The Junkyard Druid Box Set 2

by M. D. Massey

  I swerved my way through a stoplight, horns blaring as I narrowly missed a couple of cars crossing the intersection ahead of me. They didn’t see me until I was right on top of them because of the look away spell. If I hadn’t cut the wheel in time, it would have been a bad wreck for all involved.

  To make matters worse, when I took my foot off the gas pedal, nothing happened. My accelerator was stuck with my engine pegged at around 4,000 rpm, and I was sailing down one of the busiest roads in Austin with no way to stop.

  I tried pumping the brakes again, but got nothing. The brake pedal went all the way to the floor, which meant that either the master cylinder had gone out, or I had a busted brake line.

  Or someone had cut my brakes. Considering that my accelerator was stuck, I suspected foul play. I could determine who’d done it later—right now, I needed to figure out a way to stop my car without killing myself or an innocent bystander in the process.

  I kept the car in gear and turned off the ignition, hoping that I didn’t throw a rod by engine braking at speed. The last thing I needed was to have to rebuild the motor or transmission in the Gremlin. Then I stomped on the emergency brake lever, but of course it went to the floor with zero resistance. Obviously, someone really wanted to put me in a body bag.

  By this time, I was approaching the next intersection—and another red light, no less—at about forty-five miles an hour. Cutting the engine was slowing the car down, but not fast enough to keep me from colliding with another vehicle.

  It was down to magic or nothing.

  I thought up a quick spell on the fly—or, rather, the application of a spell. The way a car’s brakes worked was by friction. The hydraulics in the brake cylinders put pressure on the brake pads or shoes, which in turn squeezed or pressed against the brake rotor or drums, which were firmly attached to the axle. That, in turn, slowed the rotation of the wheels around the axle, which caused the car to stop.

  So, all I needed to do was to intensify the friction that was already there.

  I quickly rattled off a spell to increase the density of air in a given space, aiming it at the area around my front wheels where the brake pads met the rotors. As I released the spell, the car immediately began slowing down.

  Unfortunately, there were several cars crossing the intersection ahead, and it was clear I wasn’t going to stop in time. Not only that, but a woman was pushing a tandem jogging stroller into the crosswalk. Due to the look away spell on my car, she was completely oblivious to the two-ton metal missile of death heading straight toward her and her children.

  Shit!

  I did some quick calculations in my head, redirecting the energy of the spell to a spot that was roughly twenty feet in front of my car. Instantly, dirt and debris from the road ahead swirled into a small dust devil. The litter and dust coalesced in midair, freezing into a vertical column a foot across and slightly taller than the Gremlin’s hood.

  Lord, have mercy, I thought, just before my front bumper made contact with the dense, highly compressed pillar of air and debris that my spell had created ahead of me. I may as well have hit a light pole, because that’s exactly the effect it had on my vehicle.

  The car came crashing to a halt as the front bumper and hood wrapped around the mostly invisible barrier I’d created. Of course, when the car stopped I didn’t. I was thrown forward in the most violent manner imaginable, only to be stopped by my shoulder harness and seatbelt… sort of.

  My head hit the steering wheel, and then everything went black.

  7

  I awoke to bright lights, puke-yellow curtain dividers, a disinfectant-over-urine smell, and the distinct beeping noise of a three-lead EKG monitor. A nurse was injecting something into an I.V. tube, which happened to be attached to my arm, while Finnegas and Maureen hovered behind her. Someone was coughing nearby, a Dr. Simes was being paged over the intercom, and my face felt like I’d gotten kicked by an angry centaur.

  I pulled the I.V. line out of my arm, then dropped the siderail on the bed so I could sit up. This elicited a chuckle from Maureen and a gasp from the nurse, who immediately began trying to push me back into bed.

  “Young man, you are in no condition to get up. You’ve been in a motor vehicle accident and you have a concussion.”

  I gently pushed her hands away. “Lady, I’ve had concussions before and I heal fast. Tell her, Grandpa,” I said, looking to Finnegas for confirmation.

  “I resent that,” he said under his breath, low enough so only Maureen and I would hear. He cleared his throat and addressed the nurse in a louder voice. “My grandson has indeed suffered a great many concussions—and based on his behavior, I can assure you that he’s no more brain-addled than normal. I believe his main concern is the fact that he doesn’t have insurance, which is probably why he’s so eager to leave his hospital bed.”

  “Yup, that’s right. I can’t afford a hospital stay, so if you’ll just bring me a release form to sign, I’ll be on my way.”

  The nurse spent the next five minutes trying to convince me that I needed to be admitted. By the time she’d finished, I’d gathered my wallet and a few other personal articles from the clothing the paramedics had cut off me, and was headed out the door with my ass cheeks flapping in the wind. Hospital gowns were terribly breezy, as it turned out.

  The nurse stepped in front of me. “At least let me get you some scrubs from surgery,” she pleaded.

  “Fine, I can wait.” She headed out the door in a flustered rush. “And bring me that release form to sign!” I hollered after her.

  “My, but someone has their panties in a wad,” Maureen commented drily.

  I sat on the gurney and shrugged. “Being the object of an attempted assassination will do that to you. How’s my face?”

  Finnegas grabbed me by the chin, turning my head this way and that as he examined me. “Well, the stitches aren’t too bad, and thankfully your facial structure is intact. It’s nothing that your fast metabolism and some druid healing magic can’t fix.”

  “Did you grab my Bag?” He nodded. I rubbed my head, wincing from the tender condition of my flesh. “How’s the car?”

  Finnegas pursed his lips. “Do you want the good news, or the bad news?”

  “Both.”

  “Front end is totaled. It’ll need a new bumper, new fenders, a new hood—and the engine will need to be looked at before it’s drivable again.” He crossed his arms and tsked. “Brake lines were cut—expertly, in fact. Plus, I found some kind of fancy mechanism under the air cleaner that was designed to freeze your throttle once you hit a certain speed. Whoever did this knew their work.”

  “You think it was the fae?” I asked, raising an eyebrow and instantly regretting it as my face protested.

  “Naw, ’tis not their style,” Maureen stated. She’d taken a seat on a doctor’s stool nearby, and was flipping through a page-worn issue of People magazine. “If the fae had wanted you taken out, they’d have sent a hit squad to do you proper, with swords and the like.” She glanced up over the top edge of the magazine. “If you’re asking me, or even if you aren’t, I’d say this has ‘humans’ written all over it.”

  I nodded, sucking air through my teeth. “Finnegas, you think our technomancer assassin is responsible?”

  He pulled out his tobacco pouch. Maureen leaned forward and smacked him with the magazine, pointing at the “No Smoking” sign on the wall. The old man scowled as he put the tobacco away.

  “Meh, it could be. Maybe he couldn’t get to you via magical means, so he opted for more modern methods.”

  I thought about it for a second as I pulled my hospital gown together in back. It was starting to get really drafty, and the more I pulled out of my brain-concussed stupor, the more self-conscious I became.

  “I don’t know, Finn. If Elmo’s killer really was the rich guy I met at the junkyard, he didn’t really strike me as the type to get his hands dirty. In fact, he even said as much to me. No, I think if he was behind it, he’d have hired som
eone else to do it.”

  “Maybe the same crew who killed the ogre,” Maureen said, just as the nurse walked in with a clipboard and a mint green set of scrubs. The nurse cleared her throat as she looked at each of us nervously.

  “We’re screenwriters, ma’am. We were just discussing a script we’re working on.”

  She nodded, eager to accept my explanation as a matter of fact. Humans were always ready to accept any explanation for things that didn’t fit their worldview. Confirmation bias was convenient that way, when you dealt with the world beneath.

  “Well, Mr. McCool, I brought those scrubs as promised. Our attending would like to take a look at you before you leave, but he’s busy at the moment treating another patient who has more serious injuries.” As soon as she handed me the clothes, I began slipping them on. “If you could wait a few more minutes—”

  “Sorry, miss, but I have places to be and people to kill.” The nurse looked at me, eyes wide, as I realized my faux pas. “On paper, I mean. The, um, producer is breathing down our necks.”

  Maureen snickered from behind her magazine. “Oh for sure, and we don’t want to keep her waiting—that’s a fact.”

  The nurse looked at us both as she smoothed out her nurse’s smock. She glanced around, grabbing the clipboard off a bedside table and shoving it toward me.

  “Well then, if you’ll just sign here and here…”

  I took the pen and did as she asked, waiting for her to bustle out of the room before speaking. “Alright, take me home so I can change. I really do have people to kill, and right now I’m damned eager to get started.”

  “Now, there’s a plan I can get behind,” Maureen quipped as she tucked the magazine into her handbag. Finnegas and I both stared at her. “Oh, you talk about killing folks, and that’s just fine… but let Maureen snatch a magazine, and everyone has a cow! Fine! I’ll put it back, ya pussies.”

  I was pretty banged up, but later that afternoon I borrowed the yard truck from Ed and headed out to work the streets for information. My first stop was Rocko’s bar, a little dive set well back from the curb in an industrial area in South Austin, near a bunch of other bars and strip joints. The place was popular with the seedy underbelly of Austin’s supernatural community, so it was a good place to dig for intel.

  It was mid-afternoon when I walked in, and besides a couple of regulars, the place was mostly empty. The odor of stale beer, cheap cigar smoke, and freshly-brewed coffee mingled in the air, while Sinatra played a little too loudly on the vintage jukebox in the corner. The walls were plastered with mob movie posters—some signed, some not—and black and white images of infamous gangsters and famous crooners from the 50s and 60s. The occasional cracked picture frame or skull-sized hole in the drywall indicated this was no trendy hipster bar; it was a place where you watched your wallet and your back at all times.

  Rocko was sitting at the bar drinking black coffee and reading the paper. He was dressed in smart gray dress slacks, white patent-leather shoes, and a black silk guayabera. A cheap cigar smoldered in the ashtray next to him, filling the air with a noxious odor that was somewhat akin to old-school tear gas and burning leaves.

  Sal’s on-again, off-again human girlfriend, Cinnamon, stood behind the bar, drying beer mugs with a dish towel of dubious provenance. As always, she was dressed in a skirt that was almost criminally short, and a skin-tight top that showed as much of her cleavage as possible without being pornographic. Although I couldn’t see behind the bar, I would have bet the Gremlin’s pink slip that a pair of stripper shoes finished her ensemble.

  Rocko looked up as I sat at the bar next to him. “You look like shit, druid. Come to ask for the job back, now that they’re after you too?”

  “Oh, I’m on the job, Rocko—but it’s personal now. So no, I’m not here looking for a paycheck. I just need some info.”

  He set his newspaper down and tapped on his mug. “Warm this up for me, would you, Cinnamon?” She shrugged and walked to the end of the bar to fetch the coffee pot. After she’d filled his mug, Rocko shooed her away. “Sweetheart, go find something in the back to keep you busy.”

  “Aw, c’mon, Rocko. The T.V.’s busted, and there ain’t no wifi here!”

  “Just do it, and tomorrow I’ll make sure to bring you some of those trashy rags you like to read.”

  “Whatever,” Cinnamon replied as she adjusted her bra in a very unladylike manner, before marching off to Rocko’s office.

  “Nice girl, but not much going on upstairs. Reads The Enquirer and believes it. Thinks aliens are real. Aliens! Never occurred to her that it might be the Fair Folk cutting up cattle and abducting farmers.”

  “Is it?” I asked.

  “How the hell should I know what those country fucking fae do with their spare time? Wouldn’t put it past ’em, though.” He folded his paper and took a sip of his coffee, setting the mug down with a grimace. “Tastes like she made it with yesterday’s grounds. Alright, druid, what can I help you with?”

  “You know they killed Elmo at the junkyard two nights ago, right? And that they tried to off me this morning?”

  He nodded. “Word gets around, especially when some college kid crashes his car into a big chunk of nothing in front of a dozen witnesses.”

  The Gremlin’s crumpled front end had damaged the runes I’d written the see-me-not spells into, revealing the wreckage to passersby. Thankfully, none had gotten video footage of the wreck.

  I crossed my arms. “It’s a big weird world out there. Just ask The Enquirer.”

  The red cap paused to snag his cigar. “Word is they cut your brakes and jammed your throttle. Izzat true?”

  “You’re surprisingly well-informed as usual, Rocko.”

  He shrugged. “I got a few cops on the take. Now, what’s this got to do with me?”

  “Nothing. I got a lead on a hunter outfit that might be involved in the killings. Humans, who use guns that shoot arrows.”

  “What, like crossbows or something? Must be half a dozen crews in the area who use ’em.”

  I shook my head. “No, I’m talking about a gun that shoots arrows using compressed air—kind of like a pellet gun, but a lot more powerful.”

  Rocko rubbed his chin. “Honestly, druid, I’ve never even heard of such a thing. But I’ll put some feelers out, see if it rings any bells.”

  “You know how to reach me,” I said as I pushed away from the bar and stood. I didn’t thank Rocko, because that was always a dumb thing to do when dealing with the fae. His voice stopped me when I was halfway to the door.

  “Oh, druid—one last thing. Let’s say, theoretically speaking of course, that I had the need to hire people with certain… skills. Of course, this is just a rumor, mind you. But I hear there’s this chat room on the dark web where you can theoretically find people who do jobs of a less-than-legal nature.” He wrote a web address on a napkin that ended with “dot onion.”

  I pocketed the napkin. “Always a pleasure, Rocko.”

  “Likewise, druid. Try not to get yourself killed before you catch that piece of shit, alright? The boys got a pool going, and I got two-fifty that says you catch him by the end of the week.”

  “Huh. What kind of odds are they giving me?”

  “Odds are on you getting offed, twenty-to-one. So, I stand to make a pretty penny if you manage to collar this freak.”

  “Well, it’s nice to know I’m well-loved around here,” I said, turning toward the exit. I yelled over my shoulder as I headed out the door. “Trust me, Rocko—you’re going to clean up on that bet.”

  I was exiting the bar when I heard movement on either side of me. A glance left and right revealed two tall, thin fae were approaching me, one to each side. They were dressed head to toe in hooded black leathers, and strapped with blades of various sizes six ways from Sunday. Their boots were covered in gravel dust, so I assumed they’d been waiting for me since I’d entered the bar.

  Even though they each had a good twenty feet to cover, they were
nearly in fighting range by the time I drew my sword from my Craneskin Bag. My feet crunched against gravel as I backed up into the parking lot to keep them from flanking me. I held my blade at eye level as I moved it back and forth between us. They didn’t seem too impressed by me, at least not until one of them got a little too close. That’s when the blade decided to burst into flames, which certainly got her attention.

  “That’s far enough,” I stated.

  The female fae in the lead stopped, as did her companion. She tossed her hood back and stared down her nose at me imperiously. Like all higher fae, she was supernaturally beautiful, with pale skin, high cheekbones, platinum blonde hair pulled back in a tight ponytail, and gray eyes so bright they were almost silver. Both she and her male counterpart were tall—a few inches taller than my six-one—and built like ballet dancers, all lean muscle and fluid grace.

  They were a fae hit squad, likely trained from birth in every deadly discipline imaginable. Hand-to-hand, blade craft, poisons, projectile weapons, explosives, and magic. They’d almost certainly been training, fighting, and killing together for centuries, so my chances of walking away alive were nil unless I hulked out on them… an option that didn’t especially appeal to me.

  Their presence was somewhat of a shock, since I couldn’t recall a time when Maeve had felt the need to bring out her first string. If I hadn’t known better, I’d have been tempted to think that this pair had been the ones who’d tried to kill me earlier. Except Maureen was right—slicing brake lines just wasn’t their style.

  But jumping someone outside a bar and slicing them up like confetti? Yeah, that was definitely their style.

  “We were sent to relay a message from the Queen,” the female assassin said in a voice both razor-thin and hauntingly beautiful. She was the type of fae that truly scared me, the old-school kind who didn’t even bother masking their appearance. When fae didn’t hide their identity from humans, you could bet that any human who saw them was a dead man walking.