Two Fisted Tales of Magic

Moving on to New Digs

2010-03-02T21:35:00.000-08:00

The plan was to base the podcast off of this site and have the actual audio files hosted elsewhere. Turns out elsewhere was such a headache, and that by the time I was done setting it up I had a better site than this one. So, from now on I will be using podcast.twofistedmagic.com as the new homepage.

If you found this page by way of Geek Radio Daily, I apologize, but hopefully this is the biggest SNAFU I will have to deal with.

Show Time Approaches

2010-03-01T11:49:00.000-08:00

The world is now aware of Two-Fisted Tales of Magic thanks to the good people at Geek Radio Daily. Nothing like a deadline to motivate. First story is finaled and ready for recording. My goal is to have three or four episodes recorded and ready for chatter at any given time.

It shall be done!!

Promo Content

2010-01-23T19:00:00.000-08:00

Night had fallen hours before. My desk lamp was the only light in the office. The night was hot and I was down to my undershirt and suspenders as I worked. The light glinted off the bullet in my hand as I carved the last line of the rune. A curl of lead fell from the slug and onto that evening's edition of the New York Imperial Times. I set the bullet down on the paper next to the dateline, May 13, 1931.

I carved the Demon's name into five more bullets just like the first and loaded them into my revolver. It was going to be either him or me, and I only had to the end of the new moon to finish my 38 caliber banishing.

Set in a magically twisted 1930's, Two-Fisted Tales of Magic is a new podcast by Ted Wade. The Great War has broken the walls to dimensions once relegated to folklore. Humanity now shares the earth with Dwarfs and Orks from the Kingdoms of the Hollow Earth, Fair Folk of the Fae Realms, and Creatures of the Demon Reaches. Far from helpless, humanity can call upon magic through wizardry, superlative physical powers, and weirdly enhanced technology.

Two-Fisted Tales of Magic, Coming in April 2010
two-fisted-tales.blogspot.com

The World Remade

2010-01-11T20:56:00.000-08:00

New York City, 1933

I was standing at the window of my third floor office with my first cup of joe for the morning.

Down below, the Model A's and Auroras had all pulled over to make way for the marching column of Imperial troops. It looked to be a full company of men and orcs with a destroyer demon and ogre heavy weapons squad. A truck followed along behind. It's canvas cover had been removed and a tripod supporting a trio of loudspeakers stood in its bed. A man's voice blared out from them exhorting loyalty to Emperor Manfred and Count Jasper Adney. The voice also demanded collaboration in flushing out the Resistance.

I shook my head at how the world had been remade by the Great War. Prior to the Winter Solstice of 1916, extremely few people believed that magic was real, or at least real enough to be a weapon of war. One of than was a cousin of Kaiser Wilhelm with enough clout to pull a modest budget from the war spending. What Manfred Haeschlin intended was to summon an army of demons for the war effort.

He succeeded in spades.

Not only had he breached the barrier to the Demon Reaches, but the walls to dimensions once relegated to folklore were also fractured. Fair Folk of the Fae Realms, dwarfs and orcs from the Kingdoms of the Hollow Earth, and Lord knows what else were now lose on the world.

As if that weren't enough energies from the other dimensions now permeated the world. Some people unconsciously used that energy to make themselves superlatively skilled at fighting, gunplay, singing or what have you. Others used it consciously, shaping into spells both beneficial and malign as modern day Merlins. Emperor Manfred was one of these. That, and the demons, was why he was Emperor and Kaiser Wilhelm's fate was unknown.

The Empire tried to keep a monopoly on all things beyond the mortal ken, but enough got by to give the Resistance and the Free States a fighting chance. In New York City, the Resistance could call on three Superlatives, a couple of Weird Scientists, a handful of demons and me, the one wizard in the city not Sworn to the Empire. We all knew it was worth our souls if we were found out, but sometimes you just couldn't sit back and let things happen.

In that meantime I paid the rent as just another private dick tailing philandering spouses and tracing skips. Sometimes a case gets interesting. The mobs had adapted to the new players and new rackets. The streets had many, many new ways to make people disappear. Like I said, interesting.

And I just knew, one of these days, interesting was going to get me killed.

Nanowrimo Complications

2009-11-11T20:24:00.000-08:00

I have discovered three things that can interfere with hitting the NaNoWriMo goal of 50,000 words in November:

A 3 month old baby
A sick 3 month old baby
A sick 36 year author

String those together and you end up with a project that is only 30% of the pace needed to get the job done. I will keep up with it and try to catch up. I am however, willing to commit as much as six weeks to this first draft.

Getting Serious About This "Writing" Thing

2009-11-04T12:22:00.000-08:00

For the sake of my mental health, I have decided that I should give up the idea of being a career engineer in favor of being a writer with an engineering day job.

In pursuit of that, I have signed on to NaNoWriMo to get my second novel written. I will put my first, Intangible Assets below, (I have yet to put it through a proper word count yet) will go through another draft and I plan to start shopping it around with publishers at the start of the new year. Additionally, I intend to vocalize Intangible Assets as a podiobook after the re-write and getting the recording software and hardware.

Wish me luck.

The Curse of Alexander Braker, Chapter 5

2006-08-01T12:48:00.000-07:00

The band had barely started the next number before the spectacle occurred. Back by the receiving line, a voice called out, “Just as I thought, another boring family event.”

The voice belonged to a young man in a fleece lined leather jacket. He pulled of a pair of gloves before handing them and a pair of goggles to the butler at the doorway. His hair was windblown and tangled. Sam guessed his age to be late twenties. His face bore more resemblance to the pictures of Alexander Braker rather than Mildred, as opposed to Jonathon. He smiled at the crowd, snatching a glass of champagne from a passing servant.

“Seeing as how I’ve missed all of you due to my tardiness, I’ll take this moment to wish you all a swell time at this, ahem, party. Brother, to your health.”

Several guests rose their glasses to the impromptu toast.

“Another relation?” asked Sam.

Rachel nodded.

“Randal Braker, the youngest of the sons. He shows up at a club and you know that there are going to be some good tips following along behind.”

“Does he do anything with the company?”

“Aside from spending the family money, I doubt it. He is having too much fun as the black sheep.”

“Humph, must be nice. Still, someone is working their way along the line of succession, so keeping an eye on him should be on our list.”

“Oh, I could do better than that,” said Rachel. Sam had to look back at her and saw a vaguely hungry look in her eye.

“Hey, stay on the job, alright? Run into him on the outside and you can play how you want. Right now, we’re trying to keep someone from getting killed.”

Rachel sighed and gave him a pout.

“That’s your problem, Sam, always on the job. There’s always room for a little fun. I promise I’ll stay good for tonight.”

The Curse of Alexander Braker, Chapter 4

2006-07-01T00:47:00.000-07:00

     After all this time Sam should have been prepared. He thought as much. Despite all that, he was caught short by the vision that Rachel presented in her party dress. Her dress was modest, but it was beautiful in how she wore it. It was thin strapped and swept to the ground with a slit on the side that was perhaps a shade too high. The pearl white highlighted the Mediterranean color to her skin. A stole added to the modesty of the dress. Sam knew that she could have chosen to wear a potato sack and make it the envy of the strictest social critic.

     Sam was decked in his tuxedo, a reminder of days that were more reliably flush than his current stretch. Fortunately, high fashion for men changed very little over the years.

     The party was at the Braker estate just outside of Tarrytown. The trip required the crossing of a pair of checkpoints. Fortunately, there was nothing happening to put the soldiers on alert. They waved Sam’s 1928 Chrysler through with barely a look at Sam’s papers.

     The drive gave Sam the chance to pass on the plans he had come up with. Rachel listened with half and ear. Sam knew that he might as well be whistling into the wind. Rachel had yet to fully stick to a plan he had laid out. From her point of view, a plan was just another thing to remember and get in the way of her winging it.

     Their trip came to a conclusion at the far end of a curved driveway leading up to a large colonial style mansion. Sam’s old beater, being well cared for, didn’t look too terribly out of place. Being his own driver, however, left Sam and Rachel walking back up the drive.

     Other guests were arriving in a steady stream. Ladies and gentlemen, both in the new status system and in the old vernacular were ushered up to the door by black liveried servants. Meanwhile, their drivers would park their cars and then headed for a waiting room set in the garage.

     Sam and Rachel joined the queue forming in the foyer. A grand staircase rose to the upper levels of the house. The line led to the left of the foyer. Every so often a nobler personage would be cut into line ahead of Sam and Rachel. In some cases the entire line appeared to be bypassed.

     “I wonder what the hold up is,” said Sam.

     “You’re not used to these grand soirees, are you?” replied Rachel. “Well then, you get to experience your first receiving line. We’ll be introduced to the Baron and presumably his family. Just smile and say polite things.”

     Eventually they made their way into the ballroom. Dozens of people already filled the space. The dance floor had just enough room to show a parquet wood floor. The three sides around the dance floor were carpeted and filled with tables. A temporary stage bore a piano with enough room for a string quartet. The strings were playing a waltz for the dancing couples. The far end of the room was mostly tall glass doors and windows. Sam couldn’t make out what was beyond them; the reflections from the room were too strong.

     The line moved forward steadily until Sam and Rachel came upon a man in a tailed suit and white gloves.

     “May I have your invitation, please?”

     Sam dug into his coat pocket and retrieved the engraved invitation. The Baroness had it delivered to his office the previous day.

     “Thank you, sir.” The butler then turned to the room and raised his voice to be audible over the quartet, “Mr. Samuel Watson, and guest.”

     Sam escorted Rachel down the three steps to the sunken floor of the ballroom. At the foot of the steps they were greeted by a plump woman of middle age. Sam recognized her from his research into the Society Pages; this was the elder Baroness Braker, wife to the deceased original Baron and the mother of the current Baron. Her hair had completed its turn to grey, and the lines on her face showed that her life had been far from care free.

     “Mr. Watson, it is a pleasure to meet you.” She put on a brave face, but something painful was happening behind her eyes. The maid standing behind the Widow Braker pressed a handkerchief into Mildred’s hand. Sam guessed that it had to do with his name. This night was also the anniversary of the death of her eldest son, also named Samuel, under mysterious circumstances.

     “The pleasure is mine, Lady Braker. May I introduce my associate, Miss Rachel Evans.”

     The two women clasped hands for a moment and exchanged pleasantries. Sam and Rachel then moved down the line and met with the current Baroness Braker. Sam introduced Rachel to her. With that done, Amelia Braker turned to her husband.

     “Jonathon, allow me to do this introduction personally. This is Mr. Watson, the private investigator I hired for this evening. He comes very highly recommended and is experienced with matters supernatural.”

     The Baron seemed to be barely into his thirties. He had sandy hair and a round, almost boyish face. He wore a pair of pince-nez glasses. The handshake he gave Sam was firm and he looked him square in the eye.

     “It is a pleasure to meet you Mr. Watson, although I regret that you came here in an official capacity.”

     “You don’t believe that protection is necessary tonight?”

     “No I don’t. I don’t believe in this whole curse hogwash. I presume that the emphasis on your supernatural expertise means that you are here in that capacity.”

     “Your wife brought me here to be of whatever service might prove necessary. I certainly hope that that would be none.”

     “Well, if it puts Amelia’s mind to ease, I suppose you will earn your fee, Mr. Watson. In the meantime, please, enjoy yourself.”

     With that, Baron Braker turned his attention to the next person in line. Sam took the hint and moved with Rachel into the ballroom proper. A young man dressed as a waiter escorted them to a table where place cards awaited them.

     “Mr. Samuel Watson’s guest,” read Rachel.

     “Sorry,” said Sam, “I suppose that I could have gotten your name engraved had I made arrangements with the Baroness.”

     “No, actually it worked out better. I recognize a few people from the clubs. It would have been awkward trying to explain the various names I work under.”

     “Have you seen anything interesting?”

     “You mean on the Other Side? Yes, I’ve seen that Lamar Steele is here. That one is right on my list of club habitués that I recognize. Better yet, however, is Mildred Braker’s maid has a touch of magic about her.”

     “Interesting. I suppose I should look into that part. Let’s get a feel for the rest of the party before we go chasing leads.”

     “Great, let’s start with the dance floor. Maybe they’ll do a tango next.”

     Sam groaned at the thought.

The Curse of Alexander Braker, Chapter 3

2006-06-06T16:59:00.000-07:00

     The streetlight outside of McTaggart's Pub was broken, leaving a patch of darkness at the front door. A sense of anonymity was maintained by those who worked there. The lack of atmosphere tended to keep the clientelle limited to serious barflys and those who had business there. So far as Sam knew, no one named McTaggart had been involved in the business for ages. Ownership had changed hands several times with none of the new owners bothering to change the name. He was sure that he could track down who claimed to be the current owner, but that would be more information than he needed.

     Instead, this anonymous little pub was one of the more regular haunts of the mysterious figure known as Liberty. The leader of the Resistance of New York tried to remain accessible to the people in his command, particularly to the more powerful members.

     Sam counted in that second number as the one mage in the city's Resistance. He went by the codename Quisitor and served both as magician and investigator. Anyone considered for membership in the Resistance would undergo Sam's scrutiny, almost always with the subject in complete ignorance. Sam had managed to spot a couple of potential plants the Empire had attempted to emplace.

     Despite the best vigilance, there was still concern for security.

     No one looked up as Sam entered the pub. The three people who seemed to be drinking kept their heads down. Sam knew they weren’t there for the booze any more than he was. One thing he did notice was that each man had his right hand concealed.

     Sam stepped over to the bar.

     “Help you, Mac?” asked the bartender. He acted more interested in his bar rag than in any service he might render.

     “Yeah, how about something from Kentucky?”

     “How old you want it?”

     “Twelve years at least.”

     Empty right hands appeared as the tension in the room melted. The bartender smiled and poured a shot of bourbon into a highball glass.

     “The man’s in back, I take it?” asked Sam.

     “Yes he is. Head on back.”

     Sam drank down the liquor and headed to the back room. He knocked on the door. A man with a Thompson opened the door and stuck his head out. He scrutinized the room as if he never received the silent signal from behind the bar. Once his vigilance was satisfied, he ushered Sam into the cramped room.

     The room was scarcely larger than the card table in the center. A single bulb cast its light onto the table and little else.

     What the light did show was the man seated behind the table. Sam knew that if the man stood he would be about six feet tall. He was broad shouldered and wore working man’s clothes. The only sign that he pretended to anything more than salt of the earth was the vigilante style mask that covered the top half of his face. Despite Sam’s position in the effective inner circle of the Resistance he did not know Liberty’s true identity.

     “Quisitor,” said Liberty, “always good to see you.”

     “Same. Thanks for meeting with me.”

     “Have a seat. What brings you back into the cold?”

     “I have a job, and I have some questions about how the Resistance is hitting my subject.”

     “I’ll tell you what I can, but you do understand that your job will only give you slightly greater need to know.”

     “I understand. My client is the Baroness Braker, wife of Baron Jonathon Braker, owner of the Albany Wichita Railroad.”

     “I am familiar with the railroad,” said Liberty, “they tend to get more military transport contracts than their competition, but not to any great degree.”

     “It seems that they have been getting hit hard by the Resistance of late.”

     “One of our cells, they go by the name of the James Gang, has made the AW Railroad a favored target.”

     “Any reason for that? Something personal?”

     “Purely speculation, but I think that they have some sort of source of information on the inside. I can’t say for certain because I make a point of not asking.”

     Sam nodded. That type of security was de rigueur for the secretive organization.

     “I understand,” said Sam, “that the original Baron, Alexander, was a collaborator.”

     “Yes, he was, and I can answer your next question right now. No, the Resistance had nothing to do with either his death, or that of his son.”

     “And no interest in going after the current Baron?”

     “None at all.”

     Sam leaned back from the table. Liberty seemed to be a step ahead of him, and as a mage, Sam preferred to be the one in that position. Still, he was getting nearly all of the information for which he knew to ask.

     “One last thing,” said Sam, “I got the impression that Baroness Mildred Braker, Alexander’s wife, seemed to be a near pariah immediately after the invasion. Would you have any idea why?”

     “Actually, I would. Back before the Invasion, Mildred Braker was a member of the Daughters of the American Revolution. It was her husband’s connections that kept her from imprisonment or being stripped of her family assets.”

     “A collaborator and a member of the DAR. I can scarcely imagine what their home life must have been like during the war.”

     “Unfortunately, she has been a good lady of the Empire since then. I would gather that she got set straight since then.”

     Sam stayed quiet for a moment or two.

     “Anything else, Quisitor?” asked Liberty.

     “No, I don’t think so. Thanks for the time.”

     “Stay safe out there.”

     “Always my first interest,” said Sam. He turned toward the door, but was stopped by the guard. The man pressed a button on the speaker box by the door. A second later, a soft buzz came from the speaker, and the guard opened the door. Sam gave a small wave to the barkeeper and headed toward the front door.

     As he walked down the street, Sam’s mind was divided. One part stayed alert for anyone watching or following. The other part ran down the information that he had just learned. He felt that he had a good base to work the party two nights later, but he still wondered if there were one more question he should have asked.

The Curse of Alexander Braker, Chapter 2

2006-05-26T10:25:00.000-07:00

     There was time before the ball for Sam to get some research done. Back copies of the New York Imperial
Times would be his best source to start with.

     The first copy of the Times that he looked at was that day’s purchased from the boy just outside of Molly’s denire. The little short order place on the corner of his office building was one of Sam’s frequent haunts. Aside from his regular breakfast, Molly also served one of the best cups of coffee in the city.

     “Morning, Sam. What can I set you up with?”

     As always, Molly was right there with a cup of coffee and a menu. It never mattered that Sam was a creature of habit when it came to breakfast, Molly always had the menu. The point wasn’t that she might convince Sam to try something new, but instead, it served to cover the occasional copy of the Liberty Press she would pass along. Sam could tell that there was no new news from the underground press that day just from the feel of the backside of the menu.

     Sam had more on his mind than just breakfast this time. He took a couple of minutes of perusing the menu for appearance’s sake.

     “Two eggs, over easy and bacon, Molly.” The usual and nothing but. The food came over quickly and Sam tucked in with gusto. It wasn’t until after he finished eating that he got to the next part of the stop.

     “Molly, if I may take the liberty that was the best meal I’ve had in ages. My compliments to the man in back.”

     The diner matron smiled at the apparent compliment.

     “Why that’s so kind of you. I’ll make sure the word gets back. Have a nice day.”

     “You too, Molly.” Sam left a Mark on the counter with a healthy tip. He then left the diner, knowing that his need for a meeting with Liberty, the leader of the New York City Resistance, was on its way.

     The New York Public Library had undergone a major upheaval in the aftermath of the invasion. Much of the history and political philosophy works were put under lock and key. The Empire did everything it could to make it appear that the American Revolution and everything that happened afterward never happened. That included the newspaper archives. The only parts that were accessible were those that had been written under the Empire’s watchful eye.

     Sam worked two sections of the paper at the same time. Heading backward into the library’s archive, he found that the Albany-Wichita Railroad predated the Invasion. There was no mention that the ownership had changed when the Empire took over. Only those who had proven useful would have been allowed to keep possession of such a resource. That implicated Alexander Braker, in Sam’s mind, of having been a collaborator, if not an active traitor. Since then, the Barons Braker had kept a close working relationship with the Empire.

     The Board of Directors, beyond the family holdings, might have been an Empire in miniature. Among its members were members of the aristocracy, the Order of Illumination, and other Commerce Lords. Sam found names for most of them, including Lamar Steele, the representative of the Order of Illumination and the wizard who encouraged the whole idea of a party on the anniversary.

     In reference to the deaths whose anniversaries the gala was intended, the deaths of the two previous Barons Braker were covered as fully investigated accidents. The timing of Samuel’s death was noted, but only as an ironic point of interest.

     As an organ of the Empire since the invasion, the Times had to operate under the eye of the censors. Even so, Sam found stories of acts of sabotage and robberies of the Albany-Wichita Railroad. If some few stories had made it through, then there were probably twice as many that didn’t get reported. The stories that were printed were slanted into diatribes against the Resistance and sedition in general.

     The society pages had the stories regarding the Baronesses, both the mother Mildred and wife Amelia. The tones of the stories early on after the invasion regarding Mildred Braker were surprisingly frosty. Nothing out and out insulting, simply less than glowing descriptions or short shrift as if she were an afterthought. Over the course of many charity events and memberships in all the right organizations, she seemed to have redeemed herself of whatever stain her reputation had suffered.

     Amelia Braker (nee Emerson) appeared to have been embraced since her debut ten years previously. By the time of her marriage to Jonathon, whatever social stigma was on the family was entirely in the past.

     The search through the archive took Sam the best part of the day. He decided that an early dinner would be called for. So it was back to Molly’s for a bite. After the meal, Molly handed over the check. Sam pocketed it and paid with a good tip.

     Back in his office, Sam took a look at the back side of the check. McTaggart’s Pub, 10PM. Sam burned the check with a bare thought of magic.

The Curse of Alexander Braker, Chapter 1

2006-05-09T15:24:00.000-07:00

     There was little chance that Sam was going to forget about the meeting. Calliope was not going to let him, for one. She had been cleaning up the office while Sam was out on other jobs. He could not recall the office ever being tidy. Now it was cleaner than he had ever seen it.

     It was also not that having an appointment was that unusual. Work had been fairly decent, certainly enough to keep the landlord off his back and Calliope paid.

     No, the reason this meeting was special was that this was a meeting with a member of the gentry. Sam was a staunch Resistance man. Still, he had to keep a professional cover. So if a baroness wanted to meet with him, the least he had to do was hear her out. If this case worked out, then there might be more work with the better paying upper crust.

     That was why Sam found himself seated across his desk from one Baroness Amelia Braker. She was a young woman of about thirty years. She had brown hair tending toward red, and wore it in a fashionable cut just below her jaw line. Her dress was conservative, a matching skirt and jacket set of the lightest blue.

     On the lapel of the jacket was an Order of Commerse pin. That particular order was comprised of the business men who controlled most of the economy of the conquering Empire. The more equity that a person controlled, the higher his title within the Order. Baroness Amelia Braker was the wife of Baron Jonathon Braker, chief executive of the Albany-Wichita Railroad.

     Calliope had just made an offer of tea or coffee to Sam’s guest who politely declined.

     “I would much rather if we could just get to the matter at hand, Mr. Watson.”

     “Of course…,” Sam hesitated as he struggled to recall the appropriate honorific, “Your Excellency.” It was tempting to allow his voice to show the faint distaste he felt. He corralled the impulse as not good for either his cover or professional opportunities.

     “Please, Mr. Watson, Mrs. Braker is sufficient for now.”

     “Thank you, Mrs. Braker. Now, how may I be of assistance?”

     “I have been given to understand that you have experience in matters beyond normal.”

     Beyond normal. That was a first, even for Sam.

     “I presume,” said Sam, “that you mean the supernatural?”

     “Yes,”

     Sam paused to consider. He didn’t question that reputation. He’d had jobs dealing with ghosts and tangled with vampires. They tended to be interesting in manners less conducive to his health. Hopefully that didn’t mean that she knew he was a mage in his own right.

     “If you could give me some details, then I can give you what advice I can.”

     “I may be in need of more than just advice, Mr. Watson. I wish to hire you to provide some protection for a party this coming week.”

     “Protection from what?”

     “Pardon me, but I must explain regarding what I fear will happen. My husband’s father and brother had both died under strange circumstances. Jonathon, the Baron Braker, his father, Alexander, fell down a flight of stairs and broke his neck. His brother, Samuel, died after falling between rail cars on one of the company’s trains.”

     “Was there anything to imply that the two incidents were connected or anything more than accidents?”

     “First of all, Samuel died five years to the day after Alexander. I have difficulty believing that it was a coincidence.”

     “Then what makes you think it was not normal foul play?”

     “I am not entirely certain. There were guards at both scenes that saw them acting strangely, as if there was something behind them. Either all of the guards were involved in a conspiracy, or something frightened the two barons into accidents. The men in question are above reproach, or so say the Sheriff’s investigations into the deaths. The second option, however bizarre, strikes the family as the only one possible.”

     “I get the impression that you are not entirely sold on the idea of a curse.”

     “I am not,” said the Baroness. “There are some details that I, having married into the family, to which I am not privy. I have heard rumors among the staff that there was a message sent to Alexander that announced the curse. The stories range from a simple letter to the head of a dog being left in his bedroom. Despite my efforts, my husband refuses to discuss the matter.”

     “What of the elder Baroness? Has she told you anything of the matter?”

     “Humph. So far as Mildred is concerned, I am a nice little porcelain ornament for her son’s arm. She would prefer that I not have a brain in my head, and so she treats me as such. That has left me little choice but to make arrangements on my own.”

     “Has Mrs. Braker made arrangements?”

     “Yes, in fact the entire idea of the ball was the idea of one of the members of the Board of Directors. His name is Lamar Steele and he shall be representing the Order of Illumination.”

     “Steele is a mage?”

     “Yes.”

     Sam had to consider the point. Steele would surely establish some means of magical protection for the estate. Sam had little doubt about his ability to conceal his power from casual inspection. The defenses should be little problem in that regard. What would be more difficult would be to work whatever spells he might need without drawing attention.

     “I believe that I can help you, Baroness. My rate is fifty marks a day and I will need a couple of days before the event to do some research.” The rate was twice what same usually charged, but he reasoned that the rich were different.

     He was proven right when the Baroness didn’t even blink at the price. With a handshake, they sealed the deal and Amelia Braker took her leave.

     “Calliope, how do you feel about heading for a little soiree?”

     “Sorry, Sam, not my scene. Besides, I already have a date.”

     “Hmm. Can you tell me where Rachel is working tonight?”

     “Sure, she’s at McCallum’s Joint tonight, and she just got a little black dress that she has been wanting to wear out.”

     Sam nodded as he picked up his hat.

     “Thanks. In the meantime, I need to get to the Times. I need to dig up what I can on this family before the party begins.”

Walking Death, Chapter 15

2006-04-25T16:20:00.000-07:00

The New York Liberty Press
“A Free Press is the Guardian of the People”

Resistance Strikes Back

By Dryw
A Resistance raid conducted on a top secret Imperial research laboratory in Long Island resulted in the disruption of the delivery of a heinous new chemical weapon intended for the Detroit Siege.

We have learned that the raided laboratory was developing a scientific/magical gas referred to as Ambulamort. The planned effect of this gas was to turn normal people into undead, ghoul-like creatures that would become cannibalistic and turn on one-time allies. The research facility was using the captured Resistance fighters as experimental test subjects.

Not only did the Resistance rescue several of its own, it managed to capture a sample of the vaccine the Empire developed for its own troops. The sample has been sent to Denver for mass production.

Sources in the Imperial Army are claiming that renegade scientist Frieda Kellner was one of the Resistance members who broke into the Long Island research center and it is believed that she escorted the sample to its destination.

Black Falcons Grounded

By Dryw
Last week the famed Black Falcon Squadron arrived in New York City for some leave time while their planes were being modified. Certainly we can all remember the aerobatics conducted upon their arrival.

What few people realize is that their planes were to be modified to spray the dreaded alchemical mix known as Ambulamort upon the brave defenders of Detroit.

Thanks to the members of the NYC Resistance, this evil plan has been thwarted. Members managed to plant a number of gremlins into virtually all of the planes of the Black Falcon Squadron. Five of the twelve pilots of the squadron died when their planes fell to pieces in mid-air. Of the seven remaining, the gremlins caused the Ambulamort to spray into the cockpits of five of the remaining planes instead of the targeted areas. Those pilots were reportedly taken into quarantine, although some witnesses claim that the planes turned randomly on any available target.

Famed ace Sir Dieter Baldric escaped the fate of the others when he successfully landed his disintegrating plane. His replacement plane had not been modified to release the Ambulamort.

Frieda set down the newssheet.

“I think I am going to be quite infamous after all of this attention. What I don’t understand is why the reference to my going to Denver. Does this Dryw not know that I am remaining in New York?”

She was seated in one of the two chairs that Sam kept for clients in his small office. The other chair was being used by Rachel, with Sam behind the desk. He was pouring out bourbon into three tumblers.

“I can’t say for Dryw whether he knows or not,” said Sam, “but you have to remember that the Imperials read that too. Nobody’s life is on the line on the difference of you being here rather than in Denver.”

Sam handed out the liquor.

“Besides,” said Rachel, “it will be a big help having you around. You know, for your expertise. Spanner’s good, but he’s more the engineering side of things.”

Frieda nodded at the compliment.

“I do appreciate your assistance in helping me get settled. This city is quite different from Berlin.”

“Well then, Doctor,” said Sam, raising his glass, “welcome to New York.”

Walking Death, Chapter 14

2006-04-22T15:45:00.000-07:00

There was a brief moment of confusion at the front door of the facility involving Rachel’s Demonic Legion uniform and a jumpy Resistance gunman. Liberty called a cease fire before anything unfortunate happened.

“Alright, men,” said Liberty, “incursion order, just like we practiced.”

“About that,” said Rachel. “You don’t want to go in there.”

“Why?”

“Dr. Kellner released the Ambulamort.”

“What? Is she insane?”

“She said to trust her. One of the scientists was hiding behind the tanks, and he was threatening to release it and kill all of Long Island. Kellner just up and beat him to the punch.”

“Of course,” said another man Rachel recognized as Spanner, the Liberty’s expert on super-science. “I recall from the debriefing that Ambulamort was designed with a short period of activity. There is no chance that a widespread contagion will break out. The gas should not spread out much past the local area.”

“How far out is local?” asked Liberty.

Spanner’s eyes seemed to look up to the heaven’s as he contemplated the answer.

“Three blocks, but it will depend on how well constructed this facility is. I can’t see that the Imperials would risk exposure through an accidental leak.”

“This was hardly an accident, Spanner. I’m going to call the assault team back and let the Imperials deal with any repercussions. We may have just pulled disaster out of the jaws of victory.”

“I think,” said Rachel, “that you can take this up with Dr. Kellner herself.”

Liberty and Spanner looked back at where Rachel was looking. Frieda was running out the door.

“Take cover!” she yelled.

At that moment, none of the Resistance members were going to question her call. Frieda almost made it to the truck parked just inside the main gate when fire blossomed out of the high windows of the old warehouse. The front door flew off its hinges on a wave of flame. Amid the orange and red were wisps of green. The gas carried outward, trailing flames that burned along the wisps like fuses. By the time the flames died, all of the Ambulamort had burned.

“Sir,” said Frieda, pulling herself off the ground, “the Ambulamort has been neutralized. And I have a sample of the inoculant.”

“Then this area is secure,” said Liberty. “Everyone exposed to the gas, get in the back of the truck while you are still toxic. The rest, pile in the best you can or take a car. We are leaving now.”

------------------------------------------------------------------------------------

The inside of the facility was pure devastation. Save for a few support beams, there was not an upright element left standing. Small fires burned what combustible material remained after the explosion, while a gas main fountained flame.

At the foot of the broken gas main laid a pile of ruptured gas canisters. Jagged teeth of shrapnel and a portion of the roof added to the pile.

From under this pile of detritus came a slight movement. More than the leavings of the explosion settling in upon themselves, there was a stirring. Part of the pile sloughed to the side and revealed a charred-black hand.

The hand curled in on itself and grasped a beam fallen from the ceiling. The beam moved with surprising ease, allowing a hideously burned form to rise from the ashes.

Pain filled the mind of Dr. Felson as he rose unsteadily to his feet. Scarcely a few square inches of skin remained unburned, and a piece of metal, he estimated its size to be roughly that of his hand, was embedded in his abdomen. Either the burns or the shrapnel should have been fatal.

The Ambulamort, he realized. The antidote was only intended to treat skin contact exposure. The shard must have carried a massive dose directly into my blood stream. If I remove the shard, I fear that the antidote will scour the Ambulamort from my body, leaving me to die once and for all. That woman has condemned me to this unlife.

Kellner, I remember her now. She was the defector that had the Institute in such an uproar. She is responsible for all of this, ruination of my body and work, denying me my glory. She shall feel my vengeance; all of them shall feel my vengeance.

With a scream of pain and rage, the re-born Dr. Felson stumbled toward a hole in the wall left by the explosion that ended his old life.

Walking Death, Chapter 13

2006-04-05T16:46:00.000-07:00

     Frieda searched through the pockets of the unconscious scientists. On each of them she found a small bottle of pills and a phial of liquid. She turned to one of the newly released men of the resistance.

     “You,” she said, as she removed the cap from the bottle and swallowed a pill.

     “Call me Cross,” he said.

     “Right, take one of these pills, and pass the rest around to the other men.”

     “What are they?”

     “Prophylactic counteragent for the Ambulamort.”

     “Pardon me?”

     “She means,” said Rachel, returning with a rifle under each arm and a pair of gun belts resting on her hips, “that those pills will keep you safe from the gas. So do what the doctor says and pass them around.”

     “That is correct.” Frieda pocketed the second bottle of pills. Those pills would be the seeds for Resistance labs to mass-produce the antidote.

     The freed Resistance men took up the weapons.

     “There are offices to the far side of the laboratory,” said Cross. “I’ll take some men and clear them out.”

     “The cavalry is on its way,” said Rachel, “so don’t take too many risks.”

     Cross turned back to the succubus with an answer on his lips when a bloom of fire flashed behind him. He fell with an astonished look.

     The women and men took cover behind the wall of the test pen. Another ray gun blast sizzled the corner over Cross’s fallen form.

     A man’s voice called out from beyond the pen.

     “That was your warning. I have enough Ambulamort to destroy all of Long Island. You have the choice, and that same ultimatum applies to whoever is coming for you.”

     Frieda knew that voice. It was Dr. Felson, the scientist who created the Ambulamort. It was in his files that she learned of that abomination of science.

     She moved herself down to the corner of the pen. With the aid of one of the men, she thought that his name was Philly, she pulled Cross back under cover. He was alive, but barely.

     The voice continued.

     “I want to see your weapons out in the open or else I release the contents of every last canister in this facility.”

     Frieda risked a glance around the corner. She saw Felson behind a hand truck laden with pressurized tanks. Stenciled warnings of Danger and Poison stood out against the green tanks.

     Looking back to the Resistance members with her, she asked, “You have taken the antidote?”

     The others nodded.

     “Good.”

     Before any of the others could say anything, she spun around the corner and fired her ray gun. The blast struck her target cleanly: directly below the pressure valve of the center tank. The ruptured tank took out its neighbors, and a noxious green cloud spread though the room.

     “Are you insane?” cried Rachel.

     “I know what I am doing. You and you,” indicating Rachel and Philly, “get outside and make sure the assault team stays clear. I will take care of Dr. Felson.”

     Rachel waited for Philly and another Resistance man to heft the unconscious Cross and then lead them to the front.

     Frieda cleared the corner and approached the position Dr. Felson had taken cover behind. She knew from the files that the Ambulamort couldn’t possibly spread as far as Felson had threatened. The gas was too heavy and became inert too quickly. The gas should not spread much farther than the confines of the warehouse laboratory. One tank had completely lost its top in jagged teeth. The neighbor canisters had ruptured in the explosion. She approached the newly emptied hand cart; both hands on her gun. Green mist swirled heavily on the ground. Through it she could just make out the prone form of Dr. Felson.

     He was laid flat out; his hand stretched out to his errant ray gun yet did not move. She knelt down to check for a pulse, but the deep crimson stain just below his ribs put paid to her worries.

     She looked about for the utility lines. The files had also showed that Ambulamort was combustible at high concentrations. Add in a little natural gas, such as carried in the line she identified, and the dire weapon would be neutralized. Frieda took up Felson’s ray gun, bypassed the capacitor safeties, and wedged it behind the natural gas lines as a detonator. Then she ran.

Historical Revision

2006-03-07T18:00:00.000-08:00

Let's do the Time Warp again. Taking some advice from some more learned sages, I have gone back and shall introduce some concrete villains. Get ready to boo and his when you read:

Two Fisted Tales of Magic: Walking Death, Chapter 2.5

Walking Death, Chapter 12

2006-02-22T17:24:00.000-08:00

     They passed similar checkpoints leaving Brooklyn and Queens. The levels of vigilance may have been different, but the results were the same. Passable papers, an immaculate uniform, and a haughty demeanor were all of the identification needed to get the women to the outer baronies of Long Island. Security became lighter the further out from the city they went. That the Empire had put their facility, Research Division 9 according to Resistance intelligence, out in the sticks put strategy on unobtrusiveness rather than brute force. The women's plan was counting on it.

     The car rounded the last corner and the target came into sight. There was no sign of the larger Resistance team, but their job was to stay hidden until they were called. Until then, it was all on Rachel and Frieda.

     "Let me do the talking," said Rachel.

     "You have nothing to worry about there," said Frieda. "I suppose we can not do this as we did at the airfield?"

     "Afraid not. Last I heard, they are working twenty-four hours to keep up a supply of the Ambulamort going to the front."

     Frieda sighed. She didn't like being in front of people when she was being honest, and this masquerade was far outside of her experience. No, Rachel had no need to worry on the speaking score.

     "The key to something like this is to keep them off balance," said Rachel. "Don't give them a chance to think about what you are saying."

“I am simply hoping that I can keep up with you on that respect.”

“Just look official and act as if you expected everything that happens.”

“That would be easier if I actually knew what you have in mind.”

“If it makes you feel better, I usually don’t have much of a plan to begin with. Sure, I may have the basics, who I am et cetera. From then on, I prefer not to have a plan, that would just be another thing to worry about.”

Oddly, that did not make Frieda feel any better.

The facility was a converted factory, seemingly unmodified from the exterior. The only sign of current occupation was the eight-foot tall, barbed wire topped fence and a small guard shack by the sole gate. A guard stepped in front of the gate and held up a hand for the car to stop.

“Return to the street, this is a restricted facility,” said the guard as he approached the driver’s window.

“I am well aware of what this place is, Corporal,” said Rachel, her voice icy with affronted superiority. “I am Major Magda Devora of the Imperial Demonic Division. I have orders from Colonel Meinard to escort Dr. Helga Messner on an inspection of all Ambulamort production facilities in the County. These are our papers.”

Rachel was quite proud of the papers she had managed to acquire. The mere mention of the commander of the Imperial-aligned demons in the County was enough to conjure the guard’s attention. What she regretted was the debt that she accrued with the eldest of her sisters in the city in order to get the forgery made. At least Melisande was an independent operator. The end result would be a payment made to Melisande’s whim rather than some unknown superior.

“I was not informed of an inspection, ma’am.”

Rachel gave an exasperated sigh and locked eyes with the young man.

“Then since your readiness appears to be lacking, I would suggest that you make up for it with compliance. Perhaps then your name will not go down as one of the problems.”

The corporal swallowed visibly. He looked back to his compatriot for support. He found none, his friend having gotten an eyeful of the wrathful angel in the driver’s seat.

“Very well, ma’am, please pull on through.”

“Thank you, Corporal.”

Frieda let out the breath she hadn’t realized she had been holding. It struck her that the guards seemed to count themselves the lucky ones in the exchange.

The car headed toward a small parking lot near large truck doors. Another guard manned the single pedestrian door. As the car pulled into a space, a squat figure in a fitted lab coat exited and approached the car. Rachel caught the dwarf composing himself as he walked around to her door. By then, he was smiling and extending a hand.

“Major, however surprising, it is a pleasure to meet you. I am Dr. Konrad Tabbert. May I ask what brings you to our laboratory?”

Rachel used the fact that the dwarf only came up to her shoulder to look down her nose at him.

“Colonel Meinard has been made aware of the imminent deployment of this new compound…” she looked to Frieda as if for a memory cue.

“Ambulamort, Major,” prompted Frieda while cursing Rachel for breaking the promise to do the talking.

“Thank you, Doctor. Ambulamort, yes,” said Rachel with a tone that said that she wouldn’t bother to remember the name thereafter.

Rachel continued.

“Yes, Colonel Meinard, in his capacity as advisor to the Court on all matters demonic, has expressed some great concern regarding the deployment of this new weapon. This is Dr. Helga Messner, exobiologist from the Dresden Institute. She is here to ascertain what impact the weapon will have on supernatural subjects.”

“I would be more than happy to discuss these matters, but we are quite busy at this time. Perhaps if we can arrange an inspection for a later time?”

“No.”

“No?”

“There are some questions regarding the very nature of this weapon that have not been answered to my superior’s satisfaction, questions that need to addressed before some overlooked circumstance brings the entire project crashing down about our ears.”

The dwarf looked perplexed.

“Why don’t we go inside and discuss this?” asked Dr. Tabbert. “Please, follow me.”

The Imperial scientist turned to lead the women into the facility. Frieda looked up at Rachel in time to catch the wink from the temptress. It was a mere flicker in the persona, from Imperial officer to party girl and back again. Frieda was almost dizzy trying to keep up with the changes.

The guard at the door snapped to attention as the party entered the converted factory. Once inside, they found themselves in an immaculate white hallway. Doors broke the lines of the walls, plaques reading various functions with the first bearing the legend: Security. Another guard came to attention as they passed. Frieda watched the young man blush furiously when Rachel made eye contact with him and touched the sleeve of his uniform.

The hall turned after twenty yards into a cavernous space, clearly the main floor of the old factory. The space was empty save for a walled-in area roughly in the center. A man, balding and well into middle age, was visible by the interior structure speaking with a younger man. The young man hurried away; apparently to complete whatever task he had been given. Another could be seen writing notes on a clipboard and taking glances through a small window in a door. A third was using a handcart to wheel a gas canister up to one of the doors along a side wall.

Dr. Tabbert waved the older gentleman over, and started the introductions as the newcomer closed the distance.

“Major Devora, Dr. Messner, may I introduce Dr. Wilbur Hobbard, head of Imperial Research Division 9. Dr. Hobbard, Major Magda Devora of the Imperial Demonic Division and Dr. Helga Messner of the Dresden Institute.”

“Pleased to meet you,” said Dr. Hobbard, his tone and expression conveying just the opposite.

“These ladies have some questions pertaining to the research, sir.”

“It is rather late in the process for any new questions to be coming up.”

“I disagree, Doctor,” said Rachel, pulling herself up to the full height her heeled boots allowed. She only came to the man’s chin, yet she still dominated the space. “My superiors feel that their concerns have been given short shrift throughout this entire process.”

“By ‘your superiors’ I presume you mean Colonel Meinrad.” Color had flushed Dr. Hobbard’s face.

“Among others, yes.”

“If you wouldn’t mind having this discussion on the move, I have to supervise the tests for the latest batch.”

“Certainly, Doctor.”

Dr. Hobbard turned and walked back to his previous position without looking back to see if the visitors were following. He rounded a corner to the far side of the interior building. On closer approach, Frieda could peer through the small windows on the doors she passed. Each door led into a small cell with another door on the far side. Ragged men occupied some of the cells. One of the men began pounding on his door as the group passed by.

“Where do these men come from, Doctor?” asked Frieda.

“We get our test subjects primarily from Anti-Resistance Force sweeps.”

“Resistance fighters,” said Rachel. “There’s a certain symmetry to it.”

The group stopped in front of a large window looking into the open center space ringed by the cells. Stains on the floors and walls indicated a history that turned Frieda’s stomach.

“More on point,” continued Rachel, “is what type of testing is being done with respect to supernatural entities. Colonel Meinrad is particularly interested with its effects on enemy summoned demons, although others have spoken about Native American lycanthrope warriors.”

“As your superiors should know, I nor any of my colleagues have been provided such subjects to experiment upon. In the meantime, this Research Division shall continue to carry out its duties with the human subjects that we have been provided with.”

During that portion of the conversation, Rachel maneuvered so that she was next to Dr. Hobbard, Frieda next to her, leaving Dr. Tabbert to the far end of the line.

“Could you please describe your testing procedure, Doctor?” asked Frieda, fighting hard to maintain an air of clinical detachment.

“Certainly. Each test employs two subjects. One is exposed to the Ambulamort, the second is kept as control. Once the effect is complete, both subjects are released into the common area on the other side of the glass. From there we are able to assess the aggressive potential of the effected subject.”

“In fact,” offered Dr. Tabbert, “you are in time to observe the testing of the newest lot.”

“Really?” asked Frieda, slipping her hand into her purse. She looked up and caught Rachel’s eye in the reflection off the glass. Rachel gave a barely perceptible nod that Frieda returned.

“Dr. Tabbert?” Frieda asked turning toward the dwarf and drawing her hand out of the purse.

“Yes?” he asked, turning into the atomizer of knockout solution that Frieda had just removed from her purse. The spray caught him full in the face. He barely had time to show surprise before he slumped to the ground.

Dr. Hobbard saw the motion out of the corner of his eye. When he turned to see his assistant collapsed on the floor, Rachel stepped in front of him and grasped his face. She pulled him down until her lips met his. Dr. Hobbard’s eyes opened wide in shock, and then he relaxed deeper and deeper until he slid boneless to the floor.

“I think I prefer my method,” said Rachel, wiping an unseen mote from the corner of her mouth.

“Succubus,” said Frieda, “I should have known.”

“Well, yeah. But I’m still one of the good guys.”

Rachel removed a ring of keys from Dr. Hobbard’s coat pocket.

“Here,” said Rachel giving the keys to Frieda, “get the men out of the cells and round up the lab assistants. I’ll take care of the security office and call in the cavalry.

Frieda nodded, took the keys, replaced the atomizer and drew her ray gun.

Rachel ran back toward the hallway. She waited until Frieda opened the first cells before she rounded the corner and affected an inability to run in her heeled boots. The young guard outside of the security office saw her coming and, reacting to her obvious distress, rushed to aid her.

“The prisoners are escaping! The doctors need your help!” she said, stumbling into his arms.

“Umm, get, get to the security office,” he stammered, “I’ll go help the doctors.

Rachel looked up into his eyes, her hands full of his uniform lapels.

“Be careful,” she said, her voice suddenly soft and frightened. She pulled gently on the lapels, and the young man took the cue, bent down and kissed her. Rachel enjoyed the kiss for the three seconds it took for the young man to pass out.

She straightened her uniform jacket and strode into the security office. There was a pair of guards playing cards. They snapped to attention and saluted.

“Stay where you are,” said Rachel, “there has been a release of the Ambulamort, and the laboratory has been contaminated.”

The two guards shared a panicked glance. In that pause, Rachel walked over to the phone and dialed the number that would connect her to the waiting Resistance force.

“This is Major Magda Devora, Imperial Demonic Division. There has been an incident at Research Division 9. We need a containment team here immediately. Code: Lamb, I say again, Code: Lamb.”

“Confirm Code: Lamb,” said the recognizable voice of Liberty. “We are on our way.”

“My God,” said the one on Rachel’s right, “we have to get out of here.”

“No,” snapped Rachel in her best tone of command, “stay in here and seal the door the best you can. I will also need your weapons.”

“Our weapons? You’re not going back in there? What about the Ambulamort?”

Rachel pointed to the red trim on her uniform.

“Demonic Division. The gas won’t affect me. Someone has to keep the victims under control until the containment team gets here. In the meantime, seal up this room and do not open it for any reason or for anyone other than me, am I clear?”

“Yes, ma’am.”

Rachel walked back to the main laboratory. There she found four men standing behind Frieda who was covering three white-coated men who were on their knees with their hands behind their heads.

“All clear?” asked Frieda.

“Yes, the Resistance is on the way.” Rachel handed what guns she had to the released prisoners. “I’m Lamb, this is Knocker, and we’re here to get you out of here.”

Walking Death, Chapter 11

2006-01-30T19:25:00.000-08:00

The debriefing took place in another storeroom in a different business, but the impression of the location was the same. Completely anonymous. Rachel and Liberty listened as Frieda gave a no nonsense account of her part of the mission.

“You are certain of the address?” he asked.

“My memory is very precise. I often found myself where I could not take the information with me, and I prefer not to rely on cameras whenever possible. A simple address is hardly a challenge.”

“Was there any technical data on the Ambulamort itself?”

“No, that information is not important in respect to the deployment of the weapon, so it was not provided to the squadron.”

“We know that the Imperials have a facility at that location, but none of our agents have been able to find any word as to what goes on there.”

“Are you considering an assault on the facility?”

“I had, briefly, but there is an army garrison less than half a mile away. The perimeter defenses will have to be circumvented and their communications cut off so that they can’t call for help.”

Rachel chimed in.

“Sounds like you need someone to go in all sneaky-like.”

“That’s right. I want you to bluff your way in, Rachel. I believe you already have a costume and identification?”

“Oh, I’m sure I can throw something together. I even know which face I’m going to put on.”

“Excellent. Dr. Kellner, I need you to back her up. We don’t know how much more of the stuff they have, or even what other surprises they may have stored there. Your job is to secure a sample of the Ambulamort for analysis, find any records of antidotes, and take samples of any other projects.”

“Understood.”

By the next night, Rachel had provided Dr. Kellner with a very smart looking skirt and jacket set, perfectly appropriate for a serious minded scientist. She also produced an impressive forgery of a Bureau of Advanced Sciences identification card in the name of Helga Messner.

For her part, Rachel had donned an Imperial uniform: black with red trim and major epaulets. Frieda recognized the meaning of the red in the uniform. It meant membership in the Imperial Demonic Forces. Frieda had met members of those ranks in the past. There was no doubt that Rachel was going to be the center of attention, even if she evoked dread in her admirers. The basic details of Rachel’s face were the same, but now they composed themselves into a beautifully austere visage. Gone was the little girl Frieda first met, replaced with a mien worthy of Athena.

Frieda saw to transportation. One of the neighbors, a few blocks removed, unknowingly provided an official looking vehicle for the night. The work of the night should be just that, with the car returned before it was missed.

The first test of their disguises came at the checkpoint on the Brooklyn Bridge. The Empire kept a tight rein on travel, particularly between the baronies of the troubled County of New York. The bridge was typically crowded at the checkpoint where soldiers scrutinized travel authorizations. The early evening traffic only made the wait longer.

Frieda had to school her tension as the line crept slowly along the bridge. The wait stretched her nerves. She was certain that the tension showed on her face, marking her with anxiety that would rouse the soldier’s suspicions.

Rachel on the other hand, seemed as calm and collected as if she were out for a leisurely drive in the country. She chatted away on various topics ranging from the men at Club Hades to the latest fashions to her complaints about some gangsters who seem to think that they own whatever crosses their eye line.

Rachel was in the driver’s seat for the trip, playing the part of the military escort for a newly arrived scientist. Frieda had reservations about the arrangement up until they approached the checkpoint. Rachel’s chatter scarcely paused as the car pulled into earshot of the roadblock. Her face went from animated into annoyed iciness.

“Papers,” demanded the sergeant as the car pulled up.

Rachel looked out the window and cleared her throat. Even that she did with a quiet authority that caught up the sergeant’s eyes.

The man snapped to attention.

“I’m sorry, Ma’am. May I please have your papers?”

“Of course,” said Rachel as she handed over the forged documents. Frieda did her best not to look like she was holding her breath.

The sergeant scarcely looked away from Rachel’s gaze. The examination he gave the papers was cursory at best, and he handed them back as if he were ashamed to have had them in the first place.

“Everything is in order, please drive through.”

“Thank you, Sergeant.”

“Ma’am,” he said with a salute.

She returned the salute and pulled out onto the remainder of the bridge. Once the checkpoint was safely in the rearview mirror, Rachel turned toward Frieda.

“I really enjoy scamming soldiers. They’re so darn predictable. Could you light me a cigarette, please?”

Walking Death, Chapter 10

2006-01-19T20:13:00.000-08:00

Frieda worked her way across the tarmac of Bennett Field. She changed a look back to toward the gatehouse nearest her entry point. She saw Rachel vamping to beat the band. This part of an infiltration was all about timing and not being where eyes were looking. Rachel owned the eyes of not only the guardhouse but of the patrolling pair that had just passed by. Captivation like that from a story of a broken down car just wasn’t natural. Frieda once again affirmed her desire to get that girl under mystic examination.

Liberty had provided travel passes for Rachel and Frieda to get past the Imperial checkpoints coming off Manhattan and into Brooklyn. The bored soldiers at the checkpoint barely looked at the Frieda while chatting up Rachel.

The dark gray sweater and pants she wore made her unremarkable. The canisters of gremlins were wrapped in cloth and packed in her shoulder bag.

The closer the time came to the mission, the more she regretted the tools chosen. Gremlins were the opposite of tools, they existed not only to break things, but also to make things go wrong. Worse, they had no loyalty. If one of the embodiments of bad luck got it into its head to be contrary, then she might find a jammed door or a breaking pane of glass alerting a guard. She would almost prefer to be carrying raw excelsiol. Almost.

She took cover in the shadows underneath a fuel truck. Hangar Twenty stood perhaps fifty yards away. Fifty yards of clear, lighted ground. There was no sign of a patrol, but their timing was erratic. She could have five minutes, she could have thirty seconds.

She broke cover before she could talk herself out of it. Long strides covered the ground as her hand gripped her set of lock picks. Eight seconds and she was kneeling by the doorway. The picks felt the workings of the lock. Tumblers fell, as did boot treads around the corner. Only discipline kept her heart in her chest as her fingers worked with new urgency. Steps came faster than the clicks inside. There were two strides approaching, a foot patrol. Frieda knew her life might be down to heartbeats.

The last tumbler slid out of the way and the knob turned. Frieda slipped inside just before the patrolling guards made it to the corner. She closed the door and eased the latch shut. She turned the lock an instant before the knob rattled. The guards never stopped their conversation about the latest football game.

Regaining control of her heart took a couple of moments. Looking about, she took stock of the hangar office. The desk was clean, but the floor safe looked promising.

First things first. She went into the hangar proper and opened the engine cowling of the first plane she came upon. Carefully, she directed the nozzle toward the distributor cap. An angry hiss escaped from the canister. Her curiosity ached to use her aetheric spectacles to see the gremlins infect the engine. More likely the gremlin would turn to feed on the magical energies of the device.

Infecting the rest of the planes took less than five minutes of careful work. A nagging doubt hung at the back of her mind about the malicious creatures she had just set loose. Her next step would be the test of that. The safe was more than they had planned, but she calculated that there must be plans on hand for the transfer of the Ambulamort. Any plan would have to have the origin of the compound.

In for a pfennig, in for a mark, she thought. She removed a stethoscope from her kit and set to work on the safe. The simple safe reminded her of her early years as a burglar. She smiled as the poorly lubricated gears clicked and springs slid. The safe was the work of only a few moments.

Inside was the treasure trove she had hoped for. The Ambulamort was arriving the next afternoon from a laboratory in Long Island. She memorized the address and returned the forms back into the safe, making certain that the dial was turned back to where she found it. After returning from this mission, she knew what her next stop would be.

Walking Death, Chapter 9

2006-01-12T14:42:00.000-08:00

     Rachel listened to the tale of the Ambulamort for the second time as Frieda recounted the tale to Liberty. Once the recounting of events was complete, the leader of the New York City Resistance leaned back into his chair.

     “This combines too nicely with some other matters that have come to my attention,” he said. “Word is that the planes of the Iron Falcon squadron has been refitted to disperse chemicals.”

     “You mean that they’ve been turned into crop dusters?” asked Rachel.

     “It seems funny until you remember that it’s our people that are going to be sprayed down like pests,” returned Liberty. Rachel looked down abashed.

     Frieda looked past the girl and at the tight confines of the room. It was a storage space converted to a meeting room by the addition of a folding table and three chairs. Mr. Watson was not present. Liberty had sent him to investigate a new Order of Illumination mage that had just arrived in the city. That left Frieda and Rachel to take the meeting with the leader of the Resistance.

     “We do have a plan for dealing with the air squadron, however,” said Liberty, picking up a crate and setting it on the table.

     Rachel reached in and pulled out a canister the size of a hand grenade. The body was smooth and was topped with an assemblage of flanges and valves covered over in obscure runes.

     Frieda noted seven more just like the first in the crate. She carefully picked the one from Rachel’s hand and scrutinized it.

     “Excelsiol steel for body, warding runes on the valves. They are clearly some sort of containment devices for non-corporeal creatures. I must say, however, that I have not seen a model with this degree of sealant before.”

     Liberty nodded in agreement with Dr. Kellner’s analysis.

     “That is because of the nature of the creatures. What we have here are eight gremlins, one for each of the planes of the Iron Falcon Squadron. Those containment devices had to be specially reinforced so that they can’t jinx their way out of them.”

     Frieda had to stifle an urge to throw the canister out of her hands. Gremlins were the bane of scientists who pursued the new arcane paths of science. The creatures fed off the enforced order of engineered structures, especially those devices that drew their energy from excelsiol. She had seen more than one experiment go horribly awry due to their contagion.

     “I take it that we’re going to do a take a little trip to the airfield?” asked Rachel.

     “Yes, go to the airfield, gain access to the hangar, place the gremlins, and get out,” said Liberty. “The squadron should be airborne by the time the first indications of the gremlins will appear. At the very least, it will force them back to the ground. At best, they come down hard.”

     Frieda looked over at Rachel.

     “Tonight?”

     “Tonight,” said Rachel. “I do love playing with flyboys.”

Walking Death, Chapter 8

2006-01-04T15:33:00.000-08:00

Frieda took the glass of amber liquid from Sam, took a contemplative sip, and gathered her thoughts.

“Ambulamort? Is that the new weapon you’ve come to tell us about?” asked Sam.
He mentally translated the name and didn’t care for the implication.

“Yes,” said Frieda. She tossed back the rest of the bourbon, as if to wash a bad taste out of her mouth.

“Was it something that you were working on?” asked Sam.

“No, thank God. It was another’s project.”

“So is the Empire aware that you know about it?”

“I do not believe so. I legitimately know enough of the workings of the Bureau of Advanced Sciences to do great harm to the security of many projects. You can rest assured that they are going to turn this city upside down looking for me, just on general principle.”

Rachel asked, “So what got you to New York is something that you know illegitimately? How did that happen?”

Dr. Kellner smiled over another shot of bourbon.

“The Imperial Bureau of Advanced Sciences is in theory a scientific organization, producing research and conducting experiments for the benefit of the Empire. In practice, rewards are granted for being the creator of the most useful devices for the battlefield. The result is a good deal of infighting and secrecy within the ranks. My forte was in maintaining collegial openness by other means.”

Rachel looked confused while Sam chortled. He’d had experience in such an environment. Yet another similarity between Weird Scientists and Mages, he thought.

“You mean that you looked at their notes without permission,” he said.

“Yes. While my official research was in the medical field, I have much more experience with security systems.”

“And in that way you maintained collegial openness in one direction at least.”

“Yes. My mentor and I were always careful not to allow others to suspect that we were privy to their secrets. We kept it to a matter of releasing our projects just before others or using others’ breakthroughs to accelerate our developments so that the stolen ideas would remain in the deep workings.”

Sam nodded. He was letting his left hand cut and re-cut an oversized deck of cards while his mind was absorbing the information he was hearing. Frieda occasionally caught glimpses of full-face illustrations. Rachel sat on the desk, leaning forward as if enthralled by the tale.

“I see where you’re headed,” said Rachel, “You were digging through someone’s files one night and you tripped over this Ambulamort stuff.”

“Correct,” said the doctor. “Dr. Reinwald suspected that Dr. Grelzer was going to publish a paper using some of Reinwald’s data without permission. Catch him at it before publication, and Grelzer would have no choice but to include Reinwald on co-authorship.”

“You’d break into someone’s lab just for that?” asked Rachel.

“Authorship is highly prized within an academic setting. Aside from completed inventions, it is the prime method of determining status within the Bureau.”

Frieda accepted another drink from Sam before continuing.

“Ambulamort evolved out of medical experiments to restore limbs lost to clean amputations. It was found to be compatible only with dead tissue; the living portion of the body always reacted as if poisoned. The first discovery found that whole organisms could be reanimated, so the plan became to use it to reanimate dead soldiers. Gather up the dead from both sides, reanimate them, and then their casualties become your soldiers. The first problem with that project was that the re-animated soldiers did not possess enough intelligence to command. The second was the prevalence of hyper-aggressive rogues that turned on anything around them.”

The doctor broke her lecture rhythm to take her drink in one shot.

“The plan was then to turn it into an offensive weapon. Increase the aggressive percentage. Package the Ambulamort with another battlefield gas and release it into and behind enemy lines. The army would then attack while the enemy is fighting its own casualties.”

Rachel shivered.

“Kill them and zombie them at the same time.”

“Precisely,” agreed the doctor.

“I suppose,” said Sam, “that leaves us the question of what to do about it.”

Walking Death, Chapter 7

2005-12-29T14:46:00.000-08:00

     Hack dropped Rachel and Frieda off in front of a place called Molly’s Diner. He was heading down the road before he could notice that the two women weren’t interested the blue plate special.

     Rachel gave a jaunty little wave to Molly as she led Frieda by the hand toward the building’s small lobby. The door wasn’t locked in case someone had to see Dr. Moss, whose office shared a reception room with Sam’s, for an emergency. The bulb on the stairwell was out, but Rachel’s eyes scarcely registered the gloom. Between the low-light vision and the beauty of their angelic cousins, all of the Lilliam had the full see-and-be-seen package.

     Enough light came down from the floor above for Frieda to see well enough by the time they reached the first landing. The light, she judged, was from a single lamp behind the frosted glass door labeled “Sam Watson, Private Investigator”.

Rachel stopped for a moment, appraising the door with an unfocused look in her eyes. Her scrutiny satisfied, she squared her shoulders, strode the three paces across the small reception area and knocked on the door. A shadow moved in the office.

“Who is it?” asked a masculine voice.

“Advance agent for Santa Clause, Mr. Watson,” said the dark-haired girl. “I’m here to discuss some irregularities of your behavior for proper listing.”

The door opened. The man inside wore shirtsleeves, suspenders, and an empty shoulder holster. He kept his right hand behind the door. The smile on his face died away as quickly as his eyes went from the girl to the woman behind her.

“Oh,” said Rachel, “introductions as soon as you let us in, Sam.”

He stepped aside with a nod into the room. The two women were barely in before he closed the door and locked it behind them. Sam re-holstered the handgun as Rachel took a seat on the desk.

Frieda chose to remain standing, taking a position along the wall opposite the door. The man, Mr. Sam Watson, Private Investigator she presumed, was of middling height and a fit build. His hair was light brown tending to red in the light of the hooded desk lamp. He didn’t seem particularly young, maybe late thirties, forty at most. He looked the tired of a man who had just completed some vigorous activity. If the girl was bringing her to this man, Frieda concluded that the activity would have been the fight at the warehouse.

Now that she finally had some decent light to make an assessment, Frieda looked at her guide. She had been assuming that her rescuer was young, and now her appraisal confirmed it. The black haired girl was more than a waif, probably sixteen or seventeen, with a pale-skinned, expressive, face.

The question was forming in Frieda’s mind when the girl answered it.

“My name’s Rachel.”

Sam had by then reclaimed his composure.

“May I offer you a drink, Doctor?”

“Are we safe here?”

“So long as you weren’t followed the Imperials would have no reason to look for you here.”

Frieda let out a breath that she hadn’t been aware of holding.

“Then thank you, I need a drink.”

“Set me up one too, Sam,” said Rachel.

Frieda quirked an eyebrow as Sam took a pair of glasses out of a desk drawer.

Rachel smiled and said, “I’m older than I look.” With another look, Frieda saw that despite nothing seeming to change about Rachel, she had to reassess her age into the mid-twenties. Frieda made a note to rebuild her magic sensing glasses as soon as possible.

“I need to make a call, pardon me, ladies,” said Sam, now sitting behind the desk and pulling the phone over to him. He took pains to keep the number he dialed covered up. Frieda was still able to tell by counting the clicks of the rotor.

“Quisitor. I’m checking in for Lamb as well. Yes, about that, Knocker is secure. Yes, Lamb brought her to my office.”

“Tell him I thought there would be road blocks between the pick up and the safe house,” offered Rachel.

“I agree,” said Sam, ignoring Rachel’s intrusion, “the damage has been done, she knows both of our names. Uh-huh, thought you’d say that. She’s right here.” With that, Sam held the phone out to Frieda. “Liberty for you.”

“Thank you. Hello?”

“Dr. Kellner, I am glad to hear you made it out safely.”

“Good to be out, but what about your men?”

“We did lose some, both killed and captured, but we are already working to find them. For now, it is enough that you are safe.”

“Thank you, but what now?”

“For now, I’m going to have you work in Mr. Watson’s cell with Rachel. I had other plans, but it is better that you stay with them for now.”

“How much can I tell them?”

“I would have brought Sam in regardless, so you may tell them everything about the project.”

“Understood.”

“I’ll remain in touch to get you set up with a new identity in the meantime.”

“Thank you, again.”

“Thank you for taking the risk, Doctor. Good bye.” The line then went dead.

Sam and Rachel were watching her through the conversation. Frieda replaced the phone onto the cradle.

“Liberty says that I am to trust the two of you with the information I have. That being the case, I need to tell you about Ambulamort.”

Walking Death, Chapter 6

2005-12-15T14:29:00.000-08:00

Leaping aside from the toppling truck, Frieda reset her grip on her ray gun. She took a quick stock of her situation. She knew that the side of the ambush with the burning truck was clear. What she didn’t know was how long it would take for the Imperials from the front to get to that side, or if that would be long enough to get through the corner and into cover for a stealthy escape. She had her ray gun, no self-respecting weird scientist traveled without one, but she knew that it would not be enough to hold off a company of Imperials.

“We need cover!” she yelled to the Resistance man ahead of her.

“There’s an alley across the street. We can make it if we give these guys the bum’s rush.”

“Go!” she said, following tight on the man’s hip.

The pair spun around the corner of the disguised panel truck. A pair of controlled bursts from his Thompson brought down the first two soldiers in the line. The third one was not completely surprised and let of a blind shot. The man was panicked, and lucky. Frieda’s escort let out a muffled groan and started to collapse.

The doughboy was marveling at his shot when Frieda’s first ray took him in the chest. Her next two went off as she loosened the focus on the emitter with her thumb. The widened beam wasn’t enough to kill any of the remaining three men, but it was enough to catch them all and knock them senseless.

Frieda knelt and rolled the Resistance man over onto his back. The hole, gasping and bloody in his chest, put paid to any idea of helping him escape. She had no false modesty. She knew that the man took the risk to get her safely away from the Empire. There would be no purpose in both being captured in her stopping to render aid.

Instead, she ran, head down, for the now visible alley mouth. She had momentum on her side as she crossed the dangerous open space where she would be visible to the third truck. A shout of “Halt!” and a pair of rifle reports sounded behind her. The darkness of the alley was welcome shelter, an old ally that she worked very well with.

She discovered quickly that she did not have the shadows to herself. A figure stepped out from the cover of a cluster of trashcans. Frieda’s heart almost gave out until the new shadow spoke.

“Knocker.”

Frieda needed a restarted heartbeat to remember the countersign.
“White Rabbit?”

“Call me Lamb,” her rescuer said with a released breath. “Follow me.”

On closer inspection, Lamb proved to be little more than a slip of a girl. At first, it gave Frieda pause that her fate had fallen into the hands of someone so young, let alone small. A second thought revealed that it could be ideal. If one ever had an image of a fighter, Lamb was not it. If this one had a method of escaping this situation, it would be a stealthy escape and one that had been thought out well before hand.

Whatever plans the girl had had to be put into motion quickly. By the time they rounded the first corner they came upon there were at least two Imperials in the alleyway. A few more twists and turns put them out onto the street on the far side of the block.

Lamb took Frieda’s arm.

“Just look like a fella out with his girl,” she whispered. Frieda had forgotten that she was wearing workman’s clothes and could reasonably expect to pass from a distance.

Sirens sounded in the distance, and as the pair crossed the street they saw police cars go roaring toward the warehouse. Once across the street, Lamb danced up the steps to a tenement call box. She pressed three buttons simultaneously, and the door buzzed open. They slipped through as a sleep addled voice demanded to know who was bothering him at that time of the night.

Their path took them up the stairs.

“We need to get some distance before we get a ride,” said Lamb. “I hope that you don’t mind heights.”

Their climb took them to the roof. Lamb pointed the direction, and Dr. Kellner saw the almost stair like arrangement of rooftops. Before the girl could say anything, Frieda took off at a run and leapt the gap to the next roof. She drew more than a little satisfaction at the girl’s surprised look.

Then Lamb made her jump. Frieda could have sworn that she heard the girl make a quiet “Whee” sound. The two then set off at an easy run across the rooftops, making the leaps across the alleys. Just before the end of the block, Lamb pointed out a fire escape and headed over there. At the bottom was a cab with its engine running.

“Heya, Hack,” said Lamb to the driver. To Frieda: “Don’t worry, he’s one of ours.”

“Is this the Doc?” asked Hack.

“Yep, let’s do the introductions on the road, shall we?”

“Right, safe house.”

“No,” said Lamb. “The pickup got busted, I don’t know if the safe house is safe anymore.”

“So where do we go?” asked Frieda.

Lamb was silent for a moment. Then she smiled.

“I know just the place.”

Walking Death, Chapter 5

2005-11-28T20:17:00.000-08:00

Sam’s second spell was to cast darkness about himself. It filled a sphere five yards out with impenetrable blackness. The darkness itself was simple, making it so that he could see through it was one complication, but allowing select others to see through it took the greatest finesse. That Jericho and Petra had already gunned down three soldiers testified to their sight through the dark.

The first spell had been a fireball into nearest truck before most of the men inside could get clear. The rest, lacking any cover from both the warehouse and the outside guns, fell quickly.

For the moment, Sam found himself without a target. He kept a wary eye off to his right, the direction from which forces from the front of the warehouse would do the most damage. Unless Liberty got his people out of the warehouse in a hurry Sam’s position would become untenable in an all-fired hurry.

The gout of white smoke that erupted from the rear doors answered that concern very quickly. The smoke was thick, and it further reduced Sam’s view more than the burning panel truck had.

Sam ran to Jericho’s position at the edge of the circle of darkness. From there he was able to see a half dozen men hunkered down behind the second truck. That truck had been parked so that it was directly opposite the doors in a semicircle with the other two.

“Cover me,” yelled Jericho. Sam obliged with three shots toward the rear of the truck as the Resistance fighter took cover behind the corner. One Imperial had been spraying rounds randomly into the darkness, peppering holes into the car but making little real damage. Sam’s shots forced the man to pull back behind the decreasingly effective cover of the truck. From his new position, Jericho had traded the relative safety of the mage darkness for a better attack angle. He made the most of it.

Meanwhile, Liberty and the inside Resistance came rolling out of the warehouse, taking cover behind the truck that had picked up Dr. Kellner. He kept Frieda close to his side as he fired over the bed of the truck at the position to the right of the doors.

“When we get as far as we can, get across to the alley and make for your escape…” started Liberty.

“VIENTO” pronounced a loud voice from within the warehouse. With that, the Resistance was again covered by rapidly thinning smoke as a sorcerous wind purged the air.

“Move, move, move!” ordered Liberty. Once the smoke was gone, there would be nothing left to cover them from more magic. Nothing except an out of position Quisitor.

Sam’s blood ran cold when he heard the voice. Incantations were as unique as the casting mage, and Sam knew that Captain Bren was aiding in this raid. Sam looked to his two compatriots. Neither responded very much to the sound of the spell being cast. That left Sam to protect them and the rest of the Resistance.

He ran for the burning truck, praying that there weren’t any rounds yet to cook off. By the time he got there, the truck had nosed itself into the far enemy vehicle. Sam prepared to block an attack from the inside, but the tactic used caught him flatfooted. The truck lifted an inch off the ground and then rolled over on its side. Sam reacted, but too slowly to prevent it from landing on Spanner and two others. The best Sam could do was preventing the vehicle from crushing the men to death.

Liberty and the other men moved to roll the truck back off of their fellows, but a fresh barrage of gunfire from inside the warehouse stopped them, killing one man in the process.

“Retreat, retreat,” yelled Liberty. To the rest he said, “Be strong, we’ll get you out.”

Sam ran for his car, giving Petra and Jericho the wave off signal. Driving away, he did not know if they had managed to free the scientist.

Walking Death, Chapter 4

2005-11-21T16:02:00.000-08:00

Liberty watched as his team unloaded the casket-like box from the rear of the truck. Tarrytown and Goodyear hopped out of the truck while Sampson, Digger, and Cross did the unloading.

Liberty knew he had a good plan, and good people to see it through. He was still bothered, however, bothered beyond the usual anxiety inherent to any operation. The defection of a scientist of Kellner’s stature had rightly caused a furor back in the Old World. It was also a given that the Resistance would somehow get her to the Free States. The blockade of all Free State ports meant smuggling through a controlled port.

That was the first part of Liberty’s worries. The only means available to the Resistance was the Trident, the world spanning smuggling ring controlled by “Zeus” Pandareos. He was let in on neither the contents of the package nor who was paying him to move it. Both pieces of information were classically taboo in Zeus’s line of work, but he was still able to put two and two together with respect to the timing to know that four was going to cost more than normal. It was a gaping hole in the security of the transport, but there was no way around it.

The second thing that had him worried was that the local garrisons hadn’t seemed to react to the news. No extra security at the ports, no extra crackdown on freelance practitioners of weird science. The Count seemed to be making a show of his pants being down.

That was why Liberty had laid on so much protection for this operation. Five men in case the Imperials made their way inside, in addition to himself and Spanner, who was there for his technical expertise. Outside, he had four more: Quisitor, Lamb, Jericho, and Petra. They were primarily lookouts, but Jericho and Petra were fair gun hands, and Quisitor was the sole mage in Liberty’s New York operation. Should fighting start, Jericho and Petra would form on Quisitor and provide him cover. Both sides of this war knew: when in doubt, shoot the guy throwing fireballs. If things went particularly badly, he had Lamb holding back as eyes to gauge the activities of the Imperials post raid. Lamb may have been more than just a girl, but she was far more valuable for intelligence than fighting.

Sampson didn’t bother with a pry bar as he removed the lid from the crate. He was one more surprise in case things went bad. Sampson’s strength was normally impressive. When pushed, he could use some of the world’s magic to augment his might.

Once the lid was removed, Spanner was right over the doctor and snapped a capsule he had removed from his heavily laden vest under her nose. Sawbones was right next to him checking the doctor’s vital signs. Frieda sat up with a gasp and a long fit of coughing. Liberty waited until her coughing came under control before speaking.

“Knocker?”

Dr. Kellner had to pause for a moment to focus her eyes on the masked man standing next to the crate.

“White Rabbit?”

Liberty smiled under the mask at his alternate codename. It was his first in truth, selected due to his heritage. Henry Fitzpatrick counted himself a descendant of Patrick Henry and saw it as a duty to re-fight the Revolution as fate would have it. “White Rabbit” had been a joke made by one of his commando platoon during the Great War to mean that he was “late for the Tea Party”.

“Good to have you here with us, Doctor,” said the Resistance leader.

Before she could respond, Spanner’s miniaturized wireless gave out a call.

“Base, Quisitor: the wolf is at the door, the wolf is at the door.”

“Soldiers front!” called Cross.

“Soldiers rear!” called Goodyear.

“Hold them back!” ordered Liberty.

With that, two men each at the front and rear opened fire with their Thompsons through windows at catwalk level. Liberty could not see anything from his ground floor position. The warehouse faced the waterfront to the west and had a second set of loading doors on the east. North and south were unbroken brick walls.

Glass rained down when the Imperials opened fire. Digger screamed and fell backward off of the catwalk. Liberty grabbed Dr. Kellner and pushed her into the truck.

The light bloomed through the windows of the west face.

“One of their trucks just blew!”

Liberty knew that it must have been Quisitor engaging the enemy.

“Digger, Cross, pin them down up front. The rest, get ready to punch our way out the…”

A crash of wood and metal prevented Liberty from completing his order. The doors flew inward as if a truck had hit them. The force was enough that the doors took out three of the supports for the catwalk. Digger and Cross found the metal they were standing on suddenly no longer supporting them, and they fell in front of the now open maw that had been the front doors.

“Mage!” yelled Liberty. “Spanner, smoke now!”

“Spectacles down, smoke now!” Spanner removed two canisters from his vest, popped a pair of levers, and tossed the small smoke generators toward the doors. With the spectacles he had provided, the Resistance members could see as well as a clear day. Meanwhile, the Imperials, and most importantly the Imperial mage Captain Rupert Bren, could not see more than five feet into the smoke.

It sadly did little for Digger and Cross, for whom the pain of their injuries magnified ten fold under the magic of Captain Bren. Their capture would be easy enough, and the Anti-Resistance Force wasted no further thought on them.

Liberty grabbed Frieda by the arm and moved quickly to the rear doors.

“Spanner, notify the outer teams that we are coming out the back. And have your smoke ready.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Sampson, hit the door.”

The rear doors buckled outward with little less force than the front ones had. The new cross ventilation threatened to dissipate the smoke more quickly, and Liberty knew they didn’t have time to waste.

“Charge!”

Walking Death, Chapter 3

2005-11-16T18:40:00.000-08:00

Sam and Rachel met up prior to the meeting and made their way. Virtually everyone on the call out list was present. The meeting was to make plans for the recovery of a defecting Imperial scientist who was referred to only by the codename Knocker. Knocker would be arriving via a cargo ship and in a casket sized box. Sam shuddered to think about a passage of three weeks inside a coffin, and thought that the woman had to have ice water in her veins.

The plan was simple: two men would recover the box and transport it to a warehouse rented for the night from the Rinaldi Family. Once there, Spanner, a weird science specialist, and Sawbones, team medic, would awaken the scientist. Goodyear would be standing by to drive. Four others, not including the pick-up men, would be present as close security. All of this would be overseen by the masked Liberty, head of the New York City resistance. That he was in on this was too much of a risk so far as Sam was concerned, but Liberty made it clear that he would not remove himself from the plan.

Outside of the warehouse, Liberty had placed four lookouts, Rachel/Lamb among them. Sam was to be outside as well; ready as magical back up and to cover the escape should the Law come down.

Sam and Rachel took a position a couple of blocks away from the warehouse.

“I feel ridiculous,” said Rachel as she leaned into the passenger side of Sam’s car. She was wearing a low-cut top and old flapper dress purchased from a second-hand store.

“What? I’ve seen you wearing less than that during dance numbers.”

“At least those outfits had class. And they matched. These look like you just dug them up from random out of a charity bin.”

Sam decided to button his trap on that one. He did pull them out of a bin at the store.

“Hey, I had to work hard to find something that would class you down. Anything you might have had would have been too nice for a working girl in this neighborhood.”

“Well, I would have found something better.”

Rachel was had to remind herself to keep from stomping as she made her way up and down the street. She was running ways of getting back at Sam for this indignity. Not only was she passing up a night at Club Hades, but she was positively mortified that one of her sisters might spot her done up like this. The Lilliam were certainly not uptight when it came to sex as a business matter, but they definitely considered mere street walking beneath their station. Besides, cash was not the true medium of exchange in such matters.

She continued her walk up the street, back toward Sam to report nothing of interest. She even managed to put on a smile and a cant of the hip to the whistle of the shotgun man of a panel truck heading toward the docks. The whistler’s truck was the first of a half dozen traveling in convoy. Rachel stopped her strut and looked closer as the trucks traveled in convoy.

They were all commercial lorries, but something about the drivers bothered her. The passenger of the first truck made a smart whistle and got a punch in the shoulder from his driver. None of the others made any sign of having seen her. The last truck’s passenger did notice her, however. In a brief flash of eye contact, Rachel recognized the scarred face of the last passenger: Major Helmut Stein of the Imperial Anti-Resistance Forces.

Panic flashed before composure resettled over Rachel’s mind. She gave the major a wink, a twitch of the hip, and a lewd comment. Stein’s gaze slid right off of her. Rachel hoped that he had just brushed her off his mind like he would a speck of lint off of his normally perfect uniform. He had been wearing coveralls. She did the math as she hurried to Sam’s car: driver and passenger in each truck was twelve, plus unknown number in the back of each.

She had to get back to Sam immediately.

Walking Death, Chapter 2.5

2005-11-15T17:53:00.000-08:00

The most powerful men in New York City waited for the meeting to start. They stood about the long mahogany table set with coffee cups, water glasses, pens and dossier folders. None of them had yet moved to look into the folders, instead preferring to conduct what business they could with the underlings that had come with them to the Cloisters.

The largest such group stood behind the man seated at the end of the table. That man was Jasper Addney, the meeting’s host and Count of the City of New York and Long Island. He spoke quietly to each of the functionaries that came to him for instruction or authorization for the many issues that demanded his attention. The County of New York was far from a quiet sinecure from which to plot future political advances, but Addney relished the potential that the largest city in the re-established colonies offered.

The Count’s ambition was well matched by his youth. It was rare for someone to rise to the rule of a county before the age of forty, but it was also rare that someone would actually want the rule of the New York City powder keg.

He forswore the affectations common to the newly minted nobility of the reconquered Americas. Rather than wear medals, ceremonial swords, or sashes of office, Addney preferred precisely tailored Saville Row suits and ties. The only concession to noble accoutrement was his coat of arms executed in a silver pin attached through his lapel. He felt, in this modern age, that people should recognize him more from frequent newspaper photographs than from trappings of office.

One person in his retinue kept to the back of the crush. Her name was Babette de Loring, and the others always kept clear of her space. She was the Imperial Court Sorceress, a position from where she wielded almost as much political influence as she did magical power. She wore a long skirt, tailored jacket, and a white ruffled blouse. She kept her chestnut hair in a bob cut. The faint smile on her lips added to the sense of youth about her, maybe a decade shy of her true age of thirty-five. She held her arms crossed in front of her, and lightly drummed the fingers of her right hand on her left elbow. The silver ring she wore on her third finger seemed to reflect more light than fell upon it.

Uniformed men, and one woman, were the balance of the other groups in the room. The right hand side of the table was dominated by Lord General Einhard Ubell, commander of all Imperial military units for the county. He was a tall man in his fifties. His hair was two shades of silver separated from his rock grey imperial uniform. He stood ramrod straight, and the monocle he wore was the only indication of decline with age.

With Ubell was Major Helmutt Stein, head of the Anti-Resistance Forces in New York City. His silver-fringed uniform was similarly immaculate. The wound badge on his jacket was superfluous measured next to the long scar on his cheek. His dark brown goatee was the only hair on his head.

The far side of the table hosted an odd assortment of people, all in black uniforms trimmed in red. Two men, one slight and the other gigantic, and a beautiful blonde woman waited in attendance to a dashing figure of an apparent fifty years. No one in the room mistook them for human, the red on black marked them as members of the Imperial Demonic Division. The center of the group was Colonel Aldrick Meinrad, a name that was no more true than the face he showed.

“Gentlemen,” said the Count, his voice cutting through the conversations taking place around the table, “we all have a great deal to occupy our time. Let us get to business.”

“That would be greatly appreciated, Your Excellency,” said General Ubell. His tone was cool. A lifetime military man, he knew precisely were the line of insubordination rested. His willingness to dance that line with respect to Count Addney was something that did not go unnoticed in the city’s court.

Once again, Addney chose to allow the unspoken slight to pass by. Strictly speaking, Addney was the one in command, but he knew that the military was fiercely loyal to Ubell. If anything, Ubell’s ruthlessness was a useful threat against those who proved less than cooperative. It was Ubell’s command that brought death, complete and merciless, to the population of Scranton. It played to Addney’s advantage to appear to be the one preventing a similar fate from befalling New York.

All of the attendants took the cue to leave the room save for de Loring. She remained next to one of the guards flanking the double doors behind the head of the table.

The Count remained standing, and rested his hands on the table.

“I have been given leave to discuss a new weapon developed on the Continent that shall be produced here within the County for deployment along the Mississippi front.” The count reached over to a small console and pressed down a toggle.

“Edna, would you please show in the gentlemen?”

“Right away, your Excellency,” replied the tinny voice from the speaker.

A matronly woman opened the double doors behind the foot of the table. She stood aside so that three men could enter. The first, a tall, reed thin, man in a wool overcoat and gloves, stopped and handed the coffee cup in his hand to the taken-aback secretary.

“Might I trouble you for a refill, madam?” he asked.

Edna regained her composure and said, “Of course, Doctor.”

“Thank you, my dear.”

He proceeded to the table and took a position behind the chair at the foot of the table. Two other men entered close on his heels. The first was a man of fifty-odd years. He had an intellectual’s high forehead and a pair of pince-nez glasses. The other man stood no more than four foot six inches tall and nearly that abroad. He was of indeterminate age and sported a beard that nearly obliterated any evidence of the necktie that he wore. The man went to the left side of the table and the dwarf took the right.

“I am certain that you gentlemen are familiar with Doctors Hobbard and Tabbert of Research Division 9,” said the Count. The second man and the dwarf inclined their heads in response to their names and took their seats. “Well, allow me to introduce Dr. Everet Felson of the Imperial Bureau of Advanced Sciences. He shall be the one to brief you on the new weapon that shall be manufactured in the County of use along the Mississippi front. Dr. Felson, the floor is yours.”

“Thank you, your Excellency. It is my pleasure to present to you the latest in advanced technological achievements for use on the battlefield. In the folders before each of you is the technical data on what has been named Ambulamort. While delivered as a gas…,” the doctor was interrupted by a knock at the secretary’s door. The guard looked to the Count who gestured his leave to open the door. Outside was Edna with a fresh cup of coffee on a coaster. She stepped into the room, although the confident stride she showed previously was now gone. Instead, she seemed unsteady on her feet. She was concentrating fiercely on delivering the cup of coffee to Dr. Felson.

“Shut the door please, guard,” said the Doctor. The guard looked up again to the Count who again gestured his consent.

“As is was about to say…,”

“I believe,” interrupted Major Stein, “that I must point out that she does not have the clearance for this briefing.”

“Her clearance,” rejoined Dr. Felson, “is of little concern at this point. If I may continue without further interruption, I was saying that while Ambulamort is dispersed as a gas, its action is actually through skin contact. It can be spread via, say, a glove or a coffee cup. The compound remains active in the environment for fifteen minutes before oxidizing to an inert state. The subject experiences an intense headache and dizziness before all neurological activity shuts down, causing death.”

Edna tried to walk back to the doors, oblivious that they had been shut behind her. She was two steps away from them when she fell boneless to the floor.

“This seems to be nothing more than another generation of nerve gas,” said Gen. Ubell. “While the forces of the Rebel States may not have an antidote for this one, what is so special about this compound?”

“The difference, my Lord, is in the secondary effects.”

One of the guards from the secretary’s door had been checking the woman for signs of life. He screamed in pain and pulled back, his sleeve tattered and bloody. Edna rose to her feet, her face the color of dirty chalk and contorted in rage. She leapt at the soldier, slashing with grossly extended claws in place of fingers. Her victim brought his bayoneted rifle up, but Edna ran upon the blade with no concern. The damage to her gut was extensive, and blood clung to the bayonet, and yet she charged down on the hapless soldier and tore out his throat.

The other soldier opened fire, striking the creature that had been Edna full in the back of the chest. All that it accomplished was get her attention. She turned quickly, sending the embedded rife flying.

“Lamnas!” came the cry from the sorceress. A barely visible ripple of air leapt from her hand as she made a cutting gesture. The spell struck the zombie precisely in the neck, severing the head in the blink of an eye. The headless corpse fell to the ground.

De Loring turned on Felson.

“Necromancy,” she hissed.

“I prefer necrotic revitalization.”

“What is there to prevent our forces from coming under attack from these, creatures?” asked Ubell.

“If you will note, neither I, Doctor Hobbard, nor Doctor Tabbert were attacked. That is because prior to our coming in here, we applied a repellant pheromone compound. My research indicates that a person might as well be invisible while protected. Additionally, our forces can be inoculated to prevent casualties during the brief interval of chemical activity.”

“Thank you very much, Doctor,” said Count Addney. “Are there any questions from the table? No? Then I adjourn this meeting.”

Walking Death, Chapter 2

2005-11-14T17:08:00.000-08:00

Sam stepped out onto the street through the front door of his apartment building. He bid a half sincere good morning to Mrs. Kranski. Not that he had anything against the old lady who lived in the single first floor apartment. Merely that, to Sam’s reckoning, no morning was good until he found the bottom of his first cup of coffee.

For that he always went to Molly’s Café at the ground floor corner of his building. Molly had perhaps the second best cup of coffee in the city. The first best belonged to an alchemist of Sam’s acquaintance by the name of Akbar al Faruq. Akbar made coffee as if hoping that the drippings would come out gold.

Molly didn’t have such pretensions. She just made the coffee and kept it coming for your nickel. Either way, the difference between them was like the difference between a night at the Plaza and a night at the Plaza with an extra C-note in your pocket.

Molly’s husband Stan worked the grill behind the pass-through window, and Sam knew that his morning eggs and bacon would be passing through it very soon.

A twelve-year-old boy stood on the corner calling out the headlines. Sam thought that it must be one hell of a verge if Detroit was still about to fall off of it. He was picking through a handful of change when a roar overhead startled him into dropping the changed. Looking up, he saw a long formation of eight single engine fighter planes fly over at no more than four stories off the street.

Sam straightened up and looked up and down the street. Other people were doing the same. Most probably remembered the Invasion, and the sound of low flying craft was not one to be recalled fondly.

“Damn fly boys,” muttered Sam as he picked up his change. “No one’s sleeping now.” The kid with the papers merely looked impressed. He was too young to remember the war in all its glory.

Sam folded the paper and stepped into the diner. The air was thick with the scent of coffee and the heat coming out of the kitchen. Despite a brisk breakfast crowd, Sam managed to find a stool at the counter.

“Heya, Sam,” said Molly. Molly came to just under eye level when Sam was seated. She poured him a cup of coffee and handed over a menu. Sam didn’t even blink at the change in routine. Instead, he took the menu into the same hand as he had the folded Imperial Times. Sam always had the same thing each morning. What he didn’t always have was the latest issue of the Liberty Press, the underground resistance newspaper. He made a show of reading the menu while separating the newssheet from the back of the menu. Someone would have to be looking very closely to see that the front page of the Times had changed during the exchange.

“What the hell, Molly, I’ll have the ham steak rather than the bacon today.”

After breakfast, Sam took the paper back to his office.
“So what was all that noise about?” asked Calliope, the secretary he shared with Dr. Moss next door.

“Just a gaggle of flyboys making a nuisance of themselves.”

“Ooh, pilots,” said Calliope with a vaguely hungry look, “they’re always good for a little fun.”

Sam knew that that meant some pilot somewhere was going to get a better time than he could handle.

“Too bad,” Sam thought, “that he’d be waking up and writing it off as a hang over.”

It was three weeks since the Tierney case, and the truce with Boss Ambrosi seemed to be durable enough for Sam to finish what work he could. So long as no one was looking to lean on him, Sam was happy.

Happy, that was, until he opened up the Liberty Press and looked over the coded messages in the back. The codes were arranged in small boxes, and some wag ages before had the brainstorm to label the page “Classified Ads”. The name stuck.

So had Sam’s codename: Quisitor. Sam sighed as he mentally de-coded the message next to his name. Meeting, the next night, back room of a local pub, standard security protocols.

There were a few other names getting call-outs. Sam ran down the list and found the one he was looking for: Lamb. While he couldn’t make out her code, Sam was sure that she would be at the same meeting. The two of them worked most often together, typically as a means of vetting potential recruits into the Resistance.

If the others were also going to be there, then something big was going to happen.

Just what he needed.

Walking Death, Chapter 1

2005-11-11T12:34:00.000-08:00

Dr. Frieda Kellner slipped away from the ballroom of the Court of Luxembourg on the balmy August night. Despite her formal court dress, she moved quietly and unobtrusively through the grounds. The guards were less alert than they should have been. Luxembourg was far from any place the Resistance considered important. If anything, their vigilance was focused inward. That vigilance was precisely what Dr. Kellner sought to avoid.

She slipped in between a pair of shadowed topiary. Two guards walked down the path, more interested in the previous night’s football match than in looking for people out of place. Their direction took them toward the palace, destroying their fragile human night vision. Frieda knew that the ork sentries would be the greater threat to her escape.

Dr. Kellner was a member of the Imperial Bureau of Advanced Sciences. Frieda was one of the small circle of scientists who designed the super weapons that aided the victories across Europe and the Americas. Fueled by excelsiol, the fuel derived from pure magical energies, their devices were of a technology that would have boggled the minds of Jules Verne and H.G. Wells.

Her course though the garden was no less roundabout than her path through life. Orphaned young, she made her way through the streets of Berlin avoiding the police and the pimps. She taught herself to pick pockets and slip through second story windows the by the time she was ten. Her burglary was as often to satisfy her curiosity as to find valuables, and books were often among the pilfered items.

When the Resurgence occurred, she found herself facing ever more sophisticated burglar alarms. That set of an arms race of sorts, as she had to devise ever more precise methods and tools to get by them. Her victims of choice became the scientists and universities that practiced the New Science. Each new piece of knowledge was added to her repertoire and refined her devices, while the Empire was driven to distraction by the near constant violations of its security.

Her anonymous career came to an end when she was nineteen when she failed the last part of a burglary, namely the “get out” portion of “get in, get the goods, and get out”. The scientist, Dr. Erick Reinwald of the University of Berlin, had set a surprise gas trap in his safe. After examining the gear Frieda was carrying, he considered himself quite lucky to have captured her, and he made the offer of joining him as a research assistant or be turned over to the Empire as the spy they had been looking for.

Her work in an academic setting made Dr. Reinwald regret that he had not had this prodigy to work with ten years before. She rapidly caught up in the mathematics and old science needed for her position and was soon pushing the boundaries in fields beyond her street experience. Not that her previous skills went dormant, Dr. Reinwald had many rivals in the field and having someone who could break and enter into the most secure facilities was a tremendous edge for her mentor.

It was one of those forays that led her to discover this latest alchemical abomination of the Empire, one that she could not allow to come to pass.

She had made contact with the Resistance a month previous, and the night to make her escape had arrived. No guards were in sight and she made her way down to the parking lot. A Resistance driver should have arrived by then, and she saw him by her car. Unfortunately, there was also an ork guard giving the driver a hard time. All of the drivers were to be kept in the garage. Nominally they were there to get food and drink, but really it was to limit the options of the party’s guests to slip their minders. Frieda’s driver was still in that small gathering; the man in the lot was a second. The guard was threatening to drag the driver to the watch commander as Frieda made her way behind the guard.

“Pardon me,” she said in her native German.

The ork turned to look into the business end of a pump atomizer. Frieda squeezed and a mist of fast acting knockout solution caught him square in the face. A human would have dropped like a stone, but for once an ork was doing a fair impression of a feather. Frieda gave him a sharp chop with the edge of her hand to the ork’s neck just under his jaw line. Only then did the stone-like quality set in.

“Frau Doktor,” said the driver, “we must be going.”

Frieda nodded and entered the held open door.

They changed vehicles three times by the time they reached Marseille the next day. She was dressed in a man’s work clothes as she exited the car. At a dockside warehouse, she was escorted to a body-sized crate that held a small device of her own design. A visibly nervous man handed her a tiny canister of the tremendously volatile excelsiol. Frieda dropped three drops of the precious fluid into the reservoir of the device. To that she added the powdery contents of a vial. The device would refresh the air of the soon to be sealed crate. The powder would be aerosolized by the air generator and would allow her to make her journey in a state of deepest sleep.

“It is time,” she said.

“New York has been alerted and will be awaiting your arrival, Frau Doktor.”

“They had better.”

She climbed into the crate. She contemplated the secret project that had found her conscience after all these years. There were things worthy of war, but the new plans were beyond the pale. Thoughts of the new world occupied her mind when she was given the signal that sealing was complete, and she toggled the device at her side to on.

Her last thoughts were on New York City.

Intangible Assets, Epilogue

2005-11-09T11:38:00.000-08:00

Akbar was indeed impressed with the knife. He said that he could use it to make an enchanted weapon that would allow a corporeal user to effect spiritual entities. That end result was enough for him to trade even for Renfroe’s Compendium. Score another one for the Sam Watson not-yet-Memorial Library.

The jewelry I had lifted from my first visit to Allison’s apartment had been enough to get square with my landlord, kick Calliope a nice bonus, take Rachel out to dinner, and keep me off the soup line for a couple of weeks.

All that and one more thing. I walked into Cutler’s alley with a bag tucked under my arm. Removing the flask-like bottle of good whiskey, I pushed power into it. It took a bit more than the cigarettes, but I figured I owed him. The bottle broke easily against the wall, and I carefully set its ghost on a trash can lid.

Cutler was right there to pick it up. He unscrewed the cap and took a sniff and a snort.

“I’ve had better,” he pronounced, “but not recently. Thanks, Watson, you’re a pal.”

“I try,” I said, “I try.”

Intangible Assets, Chapter 19

2005-11-09T11:23:00.000-08:00

     Allison stood looking about her burnt out apartment. The firefighters had done what they could, but they didn’t stand a chance against the professionals Ambrosi had sent to torch the place. She remained intangible to the normal senses, but I was still keeping an Eye on her. It was several hours after sunset of the day after my meeting with Ambrosi.

     A single candle burned next to me as I sat in a corner. Its light failed to penetrate into the room; my magic turned the feeble light around and into a circle about me. Only darkness and the faint luminescence of Allison’s astral form remained outside of that circle.

     The apartment was a difficult place for Allison to be. Now that I understood her story, I could understand why. I reminded myself to apologize later for the moll crack I had made the first time I was here. The sense of sadness coming off of her would have been palpable to anyone in the room. No one would have needed my senses to be able to tell that this room was haunted. Where before the fire I hadn’t been able to keep my senses active, the desperation of putting the fire out and the fear of the neighbors diluted the resonance of Allison’s murder.

     We had been waiting there for those hours before the other presence made it felt. Arrogance and Hatred imposed itself into the room. Allison turned toward it quickly, lashing out with her spectral stiletto.

     The new form coalesced around its wound. It was a man of maybe thirty-five, although the look of rage on his face made him seem practically ancient. Despite the fine suit and hat, there was little about him that seemed human. His face appeared frozen, as if incapable of holding any other emotion, and at the first manifestation of his form he seemed to be drenched in blood all down the front of his jacket from a gaping wound to his throat. Without his body, there was no pretense as to what Sylvio Tenebrisi was deep down.

I drew the last of the warding spell as he appeared in the room. This time, the ward was set so that he could not get out.

Allison leapt backward away from Sylvio as I drew my gun and pulled the trigger. The report was both silent and deafening at the same time. To any other living person in the building, the round in the gun failed to fire. In actuality, the gun was only loaded with spent brass that I had fired off at a Resistance shooting range. Before I had fired them off, however, I had pushed some of my power into them, much like the cigarettes I had given Stewart Cutler. The crack of exploding powder reverberated through the ghostly aspect of the room, and my theory was born out by Tenebrisi falling to the ground.

He turned at me with a snarl of rage on his face. His move was like lightning; I had failed to consider what not having a body could do for one’s mobility. He was almost as fast as Bloody Giuliano had been in the warehouse.

I did learn another lesson very quickly after that. I learned that what my instructors had said was true in that looking at the spirit realm makes one vulnerable to that realm. He cut at me with his knife and I felt life flow out of my arm as I missed the clean block.

Tenebrisi had forgotten about Allison at this point, and she made him pay for that sloppiness with a stab to where his kidney once was. Evidently Victor had taught her how to use the blade when he gave it to her.

“Get clear of him!” I told Allison.

She again got clear before I hit Sylvio with a spell of Motion. He went flying back and to my right until he ran up against my ward. Despite the hard slam into the wall, he still managed to keep his feet. He kept his feet until I put a spectral bullet into his leg.

His form and fight went out from under him.

“You have to be a special kind of stupid to be messing with me, flatfoot. Your life ain’t gonna be worth a plugged nickel once my boss hears about this.”

I hunkered down at my spot across the room from him. Allison came over and stood to my left.

“I’d be concerned about that, Sylvio, if your boss didn’t already know about this little set-up here. You have to be the first I’d ever heard of a guy getting sold out by his boss twice.”

The realization crossed his face as the understanding dawned. In truth, he was only half of the deal. The other half was that I got to keep the journal. Ambrosi had been fit to blow a gasket, but then I pointed out that he had deadly blackmail on me. All he had to do was drop a dime on me and my soul would be fueling one of the emperor’s war machines by the end of the week. So rather than doing that, he could let the standoff continue indefinitely. Treaties had been signed on less, and that treaty would be keeping Allison, my friends, and me safe for as long as it lasted.

Tenebrisi did the math, and realized that he wouldn’t be getting out of here as alive as he entered. He leapt at me; the look on his face very reminiscent of the proverbial cornered rat. Again, however, he wrote off Allison as a frail and not a threat. She was in my line before I could get the shot off.

Sylvio’s knife slashed a new slit through Allison’s dress and into her side, but her knife caught him square in the chest. She took him right where his heart should have been, and that was enough.

She leaned into him and said into his ear, “Victor avenged me on you, now I do it for myself and him.”

Sylvio’s face was a mask of confusion. He must have never considered that a woman could ever have been a threat. It had driven him to murder her, and it had led him to die on her blade. The look of confusion faded with the rest of his form. He slowly faded, as if he was retreating into a black mist, and then the rest slid downward like sand through an hourglass.

Allison watched Sylvio disappear. Once he was gone, and there was no doubt that he was gone forever, she looked down at her knife and threw it aside like something evil.

“I don’t suppose I’ll be needing that anymore,” she said.

“I don’t reckon you will, either.”

It was then that I noticed a faint glow growing brighter in the former living room of Allison Tierney. I saw that the light was the perfect source for the sparkle of the sequins of her dress.

“He confessed,” said Allison through a smile and a sob, “thank God, he confessed.”

I couldn’t see anything either in or through the light. It wasn’t my time to know that, yet.

Allison turned after taking two steps toward what awaited her. She was already partly obscured by the glow.

“Thank you, Sam.” She giggled and took a last look about the place. “Help yourself to what you can find. I’m sorry I can’t pay you better.”

“Just go, and be happy.”

“I’ll visit if I can.” With that, she continued walking until she disappeared in the mists. Once she was gone, the light dimmed until I was alone in the burned out apartment.

I lit a cigarette and considered the apartment. Then, I took my handkerchief, pushed a touch of power into it, and used it to pick up her discarded knife. I was surprised it was still here, and I figured that I could get a decent trade from Akbar for it.

Intangible Assets, Chapter 18

2005-11-03T19:58:00.000-08:00

     We had a lot to do and not a lot of time to figure out just how to do it.

     There were few options to my situation. I considered, briefly, finishing Marquis Dunkirk’s mission and killing Ambrosi. That would be the path suggested in fables and tales of yore. What those tales never took into account were the dozens of men that the monster could have surrounding himself. Beyond that, there would be no guarantee that the other bosses wouldn’t thank me by rubbing me out on their way to a bloody war over the spoils. The Families might not like each other all that much, but they do have a certain esprit de corps when it comes to outsiders messing with their own.

Second option: make it so that pursuing either Allison or me would not be in Ambrosi’s best interests. I preferred not to use the term blackmail because it sounded so sordid when it was being applied to my actions, but there you have it.

I was going to have to speak with Ambrosi, and that meant I had to make arrangements. More than time and place, just getting the word to him would be difficult. I also needed to find a venue that was secure enough for me to walk away from. The more I thought about it, the more certain the answer became: Tempeste and Club Hades.

I carried the book with me in my pocket as I headed for the club. Calliope called ahead for me, and Tempeste was apparently intrigued enough to grant me an audience. Having my secretary call from a phone booth outside a church to arrange a meeting with the Princess of the Isle of Grey was just another note to the surreal history I had lived over the past week.

     So far as the Fae are concerned, Tempeste is the one in charge in New York City. The Isle of Grey is technically only Manhattan, but Tempeste oversees operations in the other Burroughs as well. Not many mortals know that, and how I came to know it is part and parcel with how I came to the city in the first place.

Samira was at the door to greet me when I knocked. She was dressed casually and didn’t seem to mind that I was there in the middle of the day. The interior of the Club was dim, and the chairs had all been turned over onto the tables. All of the chairs except those at Tempeste’s table. Those were being used by the Mistress of the club and a thin, sallow faced man with wire-rimmed spectacles. A pair of leather bound books sat open between them.

“That’s enough for now. Thank you, Nicolai,” said Tempeste.

I had to do a double take. I hadn’t recognized the gentleman who heads the club’s bartending crew during the evening. It also went to say that I didn’t recognize him as Tempeste’s go-to messenger. Those would be the messages that get delivered via a meaningful item left on your pillow while you slept. He cleared the books away, and I filed away the information that he was also Tempeste’s accountant. I would have hated to get a message from him about outstanding debts. Thank God my landlord doesn’t know him.
“To what do I owe this visit, Sam?” Tempeste asked. She rose from the table to meet my en route. She wore a silver silk blouse and a pair of black pants over her long legs. She always carried herself with the air of one who makes their own rules, and fashion was the least of those. I appreciated the aesthetic, and mentioned as much.

“Thank you, but I doubt that couture is what brings you at this ungodly hour.”

“Ungodly? It is two in the afternoon.”

She smiled.

“Perhaps not for barbarians, but certainly civilized folk prefer the night.”

“And the not-so-civilized in some cases. Say, Giaccomo Ambrosi and Bloody Giuliano.”

“Why whatever do you mean?” She was so clearly enjoying our little game.

“I couldn’t imagine Club Hades being the place it is and not attracting at least a couple of vampires.”

“Vampires? My, that would be scandalous, even if they didn’t advertise the fact.”

“A few prefer to play their cards close then?”

“Oh yes, a few prefer to earn their reputations through more mundane avenues. Business, for instance.”

“The old family firms, I should guess.”

“Certainly. You get all sorts here.”

Samira approached the table and set a Bloody Mary at my elbow.

“I hope you don’t mind,” said Tempeste, “I asked Samira to fix one up for you. You look like you could use one after your adventures last night.”

“You heard about that?” I asked as I held up the drink, as if examining the glass in the light. Instead, I was looking it over with my Sight. No enchantments were noticeable. So it was to be a gift of another nature.

“I’ll let you have that one for passing a small test. Tell me something I already know.”

Interesting game. She wanted to know that I knew something, as opposed to what I knew.

“Alright, how about that Giaccomo Ambrosi is a vampire?”

“And I would know that already?”

“He’s been to the club,” I said, making a broad gesture to take in the environs. “And no one gets in without you learning their natures.” I can’t say just how much that had scared me after the first time I had been there.

She nodded, and I enjoyed the drink. A little light on the Tabasco, but I always took my drinks strong. I didn’t know how much I needed that drink until the first swallow. Leave it to the Fae to get me feeling human again.

“So what is it that you need, Sam?”

“I need one of the private rooms for a very private meeting.”

“I’m sure the Sheraton would have something available for that.”

“Not if one side is very concerned about it turning into a lead swapping party.”

“And I would want such a party happening in my establishment?”

“No, but Ambrosi has done business here before. Your reputation of neutral ground is too useful for him to trash on my account.”

“It would be expensive for him as well, I assure you.”

I nodded over another sip of my drink.

“Something like this could be expensive for you as well,” she said.

I knew that was coming, and there was only one thing that I had to pay her with.

“Then let me tell you the secret that I am counting on to keep me alive.”

Intangible Assets, Chapter 17

2005-10-27T16:35:00.000-07:00

Rachel wanted to take me to Dr. Moss’s office. Dr. Moss had an office on my floor. Our offices connect to a common waiting room, and Calliope handles the phones for the both of us. I was sure that I was going to hear from him about Calliope ditching out in a hurry that day or the day before. I was not sure as to what time it was; my watch got broken early in the interrogation.

We stopped at a greasy spoon for Rachel to call ahead to my destination of choice: St. Mary’s. Rachel would need whatever arrangement had been made for Calliope. As I sat in the car, thinking most for the sake of staying conscious, I figured that it wasn’t the wrong thing to do to send my succubus secretary for help from a particularly powerful man of the church. Both had Allison’s best interests at heart, and I doubted he got too exorcised about her visit. Odd thing about pain, when it hurts to laugh everything seems funny. Anyway, I was planning on bringing another Lilliam for a visit.

We arrived at the church about ten minutes later. I could guess what Rachel was seeing as we stepped out of the car: a shining beacon of divine protection that could fry her on the spot. Just to make matters clear, if anyone came looking for Calliope or Rachel, then I would have been the one doing the frying.

Fr. O’Brian met us in front of the church.

“Mr. Watson, you…”

“I’m OK, father. You should see what I did to the other guy’s fist.”

Rachel leaned in and whispered, “What did you do, spit on it?”

“Maybe,” I answered, “but I think it was on fire with the rest of him at the end.”

“I was going to say,” continued the priest, “that I haven’t seen a mug like that since I was a fighter.”

“They probably didn’t have a division where one guy is tied to a chair.”

“Only after the fight in the ring, and only if the fighter didn’t dive as instructed.”

I introduced Rachel and we headed around the church to the old orphanage in the back. It wasn’t my imagination that Rachel kept me between the church and her during the trip.

“You sent Calliope here?” Rachel asked.

“It was the only place available if Ambrosi’s men tracked me back to the office. This used to be Allison’s parish, and the Father has been as much help as he could be.” And then some, I added mentally.

Our trek ended in an office of the orphanage. The construction of the building as a whole implied an attitude of getting as much shelter as possible, amenities be damned. I doubted that daylight or actual use could have made the place seem hospitable. Charity probably only went so far during the Great War and the Invasion.

The office was a little claustrophobic for five people and the desk, although Allison made room by perching on the desk next to the comb.

We found Calliope and Allison in conversation when we arrived. There was no paranoia this time in the cessation of their conversation. Despite not having seen a mirror, I knew that having one eye open does little for one’s looks.

“Holy Hell,” murmured Calliope.

“Yeah, and I feel like it, too. I’m glad to see that you got out safely.”

“Molly called and told me to beat feet. By the way, Doc Moss wasn’t too happy about my taking most of the day off.”

“Figured. Then again, all I got to do is show up like this and he’ll get the clue.” I found that funny enough to launch into a spasm of coughing.

Fr. O’Brian stepped forward.

“I don’t think that your injuries will wait, Mr. Watson. If you would allow me, I think we are among friends.” He held up his hands to show a soft glow brightening upon them.

The two girls looked uncomfortable.

“Hey, Rachel,” said Calliope, “let’s get scarce. Anything else you need, boss?”

“No, and thanks for getting Allison here. I know how little you liked the idea, and I owe you one.”

“I’ll put it in the ledger,” she said with a smile.

With that, Calliope and Rachel left. I didn’t think that the magic of the place would necessarily hurt them, but I knew that Rachel was particularly sensitive about her mortal seeming being penetrated. So much so that she avoided fights as opposed to dropping the disguise and using the full power of her nature. Holy magic and items dispelled her seeming and those of her sisters, Calliope included.

Once they were gone, Fr. O’Brian laid his hands over my eyes and on my side over the ribs. I felt a touch of the power that he was channeling. It waxed and waned like a tide, only with volition of its own. It touched my aura, and an image of having my credentials checked at a roadblock came to mind. By what grace decided that I was worthy I didn’t know, but the power then surged into my wounds. My breathing eased immediately, and I felt the swellings on my face and torso recede. When the power left, I felt only slightly sore, as if I had just spent a couple of days at rest.

He removed his hand, and I realized that I could see with both eyes again. What I saw was Allison looking positively stunned.

“Father, I am sorry for ever having doubted anything you’ve taught me over the years. I feel like Doubting Thomas all of a sudden.”

Both the Father and I let the observation that it took a healing to convince a ghost of that pass. It seemed a touch classless to me at least.

“Allison, Giuliano wants you because he thinks that you would know where Victor would have hidden the book that Ambrosi wants.”

“Why would he think that I know that?” “Perhaps,” offered the Father, “he thinks that he may have confided aloud after your death.”

“We were honest with each other, but I know that he never knew that I was there.”

“Possible,” I mused, “but kind of a long shot. Allison, you and Victor were known as an item even before the engagement, correct?”

Allison smiled and nodded.

“Definitely, even back when we were kids.”

“That is true,” said the priest, “the two of them were thick as thieves, always up to something. I considered assigning a nun to the two of them on a full time basis on more than one occasion.”

“It is that type of thing I am leaning towards here. Is there some place that you knew, as kids, that if you hid something there you could count on no one else finding it?”

“We had several, here and there. Fr. O’Brian and Sister Ophelia kept finding them, however.”

“We knew about those long before you came along, child.”

“But there was one that was never found out.”

Fr. O’Brian looked surprised at that.

“I thought I knew of every last loose stone in the orphanage.”

“That’s why it worked, because it isn’t on the inside. Follow me.”

She led us upstairs. I had to double back to retrieve the comb the first time. She showed us the way to what Fr. O’Brian referred to as the boy’s dormitory. He gave Allison a glare, and I learned that ghosts could blush.

The dormitory was one large room that I imagined could have held twelve sets of bunk beds. At the far end was an empty doorframe, beyond which I could see a toilet stall. Allison led us to a window.

“Victor’s bed was next to this window.”

She leaned out the empty window and muttered a curse.

“Sorry, Father. I tried to move the stone out of the way. I guess I forgot about that.”

I leaned out the window. The boy’s dormitory was on the third floor. Fortunately I’m not phobic about heights.

“Which one is it?”

“The second from the right, second down.”

“Which right?”

“Looking out.”

I found the loose stone and worked it out. It slid most of the way and then caught a back corner. The result was that the stone hinged downward yet remained secure. It was enough for me to reach my fingers into. I felt something wrapped in an oilskin. Getting a secure grip, I pulled out a rectangular bundle, maybe four inches by six. Father O’Brian and Allison gathered in closely to see as I unwrapped the skin.

Inside was a small journal, leather wrapped and stained from much use. A tarnished brass catch once held the book shut, but it appeared to have been forced upon at one point.

“Let’s get this down to where the light is better,” I said.

“Is this what Victor was killed over?” asked Allison.

“No,” I answered, “this is what he was counting on to keep from getting killed.”

Father O’Brian was looking at me.

“You don’t seem particularly happy to find it, my son.”

“I just can’t help but wonder what is in here that Ambrosi finds so important. The word on the deep dark part of the street is that he is a vampire. Now a days, that might not be enough to hurt him too bad with the Empire, especially with the clout he has on the streets. I can see him easily cutting a deal with the Count just to keep the peace.”

The others lapsed into silence as we entered the office. I sat down on a folding chair and set a lantern to shine over my shoulder. My pessimism was only checked by curiosity as I settled down to read.

That curiosity was rapidly satisfied. Engraved on the frontispiece:

By the Grace of the Sword and Rose Society
The Journal
Of
Albert Marin
Marquis Dunkirk

“Marquis!” I yelped, “Dunkirk was a nobleman!”

And I had thought that Ambrosi’s biggest mistake had been pissing me off.

Intangible Assets, Chapter 16

2005-10-20T17:05:00.000-07:00

So that was how I ended up in a warehouse, tied to a chair, getting myself worked over like a rack of ribs in a Count’s kitchen. Even worse, I had yet to spot an opportunity to do anything about it.

“Where is the girl?”

I had lost count of how many times they had asked me that question.

“Where is the comb?”

Ditto.

I wasn’t giving anything up. The Tusk didn’t seem to be getting frustrated. He probably preferred my not answering, because that was when he got to play. And it wasn’t Taps he was playing, or at least not yet.

The Voice was not nearly so happy. He had the Tusk working on me with breaks only for questions and unconsciousness. That I was still breathing was a good sign for all concerned. As opposed to Victor who expired quickly when they put the screws to him. Evidently the Tusk was not part of that interrogation. I imagine that he could keep me going for days. Lucky me.

Carlo took a rest. That meant it was the Voice’s turn.

“I fail to understand your attachment to this matter,” he said. “Ms. Tierney has absolutely nothing to offer to interest a gent. No access to money, certainly no means to offer the more physical interests.”

“I’m just a sucker for a dame with a sob story.”

He gave my response its due consideration of half a second.

“This doesn’t have to continue, Mr. Watson. Give us what we want, and you may go.”

“Yeah, and I promise to never speak ill of your boss, either. I’d put money on you making good on my promise first.”

An opening wasn’t going to happen. I had to take a chance to make one.

“That is,” I said, “if you can actually get back to your boss with something useful this time. Do better this time than you did with Caretti.”

“Shut your trap.”

“And all this time I thought you wanted me to talk. Does your leach of a boss know…?”

That was as much as I was able to get out before he was on me. He gave me a backhand that sent the chair and me flying out of the cone of the light.

“Where is the book?!”

“Ay!” yelled the Tusk, “the boss said that I do the poundin’.”

No doubt, I thought. I thought that Paulie had hit hard, but Giuliano was another weight class entirely. He was moving in on me for more when Carlo got in between.

“The boss said I do the poundin’. He don’t want what happened last time, capisce?”

The Tusk was trying to hold back Angelo “Bloody” Giuliano, Boss Ambrosi’s number-two man.

Focus, focus! I screamed in my mind. I could not lose this chance to unconsciousness. Neither of them was looking at me right then, something that had yet to happen while I was conscious. I focused on the satisfaction of having figured out who the Voice was and tried not to follow too for into the implications of being in the clutches of someone nicknamed “Bloody”. I had landed on my side, my hands hidden from them. A magician can do a lot in that position, and a wizard a hell of a lot more.

I felt around so that I could get at least a fingertip on the hemp rope. Once I found it, I called down an invocation of fire: “Ignis!” No time for subtle, no time for control. The beatings I had taken left me too groggy for anything fine. Fire erupted and swallowed the ropes quickly. Unfortunately, they also seared my skin and scorched the sleeves of my shirt. Before the Tusk turned or Angelo noticed, I caught the flames and hurled them at the back of the Tusk. His clothes leapt into flames, and his shriek only died out after he fled from the warehouse.

Angelo only caught a portion of the flames, staggering back and beating at his suit. I took the opportunity to disappear into the shadows. Once I was out of sight, I slipped my ring onto my finger. Thankfully, they had not recognized it as a weapon. Their loss.

The Tusk was outside, so that left Bloody Giuliano. Looking around, I saw that I was roughly in the middle of the warehouse, slightly behind where I had been tied up. I couldn’t see the end of the warehouse that had been behind me for all of the palates and boxes. I headed deeper into the boxes and took stock of myself. The glaringly obvious was that I was a physical wreck. If I had more time, I could probably find a bone or two that didn’t hurt. My hands were also burnt red, but I could handle that for now. After the Fire invocation, I didn’t have much stamina left for many more castings. I’d have to make them count.

And the surest way of making them count would be to get my gun. Since I had to guess, I figured that they would have kept my piece on the table that Giuliano had been standing by most of the time Carlo had been working on me.

I crept back to the edge of the crates, and looked across the thirty feet between the gun and me. Way too much open space, especially if Giuliano had a piece. Well, if the flat foot can’t get to the gun, let the gun come to the flat foot. I cleared my mind except for the image of my squeezer and the incantation of motion repeated over and over again. Using motion for this is doing it the hard way, but I had never gotten to any lessons on Space. Remember, battlefield, not intelligence.

I opened my eyes when I felt the familiar weight settle into my hand. I almost smiled until I saw a dark blue blur pass into the aisles of crates on my right.

“Nice trick, shamus,” called Angelo from somewhere behind me. “Looks like you’re packing more than the typical flat foot.”

“That’s why I’m the detective, Bloody. I already had your boss figured for being a vampire.”

The quiet sound of air very briefly disturbed sounded in the distance, and Angelo’s voice came from a new quarter.

“You know, I’m sure that we could work something out. The boss could make the life of someone with your skills very comfortable.”

He was somewhere else by the time he finished his offer. He was just too damn fast. I could squeeze off a round where he was only to find him someplace else by the time the bullet got there. I had one chance, anticipation. Calliope might not be telepathic, but I can no in a pinch. And this was a pinch.

I reached out and found him; he was the one slightly more complex than the rats. When I tried to make contact, I ran right into a dead wall.

“Oh ho!” he laughed. “Another trick, Watson?”

Damn, tipped him off. Always the danger. His mind was just not right, aside from being that of a sadist. It was a mind in a dead brain. It made it too easy for him to block me. I had to force him to crack in far less time than they took for me. Then something occurred to me.

“So you’re a leach too?” His shield recoiled at that. Evidently he didn’t like that word. “You were a little slow on the uptake earlier. I don’t need the comb, or the girl. I already have the book.”

Panic. In that one instant, he almost broke. One more push.

“Everything Dunkirk had on Ambrosi. Funny thing, you weren’t even mentioned. So much for the reputation.”

Bastard!/Go left. I got an image of an intersection behind me and to my right. I spun around the corner and fired two shots at the empty air. He was not there on the first pull, but he was for the second. He staggered back as I kept shooting, two more to the chest and two more to the head. It wouldn’t keep him down, but I wasn’t yet willing to wing killing a made man. Not without what must have been the journal of Albert Dunkirk, Monster Hunter.

“Sam, are you in here?”

Rachel? What was she doing there?

“Over here, Rachel,” I said as I stepped out from the maze of crates.

My step turned into a stumble as she raced across the floor to hold me up.

“Nine hells, Sam. I just can’t leave you alone.”

“Nope. I just go getting beat up and shooting made men in the noggin.” I pointed back where I left Angelo.

That startled her.

“Who?”

“Bloody Giuliano.”

She let out a breath.

“Nothing permanent then.”

I gaped at her.

“You knew?”

“It’s my job to know, and that is kind of a first thing you notice type of thing.”

“We still have to do something with him. He saw me using magic.”

“Too late for that.”

I looked back where she was looking. Nothing.

“How’d you find me?”

She gave me her best innocent look, and started helping me toward the door.

“Oh, a little bird with a square jaw and blond hair was telling some friends at Armstong’s about the private dick Angelo was putting the screws to down here. He said something about the detective saving one of his boys from getting run over during the chase. I figured that had to be you, so I headed to the docks where he said Angelo was. I figured I had the right place when I saw a flaming ork jump off a pier.”

By that time we had gotten out to my car. I let her drive, I wasn’t in a mood for a fight right then.

Intangible Assets, Chapter 15

2005-10-18T15:39:00.000-07:00

I had a lot to think about as I headed for the office. My mind was so busy that I forgot one of the basics: Stay alert.

The oak shavings were the clincher. There was one reason for a monster hunter to be carving and it was not artistic. He chose oak for his stakes. While wood in itself wasn’t anything in particular to demons, it was very handy when a sharp piece crowds in on a vampire’s heart. Oak, or any other deciduous tree, additionally lacked the eternal life aspect of evergreens. Of course, I never understood why a tree that seems to die every year yet come back to life was a better symbol, but art and folklore are two things that seldom remain literal.

Parking was as bad as always, so I had to walk a couple of blocks back to the office. My route took me past Molly’s. It was nearly noon, and lunch seemed a damned good idea.

I took my seat at the counter and Molly was right there with a cup of coffee. Molly was a plump, middle-aged Irish woman. I had yet to visit the diner and find her either not there or not cheerful.

Her smile never faded as she said, “Don’t look around, Sam. There have been some men watching your office most of the morning.”

I doctored my coffee so as to keep myself from turning. Instead, I tried for a look in the mirror behind the counter.

“Imperials?” I asked.

“No, too well dressed to be plainclothes.”

Yet another lady looking out for me. Molly does it for everyone; it was simply her nature. She was also my contact with the Resistance. Her code name was Mother Hen.

“I need to make a call,” I said.

“I already called Calliope. She said that she was going to take a friend to church. She didn’t sound too happy about it.”

I nodded. Like I said, Molly took care.

“Maybe they haven’t made me yet. Backdoor?”

“Over by the phone, but you knew that already.”

I made a show of dropping a nickel (I’d be damned if I ever called it five pfennig) on the counter. Molly may have been great for information and local surveillance, but she was not a fighter. Hopefully I hadn’t them off about her role in my subsequent plan.

I looked out the front widows via that mirror behind the counter. I saw ground pounder and the ork from outside of Dunkirk’s apartment. Not good. This time, I recognized him, Carlo Tuskoni. It also meant that the stakes had been upped. Ambrosi knew that I was pursuing the secret that he had killed Victor over.

I had to be quick if I was going to disappear out the back door. That, and lucky.

To say that luck is fickle is to say that a two by four to the gut can wreck your whole day. Sadly, I was reminded of both as soon as I exited the back of the diner.

When I looked up, I saw Paulie hefting the lumber like a Louisville Slugger.

“Hello, shamus.” There wasn’t room in his voice for more scorn. He also kicked me in the ribs to make his point.

I didn’t feel hitting the trashcan or the rubbish spilling over on me, but I did wonder at how well he spoke despite the broken jaw I had given him.

“Boss wants you alive, but I can tender you up some.”

“What in Sam Hill is going on here?!” cried Molly who was sticking her head out the back door.

It was the opening I needed. I didn’t like his jawing. A milk bottle had fallen out of the trashcan and lay barely out of reach. Without time to physically grab it, I put a hefty dose of Motion behind it and sent it into Paulie’s face. I couldn’t tell if his jaw broke again. The breaking glass was loud enough, as was Paulie’s scream as the glass slashed his face.

I climbed to my feet as I saw Big scout and The Tusk round the corner. They were cutting me off from my office. Not that there was anything there that would help me out of the jam, but it would be a defensible position at the least.

I took the only option still available and ran down the alley. Molly’s building ran all the way to the street with a fence cutting the length in half that I would have to deal with.

It was hard enough to run after the kick Paulie gave me, and the climb was even worse. I had just gotten one leg over when a board exploded as if the brick that had hit it had been fired rather than thrown. I looked back behind me to see Big scout picking up another brick. It was only luck that I dropped to the other side of the fence before the thrown brick took my head off. Big scout had thrown it high and tight enough to make Ty Cobb proud.

Despite landing on my feet, I still winced at the pain in my ribs. There were even more reasons to run now, because the pace that big scout put on the bricks let me know that he and Paulie had the same coach. Big scout and The Tusk would not need as much time to go through the fence as I needed to go over it.

Behind me, I heard, “… wants him alive.” More like, “… wants him dead later,” I thought.

There was another twenty yards between the street and me when a car pulled across the mouth of the alley. Ground pounder got out of the Duesenberg and leveled a gun from over the fender.

“Grab air, flat foot!”

I flinched for a brief moment, and then kept charging. Ambrosi wanted me alive, and I didn’t think that ground pounder would risk a shot with his boys down range. I had to time it right. Foot to the fender, foot to the hood, foot to ground pounder’s chin. Another brick went whistling past my ear as the kick landed. I hit the ground hard as the brick found a home through the driver’s window of a car motoring along the other side of the street. My leg gave under me when I landed putting me right next to the insensate ground pounder. I had the ground’s eye view of the stricken car wandering across the median, and of the car forcing a cargo truck to swerve to avoid it. The swerve took it right at where the goon and I were sprawled on the street.

My kick left ground pounder loopy, and he wasn’t in a mood to fight me as I got a bouncer’s grip on him and dragged him out of the way of the oncoming truck. He screamed as the truck’s fender caught his ankle, but better that than the rest of him. By then, the truck had taken the side of the Duesenberg. Pity. The good news was the collision drove the car sideways into the alley, blocking off all the more solidly the mouth of the alley. That bought me a moment or two as not even the dhampyric strength of big scout or the Tusk’s orc might would allow them to move the stricken car, and I intended to make the best use of that time.

I took off across the street and down the alley. Heading down the street would do me no good. I had one advantage over the goons, and it was one that was less useful to me the more witnesses there were around. In this neighborhood, they would probably get more help from the cops than I would. Authority would not be my friend.

My mind was running through the options for havoc that I might throw at them when the Empire State Building landed between my shoulders. At least that is what it felt like. The impact sent me sprawling, and the first thing I saw in front of me was a car’s headlamp, Duesenberg if I wasn’t mistaken, spinning to a rest a few feet in front of me.

I was struggling to get an arm under me when a pair of very large hands hauled me up by my jacket and shirt from behind. In front of me was the big scout. The look was plenty close enough. He was six feet at the least, with a square jaw that certainly wouldn’t have minded a meeting with the barber’s razor. I might have taken him for a Swede, pale complexion, blond hair under the brim of his hat, and blue eyes. Oddly, his eyes didn’t look like those of a killer. If anything, he looked sympathetic.

“You pulled Stu’s fat from the fryer back there. Figure I owe you one for that.”

“Yeah, you’re a real prince.”

The Tusk gave me a hard shake for that crack. I was soon to learn that he has little to no sense of humor to speak of.

“I just look out for my boys. So, I’ll make this quick.”

He was certainly a man of his word. Even standing right in front of him, I never saw the right cross coming. He connected quite solidly.

Exit light.

Intangible Assets, Chapter 14

2005-10-14T08:35:00.000-07:00

I considered pounding on Akbar’s door until he woke up and answered my questions. Then I conceded that is was well after midnights when I had left Club Hades. Waking someone up in the middle of the night was not a recommended practice in the care and cultivation of contacts. Instead I went to my office for some shuteye.

My plan for the next morning was to have a conversation with Akbar al Faruq. Akbar was the proprietor of Akbar’s Emporium of Wonders. He kept the front half of the store filled to the rafters with dusty books, dull brass, and an air of magical power that was tantalizingly felt even by those with mundane senses. The last was an illusion, like perfume in a shop full of old flowers. The illusion was a nice touch, as it wasn’t cast on anything in particular so that nothing sensory was changed about the goods. That way the cheap brass and arcane knock-offs might seem wonderful in the store and yet skirt every regulation on the use of magic in retail. Good thing, too, the Order of Commerce could be every bit as vengeful as the Order of Illumination when they get their dander up.

For anyone with even the most rudimentary Sight, Akbar’s little illusion was a flimsy little thing unworthy of a rank amateur. That opinion, when extended to Akbar and his shop, was exactly what he wanted. Very few who saw through the scam up front kept looking to find the real deal in the back.

Akbar also had the pulse of New York City’s black market in magical goods. He most certainly would have crossed paths with Victor. Even if Victor had not moved the hunter’s possessions through the Emporium, Akbar would know what hit the market shortly after the hunter’s death.

“I assure you, Madam,” said Akbar in full voice worthy of a bass soloist, “that what you hold there is a the Amulet of Dabhydh, an item that will protect you from hurtful eyes and spiteful words.”

It was only courteous of me to stifle the laugh I felt at the line he was giving the lady. Courteous, and that wrecking someone’s deal would not dispose that someone toward helpfulness later.

Akbar completed the transaction and turned toward me.

“Mr. Watson! How good it is to see you again!”

Akbar had a voice that was born for carrying across chaotic bazaars. In an over packed New York storefront it was more than adequate.

He closed the distance between us to shake my hand. I was amazed at how he could navigate the his considerable girth between the close spaced shelves.

“Good morning, Akbar.”

“May I offer you some coffee?”

“Yes, please.”

It was one of the few surprises I enjoyed learning in my time in the city: you can count on an alchemist to brew a mean cup of Joe. This one could at least. Akbar practiced alchemy, I always heard it as al-Khemy from him, and was probably the best the city had to offer.

Akbar escorted me to a small room just behind the shop. A door in the back presumably led to his laboratory, but I had never been invited in, so I could not be absolutely certain. A staircase crowded the small room. The remaining space was covered over in fabrics and cushions around a small, circular table inlaid with various Arabic and Hebrew characters bearing a small brazier.

“Aziz!” bellowed Akbar. He might as well have conjured the lad he appeared so quickly from the back room. “Mind the store. Keep anyone who comes in entertained until I return.”

“New apprentice?” I asked.

“A nephew, he has just arrived from Istanbul. Please, be seated.”

I undid the button on my coat, laid my hat next to me, and settled into the cushion. Akbar took in my gun with a glance and without a word. The black market was a rough business. Besides, we were in his domain, and he was the one with the power there. My defense was that it was in his best interest not to get a reputation for offing visitors. The arrangement worked well enough over several deals to where I considered Akbar something of a friend.

“Tell me, Sam,” said Akbar as he poured two small cups of coffee from an ornate samovar, “how are those lovely ladies of yours?”

“They are doing well.”

“That says to me, ‘much the same’.” He gave me an appraising look. “Such a waste.”

“You’re always on the lookout to use that line.” He enjoyed letting me know what extra information he could get out of my responses. Made me glad he was on my side. I took a sip of the coffee, and smiled. Now that Joe was right.

“And I shall continue to do so until you change the situation. Two lovely ladies, absolutely devoted to you, and yet you abstain.”

I shrugged.

“I’m bucking for sainthood.”

“I tell you that there are far better matters to occupy a man’s days.”

“And by saying ‘days’ you really mean ‘nights’.”

Akbar chuckled deep in his gut.

“And that tells me that there is some hope for you yet.”

He set aside his coffee picked up a jar bearing a hinged lid. He held up the jar and a small spoon, and he looked up at me.

I nodded, and he poured a small spoonful of purple crystals into the brazier. Light blue smoke billowed outward. Akbar reached into the spreading cloud and snapped his fingers. I heard nothing. The smoke filled the room with a sweet scent reminiscent of fine tobacco and amber. Akbar snapped his fingers again, and that time I heard it.

It was during an earlier meeting that he first explained that the incense held sounds within its bounds. It was also the sign that the small talk was over and it was time to get to business.

“So,” he asked, “what is it you are seeking?”

“First of all, a top off of this coffee.”

“Of course, and if there is a first, then it stands to reason that there shall be a second.”

“Certainly. The second is that I need to know about a quantity of specialty items hitting the market a little more than two months ago.”

Akbar’s brow furrowed and he brought a finger to his lips.

“Specialty in what way?”

“Hunting. Supernaturals,” I added the last to interrupt the question he had forming.

“I believe I know what you are asking about. Why your interest?”

“I need to know what he was hunting.”

“That knowledge did not seem to do him much good. Regardless, the hunter had a number of small Christian relics, several ampoules of water, and a small collection of books. And that was just what my contact had to offer.”

“Would that contact have been Victor Caretti?” I asked.

Akbar gave me a speculative look.

“Sam, you know that I work in the strictest confidence with my clients.”

“If it was Caretti, then I would say that you don’t need to worry too much about losing any business.”

“Caretti was an agent for his patron, a patron that I do not wish to risk losing. Particularly the quality merchandise.”

“Then Victor had a good reputation for selling quality?”

Akbar considered.

“Yes.”

“So this hunter’s gear was the right stuff?”

“I should say it was. Three of the four relics he had were authentic, however minor, and the fourth had enough resonant faith to pass. The water was sanctified and potent enough to have been from the River Jordan itself, and I would be hard pressed to part with the tomes.”

“What was his choice of reading material?”

“Your basics, Malleus Maleficorum, The King James Bible, and so on. The Malleus was a seventeenth century reproduction, but breathtaking nonetheless. The prize of the collection would have to be Renfroe’s Compendium of Nocturnal Horrors. Very rare, and allegedly quite accurate.”

“What would the table of contents look like?”

“Ghosts, spectral visitors, succubi, vampires, and dhampiri.”

“Do you have it?”

Akbar leaned back.

“Aah, yes! And before you ask, no, you may not take a look. You and your accursed wizard memory.”

“What are dhampiri?”

“You are not familiar? Perhaps I should make you buy the book.”

“Cut me some slack, Akbar.”

Akbar thought for a moment.

“Very well, it is but one of many interests the tome holds.”

I waved a circle with my hand to hurry him along through the sales spiel.

“Dhampiri are half-vampires. Either they were born as such as the result of the mother being attacked by a vampire, or by the reversal of the typical order of vampires drinking human blood, namely humans drinking vampire blood. The blood acts like a potion that grants great strength and vigor without the vulnerabilities of vampirism. The cost of the practice is that the blood is addictive. For that reason, dhampiri are almost always bound to the service of their patron vampire.”

I thought back to Paulie and the flight I took in Allison’s apartment. Blinking was still an annoyance.

“What else beyond the esoteric?” I asked.

“Nothing much worth speaking of, aside from being nice antiques. A short sword and a silver cross were the only things of real value.”

I had a feeling deep in my gut that I knew where the question of what Dunkirk was heading, but assumptions can get you killed in this here Empire.

“One more thing,” I said. “I have something I found at the hunter’s residence.”

I opened my handkerchief and showed him the wood shavings.

“I need to know what type of wood this is.”

Akbar gave me an incredulous look.

“It is clear you have mistaken me for a gardener, Sam.”

“Just think of it as an unknown substance. And since when have you gone looking down on wood?”

“It is not a pure element, but I might be able to learn what you need. This should only take a few moments.”

Akbar disappeared into the back. I poked around the front under the watchful eyes of Aziz. Some of the knick-knacks had some flash value, but I wanted to get my hands on that book.

My time in the Corps was designated for warfare. It came from having a knack for Fire greater than my skills in Thought or Space. We spent more than a few months training in mundane methods of killing the not mundane, and what folklore I had absorbed gave me the answer that I was looking for Akbar to confirm.

It only took him ten minutes to return with his answer.

“It is oak.”

I nodded.

“One last thing, how do I kill a ghost?”

Intangible Assets, Chapter 13

2005-09-28T19:19:00.000-07:00

I headed to the backstage area as Aimee Simone and the chorus dancers were making their way out front to make the customers feel very special. I didn’t see Rachel come out with the rest of the girls, and it stood to reason that one of Tempeste’s people let her know that I was there.

Rachel was one of the few people that I could say that I trusted absolutely. Her and Calliope, ain’t I just the lucky one? She had come to the attention of White Rabbit, leader of the Resistance in New York, in the course of his trying to move some materiel through Finnegan Family controlled wharves. She had pulled the headman’s bacon out of the fire, and he had asked me to look into her. Despite being a wizard, I find myself more often useful to the Resistance as an investigator, making sure no spies get too close to the operation. Hence my codename: Quisitor.

In the end, it took all of my skills to figure out her history on Earth. My investigation revealed that she was an illegal alien of the most literal variety, a succubus who had not been summoned by an Imperial sorcerer or pressed into the Empire’s Service. A French magician who had actually wanted the most powerful of the Destroyers had summoned her soon after the Resurgence. By dint of a mistranslated rune, he ended up with the youngest of the Tempters for a very brief period. She escaped when an artillery shell destroyed the circle into which she was summoned, along with the house, and managed to avoid the armies then marching across France. She eventually made her way to New York and across my path. There was nothing unresolved in her history to make me suspicious. Since then, we’d been working together as cell. Rachel used the codename Lamb.

That night, I needed her for her expertise. She worked a cycle of clubs in the city. Some nights she worked as Rachel, others Rachelle, yet others as Raquel. The pay she got covered her bills, but it was the people she met that made up for the other coin she needed. With an aura that would catch the attention of any bored apprentice stuck doing screenings at the precinct houses, she needed something better than cash to buy influence to get out of the pen fast. She did that by staying in the know of what was going on in mob land. She used different names to work all of the clubs that were patronized by the crème de la crème of the underworld. She always had the low down on what was happening among the Finnegan, Rinaldi, and Ambrosi families.

I worked my way back to the dressing rooms through the aisles of props and scenes. Rachel was still removing the last of the heavy stage makeup she wore for the number. Without the makeup, she looked as if she couldn’t be more than sixteen. Then again, she would have looked sixteen when she was first summoned eight years before. Hers was hardly the first image that came to mind with the word “succubus”, but I figured that there were guys who get hooked hard on the jailbait. I always found it difficult to describe Rachel. She seemed perfectly at home backstage at a nightclub, but she also came off as sweet as a schoolgirl.  Her eyes and hair were dark, but in ways that seemed to change from moment to moment. She may have been small, no more than five-two, but she can put on attitudes that make her seem to tower over those she confronts.

She saw me approach in her mirror.

“Hey, Sam. What brings you here?”

“I need a reason?”

“To see me? No. To get into hock with Tempeste to see me? Damn straight.”

“I need to know about what went on with regard to Allison Tierney a couple of weeks ago.”

She winced.

“That was some ugly business, but why are you asking? Everyone seems to think that it was all over when Victor died.”

“Let’s just say that dead isn’t what it used to be, and that Allison is still in trouble.”

“Allison? Is she alive?”

“No, she’s a ghost, and she is still being hunted.”

“By Ambrosi?”

“And Tenebrisi.”

Every last bit of the girlie act Rachel concealed herself with left at the mention of Sylvio’s name. In its place was an ancient rage.

“You’re telling me that he hasn’t made his date with my sisters?”

“No, he ain’t burning yet.”

She looked me square in the eye.

“So what do you need to know?”

“I need details on what Victor’s plans were for killing Sylvio.”

“Alright,” she said, “you know that Sylvio was a made man and that Victor wasn’t”

“I’m with you there. Ambrosi had to kill Victor for offing Sylvio.”

“Correct, but he didn’t. At least not right away.”
“Why not?”

“A couple of days after Sylvio killed Allison, Victor went to Ambrosi to ask for vengeance. Everyone was surprised that Ambrosi agreed.”

“Was there any word as to why Ambrosi gave his permission?”

“The story goes that since Allison was Victor’s fiancée, Sylvio had gone way out of bounds when he,” Rachel took a breath to recollect herself, “did what he did.”

“Did that explanation fly?”

“It was the Boss’s word, and no one made any loud noises in complaint.”

“And the quiet noises?”

“The quiet noises were that it was the first that anyone had heard about their engagement.”

“No one knew about their engagement?”

“None of Ambrosi’s boys knew. The girls at the club knew, but that type of thing stays backstage.”

“Backstage?”

Rachel smiled.

“Take a look at the girls out there, Sam. Half of them are hitched or have steady fellas, but you won’t see one ring in the lot of them. Guys are a lot more generous with an available lady than with someone’s frau.”

“So Ambrosi’s soldiers thought that hitting Sylvio for something that he didn’t know about was a raw deal?”

“Right in one.”

I sat down on the edge of her dressing table, and lit cigarettes for the pair of us.

“So what was the real reason Ambrosi gave the OK for the bump off?”

Rachel shrugged.

“Whatever it was, is, it was something that Ambrosi kept it real close to the vest. Bloody Giuliano probably knows, but then again, he was the one personally making it clear that asking was not the healthy option.”

“So why did Ambrosi change the tune? Why did he blow Victor sky high?”

“If I had to guess, and a guess is all it is, I’d say that Victor didn’t follow through on his end of whatever deal they had.”

“Was Victor spreading stories?”

“No, if anything, Victor wanted to pull a fade and blow town.”

“Heh, instead he blew up.”

Rachel leaned in and lowered her voice to an even more confidential level.

“Well, let me show you why you come to me: Victor was already dead when the car blew.”

     My train of thought came to a screeching halt at that.

     “How?”

“How do I know or how did he die?”

“Tell me both.”

“That’s easy enough to do, I know because one of the guys who was there when Victor died considered it a sweet nothing to whisper in my ear. Hardly my idea of a romantic notion.”

“So what happened?”

“I giggled like a dumb little girl and acted impressed.”

I rolled my eyes at her joke.

“You know what I meant.”

“I know. Anyway, my fella-of-the-moment dragged in Victor for a conversation with Bloody Giuliano. I asked him what the conversation was about, but the only thing he could tell me is that it was too private for him to have been in the room. About a half hour later, Giuliano heads out of the warehouse in a hurry, not saying boo to anyone. My date for the evening looked in on Victor and saw that his head wasn’t sitting right. Something about it being backwards. Anyway, Giuliano comes back barking orders to get the body loaded into a car. Later that night, boom goes Victor.”

“So Giuliano messed up the interrogation, didn’t get the information, then staged the car bomb to at least make it look like his boss wanted Victor dead. I wouldn’t be surprised if he was on the blower to Ambrosi while he had stepped out.”

“That’s my impression.”

I took a draw on my neglected cigarette.

“Victor had something,” I thought out loud.

“Excuse me?” asked Rachel.

“Sorry, putting things together. Victor must have had something as opposed to just knowing it. If it was a matter of something Victor knew, then they could have just bumped him off then and there. If they were having a face to face, then it would mean that he knew something that they didn’t, and I can’t see what it would be other than he had something hidden somewhere.”

“I can’t say I see anything wrong with that. Any ideas as to what Victor had?”

“That’s the rub, but I have an idea. Do you have any notions as to why Ambrosi would have a problem with a monster hunter?”

“Simple, Ambrosi sells protection to the supernaturals in his territory. If the guy makes a move on someone in the neighborhood, Ambrosi has to make good on the policy.”

I had to admit that was a possibility. Before I could ask her another question, I heard a voice by the dressing room door.

“Rachel?” It was Samira. “Sir Arvin has arrived, and Lady Tempeste asks that you attend to him, please.”

“I’ll be right out,” Rachel answered. She then turned to me.

“I don’t need to tell you to be careful?”

“Aren’t I always?”

She reached up and touched the shiner.

“Yeah, but you could do it better.”

She gave me a wink and headed out to the club floor.

Sir Arvin wasn’t going to know what hit him.

Intangible Assets, Chapter 12

2005-09-23T00:23:00.000-07:00

Club Hades was the “it” place in New York, and had been since shortly after the invasion. The place was a palace, tiers of tables for fine dining, a huge dance floor served by a thirty-piece band, and a stage big enough to put on shows that rivaled Radio City. The bar had a selection that I doubted even the bartenders knew the extent of. If your choice of refreshment ran to things more exotic, then the private rooms were always available. Available, provided that you could pony up the marks.

Despite all of the delights available, I tried to avoid the place whenever possible. It avoided it, because I knew that each time I visited I was pushing my luck.

The push was that everybody, excepting yours truly, wanted to be seen there. Tempeste was a freewheeling hostess, so long as you stayed classy and respected the neutrality of the place. That meant everyone was welcome, so you never knew whom you might run into. The rule of neutrality in the club was absolute, but I was sure that it ended at the parking lot.

I was crossing the parking lot, still contemplating how I was going to talk my way past the mountain at the front door. All right, so Invar might not have been a mountain, but I was sure he must have had one in his ancestry somewhere. Particularly one of those purple ones we used to sing about. The guy was seven feet tall if he was an inch and broad enough that he seemed squat from a distance. I had spoken with him in the past. He’s the type that would stay quiet and let you hang yourself on the assumption that big equals stupid. That was the main reason why I was rehashing the story I was going to use so that it would come out better than “I need to talk to one of the girls, and I promise not to have any fun in the meantime.” Somehow I still doubted that the troll would fall for it.

Instead, when I was a half dozen paces from the door, he beckoned me over. As I approached, he lowered his craggy, blue toned face down toward me.

“Go on in, Watson. She’s expecting you.”

Somehow I knew it wasn’t Rachel he was referring to.

Inside the door I was briefly stopped by a Maitre D who inquired as to my reservation.

“Mr. Watson does not need a reservation.”

The speaker was a young woman, apparently not more than twenty. Aside from the very modern evening dress, she looked as if she had just stepped out of an illustration from the Arabian Nights. Dusky skin, eyes like the desert night sky, and a grace of motion that evoked sand dunes under a steady wind.

“Samira,” I said. I couldn’t help but smile at her. It’s not the people of the place that made me nervous it was more the nature.

She smiled back.

“Good to see you again, Mr. Watson. If you will please follow me?”

As she led me into the main room, I risked a quick look at the magic of Club Hades. The sight that greeted me was a dozen magical auras awash in a current of swirling energies. Samira was the muse of those desert tales; Invar was the dream of warriors who feared the passes in winter. Behind the bar was an embodiment of capricious nature called Bryant, and the dread of shadows at night who went by the name of Nicolai. I saw an ideal of courtly composure and acuity by the name of Lord Corryn ap Taryn, Ambassador from the Sidhe Courts to the Court of the Count of New York City.

Samira led me toward a table upon the second tier opposite the stage, which put it off the physical center of the room. Magically, however, there was no doubt that it was the center. That center was Tempeste Storm. She wore a guise of dreams realized through cleverness and desire. While Fr. O’Brian worked in alliance with the magic of his church, there was no doubt that Tempeste’s will drove the magic in her domain. Not many people realized just how far that domain extended.

I had to close my eyes and let go of the magical awareness I was using. The magic of the club, drawn whole from the fae realms, was intoxicating, and very easy for a mortal to ride into madness.

When I opened my eyes again, I was looking out at the stage. Aimee Simone was singing a tune to set the place swinging. At the time there was no one bigger than Aimee, there wasn’t a producer on Broadway that wouldn’t have traded their left hands to have her in their shows, and yet she played Club Hades on a regular basis. The chorus line was earning their keep, making a pretty frame for the beautiful picture. I spotted Rachel among the formation.

Turning back to the table, my heart almost stopped. Not only because Tempeste, as always, was a vision of elven beauty, but also because I hadn’t noticed her companion. Just another reminder of Tempeste’s power that her aura can make someone fail to notice that of the Sorceress to the Court of Count Addney, Babette de Loring. So far, she didn’t seem to notice that Joe Schmoe private dick approaching her table was lost in contemplation of matters beyond the mortal ken.

Like I said, I was pushing my luck.

Samira had stopped and was looking at me with a hint of a smile on her lips.

“Ms. Storm is expecting you, Mr. Watson.”

I knew that already, and I saw that we were going to play one of Tempeste’s favorite games. Namely, Tempting Fate.

“Miss Storm, Mr. Watson has arrived.”

Tempeste looked up at me with her deep green eyes and smiled. She wore her constant black in the form of a satin sheath dress that covered everything yet concealed nothing. She had her long black hair over one shoulder. She had her midnight black hair draped over one shoulder, revealing one delicate elven ear.

She rose and extended a hand.

“Sam, always a pleasure to see you.”

She turned to her companion.

“Babette, allow me to introduce Sam Watson, one of this city’s finest private investigators. Sam, this is Babette de Loring, Sorceress to the court of Count Addney.”

I took the hand she offered and made a small bow over it. She wore her Order ring, and I could feel the power she ran through it.

“It is a pleasure to meet you, Lady de Loring.”

She gave me a long, appraising look. She was an attractive woman who wore her brown hair in a bob that emphasized her youthful appearance.

Normally, I’d find a way to flirt back when an attractive woman gave me an appraisal like that. That once, I was praying that my concealment didn’t have any holes in it.

“The pleasure is mine, Mr. Watson.” She spoke with a Parisian accent. “I hope that your recent troubles are behind you for now.”

Her comment knocked me askance for a moment, and then I recalled the shiner that Paulie had given me the night before. I laughed. She was relying on the old fortuneteller trick to seem wise beyond the world. I knew it well, used it often, and it hinted to me that she hadn’t seen through my shielding.

“I hope so,” I replied, lightly touching the bruise. “Keeping them in front of me didn’t seem to work too well this time.”

The band chose that moment to strike into a dance number. Almost as if on cue, a gentleman appeared at Babette’s arm.

“Would you care for a dance, My Lady?” he asked.

I recognized him right off: Sir Reginald Blakemore, right-hand man to Count Addney. He had his knighthood, but no explicitly defined role in the court. It was known, however, that if the Count needed something done that could not be connected to him, then Blakemore was the one who saw to it getting done. Not that showing Lady de Loring a night out on the town was something the Count would have been loathe to do.

Lady de Loring looked over to Tempeste, almost as if for permission. Yep, I thought, this place truly does belong to her.

“Oh, go ahead. And don’t worry about me, I can keep myself entertained,” Tempeste said, taking hold of my elbow.

The two courtiers headed out for the dance floor while Tempeste went to retake her seat. I held it out for her and then took my own.

“You certainly have kept yourself entertained,” I said.

“How do you mean?”

“I mean dangling me in front of Babette like that.”

She laughed her little ‘Twas Nothing laugh.

“Sam, I provide entertainment for everyone. You can’t really blame me if your idea of a good time is being uptight and paranoid. Don’t tell me you didn’t get a thrill from dodging the bullet there.”

“I don’t need that type of entertainment, thank you very much.”

“Really? Either that’s an odd choice of eye shadow or you need more practice at dodging.”

We might have been sitting at the most visible table in the club, but I didn’t have any worries about what we were saying. Nothing said at her High Table could be overheard without permission.

I picked up the glass of whiskey that had appeared at my elbow sometime during our conversation. I took a whiff and found it was of a much better caliber than my usual. I looked over at Tempeste. The drink seemed suspiciously like a gift, and she divined my concern.

“You can pay for that with an answer, Sam.”

“No promises,” I said, setting it back down on the table.

“Why is it that you are sticking your nose into Ambrosi’s business?”

I had to think on what I could tell her about that.
“My client is being harassed by someone who won’t let things rest in peace, and I’m just looking to get her out from under.”

She nodded, accepting the answer. The scotch was very good.

“The chorus is about to come out to mingle,” Tempeste said, “Go talk to Rachel.”

I toasted her with the last of my drink, and headed backstage.

“One more thing, Sam.”

I turned.

“Rachel is at work, you know.”

I started to say something. She didn’t let me get started.

“Don’t worry, you can owe me one.”

I was afraid of that.

Intangible Assets, Chapter 11

2005-09-21T20:27:00.000-07:00

Dunkirk’s apartment had been cleaned out. Someone in his line of work never just up and leaves. Usually one or the other party has to be dead for that to happen. If Dunkirk had disappeared in such a way that left Fr. O’Brian worried, then I doubted that the hunter was the one who came out on top of his last job. My guess was that he had finally run into something he couldn’t handle, and that that something cleared the place out.

The heat outside was still intense, but at least the sun was low enough that the shadows of the tenements could keep the streets some soaking up even more heat. The neighborhood was starting to show the life that I presumed had gone inside in the face of the sun. There were a couple of elderly ladies dickering over the price of tomatoes with the dwarven owner of the corner bodega. A group of boys were starting a game of stickball in front of a building whose steps had sprouted an ork who was blowing cigarette smoke around his tusk. Voices came down from the open windows, often for the benefit of neighbors across the street.

I slipped the handkerchief with the wood shavings and the foil ring into my pocket. There was a seed of an idea that needed confirmation from Allison. I convinced the boys to pause their game long enough for me to pull out. The drive back to the office was a blur while the majority of my mind was running through the things I had learned in the past few days.

I entered my office to see Calliope and Allison seated around her desk in the waiting room. Their conversation died off as I entered. I had lived for the past decade as a man on the run, keeping an eye out over my shoulder and at a deep level dreading the tread of the Order at my door. So why is it that hearing a conversation between two women come to a crashing halt when I enter the room bring on a screaming case of paranoia?

“You’re a guy, Sam,” answered Calliope.

What she had wasn’t telepathy, and that made it all the scarier. I was yet again glad she was on my side.

“So no problems around here I take it.”

“Nope, not even a peep from Mr. Reiger.”

No complaints from my landlord, always a good sign.

I checked the wards. All good.

Allison was looking at me with a curious look as I sat on the edge of Calliope’s desk. I took the handkerchief out and unfolded it, being careful not to spill any of the wood fragments.

“Ms. Tierney, could you tell me if this means anything to you?” I asked as I held out the foil ring.

“Oh,” she exclaimed, and reached out to take the ring. Her smile fell as her fingers passed through it and my hand.

“Juicy Fruit, right?” she asked.

I nodded.

“It was a little tic Victor had. Whenever he started a new piece, he’d work the foil in his fingers. He started doing that as a kid and I don’t think he ever realized he was doing it until it was done.”

“Did Victor ever talk to you about what he did, exactly?”

“Never anything specific. He worked with stolen goods, moving them from place to place, keeping fences in line, that type of thing.”

And, I thought, he would be the type of guy that Ambrosi would send to clear out someone’s place after Ambrosi had finished dealing with him. A guy like Victor would have known how to dispose of someone’s worldly possessions on the QT while making a decent profit on the side. It would also have been very unlikely that any of the guys with him would have felt a ward or have recognized the physical components of one. I had to wonder, however, if Victor’s experience might have clued him into some things beyond the ordinary.

I nodded as more of the pieces started coming together. What I was learning was also adding to the list of people I needed to talk to.

A quick look at the clock told me that I needed to stick with my plan as to who would was the next person I had on my list.

I looked over to Calliope.

“You said Rachel is working at Club Hades tonight?”

“That’s right, Sam.” Her tone was commiserating, but her smile was telling me that she was taking a bit of good-natured fun at my discomfiture.

Club Hades. That was another headache that I didn’t need right then.

It took me only a few minutes for a quick wash and a change into a cleaner suit.

I was heading out the door when Calliope chimed in.

“Have fun, boss.”

I stopped.

“I almost forgot. Ms. Tierney, I spoke with Fr. O’Brian. He didn’t come right out and say it, but he can protect you if things get too hairy around here. So, Calliope, if there is a problem, get the comb down to St. Mary’s Church on the double.”

Allison smiled at the familiar name. Calliope looked stricken.

“Me? A church? You have to be kidding.”

“Just call ahead if you can, and tell Fr. O’Brian that you work for me. He’ll understand what’s going on and stay focused on what’s important.”

I smiled.

“Have a nice night.”

Intangible Assets, Chapter 10

2005-09-20T21:10:00.000-07:00

So I left the church with two addresses to check out. The first was what I wanted and the second was a surprise. The fact that Fr. O’Brian wanted someone who knew magic to investigate the place knocked it right off of the list of surprises that I enjoyed getting.

It was getting on two in the afternoon when I pulled up in front of Victor’s apartment. The building was a cut above the rest of the neighborhood. The lobby was not secure, but the doors of the units I passed on the way to Victor’s had enough locks to make up for the lack.

One look at the door and I knew that Victor’s place was still vacant. No one would have been living in the place with the door jam fractured as it was. With a quick scan of the hall and my hand on my gun, I pushed open the door and stepped inside.

I had thought that whoever had tossed Allison’s place had done a thorough job. The wreckage of Victor’s place made her apartment look like amateur night. There were holes punched in the wall and the furniture had been turned inside out. I was already giving up on finding the leverage as I started to pick through the debris.

First thing by the door was a coat rack, empty. There was a small table lying on its side next to the rack. It was one of those little things that was small enough to stay out of the way but big enough for a guy to dump the mail and empty his pockets onto. I went looking on the floor for whatever might have been on it when it went over. There were a couple of bills, some loose change, and receipts.

The dust in the place was about as heavy as it was at Allison’s. That made sense; it would put the ransackings at roughly the same time. As for searching the rest of the place, nothing else approached interesting, much less useful. Nothing except broken woodwork, torn fabrics, and disemboweled furniture. I had to write the whole exercise off as a long shot that didn’t pay off.

And speaking of paying off, I still had my part of the deal with Fr. O’Brian to make good on. I briefly considered just shining him on, but I knew he worked for a boss that kept real good track of things like that.

I could have walked from Victor’s to Dunkirk’s apartment. The second was in the type of place that I knew all to well, seeing as how I was living in one. It was the type that you went to when the first amenity you are looking for was anonymity. The rest, including having a floor that doesn’t fall out from under you, you got and felt lucky to have it.

No elevator, and the stairs to the third floor doubled as the trash chute. As I went up the stairs, I slipped my ring onto my finger. The rune engraved silver and the white stone felt like old friends. My sense of the background magic sharpened, and I knew that what control I could exercise on it was enhanced as well. I had always thought of the ring as being like a knife: it didn’t make me any stronger, but I could use what strength I had that much more effectively.

The door to Dunkirk’s apartment was already open when I approached. The signs of force were clear on the jam, and I bent down to take a look. I quickly realized two things: one, whoever broke the door had used a crowbar, and two, there were the remnants of power from a ward on what was left.

I concentrated my sight on the doorway. The ward was no longer active. It seemed to me that it had expired from neglect rather than breaching.

I stepped inside, and after a quick scan to check for occupants in the room, I turned my attention to the interior of the door. Mr. Dunkirk obviously valued protection over getting his deposit back. The interior of the frame had been carved with runes. I couldn’t say that I was impressed by his method; he seemed to think that more was better; there wasn’t an inch of the frame that wasn’t carved. The symbology was religious, but there are only so many ways to make a ward. The caster has to specify what is to be excluded, and Dunkirk had decided not to entertain anything other than red-blooded humans. I recognized runes for all the major classes of demons, fae, ghosts, vampires, werewolves, and dragons. That last struck me as odd, no one had even seen a dragon since the resurgence, but evidently Dunkirk did not believe in taking chances. The wards were created so as to completely block the entry of anything not permitted. I could make out from the doorway that the windows had received the same treatment. When those wards were powered, the place would have been a supernatural bunker.

Dunkirk had most definitely been aware of the supernatural. I reached out to touch the history of the room. Very little living had been done there; it was nothing more than a dormitory for one man. I got the sense of paranoia, fear, and a little madness. Nothing surprising all told, a person would have to be more than a little crazy to make hunting the supernatural his life’s work.

The apartment was a simple studio. There was a bed and an armchair, both divotted in the center and presumably came with the apartment. The cabinets next to a one-burner gas cook top all stood open and empty. A scarred wardrobe also stood open. The floor was littered with greasy bits of food wrap and newspapers. The topmost of the newspapers was dated three months previously, and the food wrappers had been picked clean by the roaches some time ago.

Over by the wardrobe, I spotted a pattern crushed into the rug. It looked like a pair of rectangles, angled relative to one another and almost touching at one corner. It took me a minute to picture what might have made that impression: a steamer trunk, opened, and standing on end for a long time. Long enough that the rug had a slightly balder patch between the trunk and the edge of the bed. Light brown flecks dusted the rug near the bed. I knelt down and picked one up with the end of my finger. A shaving of wood. More like a part of a shaving that had been stepped on and ground into the rug. I had an idea about the wood, but I still removed a clean handkerchief from my pocket and brushed a few of the flecks into it.

That done, I bent down to the floor to take a look under the bed. That’s when I saw something that I did not expect to see. It was a thin, silvery ring. I picked it up, its surface was foil crinkled in on itself. And it still smelled faintly of Juicy Fruit.

Intangible Assets, Chapter 9

2005-09-19T00:32:00.000-07:00

I woke up to find all of the injuries I had taken the day before were back to collect, with interest. My hand felt as if I had been demolishing cars with my fist, and my back was still complaining about my room spanning flight. At least my nose worked, and it told me that Calliope was already in and had made coffee. All in all, I’d had worse mornings.

“Morning, Sam.”

Calliope, as always, looked like a vision. She had headed out not long before I went to bed, and I doubted that she had gone straight to her apartment. I shrugged the comparison off, I was sure that whatever she had been up to was a lot closer to a sane person’s definition of fun than what I had done the day before.

“Good morning. Any sign of Allison this morning?”

“Nope, haven’t seen her,” she said as she set a cup of coffee and the Imperial Times on my desk.

“Okay. Any appointments for today?”

“None.” She didn’t even let on that that had been the same answer for two weeks straight.

“For once, I’m glad. I’ll be heading out for most of the day. When she does show up, the comb is in the safe.”

“And you’ll be where, may I ask?”

“Looking for more details on Victor. Ambrosi still seems hot on whatever Victor had over him, and our best bet on getting out of this is getting our hands on whatever it is.”

Calliope nodded.

“OK, then I’ll hold down the fort, beat off the creditors, and play hostess to a ghost while you’re away. Never a dull day around here.”

“Never let anyone say I don’t appreciate what you do. By the way, got any ideas on where Rachel is working tonight?”

“And what type of big sister would I be if I didn’t? She’ll be at Club Hades.”

“Oh, swell.” Dealing with that place would have to wait, though.

The morning was already in full swing by the time I headed out to my car. The mercury was up at a decent level and only promised to climb. I quickly regretted wearing the suit jacket, but I would have rather dealt with the temperature than deal with the cops for not keeping my gun covered.

Being an obstacle to Giaccomo Ambrosi was not a calling that had much of a future to it. Victor Caretti hadn’t done too well by it, and he had had something that should have bought him an advantage. If I was going to figure out just what that was, I would need more information than Allison had provided.

My first stop for the day was St. Mary’s Church. It was only a few blocks from Allison’s apartment, and I figured that Victor would not have planned on settling down outside of his old neighborhood, especially if that meant outside of his boss’s sphere of influence. If there were anyone in the neighborhood who knows what was going on in the local’s lives, it would be the parish priest.

The church looked like a small cathedral, stonewalls with tall stained glass windows, all of it topped by a narrow steeple. Behind the church, I could just make out a more institutional building that looked to have been made of stones from the same quarry as the church.

A sensation of power made itself felt as I mounted the steps toward the open doors. I steeled myself as I stepped over the threshold. Fortunately, the presence did not object to wizards crossing into its protectorate. If anything, I felt a sense of welcome, an invitation to relax my guard in this place of sanctuary.

I dipped my fingers into the holy water by the door and crossed myself. Not for the first time, I wondered if knowing was somehow less than simply believing.

A priest in full robes came of a door by the altar as I started making my way up the aisle. I put his age at about fifty, gray and balding, but he still moved quickly without appearing to rush. Beyond the physical, he moved in perfect accord with the power of the place, both served the same purpose.

He approached with a smile. He wasn’t looking at me as if to see what was going on behind my surface, but he must have had me made the instant I passed through the doors.

“Good morning. I am Father O’Brian. Is there some way I may be of assistance, my son?”

“Yes, my name is Sam Watson, I’m a private detective. I was hoping that you might be able to answer some questions for me.”

“Indeed? May I ask what your visit pertains to?”

“I’m investigating the deaths of Allison Tierney and Victor Caretti.”

The briefest flicker of surprise crossed his face.

“Would you care to come with me to my office, Mr. Watson?”

His office proved to a cell-like room with a small desk and overflowing bookshelves leaving little room for two people to have a discussion.

“Could I offer you something to drink, Mr. Watson?”

“Thank you, a glass of water would be excellent right now,” I said as I fanned myself with my hat.

“Certainly. Please, have a seat.”

I took the opportunity to look around at the books on the shelves. There were records dating back a little over a century filling one case. Another set of shelves had numerous books with bindings describing their contents as histories ranging from the city to the country to Europe. Further along were tomes with titles written in Latin and Greek. Among them were treatises on demonology and monsters that I recalled from training.

“Do you read Latin, Mr. Watson?” Fr. O’Brian had returned with a pair of glasses of ice water.

“I recall a bit from school. It is an impressive collection.”

“Thank you. I often wish that it was merely a hobby, but times being what they are…” he let the thought die off as he handed me a glass.

“Oh, thank you,” I said. Where I used the water as an excuse to look around unhindered, he used it to look at my hand as I reached for it. There was no way for him not to notice that I did not wear an Order ring.

He worked his way around the desk and sat down.

“I’ll answer your questions as well as I may, but you must understand that there are some areas of which I am not allowed to discuss.”

“I understand, the sanctity of the confessional. First, I understand that Victor and Allison had been engaged?”

“Yes, we had even made arrangements to have the ceremony this coming December. I understand, however, that they had not made any public announcement of their betrothal.”

“Had they known each other long before the engagement?”

“Oh, yes. Their families lived in the same building since the two were toddlers, and Victor had always taken to protecting her. In the wake of the deaths of both of their parents, they relied even more upon one another. They were inseparable during their time in the orphanage, and everyone who knew them believed that it was only a matter of time before they got married.”

He stopped as if an odd thought had crossed his mind and asked, “Mr. Watson, may I inquire as to why you are looking into this matter?”

“I’m sorry, Father, but I also have an obligation to maintain a confidence.” From what I sensed of the benevolent nature of this church and its caretaker, I decided to take a leap. “Suffice it to say that my client does not feel well served in the official investigation of the murder of Allison Tierney.”

“I was of the understanding that the sheriff had ruled her death an accident.”

“That was the conclusion of the detectives, but my client strongly believes otherwise. From what I have already gathered, Victor was similarly unconvinced?”

“Victor was not unconvinced. He knew that she had been murdered.”

“You say that he knew. I take it that you did not doubt the accuracy of his conclusion, then?”

“No, I do not doubt Victor’s conclusion. I made a few inquiries with other members of the congregation who were at work in the Silver Club that night. They all confirmed that confrontation between Allison and Tenebrisi.”

Fr. O’Brian took a sip of water from his glass.

“Sylvio Tenebrisi was a monster, and that is not a word that I use lightly, Mr. Watson. He used violence upon whomever he chose for any gain, and at times for sport. Allison was a strong woman. Victor taught her how to take care of herself in much the way that she taught Victor how to remain human despite everything that had happened to them. She protected herself, and in the end it may have lead to her death.

“Without her there to be his touchstone, there was nothing left to stop Victor from falling to his desire for vengeance.”

“He didn’t come to you for counseling or advice?” I asked.

“No, I went to him. I told him that vengeance would only scar his soul on top of the wound it had already taken. He did not listen.”

“And afterward?”

“And of afterward I may not speak, for it happened within the confessional, and aside from that, I had not spoken with him.”

Great, I thought, and now we hit the brick wall.

“From what I’ve been able to gather so far, Victor believed that he had something that would have allowed him to avoid Ambrosi’s vengeance for Tenebrisi’s death. Would you have any idea what that might have been?”

Fr. O’Brian looked me over closely at that.

“I’m sorry Mr. Watson, I there’s nothing I can say about anything like that.”

His tone of voice had not changed, but something behind his eyes slammed shut like a vault door. My instinct said that pushing on this topic would burn any further cooperation I might get from the good Father.

“Would you happen to have Victor’s address handy?”

“I could give it to you, but I’m afraid no one has lived there since his passing. Even then, I should be keeping such records private as well.”

“I’d hardly think that Victor would mind very much now.”

“Even so, Mr. Watson. But perhaps…” he said looking me over.

“Perhaps?”

“I could give you the address, in return for a favor.”

“What type of favor?”

“There is another member of the congregation that I have lost touch with. His name is Albert Dunkirk. He aids various diocese in defending their faithful with more, shall we say, active means. If I asked you to go look in on his place, I believe that you would have an appreciation of certain details that the sheriff’s deputies would lack.”

“I’m already working a case, Father.”

“And all I’m asking is that you look in upon his residence with no obligation to pursue further. That is all.”

I had to consider for a moment.

“Alright, but just to look in, nothing more.”

“Agreed.”

With that, Fr. O’Brian reached into a drawer and removed a large ledger book. Less than a minute later he handed me a scrap of paper with two addresses. The first was Victor’s apartment. The other was that of Albert Dunkirk, Fr. O’Brian’s missing associate.

I prayed that it wasn’t one of those favors that blew up in your face.

“Thank you, for your time, Father,” I said.

“Let me show you out.”

We entered into the nave of the church.

“Oh, just one more thing, Mr. Watson,” said the priest.

I was ready for yet more good news.

“Yes?”

“This church,” he said with his arms wide to encompass the whole structure, “is a place of sanctuary. If you or any other soul have need of God’s protection, one needs but ask, and it shall be granted.”

“Thanks, Father, I’ll keep that in mind.”

With that we shook hands, and I headed out to take a look at Victor Caretti’s apartment.

Intangible Assets, Chapter 8

2005-09-14T22:25:00.000-07:00

     Once again Allison was standing in my office. There was a list of differences between the first and second visits, however.

     First was that I didn’t even get a tinge from the ward. While I had included her in among those allowed to pass, it still would have warned me of her arrival. She had simply formed where I saw her standing.

     Second, her appearance was just as sharp as it had been in the apartment. I scored one in my column for being right about the comb.

     Third was her expression. I barely had to extend my senses to tell that the fear that made up her presence previously had by now transformed almost entirely into rage.

     “Welcome back, Ms. Tierney,” I said, as if ghosts showed up in my office everyday. People assumed that wizards always knew what was coming, and it took effort to keep that reputation intact.

     She started as if I had shaken her awake. She looked about the office in confusion until she fixed upon me.

     “What? How did I get here? Last thing I remember was trying to cut that bastard’s eyes out.” She stepped around the desk and fell into a chair.

     “Didn’t you hear me tell you to get out?”

     “You mean that he was there? Yes, I heard you, but there was no way in hell that I was going to run from him again. Not when they were burning by apartment.”

     That was something of a surprise. They must have set to that pretty quick after the commotion I had helped make. The more I considered it, however, the more sense it made, at least in the terms I was coming to understand as I slowly reinvented that particular wheel.

     The energy seemed to flow out of her once she sat down. I might not have been able to offer her a drink, but I did have the cigarette trick down by then. She was on her second drag by the time she appreciated the oddity of it, but I made like it wasn’t a big deal. Just another part of keeping up appearances.

“I need to ask you some questions. If we can figure out why they want you gone, then we can figure out how to beat them. You with me on this?”

     She nodded, not taking her eyes off of the curling smoke.

     “Do you know the man who is trying to destroy you?”

     “I wasn’t sure until I saw him tonight. His name is Sylvio Tenebrisi.”
“Good. Why do you think that he is after you?”

She exhaled a wisp of smoke with a sardonic snort.

“Maybe he doesn’t think that killing me once was enough.”

I had to run that one through my head a second time to be sure I got the gist of it.

“You mean that he was the one who murdered you?”

She nodded.

“He’s the type of guy who doesn’t take no for answer. It didn’t matter if the lady’s date was right next to her, he’d move in like he already owned her.”

“And none of the guys had anything to say about this?”

“Sylvio had a nasty reputation. Word was that he was the knife Giaccomo Ambrosi turned to when he wanted a special message sent. There were enough stories about what he did to people to keep guys from getting too chivalrous.”

“Hold the phone, you’re saying that Victor and Sylvio were both working for Ambrosi?”

She nodded.

“Yes. That kept Sylvio off me for a while, but one night he was pretty full of himself, and Victor was dealing with some smugglers down on the docks.”

Her gaze moved to the comb sitting on the desk. As I looked between it and her, I could see that she was wearing one much like it. It was the type without a handle that held up the bun she wore.

“You should know that Victor and I went way back. Schoolbooks and puppy love back. I don’t know why he took to protecting me, but nobody pushed me around without getting a bloody nose. I suppose I helped keep him from turning into a complete bully. He gave me that when we were in middle school.” She indicated the comb with a nod.

“We had both lost our parents during the invasion and ended up relying on each other. He knew that he couldn’t be with me all the time, so he taught me a few tricks to keep myself safe.”

Her hand slid up her leg along the high slit of her dress. The hem rose up until it reached her garter and the item it held.

“I didn’t remember having this until I saw him tonight.” A slight metallic ring and four inches of bright steel punctuated her contemplation. Her eyes went from the stiletto to me. “Another gift from Victor.”

“Like I said, Victor was at the docks, and I was working my hostess job at the Silver Club. Sylvio came over to the table and chased off the high rollers I was making feel welcome. Next thing you know he’s getting all familiar and not letting on that he could hear the word ‘No’. Eventually, I had the knife right up where it counted and told him that if he insisted on playing trespasser, I’d start playing jewel thief. He took the hint at that point.

“I think I would have been okay if one of his boys hadn’t laughed. Wasn’t even much of a laugh, nothing more than a snort. Sylvio heard it, and I might as well have cut off his balls.

“I should have been more careful opening my door that night. Victor had a key, but he always knocked. He said that I made him want to act like a gentleman. So when I heard the knock, I assumed it was him. I’d barely cracked the door when Sylvio shoved it open on me. I hadn’t caught my balance before he was on me.”

Her eyes weren’t focused on anything as she spoke. She wasn’t seeing anything in my office at that moment, and I would have given anything to be able to put a comforting hand on her shoulder.

“He raped me right there in my own home. He laughed at me and looked right in my eyes as he choked me.”

She sat for several minutes, simply watching the smoke of her cigarette curl toward the ceiling.

“The next thing I knew I was back in my apartment. I saw Victor sitting on my bed crying. I wanted to touch him, to tell him that things would be all right. But I knew. I knew that he couldn’t have heard me.

“There wasn’t any way for him to know I was there, but he spoke to me anyway. He had my knife in his hand, and he promised me that he would kill the bastard. Victor didn’t care that Sylvio was a made man. He said that he had plans that would keep him safe. He said that even if Ambrosi found out it was him that killed Sylvio that he had enough on Ambrosi to get one of the other families to shelter him.

“In the end, he killed Sylvio. Victor even used my knife to cut Sylvio’s throat. I was there when he did it, and I know that Sylvio saw me just as he was dying.

“Victor dumped his body into the river, and he seemed to have gotten away with it.”

“Then the bomb,” I said.

She nodded.

“I was in the apartment when I heard the car pull up. I saw Angelo Giuliano get out of the car, and he leaned back in. I leaned out the window, and could hear him talking to Victor.”

I was tempted to break in on that name. Angelo “Bloody” Giuliano was Ambrosi’s number two man. The more I heard of this story, the further up the food chain I found myself.

“He said, ‘Keep the car running, Sylvio wants to have a few words with you.’”

She bit back a sob. “Sometimes I could have sworn that Victor could hear me. Oh, God, why didn’t he hear me then? I saw Sylvio, standing across the street, grinning to beat the band. He looked me in the eye and tipped his hat to me. I screamed at Victor to get out of the car, but he didn’t hear me.”

I gave her a few moments to compose herself while I let the new information run itself through my mind. The first thing that bothered me was that while I could understand Sylvio coming for payback on his own, the fact that he had living goons backing him up meant that someone else was willing to spend some assets on his behalf.

Allison looked bone weary, but I still needed more.

“I take it that Victor was keeping up the apartment.”

“Yes, he and I were going to live there after the wedding, but I had already moved in from my old place.”

“And he didn’t break stuff out of grief or rage?”

“No, if anything, he treated it like a museum.”

“So then it was someone else who tossed the place?”

She paused to consider.

“I don’t remember that happening, but it wouldn’t have been Victor.”

“Was it before or after the bomb?”

“I don’t know, after I think. I don’t remember much after the bomb other than Sylvio’s attack and dealing with you.”

“Did Victor ever say what it was he had on Ambrosi?”

“No, only that it would make Ambrosi think twice about making good for Sylvio.”

She looked to be having trouble keeping her eyes open. That and she was starting to go transparent again. Did ghosts need sleep? Evidently they did.

“Try to get some rest,” I told her. I figured that she’d be right there when she woke up. That is, if my theory that the comb was one of her connections to the world of the living was correct.

She disappeared entirely without opening her eyes again. I picked up my glass of bourbon and downed it without really caring about the pain.

“So what are you going to do, Sam?”

I had completely forgotten that Calliope had been in the next room. She was standing in the doorway with an expression that I was very glad was not directed at me personally.

I picked up the comb and traced its details with my fingertips.

“I’m not sure. What I do know is that we’re in this up to our eyeballs.”

Intangible Assets, Chapter 7

2005-09-12T20:51:00.000-07:00

     As I did with the walk to the car, I drove so that I approached the office from the far side. The goons who were looking to clear out Allison’s apartment were probably as anxious as I was to avoid the sheriff’s men. That didn’t mean that I wasn’t going to be careful.

     Strictly speaking, I wasn’t certain that they were working with the other ghost.  My principled aversion to coincidence made up for the uncertainty. Paulie had figured pretty quick that I was talking to a ghost. He had also figured that I might just be useful for an introduction to the lady of the house. They were there to pick up a few things that might get a certain lady’s attention. My experiment went quicker because I was already on speaking terms with her.

Then there was the matter of the wraithly heavy on the fire escape. How long had he been observing the action in that room? Probably long enough to figure that the comb was something important in the spectral scheme of things. My little experiment must have saved them some work.

By the time I parked my car, all of the pain I’d put off clamored for attention with more enthusiasm than my dwarven landlord calling for back rent. I decided to cancel the rest of my appointments for the day by the time I had climbed the stairs and into my office. I was vaguely surprised to see Calliope there. At least she would have been able to contact my clients about the cancellations, had there been any to cancel.

She didn’t even bat an eye when she saw the state I was in.

“This is not what I meant when I said that you should go out and try to have a good time.” She picked up a small pocketbook and headed for the door. “I’ll be right back.”

I slipped out of my coat, wincing at the aches settling into my shoulders and back. Once out of the coat, I opened one of the middle drawers of the filing cabinet and removed the silk, candle, and chalk. I cleared my desk and spread the cloth so that the incomplete circle painted on the silk was smooth. The candle went in the center. I lit the candle and held the end of the chalk in the flame. I drew the runes of warding at the ordinal points of the broken circle, and copied the same runes upon the walls of the office, this time speaking the names of the permitted. This ward was going to be more than just the alert I had up the previous night, nothing magical would cross it without a fight. I named to Allison among the permitted in addition to Calliope and myself.

With that step done, I returned to the desk. Intoning the final invocation of Warding, I drew the last part of the arc to complete the circle about the candle. The sigils flared both on the silk and on the walls. When the lights faded, the runes were no longer visible on either, but the circle on the silk was still complete.

The silk, extinguished candle, and chalk went back into the drawer. The ward complete, I went to the bathroom to take stock of the damage. That’s the way it got done: first the ward, then the wizard.

Thankfully, I still had all of my teeth, though I’d keep my chewing to the left for the next week or so. The only other real damage was to my hand. Knuckles just aren’t designed to channel that much Force. Supposedly there were Chinamen who could throw punches like that all day long. One of these days I’d have to get around to asking one of them how they do that. Just as soon as I met one who could and wasn’t of a mind to demonstrate the technique on my person.

I had just managed to pry open a bottle of aspirin when Calliope returned.

“You in here, boss?”

I responded with a relieved groan as I slipped into my chair.

“I noticed the welcome mat,” she said with a nod that encompassed the office. “Expecting the party to follow you home?”

She set a paper bag down on the desk. A pair of greasy, newspaper wrapped bundles and a rattling ice bag emerged from its confines. Calliope handed me the ice bag and set to unwrapping the packages of fish and chips from the café next door.

I twisted the cap off the ice bag and shook a couple of cubes into a reasonably clean tumbler. The ice was followed with a double’s worth of bourbon before I closed the bag and applied said bag to my face.

“I doubt anyone managed to follow me, but no point in taking the chance.”

The slug I took off the bourbon nearly ended up on the desk. I screwed my eyes shut and swallowed through the pain. At least the newly discovered lacerations on the inside of my cheek were disinfected. The rest of the bourbon would have to wait for later.

“So what’s the case?” Calliope asked as she brought a morsel of fried fish to her full, inviting lips. “Sam?”

It took me a moment to register that she had asked me a question. She didn’t let on if my distraction irritated her. I figured that it was the type of thing a girl got used to as a succubus.

“Oh, sorry,” I popped a chip in my mouth to cover the delay in my reaction. “Her name is Allison Tierney. She came in last night with a story about how someone was trying to, um, kill her.”

“And, of course, Sir Samuel leaped forward into the fray to absorb the blows meant for the fair damsel in distress.” She punctuated her analysis by sucking a bit of vinegar off of her thumb.

“It’s a touch more complicated than that,” I said, concentrating on relieving my injured teeth from chewing duty.

“Really? Complicated how?”

“She’s already dead.”

Calliope paused with a chip halfway up.

“ ‘Already dead’ as in ‘not a customer to list as a reference’ or ‘already dead’ as in ‘who should I be haunting’?”

“More like the second. She said that another ghost tried to off her. I was at her place this afternoon when I ran into some of her attacker’s more physical associates.”

I winced as I absentmindedly tongued a chip to the wrong side.

“Would this Allison be tall, brunette, and wearing a red dress?” Calliope asked. My gaze, which had drifted away from her in order to keep my mind on the case, turned back to her. Calliope was looking over my right shoulder.

“That’s right.”

“Then there is a Ms. Tierney here to see you.”

While the distraction inherent of working with a Lilliam was hardly onerous, there were other advantages. The big one was that Calliope always saw magically while I had to do so consciously. That edge had saved my bacon more than once.

At that moment, however, I intended to have a too long delayed conversation with my client.

Intangible Assets, Chapter 6

2005-09-08T21:15:00.000-07:00

     I snatched up a piece of mirror and put my back up next to the door. With the shard angled down the hall, I had a decent view of the new arrivals. Their suits were too good for any of the Sheriff’s boys to afford, and the cops wouldn’t have bothered with the lock picks. Clearly the guy who used the picks knew their use, and I didn’t want to bet against him having equal familiarity with the gun he tucked the picks next to.

     The first guy through the door turned to the pick man and handed him a sack.

     “Clear the bedroom. Do it quick,” he said.

     Crap.

     I looked for the windows. The alley side window had a fire escape, but I couldn’t get there without getting spotted. So entirely subtle was out.

     A last glance in the mirror had the speaker moving further into the living room. I swapped the glass for my piece. When the pick man entered the room, I grabbed him by the lapel, spun him around, and pushed him into the wall I had been holding up. His mind gave up shouting while it considered the thirty-two-caliber tunnel I had poked at his eye.

     “Who is he?” Allison asked from over my shoulder. “What is he doing here?”

     “Give me a minute, will you?” I muttered, hoping my voice didn’t carry.

     It’s pretty easy to tell what a person is thinking from six inches away. He was thinking that not only does that guy have a gun in my face but also he’s crazy. Then he understood.

     I wished he had stayed with crazy.

     I went to punch him down with the butt of my gun, but pick man was faster. He was also entirely too strong as I went flying across the room and into the dresser. My fall was accompanied by the last hurrah of the pieces of mirror that survived the first search.

     “Paulie, what the hell ya doin’ in there?”

Paulie was at that moment taking the five paces needed to cross the space he had propelled me across. He arrived and made sure my gun departed. With the return stroke he gave me a backhand that would have rung Big Ben.

“He’s too damn small to be that strong,” I thought.

“We’ve got ourselves a visitor. I think he can introduce us to the dame. I figure the boss would like… aaahh!!”

Paulie let go of my jacket and hobbled backward. I had barely registered the shard of mirror in his calf before I let fly with my fist. The punch itself wasn’t decisive. What settled it was the shot of Force I cut loose with it. I felt his jaw break as he left his feet in favor of his back.

I couldn’t stop to admire my handiwork. I’d scooped up my gun was picking up the comb when Paulie’s pal made it into the room. He was a real Boy Scout, gun prepared and everything. A big Boy Scout at that, six-two at least.

He spotted Paulie laid out on the floor and decided to let his piece collect the payback for him. By then, I was headed for the alley window, spitting a couple of rounds behind me to keep the big guy honest.

“Don’t let him leave with that comb!” said an unknown voice.

I couldn’t tell if the big scout had actually heard the voice, but he fired a round my way as I went headlong through the window onto the fire escape. I thought my number was up when I saw the man in the dark suit standing above me. Then I realized that my hand was in his foot and neither of us had noticed.

“Allison, go! He’s here!” I shouted.

I didn’t stop to see if she heard my warning. I was crawling to the ladder when the fire escape vibrated as if a small hammer had hit it very hard. There was another suit in the alley below joining the party. Over my shoulder I saw a laughing ghost and the big scout lean out the window sporting a fresh gash close to his left eye.

I slid partway down the ladder. Up was no good, ditto with down, and my time was running out.

The fire escape across the alley was at least twelve feet away. If a wizard tries hard enough, he can fly. Too bad I never got to those lessons.

I pushed off the ladder about halfway down, used the third floor railing for a step, and launched myself into space.

My vision had narrowed down to the deck of the third floor landing across the way. All of my Will was focused on the bar at the outer edge. My fingers closed around it, and I pulled, tucked my knees up, and swung. The skin on my palms tore, and my legs slammed into the wall of the building. I forced my mind to defer feeling those new insults until later.

A bullet singing off the metal of the fire escape snapped me out of the state. Big scout had climbed out onto his landing and was shooting at me again. The ground pounder was nowhere to be seen.

For the first time since I came to this town I was glad for the August heat when I found the window I landed next to was open. I climbed in to see an old lady washing dishes while surrounded by a half-dozen cats. She seemed to be having difficulty processing the situation.

“Pardon me,” I said, “I’ll show myself out.”

I figured that ground pounder had to be working his way in once I went through the window. So I needed a way to cover my escape. That was easy enough as I hit the glass-covered fire alarm button.

Some people stuck their heads out into the hallways as I walked for the far side of the building. The sensible ones had grabbed their hats or purses and were starting to fill the halls. The end of the hall had a door to the fire escape, and I joined the few who had taken the exterior route.

Once on the ground, I pulled together my best impression of invisible and took the long route back to my car.

Intangible Assets, Chapter 5

2005-09-06T20:38:00.000-07:00

     It was time to check out Ms. Tierney’s apartment. I needed more information about her. Seeing how she lived would give me some insight into her and the bigger picture. If she still haunted the place, all the better. Thankfully, she was in the book.

     Her place was up in the area between Central Park and Harlem. The neighborhood, like any other, had its good points and bad points. The apartment building I was looking at made a fair bid for being one of the better points. Of course, apartments like that tend not to stay vacant very long. She had spoken about “coming to” in her apartment after the attack, so I figured that the apartment was her version of Cutler’s alley. How it wasn’t someone else’s apartment by now was a question that needed answering.

I had to park a couple of blocks off from the apartment. As I approached the building, I saw another resident unlocking the front door. I was too far away to get to it before it shut, but I was close enough to let a bare finger of power nudge the door so that it didn’t latch. Sometimes, as a mage, you get to make your own luck.

     The call box by the door still bore the name Tierney. Inside, the lobby was spotless and echoed the footsteps that rang off the mirror-shined tile floor. I gave the elevator a pass and took the stairs to the fourth floor.

     The place definitely put my office-cum-apartment to shame. No water stains on the ceiling, clean carpet rather than tiles with trails burned into them, and no smell of the cabbage Mrs. Kranski had cooked last year.

     Aside from the number, the door to Apartment 414 looked like all the others, yet another sign this place was of a swanker nature than my own accommodations. I knocked on the door, just in case I was incorrect about the apartment’s occupancy status. When no one answered, I took my case of lock picks out of my breast pocket. I really had no idea how to use the damn things, but they made for a good focus for my actual method. I closed my eyes as I inserted the pick and felt around the interior of the lock with the rake. Visualizing the tumblers, I willed an invocation of Motion into them. The lock turned with a bit of protest, and I breathed a sigh of relief. My fine control of Motion was shaky, and I was fortunate not to have busted the lock entirely. It was a truism of all magic: the creation and control of large forces may be impressive, but subtlety and precision are the marks of true skill.

     The door proved to be a boundary of order. The interior of the apartment looked like a box of knick-knacks that had been rolled a couple of times. Furniture had been overturned, and everything that might have been on a shelf was now on the floor.

Allison’s body had been found on a sidewalk in Chinatown, and the police report mentioned nothing about searching her residence. I had to figure the people who tossed the place weren’t given little metal badges when they signed up. A layer of dust covered the disarray, so no one had been in the apartment for at least a week or two. Miss Tierney had ceased doing anything life related two months ago, and that most certainly would have involved paying the rent. So why was the apartment not occupied by someone else?

     Answer: her rent must have been paid up in advance. I’d have to ask some questions of either Allison or her landlord.

     I carefully stepped my way to the center of the living room. I cleared my mind and let my senses reach out. Fear and the desperate need for just one more breath rushed in on me, and I had to slam down my barriers almost immediately. The residue of the murder was still fresh in the abandoned apartment. There had been no living done in there to dilute the force of the fear with new emotions. Unlike Cutler, who never saw the gun put to the back of his head, Allison had been strangled and she had seen her death coming.

Barely discernable behind that rush of sensation was a presence similar to what I felt cross my ward the night before. With this second experience, I could feel her as fear just as it was being pushed over into anger. The background emotion of the apartment made functioning on that level just too distracting. It would have been like trying to have a discussion in the middle of a steel plant. She’d have to come to me, and that would be on her time.

I took the opportunity to poke around the wreckage. Pieces of mail and fragments of ceramic knick-knacks shared the floor with magazines and cushions from the sofa. The mail was nothing more than advertising flyers. No letters, no bills. The wireless set had been moved away from the wall and its backing had been torn off. I looked for the ventilation grates. They too had been removed. Whoever had searched the place knew all the tricks.

The kitchen was small. All of the cabinets were open and their contents spilled out on the floor. Not that there was much, a couple of brand new pots and pans, a basic set of silverware, and the remnants of maybe a half dozen wineglasses.

I moved on to the bedroom. It sat in the corner of the building, one window looked out across the street, the other across the alley and the next building’s fire escape. The interior of the room was in no better state than the rest of the apartment. The mattress had been up-ended and now sagged down the far wall. The contents of the closet might as well have been spat out onto the bedroom floor. A lot of silk, almost as much satin, and enough fur to denude a zoo. Underneath some of the dresses, was a thin layer of a man’s clothes. A couple of shirts and a suit. The suit would have looked pretty snazzy after a pressing, certainly better than anything I owned.

A chest of drawers stood empty next to the closet. Mostly her stuff, but there was a pile of boxers and socks amid the wreckage. The disarray on top of the chest was mostly the clutter of life: loose change, receipts and the like. Among the scatterings were thin silver rings. I picked one up. It was the foil from a stick of gum, rolled into a rod and its ends joined together. I took a sniff: Juicy Fruit.

I let my nose lead me to the dresser. The mirror above had been smashed, and the small drawers pulled out of their slots. On the floor nearby were smashed bottles, presumably the source of the lingering scent. Lipstick and various powders made small splashes of color under the dust. I spotted a fancy little box in the corner. Scattered about it were earrings, a pendant, and a couple of rings. There were some nice stones in that collection. Clearly whoever tossed the place wasn’t interested in common burglary.

It was time to test a theory. I picked up the pendant, a nice emerald in gold, and slipped it in a pocket. Ditto a ring with a three-diamond setting. Next was a tortoise-shell comb with little paste gems.

She was on me in a flash.

“Leave that alone!” A banshee couldn’t have come on that loud, but it wasn’t my physical ears that were ringing from her shout.

“So I have your attention now?” I asked as I set the comb down on the dresser.

She took a couple of steps back from me as I turned around. She was still in the red sequined number from the night before, and again the sequins shimmered to a different light altogether. What was different was that there was none of the fog. Her appearance was as clear any other person’s.

She ran her fingers over her brows in a gesture of weariness and took a couple of breaths.

“I’m sorry, I don’t really know what came over me.”

“Do you remember who I am?”

She nodded.

“Yes, I spoke to you.” Her brow furrowed. “Watson, that’s it, right?”

“Right. Sam Watson. I’m a private detective. You came to my office last night looking for help.”

She was staring at me as if I had a second nose.

“There’s something odd about you. I can’t put my finger on it.”

“I have a few talents that probably show a little different from your end of the spectrum.” This well outside of the topics I wanted her to know about. “Think you can answer a few questions?”

She nodded and leaned wearily against the wall.

“Whose moll were you?”

I could have chilled a fifth of gin in the glare she gave me.

“It wasn’t like that. I wasn’t just some whore. Victor confided in me, we were going to get married.”

Classic.

“Victor?”

“Victor Caretti.”

I nodded. The name was familiar from the news rags. He was a mid-level gangster connected to the Ambrosi Family. Word on the street was that he was a real up-and-comer until his last boost upward included a couple of sticks of dynamite wired to his car’s ignition. That had been a couple of months ago. Another advantage to mystical training: lots of memory work. And if my skills were up to snuff, that bomb hadn’t been too far from here.

“Was he the one… what?” She had pulled herself upright, not paying the slightest attention to me. She held her head as if trying to make out an indistinct sound.

“Someone’s here,” she said as I heard the latch of the front door pull back.

Intangible Assets, Chapter 4

2005-09-02T20:28:00.000-07:00

I started wearing down some shoe leather the next morning. The first stop was police headquarters to dig up any files about Allison Tierney. While the desk sergeant was calling someone who could make a decision about letting me in, I was looking at the numerous wanted posters and rewards offered. I spotted a few recognizable aliases; thankfully none of them were mine.

It took me the best part of an hour to get permission to check the blotter records and less than five minutes to verify the “accidental” death of Allison Tierney two months previously. The photo in the file matched the face I met in my office the night before. The accident determination had been reached about an hour after the discovery of the body. That didn’t really mean much, I’d seen cases involving two stabs to the back and a head jammed in a toilet declared accidents. The file was entirely too thin to be real. No coroner’s report, no evidence collected whatsoever, just the one crime scene photo and a three-sentence detective’s report to put it just inside the bare minimum required. That photo was enough to show ligature marks around her throat.

I considered leaning on the detective, one Arthur Bertram, to learn to whom outside his chain of command he was answering. That was an option to save for later. That would be a situation where I might be giving more information out with my questions than I would get from the answers. As it was, I was taking a chance of drawing attention just asking for the file.

I moved on from the precinct house to speak with a contact that could give me an education on ghosts. Calling Stewart “Rubber Burnin’” Cutler a contact was stretching the word to its breaking point. He had hired me to track down a one-time partner in crime that not only took him for his share of the job but also his life. Ms. Tierney wasn’t my first ghostly client, Cutler had been the first, and that case hadn’t ended too well. I got distracted on a trail that indicated an associate of the Baron was heading the operation. In the meantime, the partner was similarly offed and both trails grew cold.

I still hadn’t come up with a plan when I reached the alleyway where Cutler had been murdered. It was where I contacted him when I had or needed information for the case. From what I knew about ghosts, he should still be haunting this place. For the rest, I needed him to talk to me.

The shadows of the alley shielded me from the street after about ten paces. It was a New York alley, dirty, trash overflowing, and that wonderful scent of ammonia that was testimony of less savory uses.

I opened my senses outward. It was a barrage of sensation that had threatened to drive me out of my mind when I was an apprentice, and that in a controlled workroom. My extra years of experience helped me ride that wave of clashing life and emotion, past and present. Cockroaches and rats, beatings and illicit meetings, fear and rage muffled under a blanket of willful ignorance. I sifted through and looked for the freshest of resonance.

I found a knot of greed and resentment. He was sitting above and to my left on a fire escape. I focused in on him, my will focusing onto resolving his image. Once he had resolved in my mind, I could hear the sound of a key ring spinning around his index finger.

“Eh, Watson. You here to tell me you’ve found my money? Or better yet that bastard Slim?”

“If anything, you’re the one in a better position to find Slim,” I replied.

“Then if you’re looking for entertainment, you are in the wrong place. Unless Ramona has a trick, but even that gets old after awhile. Kinda like Ramona.” Cutler chuckled at his own wit.

“So you wouldn’t mind a bit of conversation then?” I asked as I lit up a cigarette.

Cutler’s eyes bored down on the cigarette, the knot of resentment grew a little stronger. He didn’t bother to keep it out of his voice.

“Why should I have any reason to talk to you? You know what I want to hear, and I got nothing to say to you.”

His desire and a bit of old lore found each other in my mind and turned into an idea. I shook a coffin nail out of the pack and set it on a lidded trashcan. One small push of power into the cigarette, a second push and an invocation of Fire later the cigarette was reduced to ash. My theory had worked out, and I let a smile crook my lips.

“Come down here,” I said in response to his quizzical look.

Cutler vaulted over the landing rail. Before he completed that move, his form discorporated into mist. He reformed rather than landed two steps away from me. The look on his face deepened when he saw the ephemeral cigarette sharing the place of a small pile of ash. Cutler picked up the cigarette and rolled it tentatively between his fingers. He smiled.

“Got a light?”

I rubbed my fingertips together and wove a pattern of Fire without the power to make it material. A mere impression of flame appeared above my fingers, but it was enough for Cutler to light the cigarette.

He drew the smoke into his lungs and blew it out his nostrils. The metaphysics behind the whole process was more complex than I wanted to think about right then.

The moment played out, just a couple of pals enjoying a smoke together.

“I’ve had better butts, but not for a while now. So what is it you want, Shamus?”

“I’m looking for a bit of insight into ghosts.”

“Thought you’d go to the source, eh? What makes you think I’ve figured out anything about my…” he waved a hand through the trashcan, “condition?”

“Because you’re not the type to stay out of the know. At least you weren’t, and I doubt dying changed you all that much.”

“Heh, you’d be right on that one. I’ve seen a few things, been working things out, ain’t much else to do.”

“So what have you figured?” I prompted.

“Let’s see, I know that I get a little fuzzy when I’m out of the alley, like I can’t remember two minutes ago. There are a couple of other places where I’m clear, but I think it has more to do with stuff that’s there, things I remember real clear like.”

“Such as?”

Cutler shot me a look as if I had just made a play on his main gal.

“Ain’t none of your look-out,” he snapped, then calmed down, looking surprised at his own reaction. “Well ain’t that queer? All I know is that they are important.”

He took a drag on his cigarette. “One time, I tried to push just how far I could go from this damned alley. I kept feeling, I guess thinner is the word, until everything just faded out. Next thing I know, I’m at one of my other places, back to normal.”

I filed that bit away and decided not to push him on the “other places”.

I tried a different topic.

“Have you heard about anything attacking ghosts?”

“Well ain’t you just full of good news? I haven’t heard anything like that happening, but then I don’t have much of what you’d call a social circle these days.”

I pulled my back off the wall I’d been leaning on.

“Thanks for the goods. I’ll keep an ear out for the stash, but you’ll be seeing me some time.”

“Yeah,” he sneered, “Don’t be a stranger.”

Despite the cordial farewell, I ashed a couple more butts for him.

Intangible Assets, Chapter 3

2005-08-29T20:19:00.000-07:00

I took my hand off the gun. The plain lead I had loaded wouldn’t do me any good against a ghost. The fact the she and the door seemed to politely ignore one another made the point clearly enough for even the blue boys down at the precinct house. Rather than the gun, I picked up the ring from the same drawer and nonchalantly slipped it on my finger.

Whoever she was, she was a looker, a tall brunette with her hair done up. She wore a red sequined dress that shimmered in patterns that had nothing to with the physical lighting of the room. Her form was indistinct, as if the ten feet between us was filled with a heavy fog.

I couldn’t say that I knew much about ghosts. My training with the Order focused on turning people into ghosts and very little pertaining to the pre-made variety. No point in letting her know that though.

I hoped that my poker face had held, and I asked, “Is there something I can do for you, Miss?”

She gave a start at my question.

“You can see me.” Her voiced was vaguely muffled, the sound having as much difficulty as the light crossing the distance, but the relief came through clearly enough.

I leaned back in my chair and crossed my arms, keeping my ring concealed under my left elbow.

“I’ve got a knack for it. Please have a seat.”

She looked at the chair as if she was struggling to remember just what she was to do with it. She sat down tentatively until she was certain that she wouldn’t fall right through. Once settled, her demeanor changed into an air of poise as easily as slipping on a mink stole.

“I suppose we can start with your name,” I prompted.

She closed her eyes as if searching her memory.

“Tierney, Allison Tierney.” Had she still been one of the breathing types, that pause would have been enough to set off every alarm in my head. I gave her a little benefit of the doubt, my education did include that ghosts can be as mentally hazy as they were physically. The benefit was only slight, I couldn’t be sure if she really was that unsure or if she was playing off the reputation. Call me suspicious, but being wary when approached by an unknown supernatural had become a survival tactic.

“And what can I do for you, Ms. Tierney?”

“I think someone is trying to kill me.”

I was proud of myself for not letting a laugh pass through my lips at that. It would have been even better if my face hadn’t betrayed my reaction.

“Yes, Mr. Watson, I know that I am dead,” she spat, “but that does not change the fact that I have been attacked since I died.”

“Attacked how?”

“It was a black shadow, it might have been a man in a dark coat, but I do remember claws. It would come out of nowhere and tear at me. I could not remember anything after that except coming to in my apartment.”

“Do you have any idea why someone would want you, um, gone?”

“No. I don’t know why, but there is so much I can’t remember about before.”

I nodded as if I understood. What I actually knew about ghosts I could write on an index card and leave enough room for the Gettysburg Address. While I was wrapping my mind around dealing with an amnesiac ghost, she started to fade away.

“Please, help me.” Her voice sounded infinitely tired and distant.

“No, wait!” It did me no good as she vanished. “Aw, hell.”

There was no sign that this case could so much as cover my retainer. I could rationalize that it was a case and could bring in some income. I wasn’t kidding myself; I could never turn down a dame in trouble. I had a name and a phone book. I’ve had cases that had less to work with. Too bad so few of them ended successfully.

I started cleaning up the cards off the floor. I turned over the face down card in the hat.

The Three of Swords.

Fantastic.

Intangible Assets, Chapter Two

2005-08-09T17:58:00.000-07:00

The sun was setting over New York City and I was sitting in my office. The day had been the type of hot and muggy that just drained the energy right of you. Obviously it did that to any potential clients, because the only shadows to darken the doorstep of Sam Watson, Private Investigations that day belonged to me, my secretary Calliope, and the particularly obnoxious imp that delivered yet another past due rent notice.

The only things that I had managed to do that day had been to add sweat stains to a once reasonably clean shirt and find the least ineffective spot for a small electric fan.

Calliope opened the door to my office.

“Anything I can do for you before I head out, boss?”

Even after three years she can completely derail my train of thought by just entering the room. This entrance merely put a pause in my absently flipping Tarot cards at my upturned hat.

Yes, I thought, tell me how you can make a heat-limp cotton sundress look like the height of Paris fashion. She stood in the doorway looking in at me. Her blonde hair was done up in ringlets that defied both gravity and the humidity. She only stood about five-four, but she had curves that were truly treacherous; hard to notice at first, but easy to go over the edge when you did. Her eyes were as wide and blue as Heaven, and lips as red and smoldering as Hell. The dress she wore was less at both neck and hem than decorum would dictate for a proper young lady, a role that Calliope had never made any pretense of observing. The heat must have been truly fierce if she had managed to wear that dress on the street and into the building without my having to drive out a gaggle of Imperial doughboys.

“No, go on and have a good time,” I said.

“Sure will. You should try it some time.” With that she turned, flashing a scandalous bit of thigh.

She had been gone for a few seconds by the time I got my mind back into even keel. I scolded myself for becoming so distracted by her. Heh, its not as if I have anything else to occupy my mind, I thought as I flipped the next card at the hat.

It sailed well wide of the mark and landed face-up, The Lovers. Typical.

The program on my neighbor’s wireless changed over from a cricket match to the news. The lead was once again the imminent capture of the city of Detroit, last holdout of the rebellious colonials east of the Mississippi River. The Ministry of Information had been running that same headline on and off for the past month. That they never seemed to get around to announcing the consummation of the immanent victory said more than any honest report of the locals beating back the attackers would have.

I had heard that the auto-works up there had never re-tooled after the Allies got steamrollered in the Great War. Not that the armored cars and tanks they had produced en-masse had helped much when the Imperial Order invaded the States. What we had needed was magical might, much like what the Germans had unleashed during the war in Europe.

My thumb idly rubbed the base of my right ring finger, the place where I would wear my ring when I needed to reach into that bag of tricks. I had been part of that effort, part of the Army Corps of Sorcerers. They trained me to be a wizard and to cast spells on the battlefield. I learned to use the power that had ripped across the face of the earth back on the Winter Solstice of 1915.

That battlefield never came for me. Magic is a subtle way, and the Imperial Order honed their subtleties while we prepared to face the brute force they had already shown the world. They found and subverted those who would sell their country out for a title and a position of influence. Before the first shot was even fired, the Order knew the location of every ship at sea, all of our ray-gun emplacements, and every senior military commander that had not been subverted to their side. Most damning was how the wards against the Emperor’s Demonic Legions were never erected. The Army Corps of Sorcerers had been turned at the very top and subsumed into the Order of Illumination. Every American mage either swore fealty to the Emperor, ran for their lives, or died.I chose the second option. I had never been to New York, so no one would think to look for me here. The Order taught that Names have power, so I chose my Nom de Guerre after old good ol’ Uncle Sam and Dr. Watson from the Doyle stories. I learned patience and how to find information that doesn’t want to be found in my time with the Order. I figured that I could make a go of it as just another private detective in the big city.

The plan was working quite well, except for the making a go of it part. I managed to keep a couple of steps ahead of my dwarf landlord, and why Calliope stuck around despite her paychecks sometimes having more rubber than Goodyear was beyond me.

The next card flew off the deck in my hands. It made a graceful arc through the air and landed neatly in the hat. The Wheel of Fortune. Not that I couldn’t use a change in luck. The card after that also landed in the hat, but face down. I contemplated turning it over, but I was interrupted by a twinge in the back of my mind.

A lot of people talk about that feeling of being watched or the sensation of a goose walking over their graves. The Order trained me to harness that sense, to call upon it with a little bit of concentration. More than that, I learned to make wards that alerted me when anything with more mojo than a book of matches crossed them. The twinge I felt was the ward telling me that something out of the ordinary had just crossed my threshold.

I opened the drawer that held my gun when she walked through the door.

Walked through it without opening it.

Intangible Assets, Chapter One

2005-06-30T20:05:00.000-07:00

My senses came back to me in bits and pieces, and I didn’t like the picture they were giving me. I could hear a truck driving away on the far side of the thin warehouse wall. I tried to get a whiff of either low tide at the docks or of the coal soot of the rail yards. A dull ache where my nose should have been spelled out the futility of that effort. The coarse bite of hemp rope pinned my arms behind the chair in which I found myself.

I risked opening my eyes, only to find the left one swollen shut and to have light stab through the right all the way to the back of my skull. When my eye finally managed to adjust itself, I was treated to the lop-sided visage of Carlo “The Tusk” Tusconi. Carlo was ugly, even by ork standards. To say that he had a face only a mother would love would have implied that there was a woman out there willing to take that rap. No one was so far as I knew.

Carlo saw me open my eye. He smiled, showing the eponymous tusk all the way down to its yellow root. He raised a fist the size of a baron’s Easter ham, and suddenly the ache in my nose was no longer dull.

“That is enough for now, Carlo.”

The voice was smooth. Some Old World gent, I thought, probably Italian if Carlo’s working for him. The voice started behind me. I heard the click of his shoes on the concrete as he walked around his display. He walked the circle cast by the light of the hooded thirty-watt bulb over my head. When he came into sight on my right side (walking widdershins, noted my wizard training) only his pant cuffs and shoes were in the light. The pants were gray pinstriped blue, and the shoes were leather wingtips polished enough to kick a glare back into my face. Whoever he was, he had money. The suit would have set me back close to a year in fees, and you sure as hell couldn’t buy a shine that good at Grand Central or Midtown.

The Voice came a little farther into the light when he stopped to look me over. The light only came up a little above his waist, but that was enough to tell he was about five foot eight and in pretty good shape. He moved in that way that told me he could handle himself in a fight. If I had been fresh and not tied, I might have been able to take him. After the tenderizing job Carlo had done, old Mrs. Kranski on the ground level of my office building could have wiped the floor with me.

Mr. Dapper Suit took his time looking me over, almost as if Carlo was his favorite artist and I was the Tusk’s latest masterpiece. I looked up at the guy’s hands. As I figured, they were scarred across some of his knuckles like a fighter, but the scars were old, so he must have been out of the game for a while. Both pinkies bore rings with enough stones on them to make an heiress green. More important, though, was that he didn’t have a ring on his right ring finger where an Order of Illumination magus would wear one. That was the first piece of good news I had had all night. It meant that the worst these guys could do was kill me.

“Hello again, Mr. Watson,” said the Voice. “I would greatly appreciate your attention during the course of our conversation. Now, where were we?”

“I don’ know, last thing I recall is the side of beef you call an ork introducing me to his fist.”
“Carlo.”

You had to give it to the Tusk. He really knew how to fold a guy up like an old newspaper. I figure Mr. Dapper Suit must have had some words with Carlo while I was out about my needing my face to speak the words he wanted to hear. Carlo put this punch right in the breadbasket.
The Suit was examining his nails while Carlo was applying his trade.

“Where is Miss Tierney, Mr. Watson? Where is the comb?” The Voice didn’t bother to hide his boredom over this fourth asking of the same questions.

It took almost a minute to gather the necessary breath to answer. Such precious air needed to be used on a proper answer.

“Right where your boss left her. Plot eighteen, row twenty-two, St. Catherine’s Cemetery. And as to the comb, don’t bother, it won’t match your suit.”

The Voice didn’t like that answer. He didn’t like it the first three times either. Carlo certainly did not like the answer, and he proceeded to demonstrate that ribs don’t like it when angry orks pound on them.

Just great, I thought, a lot of guys end up worked over for a dame. I just get to do it for a dead one.

To be continued...

From an Old Soldier

2005-06-29T20:53:00.000-07:00

I don’t know how you found me, kid, but you should know that it is not exactly healthy to go looking for history lessons in dives like this. And it is doubly not smart to be walking into any old place and start asking about the Resistance. Let me guess, you heard down in your coalmine town that New York was a hotbed of the Resistance, and you decided that you wouldn’t mind dying a hero. Don’t sneer, kid, I’ve seen smarter than you get disappeared into the Hudson, and that was even before they saw an Imperial.

So you’ve heard that Old Joe might clue you in on how things got this way and how things might go later. The first is easy enough. If you are smart enough to find a Liberty Press, then you should probably know most of this already. The second part? If you are smarter than you look, you’ll head back to the mine and forget all about the glory you think you’ll find.

Might as well start at the start. Great War, trenches, gas attacks, that I’m sure you already know. Here’s where things start heading off the textbooks. The Germans had been working on all sorts of different toys to give our boys a shellacking. Turned out, bigger guns were the least of our concerns. Seems that a chap by the name of Manfred von Schwarzaugen, you might know him better as Emperor, was working on stuff that no one really thought would work, stuff that used old books, odd candles, eye of newt and the rest. He was pulling in funding from the war department for his little freak show. Remember, the difference between eccentric and insane is how much money and how much pull you have. In Schwarzaugen’s case, it was a membership in the Kaiser’s family that got him in.

Nobody thought it would work except for a few close associates, assistants, and some things not from around here. What? Yeah, you could call them Demons if you don’t mind having an arm ripped off and shoved so far down your throat that you could shake hands with your appendix. That or having one of the brainy types talk you into doing that to yourself. And don’t even get me started on the Succubi. Anyway, don’t interrupt me.

Come the Winter Solstice of ‘16, Old Manfred is tossing around fireballs and whatnot and pulling over Destroyers, Plotters, and Tempters over by the boatload. That was the 22nd of December if you haven’t learned your astrology yet. Anyhow, Manfred and a company of Destroyers crash the Kaiser’s Christmas Ball. With no one left to say Boo, Manfred claims the title of Kaiser and completes his little putsch. Not many people know what happened to Wilhelm, and most of those who don’t are smart enough not to ask.

It don’t matter where you’re at, everyone likes the winner. Unless he’s fixing to make you the loser, that is. The parts of the German aristocracy that pledged to him got big promotions in title and land, largely from those who chose the other option. Salt in some Plotters working the other nations, and suddenly you have a lot of other people craving their own little slice of monarchy, or at least keeping what they had. Case in point, the Russian Czar was having a little problem beating down a revolution while his army was scrapping with the Kaiser’s boys. Schwarzaugen trained up a couple of wizards for him and sent over a regiment of Destroyers and a battalion of orcs. Where the hell those came from is anyone’s guess, but they made good muscle and bullet catchers. Bing, bang, boom, revolution’s over and Nicholas is now sending his forces to fight alongside the Germans.

That was a nasty little surprise, let me tell you. Spring of ’17 we’re suddenly facing not only Germans, Russians, Destroyers, orcs and wizards, but some of the most God-damned contraptions anyone’s ever laid eyes on. Tanks the size of a row house, men flying with rockets strapped to their backs, and gas that ate through masks like a starving man at a free buffet. Seemed that some of the Emperor’s brain cases had figured out how to condense magic into a liquid fuel. Suddenly, the laws of thermodynamics go out the window, and nothing we had could stand up to them.

Not that our boys were complete pushovers. Some of them showed some talent at spells, and others could do things like knockdown an infantry charge but just thinking hard at them. The Ordo Neo Imperialis as Emperor Manfred I had taken to calling it anticipated that, and those boys were the first ones target. Not many Americans or Canadians made it home by the time the Order has sown up Europe that fall.

It was only a matter of time before the Order made its move on the Americas. You’d figure that the whole idea of successfully rebellious colonies was something that had to be handled. The US worked like sixty to catch up in the magic race. The first step was to duplicate and advance the weird science the Empire had developed. The second was to train up some of our own wizards. They called them the Army Corps of Sorcerors and placed the whole of the War Department’s sorcery under their command.

You’ve heard the expression “Pride goeth before the fall”? Well, it was the Corp's pride and our fall. When the Imperials made their move, the whole of the Order either stabbed their units in the back or went up like Roman Candles. The landing, and gating as I understand, went off entirely too smoothly in the end.

So there you have it up to today. The New Imperial Order has the US up to the Mississippi, although I hear that Detroit is putting up one hell of a fight. At least we aren’t fighting alone. Dwarves have come out of the mountains like they were there all along, and the Seelie elves are fighting along side us. Be careful with them though, you can’t tell by looking whether he’s Seelie or Unseelie. Or course, being careful is good advice in any case.

If you are looking for heroics, kid, forget about New York. If you are looking for the Resistance, the Resistance don’t want you. Go west, young man, the Free States are always looking for help.
I’d wish you luck, kid, but I’m fixing to keep all I’ve got.