Sinners & Sorcerers: Four Urban Fantasy Thrillers

by SM Reine

  “Okay, I’ll hold,” she said.

  But I didn’t hold, even though she wasn’t talking to me. I jumped two feet without using my legs.

  A mouse had come into the hallway, darting like a kamikaze bomber straight at me.

  I didn’t run, though. I neatly stepped on it. Blood spurted from under my boot in five different directions, and the bones crunched like potato chips.

  I was relatively proud of myself. In any other circumstance, I would have fled the room, waving my arms, screaming bloody murder at the top of my lungs.

  Okay, maybe I wouldn’t have acted that dramatically, but I sure as hell wouldn’t have calmly lifted my foot and squashed the shit out of the mouse at any other time in my life. The truth is, I had pretended it was Gerda. Or Louise.

  I twisted my boot once more for good luck.

  I wasn’t planning on staying around for that much-anticipated sequel: The Return of the Becursed Mice: Watch as They Try and Eat Al, One Nibble at a Time.

  Sure to be a summer hit.

  More mice were coming into the living room, as if somebody had rung the breakfast bell at hell camp. There’s a point where fear turns into blind, scared rage, and I must have hit that point. I went into action like a faded celeb on Dancing with the Stars, kicking, flailing, pirouetting and stomping. I ignored the ones now swarming over my legs.

  “Call you back!” Tabby shouted into the phone as she dashed for the door.

  I dashed, too. The cream shag carpeting now boiled with the little buggers, and even without a deep-seated phobia, any sane person would have been in a state of panic.

  One mouse made it up my leg despite my best efforts, and when it reached my neck, I felt the tips of its teeth rub across my skin like a vampire bat without the wings. I plucked it free and hurled it against the wall, where it hit with a satisfying smack. If my life ever did get back to normal, I’d be facing some serious interior renovation.

  With mice crunching and squishing underfoot, I turned to see Tabby at the door, wrestling with the handle. She actually screeched, and the feminine, high-pitched tone made me feel a little better about being a coward. A couple of mice were tangled in her hair, and I grabbed them and smashed their tiny little heads together.

  God, I was starting to enjoy it a little.

  And that spooked me almost as much as being eaten alive by mice.

  Tabitha seemed to have an easier time of it, for she probably sported no more than half the mice I did, but it was still an evil sight seeing all those mice crawling all over this beautiful woman who was my link to the woman I’d loved and the child I needed to save.

  She reached into her jacket and I was sure she was going to come out with a pistol, which would have been a little like shooting gnats with a cannon. She thought better of it, and instead flung the door open and shook her shoulders, shedding mice as the pink, welcome dawn poured in.

  By the time I reached the opening, my hands and the back of my neck had been bitten repeatedly. Blood gleamed wetly on the black material of my jacket, but was unnoticeable otherwise. Though I still slapped at my hands and neck, it seemed fruitless, for the mice would reappear almost instantly. Where one died, two seemed to take its place. And, considering I was still under a curse, that might have been the prescribed mathematical formula.

  They were back in full force now. Perhaps even in greater numbers than before.

  As if displaying a sense of humor, one of the little shits bit me on my ring finger, right where a gold band might have protected me. I slammed the back of my hand against the doorjamb, and the mouse gave a tiny squeak of surprise. It died far more suddenly than it deserved.

  Tabby and I poured out of my house along with about a hundred mice. If the neighbors hadn’t had their fill of Albert Shipway legends yet, then here was another harvest for the gossip mill.

  I reached for my Harley keys in my left front pocket, felt a plump mouse, tossed it aside, and quickly dug back into the pocket.

  No keys.

  I felt the left front pocket. No luck.

  Alarm overcame me. Did I leave the keys in the house? Did I have to go back in there? Or else try to outrun the Critter Patrol on foot?

  I patted my back jeans pockets. Nope. Still nothing.

  My hands swept over all the pockets again, sure that I had missed the big wad of keys somehow. I hadn’t.

  Shit.

  “I don’t have my keys!” I shouted at Tabby, who was already mounting the bike.

  “Hop on,” she said. And then Tabitha produced the most glorious, glimmering bundle I had ever seen. My keys.

  “What—” I didn’t have time to finish the question before she’d filled the ignition and gunned the bike to life.

  The bike was already in motion by the time I mounted it like an Apache brave hopping a pony in a John Wayne Western, legs spread and straddling, hoping none of my special areas were damaged during touchdown.

  Once we hit the street, Tabby leaning into the turn with experience and confidence, I settled behind her and held on as she broke half a dozen traffic laws. I couldn’t help but recall Tattoo Boy’s taunts of the night before, but my manhood was the least of my worries at the moment, because we still had mice clinging to us.

  I beat them off as best I could while hanging on for dear life. You should try it sometime. It’s not all that easy.

  23

  It took about fifteen minutes of high-speed, life-or-death action before we’d shucked all the mice. Tabby only hit one pothole and somehow managed to avoid police detection. When we hit the hills above Fullerton, she finally pulled over.

  The road we were on was not a major road, for it meandered through the back hills of Fullerton. To the right of us, just off the road, were big houses nestled behind gated fences. Spruces and pines were abundant here, and I figured that Fullerton was the rare city where a short drive could go from flat, mundane streets at ocean level to hills thick with trees and winding roads.

  As I dismounted with trembling legs and tingling fingers, I noticed one remaining hitchhiker clinging to my jeans. He’d found the one place I couldn’t see while on the bike, and it was an area that, despite my fondness for it, had led to most of the troubles in my life. Its pointy little fangs seemed to be caught on the zipper tug.

  “Uh, want me to remove that for you?” Tabby said.

  I kept my cool because, though traffic was light, it was still Fullerton and people had business. And even in California, a guy on the side of the road frantically beating at his crotch still drew attention and aroused suspicion. A red BMW with tinted windows blew by going about twenty miles over the speed limit.

  Tabby triggered the kickstand and came over. “Look at its ribs,” she said. “The poor thing’s starving.”

  “Well, this poor thing, along with his buddies, tried to eat me alive—and you, too, I might add. And that’s no place to end a hunger strike.”

  Tabby reached down and set a finger on its furry back, and I tried to think of a joke but just couldn’t. The mouse did not acknowledge the contact. Its stomach moved in and out quickly with each little breath.

  “I think I know the nature of the curse,” said Tabby. “These mice weren’t conjured out of thin air by my grandmother. They were summoned, using some of her most powerful magic. This guy could have lived miles from here, but it was summoned nonetheless. In fact, there’s probably more on their way now, great floods of mice making their way to either you or your house, though I think it’s your house, since that seems to be the stipulation of the curse.”

  “And so this mouse, along with the others, has not eaten since being, uh, summoned?” I asked, still acting calm as drivers passed who were oblivious to the demonic forces just a layer of denim away from my naughty bits.

  “It’s in bad shape, as are many of the others.”

  “Why doesn’t it eat, then, and leave me the fuck alone?”

  “It can’t. Animals, with strong enough magic, can be taken control of. In fact, the smalle
r the animal, the easier to control, for their life-force, their vital energy, their soul is weaker, a mere glimmering compared to humans. A stronger soul, using magic, can always overcome a weaker one, and, as we have seen, command the weaker to do its bidding, as my grandmother has done here.”

  As we spoke, the exhausted mouse barely moved, dangling there limply like a hunter’s pelt. “My greatest fear,” I said.

  “No, I think that’s all bait and switch,” Tabby said. “Nana was a clever one. You thought your greatest fear was mice, and she gave you that, but she also knew more about you than she let on.”

  “Wait a sec. You’re saying it gets worse than a furry little shit trying to dig its way into my pants?”

  I followed Tabby’s gaze and looked down at the mouse. It was an awkward moment no matter how you spun it. The mouse’s nose was not twitching, and its scrawny ribs weren’t moving. It was dead.

  “That might be a metaphor for your greatest fear,” Tabby said. “Magic is all about symbols, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

  I turned and stepped over the guardrail. Tabby started to follow but I held up my hand. “A little privacy, please. Some things a man just has to do alone.”

  With a gentleness that almost bordered on reverence, I cupped the mouse and wiggled it. My zipper went down an inch or so before the mouse came free. I laid it to rest in the tall grass, though I skipped any words of prayer for its eternal peace.

  Tabby was on the phone when I got back, reciting an address in the hills north of Fullerton. I deduced it was the deeds office on the line. Maybe when all this blew over, I’d give up my insurance gig and become a detective. Assuming I survived.

  When Tabby finished, I said, “Where did you get my keys?”

  “From your pocket.”

  I shot her my meanest glance. “When?”

  “While you were asleep. Or passed out, whatever you prefer. I couldn’t take the chance that you’d freak out and make a run for it, take the easy way out like you always do.”

  I thought of those strong, slender hands roaming over my body and I wasn’t sure whether I liked it or not. But for sure I didn’t like the accusation that I was going to let Gerda have her way with my son while I sat on a bar stool moaning about how badly the world had treated me.

  Like you’ve spent the past ten months doing?

  Sometimes you wish the voices in your head would just shut the hell up.

  “You have an address?” I said, deftly changing the subject.

  “Yeah, a ‘Louise Sanderson’ bought a cabin about 40 miles north of here two months ago. Remote but not totally off the map.”

  “So we go there?”

  “Yes, but we have another stop to make first.”

  “Yeah?”

  “Nana’s magic is strong. Very strong. We’re going to need some major mojo.”

  My mouth fell open. “No. Please don’t tell me this gets even worse.”

  She nodded. “I’m afraid so, Al. Worse, I suspect the mice are just a secondary curse.”

  I seriously did not like the direction this conversation was going. “What the devil does that mean?”

  “You’ve been cursed twice, Albert Shipway. I’m certain of it.”

  “Okay, that’s just not a very nice thing to say.”

  “Bait and switch. See, Amanda must have told Nana everything. And Nana figured out your greatest fear wasn’t just the mice, which she probably picked up from some offhand comment.”

  I swallowed hard. “I swear, I don’t have any other phobias. Snakes on a plane, bring ‘em on. Spiders, I love the little guys. Dentists, I’m a big fan of laughing gas.”

  Tabby almost grinned. Almost. “I think your greatest fear is having to face yourself. To look in the mirror and say, ‘Albert Shipway, you’re a sorry, selfish jerk who ruins everything he touches.’ Like you enjoyed tricking Amanda into falling in love with you while you were secretly married to a damaged woman. Like you knew you were cooking up all the plot ingredients for a Jerry Springer special, taking as much as you could get. Like you knew all this had to end badly, but somehow you’d come out looking like the victim, probably so you could cry on the shoulders of a few more women and have them fall into bed out of sympathy. While you laughed and drank and celebrated at the altar of the wicked little rodent between your legs. That’s what I think, Shipway.”

  I didn’t dignify the accusation with a response. All I could do, after an awkward silence, was change the subject again. “So, where do we get this major mojo you were talking about?”

  “Dada.”

  “Huh?”

  “Nana’s father.”

  I did a quick calculation in my head. That would have put him well over the century mark, maybe up to 150 years. I didn’t think I was going to like this, but what choice did I have?

  “Umm, we’re not going to have to summon him from beyond the grave or anything, are we?”

  “Depends.”

  “Great.” And here I was, thinking all I had to worry about was my wife mutilating my baby and mice treating me like a Thanksgiving turkey.

  Tabby headed for the bike.

  “Do I get to drive now?” I asked.

  “No.”

  24

  We turned right off the twisting highway and into a tract of houses. The street was dark, for trees clustered thickly along both sides. I almost expected to hear the cry of a howling monkey, or see a lost Mayan temple rising from behind the thick trees. Instead, I saw huge houses of all shapes and sizes and ages, with gated yards and wild gardens.

  Tabby wheeled the bike in front of an iron fence. The fence sealed off the entrance to a long, snaking driveway that disappeared under a canopy of trees. I could not even see the house from where we were, just spiky pines trees and billowy brush.

  Tabby took her helmet off, and when a voice crackled over the intercom, I had to restrain myself from ordering a Big Mac Value Pack with extra ketchup. Apparently Tabby understood whatever-the-hell language was spoken over the intercom, and surprised me by answering back in the same jabberwocky. The next thing I knew, the iron gate had opened...so silently that I had not even been aware of it doing so.

  As Tabby accelerated onto the property, I noticed a red BMW moving very slowly down the street on my right. My mind told me that this was the same BMW that had sped past me earlier, and my mind also told me that if this BMW had been in such a hurry earlier, then why was it crawling through the streets now? And though Fullerton had its share of BMWs, it seemed like too much of a coincidence, but I had other worries at the moment.

  We drove on through the gate, seemingly down a private, winding interstate. We plunged under the canopy of trees and I felt like Ichabod Crane during his last trek through the dark woods of Sleepy Hollow. A bird suddenly squawked nearby—a fat crow—and I gripped Tabitha nervously. Or maybe I just liked squeezing up against her without mice between us.

  The lane turned lazily to the right, and I kept my eyes glued to the translucent white cobblestones that seemed to glow with an inner light, my only guide through this dark little forest. And just like that, the brightness of the morning splashed the cobblestones before us, searing my eyes with morning light while the canopy of trees thinned and finally opened to the view of an impressive edifice. Colonial columns, lots of glass, white paint and black trim, all three stories’ worth.

  “Some house,” I shouted over the bike. We followed the white cobblestone path as it circled a huge fountain of rather robust mermaids. “Reminds me of the goddamned White House. Who the hell lives here?”

  “My great grandfather.”

  I shivered a little—a good, funny shiver. “The Dada dude?”

  “Yes.”

  “This isn’t another one of those homes for retired witches and warlocks, is it?”

  “No, it’s all Dada’s.”

  She stopped the Harley near a cement path that led up a wide stairway, which, in turn, led between Colonial columns to the huge front doors. “Do I leave the bi
ke here for Jeeves?”

  “Very funny. His name is Rudolph, but he’s a butler, not a valet.”

  “Rudolph the Butler. Sort of has a good, Christmassy ring to it.”

  I held out my hand. Tabby frowned and then gave me my bike keys. I could tell we were starting to develop a level of trust. Or maybe she just didn’t want to waste time arguing.

  I followed Tabby up the marble stairs. She pushed a good old-fashioned doorbell, which resulted in a deep, vibrating gong that seemed to emanate from the ground up.

  The door opened and Rudolph the Butler appeared. He had a tissue in his hand, and he used it to swipe at his red, wet nose. Rudolph the red-nosed butler wasn’t feeling too good, obviously. However, when he realized it was Tabby standing in the doorway, he broke into a big grin and said, almost too excitedly and almost too unprofessionally: “A pleasure to see you again, madam.”

  “Good to see you, too, Rudolph. Is Dada in his study?”

  “He is, madam.”

  “Is he...with us?”

  I didn’t like the way she asked that question.

  “Indeed, madam.”

  “We’ll find our way, Rudolph. Thank you.”

  The butler replied with something or other, but the words were garbled from under the tissue. We strode into the big, cool house in search of an ancient great-granddaddy who may or may not be dead.

  25

  The house was indeed massive. We moved passed a wide wooden staircase with an ornate newel post. The mahogany floors creaked beneath our feet. Portraits lined the walls, more Meads than you could shake a wand at, and there was even an odd sculpture at the end of the hall. It was shaped like a hand, but there were six fingers.

  A few minutes later, we stepped into a massive study lined with dark oak bookshelves and a massive window in the back that was concealed behind a thick curtain. The room was gloomy except for a well-lit desk that was as big as a small Baltic country.

  The man sitting behind the desk seemed gnome-like. The hunch in his back would have inspired Victor Hugo. Two bushy eyebrows hovered over his eyes like storm clouds. His eyes were closed, and with his pale, waxen skin, he could have easily passed for morgue meat.