Gambit: An Urban Fantasy Novel (The Solumancer Cycle Book 1)

by J. C. Staudt

  Open Daily - Dusk to Dusk

  Hexes - Charms - Enchantments

  Deals, Debts, and Dismemberments

  Hazardous Appurtenances Sold at Wholesale Prices

  Trade at Your Own Peril

  No Refunds

  Much like the DMV in the world above, few who find themselves here actually want to be. When you’ve exhausted every other option, the Department of Monstrous Vulgarities is where you come. Here illicit spells are cast, curses are enacted, mystical trappings are bought and sold, and dark deals are made. If you’re seeking a devil to sell your soul to, you’re likely to find one. Those willing to pay magic’s cost will encounter myriad ways to do so—and for the sorts of services on offer here, it’s usually a high one.

  Things are always changing in the Between, and it takes me several minutes of perusal to find the vendor I’m looking for. Within a covered market stall on a red Persian carpet which appears to be hovering three feet above the ground sits a man, cross-legged, with shiny red skin and two nubby horns jutting from his forehead. A glance behind the stall reveals that the Persian carpet is not in fact floating, but being propped up by a stack of plastic milk crates. The effect is convincing from the front, though I’m baffled by his reasoning. Two shallow clay dishes sit on the counter in front of him, both bone dry despite the rain.

  “I’m trying to locate someone,” I tell the half-fiend, unable to stop myself from thinking about how gross it is that one of his parents was a devil and the other a human.

  “How can I help you?” the half-fiend asks.

  “Well… your sign says you find people. And things.”

  “Spit it out, then.”

  “Uh, he’s about six-foot-one, and—”

  “I didn’t ask for a description. I said spit.”

  “Oh. Right.” I gather a small amount of saliva and expectorate into the left-hand dish, wetting the dry clay.

  Most methods of locating things—especially things that don’t want to be found—depend upon the urgency and intent of the person who’s trying to find them. In my case, I’m pretty sure I’ll pass muster on the urgency bit. As for my intent, though, I’ll have to wait and see what Mr. Forehead-Horns decides.

  He picks up the clay dish and gyrates it like someone spreading hot oil around the bottom of a frying pan. The porous clay absorbs the saliva until only a thin layer of moisture remains. As the saliva dries, a pattern emerges. The half-fiend studies it, spinning the dish as he tilts it side to side. He scowls. Squints at it, first through one eye, then the other.

  Finally he tosses the clay dish onto the counter and points to the other one. “Something owned by the individual you wish to find.”

  “Well, it’s kind of complicated where that’s concerned. You see—”

  “As long as the body and the spirit are acting as one, any item owned by either will do.”

  I blink, astonished at his insight. I feel around in my pockets, frustrated with myself for showing up here without an object belonging to Arden Savage. My fingers find the spare apartment key, and I draw it out. It’s the only possession of Arden’s I’ve got, so I drop it into the clay dish on the right.

  The half-fiend picks up the dish and produces a handful of reddish dust out of nowhere. He lets it sift through his fingers and bury the key. While waving his hand over the dish, he speaks a few words and flicks his fingers like Emeril finishing a recipe. The dust flashes in a gunpowder blaze, billowing foul brown smoke. When the half-fiend hands me the clay dish, it’s empty.

  “Where’s the key?”

  “I sent it to him.”

  “I needed that key.”

  The half-fiend rolls his eyes as if I’m the reason customer service is a drag. He gestures toward the clay dish. “Look.”

  A pattern of connected hash marks etched into the dish’s surface glows a faint yellow. A map. I glance at the half-fiend, then back at the dish. “Oh. That’s better.”

  He gives a long wet sniffle, then spits something thick into his hand and extends it toward me. “That’ll be one year,” he declares proudly.

  I frown in confusion. “One year of what?”

  “Servitude.”

  “Come again?”

  “Over the next year, I may show up from time to time. When I do, I’ll ask you to do something for me. You do it, no questions asked.”

  “Whoa. Forget it, man. Never mind. Let’s call this whole thing off.” I toss the clay dish onto the counter.

  The half-fiend narrows his eyes. “Listen, buddy. You got what you asked for. Either you pay for it, or I’m calling the magistrate.”

  “No way. I didn’t agree to this. I want my key back.”

  He grins. “Didn’t you read the sign when you came in? It says No Refunds.”

  “Hey, now hold on. You didn’t tell me how much this was going to cost before you—”

  The half-fiend snaps his fingers. A bell rings somewhere in the distance.

  “What seems to be the trouble, Calyxto?” asks a deep, wizened voice behind me.

  Fewer than five seconds have passed, the echo of the ringing bell not yet dead on the cobbles. I turn around. Standing before me are four hunchbacked river trolls in tattered cloaks colored the faded blue of over-laundered denim. Their amphibious skin glistens in the rain. Strands of thinning hair hang wet around their ears. A hook-nosed individual steps forward, supporting himself on a knobbly walking stick.

  “This normal thinks I’m running a something-for-nothing special,” says Calyxto the half-fiend.

  The trolls grumble and mutter amongst themselves. “How did a normal find his way into the Department?” I hear one of them say.

  “What was the nature of your transaction?” asks the hook-nosed troll.

  “I found something he lost,” says Calyxto, “and now he’s refusing to pay me for it.”

  “He didn’t tell me how much it would cost first,” I insist.

  The troll taps his chin with a set of dagger-like fingernails, thinking. “Did you ask?”

  “Did I what?”

  “Did you ask… how much it would cost… first?”

  “I—” My voice falls off as I realize I’ve broken the first rule of bargaining with creatures of the underworld. Don’t get suckered into a deal until you know the terms. “No.”

  The troll wheezes. His shoulders hop up and down, dancing a jig. The other trolls join in. They laugh for a long time; long enough that I start getting pissed off that I’m standing here in the rain, watching them laugh at me.

  Calyxto doesn’t seem to mind. “Now do we have a deal?”

  I sigh, knowing there’s no easy way out of this, and move to shake his hand.

  “Ah-ah-ah,” he says, pulling back. “Spit.”

  I spit. We shake. When our hands separate, there’s a flash and a plume of smoke between them. I cough and wave the smoke away. A small black symbol is tattooed into the heel of my palm. “The mark of the beast,” I mutter.

  “The mark of me,” says Calyxto. “But hey, look on the bright side. You didn’t have to sell your mortal soul. I’m just renting part of it. Pleasure doing business with you. See you around, eh?”

  I turn to address the Troll Magistrate, but they’re gone before I can offer them the insult I’d planned. Die in a fire, I think anyway, which is funny because fire is one of only two ways to kill a troll for good. Not that I’ve ever thought about killing a troll before. Definitely not.

  I swipe the clay dish from Calyxto’s counter and head back the way I came. When we’re out of earshot, I turn my head to whisper through the open zipper of my backpack. “Thanks for all your help.”

  “What help did you think I could offer?” comes my dragon’s reply from within. “By the time I might’ve warned you, it was too late.”

  “You could’ve warned me before we got here.”

  “Warned you of what? Not to be an idiot?”

  “Whatever. Let’s just find Arden and put this poltergeist down for good.”


  Chapter 14

  After cross-checking Calyxto’s clay map with the GPS in my phone, I determine the Arden-ghost has taken up residence at a homeless shelter on the east side. Unsurprising, given the number of homeless people I’ve encountered who are sharing their headspace with one or more members of the profane kingdom. Arden has made it a long way without causing a stir, and I’m hopeful he’ll go down in similar fashion. To that end, Ersatz and I escape the DMV’s unscrupulous confines and head back to my apartment to formulate a plan.

  We arrive home to find the place every bit as destroyed as it was yesterday. Though the chain latch is hanging from the doorframe where Arden kicked it in, the lock and deadbolt are fully functional, so I engage both before dropping my backpack in the foyer and grabbing my range bag from the bedroom. Ersatz slithers out the side of my backpack and joins me at the dining room table as I withdraw my gun from its case and begin loading a magazine with 9mm JHP. Normally I keep at least two of these loaded, but after my abrupt departure from the range yesterday and the ensuing mess I haven’t had a chance.

  Ersatz is skeptical of my choice in weapons. “Guns versus ghosts. Good plan.”

  “I’ve got five vials of residue, one vial of demon blood, and half a dozen raw samples in plastic tubs. If I felt like we had a few hours to burn, I’d set up shop and process a few of them.”

  “We don’t. It’s time we got mov—”

  Ersatz is interrupted by a knock on the door.

  “Perfect,” I grumble, inserting the half-loaded magazine and racking the slide. “Another bounty hunter, I bet. Or even worse. My landlord.” I stalk to the front door, gripping the gun in both hands. “Who is it?”

  “Hi. Cade?” asks a female voice.

  “Who’s there?”

  “It’s Felita Skaargil. From Reiney Towers East. You’re my housekeeper.”

  Looks like the full moon came early this month. I dive away and slide across the hardwood, handgun aimed at the door. I’m expecting a hail of bullets, or an explosion, or for Ms. Skaargil to rip the door off its hinges and toss it aside. I’m a hair-trigger finger away from emptying my magazine into the painted wood when, lo and behold, nothing happens.

  “Hello?” she calls. “Did you just fall?”

  I glance at Ersatz and whisper, “This has to be a trick, right?”

  Ersatz shrugs.

  An unhelpful dragon in my living room, a ghost on the streets, and a werewolf at my doorstep, I lament. Just another day in paradise. “What do you want? I mean really. Why are you here?”

  “Sorry to drop by unannounced,” she says. “I didn’t have your number, or I would’ve called first. I thought I might find you at home today. Sunday is my day off, too. I just wanted to tell you I heard what happened, and I feel really bad about it.”

  “How did you know where I live?”

  “I spoke with your manager.”

  “Employee information is supposed to be confidential.”

  “You’d be surprised how far a girl can get with a little persuasion,” she says.

  “Not really. Jim might’ve been in the mood to be persuaded, but I’m not. Go away.”

  “Cade, please. Let me help you.”

  Help me? I mouth to Ersatz, incredulous. “I don’t need your help.”

  “Will you let me try? It’s the least I can do after getting you fired.”

  “Fired? Jim told me it was a leave of absence.”

  A pause. “Yeah, not so much. You’re basically fired. Anyway, I shouldn’t have reacted like I did. It was way overkill. You know how we get… or maybe you don’t.”

  “Listen, now’s really not a good time. I appreciate the gesture, but—”

  “Will you please just open the door so we can talk?”

  I look to Ersatz for guidance. He’s caught the scent of a mouse and is thus wholly unconcerned with giving me any. I grunt to my feet, release the deadbolt, and unlock the handle, certain I’m about to regret it. With the handgun’s muzzle pressed firmly against the back of the door, I crack it open to peer out at her. “Hey.”

  “Hey,” she says. The suggestion of a smile crosses her face. It’s still raining and there’s no overhang above the patio, so her face and hair are misted with dewy droplets where the hood of her raincoat ends. Her eyes are a pale cerulean, bright and clear beneath the leaden skies. “I’m sorry.”

  I pull back a little, expecting violence. When she makes no sudden movement to force entry, I relax my grip on the gun and take my finger off the trigger. “Go on.”

  “You’re a wizard, aren’t you?”

  “Are you going to rip out my throat if I say yes?”

  “That’s not fair. I’m trying to help.”

  “Oh, sure, I’d love some more of your help. Maybe you can get me fired from my next job, too.”

  She frowns. “I’ll admit I overreacted, but I’d at least like to know what you’re doing with my fur. Are you making a voodoo doll so you can revenge-torture me?”

  “So that’s what this is about. You’re scared of me.”

  “I regret what I did. That’s all.”

  “Well you can rest easy, because I’m not using your residue to curse you. And yeah, to answer your question… I’m a wizard.”

  “A wizard housekeeper. I’ll be damned.”

  “Will not. Not by me, anyway.”

  “So you’re a normal. And you know about the otherside. I’ve never heard of a normal wizard before.”

  “There’s no such thing,” I say, allowing myself half a smile.

  Her gaze shifts past me, down the entry hallway to the trashed living room. “Is everything alright in there?”

  “Everything is perfectly fine. Look, I really gotta go.”

  Her nostrils flare as she sniffs the air for danger. “If you’re in some kind of trouble, you can tell me.”

  “Other than not having a job anymore, I’m doing just dandy. As for my wizardly affairs, they’re none of your concern.”

  She quirks her mouth to one side. “Fair enough. I tried. Here’s my number if you change your mind. Call me anytime.” She hands me a tasteful business card, off-white and printed in gold relief.

  “Thanks.”

  “Enjoy the rest of your day.”

  I slam the door, lock it, and return to the dining room table to finish loading my magazines. “Thanks again for all your help, Ersatz.”

  He burps, exhaling a smoky breath in which tiny gray mouse hairs swirl like dry leaves, and curls up on a clean patch of countertop. “Anytime.”

  “She could’ve shoved my crotch down my own throat while you were in here getting your grub on.”

  “Tell me something,” Ersatz says flatly. “Are you determined to prove yourself an imbecile at every turn?”

  “Obviously I’m not doing it on purpose.”

  “You’ve just turned down the help of a very powerful individual. And despite your most adamant claims to the contrary, you could use her help.”

  “You can’t trust a werewolf. Everyone knows that. Inviting her inside would’ve sparked a whole slew of questions I’m not prepared to answer.”

  “You’ll have to answer them at some point, won’t you?”

  “Eventually? Yes. Right at the moment? We’ll let the historians decide.”

  “Although you seldom heed my advice, I’ll offer some here. When a werewolf offers you assistance, take it.”

  “I’ve got her business card,” I say, tossing it onto the countertop beside him. “I can always call her.”

  “Do it.”

  “I’m not going to call her now. She just left.”

  “All the more reason.”

  I shake my head. “Sorry, Ersatz. I’m about to perform an exorcism at a homeless shelter. We’re going this one alone.”

  “Who says I’m coming?”

  I wring my hands in exasperation. “Are you serious?”

  “Only kidding. I’m coming. In a short while. One mustn’t swim for half an hour after eating, y
ou know. Why don’t you gather your things while I enjoy a brief intermission?”

  “Sure. You sleep and I’ll do all the work.”

  Ersatz yawns and mumbles something I can’t quite hear.

  I load two additional magazines with 9mm JHP and search my dismantled bedroom in case I’ve forgotten about anything important. I stare with fondness at the long black case stashed on a high shelf in my closet, wherein my AR-15 assault rifle lays at rest. I haven’t touched it in months, and it’s looking like the trend is in danger of continuing. Although I possess the permit to carry it, I’m not looking for attention, so I’ll stick with my trusty concealed handgun instead.

  Then something catches my eye on the same shelf. A wooden cigar box, painted black and lacquered with Native American motifs. I take it down and open the lid to find something I forgot I had. A package of syringes Quim procured for me at great personal risk last year, while I was considering various untested residue delivery methods.

  Pharmacists don’t go handing out syringes to every joe who walks into a Walgreens and asks for them. You need an active prescription for something like insulin or they’ll turn you away on the spot. I know; I’ve tried. Too many drug addicts around. Bob Whittaker would flip if he knew I had these.

  I never ended up trying the injection method. My handmade bracelets and residue vials have been getting me by, but that’s about to change. I don’t want to be rubbing dust onto my hands while an angry ghost-possessed zombie is trying to chew on my face. Ersatz has made known his feelings about being used as a power source. If he and I get separated, that won’t be an option anyway. I’m going to need access to large amounts of magic without prep time.

  I pack the syringes.

  “Nap’s over,” I shout as I enter the three-room combo with raincoat on, backpack shouldered, and gun concealed in an appendix holster.

  Ersatz startles awake in a puff of white steam, eyes drowsing. “Hmm? What’s that?”

  “Time to do some exorcising.”

  Chapter 15

  According to my GPS, the smooth concrete building across the rainsoaked street claims to be the Giving Hands Homeless Shelter. It’s painted an age-chipped white with a muted green stripe across the top, and the small square windows are smudged with rings of city grime. There’s evidence of a lettered sign having once been mounted to the front of the building, but the faded shapes which remain are bleary and indistinct. With Calyxto’s clay dish in one hand and my cell in the other, I attempt to determine which part of the building Arden might be in.