In the fenced-in yard, Lucky bounded around chasing leaves, although he was befuddled by the plastic cone around his head that prevented him from licking his new testicle stitches.
I thought of the enormous spiked collar on the mantelpiece back inside the house. “I have to ask. That collar is enormous, but Lucky is just a normal sized puppy.”
Hairy Harry glanced back at the big spiked ring. “A dog can dream, can’t he? Most people think I’m larger than life. I wanted my dog to be the same.”
I thought I understood.
The werewolf cop leaned against the brick wall. “I feel so much more content now that he’s back. Lucky calms me, keeps me at peace, guards me against my nightmares.” Hairy Harry hung his head. “Now that I’ve got Lucky back, the Quarter doesn’t have to worry about some infuriated monster wreaking havoc anymore. Lucky’s calmed me enough. I can handle the stress now.”
I was confused. “Isn’t Lucky the one that caused the damage to the old warehouse and the New Deadwood Saloon?”
Hairy Harry blinked his yellow eyes, then chuffed out in laughter. “No—that was me. When I have an episode, sometimes I go a little . . . crazy. After what happened to Amy, and all the guilt and trauma I went through, I’ve been diagnosed with severe PTSD. I get flashbacks, panic attacks. They turn me into a wild beast. I can’t control it. Lucky’s my service dog, assigned to me as my best friend. It’s therapy.”
“That raging destructive hairy monster was you?” I asked, still trying to wrap my head around it.
“Lucky keeps me centered, calms even the worst flashbacks.” On the back porch, he bent over and slapped his knees. “Here, boy! Come here, Lucky!” The hellhound bounded over, wagging his tail from the hindquarters on down. He didn’t seem to hold the neutering against Hairy. The dog leaped up, placed his paws on his master’s shoulders and slobbered all over his face.
Hairy Harry laughed. The dog let out a yip, and the werewolf responded with a loud howl. When they circled and started to sniff each other’s behinds, I decided the case was solved and hurried back to the office.
* * *
Kevin J. Anderson has published 125 books, more than fifty of which have been national or international bestsellers. He has written numerous novels in the Star Wars, X-Files, and Dune universes, as well as a unique steampunk fantasy novel, Clockwork Angels, based on the concept album by legendary rock group Rush. His original works include the Saga of Seven Suns series, the Terra Incognita fantasy trilogy, the Saga of Shadows trilogy, and his humorous horror series featuring Dan Shamble, Zombie PI. He has edited numerous anthologies, including the Five by Five and Blood Lite series. Anderson and his wife Rebecca Moesta are the publishers of WordFire Press.
Stay
Anton Strout
A Tale of the Spellmason Chronicles
I scanned the crowd of locals and tourists eating at the 57th Street diner, looking for any sign of my own kind. They occasionally shunned me as a simple mixologist of arcane cocktails, but I still prided myself on being able to spot them in a room. This time, however, several scans of the crowd proved fruitless, and it wasn’t until I was about to give up that I noticed a normal looking old man with thin wisps of wavy gray hair waving me over with one of his gnarled tree root looking hands to join him at a booth at the back of the diner.
My inner threat level detector calmed down considerably. I mean, what was this guy going to do? Bore me to death with back-in-my-day stories?
Unless, of course, he was simply the bait in a greater trap. I hated being this paranoid, but it was an unavoidable occupational hazard so I proceed with caution, slipping into the booth across from him wearing my best poker face.
“Thank you for agreeing to meet with me,” he said with a voice that rasped out of him as if it had been dragged across the sands of time.
“There are only a few people out there who have the phone number you called me on, and I’m pretty sure you’re not any one of them. So let’s get to the point, all right? Who the hell are you?”
The old man pulled a small notebook out of the pocket of his plaid overcoat, thumbed it open and held up a business card with my phone number scrawled across the back of it.
“My grandson Rennie gave me this,” he said. “In case anything ever happened to him.”
I eased back in my seat a little at the mention of my old acquaintance, the name dusting away the cobwebs that hung over that part of my memory.
“So what did happen to him?”
“I don’t know,” he said. “He’s disappeared.”
I paused, wanting to choose my words carefully. If Rennie’s grandfather was a norm, I didn’t want to break his mind with the knowledge that his kin was usually wrapped up in an arcane world where ‘disappearing’ actually was a possibility—complete with a puff of smoke and all.
“What has Rennie told you about our friendship?”
The old man looked lost in thought for a second before answering. “Rennie talked about how you two went back a ways,” he said. “He mentioned something about becoming fast friends after you got him through some girl trouble when you were younger.”
“That about sums it up,” I said, nodding.
The old man seemed kind enough, and oblivious to our secret arcane world, so I left it at that. He didn’t need to know how bad a break up his grandson had orchestrated between him and the head of the Witch & Bitch coven. It had taken me months for me to convince her to remove the curse on Rennie and months more for the actual pustules and boils to heal and fade away.
“How long has he been missing?” I asked.
“Over a week.”
“Maybe he’s on vacation and forgot to tell you,” I suggested.
The old man shook his head. “That’s not like him to do something like that.”
“Who’s watching his dog?”
“Grayson,” he reminded me. “He’s missing too.”
Rennie might not have told the old man his plans, but he was obsessive about the pooch which was one of those super wrinkly Asian breeds, the kind that seemed to accumulate more and more wrinkles every time I saw it in a cute but also totally creepy way.
“This type of detective work is costly,” I said, hedging around using the word ‘alchemy’.
“Wait,” he said with surprise on his face. “You would charge to find my grandson, your friend?”
“I don’t take work for free,” I said, standing up. “Your grandson should have told you this when he left you the card.”
The man lowered his eyes and shook his head. “Some friend,” he said, slamming his wrinkled fist on the table in agitation, followed by a hiss of pain.
“Hey, I’m willing to risk my neck for a friend,” I said, struggling to find the words to talk about alchemy without actually mentioning alchemy. “If I’m going to try and track him down, that means I have to invest in certain equipment, stuff that doesn’t come cheap. It’s not like I can run into an average store, grab some supplies, and head on out. Procurement is a bitch, and it costs.”
The old man remained silent, rubbing the hand he had slammed down, looking it over. “Damned arthritis.”
“Oh, for heaven’s sake,” I said, reaching into my coat, running my fingers down one row of the sewn in bandoliers. The distinct etching on one of the vial caps brushed against my finger and I pulled the small, metal tube free, twisting it open. “Let me help with that.”
“I’m good,” the old man said as I reached for his hand. “Really.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” I said, pouring a slow moving orange cream out of the vial onto his hand. “Just relax. I’m a pharmaceutical rep. Let me use this on you. It will help with the pain, promise. It’s the least I could do.”
“No,” he said, still trying to pull away, but I held his wrist as I worked the healing lotion into his skin. “You were already doing the least you could do—walking away.”
He had a point, but I really didn’t feel like getting into the finer points of being an al
chemist for hire and instead applied what remained of the lotion in silence as it worked its magic. I was almost done when the glint of a bracelet around the old man’s wrist caught my eye. It was familiar, and why shouldn’t it be? I had fashioned the charm for Rennie years ago, but his grandfather wearing it…? The only purpose it truly served was to keep Rennie shrouded from the Witch & Bitch women, so why give it to another?
Unless…
“Rennie…?” I asked, staring into his eyes.
The old man started to protest as he glanced down before pulling his hand away and slumping back on his side of the booth. “Well, shit.”
I reached across the table and took his hand in mine, double checking that the bones of his fingers and wrinkled skin were no illusion or make up effect.
“Pharmaceutical rep,” he said with a dry laugh that sounded like the rattle of bones. “That’s a new one.”
I ignored his critique of my cover, let go of his hand and sat back, wide eyed. “Forgive me for being discreet.”
“Some might call it paranoid,” he shot back.
“Potato, potahto,” I said. “Just because I’m paranoid doesn’t mean there aren’t witches and warlocks out to get me. So cut the semantics. Why all this deception, Rennie? Why are you pretending to be your own grandfather?”
He paused, looking down at his hands, unable to meet my eye. “Because this is embarrassing, Caleb. I mean, look at me. I look like the mascot for Six Flags!”
“Hey, at least you have your hair,” I said, trying to be as encouraging as I could despite how unnerving it was to talk Rennie with him looking like this. “What the hell happened to you?”
“Lost a bet,” he croaked out. Listening carefully I could hear a hint of the man I knew, but he was so old now it was almost impossible to pick out.
I shook my head as a smile curled up at the corner of my mouth. “Why does that not surprise me?”
“I know what you’re thinking,” he said, waggling a bony finger at me. “But this time was different. This guy—name’s Wade Barlow—he cheated me, conned me. Short guy, old…he kept losing and losing, then when my confidence was up, he raised the stakes and cleaned me out. Worst of all, he took Grayson.”
“You bet your dog?”
“You steer clear of the arcane gambling scene, don’t you?” he asked.
I nodded. “Gee, I wonder why.”
“When we say all in, we mean all in. He took everything I owned, but really he was only there for Grayson.”
“Why would the man want your dog, Rennie?” I asked. “Do you know how insane you sound?”
“Grayson’s special, and this guy knew it. That damned dog gets wrinklier with every passing day, but for the past eighty years, I never did. And I had a practically unbeatable hand. The odds were in my favor, and I don’t know how, but he cheated and pulled out a win.”
“Can you prove it?” I asked. “Aren’t there wardings against such things in those type of gambling situations?”
“I don’t know how he did it, but he did it nonetheless,” he said, adamant. “Know how I know? He only took the dog when he could have technically taken everything. There was a cruelty to him that I can’t explain. He didn’t want anything else. He’s just left me to die, taking my only companion, the one that kept me young. That’s messed up. I need your help, Caleb.”
“You know I don’t like messing with human longevity, Ren, and I’m not really in the habit of settling other people’s gambling debts. Sorry.”
“This guy was a grifter,” he insisted. “He played me. When he left, I got a really bad vibe from him.”
“No,” I said, shaking my head, “what you had—and still have—is a gambling problem.”
The fight went out of him and he slumped forward against the edge of the table, his body bent over from his advanced age into a human question mark.
“You’re right,” he said in defeat. “Goddammit you’re right. I’ve had it for nearly half a century.”
“I’m not sure that’s something I can help you with,” I said.
“But you can help me get it back,” he pleaded. “I need Grayson back. You can at least help me with that, for everything we’ve been through….”
I narrowed my eyes, unconvinced. “Is that going to teach you a lesson?” I asked. “Me bailing you out this time?”
“I don’t have any options left!” he shouted across the table, wanton desperation in his old man voice. “Look at me! If I get any older, who knows how soon I’ll kick off? Caleb, please…”
“I like you, Rennie. You’re a weak-willed fuck up, but you’re my kind of fuck up nonetheless. You’ve got charm…charisma, and most impressively, I don’t think you had to cast a single spell to be all that. But like I said, I don’t like getting in the middle of another guy’s gambling debts. Sorry.”
I stood, trying to avoid his sad eyes. Business was business. Getting mixed up in another man’s gambling problems was only likely to get me sucked into a world of hurt that I didn’t create. That sort of thing really wasn’t my style.
I stepped out of the booth.
“It’ll pay well,” he pleaded, his eyes trailing me.
I paused, but still shook my head. “It’s not just about the money, Rennie. You need to learn to stop getting into this kind of trouble. Who knows? This could be a good thing for you. Maybe you’ll garner some wisdom from your newfound old age.”
“There’s more than money,” he said. I laughed.
“What could you offer me that’s better than money, Rennie? It’s like you don’t even know me anymore…”
“I know you better than you think,” he said, flipping through his small notebook. “I have a lead on that legendary alchemist you’ve always obsessing over.”
I cocked my head at him. “Alexander Belarus?” I asked, and he nodded. “He’s not really an alchemist. He’s a Spellmason.”
“Spellmason, alchemist. What is the difference?”
I slid back into the booth across from him. “Mostly rumor and notes lost to time,” I said, “but this guy was a sort of cryptic mad genius, using alchemy and magic to bring stone to life. His secrets disappeared when he did, though.”
“I might have come across a location in some old arcane books I recently purchased,” he said. “If you get my dog back, it’s yours.”
Was he bluffing? The man was desperate, to be sure, but would he outright lie to me to save his rapidly aging skin? In his situation, I would have, but even the hint of a lead on the secrets of the Spellmasons was hard to pass up.
“You’d better not be screwing with me,” I said. “Spellmasonry is a bit of a Holy Grail to alchemists.”
“I’m telling you the truth,” he said, his eyes not leaving mine.
I let out a reluctant sigh as if this was a real inconvenience for me, but really it was more to hide my excitement. “Fine, if this location of yours checks out, then I’ll track this grifter of yours. You already know my rates.”
Rennie’s old man face smiled. “I’ll even throw in a little extra for some dog treats,” he said. “That miserable grifter probably isn’t taking good care of Grayson.” Rennie paused, his eyes watery, on the verge of tears. “Thanks for looking into this, Caleb.”
I watched as he wrote down an address for the location of the Spellmason I was seeking and slid it across the table to me, a building on Saint Mark’s Place. I stood, sliding the note into the outside pocket of my coat before turning and heading toward the door.
“Don’t thank me yet,” I said. “In the meantime, try not to die on me, will ya?”
“No promises,” he said, his voice filled with worry and sounding even older than when I had arrived, “but do hurry. Time is actually of the essence.”
When I had walked in, I had been paranoid that my mysterious phone call was a trap. Not that I had actually talked to Rennie, I was certain it was, just not the kind I had expected.
* * *
Much to my surprise Rennie’s lead proved
more than fruitful. The basement of an abandoned building on Saint Mark’s Place proved to hold a secret area that lay behind an impenetrable stone door. Warding marks barred my entry, but I couldn’t help but get excited. After all, it was only a matter of time before I found my way into it.
Sadly, time was something I did not have …that is, if I wanted Rennie to live. The secret door would have to wait. In the plus column an unoccupied building was the perfect place to whip up some of my alchemical concoctions to help track down Rennie’s dog. If I accidentally blew myself up at least no one else would get hurt.
That was me—always thinking about others.
By early evening I had restocked the bandoliers lining my coat, filling them with a fresh supply of vials that were my standard operating kit, along with a few I hoped would lead me to my old friend’s lost pooch. I didn’t exactly like the idea of quaffing vials that contained actual dog hair in the mix, but alchemically bonding myself to the dog itself seemed the best way to track both him and this Wade Barlow fellow. As I downed the first one and a preternatural sense of divination kicked in, I prayed the damned thing was still in Manhattan somewhere.
The taste of the concoction wasn’t half bad, but the results of my initial search were—Flushing, Queens. Just the name alone said it all, not to mention I hated going out into the more residential parts of the five boroughs. I was even more disheartened when my trail led beyond the residential and back into the industrial, leading to a warehouse district on the East River near Powell Cove. When the trail led to a set of heavily padlocked sliding doors, I pulled out a vial, poured it over the locks, waiting as they crumbled away to nothing moments later.
I entered in silence, sliding the door closed behind me as quietly as I could. A set of industrial stairs stood off to my left, but other than that, I felt like I had stepped into a smaller but no less impressive version of the warehouse at the end of Raiders of the Lost Ark. Boxes, crates and arcane paraphernalia were stacked high into the rafters of the space. I couldn’t help but let out a low whistle, clasping my hand over my mouth when I heard it. I stopped in my tracks, waiting for a cry of alarm or the pitter patter of Rennie’s dog, only moving when neither one happened.
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