powerful deterrent to Rubes and most supernatural beings alike.

Any wandering souls who happened by this way would be struck with a fear so intense it would take a seriously compelling reason to continue on. If you’ve ever found yourself driving by an old creepy house that feels like the site of a horror movie, a place where something evil is lurking, just waiting to gobble you up, then you know the feeling. It also helped that just past the fence, framed by a thicket of dying trees, sprawled the most beat-up, ghoulish-looking barn you’re ever likely to see. If there was ever a place for a monster wielding a chainsaw to lurk, the Farm was the place. The Butcher from the police station would’ve felt right at home.

I pulled the Camino over, threw it into park, got out of the car, unlocked the padlock on the gate, and swung the thing open. The barn doors were likewise locked, so I ambled over and took care of them too, before getting back into the Camino and pulling into the barn itself. Though the outside looked to be old, rotted-out timbers, it was really only illusion—a mix between regular vanilla camouflage and powerful Vis constructs. In the Hub, dwellers will often pull the same trick: disguise the outside so that folks are less likely to take a peek indoors.

The barn interior wasn’t anything special exactly, but it certainly wasn’t as dilapidated as the outside would lead you to believe. A dirt-covered floor with some old hay strewn around. A workbench along the far wall, with some ancient hand tools hanging on wall mounted brackets.

There was a loft overhead, which looked appropriately ominous and foreboding, but which was really just an empty storage space. A wheelbarrow sat in one corner amidst some digging equipment—a couple of shovels, an old pitchfork, and a rusted pickaxe. Along the left wall, covered by a heavy-duty canvas tarp, was my motorcycle: a vintage ’43 Indian custom bobber. A mean-looking cruiser in black and silver that could’ve come right off the battlefield of World War Two.

I rarely drove it anymore—long trips gave me backaches and the Camino is just too damn comfortable—but it was nice to have a spare set of wheels just in case the need arose.

I parked the Camino right in the middle of the barn interior, killed the engine, and promptly woke Ferraro from her Vis-induced nap. Removing the weave was far easier than forming it in the first place—just a simple construct of air, which filled Ferraro’s nose and mouth, pulling bluish smoke from her like a Shop-Vac hosing up loose dirt.

She sputtered for a moment, then sat up, eyes wide and wild. “What … where, where am I?” she asked, her voice pitched with slight panic.

“Calm down.” I placed a reassuring hand on her shoulder, which she immediately batted away. “You’ll level out in just a second—just be calm, breathe, relax.”

“Where am I?” she asked again, glancing left and right, taking in the gloomy barn interior.

“You’ve been down for a couple of hours, everything went fine. We’re at the Farm, okay?”

“This is the farm?” she asked, sounding completely unamused. “You sent me into a magic coma, so you could haul me out to an old, rundown barn filled with some shoddy farm equipment.”

I flashed her a devious half-smile. “Just wait.” I got out of the car and motioned her to follow. I headed over for the far corner of the barn—near the back stood an old hutch, shelves filled with assorted knickknacks, old work gloves, a beat-up spade, a random length of black tubing. It looked more or less like a shelving unit full of random, useless shit, the kind of place every garage seems to have for the odds and ends you just don’t know what else to do with.

“That cabinet better have a portal to Narnia,” she said, eyeing the thing askew.

“Patience.” I pulled open an empty drawer near the bottom, empty save for a small carving deep in the wood. I wove a complicated pattern of earth and fire, which looped and twirled back in on itself—the weave had no practical application, but when I dropped the construct into the carved design, it flared to life with a flash of gold. The hutch shifted and groaned, sliding back and disappearing into the wall—below was a steel hatch, a blast door. I flipped open the cover, revealing a long set of narrow steps that sank down into the ground, into my underground bunker and fallout shelter. The Fortress of Bluestastic Solitude.

“Welcome to the Farm,” I said, feeling pretty impressed with myself.

“A bunker in the ground,” Ferraro said. “After the Hub and the Hinterlands, somehow I was expecting … more.” Lady sure knew how to deflate a guy’s sense of self.

THIRTY-ONE:

Dinner and a Movie

Ferraro changed her tune a little once we were finally inside. The front room was roughly the size of a large shipping container—a couple of small cots hung from the wall, there was a couch, television, and small dining room table with a couple of folding chairs. It also had a bookcase full of dog-eared paperbacks, a portable electronic keyboard, and a guitar resting on a stand in the corner.

At the far end of the room, a small hallway connected to another reinforced shipping container, which housed a Spartan kitchen, a bathroom, a freezer, and a pantry with lots of canned goods and freeze-dried foodstuffs. I wasn’t interested in any of that though—what I really wanted lay past the giant steel door that led from the living room into the armory. I could feel it calling to me: the Crook of Winter.

Even though it was currently secreted away behind a steel safe, with heavy-duty wards, I could still feel it calling. Pulling at me. After losing my power completely, there was a big part of me that wanted nothing more than to take up the crook and fill myself up with all the power I could hold. Fill me up so I’d never have to be empty again.

I just needed to see it. Just for a minute.

“I thought you said you didn’t have a home,” Ferraro said, staring around at the room.

“This isn’t a home.” I headed for the armory door and disarmed the Vis constructs guarding it. “It’s a hidey-hole and a weapons depot, not a place I live.”

She crossed the living room and peeked into the kitchen. “How’d you build this place?” she called over her shoulder.

“It was easy, actually,” I said absentmindedly. “I used to have a permanent storage container in a shipyard over in San Francisco, but as my collection grew I thought better protection was in order. Plus, having a place to crash if the shit ever really started coming down seemed pragmatic. I had one of those specialty contractors who make bunkers for end of the world preppers come out and build the space for me. Since they’re used to dealing with folks who are uber prepared and occasionally distrustful, they let me pay cash and asked almost no questions. A little glamour afterwards helped the contractors forget the important details.”

“Still … how did you afford to build it?” she asked, her voice filled with skepticism—like maybe she thought there was some nefarious wrongdoing in play. “I know a bunch of people with the IRS that would love to know,” she added.

“Hey, it’s not like I’m hard up for cash, you know. I’m a lucky guy, supernaturally so. I mean, I literally work for Lady Luck now. Gambling pays the bills just fine.”

“Wait.” She stopped and looked back at me. “I don’t understand—if you have money just lying around why do you live out of an El Camino?”

I glanced at her before turning my attention back to the door. “You just don’t get it,” I said. I didn’t want to talk, I wanted to see the crook. “I don’t want to live in a house. I walked away from white-picket suburbia. I like living in shitty motels and gambling for beer money. That’s what I want. Not everyone has to have the same friggin’ dream, okay?” We were both silent for a beat.

“Sorry for saying anything.” She shifted her feet restlessly and looked down at the brown carpet covering the steel floor. “I wasn’t trying to offend you.”

The door clicked as the locks disengaged and swung out on silent hinges. “Want a tour of the good stuff or what?” I asked by way of an apology.

She nodded.

The room beyond was a twenty-by-twenty-foot box filled with assorted badassery of every flavor. Against the right wall hung my stock of Rube weaponry—since helping out a gunrunning biker name Gavin Morse, my collection had grown considerably.

I had mounted wall racks with just about everything a Fix-It man could ever need: a trio of M-4s, an AK, a pair of AA12 machine shotties—each equipped with a 32-shell drum and a fire rate of three hundred rounds per minute—some pump action shotties, and a host of handguns. Berettas, Glocks, Colt 1911s, Saturday Night Specials, a few sleek .22s, and a cadre of MAC 10s.

Heck, I even had a brand spanking new M240 medium machine gun, courtesy of one of the meanest Mexican drug syndicates on the West Coast. There were also extra K-Bars, a couple of beige Flak jackets, flashbangs, frag grenades, and even a coil of razor wire. One of these days, I’d get my hands on the MK19—an automatic machine gun grenade launcher; yeah, they make those—and I’d be whole and complete.

Running beneath the wall racks was a heavy-duty steel table, complete with a couple thousand dollars’ worth of reloading equipment. I couldn’t make loads for the machine guns, but for everything else, I could customize rounds without ever having to outsource. Silver-lead rounds infused with Vis? No problem. Powdered-iron cores cased in steel? Can do.

Ferraro let out a low whistle as she took in my stash. “ATF would shit their pants,” she said, sounding, for once, a little impressed. “This place is the FBI’s worst nightmare—Waco has nothing on you.”

“Gee … thanks, I guess.” Wasn’t really sure if that was supposed to be a compliment or an insult.

The truth was, however, that she didn’t know the half of it.

Running against the wall behind us was a bank of lockers, each individually sealed and warded. A few of the lockers were empty, but most of them housed items of power, many of them cursed, or extremely dangerous. Power-wrought knives used to summon demons; a chalice that unleashed a plague spirit; an ancient mirror out of sync with time, which could grant the holder a glimpse into the past or future. Even had a strangely wrought horn, carved almost entirely of amber, which could summon a pack of vicious, tentacle-faced doom-hounds called Cŵn Annwn.

Bad stuff, all of it, and far more dangerous than any of those boom-boom sticks on the wall. And that was just the tip of the iceberg.

I could hear the crook’s voice speaking inside my head, though it was still only a faint whisper. “I’ve got a few things to take care of,” I said over my shoulder. “Why don’t you head over to the kitchen and grab something to eat. I’ll be out in a minute.”

She nodded, though her brow furrowed—a brief look of concern flashing across her face. Maybe she could see the crook’s power working in me, see my hunger. But she left without a word.

I stalked over to the left hand wall, the one housing my big personal vault, where I kept all the top-shelf dangerous items. The safe contained an old-school broadsword, Peacekeeper, once used to slay a dragon. An old bronze circlet, inscribed inside and out with spiraling runes and enochian script—let the wearer see the spirit realm and the true nature of all things. An ancient battle-axe wielded by a friggin’ Minotaur, and, of course, the crook.

Though I was unsure of where Randy was, I was certain James would find him—Lady Fate seemed to indicate that the Lich and I would have our title fight, which meant James would come through. I didn’t know where our throw down would go down, but I knew I’d have the crook with me when it happened. Lady Fate had said that too. Yeah, the crook was my pair of pocket Aces—though I also had another dirty trick waiting up my sleeve.

I’d been thinking about the best way to use the crook and it wasn’t as an offensive weapon, at least not long term. No, I had a Wile E. Coyote-type idea that might just help me to beat Randy, even if he did have the power of an uber-powerful Lich backing his play … or it might blow up in my face and cause my horrible demise. I was working with veiled words from Lady Fate though, so I didn’t have much else to go off of. Hey, sometimes you just have to roll the dice and hope for the best.

But in order to pull it off, I’d have to jury-rig the crook just a bit. At least jury-rigging shit was sorta my specialty.

I unlocked the lead-lined vault—as soon as the door swung free, I could feel the Winter Staff calling out to me, its voice singing in my head. It didn’t speak in words, but rather in a rapid-fire series of pictures and feelings:

I saw myself holding the staff above my head, freezing fog swirling around me like a blizzard, my enemies splayed out before me. Bodies frozen in agonizing poses, limbs twisted at odd and unnatural angles, grimaces of pain tattooed on unmoving faces. I stood on a pile of corpses, and right at the top was Arch-Mage Borgstorm, the bitch who’d refused to go after Ailia. Take me, the crook urged. Use me, make them pay. Make them all pay. Old Man Winter. Shelton. The Guild.

Another set of images, Ailia stretched out on a luxurious bed of white satiny sheets, bunched up and drooping from the mattress edge. Naked, supple white flesh intertwined with Ferraro’s deeply tanned limbs. The women kissed, then looked at me, desire in their eyes, smiles playing across their lips, invitation in every inch of their bodies. I can give you Ailia, I can give you Ferraro. Every dream, every fantasy.

I pushed the thoughts away, building a mental barrier against the crook’s temptations. There was some part of me that wanted those things and it would be all too easy to linger a little too long on the images provided by the crook—and that was the first step. Now I’m not a saint, not by a far stretch, so I didn’t dismiss the images purely out of altruistic reasons—that was a small part of it, true, but I also knew a lemon of a deal when I saw one.

Bait is always exactly what you want, but there’s always a hook buried deep, just waiting to snag you and hold you fast. The crook would give me what I wanted, but it would cost a helluva lot more than I was willing to shell out. I just had to think about Randy, with his green eyes and gaunt face, to remind myself of that fact. And even then, its boasts were only half-true. It was an object of immense power, but it still hadn’t allowed Old Man Winter to regain his long-coveted kingdom, which meant it definitely had limits.

I walked over to the wall, slid on a pair of heavy-duty black rubber gloves and grabbed a set of metal tongs off the wall. Then I very carefully removed the crook, placing it on a wood-topped workbench running along the back wall. I made damn sure the crook was a good couple of feet out of my reach … eventually, I’d have to take up the weapon, but I’d wait for as long as possible.

I set the tongs down and reached into a set of storage cupboards just above the workbench. Those cupboards were filled with all kinds of stuff: ancient history texts, a bunch of grimoires from the old timey days of magic, a few beastiaries—leatherbound books with pages and pages of hand-scrawled notes and pictures of various supernatural critters that haunted Inworld and Out—and tons of precisely labeled ingredients.

After a few seconds of rooting around, I found what I was looking for. I immediately set to work and, after a handful of minutes, the crook was ready to go. Hopefully. Possibly. Though, I wouldn’t bet the farm on it.

I carefully picked the staff back up with the metal tongs and maneuvered it back into the safe, securing it in place and locking the door.

With my backup plan all squared away, the only thing left to do now was wait.

I left the armory and locked up behind me—I found Ferraro in the kitchen, carefully adding a can of diced tomatoes into a pot filled with red sauce. Spaghetti.

“Didn’t know you could cook,” I said. “You don’t exactly strike me as the type.”

She placed a pan on the stove, started the burner, and added a pack of thawed ground pork from the big freezer. “Everyone has their secrets. You have your precious underground club house, I cook,” she said. “Besides, it’s not much of a secret—I’m Italian, I love cooking. Now how about you get out of here and leave me to it, you’re just taking up space.”

I grunted a reply and headed out to the cramped living room, plopping down on the sofa—a little burnt brown futon. God it felt like a lifetime since I’d had a chance to just sit on a couch in relative peace. Maybe I should’ve considered just moving into the Farm. The peace was nice … Ah, who was I trying to fool? I’d like the quiet for a week and then I’d be itching for some tunes, a smoke, a good Scotch, and a card game. I knew myself better than that. Still, it was a nice change of pace. We didn’t really have anything to do until I heard back from James—no leads to bring us closer to Randy—so it looked like we’d be in for a wait.

With a sigh, I grabbed the television remote off the seat next to me and flicked the boob tube to life. I didn’t actually get reception down here, but I had a shit-ton of classic movies on DVD. I turned on the DVD player to see what was in it—it’d been a good long time since I’d last been down here. The theme music for Kojak trumpeted through the air.

“Is that Kojak?” Ferraro hollered from the kitchen, her voice slightly obscured by the sound of sizzling meat.

“Yes, ma’am,” I said, stretching out with a yawn. “If you hurry up, I’ll even wait to start it.”

“Can’t rush perfection,” she replied.

A few extra minutes of quiet wouldn’t kill me. I paused the disc and shut my eyes—just a long blink, you understand. When I opened them again, Ferraro had a bowl of spaghetti ready and waiting. And damn did it smell divine. She took a seat next to me and we ate pasta—the lady really could cook—while we watched old Kojak episodes. Afterward, I set the bowls aside and put an arm around her, she didn’t even have a snarky comment for me. Probably if I were going to make a move, that would’ve been the perfect time—I’m not much of a romance guy, but even I thought it was romantic. At least romantic in that we’re-eating-pasta-in-a-fallout-shelter kind of way.

But instead, I fell asleep about ten minutes after finishing dinner—one minute Ferraro was snuggled against my chest, the next, my head was against the back of the futon and my eyes were so damn heavy. I’ve never been great with timing.

THIRTY-TWO:

Preparations

James’s voice woke me up five or six hours later.

“Yancy,” he said.

I shot up, hands scrambling for my pistol, ready to deal in lead. “What’s that?” I mumbled, scanning the room through bleary vision. Ferraro had, at some point, moved over to one of the cots, though she’d been thoughtful enough to throw a blanket over me.

“Yancy,” the voice came again, muffled by the thick armory door. Ferraro started to stir. I shook my head, pushed back the blanket, and quietly padded over to the door, once again disengaging the locks and scooting into the armory. Quietly, I pulled the door shut behind me—trying my damnedest not to wake Ferraro if I could help it.

“Yancy. Pick up, I know you’re there.” James’s voice came from a round clear orb, about the size of a tennis ball, sitting on my wooden workbench. To the untrained eye, it might’ve looked like one of those cheap-ass crystal balls huckster psychics use to con the gullible. Which is exactly what it was, but this one actually worked.

My scrying stone—and yes, I knew it sounds like something out of an occult book, but really it’s just an object of power like any of the other ones in the room. The orb was nothing special—just a shiny piece of glass—but it’d been imbedded with a complex weave of earth, fire, spirit, and magnetic force. The construct created a certain resonance frequency—think of it like the Vis equivalent of a phone number. Since James knew the frequency, he could give me a ring with a similar stone.

Once upon a time, scrying stones were all the rage among magi. I mean in the days before cell phones, being able to talk at a distance was a huge advantage, so you can just imagine the edge magi held over the Rubes of the world. Nowadays though, most of the magi had gotten on board with tech—but when you’re in a deep earth bunker where cell reception is impossible, having an ol’ fashioned scrying stone is still a smart play.

“Here,” I finally said, fishing the stone off the tabletop and pushing a minute flow of spirit into the orb. “Sorry,” I yawned, “just waking up.”

I could practically hear James’s eye roll. “Naturally. Sleeping around with a beautiful woman, while I run down leads and get my wingtips dirty. No justice—you ruined a perfectly good night of dancing for me, you know.”

“Sorry ’bout that, James. I mean it, thanks for doing me the solid.”

“Stick with snark,” he said. “It’s far more becoming on you than appreciation—not to mention vastly more entertaining.”

“Asshole,” I muttered, “you’ll get snark after I get coffee. Now tell me what the hell you’ve got for me, beauty queen.”

“Better,” he said. “Now, it wasn’t easy. I had to call in favors. I had to fight a minor demon. I even had to go to a few unsavory places with loose women—thoroughly enjoyable, that last part—but, because I am amazing, I’ve managed to get what you need.”

“A friend with a much smaller ego that’s not such an immoral prick?”

“Touché and fine form. No—I’ve found Randy, of course, though honestly you really should’ve been bright enough to suss out the answer yourself. Shelton and the Lich are bunkered down in Thurak-Tir—the Lich is Old Man Winter’s new roommate.”

I smacked a palm into my forehead. Of course he was. It all made sense. And James was right—I should’ve been able to put all the pieces together. The added security at Old Man Winter’s place, the spriggan guards from Summer—Randy and the Lich hadn’t simply been helping Old Man Winter out, they’d been setting up their own slice of evil paradise. The spriggans would protect Old Man Winter, but they’d also serve as an insurance policy for Randy, should Old Man Winter step out of line. I’d already been right in the heart of Shelton’s lair. It could only be a matter of dumbest luck that Randy hadn’t been home when Ben and I had paid Old Man Winter a call the first time around.

“Thanks, ass-hat,” I said. “Make any inroads with who might be the guy pulling Randy’s strings?”

Again, I could almost hear the eye roll. “It’s been a day since you asked. One. Day. I’ve managed to track down a fugitive demi-god—frankly, I’ve been quite busy.”

“Slacker,” I said, though I smiled. “I owe you one, James.”

“I’d say you own me ten or eleven, but who’s counting. You can start repaying me by not dying horribly in some frozen cave. I mean it. I’d hate to see you go that way. If anyone gets to kill you horribly, it’s going to be me when I’m three sheets to the wind.”

“I’ll do my best. Thanks again.” I cut my flow of spirit to the orb.

In some ways this was actually good news. I’d have to worry about dealing with both Randy and Old Man Winter, but I already had a ride in. The crook was powerful and nearly sentient—it’d brought Ben and me directly from the subterranean world beneath Thurak-Tir to a bar in the Big Easy.

That meant it also had the power to take me right back into Old Man Winter’s lair, which meant getting us back in would be easy peasy. No train rides, no dangerous treks, no navigating the labyrinth tunnels beneath Thurak-Tir. The only problem was that meant I had to use the crook, and the more power I drew from the crook, the more its corrupting influence could spread.

Nothing to be done about it, though. Sometimes it’s a choice between bad options or no options. In that case, bad options are always preferable.

Ferraro stepped into the armory, looking surprisingly well kept and put together for literally just rolling out of bed.

“James came through?” she asked, sounding more excited than I’d heard her in a while.

“Yeah,” I said. “Looks like we’re gonna have to take a dip back in the deep end of weird—you up for a trip into Fairy Land?” I asked her.

“Fairy Land?” She shook her head and pinched the bridge of her nose. “Always something new with you. Yes. Yes—if Fairy Land is where we have to go to apprehend Shelton, then I’m on board. Though, I swear, if we run into a unicorn I’m done.”

“Me too,” I said. “Unicorns are the worst. Half of ’em are downright evil sons of bitches and the other half are all cynical jackasses.”

“Seriously?” she asked.

“When do I ever joke?” I said. “Now let’s get moving.”

We took the time to shower—and no, not together, unfortunately—and grab some breakfast before we headed back to the armory. Nothing worse than showing up to a life-or-death grudge match smelling like a bag of ass with terrible morning breath.

I gave her a brief on Thurak-Tir, Old Man Winter, and what we’d likely expect upon arrival: ice gnomes, abominable snowmen, and maybe worse things besides. Then we geared up. I grabbed a pair of snug fitting leather gloves, then slid my biker gloves of fae destruction—leather, steel plating, and silver spiked studs—on over the top. I wore my jacket, of course, but also opted for a heavy-duty ring mail shirt. It wouldn’t stop bullets, but if one of those abominables tried bear hugging me, the cold iron would offer a nasty surprise. I took my K-Bar and my gun for good measure—though I was doubtful about its effectiveness in the arctic underground.

Ferraro, likewise, shrugged her way into a shirt of chainmail and opted for a heavy-duty winter coat, but her weaponry ranged more on the badass military spectrum than the supernatural. She brought her Glock, but I supplied her with some specialty bullets: rounds with a core of lead and powdered iron, encased in a steel jacket. Much more effective against creatures of the Endless Wood, even if not deadly.

She also snagged a pair of flashbangs, a retractable steel baton, and an eight-shot, twelve-gauge Mossberg loaded with Dragon’s Breath rounds—cartridges that literally turned your Plain-Jane shottie into an impromptu flame thrower. She also grabbed a drop pouch filled with extra shells, a pair of cold steel brass knuckles (they’d really pack a punch, zing), and a can of military grade OC spray—the shit can put down a bear.

I gave Ferraro a quick once-over—she looked as fierce as an armor-plated lioness with opposable thumbs and a shotgun. Downright vicious. “Okay,” I said, “just one last thing before we get this show on the road. I’m gonna need to use a powerful artifact of questionable moral influence.” I turned my back and stalked over to the safe, undoing the locks and wards and gingerly removing the crook—pushing aside the sudden wave of nauseous emotion and a flood of images, some heinous, others delicious.

“This,” I croaked, “is the Crook of Winter and it is bad. I’m gonna need to use this to hand Shelton and the Lich their respective asses … but even if I win … we might lose. I’m not a good man, Ferraro, and this trinket brings out the worst in people. In me. Look, I guess what I’m trying to say is this: if, after taking care of Randy, I turn into an evil super villain bent on world domination … well, you know what to do.”

She walked up to me, leaned over, and kissed my cheek. “Remember what Sir Gal told you, idiot—you’re really not as bad as you think. It won’t turn out that way.” She offered a small flash of teeth. Then, because Ferraro is Ferraro, she patted her Glock and said, “But if you go bad, you can count on me to do what needs doing.” She might’ve been a lovely flower on the outside, but she was all steel underneath.

“One more thing … on the off chance that Randy gets a hold of this”—I held up the crook—“I need you to blast the shit out of the staff. Use the shottie and the Dragon’s Breath rounds. Don’t target Shelton—target the crook, tracking?”

She looked at me, a question in her eyes, but then simply shrugged and nodded.

After gearing up and covering our basic tactical bases, I opened myself to the Vis, pulling in energy. The crook immediately exerted its influence, wrestling with me for the reins, and I found myself drawing in far more power than I’d intended. A sudden raging magma of Vis surged up from the earth and into my body, flashing through my veins like caged lightning. More and more power: the crook was recharging its batteries after being inoperable for a few weeks—hopefully it didn’t kill me in the process. I wobbled on my feet, the sudden influx of energy making me feel lightheaded and woozy.

Ferraro reached out a hand and steadied me. “You okay?” she asked. “For a minute there you didn’t look so good.”

“Fine,” I replied, my voice cold and unyielding. I carefully shrugged her hand off my shoulder. “Better if you don’t touch me,” I said as the image of her naked body streaked through my mind.

I stepped away and let my mind drift out toward the crook, envisioning the throne room of Old Man Winter: thick powdered snow covering the cavernous floor, shimmering and sparkling in ambient cave light. Massive icicles, as thick as building columns, jutting from floor and ceiling, shining in a rainbow riot of color. Old Man Winter’s creepy-ass carved throne, featuring a thousand scenes of inhuman torture. There, I thought, pumping the image out to the crook, willing the staff to work its magic and open a door.

The crook responded eagerly, ready and willing to serve, to dig its icy tendrils further into my heart and brain. The crook drew from the power within me, shaping weaves I didn’t know or understand—complex flows of air, water, spirit, and stranger things still … all built upon a twisting frame of magnetic force, surrounded by a patchwork quilt of latent radioactive energy. I felt like this thing was gonna explode and turn Ferraro and I into twisted versions of the Hulk. But after a second, the desperate flows collided together in a jumbled collision of force before snapping into a rigid archway with a semi-translucent sheen of opal over its surface.

On the other side, Old Man Winter sat on his throne seemingly unaware of the breach. “Go time,” I said to Ferraro, waving her onward.

THIRTY-THREE:

Round Two

Ferraro darted forward, pulling free a flashbang and tossing it through the open portal, before diverting her eyes. A loud pop followed a moment later, though strangely muted, and then Ferraro was plunging through the portal, shotgun in her shoulder pocket, level and ready to start dishing out a serious ass kicking. Almost as an afterthought, I reached into my well of power and surrounded her in a reddish mist, which rolled and boiled before her—an ambient friction shield that would protect her from any incoming shots.

She ducked left, then swiveled her muzzle right, sweeping the room of other threats before shouting, “Clear.”

I was already on the move, stepping through the portal, ready to blast Old Man Winter into the stratosphere if need be, but it looked like there wasn’t much fight in him. The last time I’d seen him he’d looked old—though admittedly, old doesn’t quite do it justice. He’d looked like a geriatric fossil that made the dinosaurs look like fresh-faced college kids. But despite that, he’d been pretty lively and one tough nut to crack. Now, though … he looked like a dried out husk. His chest rose and fell, but each puff was shallow, ragged, and irregular.

Next to him was a crystal orb of pure, pale-blue ice, not terribly dissimilar from my scrying stone. Only it was much bigger, maybe the size of a beach ball, and hanging unsupported in midair, rotating slowly on some unseen axle. Old Man Winter seemed completely absorbed with the orb, his eyes fixed upon its surface, the rest of his body limp and immobile. I noted that his right hand was still MIA from our first bout, though it was no longer a clean cut, but rather a rounded nub that looked decades old instead of weeks old.

Within the surface of the orb, tiny fractals of golden lights shifted and twirled, disappearing and blinking back into life in a pattern I couldn’t even begin to guess at.

The crook pulsed in my hand, and then, suddenly I understood, the information just blooming in the back of my noggin—a TV suddenly flickering to life. The orb was like my scrying stone—a specialized foci, but instead of making phone calls, this one was used for manipulating weather. This is how Old Man Winter had been stirring up the snowstorm that’d hit the police station after I’d found Kozlov as a corpse. But messing with the weather on that scale seemed to have taken a hefty toll. Winter barely seemed to notice our arrival, even the flashbang hadn’t brought him out of his stupor, not completely.

Ferraro took a position to the left of the portal, back toward the cavern wall, shotgun held steady and trained on Old Man Winter.

I closed the portal behind me, it whisked shut with just a whisper of power. I rapped the crook on the snow-packed floor. “Anyone home?”

His eyes flickered for a second, finally glancing away from the orb, before fixing on the crook. A look of expectancy flitted across his face, a crooked smile distorting his blade-thin lips.

“The crook,” he said, his voice as thin and wispy as the rest of him, “give it to me. Now. It … belongs to me.”

“Sorry gramps, but you aren’t ever getting your hands—well, hand in your case—on this bad boy again. We’re not here for you, old-timer, we’re here for your partner, the Lich. Just give us Shelton and we’ll leave you be.”

“I knew you’d come back, meat monkey,” he said. “The crook belongs to me, wants me. I knew it would lead you back,” he sneered, his lips peeling back like a wolf’s, revealing his crystalline shark teeth. “So did the Lich. You were a fool to come here. To bring the crook. A fool.” He cackled, wheezed, and hacked before finally falling silent.

Boom, the shotgun in Ferraro’s hands roared and belched a gout of flame, which collided with Winter’s rail-thin leg—skin melted away, bone poked through the surface. He wailed and thrashed about, hissing curses as his one frail hand beat at the dying flames.

“Here’s how this is going to go.” Ferraro spoke softly, not yelling or screaming, just a woman discussing the facts with a perp in interrogation. “I’m here to do a job, not listen to your bullshit and empty threats. Though you didn’t directly kill Maxim Kozlov, Officer Larry Ravel, or Officer Ray Harvey, you are certainly an accessory to their murders. So I’m going to offer you a deal—tell us where Shelton is and get out of the way, or I’m going to start playing hardball. I’ve been fully briefed about you and your kind, so I know that I don’t have a chance at killing you. But you seem to feel pain just fine and I have cold iron, more shotgun shells, and a can full of pepper spray. I also have an active imagination and a strong stomach. So with that out of the way, would you kindly care to cooperate?”

Good thing Old Man Winter was nearly incapacitated from working the weather or I think he would’ve tried to turn Ferraro into a frosty meat popsicle right then and there.

“Whore,” he cursed, his body shuddering. “Aye, I’ll cooperate. The Lich has been expecting you”—he turned his neck, his eyes locking on to mine—“and even with the crook you shall not best him, meat monkey. He’ll pry the crook from your stiff fingers and I’ll have my power back … and when I do, you”—he focused on Ferraro—“will see how active my imagination—”

Boom. Another burst of shotgun fire, this one aimed at Old Man Winter’s other leg. “Like I said,” Ferraro replied, “I’m not interested in listening to your threats. Now where. Is. Shelton?” She pumped the shotgun, ejecting the spent cartridge and simultaneously chambering another. The warning was clear as mountain spring water.

He howled for another moment or two, desperately beating the flames on his lower body down to embers before waving his skeletal hand through the air. On the far side of the chamber a crude set of ice stairs glimmered into life—previously hidden by a masterfully conjured veil—ascending into the darkness beyond.

“Go,” he hissed through clenched teeth. “Go.” As I had done after our first battle, I raised the crook and pushed out a wave of raw unshaped energy, forcing the power into the crook while giving it the roughest idea of what I wanted to do. Thick shackles of black, studded and spiked with icy thorns, burst from the Old Man’s throne and twined about his arms, legs, torso, and head, gluing his ass in place for the near-foreseeable future. I finished off the binding with a gag of black ice, which froze over his sneering lips. Guy had it coming.

I took off for the stairs, crossing the room and ascending the steps slowly, carefully, looking for traps or other signs of nasty surprises. Ferraro stayed close behind me, ghosting along on silent feet.

“Nice negotiating,” I whispered as we climbed, though I probably didn’t need to. It seemed impossible that Randy didn’t know we were here—what with all the shooting and subsequent shrieking. “They teach you that in the FBI?”

“No,” she replied in the same whisper, “I’ve seen cops and other agents work over a suspect once or twice. Never anything like that, but when in Rome …”

We finished our climb in silence—there must’ve been like five stories’ worth of stairs, which had to be a major pain in the ass for Shelton. I bet the guy would get an elevator installed in no time—that sure as shit would’ve been my first order of business. As we approached the top of the stairway, I held up a closed fist, the hand signal to halt, before calling up a burst of Vis and weaving a hasty illusion in place, blurring our shape, allowing us to blend into the dark shadows obscuring the hallway.

I turned to the side and held out a hand. “Flashbang,” I whispered. She nodded and quickly retrieved a matte black cylinder from her waist. “After the pop I’ll go left, you roll right.” I turned back to the front and crept up just a few more feet, keeping low—almost in a crawl. I didn’t want to crest the stairs—didn’t want to skyline myself like that without having a little cover. Pro-tip for you: stairs are a bad place to be pinned down in a gunfight. The baddie at the top will have excellent concealment and a nearly unrestricted field of fire, while you’re stuck with your ass just hanging in the wind.

I pulled the pin, depressed the spoon, and tossed the stun grenade into the connecting chamber.

After a four count, an oddly muted whomp and a flash of light split the air, and then I was up and moving, nearly running, though still trying to keep a low profile. I ducked through the doorway and hooked left, scanning the room as I moved, right hand cradling the crook, left hand out, ready to unleash a javelin of air or a friction shield. I immediately saw the scorched remains of the flashbang inside a small bubble of dark purple: a shield construct rendering the grenade useless.

I kept moving, because at this point turning back just wasn’t an option. I have to admit, though, that I wasn’t even remotely ready for the sight that greeted my eyes. I dunno what I’d been expecting exactly … another ice cavern maybe or some creepy-ass dungeon out of dark and dangerous medieval Europe.

Instead, the room was surprisingly warm and had a neat, almost sterile look, which more closely resembled the bridge of the original Enterprise. The floor was white linoleum, bright and clean, the walls looked like freshly installed sheetrock. Banks of sophisticated looking computers and monitors lined the far and back walls, manned by a handful of ice gnomes—though these were wearing lab coats instead of the typical battle attire.

The terminal screens showed surveillance feeds of not only the subterranean cavern we were in, but also video shots of greater Thurak-Tir: interior shots of the royal hall, where Gyre-Carlin, Queen of Winter, held court. Shit, looked like he even had video feeds of almost all the fae courts: Glimmer-Tir, home to King Oberon and Queen Titania of Summer. Earrach-Tir, the capital of Freyr the Green Man and the Spring Court. He even had video footage of the Black Lodge—the massive mead-hall of Arwan the Horned, Protector of the Unfettered Fae. Only the Autumn Court seemed to be absent.

The hell was going on here? This wasn’t just some friggin’ bad guy hideaway, this was a nerve center for some kind of major operation.

Shelton sat right in the middle of the room, lounging casually in a big swiveling chair built right into the floor, featuring a fancy-ass, built in computer monitor and a host of control mechanisms fitted into the chair’s armrests. He seemed completely unconcerned by our appearance.

At least Shelton looked more or less the way I’d expected. He still resembled a bag of old dog shit—dried, pasty, and strangely desiccated—with fallout-green eyes sporting vertical feline slit irises. And for all the tech surrounding him, Shelton’s wardrobe seemed a couple centuries out of date. He wore black leggings with soft-soled black shoes, a puffy white shirt with a red doublet over the top, and a friggin’ fur-lined cape. Lamest evil mage costume of all time.

The overall tableau was both shockingly disturbing and a little embarrassing: an ancient mage, dressed like a D&D character, in an ultramodern monitoring center that looked suspiciously like Trekkie heaven, surrounded by dumpy ice gnomes in lab coats. Just wrong on so many levels—how had my life come to this point? Jeez.

“You’re on gnome patrol,” I called back to Ferraro as I approached the man who had formally been Randy Shelton, but who was now something much worse.

THIRTY-FOUR:

Show Time

Randy stood up and smiled. “We didn’t expect you to survive the metus. You surprise us.” He frowned, eyes narrowing at the corners. “We don’t like surprises. No we don’t. But it is of little consequence, we shall crush you underfoot like the bug you are. Winter shall have his crook back and we can resume—”

Taking a page out of Ferraro’s playbook, I raised the crook and unleashed a blast of frozen air before he could finish monologuing. Last time I’d let him finish blathering, the cops had pulled up and arrested my ass. Not making that mistake again. The frozen air—a swirling mass of blue—splintered and solidified into a small blizzard of golf-ball-sized hailstones. A few pelted into the Lich, who looked entirely surprised before he managed to wave a hand and conjure a wavering purple shield of Vis.

Boom-Boom—I glanced right toward Ferraro, just in time to see a stocky gnome tumble over backwards, lab coat burning and blackening. She pulled free her Glock and took aim, smooth, quick, deadly. Another ice gnome toppled, but there were more still—she charged in, shotgun dangling from a three-point sling, Glock in one hand, steel-knuckles in the other.

Couldn’t spare her much focus though—Shelton was already on the move, suddenly blinking out of existence before reappearing near the back wall. With a swipe of his hand, a beam of purple light thick as my leg burst from his palm. I pulled Vis through the crook, weaves of air and water coalesced into a shimmering shield of blue—a force field, though imbued with the extra strength of winter’s power. The beam hit like a wrecking ball, knocking me back a few steps, even through the shield, before ricocheting off and careening into the wall nearest me. A smoking crater bloomed in the sheetrock beyond.

I darted left, away from Ferraro and the ice gnomes, better to try and keep our mage duel well away from them. I could just imagine what would’ve happened if that blast of purple had collided with Ferraro instead of the wall. I flicked my left hand: a silver wall of fog erupted from the floor, a quick and dirty smoke screen, before I unleashed a barrage of ice spikes—thin, dagger-sharp projectiles whipped through the fog, aimed at the last place Randy had been. Hopefully Randy wouldn’t even see the attack coming.

But no howl of pain followed, no squeal of agony to tell me I’d scored a hit. Then, I felt the rush of air and dropped; a friggin’ sword sliced through the space my head had occupied a moment before. And this was a real sword, not at all like my construct of air—a single-handed weapon, called a spada da lato (everyone gets to be a geek about something, okay), with a thin double-edged blade and a flashy brass handguard called a basket-hilt, which swooped around his hand with elaborate twists and flourishes of metal.

I had absolutely no idea where the damn thing had come from—I’m sure I would’ve noticed a sword. I also had no clue how he’d managed to get behind me, no one was that fast or that quiet. The problem was that Shelton had a thousand plus friggin’ years’ worth of Vis knowhow in his head—I literally had no clue what the mage was capable of.

The sword slashed again. I managed to interpose the crook just in time, handling the staff like I’d handle my summoned sword. But it wasn’t the same, not even close; the length, size, and weight were all wrong. I’ve done a little Bojutsu here and there, but it’s certainly not my specialty. Shelton’s almost-rapier flicked back and forth—attack, slash, reset. I managed to parry the blows as they came, narrowly deflecting each, while carefully backing away, trying to gain some breathing room. He feinted left. I fell for it, awkwardly maneuvering the crook into place, only to find Shelton’s sword slashing at my arm. My coat kept my limb blessedly attached to my torso, but I was ill prepared when the flash of green zipped from his free hand and smashed into my chest like a wrecking ball of Vis-conjured power.

The chainmail absorbed some of the shock from the blow, but it was still more than enough to lift my ass into the air and send me hurtling into the far wall. I collided with a computer terminal, sharp edges gouging into my ribs and spine before I tumbled gracelessly to the floor. Dammit! My back screamed a protest, my left shoulder seemed to insist that it was done working for the week, and my head throbbed as if I’d just taken a solid one-two combination from Mike Tyson.

The crook filled my head with an image: bulky creatures of solid snow and jagged ice. The abominable snowmen Old Man Winter had summoned the first time I’d been down here. Turns out, they weren’t Old Man Winter’s personal lackeys, they were servants of the crook, and, thus, mine to call at will. The crook pulsed inside my mind, providing me with a hazy knowledge about how to bring the shambling things forth. I pointed the hooked end of the crook toward the ground and pumped Vis into the staff—a liquid beam of white, so cold it felt hot, smashed into the floor, obliterating the linoleum and pulling up a small mountain of living snow and ice from the cavern below.

The abominable coalesced into being, shrugging massive shoulders and stretching out icy arms thick as trees. Then it rushed forward like an avalanche, taking clumsy but powerful swipes at Shelton. The Lich was too fast by half, easily ducking under a series of big haymakers, then casually sidestepping a massive overhand blow. Black fire, reinforced with twisting beams of thin, spiked something or other—weaves I’d literally never seen before—erupted along Shelton’s sword blade. The weapon became a blur in his hands, flashing to and fro in quick slashes and daring thrusts. Chunks of my hired help fell away in torrents, snow melting in the heat of a small black sun.

So maybe one abominable wasn’t enough muscle to get the job done, but how would Randy fare against two? I drew in more power—another beam erupted from the crook’s end, and the floor rumbled underfoot as another Frosty sprouted from the ground like some bizarre ice sculpture. I wanted to cackle madly … I, Yancy Lazarus, had minions. I’m the guy who always gets stuck fighting minions, always; the shoe had never been on the other foot before and it felt pretty badass. I wanted to scream something appropriately melodramatic, like maybe: Go forth, my doom beasts, slay my foes … Bwahahaha. I didn’t, of course, because how embarrassing and tacky would that be—but it was still really cool.

My second frozen goon advanced on Shelton, its great footfalls shaking the room. Now would be a perfect time to join in the fray and start slinging some power or lead, but suddenly I found myself unable to do much more than hold the walking, breathing constructs together. I’d never used Vis in such a capacity—couldn’t have without the crook’s aid and guidance—but it was far more taxing than I’d expected. Check, controlling summoned minions looks badass, but isn’t quite as easy as it looks. Good to know.

And even with two creatures to square off against, Randy seemed to be holding his own just fine. My first minion wasn’t looking so hot: huge pieces of its torso were missing, it was short an arm, and was reeling drunkenly around on one leg—the other lay in a pile of powder off to the side. The second creature tried to flank Randy, circling around to his back, but the Lich was one helluva competent swordsman. He readjusted with ease, constantly maneuvering to keep the two snowmen to his front, then using his superior speed to dart inside their guard and back out again.

After another few moments of swordplay, the Lich casually shot inside the hobbling snowman’s guard and decapitated the beast with a flick of his blade.

The creature collapsed under its own weight, just a pile of snow and ice, as the Vis holding him together unraveled and returned to the crook. The Lich moved like a cobra, striking out with inhuman speed; he disappeared for the briefest moment before reappearing behind my still standing minion. His sword was a whirlwind of fluid motion: hacking, slashing, cutting, slicing. In seconds Frosty Two was down for the count, permanently.

The son of a bitch was playing with me. He didn’t need the sword—he could’ve incinerated my help without a thought … asshole was showboating.

Shelton grinned at me, a feral snarl. “We grow weary of this game.” He nonchalantly tossed his sword away: a strange construct of shifting purple light—equal part magnetic force, earthen power, and more of the thin, spiked energy I didn’t understand—ripped open the air in a jagged slash and simply swallowed the sword before blinking closed. I’d never seen anything like it, not even close. And Shelton seemed to know it, a look of smug, self-satisfaction painting his face. Guy was really starting to get under my skin.

Even with the crook, I felt thoroughly outclassed: a clumsy kid banging on a piano with a hammer compared to Beethoven conducting the Ninth Symphony. He wasn’t really throwing around that much power—with the crook, I was working with far more raw Vis—but he was much, much better than I was. His techniques were intricate and nearly flawless. I couldn’t beat him, no way. James had been right, this guy was out of my league. The best I could hope for was to survive for a while.

An army of ice spears sprouted from the ground below me, all glistening the same fallout green of Shelton’s eyes—I responded without a second thought. I dove forward, toward Shelton and over the spikes; simultaneously, the crook flashed, and a wave of unseen force rolled out, shattering the javelins before they could touch me. I thrust out my left hand and launched a score of small, fast-moving force-spheres. They ate up the distance between Shelton and I in an instant, but he moved even faster, wavering for a moment before vanishing from sight. The force-spheres careened into a computer terminal, the screen exploded out in a shower of glass and metal.

Randy appeared a second later—or, I guess, it would be more accurate to say that ten Randys appeared a second later, each one as identical as the last, surrounding me in a loose circle. One must’ve been the real deal and the other nine? Perfect illusions. Fully functioning simulacrums. Yeah, outclassed didn’t even begin to cover it.

The crook called out to me—Let go, it whispered, give in. That was a terrible idea, the worst … if I gave into the crook, there’s a good chance I’d be no better than Shelton or Old Man Winter in the end. But it was also strangely alluring … all that power waiting just outside of my grasp. Shelton had a powerful ally in his corner, and without the aid of the crook in mine, I wasn’t sure whether I’d have the strength to stop him.

I’ve said it before: sometimes the only choices available are bad ones and worse ones. In my book, surrendering to the crook was a bad choice, but sure and certain death was worse by far.

So, being the pragmatist I am, I gave in. Instead of simply pumping power into the crook, I let the energy flow the other way—I let the crook’s power, its sentience, rush into me like a lungful of toxic smoke.

My stomach dropped out beneath me, a free fall from the top of the Empire State Building … cold water filled my veins, my arms and legs swelled, muscles straining against my jeans and jacket, suddenly too tight. A shimmer of pale blue ran along the surface of my skin and froze in place, icy plate mail of winter power. My jaw stretched and expanded with a crack, absolutely necessary to accommodate the pointed fangs filling my mouth. A shaggy beard of hoarfrost sprouted from my face, trailing down toward my now claw-tipped fingers. I caught just a brief glance of myself in one of the computer monitors. I was still me, more or less, but I eerily resembled a younger version of Old Man Winter.

I brushed at my jacket, trying to shrug my way free—my hand touched the chainmail and sizzled, the scent of burning flesh filling my nose. The crook was a thing of the fae, and with all its power pumping and surging through me, changing me, it seemed I was susceptible to the fae weakness of cold iron.

I watched it all from inside my head—what was happening to me hardly seemed to be me at all now. The crook’s presence was no longer an external force, but a part of me, beating in time with my heart, pumping its power through my veins, wrestling control away from me, restraining me inside my skull. Every second seemed to add more power, but zapped more of my freedom in turn.

And that’s when I realized why Old Man Winter was so old and ragged, why he’d taken Ben’s grandkid in the first place. The crook’s power was transformative and a friggin’ powerhouse of energy, but it was also costly. My body felt like a meteor blazing in the night, I felt unstoppable, indestructible, and I knew that no one could burn so brightly for long. A pack a day had nothing on the life-sapping power of the crook. The human body couldn’t withstand that kind of wear indefinitely.

In that moment, I realized a terrible truth: Old Man Winter had once been a human, he was a type of Lich himself, I was sure of it. Sometime, long, long ago, he’d become a conduit, a vehicle for the power within the crook and, after a time, had become a creature of Fairy. Transformed. But it hadn’t always been so. For Winter, the kidnapping hadn’t just been a revenge ploy—the kid hadn’t just been incidental—he’d probably been part of the agreement. He’d snatched the kid, a young, fresh suit of meat, so he could once more use the full power of the crook. In legends, he was both Jack Frost, a young man, and Old Man Winter, a cyclical course that mirrored winter itself. Birth and death, following one after the other for all eternity.

And I knew that if I wanted it, I could become like him. But that was for later, for now what I wanted was to wipe that smug look off Shelton’s face, all ten of them.

I watched, detached, as my body turned and sniffed the air. Perhaps the illusion could fool the eye, but not the nose. To the nose, the real Shelton was clear as gleaming ice—he smelled like a juicy steak waiting to be devoured. I turned toward the true Lich and leapt forward, the distance between us vanishing in an eye blink.

Yeah, he didn’t look nearly so full of himself as I smashed a fist into his face at lightning speed, caving in one cheek and throwing him back into a wall. I grinned, my jaws opened wide in a snarl, as I leapt forward again, bringing the crook down like a club, battering the downed Lich like a kid going to work on a piñata. Over and over again, snapping bones, rupturing flesh.

He couldn’t stop me. And it felt good. His blood steaming and warm against my flesh before freezing over in splotches of dark brown. He’d tortured Kozlov, killed Harvey—the guy who should’ve been able to retire with his wife. He had this coming in blood-tipped spades.

The Lich was resilient, far tougher than he looked; his chest rose and fell despite my best efforts. That was fine though, he could stand to suffer more.

I was gonna rip his arms and legs off, then flash freeze the wounds shut, so he wouldn’t bleed out. No, that’d be too quick … yeah, I’d rip his arms and legs off and then beat him to death with his own hands.

Boom. A bright annoying flash of pain flared in my left leg—I turned to find Ferraro behind me. Shotgun barrel smoking from the latest discharge. What was she doing? The clumsy, stupid bitch. She pumped the action of the shotgun, which spat out a spent shell, and chambered another. She raised the shotgun and fixed squarely on my chest. Was she aiming at me?

“Yancy,” she said, speaking slowly and a little too loudly, as though I might not be able to hear or understand. “You need to stop. You’re”—she paused for a moment—“not yourself. Please step away from Shelton, he’s finished … If you kill him now, it won’t be self-defense, it’ll be murder. No two ways about it.”

Stupid bitch. Who did she think she was, telling me what to do?

I turned and stepped toward her—insolence could be tolerated to a degree, but better to teach her a hard lesson now. Make a brief, brutal example for her, then she’d know where she sat in the pecking order. Then she’d know not to interfere in the affairs of her betters. I wouldn’t kill her—she belonged to me, my prize, my concubine—but she’d learn her role.

She pulled the trigger. I conjured a shield of blue mist, which swallowed the fire, leaving nothing but a flash of steam that immediately froze and fell in a wave of snow. I called up a construct of force, a blast of energy that would lay her out for a good long while. The weaves coalesced in my hand, a rippling sphere of angry blue energy, ready to be unleashed.

Except I couldn’t do it. I mean I could do it, it’d be easy, and she couldn’t stop me. But I saw that VC kid in my head, my first kill—the boy who’d been in the wrong place at the wrong time. My finger had been on the trigger, I’d had a clear shot, and though I’d taken the shot, I hadn’t wanted to. I’d done what I’d had to do, but no more. I was a killer, couldn’t deny that, but I wasn’t a murderer, and I sure as shit wasn’t the kind of guy who turned on his friends.

The part of me that was still me cried out and snatched at the Vis flowing through my body, struggling weakly against the powerful, beastly thing inside of me. The fight seemed useless—I couldn’t beat the crook, not like this, and I sure as shit couldn’t beat Shelton without its aid. I had a backup plan, but holding the crook was the only way I could guarantee victory. But at what cost? Kill Shelton, but wind up destroying Ferraro and myself in the process? No thanks.

With the last bit of will I could muster, I grappled with the force overriding my senses, desperate to regain control of myself even for a moment. The crook was a living force within me, a shadow beast roaming the hallways of my head, wrapping its dark, cold tendrils around my brain, my heart, pulling all the switches and making me dance like some goofy, poorly constructed puppet. My mind was still mine for the time being, but the crook’s sentience was too friggin’ powerful to drive out as long as I held the crook.

So there was only one possible option: I needed to get rid of the crook—needed to pitch it away, out of my reach, where its influence would be limited.

I summoned the little strength of will and determination left in me and focused inward, stripping away every distraction vying for my attention, every diversion screaming for me to take note. I needed total focus to win this battle, so I needed to push everything else away.

It was almost like shooting for qualification on the range back in my Marine Corps days. I went there: I imagined myself on the five-hundred-yard firing line, the wind blowing gently across the range, my body pressed into the rough gravel and dirt as I lay in the prone. The "B" modified target was just a pinprick of dark color on the horizon, so if I wanted to put a round in the black I would need absolute concentration.

Sharp chunks of gravel and rock gouged into my knees and elbows—Shelton, Ferraro, the Guild—each demanding a share of my attention, but I pushed each of them from my mind in turn. The parade-sling, holding my rifle steady, dug into the meat of my arm, choking the blood flow; uncomfortable, but necessary. I put it out of mind and readjusted the rifle in my shoulder pocket, pushing my cheek against the buttstock, ignoring the sweat beading on my head. I slowed my breathing—in, out—the rifle barrel bobbing with each breath, rising minutely on the inhale and dropping level on the exhale.

I was one with the rifle, one with the target downrange, every thought, feeling, and worry cast into temporary exile. My finger curled around the trigger—slow and steady squeeze, until the rifle bucked. My thought exploded outward like a bullet zipping from the barrel—a single precise command, honed to a scalpel blade’s edge and aimed at a very specific target.

I watched, a spectator in my own body, as my command hit black and my body responded in kind. My arm shot out and my hand flew open—the crook summersaulted through the air and clattered to the floor five or six feet away. The power and life drained out of me, the staff’s connection and hold on me vanishing in an instant, but taking its raw ass-kicking prowess with it. I tumbled to my knees, my body reverting—jaw shrinking, beard falling away, muscles resuming their normal size. Suddenly weak and empty, used up.

Ferraro pulled the shotgun trigger again, this time aiming over my head, right where Shelton had been.

THIRTY-FIVE:

Ace in the Hole

I swiveled my head, looking back just in time to see Shelton flick his wrist forward, streams of purple wind, swirling and tainted with fallout-green, swept forward. The construct stopped Ferraro’s shot dead while simultaneously scooping the crook from the floor and floating it into his outstretched hand.

A flash of green, as blinding as a solar flare, rolled through the room, a wave of force and light which drove me down to my back. When my vision finally cleared, Shelton hung suspended in the air, the crook held before him, a look of pure rapture painting his ugly mug.

“The power,” he muttered, more to himself than to us, “it’s so much more than we expected.”

I glanced right. Ferraro was down, though moving.

I pushed myself to my feet, pulling free my hand cannon—too tired to do much else—and laid into the monster with everything I had. A wall of blue shimmered before him for a moment, like a sheet of frozen lake ice, then my bullets simply fell from the air, frozen chunks of lead that clattered uselessly on the busted linoleum. The Lich laughed then—and it was a real doozy, guy could’ve qualified for a feature piece in Evil Villain Cackle Quarterly. A swirl of blue wrapped around my hand, prying my fingers open—my gun jerked free and floated through the air and into Shelton’s free hand.

“This,” he said, eyeing the weapon, “is a crude and inelegant thing. The tool of a barbarian.” He smiled, a sharp grin, chock-full of wicked intent. “I’ll keep it as a souvenir.” Flows of air lifted me up off my feet and slammed me hard into the wall next to the stairwell opening—thick vines of black ice, spiked with thorns, sprouted from the wall and wrapped around my body, arms, and legs. This is exactly what I’d done to Old Man Winter on more than one occasion and let me tell you, being on the receiving end was about as much fun as a colonoscopy with a weed whacker.

The thorns themselves were as sharp as razors—my arms and torso were protected by the chainmail and my leather jacket, but the spikes slashed through my jeans into the skin of my thighs and calves. Every time I wiggled, the spikes burrowed deeper. To top it off, the little buggers were colder than a witch’s tit—cold enough that they should’ve numbed the wounds after a few minutes, but didn’t. Instead they seemed to burn with a cold heat that simply wouldn’t abate.

Though my wrists were secured to the wall good and tight, I could still access the Vis. I did have a backup plan, all I needed was a solid javelin of flame and I could probably, maybe, possibly right this capsizing ship. I summoned the weaves of fire necessary—it was damn tough going, didn’t seem like there was enough ambient heat to get the job done, and I felt like I’d just run a marathon—but at last a wispy ball of shifting orange coalesced into my palm.

It burned for a few seconds tops, then guttered and died. Great.

“Oh no,” the Lich murmured with a shake of his head. The ice-spikes dug deeper into the exposed flesh around my wrist, snaking up around my gloves and slicing into the backs of my hands and fingers. Blood trickled across my palms and dribbled to the floor. Shit-eating vines not only hurt, they sucked the Vis right out of my fire construct. Consuming the minute energy I had left.

Things are never easy. But I still had a backup, backup plan—one ace left in the hole: Ferraro, though she was currently lying on the floor. She was stirring, however, and she knew what needed to be done if Randy got a hold of the crook—that was a scenario we’d covered in detail. But she’d need a little time to get her head on right if she was gonna pull this thing out of the bag. Time, I could buy her.

“Hey, Shelton,” I said, “I know you’re in there somewhere.”

Now normally, this is the part where I’d tried to appeal to Shelton’s humanity, convince him that he could still make the right choice. That underneath all the bad decisions, beneath the shit and the heinous murders, he was still a good human being. Instead of doing that, I started insulting him.

“Yeah, I know you’re in there, taking orders like the little bitch you are. Maybe you’ve got your hands on some powerhouse item, but that doesn’t change the fact that underneath you’re still a shithead punk, who just couldn’t cut it. Spineless little limp-dick prick.”

What can I say? People are fickle sons of bitches. Sure, maybe an appeal to his humanity would pay dividends, but maybe not. Insults, however, almost always achieve the desired result. At least if the desired result is to royally piss someone off. My ploy certainly seemed to be working just fine—the green in his eyes faded, just a bit, then began to flicker between green and muddy brown.

“Yeah,” I continued, “just like I figured. Koschei won’t let you in the driver seat even for a second. Just a punk bitch, riding in the backseat while someone with a pair of balls takes care of business.”

“Shut up!” he yelled. “Take that back. We, we are …” Eye color now solidly brown, “I’m not a bitch. I can cut it—the Guild just couldn’t see it. Gatekeepers who think they have the right to pass judgment on me. No one could see it!” he shrieked, voice cracking.

“Couldn’t hack it,” I spat, ignoring him completely. “Reject. Washout. Pussy.”

“Shut up!” The spikes dug deeper into me, the pressure from the restraints themselves squeezing down like a boa constrictor crushing the life from its prey. “I practiced for years. Worked harder than anyone. Anyone! It didn’t come easy for me, not like for you—naturally gifted. Pissing everything away. You’re the reject,” he said. “You’re the one who walked away because the pressure was too much.”

Even hanging against the wall, I managed to shrug my shoulder and feign a look of indifference. “Whatever you gotta tell yourself, kid. I walked away because I wanted to. You never even had a chance to walk away. You didn’t even make it that far.”

“Exactly! I worked and worked, but never even got a chance. Years of practice. Countless hours poring over arcane texts and undergoing grueling mental exercises. And for what?” Tears ran down his too-thin cheeks. “For what? So two men could spend a day assessing my future and dismiss me out of hand with a rubber rejection stamp? Fuck that. It’s not right. I earned my spot.” He practically growled that last part.

His eyes flickered again, muddy-brown back to green, green to muddy brown, and back once more before finally settling on a striking shade of Chernobyl. “That is quite enough, you are troubling us,” said a voice that was definitely less Randy and more Koschei.

“Wait,” I said. “That’s it? This whole friggin’ thing is really just about some kid not handling rejection well? Are you friggin’ kidding me? Bunch of petty bullshit.”

The creature, which had once been Randy, but which was now both more and less, chuckled. “Mortals are so easy to manipulate, fool. It’s just desire. Hope, love, pettiness, jealousy. It does not matter. Any desire—no matter how noble or vile—unfettered from conscience can lead here.” He laughed and shed a wicked grin, a grin that said, I win. “Now, we will dispose of you before you can trouble us further.” He held out the crook, and a ball of light—steel-gray and writhing like a ball of snakes—formed in the crook’s circular opening.

Boom! The roar of Ferraro’s shotgun bit into the quiet, a great billow of fire ripping through the air as the Dragon breath shells released. The fire lapped over the surface of the crook, briefly flashing against Shelton’s hands and sleeves, before vanishing in the frosty air.

Thank God for evil baddies who just don’t know when to stick a sock in it.

The Lich turned his head, a petulant sneer pulling up one side of his mouth, showing chiseled teeth beneath.

“Idiot human,” he hissed. “You think a shotgun can undo us? We are Koschei the Deathless, eater of souls, Lord over death, wielder of the Crook of Winter. The mage couldn’t defeat us, and you think—”

Boom. Man, these idiot villains never learn. I get it, gloating is fun, we all like to rub our victory into the noses of our enemies—often against our better judgment—but damn, you’d think at some point they’d just finish things quick. The shotgun blast didn’t do much by way of damaging Shelton, the flame didn’t seem to bother him in the least. But it did hit the crook.

Shelton raised the ancient fae weapon, the glowing orb still hanging suspended between the crook’s curve and its handle.

Then something amazing happened: the glowing orb of life-ending doom flickered, faltered, and poofed out of existence with a little sputter and a gasp of air. The whimper of a small fart. Randy looked at the crook as he floated, his face scrunched up in an expression of absolute curiosity. What is this? that look seemed to ask. Then he plummeted to the ground, clutching his stomach as he shrieked and howled in agony, rolling first one way then the other. The crook lay off to the side, completely forgotten. I noticed that the crook left a dark smear on the floor where it’d fallen. Blood.

More precisely, my freshly thawed, diseased blood.

It was all over Randy’s bare hands.

Back at the Farm, I’d coated the crook in the contaminated blood I’d taken while in Wyoming—the stuff I’d been planning to make an antidote with—then flash froze it into place. The crook was naturally cold enough that I hadn’t been worried about the blood thawing from its surface, but the flame from Ferraro’s shotgun had warmed things up just enough to liquefy the toxin and, in turn, infect Shelton.

I’d known full well that the Lich wanted the crook and I’d also known that there was a better than even chance he’d take the damned thing from me no matter how prepared I was. So I figured delivering the poison through the crook seemed like the safest bet … I mean the Trojan horse has worked for sneaky underdogs since time immemorial.

I hadn’t been sure the ploy would pay out—I mean, what if there was an antidote and Randy was immune? What if he’d been wearing gloves? What if the blood had been rendered impotent by the flame? A thousand things could’ve gone wrong, but Lady Fate had told me that I was going to fight Shelton. And she’d also told me that the crook would be instrumental in winning, but only once it was in Shelton’s hands. The clues were about as clear as foggy glass on a dark night, but when you’re the little guy you grasp at whatever meager straws you’re offered.

Ferraro carefully circled toward me, sidestepping near the far edge of the wall, careful to keep the shottie pointed right at Shelton, just in case. Once she was in range, she pulled out her sleek expandable baton, flicked it open, and cracked the ice vines surrounding my wrists. The frozen vines seemed unthinking without the crook’s power and Randy’s direction to maintain them. They came away easily enough and once my hands were free, I had no trouble calling up enough flame to melt the rest of the ice holding me in place.

“What have you done to us?” Shelton shrieked, finally scrambling to his knees and making a dive at the crook. I took my time and strolled over—the crook wouldn’t do him a lick of good, not now. Not with that poison working in him, depriving him of the ability to touch the Vis.

“Turnabout’s fair play, jackass,” I said as I moved closer.

He held up the crook as though to ward me off, but I batted it away with the back of my gloved hand, then I conjured up a javelin of force, which plowed into his kisser like a grand slam delivered from a Louisville Slugger. The blow busted his lip and put him out cold. Without the Vis, the crook was no good for him, and even with the Lich in his head, without access to a power source he was about as useful as an encyclopedia set in the age of Google.

“Way to pull my ass out of the fire,” I said, glancing over my shoulder. “I knew you’d pull your weight.”

Ferraro frowned. “You were worried about me pulling my weight?” She looked around the room, carefully taking in the general chaos and the bodies strewn across the floor. “Maybe my math is wrong, but it looks to me like I’ve done most of the work here. I subdued all those gnomes—”

“Scientist gnomes,” I muttered.

“—stopped the rampaging monster mage, you,” she said without pause, “and took down Shelton. I mean, you sucker-punched him in the nose after I’d beaten him, of course … If I remember correctly”—she pressed her lips together in mock thought—“you were frozen to a wall waiting to die.”

I frowned and squinted, trying to convey the vast levels of sheer annoyance I felt rolling around inside my belly.

“Stop pouting,” she said, and this time she did smile a little. Apparently Ferraro did have a sense of humor in there, though, apparently, it was buried somewhere deep, deep down—kept under lock and key and guarded by a shotgun-wielding Amazonian princess. “So what do we do now?” she asked. “We never really talked about the specifics if Shelton survived.”

“You know you can’t take him in, right?” I said, not sure at all that she knew any such thing.

But she nodded. “He’s a murderer. Responsible for the death of at least three people. He should be taken into custody and he should receive due process … that’s what should happen in a perfect world. But I’m smart enough to know that this situation isn’t going to turn out that way. Even if I took him in, I’d never be able to get the charges to stick. Not nearly enough evidence—at least not evidence that anyone will buy.” She was quiet for a moment, looking down at Shelton as though she didn’t really believe her words.

“The Guild will handle him,” I said softly, trying my best to sound reassuring. “I’ll take the crook and lock it up at the Farm. And I’ll turn the ring and this assbag”—I nodded at Randy—“over to James—if anyone can get the full story out of the little weasel, it’ll be James. And he’ll do it all discreetly.”

“And then?” she asked. “After James gets whatever intel he can gather? What’ll happen with Shelton and the ring?”

“Well, as asinine as it sounds, the ring will probably wind up back in the vault—but James will need it to confirm our story and clear us with the Guild. And Randy?” I shrugged. “James will record relevant evidence, present his findings to the council and then … well, probably it’s better if you don’t know.”

“That’s crap. I’ve been in it this far, I have a right to know.”

I thought about it for a second then shrugged again. “Yeah, okay. James is a member of the Fist of the Staff. He has the right to judge and pass punishment on the spot. Considering the nature of Shelton’s crimes and the sensitive nature of surrounding circumstances … Randy won’t make it long. James’ll make it quick.”

She looked away, tension knotting her shoulders. It couldn’t be easy for someone like her to see that kind of vigilante justice get dished out … it was so outside of the world she knew. But then, the world she knew had died the second she realized there was more to our existence than just the mortal affairs of humans running around on a spinning ball of mud.

I walked over to Randy and carefully pried the ring off his desiccated finger, before sliding it into a silver mesh bag I pulled from my coat pocket—a temporary transport until I could hand it over to James for safekeeping. Though boy did the thought of turning that ring back over to the Guild really chap my ass.

“Cuff him, will you?” I asked, heading over to the computer terminals, trying to figure out if there was anything of use there. A few minutes of fooling around, however, revealed that other than the video feeds, everything else was encoded and encrypted. Ahh, who am I kidding … the shit might not even have been password protected. My computer skills are not abysmal—I can Google things and send emails—but a computer hacker I am not. But it didn’t matter, James could get any necessary info out of Shelton.

So instead, I did what I do best: I fixed those computers so that no nefarious bad guy would be able to use them again. And by “fix,” I absolutely mean destroyed the utter shit outta the whole lot of ’em. I conjured up a construct of fire and force, using unseen bands of energy to shred the interior, twist metal guts, and wipe circuit boards. Scorched earth.

By the time I was done, the terminals were charred black and billowing out great plumes of smoke. Ferraro had Shelton cuffed on the floor—he was starting to come to, though he seemed groggy and confused. I reluctantly retrieved the crook—already the blood had frozen back in place—but still I handled the thing with ginger care. It reached out to me, tried to force its way into my mind, but I erected a steel partition in my mind, blocking the crook’s siren call out as best I could.

“Ready?” I asked Ferraro. She hauled Randy to his feet and nodded her assent. So with the crook and villain safely in hand, I called up a doorway to a spot not far from James’s place in Somerville.

THIRTY-SIX:

Happy Endings and All that Jazz

Ferraro sat across from me in a secluded booth. We were at a bar I’d never been to before—shocking, I know, a bar I haven’t visited—called Rook’s in Quantico, Virginia, the official home of the FBI. Quantico was a place I didn’t go, not with the kind of rap sheet I’ve got, and this place looked and felt like a cop bar, complete with a table of uniformed officers, which had me nervous down to my toes. But no one seemed to pay us much mind. Ferraro had assured me that everything was fine and that my worry was needless, and, because I trusted her, I was willing to give it a shot.

Overall, it was actually a pretty nice joint: lots of dark wood and low lighting. Some lively chatter, a couple of salty DTs playing pool over in the corner while some cool jazz drifted through the air, setting the mood. I was eating ribs—’cause you know, ribs—while Ferraro munched on a salad that looked far too healthy for me to ever be interested in. It’d been nearly a week since our raid on Thurak-Tir. Ferraro was officially back on the job, her “recommended” vacation finally over, though the brass had mandated ten hours of counseling and had made her requalify on the range. So this was the first chance I’d had to see her since I’d dropped her off back in Virginia.

She took a final bite of salad and then pushed the plate away. Up until this point we’d only made small talk, no serious business during dinner—just sort of an unspoken rule. She sat and watched me finish off my meal, asking a few questions about how I was feeling, but staying away from Randy, which I was grateful for. Don’t get me wrong, it’s not like I was unwilling to talk business, but eating a plate of ribs is one of the small sweet pleasures in life, and I’d hate to have that ruined by thoughts of the Lich. After another couple of minutes, I managed to not only strip every ounce of flesh from the bones, but I’d also polished off a side order of cinnamon apples, which left me feeling fat and very happy.

At last I pushed the plate away, wiped my mouth and fingers down with an already dirty napkin, and then settled back into my seat.

“So what’s the word on Shelton?” Ferraro asked, wasting little time—she was tense, more tense than I remembered seeing her since she’d first interrogated me back in Wyoming. Maybe a more permanent vacation from the Bureau would do her good. “What was James able to get out of him?”

“Not as much as I’d like. James dug deep, but whoever gave Shelton that trinket also gave him a super-grade compulsion—a type of mind magic—that made him more compliant to orders while simultaneously wiping any relevant information about who supplied him with the ring. We know it’s someone highly placed in the Guild—Elder’s Council probably, which narrows the suspect pool down to twelve, though it could be someone in the Judges Office—but outside of that, not much. My guess is that the Lich was the one in the driver’s seat, but James can’t exactly grill Koschei, so it’s all dead-end leads on that front.”

“Was he able to ascertain what was going on down there, with all the computer equipment?”

I bobbed my head yes. “That’s the only solid thing James came up with. It seems like whoever is running the carnival has some major plans—no big shocker there. He’s supporting rebels and upstarts in the five fae courts, and he’s also reaching out to uber-bad shitheels from just about every part of Outworld. If I didn’t know any better I’d say we have a gen-u-ine Lex Luthor, Legion of Doom thing going on. He also managed to drag out one, super-unhelpful, cryptic comment. Shelton said, ‘The White Seal is in play.’ What the hell that’s supposed to mean is anyone’s guess, but there it is.”

“And what happened with Shelton?”

“Still alive. Looks like he’s actually gonna stand trial before the Elder Council, which is a stupid idea, considering one of those assbuckets is probably our baddy.”

“Then why is it going to trial? Shelton’s a murderer. And not just a murderer—I remember what he did to Kozlov—the man is twisted. And he’s dangerous.”

I looked away, trying to figure out how best to phrase it. “Look, it was James’s call. I think Shelton being dead is the safer option, the easier option for us. But because of the level of compulsion involved, James just isn’t convinced that Randy is wholly to blame. I mean the kid made a bad choice, a lot of bad choices, but he was also the victim. Someone used him up. Probably the council will push for his execution anyways. Might not even make it that far—I’d bet that whoever arranged for Randy to get the ring will also arrange a little accident for him before the trial ever starts. Safer that way. But until then, Shelton gets to keep breathing.”

We were quiet for a while. I took several long pulls from a dark Guinness stout, while Ferraro nursed a Jack and Coke on the rocks.

“So what’ll you do now?” she asked after a time. “Now that Shelton’s been dealt with?”

I shrugged, not really sure what to say, how to answer. “I dunno. Probably pretty much what I’m doing right now. Hit the road, eat some good food, play some music, mostly keep my head down … and I guess I’ll also keep an eye out for any more evil shenanigans coming down the pipeline. Maybe I’ll ask around, see if there’re any leads to follow up on, see if I can figure out what the White Seal is. Nothing official.”

She reached across the table and took my hand in hers. “Maybe you could hang around here for a while. I’ll be busy with work—always have a full caseload—but it’d be nice to see you some more. I could also help with your unofficial investigation.”

I looked at her and though it broke me inside, I gently pulled my hands away from her. “Look, Nicole, you’re a helluva woman. Seriously. And I’d love to do this”—I waved a hand vaguely at the restaurant—“again. But settling down in one place? No, that’s not for me. I traded in my chance at regular life a long time ago—that ship has sailed and I have no intention of trying to shimmy my ass back on board. But …” I offered her an apologetic shrug. “I’ll be around, there’s work to be done, and right now you’re one of the few people that I can trust.”

She smiled, but it was a rueful grin, one that seemed to say, Yeah, I know how it is. She slid out of the booth and grabbed me by the hand, giving a tug as though to say, Let’s get moving.

I looked at her, unsure.

“My place isn’t far,” she said. “We”—she waved a hand between us—“don’t have to be official. My life is complicated, busy, hectic. Not conducive to lasting relationships, so I understand. But I also understand that life is short—this whole thing has reminded me of just how short it might be—so you have to enjoy what you can get when you can get it.”

I let her pull me from the booth and lead me from the bar by the hand, only too happy to follow. I had a feeling that my life was gonna get more complicated and much more dangerous in the very near future. But Ferraro was right, you do need to take your victories where you can get ’em.

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About the Author

Hey all, my name is James Hunter and I’m a writer, among other things. So just a little about me: I’m a former Marine Corps Sergeant, combat veteran, and pirate hunter (seriously). I’m also a member of The Royal Order of the Shellback—‘cause that’s a real thing. And, a space-ship captain, can’t forget that.

Okay  … the last one is only in my imagination.

Currently, I work as a missionary and international aid worker with my wife and young daughter in Bangkok, Thailand. When I’m not working, writing, or spending time with family, I occasionally eat and sleep.

Dedication

For the special ladies in my life: Jeanette, Lucy, Mom—I love you all so much.

Special Thanks

I’d like to thank my wife, Jeanette, and daughter, Lucy. A special thanks to my parents, Greg and Lori. A quick shout out to my brother Aron and his whole brood—Eve, Brook, Grace, and Collin. Brit, probably you’ll never read this, but I love you too. Here’s to the folks of Team Lazarus, my awesome Alpha and Beta readers who helped make this book both possible and good: Brenna, Owen Wilkie, Andy Shapiro, Megan Meyers (aka Teal Canary), Bob “Gunslinger” Singer, Suzanne Driggs, Dan Goodale, Marty Snodgrass, Dawn Cornish, Joan Carmouche-Hairston, Nell Justice, Jen “Ivana” Wadsworth, Sean McIntosh, Rhonda Almodovar, Robert Olsen, Brett Farris, and Renee Robertazzi. They read the messy, early drafts so that no one else had to; thanks guys and gals. And of course a big thanks to my editor, Ashley Davis who rocked this book.

—James A. Hunter, June 2015

Copyright

Cold Hearted is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2015 by James A. Hunter

All rights reserved.

No part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or by any means, including photocopying, recording, or other electronic or mechanical methods, without the prior written permission of the publisher, except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical reviews and certain other noncommercial uses permitted by copyright law. For permission requests, email the publisher, subject line “Attention: Permissions Coordinator,” at the email address below.

JamesAHunter@outlook.com