Grimstone: A Croft and Wesson Adventure

by Brad Magnarella

  Still need a power source, though… The Hadrian Circle! I thought suddenly.

  It operated on multiple planes. If James was still sustaining the circle, I could attempt to tap into it, use it to drive an attack into the being.

  Closing my eyes, I first felt for the connection between the cane and the being. I found it, a slender vibrating thread, and took it in an astral hand. Stretching out my other arm, I felt for the energy of the Hadrian Circle.

  C’mon, James, please tell me you’re still pushing power through it.

  It was a long shot. Despite what I’d told him, he’d probably come over to help me. I imagined him kneeling beside me as my face purpled, cycling through every invocation he knew to get the being to release my throat, the circle pulsing dimmer and dimmer as it expired.

  But then I felt a familiar pattern of energy.

  Oh, bless you, child, I thought toward James.

  I seized the potent energy, drew in a breath, and shouted, “Disfare!”

  Raw energy released from the circle. I called in as much as I could, channeling it through the hunting spell. The thread swelled as power went storming down its length and into the being.

  I drew a savage breath and sat bolt upright. Fluorescent lights seared my eyes as my lids peeled back and my chest grabbed a lungful of oxygen. My throat felt raw and swollen, and I could taste blood.

  “Shit, man, what happened?” James asked.

  He dropped into a crouch beside me, the tip of his wand dimming. All around us boxes and files had spilled from their shelves, probably when I yanked the energy into the other realm. Smoke rose from the spent casting circle. I nodded to tell James I was all right, then fell into a fit of coughing.

  “How long was I down?” I wheezed.

  “I don’t know, fifteen, twenty seconds. Scared the crap out of me.”

  “I got pulled in,” I said, pushing myself to my knees.

  As James helped me stand, the door opened. I followed Marge’s severe gaze around the trashed room. “What in holy hell happened in here?” Our condition seemed the least of her concerns.

  “Made contact with one of the girls,” I managed, my throat still on fire. “But whatever took them grabbed me. Pulled me into some other realm. Dark place, smelled like death. I had to blow the connection to the girl to get out of there. Apologies for the mess.”

  “So, we got nothing out of that,” Marge said in summation.

  My encounter in the alternate realm had given me a better sense of what we might be dealing with, but I knew what Marge meant. We didn’t have a thread to the missing girls anymore. Because, God knew, I wasn’t going to attempt a hunting spell on the remaining items.

  “We’ve got less than a day until the snatcher strikes again,” Marge reminded us. “Some poor girl is probably already walking around with a gold bracelet, no idea she’s next on the list.”

  Yeah, I thought, and the longer the being has access to our world, the larger his portal becomes. All kinds of horrors could squeeze through. If James thinks he’s got it bad here now, he’s going to love—

  “The bracelet,” he said suddenly. Marge and I turned toward him. A light seemed to illuminate his blue eyes. “That’s how we can locate the next victim. And once we have the bracelet, we can figure out its origin.”

  “Nice idea,” I said, “but we have no connection to the bracelet.”

  “I’m not talking about a connection. I’m just talking about the knowledge. I don’t know how the perp is getting the bracelet to these girls, but I’m guessing anonymously. Which means the girls could think they have a secret admirer, right? Well, what if we riffed on that.”

  “Riffed on that how?” Marge said.

  “Flood the local social media sites, take out an ad in the paper, maybe get something on the radio. It could be like a personal ad. You know, ‘To the girl of my dreams. I gave you a bracelet. Would you give me a call? Your Secret Admirer.’ Something like that. Word would have to get to her eventually, right? Seems a solid fifty-fifty that her curiosity would get the better of her and she’d pick up the phone.”

  I stared at James. “That’s actually a good idea.”

  “For a change,” Marge added.

  We gathered back in her office where Marge and James began drafting the ad. While they worked, I touched the end of my cane to my throat and spoke healing incantations.

  “I know the editor at the Star,” Marge said. “I’ll get him to run this for the next few days. And we have an agreement with the local radio station for announcements. I’ll have Deputy Franks post on the forums.” She checked her watch and muttered, “If he ever gets his ass in here.”

  At that moment, the front door to the building banged opened.

  “Speak of the devil,” Marge muttered.

  “Hey, Sheriff,” the deputy called in a voice that sounded like it was still in the throes of puberty. But when James and I turned, we were looking at a lanky man with thinning hair. He didn’t so much walk as stumble toward us, his highway-patrolman sunglasses jostling between a pair of large ears. I could tell he thought the glasses made him look tough.

  “Deputy, this is Everson Croft,” Marge said as I lowered my cane and extended a hand. “He’s teaming up with Wesson to help us with the disappearance cases.”

  Franks’s hand was damp when we shook. “You a magician too?” he asked.

  “Not quite,” I answered thinly, my voice mostly healed from the strangling. The deputy’s voice, on the other hand, sounded a little hoarse. Bluish shadows stood in the pits of his bony cheeks.

  Marge wrinkled her nose. “Have you been drinking?”

  I picked up the strong scent too, a mixture of turpentine and pure alcohol.

  “Oh, that.” Franks smacked his lips, and his Adam’s apple bulged when he swallowed. “I know you suggested lozenges, but there’s this old remedy my grandmother swore by. Supposed to cure any ailment.”

  “Good, because we’ve got work for you.” She gestured to the notepad on her desk. “Got some ads I want you to post. We’ll station you on the department’s backup line to field responses.”

  “What then?” I asked.

  “Well, if a girl calls and can accurately describe the bracelet, we’ll pick her up and put her in protective custody.”

  “I’m not sure that’s a good idea,” I said.

  Marge’s brow folded downward. I got the impression she wasn’t used to being contradicted.

  “Look,” I said, “we don’t know what kind of control the bracelet exerts over the girls. If the perp knows she’s been picked up, he or she could compel the wearer to harm herself—or the ones protecting her. And it might not be so easy to pull the bracelet off her, either. I’m betting it’s going to require magic to safely remove. I think our approach has to be more subtle.”

  “More subtle how?” Marge asked.

  “Getting her to agree to meet out,” I said.

  “Out? Like on a date?”

  “I guess you could call it that.”

  “And no disrespect to the deputy here,” James cut in, “but I think Everson and I should handle that part of things.”

  Marge looked over at Franks, who was thrusting his neck forward like a chicken as he tried to clear his throat. “You’ve got a point,” she said. “But what’s to stop the thing from attacking you again?”

  “The one advantage of having been dragged into its world is that I have a better idea of what we’re dealing with,” I said. “First, I didn’t get a demon vibe. I got much more of a … death vibe. The smell of the place, the way the being talked. Like I was in the underworld of a pagan god. Some of them are resistant to magic, which would explain how it penetrated our protective circle. We find out which god, and we can very likely destroy it.”

  “And how are you going to find that out?” Marge asked.

  “Research. I have a suitcase full of books back at James’s place. But first I want to stop at the local library, see if there’s anything in the archive
s that matches the pattern of disappearances.”

  “We have all that stuff databased,” Marge said. “Didn’t find diddly.”

  “I’m talking way back. Like, to the founding of Grimstone.”

  “Knock yourself out,” she said. “Okay, we’ll use your number for the ad, Wesson.” She narrowed her eyes at my partner before shifting them back to me. “But if the girl does call, the department is going to be involved in anything you arrange. Are we clear?”

  “Yes, ma’am,” James and I answered in unison.

  8

  James drummed his fingers against the steering wheel as he drove us across town. The beats became more and more emphatic, to the point I couldn’t think.

  “Do you mind?” I snapped.

  “Oh, sorry.” He stopped drumming and gripped the wheel. “Just getting excited.”

  “For a library visit? I didn’t realize the prospect of research did that for you.”

  “Naw,” he chuckled. “I’ve got my eye on this chick who works there.”

  “Well, I’m going to need both of your eyes on the newspaper archives.”

  “She wears reading glasses and these conservative sweaters,” he went on, his smile growing broader. “But the way she wears them. Whoa, momma.” He shook his head and propped his forearm on the windowsill. “I’m telling you, there’s a she-tiger crouching inside. Just wait till you see her, man.”

  “Can’t wait,” I muttered.

  “She mostly blows me off, but I’m playing the long game with this one. The end’s a foregone conclusion, though. Always is,” he said with a cocky grin. “Her name’s Myrtle.”

  “Myrtle?” I pictured an old woman with a dowager’s hump and orthopedic shoes.

  “Don’t let the name fool you, bro. She is fine with a capital F.”

  “I’ll take your word for it, but look, we’ve got a lot of material to go through and not a lot of time. Focus, man. I’m serious. Your idea about the ad was brilliant. I need more of that from you.”

  “It was pretty brilliant, wasn’t it?”

  “But it’s only one iron,” I added quickly. “We need to get as many in the fire as we can.”

  I was new to this whole mentoring thing. I didn’t want to lean on James so hard that he turned resentful, but neither did I want to inflate his already considerable ego. There was a balance in there somewhere.

  “All right, Prof. Point taken.”

  James straightened and turned the Jeep onto Main Street. Grimstone’s north-south drag had a distinctively western look. Along the flat-fronted blocks, restaurants stood beside antique furniture stores and coffee shops. Families in colorful attire ambled the sidewalks. “Only part of town that’s actually nice,” James remarked. “The highways bring in a few tourists.”

  A short, squat man in an antiquated suit and pie hat caught my eye. He was waddling up and down the sidewalk, trying to get passers-by to step into a real estate office located beside a mining museum. Through my open window, I caught barked phrases like “Once in a lifetime opportunity!” and “Don’t miss it!” Trim the swaying orange beard and the man could have been a carnival barker.

  “Who’s he?” I asked, nodding.

  “Oh, that’s Tjalf,” James answered with a snort. “Everyone in town calls him Taffy. Member of the Brunhold clan. One of the sons, I think. Or maybe a grandson. I can’t keep them all straight. He’s one of the few with personality, though.”

  “They’re the developers, right?” I asked, remembering what Marge had said at James’s house the night before.

  “And dwarves.”

  “Dwarves? You mean actual dwarves, not just the short-in-stature kind?”

  “The real deal,” James said. “They settled in the area a long time ago. Used their dwarf know-how to mine out the precious metals, then plowed their wealth into development and real estate. Have a monopoly in Grimstone County. They all live in a compound together. Kind of strange.”

  I repeated the name. “Tjalf Brunhold. That’s old German.”

  “I know that look, Prof. Your brain’s chewing on something.”

  “Well, a lot of pagan gods come from that region of Europe. And with dwarves capable of harnessing powerful magic…”

  “You think they could be summoning the god?”

  “I think they’re worth keeping in mind. That’s all.”

  When the dwarf spun toward us, I was too slow to look away. I waited a second, then snuck another peek. Sudden anger seized his face as his animated eyes turned the color of stone. Naturally, the light at the intersection chose that moment to cycle to red, and we rolled to a stop right beside him. I averted my gaze, pretending to become interested in the street sign.

  “See something green?” Taffy barked. When I didn’t answer, he waddled up to the Jeep and kicked it. The impact was violent, shaking the vehicle. I’d read about dwarf strength, but damn. “Hey, pencil neck, I’m talking to you.”

  “Oh,” I said, pretending to notice him for the first time. “Is there a problem down there?”

  I was resorting to wise-assery—probably not the best example for James—but I hadn’t cared for the dwarf’s characterization of me. Taffy’s cheeks hardened into red garnets. “How about I beat you into the sidewalk so you can see for yourself if there’s a problem down here?”

  He tried to open my door, which I’d fortunately locked. His hands shot up and groped for me through the open window.

  “What the…?”

  I leaned back and slapped at his hairy fingers. The dwarf huffed and grunted as he jumped up to reach me. On his third attempt, he managed to grasp the shoulder of my coat and pull me against the door. As I fought to free myself, I imagined his stubby feet kicking above the street.

  “Wait!” James called, trying his hardest not to laugh. “Hey, it’s cool, man, it’s cool.”

  The dwarf stopped trying to extract me through the window and took a few steps back. He squinted as he fixed his pie hat. Short-sightedness was another one of their traits.

  “James?” he asked, still squinting. They were also too proud to wear glasses.

  “Yeah, it’s me. Everson here’s a friend of mine from out of town. I’m just showing him around.”

  “Well, you need to tell your friend that this isn’t a freak show.”

  “No worries, man,” he said. “I’ll tell him. You doing all right?”

  “Business as usual,” he grunted, straightening his jacket.

  “I’ll stop in one of these days, see what’s on the market. Might be looking for a place soon.” The light changed. “All right, Taffy. Hang loose, bro.”

  “It’s Tjalf!” he shouted as we rolled away.

  James laughed and punched me in the arm. “Told you he had personality.”

  “Just a little,” I muttered, my heart still slamming. I smoothed out the wadded-up ball of fabric where Taffy had grabbed my coat, watching his diminishing figure through the side mirror. He was back to hailing passers-by—“The best investment money can buy!”—but our encounter was a good reminder that no matter how they looked or talked, dwarves were not to be messed with.

  Especially true if they had a pagan god on their side.

  A minute later, James turned off Main Street and into a small lot. A two-story building of gray stone rose in front of us: the Grimstone County Library. Though small, it exuded a dignified air. Something told me I was going to be right at home inside.

  “Damn, she’s not here today,” James said.

  “Myrtle? How do you know?”

  “Her car’s not in the lot.”

  “Bummer,” I said.

  We entered the library and spoke with the librarian on duty, an elderly woman who looked like a Myrtle but whose nametag read “Britney.” She led us through the stacks to a room where a giant set of beige drawers held microfilm of the town paper going back to its first edition. Britney wanted to stay and show us how to use the directory and microfilm viewers, but we assured her we were fine. She left lookin
g disappointed.

  “So how should we do this?” James asked, taking a seat in front of the directory.

  “Let’s start with a keyword search. ‘Disappearance,’ ‘Abduction,’ ‘Murder,’ ‘Serial.’ Put them in one at a time.”

  James complied. “Getting a ton of hits.”

  “Let’s narrow it down, then. Marge said nothing came up in her database, so let’s go back to pre-1980.”

  James tapped the keyboard and nodded. “Better.”

  “Print off the results, and then do the same for the remaining keywords. We’ll split the list and each take a microfilm machine.”

  “I was so hoping Myrtle would be here,” he said wistfully.

  “James. Focus.”

  Four hours later, I scrolled to the final article on my list—an attempted murder in September 1884. I scanned the story with straining eyes, but it was about a saloon owner firing at a man she claimed owed a gambling debt. I peered over at James. The more things changed…

  “Anything?” I asked him.

  For the past hour James had been sighing and grumbling, obviously tiring of the search. But now he was leaning toward the viewer, his illuminated face absorbed in whatever he was reading.

  “Maybe…” he answered faintly.

  I stood and came up behind him.

  “Two broads disappeared in the early 1900s, but they caught the dude. Rancher named Sten Klausen.”

  “Blond?” I asked, squinting to read the grainy text.

  “No mention of his hair color.”

  “Not him, dummy. The women.”

  “Relax, Prof, I’m just messing with you. Doesn’t say. One was a nurse and the other a visiting teacher.” His lips moved quietly as he read. “And look! They disappeared a month apart.”

  I caught up to where he was in the article and jotted down the dates: exactly thirty days apart. If we were looking at full moons, we definitely had something. James and I read the rest of the story in silence. Sten was arrested on suspicion after making a drunken boast in a saloon that not only would the missing women never be recovered but that there would be more disappearances.