“No,” the Archmage said. “Based on the description Parker provided, we have researchers digging into it. Master Serrano has folks at the archive pulling details on anything that matches the description. Master Brown has some of her folks on it as well.”
This was good news. Master Librarian Santiago Serrano was in charge of the Cabal’s archive. Master Diviner Agatha Brown was in charge of the Cabal’s research into all things unknown. The two areas worked hand in hand and reported up through Grand Curator Noah Begay. With the Master of both groups involved, they’d turn up something. No doubt.
“Of course,” the Archmage continued, “we can’t truly confirm unless the creature reveals itself again.”
“Something tells me it will,” I replied, remembering my conversation with the monster. “It said as much, anyway.”
“Indeed. All the more reason for you to return to the safety of the compound,” the Archmage said. “But you still didn’t answer my question.”
“So far, all the information I’ve gotten has come from the Cabal,” I said, pausing to consider my words carefully. “By now, there are likely rumors flooding the streets. I’d like to know what people outside the Cabal know about this incident. And what they’re saying about it. Furthermore, if Axel truly defied the Solemn Covenant and was engaging in forbidden magics or…the other viler things he’s accused of, there’s a good chance someone out there knows something. Marius said the workings were different than anything our people are familiar with. Axel would’ve had to learn them from somewhere.”
“Seems like a long shot.”
“I know,” I replied. “Also, someone made it clear they don’t want me looking into this, and whoever it was, they wanted to convince me of Axel’s guilt.”
“This would be your theory that the monster was too normal?”
“That’s right. Someone went to great pains to send that creature to convince me of Axel’s guilt. Only they tried too hard. Like I told Parker, it just didn’t match Axel’s way of doing things. So, if someone else is out there pulling strings, someone around here knows something.”
“And you think you’ll find them?”
“I think it’s more likely they’ll find me. They sent that creature to kill me once. Good chance they’ll do it again.”
“And what would you say if I forbade you from your present course of action?”
“You can’t,” I replied instantly. I didn’t even have to think about it. “You’re right that I haven’t learned all there is to know about being a Blade Mage, but I know the rules. No one in the Cabal, including you, can refuse me the right to investigate this case. This is one of the reasons the Blade Mage exists.”
I couldn’t tell whether he chuckled or sighed. Maybe a bit of both.
“Wyatt, you’re more like your father than I realized.”
“I’ll take that as a compliment.”
“As you should. Your father was a great man, and I trusted him more than anyone. His council was wise and he was always straight with me. I loved him like a brother.” There was a pause, then he added, “He was also a great pain in my ass on occasion. I’ll let you decide which part you remind me of.”
I felt a chuckle escape me. The Archmage had a sense of humor. Who knew?
“All right, Wyatt,” he said, his voice switching from that of a friendly old man to the big boss he truly was. “There are four things you need to understand.”
“Okay?”
“First, don’t ever call me Archie again. Got it?”
“But it’s so catchy,” I replied.
There was a long silence.
“Okay, I got it,” I said.
“Second, you’re on the clock. You have two days. If you haven’t found proof of Axel’s innocence by sunset on the day after tomorrow, the Cabal moves forward with the execution, with or without you. Do you understand?”
“I do,” I said, knowing it was pointless to barter for more time.
“Third, I’m not officially sanctioning your investigation. As far as the rest of the Cabal is concerned, the matter is settled. Which means the Shamuses we have out looking for you are still out looking for you. If they catch up with you, I need your word that you won’t fight them in an attempt to escape.”
“Of course not, why would I?”
“Because I still have Parker Grimm assigned to be your babysitter.”
“I’d appreciate it if you didn’t.”
“And I’d appreciate it if you came back to compound and stopped being a pain in the ass. I can’t impede your right to investigate, Blade Mage, but it is my job to preserve the dignity of our organization. Which brings me to number four… No explosions. No shutting down airports. No derailing trains. No destroying power lines, water lines, or any other civilian utilities. No putting civilians in danger. No putting police or anyone else in danger. In other words, don’t do anything that would make national news… No, scratch that… Don’t even do anything that will make the local news.”
“I’ll do my best.”
“That’s exactly what I’m afraid of, which is why I still have Shamuses out looking for you. This includes Parker, who is very sore that you slipped away from him at the compound. So, let me be clear about this… When my people catch up to you, and they will, you will be babysat upon so hard you won’t be able to breathe. Got it?”
“I got it, Archie,” I said.
“Very funny, Wyatt,” the Archmage said with a grumble. “Do be careful out there. It’d be a shame if a monster was to eat you and we had to get a new Blade Mage.”
“Uh…”
“Godspeed.”
And then he was gone.
I wasn’t sure if that last bit had been a threat or just a cruel joke, but I was alone in my head once more. I didn’t know what to make of the Archmage. I hadn’t spoken to him since just after my father died, and before that, only a few times when I was a kid. He was a hard man to read.
Either way, my path was set and I didn’t have to worry about the whole Cabal hunting me. Just the Shamuses. Any other time that wouldn’t be much of a relief, but so long as the sword could hide my location, it made things a lot easier.
I crawled out of bed and headed for the shower. Something told me it was going to be a long night.
Chapter 8
The good thing about having a frickin’ bicycle as my primary means of transportation was that the Archmage’s goon squad wouldn’t think twice about the guy in the hoodie pedaling down the street. At least, that’s what I told myself.
I headed down to Country Boulevard, the main road in the Theatre District. Yes, that’s actually the street’s name. Branson is like the touristy little cousin of Nashville. The one who never gets invited to family reunions.
It was a family vacation destination for those on a budget. A place where greasy timeshare salesmen tried to convince mom and dad out of their hard-earned coin over the wailing tune of spoiled children who also just want to also spend their parents’ money. Back at the hotel, the kids could argue over which attraction to do next, while mom and dad could fight over how much the whole damned weekend cost. There was Silver Dollar City, basically a hillbilly theme park. There was a decent sized water park called White Water. Or there was Shepperd of the Hills, for those looking for a more religious experience. Basically, there were more attractions than you could sling a country biscuit at. There was even a Titanic museum, right there in Missouri. A wax museum, too. Oh, and we couldn’t forget the sunburned-topped shopping centers where everything was on sale, always. Then, in the evening, hop on down to the Theatre District to drag your kids to see a country-western-singing-dancing-magic-variety show. Yeehaw!
My sights were set on a different kind of tourist trap. I was headed for the underground. A place where freaks like me congregated.
The Broken Guitar wasn’t listed with any travel agencies, and you wouldn’t find a brochure. The only results you’d get from an online search were from occult sites and conspiracy theorist
s, and you’d have to dig to find those, even. The Cabal’s IT team made sure of it.
It was a place you’d only go if you were part of the supernatural community yourself, or a tourist who’d heard a few too many rumors and didn’t know any better.
I hid my bike behind a restaurant and hoofed it the last block. It was hard to make people take you seriously when you were spotted rolling in on a Huffy. If what Parker had told me was true, then supernatural threats were on the rise, and most folks wouldn’t recognize me as the Blade Mage. Even if they did, some asshole might take it as a personal challenge to take me out.
My destination was literally beneath ground. The closest entrance was below a theater. The marquee indicated the night’s show was to feature an Elvis impersonator and dueling pianos.
I eased my way behind the theater toward an old shed that appeared to be for storage. It wasn’t. Inside was a set of stairs which led below street level. There were a handful of other entrances around the area, but this was the most convenient.
I followed the stairs down into a dim tunnel, lit with low wattage bulbs. One light flickered in and out as I approached, adding to the ambience.
The place was hard to find by design. Couldn’t have any ole tourist stumbling on the freak show by accident. The only way to find it was by intent. And some tourists had intent. Maybe they heard rumors and found the right person to ask. I suspected a great many of them paid a hefty price for the information. There’d be young couples roaming about, seeking adventure. Or groups of ‘bros’ who wanted to prove to each other how brave they were. Or maybe mom or dad, feigning illness so the other parent would take the kids out while they hung back at the motel. When the coast was clear they’d sneak out and come see what the other side looked like.
For obvious reasons, it was dangerous for Normans to snoop on the paranormal life. There were less obvious reasons as well. Start running your mouth about what you’ve seen, or posting shit online, and you’d have the Cabal and/or the government knocking on your front door. The powers that be demanded the supernatural world remain secret. They’d tell you nice the first time. Not so much the second.
In the age of smart phones, you’d think it’d be impossible to keep a lid on the supernatural. In fact, it was easier than ever. With technology constantly improving and information flowing faster, we should be living in an age of truth. Unfortunately, it was just the opposite. Lies moved just as quickly. As did half-truths and directed narratives.
Our Cabal had an army of geeks who performed their own kind of magic via keyboard. The other guilds did the same. And of course the G-men had theirs. Making it easier still, all the major social media platforms also chipped in. Start hash-tagging about vampire orgies and your account might get ‘hacked’ or ‘accidentally’ shut down.
Hoping my memory served me correctly, I turned down another corridor. Back when I’d been working with the Kingsnakes, we’d come this way on business occasionally. If any of the old haunts were still around, I was sure they’d be thrilled to see me.
The sounds of shuffling feet and the murmured voices came through the door ahead, and I knew I’d come to the right place. There wasn’t a doorman. You just had to be brave enough to let yourself in.
Best guess, the Broken Guitar was originally built to be a massive underground parking lot, but somewhere along the way the owner’s budget ran out. Or hell, maybe it was built for this purpose. I didn’t really know.
What I did know was that there was enough space for a marketplace, a few bars, dance clubs, restaurants, and so on. Once you left the main area, though, you could get lost in a labyrinth of sewage tunnels that led around the city. A good place to become prey to creatures of the night. The Cabal couldn’t be everywhere.
I entered the market area. It was a shanty town of sorts. Tables and stalls lined the walls where folks tried to sell their wares. Potions, secret herbs, and supposed magical items, mixed in with drugs, liquor, and illegal weapons. The merchants, as they were, were not all of the human variety, though most looked the part. Vampires and were-critters were the most common variety. Others didn’t even look close to human. Strange beings of lore and horror flicks.
The sales floor was busy, just as I remembered it. There were always folks looking to buy.
I moved past a table where an old crone was trying to sell a dreamy-eyed young fool a ‘love potion.’ Judging by the look on his face, I was pretty sure the sap would go for it. It was probably just cough syrup.
In another stall a man with no eyes strummed a guitar and sang Waylon Jennings’ ‘I’ve Always Been Crazy.’ He had CDs for sale.
Next, a pale-faced young woman in a tight black dress had a table full of black roses. A fat old man with a bolo and a cowboy hat was trying to pawn off a pile of rusty guns. Best guess, they’d ‘fallen off the back of a truck’ and he was just the fortunate soul who’d found them. One glance told me most of them probably weren’t in working order, but down here he’d probably find a sucker or two willing to buy.
I continued forward, head up and looking forward, intentionally avoiding eye contact with any of the sellers. Showing interest in their goods was like bleeding in a tank full of sharks. Once they had the scent of a sale, they wouldn’t give up until you bought.
I made my way clear of the sales room, and past a couple of makeshift bars. Old speakers hung from the wall, drawling out the tune of the dueling pianists upstairs.
Standing along the wall were several prostitutes. A few cut their eyes at me as I passed, but I pretended not to notice. Chances were good they weren’t all human, and as far as sharks went, they were more persistent than the merchants, even.
I passed people of various species and styles as a I walked: a man completely covered in fur walking a Yorkie on a pink leash, a limping old woman in rags who was trying too hard to look like a witch, a tourist dressed up like Dracula, who’d probably end his adventurous evening with an actual vampire’s foot up his ass. Folks came in all shapes, forms, and sizes in the Broken Guitar.
I passed a gang wearing motorcycle leathers, but I didn’t recognize their cut. No surprise. I’d been out of the game for a while, and they were likely small upstarts. If what Parker had told me was true, crime was rising all throughout the Cabal’s territories. Gang activity would increase by default. Not just because of criminal intent, but also because some folks would join just for the protection.
One new addition was a roped off area for gambling. I couldn’t remember what it had been before. It was packed, though. At the nearest table, a shirtless woman with three breasts dealt cards to a handful of young men. A moment later, I realized all of the dealers were shirtless women, though most only had two breasts.
Across the way was a dark club with dim red lights. Over the entrance was a sign which read, ‘The Whistling Dixie Torture Chamber.’ In smaller print, ‘BDSM with a country twist!’ Standing on either side of the entrance were two guys in gimp suits with bolos, cowboy hats, and sheriff stars pinned to their chests.
I continued onward until I found another area with tables. At the back was an old food shack with a sign over it that read, ‘Bacon’s Barbecue.’ According to the locals, Bacon served the best barbecue in the state of Missouri. That may have been true, but as far as I knew, no one had ever been able to identify the meat. Perhaps better not to know.
I moved up by the window but stood to the side while Bacon passed out paper plates with his signature fixin’s piled high. When he finished serving his customers, he glanced in my direction and snorted.
As far I knew, Bacon was a normal human who’d just been born with pig-like features. Rumor had it he picked up the name ‘Bacon’ from bullies when he was a kid. Instead of letting it bother him, he’d embraced the name and stripped the power away from his tormentors. Here at the Broken Guitar, he was a local legend. I was glad to see he was still in business.
“Wyatt Draven,” he said while he wiped his hands on a greasy towel.
“Bacon,” I r
eplied.
“That’s Mr. Bacon nowadays,” he said, snorting again. “You here to try out the Blade Mage Barbecue? It’s one my best creations.”
“Blade Mage Barbecue?”
“A tribute to your father. God rest his soul.”
I gave him a slow nod and said, “That’s awesome, Bacon. Thank you.”
“Don’t thank me,” he said, shrugging. “Your old man did more for this community than anyone else I’ve seen. He protected us lesser-born folk from the real nasty buggers out there.”
I nodded again, unsure what to say. It was good to see that some people still remembered my dad. He was worth remembering.
“Let me make one up for you,” Bacon said, reaching in the fridge behind the counter. He withdrew a can of beer and tossed it my way. “I’ll bring it out in a few. I’m guessing you didn’t come all the way to Branson and crawl down into this hole just for a meal.”
I thanked him and found an open table up against the wall where I could see the crowd moving around. A nice quiet spot where no one could sneak up on me.
I glanced down at the beer. Some local brew by the name of ‘Skunk Piss.’ I popped the top and gave it a good whiff before trying a sip. It smelled like beer, and actually, it didn’t taste half bad. Whether there was actually skunk piss in it, I couldn’t say.
I focused my attention on the crowd milling around outside the restaurant area. People moved up and down the corridor, each headed for one attraction or another. It seemed more crowded than I remembered. My previous presumption about there being more gang activity seemed on point. Not long after I sat down I saw a group of six guys pass, each wearing hoodies with blank white, featureless masks on their faces.
The next group were all dressed like cowboys. One wore a duster and carried a shotgun. Another had a guitar on his back. They all wore old six-guns on their hips like they’d just crawled out of a Clint Eastwood flick.
The next gang had a group of nine or ten, and roughly half were men and the other half were women. All the women were dressed up in suits, hats, and dark sunglasses like the Blues Brothers. The men, on the other hand, wore heels, tight dresses, wigs, and their faces were slathered in messy makeup. Real classy like, except for the way they stomped in their heels, like Godzilla trying not to step on pedestrians. The boys swooned over their girls like they were real rock stars. Maybe in Branson they were.
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