by T. A. Pratt
“I certainly—”
“Wait, wait, the damn phone is beeping at me. Hold on.” She hit a button to switch to the other line—Hamil had insisted she get call waiting, “Unless you think there will never be two crises happening at once?”—“What?”
“Marla, this is B. I just got through meeting with Granger—”
“And I'm sure it was scintillating, but I've got a situation here.”
“I think you have two situations, then, because Granger told me Bulliard is in town.”
“Mr. Mushroom? How the hell would Granger know that?”
“He's a nature magician, and he's got a sense for others of his kind, I guess—he brought it up unprompted, and there's not a lot of doubt.”
“Huh.” Things tumbled and clicked into place in her mind. Viscarro was under someone's control. Viscarro was asking about her brother's imaginary magical spores. A psychotic mushroom magician might reasonably be interested in magical spores. “You know, maybe I don't have two situations. I think it's probably just one.
Listen, head for Langford's lab, I'll meet you there shortly.” She stabbed a button again, and said, “Hamil?”
“Here, waiting oh-so-patiently”
“Never mind about going to Viscarro's place. I just heard that crazy mycomancer is in town, and I'd lay dollars against dimes he's the one pulling Viscarro's strings.”
“Interesting. Any idea why?”
“I, uh … Fuck. I think it probably has something to do with my brother. He's running a scam, selling the Borrichius spores to Campbell Campion. Or anyway, a big empty crate that's purported to hold the Borrichius spores. Viscarro was here asking about the spores, which makes me think Mushroom Man somehow got wind of the scam, took it for truth, and is here to steal something that doesn't even exist.”
“I see.” Hamil was totally unruffled. That was mostly why he was her consigliere. “You did anticipate that your brother would be trouble.”
“I thought he'd be the direct cause of the trouble, not an indirect catalyst for it. I'd like to know how a mushroom mage from Oregon heard about my brother's scam, since the only confederates Jason's got who know fuck-all about magic are me and Rondeau, and I really doubt it was either one of us who tipped him off.”
“There are eyes and ears everywhere, as you well know. Loose lips and Freudian slips may be overheard.”
“Truth, but I don't know who'd get any benefit out of siccing a fungus-worshipper on us.”
“That is an interesting question.”
“And it's one I'll find the answer to, though I think we should wipe out the big bad guy first.”
“Would you like me to muster up any troops to help?”
“Nah, if we go in heavy, Bulliard might get spooked, and if he decides he's threatened, he could make Viscarro put his lair in full lockdown, complete with phase-shifting half a step into another dimension. We'd never get inside then. Better if B and I go in quietly”
“Understood. Do you need anything from me?”
“Call Langford for me. I've got a wish list I think he can help with.”
“Of course. Oh, I realize this isn't a pressing issue at the moment, but I thought you'd like to know—I found the Giggler.”
“So the fortune-telling freak lives on? Where is he?”
Hamil told her, and Marla grinned.
“Now strip naked,” Langford said, and B and Marla looked at each other, then back at him.
“Is that really necessary?” B said.
“I'm a doctor” Langford admonished. “Or near enough. But, come to mention it, I have no desire to apply this personally I'll let the two of you work it out between yourselves.” He put a large lobster-pot full of something green, sticky, and reeking on the lab table beside them, along with a couple of plastic plate scrapers. “Apply liberally. And completely” He left, shutting the door behind him.
B sniffed the pot, which smelled like tincture of stinky feet. “This is gross.”
“That's the sorcerous life. You'd rather get shroomed?” Marla began to undress, and after a moment's sigh, B stripped, too. Marla was naked first, and she dipped her hand into the unguent. The goop inside had started life as several tubes of prescription anti-fungal ointment, but Langford had worked his magic to make it rather more potent. “On the bright side, after putting this on, you'll probably never, ever get athlete's foot again.” She rubbed the goop in carefully, on her arms, chest, legs, and every other inch of herself she could reach, including her face, and even in her hair. B did the same, and Marla was preoccupied enough that she didn't even leer at him lasciviously
“All right, apprentice, now you get to do my back. And any other bits I can't reach on my own. Don't worry, I'll return the favor.”
“I'm pretty sure this wasn't in my job description.” B slathered a double handful onto her back. At least the stuff was still warm from Langford's alterations.
“I know greasing up relatively young women isn't on your list of life goals. Just close your eyes and pretend I'm a burly guy named Bruce.”
“Easier said than done.”
Once they were both suitably covered, they got dressed again, their clothes sticking to them unpleasantly. “All right. You ready for this? It's apt to be a fight. I'm guessing Bulliard just has gross motor control on Viscarro. I doubt we'll have to contend with Viscarro's magic, and he's not much of a brawler, so concentrate your efforts on the presumably big and ugly guy.”
“I'm ready,” B said.
“Don't forget those tricks you learned. Some of them might come in handy. But pace yourself, all right?”
“Of course.” He paused. “So… are we going to kill this guy?”
“No, we're going to explain the error of his ways and ask him nicely to leave. That's step one. If that fails… if it's him or us, sure, we'll take him out. But I think a case can be made that he's nuts, and we can reasonably clap him up in the Blackwing Institute. So we'll concentrate on incapacitating.”
B looked relieved, and Marla felt a little flash of annoyance. When people threatened her city—as Bulliard was, just by his disruptive presence—she was willing to do whatever it took to remove that threat. B would have to harden his heart a little if he was going to succeed her someday.
“Let's go pluck a toadstool,” she said.
am-Cam came out to meet them, dressed all in black and jingling with amulets, carrying a laptop bag. Rondeau hopped out, took the bag, and stowed it behind the seat. He'd initially expected a big bag of cash, but Jason had explained that ten million bucks, even in hundreds, would weigh over two hundred pounds. Thank goodness for modern technology. “After you.” He stepped aside to let Cam-Cam sit in the middle of the battered old pickup truck's seat, next to Jason, then slipped back in. It was close quarters, but Cam-Cam didn't take up a lot of space, so it wasn't too uncomfortable.
“Last chance to back out,” Jason said. “This is a dangerous business. Profitable, sure, but it's not like you need the money—”
“It's not about the money,” Cam-Cam said. “I will be known as the man who helped destroy the nation's largest colony of vampires, won't I?”
“True, for all the good it will do you.”
“I imagine it will open… certain doors to me. Your sister, for example, will be in my debt.”
“He's got a point,” Rondeau said. “Marla's gratitude is some pretty serious coin of the realm.”
“All right, then,” Jason said. “Off we go.” He put the truck in gear and drove down Cam-Cam's long driveway.
“Not much of a car.” Cam-Cam winced as the shitty shocks bounced them down the hill.
“Less conspicuous,” Rondeau said. “Like our lovely attire here.” Rondeau took his clothes seriously, though Marla said his fashion sense was only appropriate in Bizarro World, so he'd been bummed to dress in the paint-stained T-shirt and corduroy pants provided by Jason, who was wearing much the same. “A Hispanic guy and some white trash—no offense, Jason—in a busted pickup don't g
et a second glance, even in your neighborhood. People just assume we're gardeners.”
“We are gardeners,” Jason said. “At least, spores are sort of like plants, right? And these spores grow money.”
“Where are we headed?” Cam-Cam asked.
“A back road north of the city, basically in the woods.” They didn't have to go far. Cam-Cam lived near the beaches, already on the outskirts of Felport proper. They fell into silence, each with his own thoughts—Jason doubtless figuring additional angles, Cam-Cam probably fantasizing about becoming a sorcerer, and Rondeau just riding a wave of pleasure at what a big scam they were getting away with.
Jason took the truck down a dirt road lined closely on both sides with sagging trees, pulling into a lot that held the foundation and other blackened remnants of a burned-down house. He put the truck in park, honked the horn—two shorts, one long—and then lit a cigarette. “Now we wait.” He blew a stream of smoke out the window. “The seller should be along shortly.”
After about five minutes a four-wheeled ATV with a trailer attached came trundling into the lot from a dirt trail. The driver wore an opaque black motorcycle helmet and camouflage fatigues.
“All right.” Jason got out of the truck, followed by Rondeau and Cam-Cam.
“Who the fuck is that?” The man in the helmet's voice was muffled. He pointed at Cam-Cam. “I don't know him.”
“He's the man with the money,” Jason said. “You really don't want to object to his presence, believe me.”
The driver cursed. “You should've brought the money on your own.”
“Oh? You send your business partners out alone with access to offshore accounts and trust them to do the right thing? I see you're here in person to accept delivery.”
“This payload is too important to trust with my boys,” the driver said, still not removing his helmet. “All right. Let's do this.”
Jason nodded toward Cam-Cam, who held the laptop bag.
“No,” Cam-Cam said. “Let's see the package.”
The driver sighed, went to the trailer, and unfastened a gray tarp. He threw it back to reveal the thing they'd come to buy.
The big crate was even more impressive now than it had been when Danny Two Saints first showed it to them. There were chains, in gold and silver as well as dark iron, and the woodcut runes were painted in dark slashes of scarlet and cobalt blue.
“Hmm.” Cam-Cam walked around the trailer, examining the crate. “How do I know there's even anything in there?”
“You questioning my word?” The driver took a step forward, making it clear he had a couple of inches in height and breadth over Cam-Cam.
Cam-Cam didn't flinch. “Yes, I am.”
“It's okay,” Jason said. “Easy to find out. You got the device, Rondeau?”
“Yup.” Rondeau went to the truck, reached under the seat, and took out a polished wooden box with a lid that latched. Until yesterday, the box had held his best flask, a steel funnel, and a couple of metal shot glasses—the set was a gift from Marla for the date they'd randomly decided to call his birthday—but he'd cleaned the box out at Jason's suggestion. He carried the box over to the trailer, set it carefully on the edge beside the crate, and flipped the latch.
“This,” said Rondeau, “is a divination wand made by Marla Mason herself. Sort of a supernatural Geiger counter.”
The thing in the box had a handle of forked, gnarled wood, with a silvery metal sphere bound to the end with copper wire. Various dangling chains, ending in silver half-moons, golden stars, and tiny crystals, jingled when Rondeau picked it up.
“You don't mind if we verify the goods, do you?” Jason looked at the driver.
“Fuck you, Mason. I've been doing business with your sister for years. But knock yourself out.”
“Okay.” Rondeau started to extend the wand—then paused. “Do you want to do the honors, Mr. Campion?”
“How does it work?” Cam-Cam took the wand from Rondeau carefully
“Just wave it slowly over the crate,” Jason said. “If the spores are inside—even as well shielded as they are, for our protection—the wand should react.”
“All right.” Cam-Cam moved the wand over the crate.
It buzzed and jangled furiously in his hand, and Cam-Cam nearly dropped it. He drew it back, and it stopped moving. Cam-Cam reached out again, and again the wand buzzed to life, like a baby's rattle full of bees. He drew it back, and it stopped again—because Rondeau thumbed the little remote control in his pocket. The sphere on the “wand” was just a tea ball from his kitchen, soldered shut, and inside was a little remote control bullet vibrator he'd purchased from the sex shop three doors down from his club. Rondeau was proud of the wand. He'd made it himself, with some tips from Danny.
“All right?” Jason said.
Cam-Cam nodded. “I'm satisfied.” He handed the wand back to Rondeau, who carefully returned it to the case.
Cam-Cam opened his padded bag, drew out a slim laptop, and placed it on the seat of the ATV He opened it up and logged in to a secure banking site, entering numbers with great rapidity. He turned the screen around, and the driver—who was actually Danny Two Saints in disguise—leaned over and entered an account number. “You can do the honors,” he said, stepping back.
Cam-Cam nodded curtly and clicked the touchpad a couple of times. “There, the transfer is done.”
The driver held up his finger, took out a cell phone, made a call, rattled off a long number, listened for a moment, then closed the phone. “The funds are all accounted for on my end. Nice doing business with you.”
“Give us a hand getting this thing into the truck?” Jason said.
The driver, Jason, Rondeau, and Cam-Cam all took hold of the crate and carried it toward the pickup. “It's not as heavy as it looks,” Cam-Cam said.
“The spores are practically weightless, and the metal tube they're in doesn't weigh much more,” the driver said. “All the rest of this weight is padding and armor and magic to keep the things inert. There's no telling what the spores were last programmed to do. I don't want to find out. How are you guys planning to open this safely anyway?”
“Don't worry about that.” Jason slid the crate into the pickup.
The driver grunted. “I guess you've got Marla's organization at your disposal, so maybe you won't all kill yourselves. I'm going to head for my cabin upstate for a few weeks, though, just in case you do end up murdering everybody in the city.”
“Your faith in us is touching.” Jason slammed the truck's tailgate shut. He and Rondeau tied down the crate and covered it with a tarp of their own.
“Take care, gents.” The driver drove off in his ATV.
“Okay.” Jason reached under the driver's side of the pickup's seat to pull out a pump-action shotgun.
Cam-Cam flinched. “What is this?”
“Caution.” Rondeau took a chrome-plated, pearl-handled handgun from his waistband, and reached into the glove box for another pistol. “You know how to shoot?” He handed the gun, a ridiculously huge Desert Eagle, to Cam-Cam.
“I, ah, no—why will we need to shoot?”
“Safety's here.” Rondeau showed him. “Trigger's there. Switch off one and pull the other, and get ready for a hell of a fucking kick if you need to use it.”
“This is always a delicate moment,” Jason said. “Right now, the dealer has your money, and we have his merchandise. A certain unscrupulous type of person might decide they want to take their merchandise back, and keep the money, too. Marla vouches for this guy, but this kind of cash does weird things to people. Makes 'em behave out of character.”
Cam-Cam held the pistol awkwardly, one-handed, while Rondeau made a show of scanning the perimeter. “But surely Marla would seek revenge if he attacked us.”
Jason shrugged. “He could always say we never showed up. Like I said. It's a delicate moment.”
“Why guns?” Cam-Cam said. “Why not defend us with magic?”
“Magic is good for lots o
f thing,” Rondeau said, “but guns are made for killing, and they're a lot more reliable, and deadly even in unschooled hands.” Rondeau looked around one last time, then said, “Doesn't look like ambush is imminent.”
“Into the truck, then,” Jason said. “Rondeau, you ride in back with the crate. Cam-Cam, I'll trade you weapons—you ride shotgun. Keep the window down, and the nose of that gun hanging out.” He passed the shotgun to Cam-Cam, who looked at it with alarm, but got into the truck as directed. When Cam-Cam was looking away, Jason shot Rondeau a big grin. Yeah, Rondeau thought. This really is pretty godsdamn fun.
“Keep an eye out.” Jason started up the truck.
Rondeau held on to the sides of the pickup's bed, looking around. They went around a curve on the dirt road… and found the way blocked by a black SUV with darkly tinted windows.
Rondeau slid open the little window at the back of the pickup's cab. “Oh, fuck,” he said.
“Yep.” Jason stopped the truck. “The trees are too close on both sides of the road, so we can't drive around. We should back up—”
Someone burst from the trees on Cam-Cam's side and rushed the truck. He wore a heavy dark cloak with a hood and gloves, despite the heat. “Shoot him!” Rondeau screamed, and for a moment he thought Cam-Cam would freeze and spoil the whole effect.
But there was a cataclysmically loud boom, and the man in the cloak staggered back, fell… and then got up again.
“Fuck me,” Jason said. “It's not the dealer. It's a vampire. Rondeau—”
“On it.” Rondeau jumped down from the truck. Cam-Cam was saying something, babbling, really, but Rondeau concentrated on doing his moves as rehearsed. He whipped out a crucifix damn near the size of a tennis racket—it had belonged to Danny Two Saints's uncle the priest—and brandished it at the hooded figure, who fell back, keening in pain and terror. Rondeau pulled a sharpened wooden stake from his pocket and launched himself at the attacker, knocking him down, and drove the stake… into the dirt between the attacker's arm and side. But from Cam-Cam's panicked perspective, it should look like a heart-strike.
