by Colin Sims
Cassie yanked on the wheel and sent us fishtailing through a light. “Someone really wants you dead,” she grunted. “Hold on!”
She gunned the accelerator again. The police car caught back up and tried to ram us with its bumper. I whipped around to get a look at the cop again, but all I saw was the ominous tinted glass of the windshield.
Cassie pressed a button on the dash and a touch screen folded out of the stereo. Her fingers danced over the surface as she mumbled, “I got something for ya,” and then jabbed her finger on a final button. A series of heavy thunks came from the trunk and I spun around in time to see the cop car explode from underneath. The chassis launched twenty feet in the air. When it hit the ground it tumbled into a violent roll like a giant fireball.
“Grenades,” Cassie explained. “But he’s not dead yet. We have to crush every bone and burn it. Otherwise he’ll keep coming.”
I looked around again to see the skeleton cop—now completely bare-boned—burst from the wreckage. His jaw still hung open as he sprinted after us. He could move, too. We were in a car and he was on foot, and he was gaining on us.
“They’re very tenacious,” Cassie noted with a hint of annoyance as she glanced in the rearview mirror. I got the distinct impression she’d done this before. “I have an idea,” she added. “We have to find a garbage truck.”
“To crush it?” I asked.
She slid into an empty lane. “We’ll turn onto La Brea. We need a suburban neighborhood.”
I looked around for any sign of Skeleton Cop. He was tough to miss. Tourists were screaming and diving to either side as he sprinted up the Hollywood Walk of Fame. It struck me then what an odd sight that was. Here was this animated skeleton in broad daylight booking it up the street in plain view of everyone. Before long, he was dead even with us, pumping his arms like an Olympic sprinter. He kept turning his skull face sideways to make sure he was still with us. Cassie was right. He looked very determined.
We took a sharp left onto La Brea and he followed close behind. A few twists and turns later, Cassie whooped when we saw a garbage truck lumbering ahead of us.
“First things first,” she said. “Open the glove box. There should be a bunch of little discs in there. Hand me the one with the sword painted on it.”
I popped the glove box and dug through a pile of discs that looked like poker chips. Each one had a different decal on it. Most were the outlines of various guns, while there were a few others showing grenades, flamethrowers, etc … Finally, I found the one that had a samurai sword on it.
“Here.” I handed it to her. I didn’t bother asking what it was.
“Okay, here we go,” she said. “Stay in the car until I get him inside the trash compactor. When I say, ‘go,’ get out and press that big green button on the side of the truck. See it?”
Before I could respond, she yanked the wheel and stomped on the brakes. The Mustang slid in front of the garbage truck, bringing both to a halt. Cassie jumped out and dove for Skeleton Cop. A full-sized samurai sword had materialized in her hand—don’t ask me how—and there was a flurry of slashes and boney limbs. I watched, stunned, as all the severed bones zipped back to Skeleton Cop as if attracted by magnets.
Still, the fight didn’t last long. Cassie maneuvered him toward the garbage truck and shoved him inside.
“Now!” she shouted.
I stumbled out and slammed my fist against the button.
Skeleton Cop tried to escape, but Cassie kicked him back in. A couple seconds later, I heard a cascade of loud cracks and snaps.
The truck driver—apparently finding his nerve—exited the cab and started yelling. Cassie told him she was super sorry and to stay back, and then tossed what looked like a grenade inside the compactor. There was a muffled pop and a sudden burst of heat.
“The BPI will reimburse you!” she chirped, hopping back toward the Mustang. “Sorry!”
I followed her back into the car and we sped away.
A good minute went by in total silence. Then Cassie said, “So how do you like being a wizard so far?”
“I’m not a wizard,” I said.
“Hey, don’t worry about that interview thing,” she added cheerily. “We’ll get there on time.”
I looked at her. It was 10:58. Even if the car could fly—and it probably could—we still wouldn’t make it.
“I honestly don’t care anymore,” I stated flatly.
“Don’t be silly,” she said, and yanked the wheel again. It put us on a collision course with the garage door of a suburban house. I had just enough time to shield my face before we shot straight through it, hitting nothing but air. When I opened my eyes we were exiting a parking garage in the heart of downtown. Goodman, Sachs & Morgenstern was only a block away.
After casually pulling up to the curb, Cassie raised her chin. “See? And with a minute to spare.”
I turned to her. “Why was that thing trying to kill us?”
She shrugged. “We’ll figure it out. And don’t worry. If there’s another one, I’ll be close by. Now go.” She made a little shooing gesture. “I’ll be in touch.”
So I did.
The interview went worse than I’d feared. It wasn’t just Meagan’s father in the room; it was a whole panel of his clones. The first thing they asked was: “What the hell happened to you?”
Chapter Three
Dinner and a Carnival
As it turned out, Rosewood’s mission of “utmost importance” was actually pretty dull. As far as I could tell it was just a missing persons case. The guy who’d gone missing was an alchemist/scientist who worked for NIMA—otherwise known as the National Institute of Magic and Alchemy. His name was Professor David Steinberg and from his photo, he bore an alarming resemblance to Albert Einstein. His area of non-magical expertise lay in something called “explosive lensing,” which is used in making nuclear weapons. As for his alchemist training, he concentrated on something called “arcinology.”
He’d gone missing three days ago, yet no one—including his own wife—thought his disappearance was unusual. According to her, he frequently disappeared for days at a time working on various projects. Rosewood, however, thought something was afoot. He didn’t want to raise any official alarm bells yet, so he tasked Cassie—and by extension me—to see about locating him. There was no great hurry, he’d explained, but he still wanted Cassie to do whatever she could.
As for me … it was time to return to normalcy. Following the events of yesterday, I got a nice long sleep and cleansed myself of hangovers, vampire spawn, wizards and skeleton cops. It was now late afternoon and I was getting myself spruced up for François & Meagan’s 1.5 Year Anniversary. We were going to dinner and then heading to the Hollywood Bowl for a concert. It was going to be a marvelous evening.
But there were a few problems.
First, Meagan invited her parents to come to dinner with us. When I asked her why, she explained that “daddy insisted,” and it would give me a second chance to impress him after my epic fail at the interview. She also said that we were changing restaurants to a fancier one and that it would be “daddy’s treat.”
Second, the performer we were seeing at the Hollywood Bowl sucked. He was a boy band member turned solo artist who Meagan still had a crush on from middle school.
Third, I was running late.
“I got the best bouquet Ralphs had to offer.” Buckner appeared in the doorway to the bathroom holding some roses as I made sense of my hair. I gave them a quick glance and breathed a sigh of relief. I’d intended to pick them up earlier but forgot.
“Bro, you just saved my life,” I told him and went back to frowning at my reflection,
“You know it’s never too late to call this whole thing off,” he said. “There’s another party in the Hills. Whaddaya say? Meet some more vampire girls?”
“Can’t,” I said.
He gave a resigned shrug. “Just figured I’d try. So where ya’ll headed?”
“That restau
rant, Spago.”
“The one in Beverley Hills?”
“I guess. I’m gonna Uber it.”
“Oh yeah, that’s right. Whatever happened to your car? I ain’t seen it out front.”
I figured someone would ask about that eventually. The best lie I could come up with was: “It’s, uh, in the shop. Bad piston rod.”
“A piston rod?”
“That’s what the guy told me.” I turned to face him and held out my arms. “How do I look?”
“Like a man before his last supper, I suppose.”
“You might be right. Did I tell you Meagan’s dad is coming?”
A wide range of emotions suddenly flashed across Buckner’s face. Some of them conflicted and were clearly vying for supremacy. First, there was shock. Then there was laughter. Then there was concern. Then there was anger.
“I’m sorry,” he said. “Did you say Meagan’s dad is coming on your date?”
“Yep. He’s paying for it too.”
Buckner let out a long, Texas sigh. “I will be damned,” he said. He ran a hand through his hair and winced. “Look, you already know my position on this matter …”
“I do,” I said.
“But I’m gonna tell ya again. That girl and her family are no good for you. Why in the name of the Lord God she would invite her daddy to your anniversary is beyond me. But I guess that’s because I’m a simple kind of guy. When somethin’ smells like bullshit, I don’t take no bite of it. Know what I’m saying? So look, I suggest you take these here roses, walk outside, and hand them to the first girl you see. You never know what might happen.”
I was about to laugh when my phone vibrated with a text from Meagan. I was supposed to meet her in front of the restaurant in five minutes.
MEAGAN: Hey, I’m here. U on ur way?
I texted her back.
FRANÇOIS: Yep. Be right there. Luv you.
“I’m in deep shit,” I told Buckner and pushed past him.
“No argument here,” he said.
I ran into my room to grab my shoes. Miraculously, they were nowhere to be found.
That always happens, doesn’t it? On any other day, the shoes would be right there. Not today. Within a few seconds, I descended into one of those frantic states where I—with a straight face—checked both the microwave and the refrigerator in case somehow they’d gotten in there. I eventually found them buried under some clothes in the corner of my room. I was in the middle of yanking them on when something tapped against my window. I ignored it. No time for curiosity. Then—another tap. And another. They were getting louder, insistent.
Annoyed, I jumped up to open the blinds. I did it just in time to see a small pebble bounce off the glass. I looked down to see Cassie Chu winding up for another throw. I opened the window before she got the chance.
“Hey!” she called up.
Keeping my voice to a low hiss, I demanded to know what she was doing here. I hadn’t told anyone about her yet, and for some reason I felt like I needed to keep the whole thing a secret.
“That’s not very nice.” She frowned, but instantly brightened. “I have an idea. Hold on.” She took a few steps back and then with a running start, jumped a good twenty feet up to my window. Her hands found the frame and she did a graceful somersault into the room.
“Hey, you fixed your chair,” she observed, pointing.
In a single, panicked motion, I pulled her aside and closed my door.
“Cassie, seriously,” I whispered. “What are you doing here? I have to meet Meagan in one minute!”
She winced. “Oh. The anniversary thing? I forgot about that.”
I led her back to the window. “Look, she’s gonna explode, okay? I have to go right now.”
“Wait,” she said. “I think I know how to find out who’s trying to kill you.”
“We can deal with that tomorrow. Meagan’s already waiting and she’s gonna kill me before anyone else gets a chance. Plus, her parents are going to be there.”
“Why are her parents going to be there?”
“All I know is that they both hate me,” I said. “If I’m late, they’ll hate me even more.”
Cassie’s nose wrinkled like she’d just smelled something weird. “Aren’t anniversaries supposed to be fun?”
“Not for guys,” I answered. “Anyway, I gotta go. Seriously.”
“I can give you a ride,” she offered.
“There’s no chance. If I ride with you, a cyclops will come bounding down the street and you’ll end up firing a missile at him.”
“What?” Cassie looked offended. “First of all, smarty pants, cyclopes live in caves. Second of all, I’d never fire a missile at one! They’re so sweet!”
I told her I was still going with Uber. “Is there any chance you can leave through the window?” I asked. “If my roommates see you, they’ll start asking questions.”
“Of course I can,” she said. “But wait, I have to tell you something.”
I looked at her, waiting. (Good God, she looked beautiful …)
“So,” she said slowly. “I don’t want to freak you out or anything, but I kind of have to go with you.”
“What?”
“Well, someone’s obviously trying to get you,” she explained. “And Greta—remember my astrologer?—she told me I have to keep you close. I assume that means to protect you.”
“You think someone’s going to kill me at Spago?” I asked.
Her eyebrows curved upward. “Maybe?” When she saw my blank stare, she quickly added, “You won’t even know I’m there! I’ll go sit at another table or something.”
“Cassie, you can’t just walk into a place like that without a reservation,” I told her. “Unless, of course, you’re Meagan’s father. Apparently.”
“Is he rich?”
“Very.”
“I can make him write you a check for a million dollars if you want? It’s easy. He won’t even realize it.”
“No.”
(I said “no,” but the idea did sound amazing.)
“Anyway,” Cassie said. “I don’t need a reservation. I can just enchant the guy at the door.”
I took a moment to think. It only lasted for about 0.3 seconds, as I noticed I was already two minutes late and hadn’t even left yet.
“I can’t talk you out of this, can I?” I said.
“Nope.”
I exhaled and ran a sweaty palm down the length of my face. “Alright. I’ll meet you outside. But look, no stops along the way. Deal?”
She snapped a quick salute, saying “Deal,” and then bounded out the window.
• • •
To the city of Los Angeles, Spago is more than a restaurant; it’s a forum for the city’s elite to see and be seen. Mostly, that means movie stars and other famous people—but there are also a lot of behind-the-scenes players with fantastically beautiful dates. In fact, that’s a good way to tell who’s who. If there’s an overweight, old guy with a twenty-two-year-old model sitting across from him, odds are he runs a movie studio. Anyway, I was only ten minutes late when I walked in and found Meagan already seated with her parents. Cassie had agreed to wait a few minutes before following me in.
As I approached their table—seeing them all sitting and chatting together as a unit—there was this tiny voice in my head saying, “What in the world are you doing? You don’t belong here.” It was odd. I’d been with Meagan for a year and a half, and I’d spent plenty of dreadful evenings with her family. And yet, this time was different. This time they looked like strangers. I couldn’t quite believe I was about to sit at their table, and make small talk. It didn’t feel right.
Also, I forgot the roses.
I announced my arrival with a jovial, “Hi everyone!” and Meagan stood up to give me a weak hug. She looked terrific in a red sundress with her blonde hair freshly curled. It fell in soft waves over her shoulders and practically glowed.
“I’m so sorry I’m late.” I smiled at her. “Traffic was
crazy.”
“It’s fine.” She smiled back and took her seat.
“What route did you take?” Mr. Goodman asked.
“I actually took an Uber, sir. My car’s in the shop.”
A gasp came from Meagan’s mom and she put a hand to her mouth. “Oh no! Did you get hit?”
Mrs. Goodman was basically Meagan fast-forwarded twenty years, minus ten for easy living, so when people mistook them for sisters, it wasn’t just a faux compliment. She was tall, blonde, and had very good posture.
“Nothing like that,” I said with a light chuckle. “The guy at the shop said the piston was bent.”
Mr. Goodman scowled like he knew that that was complete and utter bullshit. He was a smart man—in spite of everything else.
“So François,” he said. “Now that we have a moment, what happened yesterday?”
“Sir?” I asked.
“Your interview with my firm,” he answered. “You embarrassed me in there, not to mention yourself.”
Before I could saying anything, Meagan put a hand on my shoulder and said, “Daddy, let’s talk about something else, okay?”
He shook his head. “No. I’m curious. He couldn’t even wear a clean suit? He was covered in mud.”
Meagan shot me a sideways glance that demanded, “Is that true?”
“Again sir, I’m really sorry about that,” I said. “This lady’s dog got away from her and jumped on me outside the building. There was nothing I could do.”
Mr. Goodman gave me a hard look. “A dog? What kind of dog?”
“The big kind, sir. I’m not sure what breed.”
“Anyway,” Meagan said sharply. “I thought maybe you two could talk after dinner? We don’t have to be at the concert until nine.”
Mr. Goodman shrugged. “Fine with me. Though I’m not sure what there is to talk about. I … oh! Justin!”
He shot to his feet and shook hands with one of his star clients. He was a pop star turned movie star and I … I didn’t have an opinion. He was alright. I guess.
“You’ve met my daughter?” Mr. Goodman said.
Meagan blushed and stuck out her hand. “Oh my God, you’re so amazing!”