Faery Dust (Wildcat Wizard Book 2)

by Al K. Line

Vicky was puce now, utterly limp, and he grew increasingly confused as he raced through a gamut of options. Either he kept hold and she died, or he let her go and lost his bargaining chip.

  "I'll kill her," he warned, his voice surprisingly high for such a buff dude.

  "Be my guest. She's annoying anyway." My heart hammered so fast I was sure he could see it through my shirt and that the game was up, but even as I spoke, Vicky's color faded and she turned deathly pale as his grip loosened and he lowered her to the carpet.

  "Feels icky to use your bare hands," he said with a grunt, and shoved Vicky in the back so she slammed face first into the carpet I'd always hated, she'd always loved, and would now need a serious clean as her nose had split open and the cream wool that stank of chemicals was soaking up her blood. The Hound pulled out a very shiny, and very large gun looking like a toy in his hands. He pointed it at Vicky's back.

  I shrugged. "You could always just bugger off and say you couldn't find us."

  "You have something we want," he said, and the gun clicked as he flipped the safety off.

  "Don't know what you're talking about." Sticking with the "couldn't give a flying fuck about the mini-mom" attitude, I walked forward, sidestepped Vicky like she was of no interest, brushed past the Hound and walked into her kitchen. I put on the kettle, grabbed a cup, then opened her kitchen drawer. I scowled at the lack of cutlery control, everything jumbled up, but got a teaspoon and then closed the assault to my senses and found the instant coffee.

  He followed me in, but you gotta play it cool and beat them at their own game.

  I counted down in my head from twenty as I took the lid off the instant, spooned two in, and even added a sugar.

  "You aren't what I expected. Don't you care about your friend?"

  "My friend? Of course I care about her, are you nuts?"

  "Then why would you let me kill her? I will, you too, if you don't give me what I want."

  "Dude, either you are one serious case of a lobotomy gone wrong, or Nathan didn't fill you in on who you're dealing with, and what I do to anyone, anyone, that hurts those I love."

  "What are you talking about?" he said, the gun rising to point at me, his jaw clenching and the knuckles on his free hand turning white.

  "I'm talking about you thinking the best way to get something from me is to threaten those I care about. I knew you weren't going to kill Vicky, and I knew she'd be super pissed once I distracted you." My silent countdown finished and I whispered zero as the kettle clicked off, the room suddenly silent. He glanced first to the kettle, then back into the hallway as my words sank in.

  I smiled as Vicky, looking like she was rehearsing for the Carrie finale, swung one of the Slug's hardly used golf clubs hard and with more accuracy than he'd ever mustered, splitting the big guy's cheek open.

  As he spun and stumbled backward into the kitchen, I grabbed the kettle, pulled off the lid, then holding the handle tight my arm shot out fast. Scalding water hit him square in the face. He screamed. His hands went up and the gun fired, the noise deafening. Vicky whacked him again, this time in the back of his legs, and he crumpled to the floor, landing on all fours, screaming for help as his face blistered and steamed.

  "Clean yourself up quickly and answer the door when it rings. That was loud. Put the TV on full blast and act casual. Oh, and close the kitchen door please," I said, but Vicky just stood there.

  "Look, I knew you wouldn't die. I had a plan, okay?"

  "My nose is broken," she complained, and then stared at her jumper in horror.

  "Yeah, and so will this guy's be in a moment. Just deal with it."

  Vicky nodded, kept hold of the club, but left closing the door behind her.

  I kicked out hard and my boot connected with the goon. Only it wasn't my boot, I still had the ninja slippers on, and I hurt my big toe as his nose cracked and bent sideways. I was going to moan about it but it felt churlish and then I heard the doorbell.

  I had to hand it to the guy, he just whimpered quietly until the door closed and then it was game on again.

  As Vicky returned, the sound of the TV blaring, he surged to his feet, lunged forward, and launched himself at me. I sidestepped and he landed hard on the table, his weight splitting it right down the middle.

  This dude was fast and resolute, though, and he was up and roaring in a second. With his face red and big blisters already covering half his head and neck, he nonetheless grinned and said, "Guess I'll have to kill her." He raised the gun and fired at Vicky.

  Things Get Crazy

  Magic is fast, and dangerous, but guns, or more specifically the bullets fired from them, are quicker if the guy pulling the trigger has even halfway decent reflexes.

  The Hound had me beat.

  As the room erupted with noise once more, I pulled out my wand and violent crackles of supercharged electricity chewed up the distance between us. Magic electrified the air, particles spun fast, and my fury hit the Hound with several thousand volts in his shoulder. By the time it hit it was too late.

  Before the Hound fell I was already moving to Vicky, expecting to see her clean sweater frayed and blood pumping out, or a neat hole in her head. I was shocked and mightily relieved to see her still standing, holding a bent golf club tight in shaking hands, the head pointing forward after the force had buckled the shaft.

  She looked down, as shocked as me to discover she was still alive, and said, "I'm a Jedi." She fainted.

  I whirled, ready to finish off this guy. He slammed into my stomach, head down, taking the wind out of me. We crashed back, his arms tight around me, and we fell over Vicky, him landing hard on top of me. Going old school, I jabbed out hard with the wand and thrust at his temple and he went limp for a moment. Grabbing Vicky, still clutching the club tight, I dragged her by her jumper through the hall and into the orderly living room.

  The Hound was right behind us and came through the door in an absolute rage. I was ready for him this time though, and before he could even raise the gun high voltage spat from my wand as the sigils glowed with delight at the eruption of stored magic. He spun, then spasmed sideways, smacking into a display cabinet. Glass flew everywhere as ornaments, and trophies celebrating the kids' many extracurricular activities, tumbled to the carpet.

  He grabbed a shelf and the whole thing came crashing down on top of him, the cabinet breaking like balsa. As he fought to get out from under, I swung my leg back, ready to boot his head clean off, but considering my footwear I thought better of it and instead pulled the club from Vicky's now relaxed hands and swung like I was going for a hole in one. His head whipped sideways, face slicing nastily on a shard of glass, and I swung again, harder.

  Bone crunched and his nose was little but torn cartilage as I sank to a knee and picked up the dropped gun.

  "Nathan should have warned you about us. We're a team, and nobody fucks with us."

  I picked up a gross pink cushion from Vicky's sofa and put it over his head, pressed the muzzle of the gun hard against it, and pulled the trigger without hesitation.

  A kids cartoon blared from the TV, Peppa Pig and her little brother jumping in muddy puddles, and from that day on every time I shot someone in the face—not that it happened often—all I could think of was the baby pig holding up his dinosaur and going, "Dinosaur. Grrr."

  "Can I shoot him too?" asked Vicky, watching from her position on the floor.

  "Nah, that would just be mean," I said, dropping backwards onto my bum and wishing I hadn't as a splinter of glass pierced a firm, shapely buttock.

  "Good," she said, and snatched the gun.

  "It's not a good idea, you'll regret it if you do it," I warned.

  Paying me no heed, Vicky crawled over to the guy, held the pillow, and shot him twice more in the face.

  "You broke my girls' trophies," she screamed, spittle flying as she sank back beside me.

  "Damn, Vicky, that was cold."

  "He messed up my house," she said by way of explanation.

 
; Guess my new sidekick was now well and truly a gangster.

  Cleaning Up

  Not knowing what else to do, and suffering from shock because of the close call, the state of her home, and more importantly her kids' trophies, Vicky did what all true Brits do under such circumstances and made some sweet tea.

  We sat on the sofa with a dead guy under a cupboard, face probably in bits, and drank our strong beverages. It honestly worked.

  There was a knock at the door and Vicky jumped, spilling her drink so it dribbled down her chin. She put the tea down, not even on a coaster, and searched the room in a panic, looking for something to go clobber someone with.

  "Don't worry, I called the Cleaner," I said.

  "Oh, right."

  "You need to go into the kitchen. You can't meet the Cleaner, makes things complicated."

  "But it's my house," she protested.

  "And it's your mess, too. You wanna clean it all up, get rid of the body?"

  Vicky scowled at me but went into the kitchen and closed the door. I heard her sorting things out and went to let our guest in.

  With a nod, the Cleaner stepped inside. I left her to it and joined Vicky. We tidied up, carried the split table into the garden, and I got filler from the shed, filled in the hole in her ceiling and smoothed it over. When it dried to white it would be hardly noticeable.

  I took the bullet I'd prised out to the Cleaner who had already removed the body and was replacing the broken items and putting them on a new cabinet exactly the same as the broken one. The photos I'd sent of what had been damaged had clearly been sufficient, although how she got them so quickly and at such an early hour was what made the Cleaner much sought after in the underground world I played, cried, and sometimes died in.

  Two serious young men with faces shrouded by hoodies worked efficiently and fast with cleaning products in the living room and the hallway, and then were gone. The Cleaner followed them out, returned a moment later with a pink cushion sans multiple holes, brains and blood, thrust it into my arms, and said, "Can't get the table until nine. We've taken the old one from the back."

  "Okay, great. You need a key? We won't be here."

  She stared at me with eyes as cold as yesterday's mashed potato and just as worrisome, and I said, "Er, right, sorry I asked."

  She saluted, then left, and I made a mental note to buy her something nice for Christmas and to remember to send her payment as soon as I got home and was at my computer.

  Vicky came out from the kitchen, saying, "Two guys just took the table. Was one the Cleaner?"

  "Nope, just trainees," I said.

  Vicky smiled at the clean carpet, whooped when she saw the living room, and cried when she picked up one of the trophies.

  She sure did love her kids.

  "Time to go," I said gently, taking the award for swimming ten meters and putting it back on the shelf.

  "Time to go," she repeated, sounding numb, like she wasn't really listening.

  We left.

  The Most Valuable Lesson

  Cerberus, and Nathan in particular, had more information on me and my life than I did about them or him. I hated it. He knew where I lived, about my friends and family, and that meant he knew my weak spots. That once again he'd resorted to threatening those close to me made me hate him all the more, but I couldn't shake the feeling that the tall guy they'd sent was working outside of his orders.

  Maybe they were all like that, mavericks when on operations. I could understand that. But would Nathan send someone and tell them it was cool to kill Vicky if it meant I handed over the belt? It didn't seem to fit with what I knew of the man, which, granted, wasn't much. Sure, he killed his brother, and certainly had no qualms about killing anyone if it meant he got what he wanted, but he also knew me, and understood that if he went that far I would hunt him to the ends of the earth and do him serious damage before I finished him off in a suitably despicable way.

  No, the guy at Vicky's had acted beyond his remit. I was convinced Nathan knew I would never cooperate with him if she was killed. So why send him? Because they were Cerberus, that was why, and they clearly wanted what they somehow knew I'd got my hands on.

  My thigh felt numb where the belt lay coiled in my pocket, all of this madness caused by the need for this item. I still hadn't looked at it, and to be honest I didn't want to. Getting paid and having some quiet time, maybe for a few lifetimes, was what I wanted, but I knew it wasn't one of those days.

  What had Elion said? That he'd be in touch? I had no way of contacting him, had already discovered the number that had called George was out of use—it was dead, probably only used once—so what now? Go home, have breakfast, wait it out. It sounded good to me. It sounded perfect.

  It sounded safe.

  Vicky was quiet on the drive home, hardly saying a word. Her high was gone, replaced with a subdued smile and a nervousness I knew would spill over soon. By the time we got to the portal she was sullen and not even teleporting cheered her up.

  When we stepped out at the other end, and walked into the barn, she marched ahead then stopped abruptly. I stopped too, not sure which way this would go. Her shoulders shook, I heard her sobs, and then her whole body trembled. I went to her, wrapped arms around her slender frame, felt her pressing hard against me, her hands still limp at her sides.

  She cried, and kept on crying, and I did what I could but knew it wasn't enough.

  Eventually, as is always the way with these things, the crying eased. There are only so many tears you can shed, then you have to face the world.

  "I killed a man," she sniffled.

  "No, you didn't. You shot a dead man in the face for invading your home and threatening to take you away from your daughters."

  "It's the same thing." Vicky stepped back and dried her eyes with the tissue she carried around up her sleeve like a badge of motherhood.

  "It isn't, you were just angry. Frustrated too. And you felt guilty."

  Vicky looked up, confused. "Guilty? Do I feel guilty?"

  "You tell me. I know I do, every damn second of every single day. But I do it anyway." I shrugged, the most futile human gesture there is, but about all I could manage. No amount of explaining or trying to reconcile my wild nature with my responsibilities could ever come close to making it all right and defensible.

  "I shot a man in the face. I've never done anything like that before."

  "Good, it's a horrible thing to do. Look, it shouldn't feel nice, you should feel bloody awful. When you don't care, when you feel nothing, that's when you should be scared."

  "And you still care? You still hurt and feel gross when you kill people?"

  "No, I don't. And it terrifies me. If anyone messes with me or those I love I'll cut them down in a heartbeat. I'm not a good man, Vicky."

  "Oh, Arthur, you are. You don't hurt people, not nice people."

  "Not always bad people either. It gets complicated. Everyone is a son or daughter, a father or mother, a cousin, brother, or sister. Even if the person you kill deserves it without question you still bring misery to others. That's not nice."

  "No, I guess not."

  "There you go then." Now I was beginning to feel as bad as Vicky looked. What a team!

  "It's not even the killing. I put my children, my family, in danger." Vicky put a hand to her mouth at the words, as if saying them out loud made what had happened, what she'd done, more real.

  "You did, Vicky, and that's partly on me, but mostly on you."

  "Arthur, you aren't helping."

  She had to understand, had to really understand what she was doing. I wasn't about to make it easy for her. "I'm not trying to. What if your kids had been home? What if next time it gets ugly you're at the school gates or taking them to ballet? Anything."

  "I couldn't live with myself," she whispered.

  "So stop. Go home, forget about me, about all this, and look after your kids."

  "I can't. Don't want to. I need this. Want this," she added, so quie
t her words were a barely audible whisper.

  "Okay, but this is your choice. I understand, I really do. Normal life isn't enough for you, I sure as hell know it isn't for me. But don't make excuses. Accept the responsibility, and do not," I warned, "keep fucking things up."

  "I won't."

  With that, Vicky adjusted her ponytail, cleaned her face up again, and we got in the car and drove home.

  Something changed that morning, changed forever. Vicky became a true gangster. Just a very small, very annoying, very talkative one. But she never shot a dead guy in the face again. So every cloud, silver linings, all that good stuff.

  Vicky belonged to the underground, and it was one hell of a climb back to the land of law abiding citizens. She never made it.

  Breakfast

  After letting the wards down at the front door, I ushered Vicky inside before putting them right back up again. Sasha had done a fine job, I could feel the faery force combined with my own. Let anyone try to get in now. Yeah, famous last words, but this time I was sure they'd hold.

  Ninja slippers and Nikes off, we went into the kitchen. When Vicky saw George sitting at the table she said, "Bet you need a hug," then with George looking over Vicky's shoulder as Vicky clung to her and cried for five minutes, I made us a fried breakfast and strong coffee.

  When Vicky stopped crying, I told George what had happened, leaving out the naked bits and the shooting in the face "accident," but Vicky told her anyway.

  "She rubbed her boobs against the window?" was all George asked after the whole story was relayed.

  "No. She was, er, just pressing them against it. Can we change the subject please?"

  "Let's have a look at the belt," said George, taking in her stride the news Vicky had shot a man in the face several times. But then, she'd led an unconventional life, and I suppose she knew, just as I did, that Vicky had such violence inside of her.

  I pulled my prize out of my pocket and placed it on the table.

  We all leaned forward and stared at the Ræth Næg. What an utter anticlimax.

  It was rather a small belt. It would fit me, but only just, and the leather looked incredibly old, yet strong. The strap was thick, with ancient, unfamiliar markings, the pattern ruined where the pieces were stitched together from the arm brace. The buckle was plain steel, unblemished and shining icy blue, hinting at the sword it once was.