Full Metal Magic: An Urban Fantasy Anthology
Page 19
Frazier Fleischhacker was a goblin accused of dealing fairy dust in rock form to mortal clientele. Which was bad. The Ministry seriously frowned on what we called “breaking the wall,” which meant crossing the metaphorical boundary between the supernatural world and those who had no idea things like vampires, shifters, and goblins existed.
But breaking the wall didn’t get you a death sentence. Getting three mortals killed from an overdose of fairy dust you illegally dealt them, then proceeding to dodge a Ministry summons to stand trial? That would do the trick.
Lucky for me, it meant a pretty big bounty, too. If I snagged this goblin, I could trade in my Escort for a less beaten beater.
I sat at the corner of the block, my car’s engine rattling like a tin can full of loose screws. I’d had to replace the carburetor twice on the damn thing, and I had a bad feeling the transmission was about to go. Another good reason to take up demon hunting—I could finally afford a new car before this one fell apart around me.
The “kid” rode away from me, down the sidewalk, traveling the full length of the block without making a single stop or tossing a single rolled copy of the Free Press. I knew a lot of people got their news on the internet these days, but not a single subscriber on this quiet suburban street?
Nice try, buddy.
When he reached the end of the block, I crept forward and turned down the parallel street. This was one of those mass-produced suburbs built on a convenient grid pattern with the occasional cul-de-sac. Made tailing the faux paperboy a little easier.
I pulled up to the next intersection, barely touching the gas pedal, and stopped a couple car lengths before reaching the cross street. I could see around the gray-bricked ranch style house on the corner just enough to watch for the kid to come around the far end of the street. He had done this up one street and down the other thing three times already and hadn’t yet stopped at a single house. I assumed it was a maneuver to keep up appearances. Show any glancing neighbors a paperboy going about his business, nothing to see here, carry on.
This time he finally stopped, about three-quarters of the way down the block. He looked from side to side as if checking for witnesses. Then he pedaled across the street and up the driveway of a two-story colonial with a front lawn that looked a couple of weeks past due for a mow.
The kid left his bike on its side in the driveway and scurried up to the porch. He clutched the knapsack to his chest, only releasing one arm long enough to rap on the door.
Whoever was inside must have been expecting him, because the door opened five seconds after the knock. A woman with short, tight curls poked her head out. The kid marched into the house as if he owned the place.
Like a groundhog spotting her shadow, the woman jerked back inside and swung the door shut.
Decision time. I didn’t know how many deliveries he had on his agenda, nor how many he’d already completed before I caught up with him. For all I knew, this one was his last. I couldn’t take him out in the open—not without breaking the wall myself.
At the same time, trying to take him in the house could prove tricky. I wasn’t worried about breaking the wall with the woman inside. That damage had already been done. But I still hadn’t confirmed one-hundred percent this was Fleischhacker, or a goblin at all.
If I dithered too long, it wouldn’t matter either way. I could lose this bounty if I didn’t make a move soon.
To hell with it.
I cut the Escort’s engine—which made a hollow chuff before it quit—and got out.
I instantly breathed in the smell of mown grass. The spring air carried a warm, dry touch. The breeze felt great as it made my cotton shirt ripple against my chest. A yippy breed of dog was on a steady barking streak in a nearby backyard.
I took the sidewalk up to the house, trying to act casual. Although, if these people hadn’t wondered about a paperboy who wore a parka in warm weather and never actually delivered any papers, I probably didn’t have to worry about drawing attention to myself.
A weather-blanched statue of the Virgin Mary stood tucked between a pair of shrubs in front of the house. On my way up, I wasted a second admiring the kid’s candy apple Schwinn that looked a couple weeks shy of brand new. For a paperboy who only delivered to one person every three blocks or so, he could afford a pretty sweet ride.
An idea popped in my head that made me grin like a mad villain.
I let the air out of his tires. For good measure, I put the nozzle caps into my pocket.
That done, I followed the cement driveway into the backyard. Hordes of dandelions choked the grass. On the patio, a metal-framed porch swing sported a green awning as faded as Mary’s blue robes out front. The swing’s cushions had water stains on them. Aside from a few terracotta pots full of dirt but no plants, and the weeds growing out of cracks in the concrete, nothing else occupied the patio. Made me wonder how long the woman inside had been hooked on the dust. Neglect had left her home a little shaggy around the edges.
I crossed to the back door and pounded on it. “Police! Open up.” Then I cocked my head and listened.
I heard panicked scuffling and low voices. Then silence.
I laughed quietly to myself. They were really going to pretend they weren’t in there? When in the history of the world had that ever worked on anyone but a Jehovah’s Witness?
I pounded again. “We know you’re in there. Open up or we’ll break down your back door.”
I hoped I hadn’t telegraphed my move too much with my specificity on which door I threatened to breech.
No need to worry. Ten seconds later I heard the front door fling open.
I sprinted around the house in time to see the goblin struggling to pick up his bike while the hastily slung knapsack on his shoulder kept slipping in his way. In his rush out the door, he had also forgotten to pull up his hood. I saw the gnarled, branchlike nose. The greenish-gray skin. The solid black eyes.
Fleischhacker.
I stood between the woman’s and her neighbor’s houses, not completely out of sight, but guarded enough I was willing to take a chance. I held my hand out at my side, palm up, and drew on my magical energy. My skin grew warm as I bent the element of fire to my will. A bright orange flame ignited from my palm. Its heat made the air around it ripple.
I knew some hunters liked to say something pithy before taking down a bounty, like offering a proclamation of the bounty’s guilt or something like that. I guess it gave them a sense of authority. Thankfully, such nonsense was not required by the Ministry. So I just said, “Boo-ya,” and tossed a fireball at the goblin.
His gaze jerked up as the flaming bolt sailed straight for his face. Right before it reached him, he pressed a finger against his hooked nose. The fireball veered to the right, sailed around his head, then boomeranged back at me.
I ducked and felt the heat of the blazing comet streak over me, but I had managed to dodge it.
The Honda parked in the driveway behind me? Not so much.
The fireball blasted through the car’s rear windshield and set the interior alight. The smell of burning upholstery soon followed. The flaming car had distracted me long enough for Fleischhacker to finally get on his bike. He struggled to pedal away. The bike wobbled, nearly pitched sideways, but he put one stubby leg down to keep him upright. He looked down at his flattened tires and growled.
I couldn’t help but laugh.
He glared over his shoulder at me, black eyes shining, thin lips pulled back from his pointed teeth.
I lit up my hand again. The smoke and noise from the burning car would bring unwanted attention right quick. Time to end this.
But that little prick pushed his finger against the side of his nose again, puckered his lips, and blew.
The fire in my hand went out.
I stared dumbly at my empty palm. “What the fuck?”
The goblin snickered and gave me a wink. Then he pulled one more trick with his little nose gesture, magically re-inflating his bike tires.
Until I heard the sirens. Then I got the hell out of there.
My grandfather, Eldred Light, lived on three wooded acres in Ann Arbor. His house looked like a log cabin on the outside. Inside, it had the usual amenities of most homes. The kitchen had shiny stainless steel appliances, and there was a stone fireplace in the family room. Age had worn much of the furniture—especially Grandpa’s favorite rocker, its oak seat polished to a cloudy brown from repeated use.
I loved the scent of ginger and cinnamon that infused the whole house, the ghost of Grandma’s baking still clinging two years after she passed away. After the death of his beloved wife, Grandpa had slowed down a lot. It took him five minutes to answer my knock. But for a six-hundred forty-nine year old widower, that was pretty good.
He smiled through his long white beard when he saw me. The sadness never left his eyes, though. He wore a blue bathrobe with a few popped seams and striped pajamas underneath. Since he seldom went out, he didn’t feel the need to dress up. Not that he didn’t (or couldn’t) care for himself. He kept his beard clean, what remained of his hair brushed, and his clothes washed. But when he dressed for the day, it was always pj's and his robe.
We hugged, then he ushered me into the family room. It wasn’t cool out, but he had the fire going and all the windows shut up. The stuffiness pressed in on me, and I quickly started to sweat.
“You need to open some windows,” I said while he eased into his rocker with a soft groan.
He waved his hand weakly. “It’s fine, it’s fine.”
An old-fashioned wingback chair faced the fire near Grandpa’s rocker. That used to be Grandma’s usual seat. I had distinct memories of her reading The Tale of Peter Rabbit to me while I sat on the floor beside her chair and stared into the fire. I had always loved fire, even back then.
I sat on the edge of her chair. “I need your help.”
His gaze drifted to the mantle above the fireplace which displayed a collection of family photos, one of Grandma prominent in the middle. He chuckled softly, but again, the humor didn’t reach his eyes. “What can an old man like me do for a virile young man like yourself?”
“It’s for work,” I said.
He turned his gaze on me and raised a fuzzy eyebrow. “You’re working now?”
“I’ve barely started, but yes. And it’s a job you have some experience with.”
His lips parted. He stared at me for several seconds. “Tell me you’re joking.”
I shrugged. “I thought you’d approve.”
“It isn’t my approval you have to worry about.”
The fire snapped like a whip as it reached some sap on one of the logs, then it settled back into a steady crackle.
I ducked my head. “I have a right to choose my own profession.”
“Of course you do.” He smoothed his robe across his lap. “But you haven’t told them yet, have you?”
“You know how they’ll react.”
His sad eyes stared straight through to my soul. “You don’t think they have a right to know?”
“I haven’t even collected my first bounty. I figured I’d hold off telling them until I was sure the job was right for me.”
He snorted, shook his head. “You’re a terrible liar. Not even you believe that.”
“What am I supposed to do? They’re a couple of stuffy scholars. They won’t understand.”
Grandpa leaned toward me. His rocker creaked under him. “You do realize your father was raised by a demon hunter.”
I let out a short laugh. “That’s why I’m here.”
“And that’s why…” He settled back with a sigh and started rocking. “…your father became a stuffy scholar, and why he married one, for that matter. He’s seen up close what hunting does to a man.”
“Grandma never seemed to mind.”
His gaze returned to the central photograph on the mantle. “That’s because she chose me as I was. She knew what she was getting into. But we can’t pick our own parents. And I know there were times Walter wished he could have. He certainly wouldn’t have picked me.”
Wow. I knew Dad seriously hated what Grandpa had done for a living, but I never got the sense that Dad resented him for it. I put a hand on Grandpa’s arm. “That isn’t true. He loves you.”
He gently bobbed his head. “But not all of me.” Then he clamped his hand down over mine. Despite the shut up windows and the fire, his thin, papery skin felt cold. He squeezed my hand with surprising strength. “You should reconsider this path.”
The suggestion didn’t give me second thoughts. It did the opposite, making me want to dig my heels in and declare that this was my life, damn it, and I wouldn’t let my dad’s issues with his father dictate my own choices. I think my grandfather saw as much.
He relaxed his grip and slid his hand off of mine. Then he laced his fingers together and rested his hands in his lap. “How can I help?”
A charge ran through me. I sat up straight. “I need to track down a goblin I’m after. I had him this afternoon, but he slipped me.”
Grandpa’s mouth curled up on one side. “I should say. Goblin magic is a tricky thing.”
I looked down at my right hand, the one Fleischhacker had blown out like a candle. On the hour drive to Ann Arbor, I had tested drawing flame in that hand several times. Thankfully, the ability had come back. Whatever the goblin had done to me had only worked temporarily. I’d been a little freaked there for a while. I could not imagine losing access to my power.
“Yeah,” I said. “Tricky.”
“How did you find him the first time?”
“Old fashioned way. The rumor mill and knocking on doors.”
He nodded his approval. “I assume, now that he knows you’re onto him, that way won’t work again.”
“Definitely not.”
He stroked his beard and hummed, his eyes focusing on some faraway place. I had him intrigued. The old hunter was still in him. “I know a few ways to track someone, but most require something from the target. A strand of hair. A prized possession. I once used a dirty sock.”
I dug into my pocket and brought out the nozzle caps to Fleischhacker’s bike tires. I held them out in my palm for Grandpa to see. “These are from a bike he was riding. Looked like he took good care of it. Might qualify as a prized possession.”
One bushy eyebrow went up. He peered at the caps like a scientist observing a specimen. “A bicycle? And he got away from you?”
I felt my cheeks flush. “He fought dirty,” I said. “And we were too exposed for me to go after him.”
He reached for the caps. I noticed his fingers trembling, and it took him a few seconds to pick the caps up. Once he had them, he brought them to his nose and sniffed. He broke into a wide smile, and this time it reached his eyes, obscuring his chronic sadness. “These should work. Who knew a bicycle could be so important to a goblin?”
“He uses it to make his living,” I said.
“Doing what?”
“Delivering rocked fairy dust to suburbanites. He’s posing as a paperboy to make his rounds.”
“And the Ministry wants him executed for this?”
“Three of his customers have OD’d.”
“Ah.” He closed his fingers around the caps. “And why is it you can’t work a spell on these to find him?”
Again, my face went hot. “I flunked small magic.”
“Small, huh? I bet that drives your father bonkers.”
Ha. Bonkers. Who said that anymore? I nodded. “Bonkers indeed.”
“You need to buckle down, Sebastian. There’s no such—”
“—thing as small magic. Dad got that phrase from you, huh?”
“Doesn’t make it any less true.” He waved a dismissive hand. “Let’s put this spell together. We can work in the kitchen. I’ll show you small magic.”
Despite his t
rembling hands, Grandpa threw the spell together in fifteen minutes. When he was done, he handed me a small juice glass, empty except for the two caps. He had covered the top of the glass with plastic wrap and put a rubber band around it to hold the plastic in place.
Inside the glass, the rubber caps jittered and crawled up and down the glass like a pair of trapped insects.
“They want to get back to their owner,” Grandpa said. “Follow where they want to go, and you’ll find your goblin.”
“Nice,” I said. “And a little weird.”
I thanked him and promised to call him with an update on how it went. I could still sense the excitement from him, though the spell (however “small”) had worn him out a little. His hands shook more, and he kept his eyes pinched as if struggling to hide pain.
I drove back toward Detroit with the glass on the passenger seat. The caps clinked around inside, apparently wanting to break out and fly back to Fleischhacker. I had watched Grandpa work the spell—the mumbled incantation, the burning sage, the pulse of his magic as he enchanted the caps—but I didn’t understand it, even when he tried to explain it to me. Subtle magic, he’d said, requires a subtle hand, a light touch. That lack of subtlety is the only thing holding you back. You can’t spend the rest of your life casting fire and wind.
I could do more than that. With the help of potions and trinkets anyway. I had to admit, it bothered me a little that I couldn’t get small magic to work. I knew the moves, knew the words, knew the mechanics.
In other words, there was something wrong with me, not the spells.
It took me a while to get the hang of following the caps’ lead while driving. But when I found myself circling a block in another suburb not far from where Fleischhacker had been making his deliveries, I knew I was close enough to continue on foot.
This neighborhood looked newer than the last—the houses larger, the yards smaller, and the space between homes a whole lot narrower.
With the glass in hand, I strolled down the sidewalk, keeping an eye on which direction the caps fidgeted. Eventually, they led me to a two-story house with a brick facade and vinyl siding. The lawn was neatly mowed, the shrubs recently trimmed. While the color of bricks was an earthy brown, the front door was painted bright yellow. An odd choice, but it did give the place a cheery highlight.