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

by Brad Magnarella

  “Great minds think alike.” Budge checked his watch. “I’ve got a meeting with the MTA boss in a couple minutes. Sort of a blow hard, but that’s between you and me. In any case, let’s sit down again tomorrow, same time. I want you to talk Captain Cole and me through the nuts and bolts.”

  We shook on it. As had been the case all meeting, I couldn’t find an ulterior motive. The eradication program seemed to be just what Budge had said it would be: a high-profile injection of money and resources into the problem of marauding monsters. If the program produced the results Budge needed, he had a chance of eking out a win in November.

  I spent the rest of that day in my library/lab. I gathered all of the information I could on ghouls, distilled the information down to its essence, and then devised a way to eradicate them en masse. I studied maps of the subway lines. I tested various defensive sigils and magical incendiaries. Satisfied, I typed out a plan and carried it to the mayor’s office the next day.

  Lance Cole, the man appointed to head the Hundred, was sitting in a chair facing the mayor’s desk in his captain’s uniform. He greeted me with a nod that was hard to read amid the age lines creasing his dark face. As I went over my strategy with Budge, Cole sat back and listened.

  When I finished, Budge turned to him. “What do you think?”

  Captain Cole pressed the dark gemstone of a fraternal ring to his mustache and reread my proposal. When he reached the bottom of the page, he gave a single nod. “If you can cover the lights, and Everson here this part”—he brushed the bullet points with the pinky ring—“we can take care of the rest.”

  “How soon?” Budge asked.

  “I can have the team ready inside of a week,” Cole answered.

  “How’s that sound, Everson?”

  “Works for me.”

  Budge beamed at both of us. “It’s why I hired the best.”

  “Um, just one more thing,” I said. “I’d like to have Detective Hoffman from Homicide advising as well.”

  Captain Cole’s forehead wrinkled. “We already have Detective Vega helping out.”

  “Right, but Hoffman’s worked on supernatural cases too,” I said. “And he brings a different perspective.” Which was to say he remained a stubborn-ass skeptic about the supernatural despite any and all evidence to the contrary. But that’s not why I wanted him.

  Cole appeared to chew on that for a moment before nodding. “Fine. I’m going to have you present your plan to the Hundred on Thursday. I’ll make sure both detectives are there.”

  Excellent, I thought. But it doesn’t give me much time.

  I stopped at a camera store on my way home. In the vintage section, I found and paid for an old Polaroid camera and several packs of film.

  Back in my apartment lab I placed the tuft of hair I’d cut from Hoffman at the crime scene into my silver casting circle. On the floor beside it, I created a second, larger circle. Inside that one, I set a mound of wet, gray clay that I kept in a plastic garbage container. I then sprinkled the clay with black ash, grated mandrake root, and two tablespoons of my own blood.

  Pulling a spell book from a shelf, I consulted a set of Coptic instructions. For spying, there was scrying, projecting, and summoning lesser beings. But I needed recorded evidence, and that meant animation. I winced at the memory of my last attempt, the result a screaming golem that had run around punching himself in the jewels before I force-blasted him out of existence. Clay had rained everywhere and taken me weeks to clean from my rugs.

  Impure clay, I reminded myself, hoping that had been the reason for the masochistic display. I aimed my staff at the mound of high-grade clay and recited the incantation, careful to pronounce each syllable precisely.

  “Vivere … pulsare … respirare … levarsi…”

  Energy coursed through my mental prism. I pushed that energy, along with some of my own essence, into the clay. After a minute of nothing, the clay began to squelch and fold in on itself. The blood thinned into a network of vessels. Within moments, a shape became evident: a tadpole-like creature with large pods for eyes. It writhed and flopped on the floor, its shrinking tail soon replaced by sprouting legs. Arms pushed from beneath a head that was becoming less embryonic, more human. The eyes shrank and migrated inward until I was looking at an infant. The infant opened its mouth in a silent cry as it elongated, its C-shaped back becoming more lordotic. It was a boy. With growing limbs, the golem began pushing himself upright, tottering as dark hair sprouted from his molding head.

  By the time the golem steadied and opened his hazel-colored eyes, I was at face level with a crude likeness of myself. I waited a moment, a force invocation on the tip of my tongue, but the animation didn’t start screaming or swinging his fists. He only watched, waiting for my command.

  “Dress,” I said, spreading a pile of clothes at his feet.

  The golem stared at the clothes before something took hold in his rudimentary mind. He reached for the plaid boxers first, stepping into them stiffly—left leg, then right—and pulling them up. Next he donned the socks in the same left-right order. It was how I dressed, which made sense, considering he was operating off a dimmer version of my own knowledge and memories.

  He finished by putting on a necklace that featured a copper amulet, one I had infused with energy to sustain the being for the next several days. He even tucked it inside his shirt as I did with my own coin pendant.

  “Ready to get to work?” I asked.

  The golem regarded me with an expression not unlike a clothing store mannequin’s.

  “That’s the spirit. But first we need a name for you. How does Ed sound?”

  “Ed,” he repeated in monotone.

  “You like that, huh?” I chuckled and clapped his shoulder. “Well, I’ve got a job for you, Ed.”

  I trained my attention on the silver circle, where I’d set Hoffman’s hair. Incanting, I drew the detective’s essence into my staff and then directed the essence into Ed’s amulet, turning it into a homing beacon. I waved Ed over to where I had set the Polaroid camera on the end of the lab table.

  I spoke slowly. “Load the camera with film and take my picture.”

  Ed fumbled with the film’s metallic wrapping, eventually shedding it and slotting the film into the camera. I smiled broadly as the golem raised the Polaroid to his right eye and clicked. A white-framed photo emerged from the camera’s mouth.

  “Good,” I said, pulling the photo free.

  As the image of me developed, I considered what I was doing. In the last couple of days, I had begun to see the eradication program as an opportunity to not only protect myself, but to get close to the Lady Bastet investigation. I needed info on who was behind the hit and why. I also wanted to recover my mother’s final hair. Obtaining either from Vega would be next to impossible, but Hoffman was another story. Mr. Moretti had already proven the man could be bought. I had considered waving some cash under Hoffman’s nose, but blackmail felt like a surer bet.

  Plus it was cheaper.

  “All right,” I said to the golem, who had been facing me patiently. “You’re going to tail Hoffman for the next few days. Any time he meets with someone other than fellow NYPD, I want you to snap a picture. Above all, be discreet. If he spots you, run.” I handed him several folded-over twenties and watched him insert them into his pants pocket. “That will cover cab fares. You’ll stop back here once a day to drop off the pictures and pick up fresh film. When you feel the amulet’s energy running low, I want you to return here for good. Understand?”

  The instructions were basic, intended to ensure we were on the same page. If I had performed the spell correctly, enough of my own intelligence now echoed inside Ed’s head to steer him.

  “Understand,” he repeated in a blocky voice.

  I looked my creation over once more. He was too clunky to appear fully human, but that was hardly a deal breaker in New York. I placed a Mets baseball cap on his head, pulling the bill low to cast a shadow over his face. Then, wheeling him a
round, I swatted his clay butt.

  “Go get ’em, tiger.”

  10

  I looked from my notes scattered over the lectern to the packed auditorium. The men and women sitting ramrod straight in dark blue uniforms had been selected from the NYPD’s elite tactical teams, the best of the best. True to Mayor Lowder’s word, they were all human. No werewolves. Even so, the Hundred was the most intimidating audience I had ever lectured to.

  Sure ain’t Midtown College, I mused, thinking of my six students.

  I tapped my notes into a pile and, assuming a professorial air, leaned toward the mounted microphone. The sound system whined feedback until I remembered my wizarding aura and backed away.

  “Good afternoon,” I said.

  The Hundred stared back with hard eyes and set jaws.

  “Great. How about we dive right in?” I signaled to a technician. The lights dimmed, and everyone’s eyes shifted to the digital screen behind me. I didn’t need to turn to see the image of the gray monstrosity glaring back at them. I was pleased to catch a few winces.

  “Ghouls,” I began. “They range in height from six to eight feet tall and can weigh in excess of five hundred pounds. But don’t let the size fool you. In addition to super strength, they’re twice as fast as all of you here. Note the razor-sharp claws and canines … A ghoul’s preferred diet is rotting flesh, but they’ll take whatever they can find, living or dead. When they hunt, it’s almost always in packs. For years they’ve gone after low-hanging fruit: drunks and junkies, mostly in the East Village and Lower East Side. But they’ve grown bolder in recent months, coming up earlier in the evening and venturing farther afield.”

  I had the technician advance to an image of a bloody crime scene on a narrow street.

  “Two weeks ago, scraps of an NYU student were found on Bond Street. Friends say she was walking home after a late-night party. The entire process from pursuit to capture to devouring probably took the ghoul pack less than a minute. Even armed with a snub-nosed pistol, the young woman had no chance.”

  The audience eyed the image in rapt attention. I could feel their minds wrapping around the idea that they would be facing an opponent most of them had dismissed as fiction until only recently. Captain Cole, who had introduced me minutes earlier, leaned against a wall to my right.

  I signaled for the tech to skip ahead several screens. There were more crime-scene images, but I’d made my point.

  “All right, so here’s the defunct Broadway line and its east-west services,” I said, turning toward the map of subway routes in lower Manhattan. “Most of the ghouls are concentrated inside that red box, south of Fourteenth Street and west of Brooklyn. A couple of hundred, probably.”

  “If these things even exist,” someone asked, “what do you need a SWAT team for? Why not just gas the lines?”

  I focused on the back row until I could see the speaker, one of two plainclothes cops in attendance. “If it were only that easy, Detective,” I replied, suppressing a smile. Hoffman had come. “Ghouls can go for days without air, making them immune to the kinds of gases you have in mind. I should add that their regenerative abilities also make them immune to most weapons.”

  “So what does that leave?” he asked. “Kryptonite?”

  “Sunlight and fire,” I replied.

  “Sunlight? In the tunnels?”

  “Let the professor talk,” Captain Cole said sternly.

  Hoffman scowled and settled back in his chair. I slid my gaze over to Detective Vega, who was sitting beside him. She looked back with a sour expression, clearly irritated by my inclusion in the eradication program.

  “Thank you,” I said to Cole, lifting the long pointer I’d set against the lectern. “Sunlight won’t kill a ghoul, but it does weaken them. We can’t introduce actual sunlight into the tunnels, no. But full-spectrum, industrial-strength spotlights will do the job. Equipped with these spotlights, armed teams will drop into the lines here, here, and here.” I tapped the map at three of the line’s branches. “The teams will converge toward the Canal Street station, driving the ghouls out ahead of them. Lights will also be shone down through the vents to keep the ghouls from escaping up to street level. Once at the convergence point, we’ll seal the station, trapping the creatures inside. We’ll then ignite a powerful incendiary, transforming the station into a crematory. They’ll be reduced to ashes within minutes.”

  My research had shown that ghouls could be killed one of two ways: decapitation or extensive brain trauma. Because the first was too labor intensive, not to mention dangerous, I had recommended to the mayor the second. The plan would mean considerable damage to the station, but Budge had reiterated his support. “Better property than people,” he’d said.

  “Are there any questions for the professor?” Captain Cole asked now.

  A burly woman raised her hand. “Are we sure the spotlights will be effective? What’s to stop the ghouls from turning around and attacking them?”

  “In a word,” I said, “cowardice.” I had the tech return to the image of the creature. “Appearances to the contrary, ghouls are pretty gutless. It’s why they prefer scavenging to pursuing live prey. If the ghouls were to turn on any of the teams, sustained gunfire would steer them straight again.”

  A young man raised his hand. “With the ghouls possessing the kind of strength you’re talking about, how can you be sure you’ll be able to contain them at the Canal Street station?”

  I had descended into the station the day before with an armed backup force and several full-spectrum lights. Despite my chest-squeezing phobia of being underground—and that the space reeked of ghoul—I took my time etching defensive sigils over the station’s tunnels and exits. I planned to infuse the sigils with a high dose of energy, manifesting a field to contain the ghouls. But the Hundred didn’t need to know the magical details.

  “I’m sure,” I replied.

  “Well, what are you using for an incendiary?” the young man pressed. “Napalm? Thermite?”

  Dragon sand, actually. Something else you don’t need to know. “A substance that will be harder to detect,” I replied. “Ghouls have a keen sense of smell.” When I looked around for any other raised hands, I noticed that the seat Vega had occupied was now empty.

  Yeah, she hates me, I thought.

  “Thank you, Professor,” Captain Cole said, approaching the lectern. I gathered up my notes and stepped from the stage as he addressed the auditorium. “The operation is scheduled to commence this Sunday at oh-seven-hundred. We’ll be conducting full-gear simulations at the Tactics Range in the Bronx every day until then, starting this afternoon.”

  As the captain talked, I made my way to the back row and took the seat Vega had vacated. Hoffman shifted his bulk around to face me.

  “Gotta hand it to you, Merlin,” he whispered. “You’ve kept this con going longer than I would’ve thought possible.”

  “Con?” My temper flared. “What do you call that thing we battled in the storm lines this past spring?” I asked, referring to the werewolf-vampire hybrid.

  “You talking about that albino woman?”

  “Oh, is that what she was? Okay, forget the creature. How about how I yanked you out of harm’s way from thirty feet away?”

  “Cheap trick. Any stage magician could’ve pulled that off.”

  “And enclosed the creature in a light shield?”

  Hoffman made a face as if whatever more I had to say wasn’t worth hearing. I had to remind myself that convincing him of my authenticity wasn’t why I was talking to him. I drew a deep breath and let it out through my nose along with the pent-up tension.

  “Still working the Lady Bastet case?” I asked.

  He eyed me with suspicion. “So what if I am?”

  “Any leads?”

  “Like I’m gonna tell you.”

  I reached into the front pocket of my shirt and pulled out several Polaroids. My golem, Ed, had struck gold on his second day. I spread the shots over the chair’s t
able arm. “You sure?”

  He frowned at the images. The top ones showed him chatting with one of Mr. Moretti’s men as he accepted an envelope. Subsequent photos showed him repeating the ceremony, this time with a representative of Mr. Brusilov, head of New York’s Russian crime family.

  “Looks like we caught you on payday,” I said.

  “Who in the hell took these? You?”

  “Smile, you’re on Candid Camera.” I gathered the pictures up, tapped them into a neat stack, and slid them into my shirt pocket. “And there’s more where those came from.”

  Hoffman leaned toward me until I could see every oily pore on his scrunched-up nose. “I’m gonna tell you two things,” he whispered, “and you better listen to both really fucking good. First, I’m in the middle of a sting operation. That’s what you’re photographing, you idiot. Second, what you’re doing here is attempted blackmail. I’m gonna let that go, ’cause frankly you’re not worth the paperwork. But I see you or your camera anywhere near me when I’m working, and I’m taking you in. You understand me? That’s five years on obstruction and another five on the blackmail. Let’s see how smart you think you are then.”

  “A sting operation?” I said in mock surprise. “Oh, gee, the last thing I want is to interfere with the important work of the NYPD. A hundred apologies. Let me just turn these over to Captain Cole so he can discard of them properly. I’d hate for these to end up in the hands of an ambitious reporter.”

  As I went to stand, Hoffman clamped my forearm, his fingers digging into the fleshy underside. I winced and tried to pry his fingers away. Captain Cole stopped talking and frowned up at us.

  “Is there a problem, gentlemen?” he asked.

  I looked at Hoffman, eyebrows raised. After a moment, he released me and shook his head. “No, sir,” he said. “No problem.”

  I lowered myself back to the chair as Captain Cole resumed talking.

  “What the hell do you want?” Hoffman asked in a fierce whisper, facing forward.