Live and Let Lie

by F. A. Bentley

  “--Hanging.”

  I had to hand it to that she-devil. In the end she really did find a way to make me lose my appetite.

  Chapter 10

  The ride to Moscow was pleasant. The first class tickets brought a proper meal with them which made it a little less difficult for me to stomach Zophie Nuhl’s presence. It’s much easier to be told that your life depends on how an antimage words her report on a full stomach. I might even luck out and get killed in the mission. Then I wouldn’t have to worry about her reports ever again.

  We filled the time waiting for our bags with strained silence. The taxi ride to downtown Moscow was no different. It lasted until we stepped out of the yellow car and onto the frigid sidewalk. That’s when Nuhl suddenly said, “We’re meeting with our informant. Let me do the talking.”

  “I’ll go get our hotel room set up then,” I said.

  “No.”

  “No?” I echoed.

  “Who knows what you’ll do the second you’re out of arm’s reach. You’re coming with. That’s an order, Locke.”

  I tossed the driver a hundred dollars worth of Rubels, and told him to bring our bags to the Borealis hotel and leave them with the staff. I nabbed my standard issue wand from the back before closing the trunk and sending the taxi on its way.

  I’d have preferred my pistol too, but at least I wasn’t completely unarmed now.

  “Ready.”

  “This way,” came Nuhl’s reply.

  You really start to notice the dread chill of Father Winter after walking about a block in the February weather. I hate it when Lis is right. Chills crawled up my spine, my thin dress coat a poor defense against the frigid city wind.

  If Zophie was cold too, she certainly didn’t show it. She was wearing a puffy jacket and jeans ensemble that made her look like a muffin with legs. She walked so fast you’d think she was on her way to cash a winning lottery ticket.

  What’s the damn rush?

  Signs flanked by lambent lights marked our entrance to a commercial district. Restaurants and boutiques lined the thin, car crowded streets and the lamplight shone on dancing snowflakes gliding down to join the blanket of snow.

  We came to a stop in front of a back alley. I raised my eyebrows. Not cause it was a back alley, but because of the sign above it. PUSHKA was written proudly upon the sign, accompanied by a handful of vodka bottles assembled into the likeness of a gun.

  “Here?” I asked.

  “Let me do the talking,” Zophie repeated, and took the lead.

  The drinking establishment looked like it had been around since Russia still had a reigning Tsar. The floor was wooden and the pungent scent of various drinks were soaked into the walls. A small sputtering furnace futilely tried to heat the long central room, and looked old enough to be coal powered. It belonged in a museum.

  Zophie Nuhl went right up to the bartender and without the least bit of ceremony said, “Sam.”

  The bartender gave the woman a look before pointing us to a wooden door which lead into a cramped back room. The lone figure within was our informant. It had to be our informant, because only someone incredibly drunk would ever mistake him for a Mundane Human being.

  Sam, his name apparently, came up to about my chin. He was nearly twice as wide as me, and wore only pants. He looked like the love child of a female yeti and a very brave and sexually frustrated man because there was hair absolutely everywhere on him. His hands and feet were exceedingly pudgy, his nose reminded me of a mushroom growing on the side of a tree, and he held a glass in one hand and a half empty bottle of vodka in the other.

  “Codename Sam. We’re the NT agents. Tell us all you can,” Zophie said.

  The Supernatural didn’t even look up from his booze. With meticulous care, he poured himself another glass of vodka and swirled it around before sipping.

  Nuhl looked displeased. “Don’t play dumb. Give us the info and we’ll be out of your--”

  Hair. Hair everywhere. The Supernatural turned his eyes up to Zophie, as if to say ‘go on, finish the sentence’.

  “--Get off your back,” Zophie amended.

  No reply. Just before Zophie opened her mouth to try again, I cut her off. Sam seemed to need a softer touch.

  “Can you recommend a brand?” I asked. “I don’t want to go to Moscow and just drink tourist alcohol.”

  “Absolut. Grey Goose. Belvedere,” the hairy beast muttered.

  I shook my head. “I said Russian Vodka. Not European tap water.”

  A twinkle suddenly shone in the being’s eyes. “Good. Here. Custom brew. You should try it.”

  Chapter 11

  Sam’s chair groaned as he got up to fetch a label-less bottle from a high shelf. He poured me a glass of the clear liquid and I drank. That’s one hell of a Vodka. Sharper than Lis’ forked tongue.

  “If I had to guess,” I said, stifling a cough. “You’re a Domovoi.”

  “Da.”

  House spirit. Most dwellings in Russia had a Sam, but Sam seemed to be a particularly strong Domovoi. It took more than a little effort for an old knocker like him to manifest, let alone knock back watered down ethanol. Impressive.

  “Do you know as much about the Lord Illusionist as you know about Vodka?” I asked.

  “Less. And more,” the Domovoi replied, “Here he is called the Familiar Lord.”

  “The what?” Zophie asked.

  “Master of illusions. Maybe, maybe. But more than illusions he has mastered Familiars.”

  Familiars were seldom seen among mages nowadays, but like the rooster and the white chipmunk back at Nine Towers, they were hardly a rarity either. Beasts were sometimes born with magical aptitude just like people. Animals with the gift can be made Familiars to sorcerers, amplifying powers, making up for weaknesses, and in rare cases holding a decent conversation.

  I’d heard even Supernatural beings could be made Familiars if the aspiring mage had enough ambition.

  “I see,” I replied to the Domovoi.

  “What else can you tell us?” Nuhl asked.

  Sam watched her for a heartbeat before holding up three fat fingers. “The Order. The Loyalists. And the Fairies.”

  “Factions,” Nuhl said.

  The Domovoi nodded. “Order of the Black Rose are with the Church. Somewhat. Secret society. Know about Supernaturals. Hate us. Friendly to you.”

  “Then the Loyalists would be mages on Nikita Gogol’s side?” Nuhl predicted.

  “Witches. Hags. Renegades. Independents. Disenfranchised. Mostly from Russian Protectorate,” Sam slurred.

  “And the Fairies?” I asked.

  “Russia is mostly wildlands. Not like Europe. Strong Supernatural presence here,” he said, flashing a lopsided smile. “Lands never tamed.”

  “I’d heard of this,” Nuhl said. “Orders operating within the Orthodox Church have been waging a secret war against the endless tides of Russian Supernaturals. It’s been going on forever.”

  “Long Hunt,” Sam named it. “Familiar Lord wishes to make pact with Fairies. Combine Loyal mages and Fairy Supernaturals together into force to reckon with. Crush Black Rose once and for all. Make a worthy rival to Nine Towers.”

  “Fine, but what leads do you have?” Nuhl asked.

  Sam shook his head. “Working on. Stay put. Will tell you when I hear of Gogol’s plans.”

  “Useless,” Zophie muttered under her breath.

  She got up in a huff and made for the door.

  Nuhl was already down the street and on her way to the Borealis hotel by the time I caught up with her.

  “Believe it or not, some of this wet work requires a light touch.”

  “I told you to keep your mouth shut,” she spat back.

  “And I thought you’d figure out by now that there’s tricks to this trade. Sam is one of those Fairies that are keen to hear what Nikita Gogol has to say; a double agent. I’m sure it wasn’t terribly easy for Nine Towers to convince, or more likely coerce him into spilling beans for us
. Use your damn brain. We have enough enemies.”

  Before I could react, Zophie had grabbed my wrist and twisted by hand painfully behind my back.

  “If I wanted your advice, warlock, I’d have ordered it out of you. Don’t push me. Last warning.”

  I narrowed my eyes, “Message received.”

  She released my hand, and we turned the corner of the busy intersection. The hotel was the first entrance we passed.

  “Eva Ivanovsky,” Nuhl spoke to the middle aged woman at the front desk.

  The entrance hall was totally empty. Must be the off season for tourists.

  The woman dropped a set of keys in Zophie’s hands and told her, “Room three zero nine. Please enjoy your stay.”

  Bags gotten. Room reached. Not a single soul anywhere.

  “That woman had a faint feeling of magic about her,” Nuhl said, opening her travel bag.

  “I thought it was just me noticing things are suspicious,” I replied.

  Zophie retrieved a low caliber pistol with an extended clip from her bag. I tried to ignore the insultingly pink pair of panties it was hidden beneath.

  “Might just be paranoid,” Zophie said.

  The sound of too quick walking echoed down the hall. I grabbed Zophie’s hand and pulled her out of the entry hall.

  A heavy knock resounded from the door. I shook my head.

  “It’s only paranoia if there aren’t people out to kill you. Otherwise it’s called a healthy survival instinct.”

  As soon as I finished speaking, the door exploded in a hail of icicles.

  Chapter 12

  The thick wooden slab that had once been a door was reduced to magically frozen toothpicks in the time it takes a man to say ‘oh crap’. Mage fights were scary as hell, all the more so if they were tag team fights.

  Of course, just how scary a fight was depended on the exact flavor of spell slinger we were fighting. As soon as the shards of wood hit the ground they began to quiver, springing to new life. Contorting into the shape of brown spiders with skinny legs and big red stingers, the splinters turned into nightmare fuel in record time, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.

  Splinter spiders out of frozen toothpicks? There were only three types of mages that could mess this badly with perceptions. Illusionists, Enchanters, and Egomancers. If both me and Zophie were seeing these spiders though, then it could only be one thing.

  “Enchanter,” Zophie called out.

  “He’s all yours. I’ll occupy frost mage that blew open the door.”

  “Deal.”

  I drew my wand from my pocket and willed magic into it. A long thin blade of hard arcana manifested from the tip as I turned the corner of the apartment low and fast, the wand-sword’s tip thrusting forth to end the fight quick.

  The second I caught sight of our opposition I realized that a quick and easy fight was entirely out of the question.

  The width of the hall was almost completely occupied by what I can only assume to be either a huge man or an average sized polar bear. Glistening arctic sheets of ice clung to heavy robe like plate mail, and an intimidating helmet made of clear ice completely enclosed the mage’s head. Icicle encrusted beard hairs crowded beneath the arctic helm, and in his left hand he held what can generously be described as a young tree that doubled as a casting staff.

  “It couldn’t be a scantily clad babe that cast her spells by striking sexy poses, could it?” I shouted at him.

  With a grunt the ice mage heaved his massive staff over his head and swung it at me like a sledgehammer. Much strength little agility. The near miss my dodge afforded me gave me an idea. Overextended with his ungainly log of a staff, I slammed my shoulder into the staff and pinned it against the wall.

  “Now,” I called out.

  Zophie saw the opportunity and took it without mercy. Being small and quick was an advantage all on its own, and the antimage was as tiny and swift as they came. With remarkable grace she ducked beneath the ice mage’s swift back hand and rolled between his legs like an acrobat.

  The ice mage shouted something in Russian, and before I could react, I felt a jolt of electricity course through me.

  Splinter spiders had caught up, and found that my exposed hands were easier to bite through that my shoes and winter-proof socks. Seems their stings didn’t discharge venom, they discharged electrical shocks. I suddenly found the right side of my body numbing out.

  Sensing weakness, the ice berg that walked like a man grabbed a fistful of my dress shirt and threw me down the hall like a rag doll. My back crashed against floor and probably left a hell of a dent to boot.

  Goddamn. I didn’t expect the fight to turn sour quite so quickly. My chances of pulling a win out of my ass were starting to dwindle between the spiders and the ice mage.

  What I did not expect was for Zophie to actually be doing something worth a damn during my distraction. As I groggily got back up to my feet, I watched the anti mage close distance with the Enchanter, sorry, Enchantress, whose sick mind had produced splinter lightning spiders.

  Correctly predicting a defensive spell, Zophie nabbed the woman’s hand and dispelled the chromatic lights that had pool upon the palm. In one fluid motion Nuhl flipped the enchantress over and then promptly twisted her arm at an angle that made me cringe. The sound of bones breaking and screams of pain pierced the hallway.

  “Sabina!” shouted the ice mage, swinging his staff in a massive arc.

  With a sound like a thunderstrike, the mage’s staff demolish the wall just next to Zophie’s head. Thrown off balance by the show of brute force and scattered debris, Zophie stumbled back as the mage brought the staff high for an overhead smash.

  It would have been a messy end for Nuhl, but thankfully, I hated the ice mage slightly more than I hated her.

  The titanic man stopped mid swing, his helmet tilting downwards to regard the wand-sword I’d crammed between two of his ice plates. Blood trickled from between them and down the length of sorcerous blade.

  “No matter how much armor you put on, there’s always a gap to exploit somewhere,” I said.

  A cruel laugh emanated from the bearded helmet. With a heave, the mage stomped his foot, ice manifesting from the point of impact like cracks in a smashed mirror.

  Only too late did I realize his trick. “Shit.”

  “Yes,” the ice mage said in a heavy accent. “Very shit.”

  Ignoring the fact that I had my wand sword halfway through his stomach, the mage brought his staff down on the frozen ground beneath me. The whole thing collapsed in an instant, leaving me with a one way ticket to the second floor, and then the ground floor.

  “Locke,” I heard Zophie call from far above. “We have them running scared, after them!”

  My head spun, my blurry sight only slowly returned to me as I came face to face with a terrible truth.

  “I don’t think it’s us they’re running from,” I replied.

  Support pillars, room doors, outer walls, inner walls. All were frozen solid. It looked like an ice palace. But that wasn’t the worst of it. Right in front of me sat a digital display that was counting down. It read twenty nine seconds.

  “They C4’d the place.”

  “What?” cried the antimage.

  “Hotel exploding in twenty five seconds run!”

  Scrambling to my feet, I felt like one gigantic bruise after falling two floors. Too bad. I’ll just have to wallow in my pain after I escape Borealis hotel’s unscheduled demolition.

  At the end of the ground floor hall, I caught sight of a window and jumped through it with the last of my strength. Just in time too. With a muffled boom, the hotel crumpled in on itself, sending dust and shards of ruined masonry in every direction.

  Chapter 13

  Picking myself off the snow bank I’d landed in, I brushed snow off my back and caught my breath. Did Zophie get out in time? Did our attackers escape? My head swam with questions as I drew in ragged breaths, a hand held up to my mouth to filter out the a
ll enveloping dust.

  “The homing beacon,” I said to myself, suddenly recalling Phil’s helping hand. Thanks to him it’d be easy as pie to feel out where Zophie was. If she even survived.

  I focused my thoughts. Rituals weren’t exactly my area of expertise. I’m a hands on mage, and the ‘mage’ part of the equation was pretty dubious at best. There’s a good reason Francisca from back at HQ calls me a Fluke. I’m unique among my fellow warlocks in that I am almost completely devoid of magical talent.

  Imagine the horror I felt when I, a guy who could play any instrument, get a scholarship in any sport, and excel in any study, found myself to have almost no magical talent.

  No time for doubt now though. Focus. I calmed my breathing, closed my eyes, and steadied my breaths to something that resembled an even tempo. As the dust settled, I began to feel a faint tug at the corner of my mind.

  Just as Phil said. I sensed Zophie’s presence. Better still, I felt it straying further away from me.

  “Probably in hot pursuit. I’m not even surprised,” I said.

  The realization that she likely hadn’t spared a single thought as to whether or not I survived the explosion made me grit my teeth. Warlocks were throwaways, after all. Expendable. The life of one wasn’t worth squat compared to a noble mage’s well being.

  I shook my head, making my way towards the back street behind the former hotel. Even though my legs were wobbly and the air was still thick with dust, I couldn’t help but notice something very out of place as I left the alley.

  A conspicuous sports car was parked in the empty alley. Its deep blue hue and sleek features screamed high class in a way that the neighborhood couldn’t hold a candle to. Suspicion ignited in me.

  “Ferrari,” I said, approaching the mean machine. “California T model.”

  Convertible of course. Leather seats both front and back. The deep blue seemed to be a custom paint job. All the bells and whistles made it look like it belonged in a science fiction novel. The going price for this beast was somewhere in the ballpark of two hundred thousand American dollars if memory serves. That’s thirteen point one million rubles. Good luck getting insurance.