The Golem: A Montague & Strong Detective Novel (Montague & Strong Case Files Book 10)

by Orlando A. Sanchez

  “And teach them what? The long-lost art of suicidal sarcasm?”

  “Persiki means peaches,” Cece volunteered. “She calls Mr. Simon psikh, but I don’t think you look sick, if you ask me.”

  Rags and Peaches padded over to where we stood, and Cece ran over to greet her guardian.

  “Psikh means nutcase or crazy, if I recall correctly,” Monty said. “I know how you like to know these things.”

  “Really appreciate the translation—you could have kept that one to yourself, thanks.”

  “My pleasure. I know your stance on being ignorant of your names.”

  “How do you say ‘psycho ice queen’ in Olgese?” I asked. “Just in case.”

  “Just in case you’ve grown tired of breathing? I would strongly recommend against that course of action.”

  “Oh, she gets to call me nutcase and I can’t return the favor?”

  “She can probably freeze this entire structure faster than you can get the words ‘psycho ice queen’ out of your mouth. Is that a favor you think you can deal with?”

  “Fine, but I don’t have to like it.”

  “Life is full of small compromises we make to maintain balance, and in your case, the ability to move freely without being frozen solid.”

  “Rags!” Cece said, raising her voice and hugging her guardian around the neck. “I’m so glad to see you’re okay.”

  Being a Caucasian Mountain dog meant that Cece had to stretch to wrap her arms around Rags’ neck. She managed, but just barely. Rags gently shook herself out of Cece’s grip and stepped closer to me.

 

 

 

 

  Peaches gave off a low rumble. Rags was not impressed.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  I had the feeling that Peaches was going to have to be ultra-impressive to get Rags’ admiration and attention. Something close to stopping a world-ending asteroid or facing a group of dragons—alone—might do the trick. Anything short of that would probably be dismissed by the super guardian.

  “I’ll escort them upstairs,” Monty said, glancing at Cece. “I have a few questions about this ‘shortcut,’ and I need to install some stronger deterrents to runic manipulation by a certain Jotnar ice mage.”

  “I can show you my shortcut, Mr. Montague,” Cece said, eagerly. “It really works!”

  “Better let Olga know she needs to install a new door on Cece’s place too.”

  “We need to discuss why shortcuts can be a dangerous thing,” Monty said, leading her away to the stairs. “After I bolster the defenses in your home, and get you a new door.”

  “I’ll get the Dark Goat,” I called out before the door to the stairwell closed behind them. “Don’t forget we have a meeting downtown.”

  Peaches nudged me, nearly launching me across the lobby.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  The energy signature that filled the lobby stopped me mid-sentence.

  “It’s rude to keep Death waiting, Simon.”

  I recognized the voice—Mori.

  ELEVEN

  “Hello, Peaches,” Mori said, patting my hellhound on the head and managing not to have said arm removed. She reached into her bag and produced two large sausages. “Here you go.”

  Peaches gently removed them from Mori’s outstretched hand and then proceeded to vacuum them into his bottomless pit of a stomach.

 

 

  It was hard to argue with hellhound logic.

 

 

 

  Peaches hunched down and let out a small bark of thanks. The sound traveled across the lobby with a rumble, forcing Andrei to step outside in fear for his life.

 

 

  “Sorry about that,” I said. “We’re still working on communication.”

  “No need to apologize for him,” Mori said, rubbing Peaches across the head and flank. “You and the mage, however, are making Ezra wait…not exactly the best idea. Did you not get my messages?”

  “Messages?” I asked. “What messages?”

  Mori was tall, and she was dressed in what I imagined was the combat version of Ezra’s outfit. Under her jacket, dual shoulder holsters held two hand cannons and rested over a black Kevlar vest bristling with extra magazines.

  Under the vest, she wore a dragonscale ensemble of black pants, a white dress shirt, and finished off with a pair of black Dr. Martens steel-toed Hynines. Mori stared at me as she pushed up the pair of glasses on the bridge of her nose. Her tight bun and icy glare reminded me of Karma. I shuddered involuntarily.

  “Are you kidding me?” Mori said with a sigh. “Ezra sent you a message the moment you got back from your little trip overseas.”

  “We were headed to him when we were sidetracked.”

  “Sidetracked? It’s like disasters follow the three of you. What happened?”

  I explained about The Moscow and how it almost became The Rubble.

  “Well, that’s one way to miss my messages.”

  I nodded. “I couldn’t even speak with Peaches,” I said. “I didn’t know she was that strong.”

  “This was the Jotnar child’s doing?” Mori said, narrowing her eyes and examining the building. “Alone?”

  “Monty says she hit a shift.”

  “No kidding, she hit a shift,” Mori said, and let out a low whistle. “This complicates things. She almost took out the whole structure?”

  “Complicates things?” I asked. “What do you mean, it complicates things? What
does it complicate?”

  “We will deal with that later. Right now—as in this moment—Ezra needs to speak to you and Tristan. Contact the mage.”

  I was reaching into my jacket for my phone when Monty walked into the lobby.

  “Monty, this is—”

  “Mori, Ezra’s PA,” he said with a short nod. “We’ve met.”

  “Of course you have.”

  “I take it your presence here means we’ve delayed longer than is acceptable?”

  “Something like that,” Mori answered. “Ezra would like…a word.”

  “Well, Simon, enough dallying,” Monty said, looking at me. “It seems we don’t have time to drive.”

  “You can’t drive to where he is,” Mori answered. “He’s not waiting at the deli.”

  “Not at the deli?” I asked. “I thought he was always at the deli. Are you saying Ezra gets out?”

  “Something you need to do more of,” Mori said, shaking her head. “I understand why you delayed. It’s just never a good idea to keep him waiting. Sort of a touchy issue with him. He prefers punctuality.”

  “Understood,” Monty said. “Can you open a portal to him, then?”

  I groaned, and then remembered that my last trip wasn’t a gut-wrenching torture fest, threatening to remove my internal organs. Maybe I was getting the hang of this teleportation travel.

  Mori slashed a hand in front of her and opened a portal. She stepped to one side and motioned for us to enter. Monty stepped in, followed by Peaches. I walked in behind them, and Mori followed me as the portal closed behind her.

  TWELVE

  We weren’t standing in the deli. I looked around and found myself in a large garden, complete with trees, a running river, and a sizable lawn. A cool breeze could be felt winding through the trees.

  I wasn’t getting the hang of this teleportation travel. I took two steps before my intestines felt an overwhelming desire to exit my body. I grabbed my midsection and groaned as I found a tree to embrace.

  “What’s wrong with him?” Mori asked, glancing at me dispassionately. “Does he need a bathroom?”

  “Teleportation sickness,” Monty answered, waving a hand in my direction. “He’s still in denial.”

  Peaches padded next to me and rumbled.

 

 

 

 

  Mori stepped close to where I stood doubled over and gently shoved the drooling Peaches to one side. She crouched down, bringing her face level with mine.

  “You better get your shit together, Strong, and fast,” she said, keeping her voice low. “What’s coming your way won’t give you time to ‘catch your breath’ or ‘take a moment’ to recover. You should be past this, Amateur Hour.”

  “Amateur Hour? Did you just call me—?”

  “Thank you, Mori,” I heard Ezra say as the pain subsided. “You may go.”

  “They’re all yours,” Mori said, opening another portal. “Have fun.”

  Mori disappeared a second later. Sitting on a long, wooden bench facing a small grove of trees, was Ezra, or as I knew him, Death…capital D.

  “Simon, Tristan, thank you for coming on such short notice.”

  “Not like we had much of a choice,” I said, glancing at him through the haze of pain. “We had a…situation. Well, Monty did at least.”

  Ezra wore his usual pair of half-moon glasses, and peered at me over the lenses for a few seconds, then shook his head. He waved a hand, forming a large titanium bowl filled with an obscene amount of pastrami—even for Peaches.

  My hellhound fixated on the bowl and vibrated impressively in place instead of pouncing on the bowl. The warmth flushing my body didn’t feel as effective as I recovered from my jump between planes. I chalked it up to consecutive trips. Maybe my body needed to recalibrate.

  “There’s some extra in there, because I’m sure he’s been a good hellhound.”

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Peaches unleashed a small whine and added an extra dose of puppy-dog eyes.

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

 

  Peaches pounced on the bowl and proceeded to inhale the meat with much smacking of the jowls. I turned to Ezra and gave him a nod of thanks.

  “Like I was saying, we didn’t really have a choice.” I glanced over at Monty. “Someone’s student was going full ice Sith on our building.”

  “She is not a Sith, ice or otherwise,” Monty said. “But he is right—we had little choice but to attend to the matter immediately.”

  “There’s always a choice,” Ezra said, tapping the side of his nose. “It’s living with the consequences of our actions that most people run from. Remember that.”

  “Duly noted,” Monty said. “We made the choice to address the imminent destruction of our domicile before coming to visit you. My apologies.”

  “Apology accepted.”

  “Hey, that was actual diplomacy…and it worked.”

  “One day that mouth of yours is going to get you killed—several times,” Ezra said, shaking his head. “You do realize silence is also part of diplomacy?”

  “Discretion is the better part of valor?” I asked. “Similar to how I bravely traverse the planes with my slightly unstable mage partner and bottomless-stomached hellhound?”

  “Not exactly,” Ezra answered with a slight chuckle, “but you’re getting there. If you don’t accept what you are soon, the consequences will get more severe.”

  Ezra was dressed in his regular white shirt with black vest and black pants, his rune-covered yarmulke giving off a faint violet glow. Resting next to him on the bench sat a thick book.

  It was easy to confuse him with an elderly scholar, and not the personification of Death—until he let you feel a minuscule amount of his massive, fear-inducing energy signature.

  “Right now,” I answered with a small groan, “the consequences of my actions are causing my digestive system serious agony.”

  “I’m sure, being acquainted with Karma, that you have an excellent working knowledge of cause and effect,” Ezra said. “What you don’t see yet, are potentialities.”

  “Excuse me?” I asked. “I’m not seeing what? Have you been speaking to Professor Ziller?”

  “How was your trip abroad?” Ezra asked. “I understand Japan is exquisite this time of the year.”

  Ezra had a habit of doing that. I figured being Death meant his mind was occupied at all times. It was stagg
ering he could even hold a conversation with us.

  Every so often, in the course of our discussions, he would slip into what I assumed was a tangential topic, only to discover later on, that with Ezra, everything was connected.

  “Japan was bloody and painful,” I said, slightly thrown off by the question. “Thanks for asking.”

  “I hope not at the same time. I’ve noticed Ms. Nakatomi has not resumed her duties as Director of the Dark Council—yet.”

  “Maybe she’s taking a well-deserved vacation?” I answered. “She did say she would be back. I didn’t think pressing her for a start date was a good idea, considering the context.”

  “The power vacuum caused by her absence will need to be addressed if she does not return soon.”

  “Addressed?” I asked. “Why does that sound painful?”

  “Only if you delay too long.”

  The feeling that struck me whenever Ezra mentioned that something needed to be “addressed” was similar to my reaction every time Monty wanted to have a “conversation” with an angry mage or felt the need to use “diplomacy” first—it felt like large doses of skepticism sprinkled with controlled dread.

  It never ended well.

  “That doesn’t sound good,” I said. “Can you go have some words with the current leadership of the Dark Council? Explain to them the error of their ways?”

  “In what reality do you think my going to have words with any mortal will be welcomed as a good idea?” Ezra asked with a sigh. “Stop being a putz and pay attention. No one wants to ‘have a word’ with me, especially when it could be the last words they speak. You”—he pointed in my direction—“will eventually have to deal with this.”

  It never occurred to me that Death didn’t really have anyone he could just chat with. It kind of made sense, though. no one was really eager to have a heart-to-heart with Death, and if he showed up to speak to you, well, it was likely the last conversation you were ever going to have. Puts a damper on the small talk thing.

  “Me?” I asked, clearly confused. “Why would I ever dream of helping the Dark Council? They tried to take us out several times. Last time with a small army.”

  “Your vampire needs the Dark Council,” Ezra answered. “More importantly, the Dark Council needs her, and the city needs a stable Dark Council.”