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

by J. C. Staudt

  Quim accepts the chalice under deafening applause.

  “This is only the beginning, my friends,” Krydos continues. “All revels must end, but—”

  The crowd boos.

  “But not this one,” Krydos finishes in haste. “Tonight begins the revel that will never cease. The one we’ve been waiting for. With the powers of this world joined to the powers of the last, our love will be made complete. So drink, Prince Cadigan, and know truth. Drink, and know pleasure. Drink, and know our destiny.”

  Felita elbows me in the ribs. “Do something,” she whispers. “You can’t let him drink that.”

  “He won’t drink it,” I assure her. “He’ll wuss out. He’ll shift.”

  Quim doesn’t shift. He lifts the chalice to his lips. Lowers it, reconsidering. Our eyes meet; his are pleading, mine dissuasive. He knows what I’d do if I were up there on that stage in his place. He knows, and he’s trying to make peace with it; decide whether he’s up to the task.

  “Do not resist,” Krydos urges. “You must join us, Prince Cadigan. Drink to this new truth. There is no alternative. Others before you have resisted. They are no longer here to be remembered.”

  Laughter from the crowd.

  I draw power from the demon’s blood in my leg, preparing a spell. The spell dissipates when my eyes refuse to focus, rendering Quim and Krydos a pair of blurry smudges outlined in many-colored light. I doubt I could hit the back wall from three feet away, so I’m relieved when Quim lowers the chalice and shakes his head.

  “The unceasing revel begins with or without you, Prince Cadigan,” says Krydos. “Gentlemen, if you please…” He gestures toward the booth at the back of the room, where two satyrs are controlling the club’s sound and lighting.

  Three huge projection screens slide down from the ceiling. Pictures blink to life, split-screen images of security camera footage with blocky white numbers keeping time at the corners of each feed. In a series of huge wooden boxes, goats bleat and fuss. The animals are too tightly packed to move, and some have mounted others for lack of space. They’re all strangely overweight, fattened like calves before the slaughter.

  “Tonight,” Krydos booms, “we are no longer outcasts. No longer society’s broken and persecuted. Our time has come. Those who refuse our freedoms and reject our delights, they will know their ends in the unceasing revel. For without pleasure, life holds no meaning. Without consummation, we are empty. Tonight, the culmination of our struggle becomes known. Tonight, as we send forth our ambassadors into the streets and thoroughfares, we begin the revel which shall never cease.” With melodramatic gusto, Krydos raises a fist into the air and shouts, “Release the goats.”

  Rolltop doors slide upward on each video feed to open the wooden boxes. Goats hop down and flood the streets around the satyrs who’ve freed them. I recognize most of the locations, places around the city I’ve been to.

  Felita nudges me. “Told you I smelled goat when we passed that box truck on the way here.”

  The satyrs manning the trucks cast a unified spell. Flashes of magical energy bloom in the darkness and blanket the goat herds. The animals scatter, provoked into a stampeding frenzy. Their swollen bellies begin to stir. Bulges appear, poking and prodding like live twigs in a leather sack.

  “Let chaos reign,” Krydos screams, incited to ecstasy by the scattering herds. His erection gleams in the stage lights, diving-board stiff. “Let chaos reign. Let chaos reign.”

  A chorus of chants accompanies him.

  This is fucked up and wrong on so many levels. Unfortunately, the lotus is gripping me in its orgasmic stranglehold, and getting choked has never felt so good. All Krydos and the Disciples want is to make life one big party. Who can argue with that? They’re asking Prince Cadigan’s permission to buck the order society has imposed on them so they can pave the way for a new era of never-ending fun. They asked Mayor Everton for the same permission, and when he wouldn’t give it to them they found a new mayor who would. As the real Prince Cadigan, I should take the stage and announce my support for the movement. I can look past the mayor-killing part. Once I’m on board, they’ll look past the me-killing part.

  Felita grabs me before I can go anywhere. She spins me around and delivers an open-handed slap hard enough take my cheek clean off. “I told you to snap out of it. We’ve got to do something about this. Now.”

  “My spawn,” Krydos whispers, though the microphone picks up his words. There’s an almost fatherly break in his voice; the passion of a proud parent.

  Krydos’s spawn. I shake off the slap and rub my cheek. “It was just a deviled egg. And a cracker thingy with tomatoes. Not the end of the world.”

  “I don’t care what you ate. It’s no excuse to act like a douchebag.”

  “I can’t help it. You’re just so gorgeous and sexy.”

  “Give it a rest, Romeo. Your misguided sexual cravings will have to wait.” She whips out her cell and fires off a text message, then drops it in her clutch and gestures toward the back. “Time to shut this thing down.”

  I follow her through the crowd, using her backside as a homing beacon.

  She tosses me a glance over her shoulder and rolls her eyes. “Keep up. And for god’s sake, stop staring at my ass.”

  A gasp ripples through the room as Krydos’s buns begin to emerge from their respective ovens. The goats spread their haunches and heave. Red-brown balloons sprout from their loins and hang to the ground, growing longer and more grotesque until they slide onto pavement and parking lots and patches of lawn and median.

  The creatures inside the placental sacs are not goats. They break free while their mothers lick them clean. They’re satyrs, each bearing the face of Krydos, each with a miniature body like his own. I wish I could say the most horrific part of the process has already occurred, but it hasn’t.

  The newborn satyrs mount their goat mothers and hump away on the next generation. I might puke if I weren’t hopped up on lotus. Most finish in seconds, and then it’s off to the races. They stampede through the streets, ripping signposts from the ground, pulling down traffic lights, knocking over mailboxes, smashing storefront windows, setting fire to garbage cans, and throwing bricks through car windshields.

  So this is the revel. This is the party that never ends. Chaos. Anarchy. And to pull it off, Krydos had to assemble the patriarchs of order and authority—the mayor of this world and the prince of the other—and either turn them to his side, or destroy them.

  “This herd needs thinning,” Felita whispers. We’re standing at the door to the women’s bathroom. “I’m going to change. Whatever magic you’ve got with you, now’s the time to use it.”

  “You want to take down this whole club by ourselves?” I ask.

  Felita doesn’t answer. The bathroom door is already swinging to a close behind her.

  Chapter 31

  I give myself a shake, slap my cheeks, blink. I try to get angry about Krydos and his plans. I try to contemplate the social implications of a city in perpetual anarchy, but my mind is stuck in a never-ending loop. Fun. Sex. Fun. Sex. Fun. No other thoughts can penetrate the power of the lotus; it’s still too strong to overcome.

  The bathroom door explodes off its hinges. I hit the deck and shield myself as splinters rain down around me. My heart pounds in surprise and confusion. Within the dim haze of the bathroom stands a huge white wolf-person with hulking shoulders and a thick furry mane. The creature lumbers through the doorway on two massive legs, clawed hands flexing beneath muscular arms. Tatters of red fabric hang from the creature’s body, yet another perfectly good outfit fallen victim to the ravages of lycanthropy.

  I’m done for, I think. She’s going to eat me raw.

  Felita Skaargil doesn’t eat me. She leaps over my prostrate form and rips off a satyr’s head on her way around the corner. I stumble to my feet and follow her, sliding through slicks of blood, sobered by fear. I reach the bar area as Felita rakes her massive claws across the nearest satyr’s chest. She lung
es toward a second satyr and snaps her jaws around its throat. When she pulls away, the surrounding clubgoers take a red shower.

  People start screaming. Krydos drops his microphone and pulls Quim into a headlock, taking the golden chalice from his hands and attempting to force-feed him the lotus nectar. Quim hangs tough, refusing to change form despite his dire circumstances. I can’t figure out why he hasn’t shifted yet. He could escape easily, yet he’s holding on as if everything depends on it.

  The more I think about it, the more I realize everything does depend on it. The instant Quim reveals he’s not Prince Cadigan, Krydos will know I double-crossed him. Quim is saving my reckless, irresponsible bacon.

  His bravery sparks something in me. The idea of a non-stop riot might not be enough to overpower the lotus, but the loyalty of a true friend is plenty. The demon blood in my leg is the last of the vial. I’d better make it count.

  Magic stirs within my addled mind. Emotions come slow and thick, mired in perplexity. The demon’s blood sends a twinge up my leg as I summon the energy to form a spell. Releasing a pillar of force from my palm, I attempt to knock the chalice out of Krydos’s grasp from across the room. I miss and punch Quim in the face instead. His skin flickers white before returning to my—Cade’s—likeness. He sways on his feet, stunned.

  Krydos doesn’t notice the flicker, but he does take advantage of the stunned princeling in his arms by plugging Quim’s nose and pouring the contents of the chalice down his throat. I cry out, but my voice drowns in the chaos. I push my way through a rapidly clearing dance floor. The revelers are scattering for the doors while the satyrs remain behind, determined to fight Felita despite her clear physical superiority.

  A stream of fire engulfs a nearby satyr from the waist down. Its fur ignites, and it gallops off with its legs ablaze. Ersatz is standing on the head of a nearby reveler, smoke fuming from his mouth; he smiles and takes flight, casting a spell. Red darts sizzle from beneath his wings and twist through the club like heat-seeking missiles from a fighter jet, striking satyrs to the left and right.

  Ersatz doesn’t always fly into combat, but when he does, he’s badass about it.

  The satyrs are doing their best to gang up on Felita while she yanks limbs from sockets, rends muscle from bone, and chews pink throat-flesh like bubblegum. Her white fur is spattered and smeared with red, her eyes strained with bloodlust. Her foes are no match for her until they wise up and start casting spells.

  I’ve got a spell of my own poised in my fist as I take the stage. “Hold it, Krydos. Let him go.”

  Krydos cocks his head and gives me a curious look. “Bounty hunter. So that’s why you didn’t deliver the prince sooner. You’re loyal to him.”

  “Yes. That’s totally why. Now let him go. I really want to hurt you, and I’m running out of reasons not to.”

  Krydos’s mouth eases into a devious grin. He tightens his chokehold on Quim. “You won’t hurt me. Not while I’m holding the key to our future.”

  Quim is bleary-eyed and listless. Lotus nectar trickles from the sides of his mouth, which has contorted itself into a vague, pleasant smile. I’m having enough trouble functioning after two small lotus-laced appetizers; he must be wrecked after a cup of pure lotus nectar.

  “Quim,” I shout. “Quim, you’ve got to get out of here.”

  “He can’t hear you,” says Krydos. “He is deep in the dominion of the lotus now. His conversion will soon be complete. His subjects will heed his command and join with us in the unceasing revel.”

  “The man in your arms isn’t who you think he is.”

  “I know the face of Prince Cadigan of Tolmyr. This is he.”

  “Check again. He’s a changeling. A changeling who should probably change, if he can take a blatantly obvious hint.”

  “Save your tricks,” says Krydos. “I’m not the fool you must think me.”

  Quim takes the hint. He vanishes. A fat bumblebee flies off stage and disappears into the darkened club.

  The chalice falls from Krydos’s hand to clatter on the empty stage. His brow darkens. “An impostor.”

  “Duh. I brought you the wrong guy. Not because I’m loyal to Prince Cadigan; because I am Prince Cadigan.”

  “You? How?”

  “Magic, bro.”

  Krydos eases. He gives a dispassionate shrug. “Just as well. The unceasing revel has begun; my spawn are drowning the city in chaos. Thanks to the ancient texts, the revel will continue whether there is a prince to ordain it or not. You will join us or meet the same fate as your mayor.”

  “I think Luke Skywalker said it best—and I’m paraphrasing here—I’ll never join you. Fuckface.”

  I fling my spell. It sails wide of Krydos’s blurry form and strikes the thick black curtains at the back of the stage. Flame erupts from the impact site, charring the platform and torching the curtains.

  Krydos thrusts out a hand, fingers gathered like claws. My heart seizes. I clutch my chest, feeling for a beat. Nothing. I’m going to die. He’s going to kill me the way he killed Mayor Everton.

  I drop to my knees and speak through gritted teeth. “There’s one thing you forgot to account for.”

  “Oh? And what is that?”

  “The wolves are hungry. And your spawn taste good.”

  I point to the big projection screens overhead, where hulking shapes are emerging from the shadows of street corners and rooftops and alleyways to hunt beneath the swollen moon. Krydos turns to watch, releasing his grip on my heart. Goats and satyrs scatter before them, too weak to fight and too slow to escape. If you’ve never heard a goat scream before, it’s not something you want on your bucket list.

  “You screwed me,” a voice shouts from backstage. “You screwed us all.”

  Jerry marches out on stage to stand beside Krydos, a silver snubnose revolver in his shaking hand. The curtains behind them are billowing smoke, flames shooting toward the ceiling.

  “Let’s not be hasty,” I say, raising my hands in surrender as I rise to my feet. “Stepson. Remember?”

  “You’re not my stepson,” Jerry sneers. “I knew something was fishy that day we met at the diner. Who are you? What are you?”

  “I’m Cade Cadigan. But never mind me. You’re the mayor of New Detroit, and you belong to a cult of whacked-out goat boys who want to subvert your authority and turn you into their stooge. Why?”

  “The path of the lotus is the only way. The power of the few must be undone to achieve freedom for all. Only when the structures of oppression have been toppled can we achieve true equality. You’ve tasted of the lotus. Wasn’t that enough to make you see?”

  “I saw, Jerry. I saw. For a few mad minutes, I thought I understood why you want to fight the system. Then I realized what a bunch of whiny, bitch-ass losers you’d have to be to upend society because it didn’t make you feel special. Welcome to life. It isn’t fair. It isn’t fun all the time. Feel free to sulk in a corner. Being a malcontent doesn’t give you the right to ruin it for everyone else.”

  “What you see as ruin, the lotus shows us is liberation. I had a hard time wrapping my mind around it at first, too. When you’ve lived your whole life as part of a society that wants to put you in a box, it isn’t easy to break those thought habits and escape your limitations. You’ve been made to believe society can’t function without order. I’m telling you it can. It can thrive. You can be a part of it, if you’ll only open your mind.”

  “If you believe in all this freedom and equality stuff, why are you trying so hard to take the Savage family fortune?”

  “When civilization falls, love and fairness will be our only currency. Until then, we must work within the constraints of the common ideology if we wish to bring about the change we need. Revolution comes with a pricetag, your highness.”

  I nod toward the projection screens, masking the pain as I draw a new stream of energy from the demon’s blood. “Overthrowing civilization isn’t going well for you so far.”

  “Shut up,” Je
rry screams. “Shut. Up. You think I won’t kill you?”

  “Do it,” says Krydos. “He’s been given his chance to join us. We’ll make do without him.”

  Jerry raises the gun and sights down the barrel, hand still shaking. He’s sweating, squinting with the unsteady gaze of a man intoxicated beyond basic motor function. He’s just as high on the lotus as I am. “Don’t. Move,” he whispers.

  “No can do, Jer.”

  I lob a stormy gray sphere at his feet. It explodes into a thick black cloud to envelope him and Krydos. I dive to the dance floor just as Jerry’s gun goes off. A second gunshot follows the first. I feel myself for holes and don’t find any. There are two exit signs within sight; one over the backstage door, and one above the corner staircase at the main entrance. Two more gunshots ring out, so I start crawling toward the entrance stairs.

  Felita is fighting off satyrs while Ersatz soars through the club, casting spells and breathing fire. He swoops around to knock a row of liquor bottles off the shelf behind the bar and spews flame over them. When a puddle of fire spreads across the wood floor to block my path, I scramble to my feet and reverse direction toward the stage.

  Jerry stumbles out of my smoke cloud first, coughing and wheezing. Krydos emerges a second later, none the worse for wear. His eyes aren’t watering; he’s not waving the smoke out of his face. He’s not even coughing. He is casting a spell, though.

  I dive toward the stagefront just in time to avoid the tongue of purple energy shooting from Krydos’s open palm. The spell shatters three colored floor tiles and melts their frames. I poke my head up and fling a lightning spike across the stage. It strikes the flooring and crackles through it, popping nails like machine-gun fire. Krydos twitches as a nail hits him, dancing from foot to foot to avoid the others. I have to laugh.