by C. C. Mahon
I could have died in the flames. Because of my sword. No, because of my nightmare.
I didn’t normally have such vivid dreams when I slept with my sword. It was actually why I had started sleeping with it, holding it against me. It acted as a blankie, reassured me, and kept my worst nightmares at bay. Until today.
6
IT WAS AN ordinary night at the club. Something in the atmosphere bugged me, but I wasn’t able to put my finger on it.
It was still early according to my clientele—supernaturals lived at night. The usual mix of mythical creatures and more or less magically skilled humans were talking nervously in small groups. Barbie was working and moved with agility between the tables despite her big red harpy wings. Matteo was hidden away in the kitchen, as was his usual. Up top, Nate filtered the people coming in. Everything was going well in my little world. Then Max and Jenny arrived.
Those two were regulars. Max ran a transportation company by day and a clan of coyotes on nights and weekends. Jenny was his second in the clan. They had been there for the death of the Valkyrie—they had even had a decisive role. And then they had eaten her. I should have been grateful to them, but I couldn’t help but feel nauseous every time I thought about it. Seeing them approach, I told myself that if anyone could claim side effects post-Valkyrie, it was them. Then the light hit their faces and my thoughts took a completely different turn.
“Did you get run over by a lawnmower?” I asked.
I served them their usual beers without waiting for an answer. They hoisted themselves on the stools with grimaces of discomfort.
Metamorphs had an exceptional metabolism, which allowed them to heal very quickly—typically a few hours, when it would take a human several days. It’s therefore rare to see one walking around seriously injured. They tended to lick their wounds in private and only showed their faces once they were back on their feet. Yet, that night, the two coyotes looked like roadkill: black eyes and traces of cuts to the face, busted lips, swollen noses…
They concentrated on downing their beers, pretending not to have heard me. I planted myself in front of them, crossed my arms, and waited. I was far from being an expert in coyote packs, but I knew that the fights were rarely bloody. When a young one lost his cool and defied the authority of his elders, he was put back in his place by a few well-placed snaps of the teeth—nothing dangerous. And metamorphs were smart enough to throw in the towel once they were overpowered. The more I looked over the bruised faces, rigid postures, and jerking movements of my two customers, the more the worry settled into my gut. Did a new leader just take over the head of the pack? I didn’t consider the coyotes as part of my new “family,” but I feared the implication of a change in leadership. A more violent pack meant more chances of fights outside my nightclub, more dirty tricks in the community…And I remembered the strength of the two coyotes facing off against the Valkyrie. If their new leader had managed to get them in this state, I had no desire to meet them.
“Well?” I said. “Are you going to talk, or do I need to get you drunk to loosen your tongues?”
Max put his glass back down with a sigh. “We’ll talk. We also came here to talk to you. There’s a new pack in town.”
“Another pack of coyotes?”
Jenny grimaced, which opened a cut on her bottom lip again. “Nah, wolves.”
“Since when are there wolves in the area?”
“Since yesterday,” said Max.
I poured two more beers, and Max continued. “They showed up and immediately marked their territory…”
“Wh…What?”
“They pissed in the four corners of the city,” explained Jenny. “Literally.”
“O…kay…”
“You just don’t do that,” continued Max. “When you get to a city that already has a pack, you introduce yourself to the leader. It’s protocol. But their message was clear.”
“A challenge?”
“A fucking declaration of war,” said Jenny.
“But…why?”
“That’s what we went to ask them,” said Max. “We followed their tracks to south of the airport. There was eight of them.”
When I had seen the pack of coyotes, during the fight against the Valkyrie, they were…a dozen, roughly. I hadn’t taken the time to count. But they were slight, they weren’t more than two feet tall, and they must’ve weighed…thirty to forty pounds soaking wet. How men and women who weighed from a hundred and thirty to a hundred and eighty pounds could transform into animals that weighed four times less remained a mystery to me. But from what I knew of wolves—which could be summed up to a few nature documentaries I’d watched to fight off insomnia—they were much heavier, bigger, and stronger.
“It didn’t go well,” I said.
It wasn’t a question. I only had to look at the two metamorphs to know it: not only were they covered in injuries, but their defeated expressions and their slumped shoulders displayed their despondence.
Max shook his head and took a big swig of beer, as if to help get down a hard pill to swallow.
“Were there…any deaths?” I asked.
“Not this time,” said Max. “They destroyed us, but we managed to get out in one piece.”
“And now?” I asked.
“We’ll teach them to be wary of coyotes!” exclaimed Jenny.
“Are you going to run them out of town?”
“It’s our home,” said Max tersely. “The wolves seem to think they can just take Vegas. We won’t let them win.”
“You can’t negotiate?” I ventured. “The city is big, and there’s the desert all around…”
“Metamorphs don’t act like animals,” said Max. “Real animals don’t kill each other for fun. Humans and metamorphs do. The wolves made themselves clear yesterday. They’re not here to talk. They’ve set their sights on Vegas as a whole. And there’s no room for us in this plan.”
They contemplated their beers in silence for a moment. Then, as I was about to leave them be, Max began again. “There’s more.”
His tone made my ears perk up. Max had spoken softly, without raising his head.
“When we were fighting,” he continued, “someone came between us and the wolves.”
A shiver gripped me. I held my breath as Max continued in the same very soft voice, “One of our young, Lorenzo, almost didn’t make it out. He had stayed behind, and two wolves jumped on him. He says an invisible angel saved his life.”
I was no longer moving, no longer breathing.
“Funny thing, with this angel,” said Max, “is that it smelled of ozone. Like you.”
“That’s not my smell,” I said. “It’s the smell of my sword. I don’t have any magic. I only smell like a human.”
“Technicality,” said Max.
“Can you get to the point?”
“Did you intervene this morning in our fight against the wolves?” asked Max.
“I was in my bed this morning.”
“That doesn’t answer the question,” said Jenny.
“That answers it perfectly well. If I sleepwalked into the middle of a fight, I think you would have noticed me.”
“Astral projection,” replied Max.
“Is that kind of thing possible?”
“Look,” said Max. “After this business with the Valkyrie, you’ve been more than straight with us. Your enemy had hired us, and you could’ve taken it the wrong way. Instead, you welcomed us into your club as if nothing had happened. Don’t think we’re not grateful. But when we’re fighting against other metamorphs, we can’t accept someone meddling in our business. Even a friend. Even if it’s to stop blood from being spilled. It will be spilled regardless. But for our credibility in front of other packs, and even within our own pack, we have to be left to fight fairly.”
I took a deep breath before answering. “This morning,” I said, “I had a strange dream. I fell asleep just before dawn. I dreamed…It was jumbled at first. There were wolves setting an ambush, and
then they jumped on a group of coyotes…” I shrugged. “It was a realistic and bloody dream, but I was only a spectator. And then I saw…a coyote with three wolves on him, and it enraged me. In the dream, I intervened. I discovered that I could not only float but fly too. And I had my sword. So…”
“So you fought?” asked Max. “In the dream?”
I shrugged. “It was just a dream.” I held his eyes for two solid seconds before looking away. “Yes, okay, all right. Obviously, it wasn’t just a dream.”
“Obviously. Your presence scared the wolves. And then there’s Lorenzo. I suppose that was you as well?”
“I suppose. I don’t know. I…” I gestured vaguely, at a loss for words.
“In conclusion,” continued Max, “thank you for coming to the pack’s rescue and saving Lorenzo.”
I opened my mouth to answer, but he raised a hand and continued.
“And I’m asking you to never interfere in pack business again. Ever.” He stood up again and took out his bank card. “How much do I owe you for tonight’s beers and our tab?”
“Tonight’s drinks are on me. As for the tab, you can settle it on the fifteenth as usual.”
“I might not be in a state to pay anything anymore.”
I crossed my arms and put on the surliest expression I could. “You’d best be here to settle this tab next month, understood?”
“Yes, boss!”
The smile he offered me was weak but sincere. He was about to turn on his heels, and I grabbed his arm. “You said you’d also come to talk to me. For what else?”
He gestured to the customers around the club. “Put an end to the rumors. We’re not defeated yet, and we’re still at home here.”
They headed decidedly towards the exit, and I wasn’t the only one watching them go. All the customers were observing them.
I hadn’t had time to bring up the side effects of the Valkyrie’s death. Considering their state, I couldn’t imagine asking about their hair. I prayed for the chance to talk to them about it another day.
7
THE CONVERSATION WITH the families of the missing persons kept playing over and over again in my head. The one that had followed, with Lola, regularly picked up right after it. People had come to see me for help, and I hadn’t even been able to take their names or numbers. Great sheriff I was.
I ended up digging up an address for the famous Customs.
It was more powerful than me. I needed to know if, truly, there was no one to come to the aid of supernaturals.
Customs had set up in the buildings of the service that manages the water supply for Vegas. Put like that, it wasn’t anything too fancy. And when you went there, it was even worse.
A simple plaque marked the entrance. I pushed open the door and found myself in an open space, halfway between a precinct and the DMV. White walls, depressive plants, yellowed demountable partitions. The carpet was blue and worn.
“How can I help you?”
A surly receptionist glared at me from the reception desk. I approached hesitantly. I wasn’t sure exactly what I was expecting, but it wasn’t…this.
“Is this Customs?” I asked.
“It says so on the door. What are you looking for?”
“Information.”
“For what department? Immigration? Professional permits? Leaks and damages?”
“Missing persons.”
The receptionist frowned. “We don’t do that here young lady.”
“Oh, okay. Where should I go for that?”
“Go see the wizards or consult your ethnic authority—What are you?”
“But…are there never disappearances in the community?”
The receptionist smiled knowingly. “All the time. Normally, users who aren’t up to date on their paperwork and want to avoid an adjustment.”
“Up to date? In what way?”
“Oh, the usual business: people who have settled in town without a visa, others working with outdated permits, or free agents who refuse to affiliate with an ethnic or professional organization. They’re scared of audits, so they disappear into the wild. What is your missing person?”
“A metamorph, a dragon, and a succubus,” I said.
She sniffed loudly. “The succubus is probably working without a permit. If anything, she probably drained one too many clients and exceeded her quota. She’ll pop back up in LA or in an Arizona brothel. The metamorph probably got into one too many fights and ran away from his pack. As for the dragon…” She looked at her computer screen before asking, “How old is he?”
“Nineteen.”
“Ah, that’s why we haven’t heard of him. He’s young: he hasn’t developed his powers yet. For us, he’s barely more than a human. He probably just ran away to go see girls. He’ll be back soon, head low and pants on fire. Is he your little brother?”
I thanked her and took off before I had to explain why a human was meddling in something that didn’t involve her. The building’s door shut behind me, and I stood on the sidewalk alone and empty-handed.
8
My bouncer had the night off three times a month.
Nate was a metamorph, and he needed those few nights to run in the desert in his animal form—a grizzly.
The first months I took his place.
I’m far from being as imposing as Nate, but I had a gun, and I wasn’t afraid to use it. And honestly, it was rare to have scuffles at the entry to the club. Supernaturals came here for a quiet drink, not looking for a fight.
I had recently found a replacement: Gertrude. Nothing better than a troll armed with a magical hammer to command respect. Even if the troll in question was as sweet as a lamb.
That night, Nate was off, Gertrude was filtering people coming in, Barbie was waitressing, and I was behind the bar.
It was five AM, and customers were becoming rare.
The double doors to the kitchen opened, and Matteo crossed the room with his playboy swagger.
His chef’s outfit was stained. He had taken off his hat, and his brown curls fell in front of his eyes. A part of the room—men and women alike—followed him with greedy eyes.
Matteo was a psychic vampire. All the members of his clan fed off human emotions, and his family had specialized in desire and luxury. With his body of a Greek statue, Matteo could have done the same. Instead, he had declared himself “vegan,” had given up feeding, and came to hide out in the kitchen of my club every night, far from the turmoil of human emotions that reigned in the casino district.
“Hey, boss,” he said, leaning against the bar. “You got a minute?”
I felt my shoulders stiffen.“Callum?” I breathed.
Matteo nodded. “As promised, I started digging in his finances. This is the first time that I’m grateful for the ‘advanced’ accounting classes that my father forced me to take. Your Carver had things to hide.”
“And what did you find?”
“The beginnings of a lead. He had some mechanisms put in place to transfer the ownership of his investments to several people in the event of his death. And by ‘people,’ I mean ‘fake identities.’ It doesn’t mean he faked his death…”
“But if that’s the case?”
“Then he’ll use one of these identities to get his fortune back. I’m keeping an eye on them. If something moves, you’ll know immediately.” He yawned. “The sun is gonna be up soon. I’d best get going…”
He turned towards the entrance to the room a few seconds before it burst open. Gertrude came in, her expression distraught.
“Boss, he insisted—”
Nate came in behind her. He was bare chested, disheveled, and he was carrying a bundle of dirty rags in his arms. But the stormy expression on his face made it clear there was more to it than laundry.
Without saying a word, he crossed the room and disappeared into the back room.
I turned towards Matteo. “You and Gertrude, close up shop. Everyone outside in five minutes. Understood?”
They nodde
d like two soldiers and headed to the front.
I took a deep breath and went to the back room to see what the night still had in store for me.
The back room of the club was set up as separate alcoves using heavy curtains. They were occasionally occupied by lovers looking for a little intimacy or groups of friends wanting to party amongst themselves. At such a late hour, only a regular was still there: a woman who came to the club since we’d opened, but who was so discreet that I didn’t believe I had said three words to her. She liked to sit alone with a pile of old books, parchments, crystals, and a healthy amount of tea.
“The club is closing,” I announced.
“Something wrong?” she asked.
Her eyes made their way to the other side of the room, where Nate had set down his pile of rags on a table.
“It’s probably nothing,” I said, “but I need to talk to my employees.”
She looked over at Nate again, and it was clear that she didn’t believe a word that I had just said. But she picked up her books, her notebook, and the rest of her stuff and vacated the premises without protesting.
I closed the door before joining Nate. “What are you doing here and what…”
I forgot the question I was about to ask when I discovered what was resting in the middle of the rags. A young girl—eight at the most. She had long venetian blonde hair, terribly pale skin, and anise green eyes. Her skin was covered in dust, her hair was tangled, and her eyes were wide open, frozen by death. She was naked.
I had trouble catching my breath and stayed frozen several seconds in front of the small body, mouth gaping like a fish out of water. Then my eyes met Nate’s.
“I found her in the desert,” he said in a dull voice. “I was running in a quiet area, and I was about to turn around to come back when I smelled her. When I’m a grizzly, I can smell carcasses from twenty to twenty-five miles away. But this time, there was another odor, that of magic. I found the spot. I dug—barely. She was buried a few feet under the sand, wrapped in these rags.”