The Prof Croft Series: Books 0-4 (Prof Croft Box Sets Book 1)

by Brad Magnarella

  I exhaled as I closed the door behind her and cane-tapped toward my students.

  All six of them.

  In the wake of the Crash, graduate students were less willing to spend their tuition money on courses entitled Ancient Mythology and Lore. I couldn’t exactly fault them. There wasn’t a glut of job openings in the field, something our department chair was all too happy to point out.

  But the Order seemed to believe the course might attract natural magic users who, for various reasons, had fallen through the cracks. Indeed, given the current budget crunch, the only thing keeping me employed at Midtown College were my research grants, all of them from foundations just stuffy-sounding enough to discourage scrutiny. I’d long interpreted the grants as measures of the Order’s pleasure with my work. Lately, though, the amounts had been dwindling. And teaching was my sole source of income.

  “All right.” I clapped my hands once and eased into a seat still warm with Caroline’s heat. I’d left my satchel with all of my notes at home, and hadn’t the faintest what was on the syllabus for today. “How did the reading go?”

  I was already checking out as I asked, contemplating last night’s demonic summoning and who might have supplied the conjurer the spell and to what end and what I would need to do to find out. It was serious business. I finally noticed the students’ puzzled faces.

  “What reading?” one of them asked.

  “Oh. The, ah…” I twisted around to face the chalkboard I sometimes wrote on. Whatever I’d last scrawled up there was dated September 14, and it was now late October. “Didn’t I…?”

  “We’re still working on our literature reviews,” another student spoke up, sparing me further bumbling. “For our term papers?”

  “Right.” I remembered now. “Excellent. And how are those going?”

  I directed the question to a young woman sitting to my right. To my knowledge, no magic-born types had passed through my door, but every semester saw at least one overachiever. This semester it was Meredith Proctor.

  “Me?” she asked, straightening her cat-eye glasses.

  I nodded in encouragement. She was the one undergraduate student in my graduate-level course, and for good reason. She had the gift of gab and the smarts to back it up. Once she got going, I’d be able to slip back into problem-solving mode, hmming here and there in pretended interest, asking open-ended questions. It made me a less-than-exemplary professor, but there was demon magic afoot.

  Meredith cleared her throat. “Actually, I found your thesis paper in the library—on the roots of medieval European beliefs?”

  “Extra credit if you burned it,” I said to laughter.

  “No, no, it was fascinating.” She blinked beneath her brunette bangs and leaned forward. “I was hoping you could tell us about it.”

  Well, that went nowhere fast.

  “Please?” she pressed.

  The paper to which she was referring had been a biggie, actually, placing me on the academic map. I still took a certain pride in it, even if it had chaffed some religious denominations. “Well, as a graduate student, I’d heard stories of an abandoned monastery deep in the Carpathian Mountains. Its founding monks were rumored to have transcribed several ancient texts believed lost. For my PhD dissertation I went to Romania in search of them.” I shrugged modestly. “Lo and behold, the stories were true.”

  “That is so cool,” the lone male student, a goateed beatnik, said.

  The other students nodded, faces rapt. Wizards’ tales tended to have that effect. I hadn’t told them the entire truth, though. I actually went to Romania looking for a certain occult book I hoped would uncover the mystery of who my peculiar grandfather had been—and who I was. Finding the other works in the monastery’s vault of forbidden texts had been a happy accident.

  Meredith raised her hand, a hint of boldness in her fluttering fingers. “I was especially intrigued by your theory of that one legend being a precursor to the stories of the seven deadly sins.”

  “Ah, yes. The First Saints Legend.”

  I could see by the students’ intent faces that I was going to have to give at least a Cliff’s Notes version of the legend. I began by presenting an overview of the period in which the story had its oral roots, in ancient Rome. The legend was later transcribed into Latin, deemed heretical for challenging the Biblical stories of Satan and Michael, and then lost to history.

  “I read where a coalition of church leaders attacked your findings,” Meredith said.

  “Well, not physically,” I replied, to another flutter of laughter. “But, yes, that’s one of the occupational hazards of scholarship in our field.”

  “So what’s the legend, Prof?” the beatnik asked.

  “Right.” I checked my watch. “In the earliest days, nine elemental demons were said to inhabit the world. They seeded discontent, sowed misery, and terrorized humankind. Not exactly stand-up guys. In response, the Creator sent nine saints, their virtues the antitheses of the demons’ sins.”

  As I spoke, the students settled in. I felt the ley energy in the room drawing toward their circle of desks, as though listening too. I wasn’t calling that energy. A wizard’s story-telling voice, coupled with an interested—and, yes, impressionable—audience, was usually all it took.

  “For hundreds of years,” I continued, “the two sides battled until there remained only three demons and three saints. They battled for a millennia more. Demons held the advantage during the dark of night, the saints during the day. Similarly, the demons gained ground in the winter months, when the world turned dark and brittle.” A subtle chill descended, and Meredith hugged her arms. “The saints did the same in the summer months, when light and life prevailed.”

  Though I didn’t describe the battle in words, I could sense my students slipping out of time, experiencing the struggle on a deep limbic level. Their pupils expanded beneath hooded eyelids.

  “At last, they agreed to an accord,” I said. “Both sides would retreat from the world and no more involve themselves in matters of humankind. But it was a trick. Following the agreement, the demons slew two of the saints.” Several students flinched. “The third and most powerful of the saints, Michael, escaped. He represented Faith. Through his strength and virtue, he ultimately overcame and banished the three remaining demon lords: Belphegor, Beezlebub, and, finally, the terrible demon Sathanas, who represented Wrath.”

  “Sathanas was the precursor to Satan,” Meredith said in a distant monotone.

  “In the traditional sense, yes,” I replied. “Saint Michael’s work wasn’t done, however. During their time in the world, the demon lords had taken many human concubines, their offspring precursors to the night creatures: vampires, werewolves, ghouls, other monstrosities. In answer, Michael wed a peasant girl, and they began a family of their own. Their sons and daughters became the progenitors of powerful lines of mages meant to balance the darkness of the night creatures.”

  I wasn’t about to tell my students that I was a descendant of one such line. But it was true—on my mother’s side. Sensing I needed to wrap up, I began expelling energy from the circle.

  “So, the First Saints Legend gave rise not just to later versions of the seven deadly sins—even though there were nine original demons—but to many of the creature and magic myths that persist to this day. Indeed, they’re all around us.” Much more literally than you kids realize, I thought, glancing at my watch. “Oops, we went over again.”

  I clapped sharply to break the remaining energy in the circle. The students started as though coming out of trances, which they were.

  “Keep working on those lit reviews,” I said as they stood and gathered notebooks and backpacks. “I have to cancel office hours tomorrow, so we’ll meet again Monday afternoon.” That would clear my schedule to follow up on last night’s summoning and learn exactly what I was dealing with.

  I waited for the students to file out, Meredith’s gaze lingering on me from the hallway, then grabbed a folder of ungraded st
udent papers from my desk, tucked it under an arm, and aimed for the door myself. I had just locked up when a prim voice sounded behind me.

  “Well, if it isn’t the elusive Professor Croft.”

  Recalling Caroline’s warning too late, I closed my eyes and exhaled through my nose.

  “Professor Snodgrass,” I said.

  “Can you can spare a minute, I wonder?”

  Not really, you self-important jerk.

  “Yeah, sure.”

  7

  With a priggish clearing of his throat, Professor Snodgrass settled behind a behemoth desk that swallowed his five-two frame, making him look like a boy playing in his father’s office. In many ways, he was. Family connections, and not scholarship, had elevated him to chairman of the history department. He adjusted his plaid bow tie, then clasped his small fingers on the desktop.

  “We have a problem, Professor Croft.”

  “Is that right?” I dropped into one of the ridiculously steep wingback chairs facing him.

  “Several, I should say. For starters, you were late to your own class again.”

  “The subway broke down.”

  His right eyebrow arched. “Your colleagues had no trouble arriving on time.” He gave a pointed sniff. “They also managed to arrive without the stink of alcohol emanating from their pores.”

  “That’s aftershave,” I lied again. “Purchased from a street vendor, granted.”

  “And yet, you’re clearly unshaven,” he said, touching his smooth chin. I remembered my own jaw as it had appeared in the restroom mirror: steel-blue with bristles. He had me there. “And how do you explain the rumpled condition of your suit—didn’t I see you in the same one yesterday? Or the unsightly stains on your collar. We have a professional code of appearance, you know.”

  I lifted a gunky shoe. “Do you think it’s cheap keeping these kickers shined?”

  I wasn’t typically such a smartass. Or as much of one, anyway. My headache and underslept state had a lot to do with it. That and the fact he’d chosen the morning after a demon summoning to re-air his list of petty grievances—an event that would have reduced a man like Snodgrass to a shitting wreck.

  Although the man was my boss, he had little power in the matter of hiring and firing, thank God. That responsibility rested with the college board. Whether or not they shared Snodgrass’s low opinion of my character, they certainly liked the grants I hauled in. Not to mention that my student reviews were generally stellar. That no doubt irked Snodgrass all the more. His department meetings put grown men and women to sleep, so I could only imagine what his students thought of him.

  “I’m glad you find this all so amusing, Professor Croft,” he said. “But some other concerns have come to light that go more to the heart of your role at the college.” Snodgrass, who agitated easily, remained oddly composed. No lip twitching or obsessive fingering of his little oval glasses. Instead, he gave a knowing chuckle, which I did not like.

  I fought the urge to swallow. “Such as…?”

  “Well, you already know how I feel about your course. Ancient mythology and lore hardly qualifies as academia. It comes across as pop scholarship and more than a little … occultish.”

  I rankled at the suggestion, even coming from him. History might help explain the mundane world, but it was mythology that lent insight into the forces that supported the mundane—

  “Given the present budget constraints,” he continued, “as well as dwindling interest in your course, I made my recommendation to the board that it be dropped from the catalogue.”

  “Again?” I feigned a yawn.

  His lips pinched, but not in irritation. He was trying not to grin.

  That got me. Against my better judgment I pushed back. “And I’m betting the board reminded you that I bring in half the research grants of this department.”

  “Oh, let’s not exaggerate,” he said, clucking his tongue. “It’s more on the order of thirty percent—and trending down. And there have been no grants so far this semester, am I correct?”

  “They’re pending,” I muttered.

  “But yes, the board is impressed by your grants. I’ll give you that. What they’re far less impressed by, however, is news of your criminality.”

  “My what?”

  He lifted a stapled-together packet from a neat wire tray and tossed it forward.

  Heat spread over my face as I lifted the packet from his desk.

  “Last summer you were picked up at an apartment in Hell’s Kitchen,” he said. “The scene of a murder. You were in an intoxicated state. When you sobered, you claimed to know nothing, remember nothing. And yet the victim’s blood was on your hands and clothes. The NYPD had their theories, but without a murder weapon or apparent motive, there was little they could do except charge you with obstruction. You’re currently serving a two-year probation.”

  Hand to my frowning chin, I read over the police report, even though I already knew it line for line. Long story short, I had failed to get to a conjurer in time, then exhausted my powers banishing the tentacled creature he had called up—not unlike what happened last night. Only in the Hell’s Kitchen case, I failed to escape the scene before Thelonious took over and emptied the liquor cabinet.

  I could feel Snodgrass’s smirking eyes on me as I flipped to the court order.

  I had foolishly believed these reports would remain buried beneath a growing mountain of unprocessed paperwork. Like most city services, the criminal justice budget had been slashed to the bone. Dysfunction and backlogging, problematic even in the best of times, had rocketed to new heights. For almost a year, the reports had stayed buried.

  Meaning the son of a bitch had gone digging.

  Snodgrass brushed the stiff lapels of his double-breasted suit with the back of a hand. “Shouldn’t you have reported all of this to the college?” he asked.

  I opened my mouth to suggest there was more to the story, but he cut me off.

  “Save it for the board, Mr. Croft. I’ve proposed a hearing for Monday morning. You’ll have an opportunity to make your case then. I suspect it will take more than another grant—or even a stack of fawning reviews—to convince them of your fitness to continue teaching here.” His eyes sparkled with delight. “The board takes such matters very seriously.”

  I turned to the last page of the court order, which enumerated the conditions of my probation: remain in the state, no drugs or alcohol, consent to searches… The next item hit my memory like a cattle prod. I jumped from the chair. Snodgrass flinched back, as though I intended to knock him from his perch, but that wasn’t where I was headed. Cane in hand, I spun toward the office door.

  “Professor Croft,” he scolded, recovering himself. “I haven’t dismiss—”

  “Save it, chief. Gotta run.”

  The window glass gave a satisfying rattle as I slammed the office door behind me. But it didn’t change the fact I was late again. This time for a meeting with my probation officer.

  8

  At the entrance to the subway station, I drew a deep breath. It was partly in anticipation of the stale-urine odor but more so that I had, well, a phobia of going underground. A skin-prickling, airway-constricting, almost full-blown anxiety. Not something I was proud of. The origins of the phobia weren’t entirely clear. My therapist and I had been trying to get to the source before wizarding became too costly for me to afford him any longer. I still had his card somewhere.

  I plunged down the stairwell and, approaching the turnstile, exhaled at the sound of a south-bound train squealing toward the station. Movement helped the condition. I swiped my transit card, hurried onto the platform, and boarded a rear car.

  Edging to the back of a compartment crowded with the barely making it and the beaten down, I checked my watch. My meeting was at ten. If the track was clear, I’d be no more than fifteen minutes late. Not terrible—assuming my officer was in a good mood, which happened sometimes. If I had a cell phone, I could have called him, but wizards and techno
logy? Yeah. Payphones were a surer bet, but I wasn’t toting any change. Plus, there was no guarantee I’d get through the warren of extensions to his office.

  If nothing else, it gave me something more immediate than my demotion to the bread lines to worry about.

  At Fourteenth Street, the train lurched to a crawl. The Broadway line and its east-west services had been out for more than five years, doubling traffic on the Lexington line. Promises to have the routes restored had run into budget shortfalls, not to mention the mysterious disappearance of a team of surveyors. All sorts of theories had been floated regarding their fate—they got lost, suffocated on the foul air, etc.—but the stark, bone-crunching truth was that the defunct tunnels were now infested with ghouls.

  Not my beat, thankfully.

  At the stop for City Hall, I burst up into the gunmetal light and dodged the traffic on Centre Street. Beyond the municipal building, the cube-shaped fortress of One Police Plaza took shape. I was joining the line at the pedestrian checkpoint when a sharp voice called from my right.

  “You’re a half hour late.”

  I spun and nearly fumbled my cane. The woman striding toward me was dressed in a no-nonsense suit, black blouse, midnight hair pulled from a striking Latin face, one that managed to appear youthful and veteran at the same time. That was what Homicide did to a third-year detective, I supposed.

  “Technically, you’re in violation of your probation.”

  She would know. She was the one who had arrested me.

  “Detective Vega,” I managed. Hooking a thumb back the way I’d come, I stammered, “The subway, ah, hit a snarl.”

  “Save it.” She seized my wrist with a small but manacle-tense grip. “Let’s go.”

  I was resigning myself to arrest—could the day get any crappier?—when I noticed she was marching me away from the thirteen-story headquarters. I stumbled to keep pace, even though I had a good foot of height on her. My cane wasn’t doing anything for her sympathy, apparently. We arrived beside a scraped-up sedan parked over the curb. Opening the passenger side door, she all but swung me inside. I raised a finger. “Um, where exactly are—?”