He leaned in closer. “I pretended to be a mere fortune teller, and set events in motion that would inevitably lead to this very moment. Lesser intellects are so easy to manipulate. Now I get to have everything I want, on my terms. Even the Watch recognizes self defense. You invaded my home, and were accidentally killed in the struggle. Your superiors will understand. Plus, once I’ve taken your magic and added it to mine, I will become so powerful that the Watch bigwigs will be only too glad to let matters rest.”
The Crimson Prophet grabbed me by the front of my shirt with his free hand, and lifted me up to his eye level. He then touched the shard to his forehead and began an incantation. The shard flared, as guttural words spoken in a dead language hung in the air with an almost physical presence. The Crimson Prophet was casting a spell that would rip the magic right out of me, a spell so difficult and dangerous that even the most talented mage would be foolish to attempt it. A spell that he could manage now, thanks to the power of the shard. In moments, he was going to drain all of my arcane powers and claim them as his own.
Little did he know.
He struggled to finish the incantation, barely able to contain and direct the dark magic even with the power of the shard. As the last words were spoken, a great jolt shot through my body, an unstoppable invasive force seeking to collect every shred of my magic and bestow it on the prophet.
Nothing happened.
The Crimson Prophet still held me up at eye level. I could see his pupils widen with surprise, a realization that something had gone wrong. Then I made a fist and punched him hard in the face. There was a satisfying crunch, and the prophet staggered back as blood poured from his broken nose. I went after him, pummeling him to keep him off balance. He whimpered as he tried to scamper away from me. I grabbed his hand and pried his fingers open. I clenched the shard, but it grew dim in my hand, like a useless chunk of glass.
The Crimson Prophet reasserted himself and lunged at me, trying to regain the crystal. Even with the broken nose, he was a fair match for me after I had been worked over by his spells. As he reached for me, I turned around and threw the shard.
The shard slid across the floor, landing near the prospect. He grabbed for it with both hands, then cupped the crystal to his chest. The Crimson Prophet went after him, but before he could cross the room the prospect fired off a beam of energy.
The air smelled of ozone and singed hair. The Crimson Prophet stopped and stared with disbelief at his chest. In it, there was a fist sized hole burned cleanly through. Wordlessly, he crumpled onto the floor.
“Now that,” I told the prospect, who appeared shocked by the intensity of his own spell, “this is how you cast an energy bolt.”
The prophet’s plan was nearly perfect. He couldn’t have known that I was the only member of the Watch without magic. Almost no one knew, not even others at the Watch itself. I was an accident, a freak of nature, capable of Seeing the arcane, but with no powers of my own.
When I became a prospect, my mentor could not figure out why I failed to cast even the simplest spells. He was not obtuse; it’s just that there has never been anyone like me before. If you could See magic, you could cast it, simple as that. Well, I couldn’t.
I learned to get by. My weapons were bluster, information, and an array of enchanted tools and magical charms that could make Batman’s utility belt turn green with envy. I performed my duties for the Watch, and used their authority and resources to quietly look for clues, hints of what was wrong with me and how to cure it.
One day I would find a way to do magic. A way to repair whatever broken link had crippled me. I was glad that day had not yet come before I met the Crimson Prophet.
I extended my hand wordlessly, and the prospect handed over the shard without hesitation. I smiled at him. To experience such power and give it up voluntarily is no small thing. Yes, this one definitely had a future within the Watch.
First, we had to tend to Petya. Then I’d tell the prospect the good news, so he could spend a few happy hours picking out his new name.
This story originally appeared in Buzzy Magazine and was reprinted several times in anthologies.
“Shard” is the kind of urban fantasy I love to read, and enjoy writing a lot. After at least a dozen people told me how much Conrad Brent reminds them of Harry Dresden from The Dresden Files, I finally read my first Jim Butcher book. The resemblance is definitely there, though the inspiration for the Brent stories was Sergey Lukianenko’s Night Watch series. I named Brent’s organization “The Watch” as homage to those books.
REQUIEM FOR A DRUID
My job that morning was to banish a demon, but I was determined to finish my cup of coffee first.
I sipped my java in front of Demetrios’ warehouse in Sunset Park, enjoying the panoramic view of the Manhattan skyline and the New York harbor. Next to me, Demetrios was shaking like a leaf.
“What in the world are you thinking, Conrad?” Demetrios spoke in his typical rapid-fire fashion. “You’re just going to go in there, alone, to face this infernal thing? Without any help or backup from others at the Watch? Without even a priest? This is all kinds of crazy.”
“I can handle it,” I said, trying to project casual confidence. “You did ask for this to be resolved quickly, and it’s not like I haven’t dealt with an occasional demon before.”
In fact, I’ve never even seen any demons. I’m not in any way equipped to deal with a supernatural being of that magnitude. That’s the bad news. The good news is, I’ve never heard of a demon showing up in Brooklyn. Even if one arrived, it wouldn’t be slumming in Demetrios’ warehouse. And if, by some miracle, a major baddie decided to take up residence here, Demetrios wouldn’t have survived the encounter long enough to come crying for my help. Something else was going on, but if the guy with a checkbook wanted to believe the job to be extremely dangerous, who was I to dissuade him?
“Quickly, yes,” said Demetrios. “You wouldn’t believe how far behind this has made us fall with the deliveries. My customers are screaming bloody murder. On top of everything, there’s a shipment of Sumatran persimmons that is already beginning to rot. So I hope you really know what you’re doing. I don’t relish the thought of having to scrape what’s left of you off the container walls.”
“That’s the Demetrios I know and love. Sentimental to the end. Here, hold this.” I handed him the empty foam cup and headed for the entrance.
The warehouse was packed with every kind of package and crate imaginable. Huge metal shipping containers clustered in the center, with just enough room left to maneuver them in and out. Around the edges, mountains of smaller parcels occupied every available nook and cranny, arranged in an order apparent only to Demetrios and his staff. There was plenty of room to hide for whatever was haunting the building.
Since I didn’t know what sort of trouble to expect, I brought as many weapons, charms, and amulets as I could carry without making my reliance on such tools apparent. I’ve made a lot more enemies than friends over the years and having any of them learn the truth would be incredibly dangerous.
Far as I know, I’m unique. Only one out of every 30,000 people is born gifted. They can See magic and cast it. I can See perfectly; casting is another story. Not even my superiors at the Watch know about my disability. I suspect they wouldn’t keep me around if they ever found out. So I pretend to be a badass wizard and do my job well, giving no one cause to think otherwise. One day I hope to find a cure for my condition. Or, failing that, at least a damn good explanation.
I worked my way through the labyrinth of packages until I heard faint growling sounds emanating from a few aisles over. I pulled out a revolver loaded with silver bullets doused in holy water. Cliché, I know, but in my experience only the most effective solutions get to become clichés in the first place. Weapon drawn, I advanced slowly toward the noise. I turned the corner of a ceiling-high shelving unit stocked with wooden crates and found myself face to face with a Lovecraftian nightmare.
T
he creature was shaped like a ten-foot-tall bulldog, with several rows of jagged teeth protruding from its oversized mouth. It stared at me with cold fish eyes and emitted a low rumble from deep within its ugly-as-sin belly. Definitely not a demon. I smiled in relief as I studied the telltale shimmer barely visible around the critter’s frame.
“Nice doggie,” I told it as I rummaged through the inner pockets of my trench coat. Moving very slowly so as not to spook it, I withdrew a plastic pill bottle filled with orange powder.
“Want a treat?” I said in a soothing voice as I holstered the revolver and struggled momentarily with the childproof cover.
Annoyed with my apparent lack of desire to run away terrified, the critter let out a thunderous roar that, I hoped, Demetrios could hear outside. While it was busy posturing, I took a pair of quick steps forward and flung the contents of the pill bottle at its midsection.
The monstrous visage quivered, gradually losing its shape, and disappeared. At my feet lay a furry little animal that looked like an ugly koala bear, knocked out cold by the sleeping powder. The Sumatran changeling snoring on the ground before me was a harmless creature. Its kind project images of big, scary monsters in order to repel predators, but they’re all bark and no bite. Poor thing must’ve gotten into the persimmon shipment and munched the long journey away, happy in the container full of its favorite snacks. The potent orange mix would keep the changeling dormant until I could get it to a buddy of mine at the Bronx Zoo who cared for a menagerie of supernatural animals.
I checked the rest of the building to make sure there were no more changelings. Also, just to be nosy. Demetrios ran the city’s largest shipping company that handled arcane imports and I was always curious to know what he was up to. After a sufficient amount of time spent wandering the aisles I took off my trench coat and wrapped it gently around the changeling. Carrying the bundle under my arm, I exited the warehouse.
“That was one nasty hellspawn.” I smiled at Demetrios, who was pacing nervously outside. “See, it even made me break a sweat.”
“Is it gone now? Did you banish it?” he demanded.
“It will not be bothering you again,” I said with utmost confidence.
Demetrios was thrilled to pay me handsomely for a morning’s work, and all it cost me was a vial of sleeping powder. What’s more, he would tell anyone who cared to listen about how I went one-on-one with a demon and won. So grows the legend of Conrad Brent.
When I drove off from Demetrios’ parking lot, I noticed another car pulling into traffic behind me.
I was being followed by amateurs. The black Lincoln Town Car lingering in my rearview mirror had stalked me along the congested Brooklyn streets without any grace or subtlety. Its driver must have thought he was very clever, always keeping one or two vehicles between us. I made a few turns, just to be sure. The Lincoln stayed with me, conspicuous as a polar bear in the desert.
Sensing my concern, my car’s various magical protections began to activate. To say that my car didn’t look like much would be an understatement. It was an ‘84 Oldsmobile with crooked bumpers, a few months overdue for a car wash. On the inside though, it sported more nasty tricks than the Batmobile. It had the best defensive enchantments money could buy, and a few that were literally priceless. All of them woke up as the car prepared itself for a possible confrontation. Some of the arcane shields interfered with the radio, which only served to annoy me further. I pulled over and watched the Lincoln pull into a parking spot a few yards behind me.
I got out of the car, strolled over there, and tapped on the driver side tinted window.
“Hey there, chum. I got news for you: you aren’t very good at this trailing thing. So either leave me alone and go back to picking up fares at the airport, or roll down this window and explain what it is you want.”
The driver didn’t respond. Instead, the passenger door opened and a petite redhead in a business suit climbed out.
“Don’t frighten the help, Mr. Brent. He was simply doing his job.” There was a healthy amount of amusement in her voice, as though she was delighted by this turn of events. She spoke with a hint of a British accent. Her looks and her voice were almost enough for me to forgive the imposition. Almost.
“Well,” I grumbled, “he wasn’t doing it very well.”
“On the contrary,” she said, “I intended for you to see us. I had no doubt that a man of your reputation would notice being followed. What I really wanted was to see how you’d handle it.”
She offered me a business card. According to the fancy font her name was Moira O’Leary and she was a security consultant.
“Watching someone react to a perceived threat is very instructive. I like to learn as much as I can about the people I’m going to work with. I’ll admit that your rather… direct approach was delightfully unexpected.”
“I’m glad I managed to entertain you,” I said, “but what makes you think we’re going to be working together?”
“Oh, we will.” She smiled. “Your boss owes my client a favor or two. I’m sure he’ll be in touch with you shortly. He might even say ‘pretty please.’”
Not bloody likely. Mose didn’t have to say please because no one was foolish enough to question his orders. When he said jump, you jumped, and you didn’t dare to ask how high.
“My organization isn’t in the habit of owing favors. Your client must be pretty special,” I said, fishing for a little more information. Turned out, Ms. Security Consultant wasn’t going to make me guess.
“Of course he’s special,” she said sweetly. “He’s Bradley Holcomb.”
O’Leary wasn’t kidding; people at the offices of the Watch were falling all over themselves to accommodate her real estate magnate boss. I was told to assist him in any way I could, with special emphasis on the fact that these orders came from Mose himself. I called the number on Moira’s business card and was promptly summoned to Holcomb Tower.
I don’t like venturing into Manhattan. It is the capital of Weird in the New World. Beings of immense power walk the streets beneath its gleaming skyscrapers. Terrible schemes are hatched behind closed doors in offices with prestigious addresses—and I’m not just talking about the Wall Street financiers. Dangerous men, women, and creatures of all kinds congregate there, and they make Brooklyn feel like a sleepy suburb. I try to keep my visits into the Big Apple’s rotten core brief and infrequent. But, sometimes, things can’t be helped.
I was ushered into a large office furnished with a mismatched collection of items of art and antiquity. They may not have fit together particularly well, but they all shared one common trait: hefty price tags. A supersized mahogany desk was installed in the center of the room. Leaning back in a lambskin office chair was the man himself.
Bradley Holcomb, real estate king of New York, reality TV host, and—at least in his own mind—a curator of the upwardly mobile lifestyle. His name, slapped indiscriminately on everything from condo developments to cologne, was the gilded standard for the bourgeoisie. Even surrounded by the opulence of his office, Holcomb looked less impressive in person than he did on TV. They always do.
“Mr. Brent,” he said, studying me intently, “thank you for coming to see me on such short notice. Also, forgive me for staring. All kinds of important people visit my office, but I’ve never had the pleasure of meeting a wizard before. I imagined you to be …” He paused, looking for the right words to express his disappointment with my being so ordinary, “…older.”
“In my experience people rarely live up to their hype,” I said. Holcomb either chose to ignore the barb, or it went over his head. He continued to ogle me as though I was some kind of a circus freak.
“What is it I can do for you, Mr. Holcomb?” I prodded.
“I’ve been working on a fascinating project,” he said, snapping out of it. “I acquired a nice plot of land adjacent to Marine Park. Beautiful space. Naturally secluded, yet right off of Belt Parkway, so it’s easy to reach. I’m building a high-end theme reso
rt there. Gonna make the place look like ancient Rome.”
Holcomb’s face lit up and his entire demeanor shifted when he started talking about his hotel. He became almost likable.
“It’ll be a perfect combination of classic style and ultra-modern amenities. I’m even building a miniature copy of the Coliseum, with a boxing ring in the center. Holcomb’s Rome is going to make theme hotels in Vegas and Atlantic City look like gaudy McMansions in comparison.”
I nodded patiently. Holcomb would know a thing or two about gaudy.
“It took forever to get the permits,” he said. “But once construction began, strange things started to happen. Floor plans went missing from a locked safe. Every worker on the demolition crew simultaneously came down with terrible headaches. Sabotage of all kinds has been derailing the project.”
Holcomb reached for a stress ball on his desk and squeezed it, hard.
“I’m a practical man, not taken to flights of fancy. When it was first suggested to me that my problems were supernatural in origin, I laughed it off. But I’m not laughing any longer. I tripled security, accomplishing exactly nothing. Then a business associate recommended that I hire O’Leary as an arcane consultant. She was the one who filled me in on the crazy stuff going on in the world that we muggles aren’t supposed to know about.”
“We prefer to call you ungifted,” I said.
“Whatever works,” said Holcomb. “O’Leary told me about the Watch and helped me get in touch with Mr. Mose. It wasn’t all that difficult to persuade him. Money, it seems, can buy magic just like any other service.”
Mose must’ve charged this arrogant fat cat through the nose to make me do house calls like some sort of a plumber. Still, someone was using magic to mess with the ungifted — exactly the kind of thing the Watch was created to guard against. The fact that the victim was Holcomb didn’t obviate my obligation to look into the matter.
Explaining Cthulhu to Grandma and Other Stories Page 7