Drops of yellow fluid rolled down its gelatinous, lumpy skin. Its purple veins bulged and pulsed with each heartbeat. Its snout squashed inwards like a pug's—but, unlike a pug, dozens of needle-like teeth poked out. Its eyes took up half its face, slit pupils twitching with every movement.
It bounded forward.
I squealed in terror.
"Kira? What's the matter?"
I ran as fast as I could away from that thing. The Squirdling's footsteps thundered behind me, getting closer by the second. When I reached the pile of combat equipment, I grabbed the nearest thing—nun chucks—and threw it at the beast.
They hit him square in the cheek. His gelatinous skin rippled.
Splat.
They fell to the floor, dripping in yellowish goo. The Squirdling stared down at them for a second. Then it leapt forward.
I jumped back. My heel landed on one of the daggers and I slipped. I hit the floor with a hard slam. "No no no no," I whimpered, pulling myself into a fetal position on the floor.
It stepped forward.
"Sadie! Sadie, down!"
The beast trotted back over to Gavin. He patted its sticky, soft head—and then held a treat to its grotesque snout.
"Kira? What was that?"
The gig is up. Just say it.
"I'm sorry, Gavin," I started, through ragged breaths. I pulled myself off the floor, refusing to meet his eyes. "I can't read minds, or shoot poison darts, or fly. I don't have any powers. I'm not a Hunter."
"You lied about being a Steele?" he asked, incredulously.
"No, I am a Steele. The only non-magical one born in a hundred years."
"But that's impossible!"
"No. It's not."
"Are you sure? Have you checked?"
I quirked an eyebrow at him. "I'm twenty-three, Gavin. I'm pretty sure if I had some magical power, I would know by now."
His expression softened. "I'm sorry. It's just... the Steeles are famous for having powers. But I’ll go ahead and tell Thomas. I'm sure he'd be willing to put in a good word for you, elsewhere."
"Are you sure I can't stay on? I could learn how to wield a sword or something. I mean, not everyone who works for NIMP has magical abilities, right?"
“Most of us do. And those of us who don’t, have experience. I only have a bit of magic—accelerated healing—but I was a police officer for five years, before I joined NIMP."
“Wait. A police officer?”
“Yeah.”
"But you're British."
"So?"
"I've just… never seen a British policeman before. Except, you know, the ones that have to stay perfectly still while they guard the Queen."
He broke into laughter. "You Americans and your stereotypes," he said, shaking his head. "Unbelievable."
"Wait. If you were a policeman... then you could teach me how to use a gun. I could—"
"Have you ever even held a gun before?" He looked at me, one eyebrow cocked. "Or any weapon, for that matter?"
"... No."
"Didn't think so."
"But I have other experience! I have a computer science degree. I've been coding in Serpentine for years. I could code up spells, shields, protections –"
"Not by yourself. You'd need a mage to compile the code."
"Well... yes. But, still, I could do all the grunt work—"
"I'm sorry, Kira. But we're looking for a Hunter, not a programmer."
He stood up and offered his hand to me. I took it.
Our reflections stared back at us from the mirrored wall. My dark eyes, messy hair, and lanky figure contrasted starkly with Gavin's lean, sturdy silhouette.
I was never meant for this. Look at me.
Sadie the Squirdling sniffed madly at my purse in the corner, dripping her goo all over the fake leather. I gingerly pulled it away from her, and continued towards the door.
I could picture myself training here. It would take a long time to get up to speed, but I'd learn eventually. Wouldn't I?
Or is it like all those trolls on the internet say? That we—the non-magical folk—are just leeches on society, contributing brains but never brawn? Spending our time reading and philosophizing, instead of keeping the world safe?
"I'll walk you out," he said, holding the door for me.
I walked out into the hallway. As the musty smell again filled my nostrils, and the muffled sound of punches landing filled my ears, I felt the sting of tears.
I was never going to be like them.
I was destined for an ordinary job. An ordinary life. Destined to forever be a blemish on the Steele name.
Brrzzzt.
The radio on Gavin's belt crackled with static. "Gavin, you there?"
Gavin held up a finger, mouthed just a minute, and started walking back down the hallway.
"Yeah. What's up?"
"We just got a call. About the house at 152 Maple Street. Thought you and Kira could tackle this one—take her right out into the field!"
"Actually, Thomas... we've got a problem. Kira won't be joining us." He glanced back at me; I quickly pretended like I was texting.
"What? No. We need her. Shit, Gavin, you know the state NIMP is in. Our success rate has dropped to 65 since Raymond bit the dust. We need a star like her."
"But she's not –"
"You keep her on the team, Gavin. Do anything you can. Hell, seduce her with those big green eyes they all love. Ham up the British accent, too."
He made a face. "But—Thomas—you don't understand! She doesn't have any powers!"
"What? That can't be true."
"It is! She couldn't even defend herself against a Squirdling!"
Pause. "Hmm. She's holding back, I bet. Those Steele women are so coy, aren't they? Well. Offer her a fifty-thousand dollar raise and see if that motivates her."
"No, Thomas, you don't understa—"
"Actually, better to use the stick, not the carrot. It'll be cheaper that way. If she doesn't bag at least one monster in her first two weeks here, she's out. Until then, she stays."
"I don't think—"
"That's my final decision. It's not up for discussion, Gavin."
Click.
Gavin stared at the radio for a second. Then he sighed, clipped it back on his belt, and walked towards me.
"You heard all that, didn't you?"
"... Yeah."
"Listen. This is a very dangerous job—"
"I understand."
"I can't be there to protect you all the time. And the monsters aren't all going to be as nice as Sadie—"
"I know."
Gavin stared at me for a second, his eyebrows knotted in concern. Then he extended his hand.
"Very well, then. Welcome to the team—for now."
I took a deep breath and shook his hand.
I have two weeks to kill a monster.
CHAPTER THREE
Ding.
The elevator doors opened to a parking garage. Rows of identical, black SUVs gleamed in the dim light. An orange sign hung from one of the pillars, reading: MONSTER TRUCK PARKING ONLY.
"Those aren't monster trucks," I said.
"They're not monster trucks, they're monster trucks. For holding monsters."
"Oh."
"That one's yours—" he pointed to the one sitting right in front— "but we'll take mine today."
We slid into his car. The air smelled dank and damp, like a wet dog. Bristly, black hairs covered the seats. I scrunched my nose, trying not to think about what exactly had been in the car.
"Take a look at the back. That's where you'll keep anything you catch."
I turned around. An immense steel cage took up the entire area behind the front seats. Rungs nicked and bent, as if something had tried to pry them apart.
A chill ran down my spine.
The engine roared to life. The van backed out of the space, and soon we were turning out of the parking garage, back onto Massachusetts Ave.
"Privacy glass," I said, stari
ng out the tinted windshield. "Isn't that illegal?"
"Not for Hunters," Gavin said with a grin.
We made our way out of the city. The buildings parted, giving way to a cloudy sky. Apartment buildings faded away, replaced by oak trees; run-down stores turned into cute suburban houses.
"So what's going on at this house?" I said. Images of a Squirdling herd flashed through my mind, stomping down everything in their path. Getting their weird goo everywhere.
"The neighbor claims one of the resident's kids broke into her house—and tried to strangle her in the middle of the night."
"Oh." I shivered, imagining a Chucky situation. "But, shouldn't the regular police handle that?"
"No. Because there's a problem—the resident of 152 Maple doesn't have kids." Gavin turned the wheel; the car veered onto a residential street. "The neighbor said she'd never seen Marianne with a child, or pregnant. We've run her through the system, and... there were no birth records, no midwife records, no adoption records." He paused. "And, the house isn't even in Marianne's name. It belongs to some dead bloke named John Sweeny."
I stared out the window, an uneasy feeling settling in my stomach. "So, what are you saying? Some woman is kidnapping kids and turning them into mini-assassins?"
"That's one theory."
"You have a better one?"
He shrugged. "I don't theorize, anymore. I've been wrong too many times."
We rolled to a stop. Several feet from the road lay a brick split-level in terrible condition. The walkway was cracked, tufts of grass poking through the gaps. The paint on the door chipped off in large patches.
Gavin reached behind my seat. With a grunt, he pulled a black duffel bag into his lap. Zip—he pulled out a gun and handed it to me. "Here. Don't shoot anyone."
"What? You're giving me a gun?"
"Since you don't have any powers," he said, shooting me a look, "it's best if you have some way of defending yourself."
I carefully picked up the gun with two fingers, as if it were on fire, and dropped it in my purse.
He took various other items out of the duffel for himself: a gun, a few knives, a grappling hook, and one of those expanding nets. "Never know what you're going to encounter in there," he said. Then he reached under the seat and pulled out a black umbrella. Pop!—it flew open, the spines bending against the walls of the car.
"It's not raining."
"It's supposed to."
I laughed. "But it's like, a five-second walk to the house. It's not going to go from sunny to downpour in five seconds."
He whipped around at me, his tone suddenly biting. "Don't get in my business, and I won't get in yours, all right? You've been wearing that strange scarf all day—indoors, even—and I haven't said a word."
"That's because I knitted it myself. I like to show it off. What, did you make that umbrella?!"
He didn't reply. Instead, he swung the door open, keeping the umbrella carefully poised directly over his head. Weirdo, I thought. What, is he allergic to water?
Gavin raised a fist and pounded on the door. Thump, thump, thump. "Open up!" he shouted through the door. "Police!"
No reply.
"Stand back," he told me. He ran at the door, shoulder first. It fell away with a splintering crack.
The house beyond was dark. Too dark. Not a single lamp or open window for illumination. As we stepped inside, Gavin finally closed the umbrella. He pulled the gun from its holster, clicked on a flashlight, and motioned for me to follow.
The light swept over mountains of trash. Crumpled fast-food wrappers, heaps of laundry, crumpled bits of paper. It was even worse than my apartment.
In the center stood the setup for a tea party. A miniature teapot, some cups, and fake finger sandwiches.
My heart sank as I imagined a little girl, playing there, watched by her captor. Threatened. Told to carry out orders.
"Hold on." Gavin whispered. "I see something."
A pinprick of light appeared on the far wall. Gavin took a step closer, gun still poised ahead of him. As the flashlight bounced with each step, the light jittered and shook.
It was our reflection.
In the eye of a doll.
"Bloody hell," Gavin muttered under his breath.
The entire bookcase was stuffed with dolls. Dolls of every race, every hairstyle, every style of dress. Some were old—skin peeling like old paint, eyes cloudy and gray. Others looked fresh out of the box.
Thump, thump, thump.
The quick pattering of footsteps sounded from behind us. I whipped around—but only saw a jumble of dark shapes.
"Come out, with your hands up!" Gavin shouted. “Stay behind me,” he whispered.
We slowly stepped forward, into the kitchen. The countertop glinted in the light. The rush of a ceiling fan filled our ears. Nothing moved; all was still.
Then a shadow flitted across the hall.
I grabbed Gavin's arm. He wrenched it away and ran forward. The flashlight's beam swept over the grimy carpet, the stained walls. We burst into the dining room.
A woman crouched in the corner.
She faced away from us, her dark hair trailing down her back. Hissing whispers came from her mouth, echoing off the walls.
"Turn around, with your hands up!"
She slowly turned around to face us.
I froze.
I'd never seen something so eerily inhuman in my life. Her hair was carefully plaited, and so shiny in the flashlight's beam, it looked fake. Her face was caked with makeup that made her skin unnaturally perfect. Like porcelain. Her lips were painted red.
And her eyes...
She had painted the skin surrounding her eyes, to make them appear twice the size. False eyelashes the size of paintbrushes stuck out from her lids.
As I stared at her, I realized she wasn't just trying to look pretty.
She was trying to look like a doll.
"Put your hands up," Gavin shouted.
She shook her head.
"Put your hands up or I'll –"
Thump.
I wheeled around—and noticed the shelves were empty.
I looked down. The dolls... they were everywhere. Lying the floor. Propped up against the wall. One stood on the kitchen countertop, half its face peeled off, eyelashes dangling from its empty eye socket.
"My daughters." Marianne's red lips stretched into a smile. I took a step back.
Crunch.
I looked down.
Underneath my boot was a tiny, plastic arm. Attached to a red-haired doll. Marianne let out a guttural, inhuman scream.
"I'm sorry—I didn't mean to –" The plastic was crushed, with a long fracture running all the way up to her chest. "I'm so sorry, I should've looked where I was going –"
She leapt towards me, arms outstretched.
I hit the floor. Hot pain shot up my back as she pinned my arms to the grimy carpet with ease. I wriggled and kicked. "Gavin! Help!"
"I can't!"
I looked up.
He was covered in the dolls. Two clung to his legs, clawing and biting. One had somehow climbed up on his shoulders, wrapped its tiny arms wrapped around his neck. He danced and jumped, as if he were shaking off a swarm of ants. "Get off me!"
The woman hovered above me. "You hurt my daughter," she rasped. "You must pay."
My heart pounded in my chest. Nausea swelled within me. Slowly, I brought my leg up. With all my strength, I kicked her.
Right in the boob.
She tumbled off me, shrieking madly. Thump, thump—more dolls swarmed out of the darkness, their painted faces watching me. Cold little hands brushed against my skin.
Gavin lay on the carpet, covered in a heap of dolls.
He's going to suffocate. If they don't strangle him first.
I grabbed my purse. Pulled out the cold, heavy gun. I raised it, pointed it right at Marianne. "Call them off of him, or I'll shoot."
I didn't realize the safety was still on. Thankfully, neither did she.
"You wouldn't," she hissed.
"Try me. I stepped on one, didn't I?"
She stared at me for a long time. Then she opened her mouth, and said: "My daughters, come back to Mother."
The dolls slowly retreated, walking in their mechanical, unnatural movements. Some of their mouths were smeared with blood; others had bits of cloth stuck to their plastic, fused fingers. Gavin lay on the carpet, covered in tiny cuts. "I'm all right," he groaned, raising his gun.
Crrack!
The bullet collided with a brunette doll clinging to her mother's leg. Her head blew out in plastic shards. Marianne screamed.
Plumes of smoke curled up from Gavin's gun. "One down.”
Crrack! Crrack! Crrack!
Cotton, plastic, and hair flew everywhere. Marianne wailed, contorting and thrashing as if she were possessed. The dolls that were still intact marched forward, along with a few that were mortally wounded, shedding plastic with each step.
"Do you have enough bullets?" I shouted.
"No!” Crrack! "Come on! Shoot!"
"But I've never used a gun before!"
"Now's a good time to learn, then!"
With a quivering hand, I focused on one of the dolls. Stringy, blonde hair caked with dirt fell from its head; a frayed pinafore dress hung from its body. I pointed the gun between its eyes—both of which were already missing—and pulled the trigger.
The bullet missed and struck the wall. The damn thing smiled—then continued advancing towards me.
"Dammit," I muttered. I took aim, again, this time at a pristine American Girl doll. Crrack! A smoldering hole in the floor.
"Don't you know how to aim?!" Gavin shouted.
"No! I told you—I've never shot a gun before!"
“This was a terrible idea!”
We shot at the dolls, but it was a futile game of whack-a-mole. Each time one went down, another seemed to pop up in its place. Over and over again, until—
All the remaining dolls suddenly collapsed on the carpet. Motionless, lifeless, still. As dolls should be.
"Wait. Where's Marianne?" I asked.
Gavin and I whipped around. Bits of stuffing swirled through the air, falling onto the broken plastic bodies. Clumps of shiny hair scattered the floor. Torn scraps of tiny clothing lay everywhere.
But the Mother of Dolls was gone.
No Magic, No Problem Page 2