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

by Brad Magnarella

  “Aren’t you forgetting something?”

  I glanced around to where I’d been sitting.

  “Right here, sport,” she said. “You owe this girl a lunch.”

  “Ahh, in that case…” I looked at my wristwatch. It was just shy of noon. “How does now sound?”

  “It’s a date.”

  We left the college together, stepping out into the stir of Midtown. Not running late for a change, I had a moment to inhale and take everything in. The sky was a bold blue for the first time in what seemed months, and warm sunlight sparkled up and down the block. Whether it was from the brilliance of the fall day or Caroline holding my arm, chatting happily, or the lingering high of whatever pain medication the nurses had shot me up with—or the simple fact I was alive—I loved my beautiful, broken city more than ever.

  “Wow, stunning day,” Caroline said.

  “Perfect,” I agreed, admiring the sun against her face.

  As we entered the thick of the lunchtime crowd, though, I caught myself gripping my cane a little more tightly, invocations at the ready. After all, even on the finest of days you never knew who—or what—might be prowling the streets. And wizards made tempting targets.

  Especially the wiseass kind.

  Blood Deal

  Book 2

  1

  “Vigore!” I shouted, my cane aimed at the lock.

  In a burst of beveled wood, the lock exploded. Shouldering through the door, I stumbled into a living room. The ivory-white carpet and crowd of expensive décor gave me pause. Most amateurs were either those with a genuine interest in the esoteric or those who believed magic would pave the way to wealth and power. The already wealthy tended not to dabble. And yet, from down a corridor lined with gilded wine racks, the screaming picked up again, becoming a woman’s pleas.

  “For God’s sake, do something, Morty! Do something!”

  “Christ, Gert, can’t you see I’m trying?” Morty’s muffled response sounded more fed up than fearful.

  I checked my hunting spell. Did I have the right apartment?

  At the end of the corridor, I poked my head into a dining room. An aging woman who I took to be Gert was standing on a dining room table that would seat ten, white pumps kicking around a mess of books and casting items. She had both hands buried inside her frizz of dyed-black hair, startled eyes fixed on a kitchen to my right where a balding man in a camelhair sweater was jabbing a broom between a counter and fridge.

  “It’s going up the wall, Morty! There it is! Swat it!” Gert could have been talking about a mouse, but the spell paraphernalia, now spilling from the table, suggested otherwise.

  I craned my neck for a better view. Beside the stainless-steel fridge, I glimpsed a scurry of legs that looked like human fingers. The crab-sized creature flattened itself to the wall and squeezed behind a row of ceiling-mounted cabinets. A whipcord tail disappeared last.

  Crap. A riddler.

  “It’s getting into the family china!” Gert cried. “Stop it! Get it out!”

  “What’s it look like I’m doing?”

  “Don’t,” I warned Morty, who had curled his thick fingers around the cabinet door. “Back away. Now.”

  He and Gert turned toward me, Morty’s jowly face tilting in confusion. These were probably my least favorite moments as a wizard garbage collector, an informal title I still held. Or that held me. Never mind that I’d banished a demon lord in October. The feat had restored my good—or at least tolerable—standing with the Order, but six months later, and here I was, having to bail out a pair of amateurs who didn’t know toadstool from Toledo.

  “That thing in there is dangerous,” I said, which was a bit understated. A riddler’s tail carried a razor-sharp ridge on the underside. One slash, and Morty would be looking at a severed broom and a fingerless hand—if he was lucky. Dangerous? Try lethal.

  “Who are you supposed to be?” Gert asked in a New York-sharp accent, giving me a quick up and down. “Bruce Wayne?”

  “Huh?” Oh, the tuxedo. “My name’s Everson Croft. I heard screaming and came to investigate. You’re in luck, I’ve dealt with these creatures before. I work in, um, extermination.”

  Morty backed from the kitchen, gripping the broom in both hands. He looked from the sound of rattling plates to me and back. “I don’t even know where the thing came from.”

  “What do you mean you don’t know where it came from?” Gert took my offered hand as she stepped carefully from the table to one of the chair seats, then down to the floor. She carried the powdered air of someone accustomed to being waited on and didn’t thank me. “It came from those silly books. I told you they were trouble. I told you not to fool with them.”

  “You were the one who said we needed to start thinking outside the box.”

  “Starting a home business, Morty. Selling some of our assets, Morty. That’s what I was talking about. Not whatever all of this is.” She threw her arms toward the table. “And now we have something crawling willy-nilly over the family china that Emerson says is dangerous.”

  “It’s Everson, actually,” I said, eyeing the cabinets.

  “And as an exterminator, he would know,” Gert finished.

  “Well, you’re impossible to please,” Morty grumbled.

  “I’m impossible? I’m impossible?” Gert hooked an arm around one of mine to get my attention. “I hired a designer last month, one of the Upper West Side’s best. She completely overhauled the apartment—I mean, completely. Did a wonderful job. Positive colors, feng shui, the whole shebang. Do you think Morty noticed? Do you think he voiced a single word of appreciation?”

  Morty pulled on my other arm until I met his aggrieved eyes. “That was after I told her the apartment was fine as is, that we couldn’t afford a designer. Do you think she listened to me?”

  They began raising their voices over one another, even as something in the kitchen shattered.

  “Listen,” I said, freeing my arms and placing my hands on their backs. “I’d love to stand here and play Dr. Phil, but I have a job to do. I’m going to need some space.” They were too engrossed in their argument to respond, but they let me guide them into the hallway, where they continued firing cannonballs.

  “I kill myself trying to make you happy,” came Morty’s fading voice, “and all I hear from you is how bad I’m screwing up.”

  “Well, you are screwing up,” Gert assured him.

  I closed a swinging door behind them and turned to the dining room table. I immediately spied the black book he had cast from and groaned. Translated from Sanskrit, the book promised the caster the ability to summon a wish-granting genie. But without a magical bloodline, the best an amateur could hope for was a bug from a shallow nether realm—which was just as well. The bugs could be deadly, but the so-called genies could be downright apocalyptic.

  I stepped into the kitchen, drawing my cane into sword and staff. Another piece of dishware broke as the riddler scuttled inside the cabinets. I tracked the sound with my eyes, right to left.

  “Come out, come out, wherever you are,” I whispered.

  In the cabinet above an eight-range stove, the clattering ceased. I took another step forward, a Word of Power on the tip of my tongue.

  The cabinet door flew wide. In a pale flash, the riddler was launching toward my face, tail lashing, fleshy mouth slurping at the air.

  I threw my staff and sword into an X in front of my face and shouted, “Protezione!”

  A light shield crackled into being and sparked with the riddler’s impact. When something hot bit my neck, I realized the riddler had whipped its tail around. The creature was clinging to my spreading shield, mini plungers on its knuckled legs suckling for purchase.

  “Respingere,” I cried, before it could lash me again. A force pulsed from the shield, blowing the creature back into the cabinets. Doors clapped, and several plates crash-landed to the tiled floor. The riddler ended up on the stovetop, legs kicking air before the tail popped it upright again
.

  I was preparing another blast when I felt blood welling from my neck wound, threatening to spill onto the tuxedo. “Oh, c’mon—this is a rental!” I cried. The last thing I needed was to lose my frigging deposit.

  I entrapped the riddler in a dome of light and then grabbed a monogrammed kitchen towel from beside the sink. After sponging the laceration, I pinned the balled-up towel in place with a shoulder. Yeah, this isn’t going to make fighting awkward or anything. I wheeled around in time to see the riddler lash free of the light cage and scrabble behind the fridge.

  “Oh, no you didn’t.”

  Aiming my sword toward the space between counter and fridge, I cast a low-level force, hoping to push the riddler out the other side, where I had my staff aimed and a shield invocation waiting. A scraping sound told me the riddler was anchoring itself to the condenser tubing in back. Increasing my force only succeeded in shoving the fridge out at an angle.

  I sighed. “You’re just not gonna make this easy, are you?”

  I sheathed my sword and dug into my jacket pockets. My taboo-magic alarm had sounded after I had already left my apartment, so I was only carrying the bare minimum: a vial of copper filings and a couple of odd items. But what’s this? I pulled out another vial. Ahh, now dragon sand I can use.

  I poured a tiny mound into the palm of my hand. More scraping among the fridge’s tubing—and now scrabbling. As the riddler’s finger-like legs wrapped around the side of the fridge, I shouted, “Fuoco!” and gave the granules a hard blow.

  Fire spewed from my palm, enveloping the riddler in a dark-red plume that washed around the fridge. The creature recoiled with a cry—a horrid, high-pitched sound, like air being forced through wet flaps of flesh. I backed from the eye-stinging heat and waited. A moment later, the riddler emerged from the other side of the fridge in a smoking stagger.

  “Don’t take this personally, little guy,” I said, aiming my cane at it. “Just doing my job.”

  I enclosed the riddler in a light dome. This time, I pushed more energy into the spell, shrinking the dome like a fist to increase the pressure—something new I’d been working on. The riddler twitched and began to bulge in places. In a final fit, it raced in a tight circle, tail whipping, before dispersing in a burst of phlegm.

  One less hole in our world. One less creature that didn’t belong.

  “Hallelujah,” I muttered.

  As I inspected the towel that had staunched my bleeding, voices grew in the corridor. I turned at the same moment Gert appeared through the swinging door. She and her husband were still pitched in argument, but when she glanced up, she stopped, her narrow jaw dropping.

  “Morton, come here! Look at our kitchen!”

  Admittedly, the kitchen looked like the site of a small bomb blast: fractured cabinet doors, spilled and smashed plates, a singed refrigerator. What mattered most, though, was the lack of human blood—better yet, the lack of a human body. I was about to point that out when Morty came up beside her.

  “This some kinda joke?” he asked. “First the front door, now this?”

  “Excuse me?” I said.

  Gert threw her arms up. “And he’s going around calling himself an expert!”

  “I’m right here, you know,” I told Gert, who clopped past me.

  “Doesn’t he know this stuff costs money?” Morty plodded after her. “What’d he say his name was?”

  “Edgar something,” Gert said distractedly.

  “Well, if he thinks he’s getting any more of our business, he’s got another thing coming,” Morty decided.

  Man, I really was ready for another level of wizarding.

  As Morty and Gert fussed over the damage, I turned to the offending spell book. Using the copper filings, I created a casting circle around the book, then dusted its black cover with dragon sand. I closed the circle and whispered, “Fuoco.”

  A controlled fire hissed up, consuming the tome. It would be ashes inside of thirty seconds, whereupon the fire would safely self-extinguish, but I couldn’t wait. A glance at my watch told me what I’d feared. I was running late, and this one was a biggie: a date with my colleague Caroline Reid.

  I was almost to the destroyed front door when Gert unleashed a scream. “He’s set fire to the table, Morty! He’s trying to burn down our apartment!”

  I shook my head and muttered, “Yeah, you’re welcome.”

  2

  I almost forgot to tip the elevator man before hurrying into the crowded reception hall. Fortunately, the address had only been a short cab ride from Morty and Gert’s place, but I was still twenty minutes late. Not terrible for me, but terrible under the circumstances.

  This was to have been Caroline’s and my first date. A trial date, we decided—or rather she decided. Caroline had been skeptical over the whole idea. As I rose onto my tiptoes and searched the formal crowd, I had the sinking feeling I’d just given her plenty of reason.

  “Don’t strain yourself,” a voice said near my ear.

  I turned to see a woman I almost didn’t recognize. Her golden hair, usually worn down in waves, had been straightened and parted across her brow, then knotted into an elegant pattern behind her head. Her dress was no less stunning. The lace over her shoulders joined a mauve bodice that opened at the waist into slender, stylish folds to complete the floor-length gown.

  My stagger was no performance. “Wow.”

  Caroline stepped forward and kissed my cheek. “Looking sharp yourself, Professor.” The scent of her perfumed skin made the room waver. I planted my cane and returned the kiss.

  “Listen, sorry I’m—”

  “What’s this?” she cut in. Her blue-green eyes were studying the spot on my neck where the riddler had lashed me. The wound had stopped bleeding, and I’d put healing magic to it on the way over, but judging by Caroline’s attention it must have still looked angry.

  “Oh, shaving error,” I said, faking an embarrassed laugh.

  “Nice try, Everson, but that didn’t come from a Gillette.”

  “Straight razor, actually. Nothing like the original, until it decides to slice you open. I couldn’t get the gash to stop bleeding, which is why I’m running late. I’m really sorry about that. I should’ve called.”

  Lies on top of lies. Great way to kick off a relationship.

  “I’m just glad you made it.” Caroline relaxed her scrutiny of the wound and took my arm. Together we surveyed the ultra-wealthy crowd. “I always feel like a fish out of water at these things.”

  “I thought these were your people,” I teased.

  “By proxy,” she replied. “But if I have to listen to one more person rue the tax burden of owning a second home in the Hamptons or, God forbid, an Italian villa, I’m going to gouge out my eardrums with a caviar spoon.”

  “Ouch.”

  I took two flutes of champagne from a passing tray and handed one to Caroline. With a smile that relaxed her shoulders, she clinked my glass, and we sipped.

  The venue was the penthouse of an affluent New York developer, the event a fundraiser for Mayor Lowder—or “Budge” to most New Yorkers—who was seeking reelection in the fall. Caroline didn’t belong to the affluent or political classes. Her father worked as an attorney for the mayor’s office, and she was here tonight in his absence—though probably also to freshen up her own contacts. I supposed that went with being the city’s preeminent expert on urban affairs.

  When I looked over, she had polished off her champagne, surrendering the glass to a white-jacketed server. She seemed to steel herself before turning to face me.

  “The secret to mingling,” she counseled, “is to keep moving, like you have someplace you’re determined to get to.”

  “And where’s that?” I asked.

  I followed her raised eyes to a second-story gallery. “If we can make it upstairs, there’s a balcony with an incredible view of Central Park. We’ll step out to catch our breath.”

  “Sounds like a plan.”

  And that was wh
ere I would tell her the truth about who I was, I decided. I couldn’t keep holding a curtain up over the other half of my life. Nope, nothing to see back here. There was a good chance she would reject the truth—reject me—but I wasn’t going to lie to her anymore.

  “Ready?” she asked after I’d relinquished my glass.

  My heart beat like a bass drum. “Let’s mingle.”

  Caroline nodded and wheeled toward the crowd. I followed, a hand on her low back. Despite her just-voiced reluctance to play socialite, Caroline was a natural. Her face glowed as she exchanged greetings and kisses, turned to introduce me, clasped hands with women, joked with men, closed with vague promises to get together soon, and then proceeded to the next group.

  I leaned toward her ear as we edged deeper into the crowd. “Sure you’re not running for mayor?”

  She turned just enough to give me an eye roll.

  “Caroline,” a gravely voice called from our left. It took me a moment to place the aging man with the iron-colored hair and bushy black eyebrows.

  “Mr. Moretti,” Caroline said, a smile dying on her face. “What a surprise.”

  Constantine Moretti, head of New York’s last Italian crime family, stepped forward in a striped charcoal suit, a woman with lush auburn hair on his arm.

  “For a second there, I thought you were gonna walk right past. Like father, like daughter, I guess.” His grin didn’t reach his eyes. “You remember my wife, don’t you?”

  Caroline turned toward the middle-aged woman who, despite her formal black dress, possessed an aura that felt feral. She appraised Caroline with orange-tinted irises before offering her hand.

  “It’s good to see you again, Anita,” Caroline said.

  Anita nodded and accepted Caroline’s hand, her nostrils opening out.

  “So what’s it gonna take to get your old man to return my calls?” Mr. Moretti asked.

  Caroline’s neck stiffened. “You’re asking the wrong person.”

  Mr. Moretti peered around. “Is he here?”