Faery Dust (Wildcat Wizard Book 2)

by Al K. Line

  "What's that?" asked Vicky pointing at the strange blocky building with the large portico. It was surrounded by a wasteland of abandoned consumerism, the industrial complex that had sprung up around, and subsequently retreated from, the one place I was guaranteed never to hear anyone talk about periods or makeup. Where nobody would use my razor to shave their armpits or anything else for that matter. Most wizards went in for the hairy look, the more the better, so I was quite the dapper dude amongst my own kind. As soon as they got to a respectable age all thought of personal grooming faded, inconsequential compared to using magic or getting boiled alive for fun.

  Welcome to Satan's Breath.

  "Smells funky," observed Vicky, her petite nose wrinkling, making her look like a pug dog in a mid-range sweater.

  "It's meant to. I think this is why all the businesses failed around here. The magic aura is too strong and they can't handle it. Aah, what wonders this world holds, Vicky, what steamy delights. Did I tell you I fought a demon here last week?"

  "This is the place? The sauna you bang on about all the time? Looks a bit—"

  "Great? Peaceful in comparison?"

  "In comparison to what?" she asked suspiciously.

  "To you, my dear diminutive sidekick."

  "Arthur!"

  "Okay, wait here. I have to go see a wizard about a broom."

  "I thought only witches used brooms?"

  "They do. See ya." I marched toward the entrance past the smart cars and the ragged bicycles but heard her footsteps and turned sharply. "What?" I snapped.

  "Can't I come in?"

  "No, wizards only," I said with glee.

  "That's sexist."

  "I know. Just wait in the car, or go for a walk or something. Don't worry, there'll be lots of danger and excitement soon enough, but I need to go make a few inquiries first. You do want to find the Ræth Næg and get your cut of the loot, don't you?"

  I knew the daft words and the promise of adventure would do the trick.

  "Just don't be long," she warned. "And you better not be going in to get a sauna." She stepped close and peered into my eyes with her special mom radar.

  I held her stare as long as I could then turned and waved casually over my shoulder, forcing myself not to run.

  I absolutely was going to get a sauna. Relax, recuperate, top up the old magic, and listen to the grumbles of wizards in various ghastly states of undress.

  Don't judge me. It had been a long, rather murderous, full of surprises morning in case you've forgotten, and the real activity of the day hadn't even begun yet.

  Quick Refresh

  "Elion was looking for you," said the Turk. For some bizarre reason he'd waxed his mustache, forgetting he owned, worked in, and as far as I could tell lived in, a sauna.

  What would have been a curled up mustache worthy of awards in a different climate, was drooping down his wobbly jowls like a caterpillar on hunger strike, making him look like a walrus with emotional issues.

  I did my best not to stare and said, "I know. He found me."

  "It's wizards only," said the Turk, by way of warning.

  "I know that. And I am one."

  "Elion isn't. Neither is his mutt. The Turk does not like drop-ins, it makes the Turk nervous."

  "Maybe the Turk," I said, now used to him always talking about himself in third person, even though I was sure he was from up north, not Turkey, "should have told Elion that."

  "The Turk is not stupid."

  "Neither is The Hat." Damn, now I was doing it. I don't do it much though, do I?

  "How's the pool?" I asked, hoping I was forgiven for the demon incident.

  "Expensive. But, haha, it's fixed." The Turk beamed at me and waited expectantly. He scratched his hairy armpit, the stains wide arcs of yellow on a white vest stretched tight over his powerful, gorilla frame.

  I waited right along with him, no clue what was happening or why he was smiling at me like that. Finally I said, "Er, right, I'll be going in then," and the Turk nodded, still smiling, as he wrote my name in his ledger.

  After undressing and wrapping my towel around me, hating myself for catching a glimpse of a very hairy wizard with one leg up on the sink, using a hairdryer to blow dry the forest around his knackers—what the hell is that all about? Use a towel you freak—I wandered through one of the many arches into the main sauna area.

  So this was what the Turk had been smiling about.

  "No fucking way," I said, staring in horror at the large pool that had been decimated. Usually pale mosaic tiles, the water so hot it would boil you if you weren't careful, and quick, it was still hot but it was also full of what looked like Moomins, but far from as friendly. The pool was shiny, tiles gleaming, the repairs thorough and of the best quality as you'd expect from the Turk, but it wasn't full of puce wizards gasping for breath it was full of these things.

  "They pay very well," said the Turk as he sidled up, his mustache now giving up any attempt at looking erect. "Gonna make it a regular thing. Just once a week, for an hour. Maybe two," he mused, counting the cash in his head.

  "They on vacation? Shouldn't they be in Sweden hiding in the hills or wherever they live?" I watched as they played happily in the water, laughing and chattering away, the cutesy Moomin look of their smooth, rotund, short-haired and soft bodies ruined only by the monstrous teeth and the even more monstrous claws.

  "Apparently they have some kinda rotation thing going on. Take turns coming over for several weeks at a time then go home and disappear for a few hundred years again. But while they're awake they like to sauna. That's the Swiss for you."

  "Yeah," I agreed, "the Swiss do love a sauna."

  The Turk ambled off and I set myself up in a recliner, closed my eyes, and let my body sweat its way to peace.

  Some time later I awoke with a start and went for my wand, forgetting it was in my ward-protected locker. I glanced around, full of apprehension, only to find the noise was just the Swiss playing a game involving one of them tucked up tight into a ball and seemingly happy to be thrown about by its mates.

  Nothing weirder than the Swiss. Apart from the British, or maybe the French. Hell, everyone's got their strange traditions I guess.

  With a sigh I wiped my forehead, willed my hat to circulate cool air across my scalp, and rejuvenated, topped up with the good stuff, I went to get dressed and be about my business.

  Cerberus Again

  Cool air eddied like silk against a threadbare carpet as it tickled my beard. My flushed skin tightened at the dramatic change in temperature and my calm vanished as I spied someone talking to Vicky.

  Silhouetted against the struggling sun peeking between stoic clouds was the black shape of a tall man wearing what I knew to be an expensive tweed suit, with unruly hair and a mustache the Turk would fawn over. One leg was at a drunken angle, the joint making it bend back a little. A cane was in one hand, resting elegantly against the asphalt, the man leaning on it in a relaxed, pompous, grating on my nerves manner.

  Nathan.

  "Great, just great," I muttered loudly as I felt the thrum of magic course through my system, making my extremities tingle, almost popping through the open pores of skin so clean you could lick it, not that anyone had for years. Yeah, poor Arthur.

  Nathan, second in command, according to him, in the freaky society known as Cerberus, had stopped at nothing to get Mikalus' ashes, including having his own brother shot in the head. He'd threatened me and mine, set dangerous men on me to get the ashes, and had admitted that for years many of the jobs given by my now dead ex-broker had been for Cerberus. The Hounds were a bunch of zealots and the more I learned of them the less I liked them. Now, surprise surprise, I get a job and up pops the face of the Hounds, the dude in charge of operations, answering only to the head honcho, whoever that might be.

  Coincidence? No. He was here for one reason and one reason only. What concerned me was how he got his information. Elion wasn't the type to go blabbing to people whose goal in life was
to hoard all the magical items for themselves, so they really were good. Better than I'd imagined.

  And that was a scary thought. Just how far did their influence spread, and who worked for them? How did they know what I was up to?

  It's a very uncomfortable feeling to know there are people out there who know your business, especially when that business is nicking stuff that many an adept or collector would kill you to get his grubby hands on.

  I stopped next to Vicky and without preamble said, "No, you can't have it."

  "Ah, Arthur, nice to see you again, my dear boy." Nathan smiled the smile of a lizard before it snapped out its tongue and crunched your bones, and put out his hand.

  "It isn't. At least not for me."

  "My, you do have a way with words, don't you?"

  "Was that rhetorical?" asked Vicky.

  "Do you want it to be?" asked Nathan.

  "Enough with the bullshit games. Bugger off, Nathan, I'm busy."

  "That is exactly why I am here, old chap. I want to make you an offer, one—"

  I'd had enough of his sanctimonious crap. "If you call me dear boy, or old chap, one more time I swear to God I will take that cane and ram it so far up your arse you'll be mistaken for a lighthouse," I warned.

  Nathan thought for a moment then said, "I'm sure I have no idea what that means."

  "But you get the idea, right?" I said, realizing I also had no idea what I meant. Guess my time at Satan's Breath hadn't restored me as much as I'd thought. I nodded to Vicky, said, "Let's go," and moved to open the car door for her, gallant as always.

  Some men seem to think it's demeaning to chase ahead of women to open doors or let them past when you do that awkward thing in supermarkets when you meet in an aisle junction with your wonky trolleys, I think it shows respect. It's just I often forgot when it came to Vicky, distracted as I usually was by her mouth and the noise that spewed forth from it.

  Vicky went to get in but Nathan lifted his cane and eased the door shut. "Now, where were we?" he mused, head cocked to the side in an enticingly slappable way. "Ah, yes, I was about to tell you that I know what you're up to and I want the Ræth Næg. More to the point, Cerberus wants it."

  "What's it do? If it's so important why don't you tell me what it does? Then I'll think about it."

  "Haha, I see you have retained your sense of humor. Come, we both know it is an item of considerable mystery."

  "So why do you want it?"

  "Because it should not be given to that thing!" Nathan's voice rose sharply and he spat his words in a show of hatred that took me aback. "You will not give it to him. It. We will pay," he said lowering his voice and back to the blank face I dearly wanted to see bleeding and broken.

  "No. If you know who wants it then you know I have little choice, and you must also know I hate you people and everything you stand for."

  I opened the car door again and ushered a still silent Vicky inside, keeping my eyes firmly on Nathan and daring him to touch my car again with his cane.

  I closed the door once she was in and brushed past him. He tried to catch my arm but I was ready and my wand was in my hand and jabbing hard into his side before he could react. Muscles tensed in my forearm, shorthand for a spell learned years ago, now part of my muscle memory and my system, and the air between us collapsed in on itself, weighty and directed through the top of the wand like a heavyweight's punch.

  Nathan was thrown ten feet away from the car and landed awkwardly, ripping his expensive suit at the knee.

  "Stay away from me, Nathan, I'm warning you."

  I got in the car and didn't look at him again. We drove off, and I said, "Here, hold this," handing the wand to Vicky.

  Her eyes went wide and she reached for the wand. I snatched it back fast. "Are you nuts!? Don't you know you never touch a wizard's wand unless you're in his bedroom?"

  "What!" spluttered Vicky. "But you offered."

  "It was a test, to see what you knew. If you've been paying attention and learning anything. Obviously you haven't."

  "Arthur, you're really mean sometimes. I thought this was going to be fun, what with the kids away."

  I glanced at her and felt rotten. The tears started.

  A Master

  "Don't annoy him," I repeated.

  "How could I annoy him?" she asked, looking surprised I'd say such a thing.

  "By talking."

  "Haha, you so funny."

  "I'm warning you, Vicky. Sisiminimus doesn't take kindly to people joking about, and he hates being interrupted for any reason and is likely to—"

  "I don't interrupt," interrupted Vicky. "Oops." She put a hand to her mouth. I genuinely don't think she was making a joke, she really was that much of a dipshit at times.

  Pausing on the wide, open staircase covered in scorch marks and stained with what I knew wasn't just paint, I turned her to face me. "I'm serious. When you meet him don't say anything about how he looks, or joke around. He's a well-respected forger and you do not want to cross him. And don't interrupt," I added again, just for good measure.

  "Fine, I'll be good." Vicky zipped up her mouth with fingers that always reminded me of a little girl's and then turned the imaginary lock and threw the key down the stairs. "There, see?"

  "I give up," I moaned. "You lasted less than a second."

  "Oh, damn!" She smiled at me and I couldn't help but smile back. Did this woman have no fear? Did she not understand the peril she was in? I'd tried to explain to her on the way, but she kept saying she'd be fine. Memories of Pepper's corpse kept crowding in, telling me that no, it didn't always work out like that. But he'd betrayed me, and that was one thing I knew Vicky would never, ever do.

  "Oh, and he hates women," I added as an afterthought.

  "Why?"

  "Because they're annoying."

  "Arthur!"

  "Joke. It was a joke. I don't know why, he just does. He's what we like to call a grumpy guy, so be careful."

  We continued up the stairs, each tread squeakier than the last, until we were at the top. We entered a large studio flooded with even, diffuse light coming in from north facing windows set high in the roof.

  All manner of strange items were crammed into the room. A tiny forge in one corner, thankfully cold, and numerous machines for metalwork and woodwork located in seemingly random places. Banks of long tables and benches piled high with equipment were in complete disarray whilst others were clean and tidy, with magnifying glasses and little neat drawers full of jewels and semi-precious stones waiting to be used in Sisiminimus' work. Yeah, the name was a handful. I tried calling him Sis once, just so I could talk to him without feeling like my tongue was tying in knots. He smacked me with a spell so hard I ended up in hospital with broken pride and splintered shins.

  The white walls, where you could see them, were faded to yellow like old brittle paper. Smeared, stained, chipped, and with chunks missing. But it was what was on them that was by far the main draw of the room. An array of artifacts, both real and forged, and you would never know the difference. For this forger was a wizard and he didn't merely recreate magical items so they looked like the real thing, he imbued them with magic so they acted and worked just like the originals. Sometimes.

  There had been, shall we say, a number of mishaps, not to mention many less than satisfied clients over the years, so he often got into a bit of trouble. The disgruntled buyers often ended up dead, as he took pride in his work and no matter if he was in the wrong and had made a mistake, he still took affront at their accusations of a less than perfect product and was inclined to blast them to goo so he didn't have to deal with them. Or give them their money back.

  Think of this fellow as Ebenezer Scrooge without the bedside manner but with a helluva lot more attitude. And magic. Powerful magic.

  "Hello? Sisiminimus, it's me. Arthur." I peered into a gloomy corner, knowing he was there somewhere. It wasn't a natural gloom, it was a theft of light he employed when he wanted to sleep in late. He preferred
to work in the afternoons, and through the night, just like many wizards.

  Something stirred and I put out a hand to stop Vicky from moving forward.

  I watched for her reaction and I gotta say she did pretty well. As he crawled out from beneath a mound of dirty clothes, sheets, and paint-splattered canvases, and dropped barefoot onto his dirty floor, Vicky let out only the slightest of gasps. Pretty good going when what you're seeing for the first time is a cross between Yoda and a wizard who looked like the invention of brushes and scissors had completely passed him by.

  Sisiminimus was four feet tall, as black as my thoughts pre-dawn, and as wrinkled as, well, to be honest I've never seen anything else as wrinkly. Maybe a bit like an elephant's trunk, but with a lot more hair. Or like a dessicated koala I once saw, but with less humor. His beard was down to the floor, I think he used it to sweep bits off his workstations, maybe to paint with, and his hair was gray, streaked with the color of years, and you didn't want to get close to it. He smelled like a tuna sandwich locked in a metal box and left in the sun for a few decades.

  "What do you want?" he shouted, rubbing his eyes and scratching at something behind his beard. Yeah, he was also naked, so the abundance of hair was a boon. He was deaf too, so the default setting was loud. And angry.

  He fumbled about in his pile of nastiness and found his glasses. "Is that a woman?" he accused, pointing at Vicky and scowling.

  "It is," I said, smiling.

  "Get it out of here, it's too shiny. I don't like it."

  "Look here, Sissy mini mouse, er, Sisismoo... Sushimookym—"

  "What's wrong with it? Why is it doing that?"

  "I think my friend here, Vicky, is trying to say hello. Say hello, Vicky," I said, enjoying myself immensely.

  Vicky frowned at me, licked her lips, then said, "Hello Sisiminimus, I'm Vicky. Do you need a haircut?"

  In a heartbeat he was across the room and staring up at Vicky, something that didn't happen often, and asked, "What did you just say?"

  Vicky retreated, gagging, and said, "Your beard needs a trim. Would you like me to do it?"