High Steaks (Freelance Familiars Book 3)

by Daniel Potter

Trevor had resided in an apartment building constructed so cheaply that the bargain-rate drywall had a certain odor to it. It's kind of like new-car smell, but grosser. A young man with leafy green hair dozed in a folding chair near the entrance under a hand-painted sign that read New Grantsville.

  O'Meara rapped on the glass door, and the man's head popped up from his chest, displaying feathery protrusions where most folks have eyes. A bolt of recognition crossed his face, and he hurried to open the door.

  "Mistress O'Meara?" he exclaimed with a very nervous smile.

  I chuffed. His head shifted a tiny bit towards me; it's remarkably difficult to tell what someone is looking at when they lack eyes.

  "And Thomas! Ah, what can I do for you?"

  "Hello, Brian. We're looking for Trevor McKay’s apartment," O'Meara said in a voice that brooked no argument.

  I expected him to quibble or ask for a warrant or something, but instead he answered with an almost enthusiastic, "Yes, ma'am" and led us into the building.

  How does he know you? I asked O'Meara as we walked into the tenement.

  Thursdays and Saturdays he's at O'Malley's. Most of the Grantsvillians who live around here find their way to my bar at some point. Nobody's bothered to tell them that my bad luck is contagious. She stomped down on bitter memories before they could surface.

  I refocused my attention outward, finding myself in an elevator that still smelled new but felt unsafe. The guard pulled the grate across it, and we began a slow rise toward the fourth floor.

  "So, what’d he do?" the kid asked.

  "Have you seen him recently?" said O'Meara. "He has some friends worried."

  "Can't say I have, but heh - I'm not always the most observant. If somebody's got a key, I barely notice them." He shrugged in an unhelpful manner. Neither O'Meara nor I could tell if he was protecting Trevor or just being honest. "What sort of friends did he have?"

  I saw no reason to lie. "Alice down at the Ranch. He's been gone for a few days, and she thinks he's dead. We're just trying to figure out if he's all right." O'Meara radiated disapproval at my disclosure.

  The guard laughed nervously. "Well, no one has complained of a smell." He led us out of the elevator and down a sparsely lit hallway lined with doors every hundred feet or so. The gray paint looked far more recent than the carpet that couldn't decide what color to be, a muddle of brown and earthy greens. We stopped at a door no different from the others. Brian banged on it three times. "Hey! Trevor! You in there?"

  No answer.

  After a moment, I asked if he could open it.

  "Do you have a warrant or something?" he asked.

  "Do we look like police?" O'Meara asked, crossing her arms. O'Meara had not entirely discarded the red clothing of her former office, being clad in a red shirt and blue jeans, but it was a pretty far cry from the red dress I had met her in.

  "Not really," he conceded, stepping aside as O'Meara formed a two-inch beam of heat on the end of her finger, which she used to slice the doorknob out of the door. The guard yelped.

  I started to protest, but O'Meara cut me off with, We are on a literal deadline, Thomas. I don't have time for quibbling with the Grantsville Council.

  From rumor, Grantsville Council consisted mostly of older men who were still attempting to adjust to the advent of the smartphone. I had to concede that forgiveness would probably be easier to obtain than permission with that lot.

  O'Meara pushed the door open to reveal a spartanly furnished apartment. I took one look inside and turned back to the guard. "Are you sure this is Trevor McKay's apartment?"

  The guard only nodded.

  "That makes no sense!" I exclaimed, turning back to the apartment. No stench of a body or even of spoiled food. Instead, clean lines and a new bamboo floor. The living room had a chair, a desk, and a bookcase. In the center of the floor, in a precisely drawn circle, sat a candle halfway burned down. While I'd been very careful not to probe Trevor's memories, I'd expected his living quarters to be as organized as his mind, which was not.

  Not everyone's living rooms are a reflection of their mindscapes, Thomas, O'Meara chided me as she stepped over the threshold and into the apartment. Blue nitrile gloves were pulled over her hands. "Thomas, see if you can find anything that has a strong scent on it."

  "Okay..." I replied, eyeing my surroundings warily. The wrongness of the place prickled my whiskers as I inhaled through snarling lips. The air tickled the roof of my mouth, and the scents wafting through it gained a crispness, mostly a mix of O'Meara's burnt cinnamon and the sweet, sappy sweat of the guard. Trevor's scent was there, along with the gag-inducing musk of male enhancement antiperspirant that I had forbidden him from wearing to our lessons.

  "Uh, how sure are you that Trevor's dead? Maybe he went on vacation?" the guard asked, apparently realizing that perhaps helping us wasn't a guard-like thing to do.

  "A guy like Trevor would pack," O'Meara commented as she peered at the bookcase. It consisted entirely of self-help books, including the old classic, How to Awaken Your Psychic Power. Which casino did he work at again? she asked.

  Two jobs. The Luxor, and then dishwashing at the Royal. I had nosed my way into the bedroom, which seemed to consist of a thin mattress, a lamp, and a closet full of very similar outfits. His scent was stronger here but no less stale. What am I looking for? I'm not exactly a bloodhound.

  Something he either loved or hated. In the other room, O'Meara frowned at several books on tidying, something she generally viewed as immoral and against the natural order of the universe. I could see a hypothesis forming in her head but refocused my attention on the contents of Trevor's closet. He had an awful lot of shoes, none of which stank of him much. He probably disappeared in his favorite pair. Yet in the very back, something about the ambient odors changed. There, wedged in the back corner of the closet, sat a shoebox so old that the red of the Nike logo had begun to fade. I dragged it into the light and tossed off the top of the box, which had been labeled “Home.” Pay dirt, I announced.

  A considerable portion of the box was occupied by a plush black and white bunny rabbit that peered at me accusingly with its one remaining eye. "Hey, buddy, I'm just trying to help," I told him as I dumped the rest of the contents onto the floor. The box contained the most random assortment of trinkets: coins, a tarnished cigarette case, a Civil War-era bullet, and a stack of photos, several of which I found Alice in; human Alice, from before the technomagi ground the whole town for tass and blended its occupants with several neighboring realities. Alice and her ilk had gotten off easy compared to some. Apparently, Trevor had known this as well. I found a group shot of sixteen youths, all smiling. Skulls had been scratched over three of the faces; Alice had horns, and the rest sported their own changes. Only one kid remained normal looking, a gawky teenager with a bowl cut and a shirt that hung off his thin frame. A Trevor of a few years ago. He'd been the lucky one.

  He'd awakened. Become one of the very few humans who reach out into the void and call on another reality. With hard work and a good familiar, he could have become a decent magus.

  Well, that settles it. O'Meara's thought pushed into my own, and I slipped my perception to her eyes to peek at what she beheld. In her hand lay an open notebook bearing neat handwriting with many lines scratched out. The top declared, "Plan to save Alice Grantsville THE WORLD!" The accompanying plan started sensibly but soon meandered into underwear gnome territory.

  Somebody mind-twisted this kid.

  I wasn't sure about that. I found pictures of an older couple, both with red skulls penned over their faces. I recognized them from Trevor's memories. His parents hadn't made it out. Sure it wasn't simply trauma? The neatness made more sense now; nothing in the rest of the apartment to remind him of his previous life. Except that he continued to go see Alice.

  O'Meara gestured to the bottom shelf of the bookcase, filled with similar spiral-bound notebooks. I didn't even need to pry into O'Meara's memories to know they were all filled with meticu
lous plans that made no sense.

  Who would have mind-bent a dish washer? I asked.

  O'Meara opened a notebook entitled "Get Money Tass" and paged through it. The phrase "work hard, get promoted" appeared throughout, along with crazier schemes.

  The casinos sometimes don't limit the spells to the patrons. Now bring me that box, and we'll see if we can get a tracking spell working.

  A short time later, O'Meara and I crouched opposite each other on the edge of the circle. O'Meara frowned at the candle to which we'd attached the tracking spell as it dangled from a chain looped around its center of mass. The candle spun in a lazy circle with no sign of stopping. Eventually, it wound the chain too tight to continue and then went in the other direction.

  "So what's that mean?" The guard had become less nervous and more curious when we dumped the box into the center of the circle.

  "That means he's not quite dead," O'Meara said, frowning at the spell we'd just cobbled together, gathering all the thin connections we found on the objects. "If he was dead, the candle would hang there, limp. The spell wouldn't work. Instead, it can't get there from here. But there is a connection."

  It clicked in my head. "He's not in this plane?"

  O'Meara smiled, and Trevor's story got a lot more complicated. "The only way you get a result like this is if magic has happened. Either he's behind a ward made to block this sort of spell, or he's not in this plane at all. Neither of which would explain the psychic pain you and Alice experienced."

  "So what would?" I asked.

  Dark memories bubbled in O'Meara's mind.

  "Vampires."

  10

  Extra Ventilation

  ”Nuts!" announced O'Meara's pants before she could launch into an explanation of just what precisely she meant by "vampires." Sighing, she pulled an iPhone from her back pocket. "That's Rudy."

  "You gave Rudy a custom ringtone?" I said, blinking.

  "Custom alert. Seemed like a good idea at the time."

  "Nuts!" said the phone as O'Meara unlocked it with a thumb. As she read the message, I slipped my perceptions behind her eyes. The screen read: "Hey Chestnut Roaster! Tell Puddy Kat that I got us a ride! We're outside, so shake your tails."

  O'Meara typed: "Almost done here, be right there."

  Then a new message appeared: "We got you a suit and shades too!"

  O'Meara shoved the phone back into her pocket, and I pulled back my senses. "Now I am truly frightened," O'Meara commented as she pushed herself to her feet.

  I snorted a half laugh. "Why worry? Rodents are excellent tailors. Just ask Walt Disney and Cinderella."

  "Then we better hurry before this ride turns into a pumpkin." O'Meara picked up her messenger bag and slung it over her shoulder.

  "Hey! You can't just leave all this here!" the guard protested. "And what's this about vampires?" The poor guy's leafy eyes looked twisted with strain.

  "Vampires are not allowed in Vegas, which means there's only a few of them. I wouldn't worry about them; they're very different from what you see on TV." O'Meara patted the guy on the shoulder. "You'll be fine as long as you carry a holy symbol of some type. Now," O'Meara pulled out a roll of yellow police tape and shoved it into the guard's hand, "put this over the door after we leave, and don't let anyone else in the room."

  The kid's green hair turned yellow. "But that — everybody will know!"

  "Yes, they will, and if they know something about it, tell them to contact me," O'Meara said in a tone that invited no argument and walked out the door. I followed at her heels, feeling a bit bad for the fella.

  Why are we throwing a hornets' nest into the rumor mill? I asked as we headed for the steps.

  To get them talking. Now, if somebody else disappears, they'll take it seriously. In that bar, it seemed like somebody disappeared at least once a week. Nobody's wanted to poke at the magi too hard since they're providing the food. But if there really is a vampire, then that's a different story.

  And vampires are?

  Vampires are anything that feeds on souls. Generally, they're similar to werewolves but connected to a nasty negative plane that demands fresh human something or other. Every once in a while, some magus gets a grand idea to bring one to Vegas as a servant or experiment. It doesn't usually end well.

  Could Trevor be alive, then? Can we save him? I let a small wisp of hope creep into my heart.

  As much as a vet could save a mouse after you swallow one. O'Meara crushed the hope under a mental boot. If it is a vamp, he's mid-digestion. But if we can figure out who's sheltering a vamp then we can—" She stopped herself. I mean, the Inquisition will mobilize to find the vamp and execute it. Then at least it won't be able to eat anybody else.

  O'Meara's thoughts whirled on the difficulty of actually getting someone in the Inquisition to listen to her.

  My own thoughts churned through what I could remember about Trevor's habits. Getting him to concentrate on channeling his anchor had been a major accomplishment with all the fire-themed superheroes that were constantly dancing around in his head.

  The kiln-like heat of Las Vegas hit my face like an anvil as O'Meara and I stepped out on to the sidewalk. A polite beep of a horn greeted us. There, pulled up to the curb, was a pristine white limo that would have been quite classy if not for the line of bullet holes that raked its side. Before either of us could recover, the passenger door of the cab popped open, and a capybara in a smart-looking chauffeur's cap leapt out. He had a plastic water bottle clasped in his jaws. The dog-sized rodent hurried down the length of the limo and splashed water against the silver door handle. There was a hissing sound, and steam rose from the metal. The bottle bounced on the ground while the capybara popped open the handle with his teeth. With a quick backwards hind-legged hop, the door yawned open. Rudy lay sprawled belly up on the seat next to a martini glass full of shelled hazelnuts.

  He waved.

  O'Meara and I stared in bewilderment.

  "Come on! Get in! You're letting out the cold air," Rudy urged.

  "Rudy, what is—" I started to say, but the capybara spoke up.

  "We are Capy Limo Services, sir," he said with a slight whistle to his vowels. "All limos are equipped with the latest in animatronic rodents for maximum arrival impact." He twitched his bristly muzzle like a mustache and winked.

  "And the bullet holes?"

  "Air holes, sir. Nothing to worry about."

  "We'll pull up on the driver's side. Nobody will see the, uh, dings in the paint." Rudy climbed to his feet and made frantic "get over here" gestures. "Let's get going! Time's a-wasting!"

  We boarded, making mental notes not to let Rudy handle the transportation ever again. The interior stank of bleach, but it didn't entirely cover up the death scent. "So much for stylish transport, Rudy. Did they murder someone to get this car?" I said as I settled into a seat that did not have bullet holes in the upholstery.

  "Nah, the capy bros are good guys. They just need a little funding for TLC and they'll be in business. Give them a chance." Rudy gnawed on a hazelnut.

  I gave him a level stare.

  "We're helping out the rodent community. Gotta make sure that Oric and the TAU ain't the only game in town."

  The car started to move. All in all, it wasn't a bad ride - until we got stuck in traffic and the air-conditioning gave up the ghost, turning the car's cabin into a hot box about fifteen minutes away from the casino. I thanked the vast nethergods for the heat protection that being bonded to O'Meara granted.

  Rudy wasn't so lucky.

  "Vegas... baby... Vegas!" Rudy gasped. "Made a bad bet." Holding a paw up to the sky, he lay on the seat looking like he was a half second away from melting. We'd already dosed him with a water bottle.

  "Sorry, sirs! Almost there! We'll get the air fixed before we pick you back up," said the capy for at least the twelfth time. Fortunately, he actually meant it this time as we rolled into the Luxor Hotel's shaded drop-off area. Oddly, he and his brother working the pedals didn't
seem to mind one hundred and three-degree heat pouring through the open windows.

  You sure you don't want to come? I asked O'Meara as she scooped up the limp squirrel and placed him on my back.

  She shook her head, a motion I felt rather than saw. My name is lower than mud here. I'll do you no favors if you're planning on talking to anybody. I'll go in via the garage in case things heat up more than they already are.

  Thank you, I thought as the door to the limo popped open. I sprinted out of the car. If the bellman thought a cougar carrying a heat-struck squirrel was odd, he made no indication as he whisked the door open in front of me. My lungs caught a breath of blessed air-conditioned air. Rudy rolled off my back and emitted a deep sigh of rapture as he endeavored to make himself two dimensional against the cool tiles of the lobby.

  Abandoning dignity, I stretched out beside him. It felt like drinking ice-cold water with my stomach. "For the record, moving to Vegas was your suggestion," I reminded him.

  "Yeah, yeah. Where were we supposed to go? You wanna freelance, you gotta go where all the magi are." The rodent popped right up from the floor and began to groom his wet fur. "Dang Vegas. The only trees they got around here are palms flown up from Hawaii. And chewing through coconut husk is like gnawing through a doormat. Blech!"

  Shaking my head, I surveyed the faux Egyptian-style lobby bustling with tourists in all variety of clothes, from mom jeans to dresses so loud they wouldn't look out of place in Ixey's wardrobe. Most were in their own heads, but several had begun to slow their progress across the tiled expanse. Slowly, brows knit as they squinted at the lettering on my harness that read, "Performance Animal. Do not pet." Their eyes then worriedly scanned the room looking for a handler, somebody to indicate that they were safe and were not in immediate danger of getting mauled by a two hundred-pound cat.

  Maybe you need a cat walker after all? O'Meara asked through our mental bond. I caught a flash of myself in a spiked collar with poodle puffs around my ankles.

  I snorted in annoyance, countering the image with one of her in pink yoga pants, sneaks, and blonde hair done up in a greasy bun.