WITCHMAS_A Marshal of Magic File

by Chris Lowry

  “What will you say? What can you say that will stop this?

  “I don’t know,” I figured honesty was the best policy here because even I didn’t know how to spin a lie to make it right. “But he seems to respect me. And he’s looking out for his people.”

  “I don’t respect that,” Eric sneered. “Not at the expense of my people.”

  Made sense to me.

  “I don’t respect you,” the big guy stomped his feet on the concrete. “A smart man would have thought this through.”

  I couldn’t argue with him there either.

  “Next time, try using your words. Less punching the Marshal, more asking politely. Dig?”

  “Next time, I will be the one hitting,” the big git stood up and towered over everyone.

  I turned the dirt under their feet into slushy sand just to let them know I didn’t think anyone should be hitting anyone right now, and watched them fumble stumble their way toward the parking lot.

  “A little warning next time?” I turned to Knu.

  “Like I said, it was a last minute decision. They did come to talk at first.”

  I nodded.

  Murky waters and ripples.

  “I need to think about what you showed me.”

  She sighed.

  It must be tough working with children.

  “You have no idea,” she said. “But there will be food before your meeting tonight.”

  I didn’t ask how she knew about that. Probably picked the details out of my gray matter.

  “Happy Hour,” she said and named a place. “On me.”

  Despite the punch, I felt the day improving, as only one about to get free food and drinks coming.

  But first, there was work to do to get ready.

  For after.

  CHAPTER TWENTY SEVEN

  Vampires don’t go out in the sun much and it’s not because they shine bright like a diamond or some Pope in the sixteenth century cursed them for day walking.

  Turns out, it’s just uncomfortable.

  Sure, give a vamp enough time and they learn to live with the ache, much as senior citizens learn to live with the dull throb of arthritis, or pretty much anyone learns to deal with backpain.

  It hurts. A lot, but eventually, you live with it.

  The sun hurts vampires.

  No one knows why.

  Maybe some scientists did some experiments on it in the Nevada desert and created a race of super vamps resistant to the sun, but newbies hurt the most, and as they move past a couple hundred years, they learn to tolerate it.

  As it was, most vamps didn’t live past a hundred years.

  Or so I’d heard.

  Too much infighting, politics and generally bad attitudes that come with too much power too fast.

  No sense of responsibility with that lot.

  So new vamps preferred the night.

  Finding one Elder in a sea of humans that inundated NOLA was nigh on impossible.

  But finding a guy who had his fingers in a lot of pies, and a lot of them the illegal kind of pies was a lot simpler.

  And a guy with his fingers in so many alleged pies would also know about paranormal activity in his town, since his sun was betrothed to a witch, or beholden to one.

  Either way, there was an alliance in the making and I knew the guy trying to pull the strings.

  I just had to find him.

  There are eyes and ears of a city, a network of spies so observant had Washington used them in the American Revolution it would have been over in less than a year.

  You just have to learn to ignore the stench.

  I saw a homeless guy sitting on the sidewalk with a battered cardboard sign saying he would work for food.

  I got some information from him for ten dollars, and caught a trolley to where he directed.

  A dry cleaner’s.

  A bell over the door tinkled when I pushed through. A smiling Asian man looked up from behind the counter, made a small mouse like squeak and disappeared into the back between racks of floating shirts, suits and what looked to be an Elvis jumpsuit.

  “You know what that’s about?” I asked over my shoulder.

  “I think you scared him.”

  “I meant the threads.”

  He floated over and tried to finger the material through the plastic covering, but his wispy hands couldn’t grab the fabric.

  “Nice workmanship,” he stuck his head through the hanging suit.

  Another suit walked out from the back, flanked by two large walking slabs of masculinity.

  “Digby’s dad?” I guessed.

  It was an educated guess though, because Daddy Richmond looked like an older, more worn version of the younger.

  The man extended his hand, but one of the giants reached out and pulled his hand down. It was like grabbing a snake, and the guy looked just as scared to do it, especially once I saw the look he got for it.

  I marked him as the bravest man on earth at that moment.

  “He knows what he’s doing,” I tried to help.

  Digby’s dad dropped the glare and replaced it with a smile.

  “You’re right, of course,” he snarled and took a moment to compose himself. “I don’t like being touched.”

  “Must make it hard to get that haircut.”

  Elvis chortled, which made me smile.

  Daddy Richmond didn’t like being made fun of.

  “You’re a guest in my town, Marshal. Guests should not make a habit of pissing off their host.”

  I figured I could play this two ways.

  Have a pissing contest with the Dixie Mafia boss and make getting the information I needed twice, maybe three times as hard. Or play nice.

  “No need to be so sensitive,” I said. “I’m just here to find someone.”

  “I didn’t say you were a welcome guest.”

  The smile slipped off his face. Heckle and Jeckle stuck their massive hands under their massive coats, no doubt putting them on the butts of massive pistols.

  It could have been a big problem.

  Marshals are supposed to practice restraint when it comes to the use of magic on mortals.

  Turns out that’s one of the easiest ways to get a sorcerer label slapped on your reputation, and is a huge part of my job. Hunting down wizards and witches who turn their magic on non-magic users for personal gain.

  Never pretty.

  I could have ensorcelled the mob boss’ mind and made him do my bidding. I had the latitude to do it.

  And I was in a hurry.

  But the thing about using magic like that is just how slippery the slope can get. When you put your toe over the line into the gray, how far can you go before it gets black?

  It’s not like there is a highly demarcated DMZ or a guide that lets you know just how far too far is when you start playing around with it.

  I thought perhaps it was done in layers.

  First, you steal bread to feed your family.

  Then, it’s just a short hop over to stealing money to buy bread to feed your family, with a bunch of micro-decisions in between, all leading to black magic.

  Instead of controlling their minds, I wiggled my fingers and froze his bodyguards.

  “I do not wish for things to go badly between us Marshal but if we continue along this path I fear we must.”

  The man with the moussed up hair stood between his two frozen statues.

  He was the type of man who didn't speak in contractions, the type of person who watched old movies to adopt old ways, a southern gentleman, or the portrait of one.

  He captured the nuances of charm, but not the essence. It was as fake as the product he wore in his hair, the manicured smile and-

  “Are you wearing make up?”

  The glare was stronger this time, and I for one, was glad the man wasn’t a wizard. That look meant he would have started blasting. As it was, I almost got a sunburn from the color popping up on his cheeks.

  “This is that path Marshal.”
<
br />   He was right.

  Things could and would go badly between us. There was no way around it and I wasn't looking for one. This petty man with petty dreams hurt people to make his life better.

  I wasn't going to stand for it.

  Then Digby walked in behind me.

  “Hey, it’s you!”

  He clapped me on the back and stood off to the side from his dad, beaming like he just met an old friend from the frat, in town for a weekend of drinking and football.

  I held back the spell and tried to breath.

  “Daddy,” he said. “This is the man I was telling you about.”

  Two things.

  I know Digby knew what his dad was up to regarding the criminal element. There was just no way around it, and the man was participating in an alliance ritual.

  Something was up, I just wasn’t sure if this was my problem, or one of those sort it out later problems.

  Second, what grown man calls his father daddy?

  “We are becoming acquainted,” Daddy Richmond answered in an even voice.

  “That’s good stuff Daddy,” he beamed some more. “I like this one better than the other Marshal. That guy was kind of a dick.”

  He aimed the last sentence at me, like we were in on a secret.

  “We all have that problem sometime,” I told him.

  Fingers hooked on my belt, thought cocked and loaded.

  “What brings you to my establishment, Marshal?” Daddy Richmond asked.

  Right. Vampires. And witches. And a demon monster.

  “Am I right in assuming you know the comings and goings going on in your town?”

  He nodded.

  “Daddy knows everything,” Digby bragged. “We’ve got this network of-”

  “Digby!” Daddy didn’t want him sharing any secrets. “Were you able to speak with the girl?”

  The young man nodded, his hair not moving. They must have used the same stylist.

  “She’s still gung ho.”

  “Excellent. Marshal, I have other business to which I should be attending. If we could speed this along.”

  “Vampire convention.”

  Two words. It was all I needed to say.

  Both men blanched. Even the statue guards may have flinched a little bit.

  “Conclave,” Daddy Richmond said with a shiver.

  He knew. Probably one of the blood suckers paid a visit, and offered a tribute. For a mafia man to be afraid of the mere mention of them said the conclave was a dangerous big deal.

  “Conclave,” I sneered. “Claude?”

  “What would you like with him?”

  “Magic business,” I told him.

  The thing about powerful men, especially those who have risen to power through will and hard work, and probably creating ghosts along the way, is they believe in the art of intimidation.

  Some try it with a look. Tall guys will use their size. Small guys will use goons with guns.

  Daddy Richmond was a looker.

  Not a good looking man, though he was that in a Southern gentleman’s traditional sense.

  But a man who liked to enter stare contests and beat you down with his pupils.

  He tried one on for size with me.

  It didn’t work.

  Once you’ve fought Trolls, and Sidhe and boggarts, some little man in a big town on the Gulf Coast doesn’t stand a chance.

  Digby watched as his old man looked away, and I saw a tinge of something on the younger’s face.

  That contest cost Daddy a little more than his pride.

  I wouldn’t have minded staying around to watch how it played out, but he answered my question with an address.

  “But they won’t be there until dark,” he said.

  I nodded and looked over his shoulder at my ghost partner still floating beside the plastic covered jumpsuit.

  “Got that?”

  “I can remember an address,” he sighed.

  Digby and Daddy both jumped a little, not at the sound of Elvis’ voice, which they couldn’t hear, but at the sight of a man just speaking to thin air.

  Always leave them wondering if you’re crazy, and they would be insane to mess with you.

  So I did.

  CHAPTER TWENTY EIGHT

  Daddy Richmond told me to wait until dark, but I figured that was just to buy some time for Claude to vamoose.

  Or set up an ambush.

  The thrall answered the door and tried to slam it in my face.

  A door to door salesman told me once to always slip your foot against the frame and lean in whenever someone opens the door for the rare occasion they tried to slam it shut.

  He had a permanent limp.

  But his advice served me well as the door raced for the frame in front of my face.

  I didn’t need to sacrifice toes to the sales gods though.

  I flicked a finger and the solid oak slab with intricate carvings and a brass metal knocker shot back hit with a hurricane blast of force.

  The thrall went flying.

  The door thudded against the inside wall and planted the wrought iron knob into the plaster lathing.

  I had to make another wave to pass through the wards and step inside the hallway.

  An inhuman shriek filled the air as death descended the staircase.

  Seriously, if you’ve never seen a vampire in flight, it is a thing of wonder. Of course, most blood suckers are so fast, or people are so hypnotized by them, they would fail to notice the beauty in the descent.

  But it is a sight to behold.

  I beheld it for about one second and stepped to one side as Claude smashed into the tile floor in a clatter of masonry and stone and whipped around, fangs extended, clawed hands swiping for my oh so tender throat.

  Til he hit my shields.

  No flying sparks, no nail on chalkboard sound, just a solid thunk where the meat of his flesh met the meat of my magic.

  He stopped then and stood up straight from the hunched over more animalistic version of himself.

  “Marshal,” he bowed his head. “Welcome to my home.”

  No need to mention the attack or the way I barged in.

  No need to discuss how he could have taken my head off if I wasn’t magic, or how I could have blasted him mid-air and showered in a confetti of vampire bits.

  Just a couple of guys standing in the hall of a nice house on a side street in the French Quarter.

  “Nice place,” I told him.

  “We rented for a month,” he reached down and helped the thrall up, brushing off his shoulders and helping to straighten his shirt.

  “And thank you for not hurting Thomas.”

  He ran a loving hand across the head of the shorter man standing next to him. The stoner look was still there, gazing up at Claude in ecstatic rapture.

  “You’re not going to get your deposit back.”

  Claude glanced over his shoulder at the damage to the wall and down at his feet.

  “Thomas,” he said.

  The thrall hurried to shut the door, then examined the wall.

  “You will find he is quite skilled at many things, home repair one of them. He was a contractor for the clean up.”

  “He must have appreciated the house he saw this morning,” I stared at the vampire.

  “He mentioned it. Quality craftsmanship never escapes his eye. He informed me he delivered my message this morning, so imagine my surprise to see you here today and not at our designated meeting place.”

  “I decided to start the party early.”

  “I am all for parties,” Claude said and invited me to enter further into his lair.

  I declined.

  “The address on the card?”

  “It is the witch which you seek.”

  “You think that’s clever Lestat?”

  “I like wordplay as much as playing with my potential supplicants,” he smiled.

  The fangs were still there.

  “The Normanii paid me a visit today.”
<
br />   The fangs extended and the smile turned into something that belonged to a shark.

  “Shall we invite them too?”

  He was kidding. Partially.

  The Vikings could do a ton of damage to any collection of vamps and he knew it. Which let me know Claude was up to something.

  I just didn’t have time to figure out what right now because I had a few more stops to make.

  CHAPTER TWENTY NINE

  I met Knu outside of a pub set up next to the Mississippi River and we had the deck on the second floor all to ourselves before the crowd showed up.

  "You know things," I pleaded with the gnome. "We're friends. I helped you."

  "I cannot," she said.

  Her voice sounded sad, pitiful and small.

  I didn't give a damn.

  "You know where she is!" I shouted. "Tell me."

  "I will not," she said, still sad, still tiny.

  I wanted to reach out and make her.

  I could. I was strong enough. My fingers twitched with the hint of magic, ready to lift her up and press her against the wall.

  Marshal's had to be fast on the draw if they wanted to survive and I'd outlasted almost all of them.

  Dumb luck mostly.

  But enough skill to make it look good.

  I pointed and started an incantation.

  One word. That's all I had to get out. The Judge made us memorize spells until we could use them without talking, without wands, without anything but the power of our will and minds.

  I thought about all of this as I was slammed into the wall upside down and held there by the gnome's magic.

  Her fingers didn't move either.

  "Are you done?" she said.

  Still sad. Sad she couldn't answer me, sad she had to swat me around a little.

  "No," I grunted. "You could have let me get something out, just to make me feel better."

  She nodded.

  "I couldn't take the chance you might hurt me. On accident," she added.

  She was a couple of thousand years old, which put her high up on the power totem pole. My spell might have tickled, if she let it get through.

  "No," she corrected me. "The Judge chose you for a reason. That reason is your power."