Savage: An Urban Fantasy Novel (The Solumancer Cycle Book 2)

by J. C. Staudt

  With the kitchen cleared, I move on. This is a four-bedroom, three-and-a-half-bathroom luxury apartment with a private balcony, meaning there’s no scarcity of square footage to cover. A look down the hallway reveals a line of open doors, though the only room I can see into from here is the bathroom at the end of the hallway. It’s too dark to tell what kind of shape the other rooms are in.

  The only room I care about is the master bedroom, whose walk-in closet holds the high-tech safe protecting my two grimoires and a gun collection which may or may not have expanded considerably in recent months. If something’s happened to the grimoires, I’m going to be the saddest Cade. I’ve arranged several countermeasures around the apartment, including the compact Glock 26 taped inside the vent duct in the dining room floor. These days I abide by a strict ‘within reach’ policy. If there isn’t an easily accessible firearm wherever you are in the house, you’re doing it wrong.

  I shuffle along the kitchen wall and crouch down to feel around on the dining room floor. My fingers come to rest on the grill of the vent register, a mercy in my sea of unease. I try not to wake the dead as I lift the register out of the way and peel the duct-taped gun off the sheet-metal wall of the vent.

  When I rack the slide, a wave of not-so-helplessness washes over me. It would be great if I had time to empty the magazine and load it with silver rounds, but I’m not trying to get jumped while I’m holding an unloaded gun. The dining room isn’t too damaged aside from a few toppled chairs, so I advance to the bedroom and poke my head inside.

  Same as the other rooms. Drawers pulled out, sheets undone, clothing everywhere. Normally I would’ve called Ersatz’s name by now, but his failure to appear is proof enough of his inability to do so. Now that we live downtown I’ve stopped keeping feeder mice around for him. His diet is rich and varied, and he hunts more often. I’m hoping that’s where he is now.

  After checking the master bathroom and finding it ransacked, I edge my way toward the walk-in closet. In the darkness, the racks of hanging clothes might as well be the setup for a game of haunted-house peekaboo. The safe at the back is fully intact, and I rush to it before considering what might be hiding along the fringes.

  The electronic buttons beep and boop as I tap out the code. The safe unlocks, and I pull open the heavy door to reveal my most prized possessions. I don my tactical vest and grab a second sidearm, then sling on my AR-15 and slap in a magazine. While I’m there, I take out the Nerve Ring and set it on the top shelf. No one’s ever wearing this thing again.

  Next room down the hall is the gym. Weights everywhere, racks and benches knocked over, but otherwise empty. Across the hall is the guest suite, which I’m surprised to find untouched. The bed’s thick comforter and tons of fluffy pillows are exactly the same as they were the first time I entered this apartment. Aside from the bathroom at the end of the hall, there’s only one room left to explore.

  I nudge the office door open with the muzzle of my rifle. The big desk is upright, as are the plush executive chair and the mesh wastebasket beside it. The laptop sits there blinking on its docking station, closed and dusty. Movement from behind the desk startles me; I tuck the rifle butt tight to my shoulder and move my finger from the rest position to the trigger. I circle the desk to find a woman sitting on the floor, hugging her knees to her chest.

  “Paige?”

  She jumps at the sound of my voice, scrambles backward on all fours and presses her back to the wall.

  I sigh and lower my firearm. “I almost shot you. Seriously, I was half a second away from—what are you doing here? Did you do all this?”

  Her face is frantic, frightened. Awareness dawns, then recedes. “I don’t remember. I was here, and—and that’s it.” She begins to shake and cry.

  I lay the rifle on the floor and sit beside her.

  “What am I doing here?” she sobs, leaning into me.

  I lift an arm to let her collapse against my chest. “It’s alright. You’re okay. You’re safe.”

  Am I safe, though?

  Earrings dangle beneath her disheveled blonde hair. Her jeans are ripped, and not the fashion-statement kind. Scratches and bruises cover her arms, though the red-dot constellations inside her elbows are fading. Her painted fingernails are chipped, the toes of her sneakers wet from snowy sidewalks. A pair of round crimson spots stain the cotton-white sock on her left ankle.

  Dismay rushes through me. Of course I didn’t think to check her ankles for bite marks when I found her. Her master must’ve sent her here and lost control of her at some point after she crossed the threshold. Maintaining a grip on her while she’s inside a mortal’s household must be like trying to send a text on one bar of signal. No telling when the next text is going to come through. If I let her leave, though, she’ll fall under his dominion again instantly. I don’t want to hold her against her will, but keeping her here is the only way to protect her. Maybe it’s what I should’ve done the first time.

  “Wait here for just one second,” I tell her.

  “Don’t leave me,” she begs.

  “I’m not going anywhere. I’ll be right here.”

  When I stand up, she does too. When I take a step toward the closet, she comes with me. This is going to be harder than I thought. Then again, it could be worse. She could be trying to escape like Lorne did from the hospital.

  I slide the closet door open just a crack. Paige shadows me, as if my proximity alone is enough to keep her imagined enemies at bay. I’d rather she didn’t see the laboratory equipment arranged on the long narrow table inside and start asking questions. However tenuous her master’s hold over her, she’s going to remember everything she sees.

  I reach for my shelf of vials and grab one without looking at the label. When I unstopper the cork, a rush of powder mounds in my palm. I drop both cork and vial; the latter clinks and rolls off the table.

  “What are you doing?” Paige asks as I rub the residue onto my palms.

  “It’ll help,” I tell her. “Stand there.”

  She frowns, but doesn’t object.

  I face her and raise my hands. Residue dissipates as I draw power from it. My sleep magic is rusty; it requires emotional peace, and peace is something I haven’t felt in a long time. Yet concentrating on my father’s signet brings the spell into sharp focus, burning away the excess. “Rest, Paige. Go to sleep.”

  When I touch her forehead, the spell emerges with more punch than I intend. For someone as nervous, tired, and strung-out as she is, it doesn’t take much. The effect is instantaneous. She withers into my arms with a sigh of resignation.

  I scoop her up and bring her into the untarnished guest suite, which must’ve been the last place on her hit list. The plush neutral-tone comforter dimples beneath her. She looks peaceful for what must be the first time in a while. I can’t imagine what she’s been through. I just hope she sleeps long enough for me to free her. With nothing to go on but a place and a name, I’ll need to work fast.

  Thank the maker my laptop isn’t wrecked. I feel useless without Quim helping me navigate the strange waters of internet research. Laugh all you want. You didn’t grow up too poor for computers, Christmas presents, and central heating six months out of the year. If you did, trigger warning. You’re in good company.

  My search gets off to a crushing start. There are more than twenty bowling alleys in the greater metro area, none of which appear to be named after a goblin. This is going to require some good old-fashioned deductive reasoning. With Mottrov Manor located across the bridge in Windsor, I figure his top guys probably don’t stray far, even for a leisurely night of gambling. And since Buster McCracken is part of the Warrendale Crew, his family must stick close to the neighborhood. Dearborn is therefore my target area.

  After narrowing my search parameters, I wind up with five venues in or near Southwest Detroit. Alley Cats, Motor City Bowling, Gutter Sharks, Kingpin Lanes, and Strikers. I wonder what Quim would do in this situation. Probably hack into something. What did he
tell me earlier this week? I should really listen better.

  Oh yeah. A lot of stuff is publicly available on the internet.

  I open both the Detroit City and Wayne County websites, navigate to their property tax portals, and search for the last names Golug and McCracken, cross-referencing each result with the property addresses of the five bowling alleys on my list. It takes some time, but eventually I hit the jackpot. Gutter Sharks in Warrendale is owned by a G. Golug. Auntie Gragie. I’m proud of myself. This is proof that I can perform simple tasks on a computer without Quim holding my hand. I’ll never tell him that, though.

  Behind the sliding closet door stands the mini fridge in which I keep my magical paraphernalia. Paige didn’t make it here before her rampage petered out, so my lab equipment is unscathed. I take a vial of troll blood from the rack in the fridge and turn it end to end to stir the blackish fluid inside. I put two of the three syringes from my pocket into a drawer, then peel off the plastic wrapping on the third and remove the needle cap.

  The needle pierces the rubber stopper. I pull the plunger to draw half a milliliter of its dense viscosity into the syringe. I wish I had time to stop by Durlan’s to inquire about the demon blood, but I’ll have to get by on what I have on hand. Troll magic is versatile and well-suited toward regenerative spells and protection magic, but it isn’t so strong against the elements. I return the troll vial to the rack and add a quarter-mL of elf for stability. A small pull each of giant and werewolf add potency and resilience, respectively.

  Normally I’d measure out my doses, but like a seasoned chef, I’m eyeballing it. Deep breath, the needle’s brief sting, the plunge, the withdrawal. I set the syringe aside for later cleansing, then slide the closet door closed and return to my bedroom.

  I’m bringing three handguns tonight. After filling the corresponding magazines with silvered ammo, I change clothes and strap up. I carry a mid-sized Glock 19 in an appendix holster beneath the waistband on my right hip; a larger 17 in a shoulder holster over my left ribcage; and a compact 26 in a molded ankle band. Consequently, these are two of the three places where Janice gave me stitches. I’m tempted to grab a much-needed shower, but I adhere to the good doctor’s orders because I need one of these cuts getting infected like I need another hole in my head.

  Before I lock the safe, I grab a fat stack of fifty-dollar bills wrapped in a light-brown money band reading $5,000. No reason to go in guns-blazing if I can weasel my way into the game and get the information I need through witty banter and some light conversation. If they pat me down or strip-search me, I’ll cross that bridge when I come to it.

  Paige is sleeping soundly in the guest bedroom. I close the door and seal it with a magical ward in case she wakes up with any crazy ideas in her head. If she decides to trash the place again, she can’t do much worse than she already has.

  The hearse is my weapon of choice for the road this evening. Inconspicuity is the name of the game. That’s not a real word, but it exemplifies what I want to be—unnoticed. Hardly possible with my choice of vehicles, but I’ll get as close as appearances allow.

  It’s a quick twenty-minute trip down I-96 to Gutter Sharks, a low-profiled building of black corrugated steel whose beleaguered parking lot backs to railroad tracks and a frozen drainage pond with rusty yellow edges reminiscent of a toxic waste dump. The stench of goblin-controlled Warrendale bitch-slaps me in the face as I step onto frost-choked asphalt and dodge the towering piles of grimy snow gathered around the street lamps.

  A biting northerly wind accompanies me through the front door, where I am greeted by warm flourishes of fried food and cigarette smoke. Pins crack and tumble. Gutterballs rumble. Fist pumps and high fives accompany hung heads and facepalms. All is well at the O.K. Corral. For now.

  A three-foot-tall ochre-skinned hag atop a monumental stepstool behind the counter casts her cartoonish lazy eye in my direction. She’s got a warted hook nose and a frizzy mess of hay-bale hair which reminds me of Buster’s. When she talks, it’s like a rock tumbler with emphysema. “Help you?”

  I lean against the counter and stare back at her. “Heard there was a poker game here tonight.”

  She twitches. Watches me with that big veiny eye of hers. “Invitation only.”

  I whonk the stack of fifties onto the counter. “How’s this for an invitation?”

  Her eye goes big, then narrows above a cool smile. “Big for your britches… but okay. You want to play? Who told you about the game?”

  “Your nephew Kaz.” I make sure to use his true name rather than his blend-in so she knows I’m aware of his species. Then I tell a lie. “He’s a friend of mine.”

  “Oh yeah? What’s your name? I’ll tell him you stopped by.”

  “My name’s not important. I’m a business associate, and I’m not stopping by. I’m here to play.”

  That same cool smile. “I’ll make change.”

  She slides two fifty-dollar bills off the stack and gives back the rest, then puts the two bills in the register and lays out five rolls of quarters, ten bucks per roll. “There you go.”

  “This is only fifty dollars. You took a hundred.”

  “Price of admission.” She pushes the rolls toward me and points at a door in the back wall. “Through there. Have fun.”

  “Thanks.”

  The plastic sign on the door says EMPLOYEES ONLY.

  No going back now, I remind myself, just before I turn the handle.

  Chapter 25

  The poker table sits at the far end of a long narrow run of steel shelving units, wreathed in smoke beneath the light of a naked hanging bulb. A motley cast occupies the eight-or-so chairs surrounding the table, their winnings stacked and their pink-patterned playing cards fanned face down. The only one who stands out to me in that first moment is the vampire in the blue suit with the tight black ponytail. The mental note I made of him at Throgmorton’s, when he placed the winning bid of two-point-six million dollars on the Book of the Grave, comes due.

  If the Warrendale Crew raided Mottrov Manor earlier this week, I imagine it’s put a strain on whatever uneasy alliance existed between the goblin gang and the Ascended vampire coven. Either those tensions haven’t spilled over into the poker game, or there’s no beef between Mottrov’s guys and Buster’s Auntie Gragie. Auntie might be far-removed from turf wars and gang grudges, but she’s still family. And when gangs go to war, families pay the price.

  “Wrong room, pal,” calls the dealer, a burly bugbear wearing a green visor with squared eyeglasses resting on the end of his nose. “You see the sign?”

  I consider asking whether they can spare a little room for a new player, but winners don’t ask. Neither do humans carrying silvered weapons in a room full of creatures deathly allergic to silver. I grab a folding chair off the wall and drag it to an empty spot at the table, then plonk down my rolls of quarters. “I’m here to play. Deal me in.”

  The bugbear, a hairy-eared galoot of the species many believe to be a much larger cousin of the goblin, eyes his compatriots around the table before he responds. “What do we call you?”

  “Same thing everyone calls me. Mr. Savage.”

  The ponytailed vamp cuts his eyes at the man sitting next to him, the only other vampire at the table. This one is older, his cold yellow eyes striking against a powdery complexion, slate-gray hair, and a starched white collar open to the third button. A red gem gleams at the center of the winged iron pendant hanging on his chest.

  “Savage,” says the bugbear dealer. “I like it. Hope it’s how you play. We’re about to see the river. I’ll deal you into the next hand.”

  I nod and start unwrapping my rolls of quarters, tossing the occasional glance at the others. I’ve miscounted the number of players at the table by one. There are eight including me. In addition to the two vamps and the bugbear dealer, there’s an aging goblin in a booster seat, a gangly gnoll with the grinning face of a wild dog, a half-minotaur with a heavy ring through his septum, and another human, an
old man with a short carpet of gray hair and a collection of chins to rival the phone directories of a prominent far-eastern nation.

  Of everyone in the room, the half-minotaur scares me the most. I’m sitting directly across from him, between the ponytailed vamp to my left and the gnoll to my right. He’s close to Fremantle’s size, only he’s built of rippling muscle instead of stone. Life for the folding chair beneath him must be fraught with peril.

  Minotaurs are notoriously strong and aggressive, but few people are aware of the magical resistances they build up throughout their lifetimes. A full-blooded minotaur develops near-immunity to magic by the time he reaches old age, as though some physiological system learns to cope with it through continued exposure the same way we create antibodies against disease. I’ve wanted to study minotaur blood for a long time, but it’s rarer than demon’s blood. Half-minotaurs are rarer still. Assuming this one possesses even a fraction of his minotaur patrimony, I’ll want to think twice before resorting to violence. If he’s immune to magic and bears no weakness to silver, he’ll be a walking battering ram when things go south.

  The dealer burns a card and flips the river. The old man is sweating as he studies his two-card hand. He wrinkles his mouth and tosses them down, shaking his head. The goblin blinks and wipes his face from forehead to chin, swabbing off the tired. Both vamps sit tight; so does the dealer. The goblin and the gnoll both fold. The half-minotaur pushes a stack of quarters into the center with a snort.

  Ponytail folds. The elder vamp sees the minotaur and raises him another short stack. They’re the only two left in the game. The bull-man flares his nostrils, crimson light glowing in his eyes as he stares at the vampire’s red gem.

  “Alright,” the dealer urges. “Let’s see ‘em.”

  Both players flip their cards. The half-minotaur’s hand is Queen-six. The vampire has a pair of eights. The Queen on the flop and the eight on the turn give the vampire the win with three eights beating the minotaur’s pair of Queens. He rakes in his change, a huge pile of quarters totaling around fifteen bucks. I’m amused to find them playing for loose change after assuming this would be a high-stakes game with thousands of dollars in the mix.