Shadowrun: Shaken: No Job Too Small

by Russell Zimmerman

  Right on cue, while he was smirking at me with those fangs twinkling in amusement, Ariana slammed into him with the same spell, multiplied several times over. Pure power. Raw force. A bolt of mystic destruction. His suit shredded and smoldered as his magical defenses were rent through, now there was genuine anger on his face as he turned on her.

  He spat and hissed at her in Latin, the air rippled around him, and then there was a flash of light and an explosion.

  She can’t die, I told myself as I got back to my feet and saw the empty air where she’d been.

  She can’t die, she’s a spirit, all he could do is banish her, I thought as I vaulted over my desk at him.

  She can’t die, she can just be banished, I insisted as I leaped at him.

  My tackle caught him just right, textbook-flawless form, but it felt like I was trying to take down a hundred-year oak. He didn’t budge, just let me smash into him and bounce off.

  She can’t die. He opened his mouth to say something, and I wrapped my fist around my wand and mana around my fist, hitting him in the jaw with the best left hook of my life, doing my best to kill him with a spell channeled directly through the physical contact. The magic discharged and his head turned, cheek smoldering.

  De Vries’ smirk disappeared, and he reached up to catch my next punch. His palm smoked as I growled Enochian curses at him, and he clenched down. My Sideways didn’t let it hurt, but I felt bones breaking. Snap, crackle, pop. My Corpsman let me know there were more than 27 bones in my left hand now. When he relaxed his grip, my wand clattered to the ground.

  She can’t die. I hauled back and punched him again, mana cushioning my right fist and pouring death into my touch. It rocked him back, so I went for it again, stepping into it properly this time. He blocked it, almost too fast for me to see, and gave me an open-handed slap that felt like a sledgehammer against my face.

  “She can’t die,” I said to him out loud.

  He reached out to pluck me by the lapels and lift me off the floor as easily as he would an unruly child.

  “Perhaps. But you can,” Martin de Vries said, fangs catching the light just so. “So let’s stop this, shall we?”

  I reached for my hip with my good right hand. He gave me a little ragdoll shake and shook his head, my wingtips dangling centimeters from the ground.

  “Your gun won’t help you, detective.”

  “My gun isn’t what I’m goin’ for.”

  I stuck my little tactical folding knife, a weapon focus if not a powerful one, square into his gut. Poke, poke, poke, a simple, brutal, prison-rush type of shanking. In and out, in and out, sewing-machining my way up his side, then wedging it in between a few ribs when I found a gap. His eyes widened in rage and pain while I gave it a twist; he answered by snarling at me in anger, and then just flicked his fingers like they were wet and I was a drop of water.

  The main window of my office shattered as I flew backward through it, and the slivers of glass caught every beam of light in the world as I hung there in space for a second. My Sideways was in overdrive as I tried to claw at anything and everything to keep from falling, but there was nothing to grab but the million shards of glass that twinkled like stars.

  The moment passed. My coat snapped in the wind as I fell.

  “Vpaah,” I said around a mouth full of bloody teeth. Enochian for wing, it was the trigger word I used for my levitation spe—

  I slammed into a parked car after my three-story drop, triggering airbags and impact-foam dispensers that tangled me up, but did keep me from dying on impact. All the air got blasted right out of me, and I struggled—snarling, frantic—to tear myself free from the torn cloth convertible top, a seatbelt somehow wrapped around one ankle, the shreds of airbags all around me, the fading echoes of their deployments ringing in my ears. Splayed out with a gearshift in my back and my broken left hand halfway through a dashboard, I looked up and saw de Vries hovering outside my office window, eyes blazing with power and sneering down at me like an angry god.

  He pointed, and a ball of fire leapt from his hand.

  “Ag. Agagag!”

  I clambered and twisted and fell out of the car and into the pavement, glass crunching beneath me. The vampire-cast fireball from on high smashed into the car right after, and it took all my counterspelling expertise to keep the near-miss from frying me alive. I was protected, but I still felt the flames lick at me as bits of car rained down all around. I peeled off my smoldering jacket and threw it, never quite making it back to my feet, and then crawled after it while flames still clung to one of its sleeves.

  My Sideways and my Transys Avalon conspired against me, counting the pieces of window, helpfully reminding me of how much it had cost to get the glass repaired last time, estimating damages for this most recent accident, and letting me know that my Corpsman had twelve urgent messages for me to review about my current medical condition.

  “Whoof.”

  I spat blood as I crawled through the Puyallup ash, head turning, cyberoptics focusing crazily through a concussion, tagging and counting neighborhood cars all up and down the street and politely reminding me I could remotely activate my Ford Americar if I wanted to start the air conditioning prior to my arrival. I looked down and my optics locked onto a twisted piece of metal that rained from on high, the license plate of the car I’d landed on and he’d blown up. I craned my neck to look up and saw de Vries floating down slowly, leisurely, hellishly lit from below by the fire he’d started.

  I knew he was going to kill me—knew I was going to die to a vampire—if I let him stay mad. I couldn’t have that.

  I caught up to my still-burning suit jacket and reaching inside to recover my battered pack of Targets. I hauled out an unbroken one and used the jacket to get it lit. By the time de Vries deigned to touch the ground and walk over to finish me off, I was half-propped up against the far curb, blowing smoke his way with a terrible plan in my head.

  I mean, really terrible. But it was the best one I had.

  He stood there, looking down on me, face a mask of vampiric arrogance, my pocket knife still sticking out of his ribs, suit ruined, backlit by the merrily burning car. I sent up mental commands to shove away biomonitor updates and the still-running facial recognition protocols; I wanted a clear view. He lifted one hand and started whispering in Latin—again, with the Latin—his finger pointed at me like the barrel of a gun.

  “I win,” I said, when I could manage a proper lungful of air around my Target.

  His voice caught in his throat.

  “…what?”

  My head lolled heavily on my neck, exhausted even if the Sideways wouldn’t let me feel sore, and I chuckled deep in my belly.

  “I win. You lose. I beat you. James Kincaid one, Mr. Big Shot Martin de Vries zero. How many ways I gotta say it?”

  “You…” His features softened just a bit, not quite so monstrously sharp now. Those fangs glittered a bit less brightly, those eyes looked almost human.

  “I beat you. Yup. Sorry, pal, but there’s no need to be a sore loser about it.”

  I lay on the ground, scorched and blackened, bleeding, my best friend banished, my office a wreck, my suit on fire next to me in the gutter, broken, battered, thrown from my own window.

  Triumphant.

  “You, sir, are mad.” That accent of his dripped through again, and I tried to remember where he was from. The Netherlands? My Transys spun up and thought about recovering my research tabs, but I ignored it.

  “Maybe, but I’m a winner and you’re a loser.”

  He reached down and effortlessly plucked my knife from his side, letting it clatter into the filthy Puyallup gutter next to me. He tore open his shirt and showed me his side, where a quick healing spell was already knitting the wound shut. His innate vampiric regeneration didn’t heal magical attacks, but a spell could, and did.

  Fuckin’ show off.

  “If you’re referring to this, detective, you are sorely mistaken. As you can see, it was a trifling s
cratch. You…I’m barely hurt, and you’re…how…”

  Ha! Speechless. Take that, shadowy legend.

  “How is it that you believe you’ve possibly won? In what way? In what world is this some sort of…of…victory for you?”

  The madness was gone from his voice. His canines were back to normal. His accent was thick, but human. Incredulous. Curious. Normal. Alive. Sane.

  I shifted in my gutter, blowing smoke at him, then grinned.

  “Because that—” I nodded at the burning wreckage, trying not to laugh. “—was your rental Westwind.”

  When he started laughing, I figured he wasn’t out to kill me right then.

  CHAPTER 18

  Martin de Vries hauled me to my feet easily, effortlessly, careful to grab my proffered right hand, not my broken left one.

  “I am very sorry about this,” he said, almost sheepishly. I had the whole thing recorded, but the hangdog look on his face right then was extra priceless.

  “I started it.” Or, rather, Ariana had, on my orders.

  “Yes, but I should…I should have shown more restraint. This mess will be difficult to cover up.”

  His car was scattered all over the street, the main chassis still burning away. Car alarms on both sides were going off from the explosion, my apartment window was destroyed, the Thai joint on the ground floor had some busted glass too, and all up and down the block lights were—pointedly—being turned off as folks tried not to draw attention to themselves while they peeked out windows, curious and afraid.

  “We don’t cover up here.” I shook my head, immediately regretting it as a wave of dizziness crashed over me.

  He was some silly-rich bestselling author on top of everything else, right? My headware kept trying to show me news articles about him, which I studiously ignored, a reading list I blinked away, but then some sales figures that I glanced at.

  “I’ll smooth it over with the cops if you smooth it over, y’know, financially.”

  “I can manage that, yes.”

  Of course he could, the prick.

  He started pouring mana into me—knitting me back up, as handy with the healing mojo as Ariana—as we headed for the door. I gave a big, reassuring wave to the neighborhood in general, and apartment lights started coming back on, tridsets were un-muted, and probably more than a few firearms were put back down.

  De Vries gestured, and a water elemental appeared over the burning wreckage of his rental car. He made it look so easy, for a second I hated him again. The spirit—a classic Hermetic design, half-cresting wave, half-humanoid figure—descended onto the fire, and put it out even as I made a call.

  “Tillie.” My Transys dialed the local precinct house. Tillman was on duty—why’d my life always turn to a train wreck on third shifts?—like always, Knight Errant’s best and brightest and likeliest to be stuck working the night shift.

  “Goddammit, Kincaid,” he said, cheerful as ever. “What the hell’s going on over there?”

  “Tillie, it’s fine. You may’ve gotten a few calls—”

  “A few?!”

  “—about a magical scuffle. It’s taken care of. There was a…a…mystical assault in my office. Rogue spirit. Bad juju. I got thrown clear, then the fight moved outside, is all. We took care of it. Free spirit’s gone, no one’s hurt. Some property damage, but my buddy’s gonna pay for everything.”

  Yes, yes he was.

  “You’re killin’ me, Jimmy. You’re reachin’ into my head and pokin’ my brain, and you’re friggin’ killin’ me.”

  “I’m killin’ you? I just got attacked by a rogue spirit, I try to do my civic duty to call it in all official-like, and you’re gonna bust my balls about it, Tillman? Fine. Hey. You got my fifty nu, Till? I’m gonna start charging interest, you don’t get me that fifty. I tell you not to bet on the Screamers, I tell you and I tell you, and you—”

  “Don’t change the subject, you prick! I’ve got a dozen friggin’ calls here, about a fire or something, and…and…okay, like nine or ten calls, some sort of car on fire, and now it’s like four, but…all right, dammit, lines are dead and PANICBUTTONs are going off-line, but this’s still gotta go in the logbook, Jimmy.”

  “That’s fine, that’s fine. Log whatever you gotta log. Oh, and hey, put in a call to Black’s, tell ’em there’s some pieces of car they can probably take. Westwind. Not much to it, but scrap’s scrap, right?”

  “I’ll get you that fifty nuyen, Jimmy. You know I’m good for it,” Tillman’s voice turned a little toward a whine, and I knew he’d heard about my recent visits to the Gianellis, over at Salvo’s joint. He was worried about my collecting, now that he thought I was in their pocket. Fine. Let the neighborhood draw the wrong conclusions, I didn’t have time to clear it up right now.

  “I know, Tillie. I know.”

  I gave the block another little wave—left-handed, this time, all knitted up good as new—and watched as de Vries released his frolicking water spirit.

  Potential law enforcement crisis averted, we headed back inside.

  CHAPTER 19

  It was a long night. An informative night. Martin de Vries had a lot of good info—on his person, luckily, not stowed in his Westwind’s glovebox—and he freely shared it. He liked people that liked killing vampires. He hated them as deeply as I did, I think, his own disease notwithstanding.

  I’ve got nothing against the Infected, just for the record. I understand that the HMHVV gets people sick. I understand it’s a magical thing, a terrible virus, an illness, not a lifestyle choice. But they’ve got to understand it, too, the folks sick with it. The folks who have it, that fight against it? Folks like de Vries, who work hard to maintain their control, to use the disease as a weapon against the sickos, to hold onto their humanity? I’ve got no beef with them. None. Hell, I respect ’em. But there are Infected out there that embrace it, that let it define them, let it turn them into monsters. There are folks out there who get their brain chemistry all out of whack from the HMHVV, who love how it makes them feel, who let it turn them dangerous, predatory, monstrous. If you don’t take care of yourself, and because of that, you start to hurt other people? Then we’ve got a problem.

  I recorded our conversation, filed away the data he shared, planning to review it in more detail later. He went over the different strains of the HMHVV—some of it was stuff I hadn’t even heard of before, despite my personal interest—and the history of the research into the virus. He reminded me that their strengths can be weaknesses, told me—with more than a little sadness and disgust at himself—how the virus can turn someone feral, wild, keep them from thinking straight. He reminded me that the Infected—proper vampires, not ghouls with the Krieger strain—were often dangerous, predatory spellcasters. He gave me an insider’s feel for their allergies, the things that scared them, that hurt them, information more personal than any paranormal guide. He shared good information, information I could use.

  I had trouble listening, was the thing.

  I missed Ari. I was used to her being around, used to always having that mental link tugging at me, used to having her perspective, not just my own. I needed her energy. Her enthusiasm. Her optimism. All the best parts of me went into her, and now they were gone. I listened to Martin, sure, but I was angry the whole time. Sullen. Distracted. I knew what I had to do to get her back, I knew the way to retrieve a disrupted spirit. He confirmed it for me, too, sensing my frustration. He was—just ask his Eurocar Westwind—a skilled magi, of course, not just a vampire hunter, and he knew about metaplanar quests just as much as I did.

  We finished up talking about the Infected, though, as I did my best not to worry about Ari.

  Going on five in the morning, he excused himself. I didn’t try to stop him.

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Kincaid, but I must be away. I need time, still, to find myself a place to stay for the day, and suitable transportation in the meantime.”

  “Yeah, cabbies’re gonna rake you over the coals,” I said, maybe enjoying i
t a little. “Some of ’em don’t even come to Puyallup, y’know.”

  “Quite.”

  He stood there, this predator of predators, this perfectly evolved killing machine, and stretched out a hand for me to shake.

  Aww, maybe he wasn’t so bad, first impressions notwithstanding.

  “Call me if you have need of me, detective, and I will come as my schedule permits. I have other business here to attend to, I’ve been out of Seattle for some time, but I’m always looking for dedicated hunters to assist me. The Guild and I, we have…a duty. A responsibility. Protecting people from others like me, it’s something I need to do.”

  “I know.” And I did. I only shouldered Puyallup, he was trying to hold up the whole damn world. “I know the feeling. Hey, listen. Before you go—I know, I know, sun-up and all, but it’ll be quick—I just need one favor. A really small one, yeah?”

  I had him take care of one last thing for me, then he left.

  I stripped down to my shirtsleeves and ransacked the apartment finding myself something to help me get some rest. I had to sleep. I wanted to get Ari back—I had to, sooner rather than later—but that sort of thing wasn’t ever easy, wasn’t ever safe, and doing it tired-to-the-bone wouldn’t do me or her any favors.

  “First thing when I get up, kiddo,” I toasted the empty room with a half-full bottle of a black-label import I’d picked up, cheap, last time I’d made a Stuffer Shack run. I left the bottle cap on my desk, I knew I’d be emptying it, not saving any for later.

  There, amid all the clutter, was a book. An actual book, like Reynolds and Minirth and other old-timers kept, not just an electronic reader or a commlink full of text files, but paper and ink and weathering and wrinkles and words. Something special. A book. Shadows at Noon was the first in de Vries’ bestselling series, and Trace had lent it to me—over Skip’s complaining reluctance—years ago. His stuff was some of their favorite. Sometimes I’m a shitty friend, so I still hadn’t read it, despite their urging.