by M. D. Massey
Unfortunately, the mage who’d attacked the ogre had done a thorough job on him. Similar to the manner in which Jeretta had been killed, the ogre’s torso had been pierced by multiple projectiles from a dozen different angles. Considering the severity of his injuries, I was surprised he was still breathing at all. It was clear that he didn’t have long, and I knew there was little I could do to save him.
Cursing myself for leaving him alone this evening, I grabbed one of his huge hands, holding it in my own.
“I’m here, big guy. I’m here.”
The ogre’s eyes fluttered open, and he pulled his hand from mine. He locked eyes with me, then he made the same gesture with both hands, over and over again.
“I don’t understand what you’re trying to tell me. Just… just relax and save your energy. I’m going to call Finnegas, and he’ll know what to do.”
The ogre’s eyes softened as he looked at me, and he made the gesture one last time. Then, with a soft whine, he closed his eyes and breathed his last.
“Fuuuuck!” I screamed as I slammed my fist into a nearby car door, splitting my knuckles in the process. Immediately realizing how stupid that display of anger was, I shook my hand out to make sure I hadn’t broken it—thankfully, it still worked. I snatched the sword from the dirt and ran in the same direction I’d seen Elmo’s assailant fleeing moments before.
I switched my vision to the magical spectrum for a moment, just in case there might be some residual presence of magic that might indicate where he’d gone. It wasn’t much, but it was there—fading wisps of power that had peeled off the murderer as he fled. I followed the trail, and it led straight to the junkyard fence. I climbed atop a stack of cars, but there was nothing on the other side but a dark, empty street. Elmo’s killer was long gone.
Frustration and anger roiled in my gut as I walked back to the scene of the crime. I only had a few hours to piece together any evidence the killer might have left behind; despite the boiling cauldron of rage inside me, I needed to get to work. I called Finnegas and told him what had happened, then started going over the scene.
I grabbed a few portable spotlights and a generator from the workshop and set them up to illuminate the area. Seeing Elmo lit up like Christmas, hanging like a puppet from a dozen different pieces of scrap and junk… well… it turned my stomach a bit. But as grisly as it was, my inability to save him was more responsible for the pit in my gut than the sight of Elmo’s body.
I put all those thoughts out of my mind and focused on doing what I did best, which was deciphering clues and catching supernatural killers. I’d done the same thing at every other murder scene I’d investigated over the last few weeks, but I knew this time it’d be different.
Because this time, I’d chased the killer off before he could cover his tracks. That meant I finally had a chance at catching this piece of shit… and the sight of poor Elmo’s broken corpse gave me every motivation to do exactly that.
Five
I was still working the scene when the sun came up, searching for every last clue I could find. So far, I’d turned up damned little; a shoe print that indicated the murderer had been of average height and build, a poisoned arrow that had been used to slow the ogre down, and a few torn shreds of clothing where the killer had gotten hung up on some barbed wire clearing the fence.
Since he or she had made it past my wards, I assumed the killer was human or damned good at bypassing supernatural security measures. And based on the mechanism of injury, the killer was adept at casting telekinetic magic.
That last bit was the most telling piece of information I’d gleaned over the last several hours. Telekinesis was a rather uncommon magical skill that fell within the category of spell craft commonly known as psionics. Although psionic spells did in fact have some parallel to the “mind powers” found in popular culture and role-playing games, real psionic practitioners used magic to control and amplify the electromagnetic energy found in nature. This allowed the practitioner of psionics to move metallic objects with their mind, to communicate with others by thought alone, to “read” the thoughts of others, and to mentally manipulate simple electronics.
What was even more intriguing was that psionicists typically mingled technology and magic in order to increase their power. Similar to the way in which alchemists combined magic and chemistry, psionicists used electronic devices to help them amplify and channel their mental energies at a level impossible to achieve through natural means alone.
In short, psionicists were technomancers, and that was an obscure branch of magic indeed. I’d personally never run across anyone who practiced technomancy, simply because it was such an expensive field of magic to pursue. In order to become a practitioner of technomancy of any consequence, a magician would need vast financial resources in order to design, build, and experiment on their own technomagical devices. Such devices weren’t something you could just buy at the local Radio Shack—they were almost always expensive, custom tech.
Knowing that our killer practiced technomancy allowed me to narrow our field of suspects down to a very small community of practitioners. And the fact that the killer was likely wealthy immediately made me think of the strange visitor I’d spoken with a few days before. That man’s attitude had smacked of entitlement and privilege, and he’d damned sure showed more interest in Elmo than might have been warranted.
Yeah, I was pretty sure that he was either the killer, or somehow connected to the culprit. I just wished I had paid more attention to the guy, but of course hindsight was always 20/20. At least I knew what he looked like. There couldn’t be that many people in Austin with access to the sort of money and technology necessary to do technomancy at such a high level.
Could there?
I collected my thoughts as I sipped a cup of coffee, waiting for Finnegas to finish his current task. After I’d gone over the scene again, we finally used a cutting torch to get Elmo’s body down. A pressure washer got rid of the blood, and Finnegas used an earth-moving spell to bury the big guy right where he fell. It seemed like we owed him more than just an unmarked grave in junkyard, but the logistics of the situation dictated that we handled it as we did.
At least Ed and the rest of the workers would be none the wiser, so that was something. Ed would wonder where Elmo had gone, but workers came and went all the time around the junkyard. It was nothing unusual for someone to get hired, work a few days, and then quit when they got their first paycheck. No, Elmo would not be missed—at least, not by anyone but me and Finnegas.
“It’s done,” the old man said as he approached, snapping me out of my thoughts and back to the present.
“Wish I could have been more help with that,” I said, noting how slowly Finnegas was moving, and the dark circles that had appeared under his eyes. Spell craft took a lot out of him these days. He used to blame it on the aftereffects of his addiction, but lately he’d revealed—in classic Detective Murtaugh style—that he was simply “getting too old for this shit.”
I was pretty sure he was using his age to guilt me into working overtime to learn druidry from him—but to be honest, it was working.
Finnegas grunted in response to my polite overture. We both knew that he was ten times the druid I was, even on my best day, and that I couldn’t work a spell of that enormity if my life depended on it. I could toss a little lightning around, or start a fire, or amplify a small explosion, but that mostly involved redirecting existing energy to where I wanted it to go.
Moving several tons of dirt, on the other hand… that was serious magic, and it’d be some time before I possessed that kind of mojo.
The old man sat heavily on the tailgate of a rusted-out truck. I handed him a warm thermos of coffee, and he poured himself a cup in the cap.
“I’m gonna miss that big dummy,” Finnegas said with a sniffle as he wiped his nose with the back of his hand.
“Me too, even though he tried to kill me once.” I raised my mug in the air. “To Elmo.”
Fi
nnegas copied the gesture. “To Elmo. May he roam forever in Mag Mell, chasing dragonflies and playing with furry red dolls to his heart’s content.”
Several minutes passed in uncomfortable silence. Finnegas was old-school, and I was a bit too much of a dude to start talking about the feels with another guy. So, I ignored the few tears he shed while keeping my own to a bare minimum as well. Once I felt that I could speak without choking up, I broke the silence.
“I’m going to catch this fucker, you know,” I said in a low growl. “And I’m going to start by going through that fae trailer park door to door, to find out why the killer chose Jeretta…”
A pleasant tenor voice with a peculiar brogue cut me off mid-sentence. “No need, my boy, no need. I took the liberty of doing so me self.”
There stood Click, one of the teens from the trailer park. Or, at least, that’s what he wanted everyone to believe. During my investigation into the disappearance of Sal’s son, I’d discovered that Click was much more than he appeared. At the very least, he was a powerful magic user, and probably very old as well.
Finnegas hissed slightly, crossing his arms with a scowl at the sight of the strange youth. Apparently, there was some history there that I was unaware of. Not wanting to be rude, I greeted the object of Finnegas’ discontent.
“Click. I guess I don’t need to ask what brings you here. My condolences on the loss of your friend.” Click had known Jeretta well, and I had no doubt that was why he was here.
The mysterious youth acknowledged me and Finnegas, each in turn. “Druid. Seer.” Finn’s scowl deepened, but Click ignored his reaction as he regarded me. “I thank you for that, Colin, I surely do. And that’d indeed be what brings me to your home on this otherwise fine day. Sad that it should be marred by the loss of such a gentle soul. As such, I came to beseech you to find the killer or killers, so that justice might be served.”
Finnegas pursed his lips, exhaling with a pfft and an eye roll. He laid a hand gently on my arm and stood. “Be wary around this one, kid.” He tilted his head at Click. “He’s a wolf in sow’s clothing, if ever there was one.”
I watched Finnegas walk away from us as he ignored Click entirely. “Well, that was interesting. What’d you do to get the old man in such a tissy?”
Click’s mouth twitched side to side. “Old prejudices die hard, I suppose. But, what’s done is done. I’m more concerned about events in the present, than a grudge held long past its due.”
I took a pull off my beer as I regarded Click through narrowed eyes. There was a story there, I was sure of it, but now wasn’t the appropriate time to tease it out of him. I pointed at the tailgate Finnegas had just vacated.
“Have a seat, Click. Care to tell me how you skirted my wards?”
He sat, fixing me with an inscrutable stare. “Yes.”
I waited for several moments, then sighed and shook my head. “Fine then, don’t tell me. What’d you learn from the folks in the trailer park? Did Jeretta reveal anything that might indicate she knew something about her killer?”
Click leaned in, crossing an ankle over his knee. “Indeed. But as you’re well aware, our Jeretta wasn’t given over to communicating via the spoken word—much the same as our enormous friend, the ogre.” He glanced around, obviously looking for Elmo. “Where is he, by the way?”
My voice trembled slightly as I shared the news. “Someone snuck in here and killed him last night.”
Click’s expression grew even more serious. “That’s a damned shame, it is. The poor oaf never bothered a soul, and we both know he nearly died trying to save fair Jeretta. I should’ve seen this coming and offered my help sooner, druid. For that, I am sorry.”
I coughed and took a swig of coffee, trying to avoid an inadvertent display of emotion. “Well, what’s done is done. Getting back to Jeretta, did she communicate anything of interest lately? Like maybe a vision or viewing that seemed out of place?”
Click tsked. “Well that’s just the thing, isn’t it? Of late, she’d clammed up, so to speak. The girl had stopped interacting with her friends, and instead took to spending hours on end wandering the area alone. She seemed quite melancholy, she did, which was unusual for her.”
“Something must’ve happened recently to cause such an abrupt change in her personality,” I said.
“I agree. And while no one could tell me a thing about what sort of visions Jeretta had been experiencing recently, I believe I have a fairly good idea of what her last revelation was.”
“Okay. And…?”
Click spread his arms wide, stretching the tight white t-shirt he wore across his model-thin chest. “Well, isn’t it obvious, lad? She saw a vision of her own death!”
“That would explain her sudden change,” I said. “But this helps us how, exactly?”
Click drew himself up imperiously. “I’m not the sleuth—how am I supposed to know where that bit of information might lead? I’m merely the messenger, druid, not the justiciar. That responsibility falls to you, does it not? For who else might serve as judge, jury, and executioner, but one with ties to no faction but his own?”
“Right,” I said. “Well, I’d already been hired by the red caps to figure out who’s behind these killings. But I sort of quit on them a few days ago. That being said, Elmo’s death changes things—I just can’t let something like that stand. Rest assured, I’m on the case.”
“Yes, but what will you do once you find the killers, hmm? Arrest them?” Click leaned forward, hands on his knees, eyes hooded and glowering. “Blood cries for blood, lad! Promise me that if it’s within your power, you’ll see that the scales are balanced. Promise!”
I sighed. “Click, I can’t promise something like that, because I don’t know the whole story yet. And if you’re so invested in seeing justice done, why don’t you do it yourself? You’re certainly capable, from what I’ve seen.”
Click shook his head with a sigh. “My hands are tied, druid—conditions of presiding in Maeve’s demesne, you see. Although she’s hardly in a position to enforce those stipulations these days. But manners maketh the man, so I’ll stick to my word regardless. Thus, it falls to you to right these wrongs, and to see the killer or killers brought to justice.”
He looked at me, twitching his nose like the White Rabbit. I set my coffee down, returning his stare. There was more coming, and I’d learned when dealing with the fae that the less you spoke, the better.
“Plus, I’ll make it worth your while.”
“There it is,” I said as I crossed my arms, stroking my chin while I considered the implications of entering an agreement with Click. For one, I might be able to call on him for back up, if things got nasty. And from what I’d seen, Click was no pushover. On the down side, though, making deals with the fae never did quite turn out the way you expected.
“Fine. I mean, I was going to do it anyway,” I said. “But since you’re offering to hire me, I suppose we need to discuss the manner and terms of compensation.”
“Payment will be in the way of knowledge—magical knowledge, in fact, of a sort you covet. My magic.”
“You’re going to teach me your magic? In exchange for hunting Jeretta’s killer down?”
“I will and I am, and I suppose there’s no better time than the present to begin.” Then, with a snap of his fingers, he disappeared.
“I’d like to know how you do that,” I muttered.
“And you will, eventually,” Click’s disembodied voice replied from nearby. “But we must walk before we run. So, here’s your first lesson: the tactical offensive use of temporal fields, and methods of escaping said constructs.”
I stood up quickly, spilling my coffee. “Huh? Wait, I never—”
My protest came too late. I heard Click snap his fingers, and suddenly I was paralyzed, frozen in place like a fly in amber.
What the hell has he done to me? I wondered. I could see things moving around me, but I couldn’t move a muscle. I watched as a dragonfly flew toward me.
But on closer inspection, I noticed something peculiar. The dragonfly’s wings were still beating, albeit in slow motion.
Temporal fields—of course. He told me what he was doing before he did it. Obviously, Click had locked me in some sort of temporal stasis field—the dragonfly was evidence of that. And if it could still move, so could I.
I observed the dragonfly for a few moments, doing some rough calculations in my head. Dragonflies beat their wings about thirty times a second, and it was taking about three seconds per wing beat… so, time was moving approximately one hundred times slower inside Click’s stasis field.
Funny that I should be able to think at normal speed. I supposed it must have something to do with the metaphysical nature of the mind-body-spirit connection. Perhaps the spirit interacted with the mind and body to process thought, and that precluded the influence of time manipulation on thought patterns. Or maybe the brain processed information so quickly that a stasis field barely affected its functions.
I decided that I could think about it all day and still be no closer to an answer, so I turned my thoughts toward finding a way to escape the spell. Obviously, I possessed a means or method of doing so, else Click wouldn’t have cast the spell on me. I supposed I should’ve been upset about it, but after years of training with Finnegas, I’d gotten used to shitty surprises like this one.