Death in the Hallows (Hank Mossberg, Private Ogre Book 2)

by Jamie Sedgwick

  Exhausted as I was, I didn’t even notice the shadow that had appeared at the end of the hall. I was about to turn off my computer when Butch’s friend Mickey stepped into the room and cleared his throat. I nearly jumped out of my skin.

  “Mickey!” I said, sitting up straight. “I didn’t notice you there.” I glanced at the clock. “Butch isn’t here. He’s probably taking off on his honeymoon this very minute.”

  Mickey took a few steps into the room and stood there looking nervous. “I know,” he said. “I just talked to him. Butch wanted me to let ya know how grateful he was. For everything.”

  I smiled. “Thanks for passing that on.” I reached down and hit the power button on the computer, assuming that was it. Mickey didn’t move.

  “Was there something else?” I said.

  He wore an uncomfortable look on his face and he swayed slightly as he stared at me. I wondered how much he’d had to drink. Mickey was as bad a boozer as Butch, maybe even worse.

  “I uh… there was something else Butch wanted me to tell you,” he said awkwardly.

  “Okay,” I said. “What’s up?” I rose from the desk and threw on my old fedora. I was tired. I figured Mickey would take the hint that I was in a hurry. I was about a heartbeat away from falling asleep in my shoes.

  “Well… meet your new partner,” he said, holding out his hand. I just stared at him.

  “What are you talking about?”

  Mickey licked his lips. “Butch said you’d be needin’ a new deputy. I’m your man, Steward.”

  I eyed him up and down. “Are you serious?” I could tell from the look on his face that he was. I considered it. “This can be a dangerous job, Mickey.”

  “I know that. I understand. It’s that… I don’t really have much family. Not much close family anyway, and I’m kind of in the mood for… well, I want to move on with my life.”

  I cocked an eyebrow. “Move on?”

  “Yeah, you know,” he said, staring at his feet. “I’m ready to find a girl.”

  Suddenly I understood. “Ah, so you figure that since Butch found a woman on the job, maybe it’ll work for you, too?”

  He smiled sheepishly. “I’m okay with computers,” he said. “I have one at home. I can do research for you. And I’m a scrapper, too. Wanna armwrestle?”

  I chuckled. “I’ll pass. Mickey, I don’t think this is a good idea.”

  He looked crestfallen. “Why? I promise I’ll stay sober. Butch told me there’s no drinkin’ on the job. I can do it.”

  “You sure about that? When’s the last time you were sober?”

  He considered that for a moment. “That’s not the point. I’m sayin’ I will be sober.”

  “This is a dangerous job, Mickey,” I said, sighing. “You shouldn’t think of it any other way. If you’re thinking this is a good way to meet a girl, well I don’t know if you’re right or not, but either way I can tell you it is a good way to get killed. And if you’re in the mood for starting a family, then you don’t want to end up dead. That’s why Butch left the job.”

  “I’m okay with that, Hank. I know somethin’ bad could happen… but at least I won’t just be sittin’ down at Fitzpatrick’s watchin’ the world go by. I know things might not turn out great, but I’m ready for something different. I’m ready for this.”

  I took a deep breath and felt my tired bones creaking. “I’ll think about it,” I said. He smiled brightly.

  I left him that way, standing in the middle of the room, his face filled with hope and dreams and all sorts of nonsense. I lumbered up to my apartment and fell into bed without even bothering to get undressed. I hadn’t slept in two days, which isn’t a big deal for fae creatures like elves and fairies, but for ogres it’s not so good. We’re a lot like humans that way. We can go for long periods without sleep if necessary, but it makes us cranky and mean. More mean than usual, anyway.

  Chapter 14

  The following Saturday dawned cold and foggy. The sky wanted to rain but couldn’t seem to manage it, and an icy wind blew off the Pacific that chilled me to the bone as I walked from the Ocean Beach parking area down to the beach for Flick’s memorial. Annie was with me and we stood arm in arm throughout the proceedings, neither of us speaking, both of us wondering at everything that had happened and what to make of it all; especially what to do with what was left of the relationship we had.

  We hadn’t spoken about it in days. In fact, we had hardly spoken at all since the night Pol died and Gen almost lost her leg. Annie woke without me that night. She woke and I was gone, and I had a feeling that it may have solidified in her mind the feelings she’d been alluding to before she passed out. But instead of talking about it, she got quiet. And I was too dumb to know what to say, so I didn’t say anything at all. The entire week had passed without a word between us, until that morning when she called and asked me for a ride. I took that for what it was, and nothing more. I had little hope that Annie might believe we still had a chance. In my heart, I already knew that she’d given me my last shot, and I had blown it.

  So we stood there in the cold breeze, ignoring the empty threats and hollow promises of the clouds that loomed overhead, and we watched and listened as Nya and her children said farewell to Flick. Magnus gave an extraordinary speech, incredible enough that I forgot I hated him and simply enjoyed the memories that washed over me.

  Flick had been a good man: idealistic, ambitious, maybe even naïve. Magnus hit on all of these points and he did so with reverence and humor and love, in a way that was both touching and unforgettable.

  We all watched quietly as Nya and her children took the urn of fine gold dust and poured it out over the waves. They wept openly, and the rest of us tried not to. Most of us failed. I didn’t break down but I felt the mist in my eyes and a tear or two on my cheek and I pretended it was because of the wind and nothing more.

  There was something important about Magnus being there; something about the way it had all started with the wedding and ended here, but I didn’t have the heart to examine it further. I just accepted it and told myself that’s how life works. That was what I told Annie too, as we drove back to the Mother tree. We didn’t speak much then, either.

  When we parked, I invited her up for dinner.

  “I don’t think so, Hank,” she said distantly. “I have a lot to do.”

  “I’ll get you a cab then,” I said.

  As she said goodbye, Annie gave me a quick peck on the cheek. She straightened the lapels on my coat and brushed down the front of my shirt.

  “You take care of yourself,” she said.

  “You, too.”

  I watched her disappear down the street, telling myself that we hadn’t just broken up. Fact was, I didn’t know for sure. Annie’s a woman. She can be moody; it’s her prerogative. I know because she told me so. There was a chance she’d call me in a day or two and it would be like nothing had ever happened. I doubted that, but I wouldn’t complain if it happened.

  When it comes to relationships, I’m not very good at being proactive. They usually start before I even know it and when they’re over, I’m always the last to find out. If that was the case right now, I’d just have to wait for somebody smarter to tell me.

  After Annie left, I went down to the jailhouse, more out of habit than anything else. There was nothing waiting for me there. No prisoners, no messages, no deputy Butch O’Shea. The place was dark and quiet. I left shortly after because for the moment, I didn’t like being there. I passed Fitzpatrick’s tavern along the way and saw that it too, was surprisingly quiet. Normally it would have been poker night, but with Butch gone it looked like everyone had taken a night off. There were a few drinkers at the bar, the usual die-hards. A handful of dwarves and delvers, a satyr making time with a pretty nymph, and a couple of gnomes who could barely see over the top of the bar… in all, a pretty quiet crowd.

  I thought about joining them, but the thought of those uncomfortably small bar stools changed my mind for me. Instea
d, I wandered up to my apartment and opened a bottle of the cheap merlot that I save for not-so-special occasions. It’s not a bad wine if you drink it young and don’t savor it too long, and it’s mild enough that my system can take it.

  They say you’re not supposed to drink when you’re depressed and you’re not supposed to drink when you’re alone, but I did it anyway. It wasn’t a sign of alcoholism, it was a symptom of life. In a way, maybe even subconsciously, it was me getting prepared.

  Siva’s words were still ringing through the back of my head and I couldn’t get rid of them no matter how I tried. I had Pol’s blood on my hands now. Fae blood. And there was worse to come. I knew Siva’s prophecy was about to come true because I could feel it deep down in my bones. I had no idea what to expect or when it would happen, all I could do was keep my eyes open and hope I’d be ready. I hoped we would all be ready.

  In the meantime, I needed a drink.

  The End

  Read on for a sample from Book Three in the ongoing Hank Mossberg, Private Ogre series!

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  ISBN-10: 1477460799

  ISBN-13: 978-1477460795

  Death in the Hallows Copyright 2012 by Jamie Sedgwick

  Cover art copyright 2012 by Timber Hill Press

  All rights reserved

  Any resemblance to people, places, or situations is purely coincidental.

  And now, your free sample:

  The Killer in the Shadow

  “The worst pain you ever experience won’t be at the hands of an enemy, but someone you trust.” –Hank Mossberg

  Chapter 1

  Even before the first twister in sixty years touched down on the San Francisco Bay and tipped over a fishing boat, I knew there was something different about this storm. The dark fae Siva had warned me it was coming: I see dark clouds, she had said. Dark clouds moving over you, and blood like a river. I hadn’t given her prediction much thought since that night. Life is full of danger, and prophesying something bad will happen is like prophesying the sun will set and the moon will rise.

  Siva was right though, there was something different about all of it - about the air, and the sky, and the oppressive gloom that smothered the life and color out of everything until the whole city became the same washed-out gray. It was something dark and insidious, like goblin magic gone wild, and from the moment the first icy raindrop touched my skin, I knew that something bigger than a storm was coming.

  The source of this anxiety wasn’t the fog, the rain, or even that hellish wind that blew off the bay, scattering trash up and down the hilly San Francisco streets and sending chills crawling across my skin to burrow deep into my bones. It was an ominous and oppressive feeling that had been weighing on me; something at once both intangible and inescapable. It set the whole city on edge, and me along with it. I could feel the tension building around me like a rising wave and I knew it was just a matter of time before it all came crashing down. I kept checking the barometer in the jailhouse hoping for a sign of something, though I have no idea what it was. Maybe I just wanted to convince myself it wasn’t just me.

  Sometimes, it’s the waiting that gets to you…

  I had promised to pick Annie up at eight, and I did. I was a perfect gentleman, dressed to the nines in a brand new wool suit and sporting a fresh haircut as I pulled up to the curb outside her apartment building. I even left my old trench coat at home - although I did wear my fedora, which Annie has always said makes me look distinguished. I don’t care much about how it makes me look, it’s more about how it makes me feel. I’ve been wearing that hat for as long as I can remember -so long that it’s become part of me and I feel naked without it.

  I parked and stepped out to help Annie into my Blazer. She was unhappy about climbing into my rusted-out piece of junk in a new dress, but I could tell by her pursed lips and lack of accusations that she had something less transient on her mind. Annie was curt and quiet, but that didn’t mean she wasn’t saying anything. I could almost hear the whole ranting conversation playing out in my head… or maybe it was just me. As I started to drive, I turned up the heater. It didn’t do any good. Annie was just as cold and irascible as the freezing February weather, and neither showed any signs of warming anytime soon.

  The late evening rain came down in sheets as I pulled off 101 and merged onto Old Cove Road climbing the hill towards Cliffside. The sky was dark and the wind drove the fog off the Pacific, up and over the hills, obscuring the already barely visible road and turning the expansive views of the bay into a solid sheet of ghostly gray. When we pulled up to the curb at the Cliff House Restaurant, an attendant rushed out to meet us with an umbrella. It was just big enough for him and Annie, but I didn’t complain. I handed the valet a five and told him not to scratch my Blazer. He laughed and said I should’ve kept the five towards a lease on a new car. Then he stuffed the money in his pocket and drove away.

  I followed Annie and the attendant up to the entrance with ice-cold rain spotting my new wool suit and dripping down the back of my neck. We climbed the front steps toward the grand entrance, a marble staircase framed by pillars and guarded by statues of lions carved in stone. Gargoyles leered down at us from above as we walked through the wide French doors and stepped into the castle-like lobby.

  The Cliff House is one of the few private properties remaining in the headlands along the north side of San Francisco Bay. It’s an old gothic mansion built by a railroad tycoon in the 1880’s that sits atop a seven hundred foot precipice overlooking the bay and the Golden Gate. The place has belonged to at least a dozen private parties over the years, several of whom committed suicide and at least one of whom was murdered. The latest owner is a five-star chef with a TV show and seemingly endless vaults of money. He bought the mansion and refurbished it from top to bottom, then lobbied to have it designated a historic site. He opened a world-class restaurant with million-dollar views, and ever since it’s been the go-to place for everybody who’s somebody. Just being seen at the Cliff House proves you’re one of the bay area elites… unless you’re like me and you have connections of a different kind.

  The host was a thin man in his fifties wearing an uncomfortable-looking tuxedo. He had combed his few remaining strands of hair straight back over his shiny head. He flashed us the smile of a used car salesman as he opened his reservation book, and I caught a glimpse of a diamond-studded gold bracelet under his sleeve. The tag on his shirt read “Ralph.”

  Ralph looked me up and down twice and quickly said, “Do you have a reservation?”

  “Mossberg,” I grunted, ignoring his look. Humans generally have a hard time figuring out what to make of me because I’m six-foot-six with greenish skin and shoulders like a linebacker. I’ve been told I have presence, which I guess is a nice way of saying I fill up space different than most. Being a freak of nature tends to have that effect. Anything that forces a human to look twice might as well be called presence. I don’t consider it a compliment.

  “We’ll have a table ready in just a few minutes,” Ralph said. “Please have a seat.”

  Annie dropped onto one of the Victorian sofas in the entryway and I cast a longing gaze at the bar next to the lobby as I settled down next to her. She rolled her eyes as the sofa creaked under my weight. She slid to the side, giving me more room, and a shiver crawled up my spine.

  “Something wrong?” she said in a patronizing tone, one eyebrow cocked.

  “Colder in here than it i
s outside,” I muttered. I rose to my feet and crossed to the other side of the entry, where I pretended to examine the paintings on the wall. I could feel her eyes boring into my back.

  I heard a bustle of noise and turned to see a large group climbing the front stairs. I groaned inwardly as the attendant opened the door and ushered Magnus inside. Magnus is one of the “Ascended Elders”, the highest power among the fae, and he’s a wizard. He’s the equivalent of a Supreme Court judge, but with the power to cast spells and summon lightning bolts. Magnus is tall and thin with long gray hair, which tonight was pulled back in a tail that ran halfway down his back. As always, he was impeccably dressed in a black and red suit that probably cost more than a year’s salary. My salary, not his.

  Magnus and I have never seen eye to eye. He more or less considers me riff-raff and I pretty much consider him a snob. The problem is that with him being an Elder and me being the Steward, we cross paths regularly. As the Steward, I’m in a position of authority among the fae, something like a sheriff in the old west. It’s my job to keep the peace and protect the innocent. Or it was, traditionally. These days the fae have their own police force and I’m more of a private detective than anything. Most seem to view my job as some sort of antiquated tradition, but that doesn’t stop ‘em from coming to me when they’ve got a problem.

  Magnus stormed across the lobby, summarily dismissing me with an irritated glance as he walked up to meet Ralph. An entourage of a dozen people followed closely in his wake. I use the term people loosely. Magnus surrounds himself with wealthy and powerful fae creatures like Mike Laluna, the (satyr) mayor of the undercity and Zane Bossa, the chief of the undercity police force who also happens to be a cyclops. Both happened to be in attendance, along with the Bolger twins (two gnome brothers who are also Ascended Elders) and Freita Garble, the famous dryad singer.