Bounty: An Urban Fantasy Novel (The Solumancer Cycle Book 3)

by J. C. Staudt

  Elona sits back in her chair and folds her hands in her lap. “Allow me to understand. You are telling me that not only did you misplace the Trillion of the Bloodless; you made known your presence and volunteered the information that I was your patron.”

  “Irys was about to kill my friend. She was in a blood rage, and I was out of magic. I had to say something to calm her down, and telling her we worked for the same person was the first thing that came to mind.”

  “I thought I was clear about the secrecy of your mission. Under no circumstances were you to speak.”

  “Sebastian Bordeaux wanted me to give a whole speech about Tenebris’s tactics for dealing with the lack of prey in their town. I was bullshitting my way through it when Irys burst in demanding blood.”

  Elona sits back in her chair, contemplating something. “It’s really no wonder the vampires have resorted to dark deals. They are only as powerful as the blood on which they feed. Without a constant and variegated supply, they are as cows in a dust-ridden pasture.”

  “Only because the smaller covens are confined geographically and don’t have the same hunting rights as the larger ones.”

  She gives me a strange look. “You sound like a vampire advocate.”

  “I’m a me advocate. And right now, me needs sleep. I can find the Trillion, but I’m no good to anyone like this. Free me from the dream curse and I’ll return your jewel.”

  “That was not our arrangement. You will bring me the Trillion, or you will remain Sister Wygella’s dream-slave for the rest of your pathetic life.”

  “We don’t have an arrangement. We have you telling me what to do, and fuckall I can do about it. I want your word this time. A pact. I bring you the Trillion, you set me free. My dragon, too.” I extend my hand.

  She stares down her nose at it. “In an honorbound pact, there must be a guarantee from both sides. Should we seal this pact, you are bound to return my Trillion. In exchange, I will command Sister Wygella to release you from dream-slavery. Fail to uphold your end of the deal, and you will be tried as a pactbreaker.”

  “Fair enough. I’ll need a strand of your hair.”

  She snorts. “A wizard wants a lock of my hair? I suppose he thinks I’m naive enough to give him one.”

  “Not a lock. A strand. A single strand isn’t enough to cast any spell capable of doing you harm, but it’s enough to locate an object you own. Hell, I’ll settle for a pube if that’s the going rate.”

  “I will not be deceived into forfeiting my essence to a petty magician.”

  Bitch did not just call me a magician. “I couldn’t give a good god damn about your essence. I want one hair. One. With it, Calyxto can help me find any object you own.”

  “Calyxto can’t help you do anything. That pathetic fiend has fled the mortal realm to escape the reach of my enforcers. He’s cowering in his underworld home at the feet of his master, the Demon Princess Malanx.”

  So that’s who he works for. “If you make me leave here like this, I’m coming back with more than the Trillion. And you won’t like the rest.”

  She laughs. “Was that a threat?”

  “It was my personal guarantee as a wizard. Find your trinket yourself if you want it so badly.”

  “You wouldn’t dare.”

  I’m too angry and tired to waste another second on this manipulative fairy whore and her demands. I could spend the next two weeks looking for the Trillion and never find it. Yet she refuses to spare me a single hair on her head to make the process easier. So as far as I’m concerned, screw her and screw doing her any more favors. My patience is way past thin. She’s driven me to the edge, and I’m not coming back from it without a wrecking ball. Ersatz and Ryovan were both right—she doesn’t play fair. And it’s about time I sank to her level.

  I tear through the building in a rage and fling myself into the passenger seat of Desdemona’s car. “Take me to HQ. The sidhe just earned herself a big fucking problem.”

  “I’m guessing that problem is you?”

  I don’t answer.

  “You heard what Ryovan said last night. There’s no way to beat her. She’s too powerful.”

  “We’re not going to beat her. We’re going to ruin her.”

  “What do you mean by that?”

  “During Calyxto’s hearing, I told Elona her fears of a mass human awakening to the supernatural world were unfounded.”

  “Okay. So?”

  “So she didn’t believe a word of it. Neither did the rest of the Council. Gryphon Enterprises is vastly more influential than we can hope to fight on our own, but they have a weakness. The fae are terrified of losing their hold over the populace. They’re convinced humans are one paranormal event away from becoming super-sleuth conspiracy theorists and going mainstream with their discovery of the supernatural world. Their entire media conglomerate is centered around hiding paranormal activity. Threatening them with their own personal apocalypse is the best weapon we’ve got, even if there isn’t a shred of truth behind it. Think about it. How do you fight an enemy who’s bigger and stronger than you are?”

  She shrugs. “How?”

  “You kick them in the goddamn nuts, that’s how. The only way we’re going to break up this little love affair between Irys and Elona is by hitting the fae where they’re vulnerable. If we present them with a nightmare scenario—prey on their worst fears—maybe they’ll withdraw from their pact with Irys.”

  “The fae never withdraw from a pact. It’s the only time they keep their word.”

  “Elona says there’s always a guarantee on both sides. What if we could get Irys to fail on her side of the bargain?”

  “How are we going to do that?”

  “I’ve got this idea rolling around in my head, but I’m too tired to know if it’s any good. So I’m just gonna go with it.”

  “You do that when you’re not tired, and it rarely pans out.”

  “This time it has to. I’m about to shove a big steaming slice of humble pie down Elona’s throat.”

  “You’re talking crazy, your highness.”

  “My tired is making my crazy worse.”

  “Wish I could tell you to get some sleep on the way.”

  “I’d settle for getting knocked out. That way I won’t have a choice.”

  “There are plenty of folks back at HQ who’d do it free of charge.”

  I give her a dour smirk and focus on staying awake.

  Chapter 22

  We enter the hospital through the parking garage, where we find Baz hobbling down the hallway with Fremantle guiding him by the arm. I’m surprised at how frail and thin he is, even after only a few days sick. I hope the fact that he’s up and walking around means he’s on the mend. “Hey, Baz. Glad to see you on your feet.”

  Fremantle shoulders me out of the way. “Move, stupid human.”

  “Whoa. What was that for?”

  Fremantle whirls, shoves a clawed finger in my face. “This is your fault. Your reckless, thoughtless actions did this to him. He’s fighting for his life, and you’ve been of no help. Keep your distance.”

  I stand dumbfounded while the hulking gargoyle escorts Baz away. The wererat turns back with a forlorn glance, but he doesn’t speak. It’s gut-wrenching to see him lacking his usual carefree disposition, like the poison has drained the cheer out of him. Des touches my arm and motions me to follow.

  “Don’t you have work today?” I ask her.

  She shakes her head. “My schedule is weird. I’ve been working twelve-hour shifts, four days on and three days off. So what’s this idea of yours?”

  “Let’s go to Mazriel’s lab and I’ll show you.”

  The old warlock is brewing a potion over a Bunsen burner, chortling to herself as she stirs a beaker of brown syrupy liquid with a wooden spoon. There’s a rotten sweetness in the air, like fruit on the tail end of ripe. Githryx perches atop his cabinet of curiosities, fondling himself in his sleep. As soon as I walk in, Mazriel abandons her potion to hover protec
tively over the grimoire-shaped sheet of burlap on the counter.

  “Any chance I can borrow your imp?” I ask her.

  “The black bat slumbers,” she replies. “Best not wake it, lest its wrath fall upon you.”

  “That’s a risk I’m willing to take. Besides, I’m soaked in wrath already. I don’t mind a little more.”

  I approach the sleeping imp and tap him on one of his bony knees. He stirs. Flinches. Mutters under his breath. I’m jealous of him. It’s a fitful sleep, but it’s sleep.

  I tap him again.

  His eyes shoot open. He screeches in terror and topples off the cabinet, spindly fingers groping for my neck. He stares straight through me as he chokes me, acting like he’s never seen me before and wants me dead anyway. When I grab his wrists to restrain him, he flaps his wings and digs his taloned feet into my thighs.

  Des comes to my aid, folding his wings against his back and bear-hugging him from behind. Mazriel grunts a laugh, shaking her head sanctimoniously. Yeah, Maz, you warned me.

  We coax Githryx with soothing words until he settles down.

  “What for you touch me like this?”

  “You were having a bad dream.”

  “I have good dream. Only good dream.”

  “Well then I’m sorry I interrupted you. I need to ask a favor.”

  He frowns. “Go head. Get over with.”

  “Will you take me to the underworld?”

  He cocks an eyebrow. “You go before?”

  “The closest I’ve ever been was the DMV.”

  “Heh. You not gonna like it any better. Not good for person like you. Hot. Very hot and dirt.”

  “That’s what they say. Burn in hell, right?”

  “Underworld is not hell. Underworld is where hell go for vacation.”

  “Lovely this time of year, I’m sure. So will you take me?”

  “No. You get hurt. I no want be responsible for that.”

  “I won’t hold you responsible for anything. Promise. I need to find the Demon Princess Malanx. You know her?”

  Githryx’s eyes bulge. He forms an O with his mouth and cackles like someone who’s just heard a juicy bit of gossip. “Demon Princess Malanx? How you know about her? You wanna go in her legs like they do?” The imp shoves a taloned fist toward his crotch as if to give himself a reach-around. “You gonna give her a break for you soul this time? Discount? Five hundred percent? Her shake you brain and slurp out you ear like milkshake.” He clamps his hands around his skull and sways side to side, cackling with delight. “Milkshake.”

  “I’m not selling my soul, Githryx. Discounted or otherwise. Hate to disappoint you.”

  “What you gonna do? Make friend with her then?”

  “I guess you could say that. I’m going to ask her for help.”

  “Malanx no gonna help you. Cause I no gonna bring you.”

  “Please, Githryx. You want Irys to stop attacking the portals, don’t you?”

  He pauses. “Yes. Yes, I do. Why for you ask?”

  “Because this is how we make it happen. Irys works for the sidhe, and the sidhe won’t back down unless we threaten her.”

  “You a crazy one, highness.”

  “Sometimes crazy is what it takes. Bring me to the underworld, Githryx. You can leave me down there and forget you ever knew me.”

  He wiggles his pointy pug nose. “You think you gonna make dhampir stop with the killing?”

  “I hope I am.”

  “You have stone? Stone old witch woman make for you?” He gestures toward Mazriel.

  “The anchorstone? No, I left it at home.”

  “Good. You not want for this.”

  “So you’ll take me, then?”

  “I take you, then.”

  I pump my fist. “Yes.”

  “You’re awfully excited about going to hell,” says Des.

  “It’s not hell. It’s the underworld. Right Githryx?”

  He crosses his arms and nods.

  “That settles it, then. Let’s go.”

  “Now?” he asks in surprise.

  “The sooner the better.”

  “It gonna hurt. You not gonna like.”

  “I’m prepared to not enjoy being there.”

  “Be there, bad. Go there… worse.”

  Des steps in to clarify. “You remember the vampire attack at Megatavern? Githryx was able to blink those vampires from the mortal realm to the shadow realm because they were already dead.”

  “I feel dead. Does that count?”

  “Point is, the living aren’t welcome in any of the immortal realms. He’ll only be able to take you as far as the border. You’ll have to walk the rest of the way.”

  “You get one chance,” Githryx adds. “You go to underworld again, they no let you come back.”

  “I’m a frequent visitor to the underworld, if only in my mind.”

  Des pats me on the cheek. “Try to keep it that way, will you? Good luck.”

  “I don’t think they have luck in the underworld. Or good, for that matter.”

  “Just trying to make you feel better.”

  “About what?”

  She smiles. “You’ll see.”

  Githryx holds me close.

  Mazriel’s lab spins into a blur. There’s a warm sensation in my loins, like I’m peeing my pants. When Calyxto warped me to the break room at Helayne’s work, I experienced a brief episode of lightheadedness. This feels nothing like that. My head is an anvil, my stomach a raging sea. The thick eggy smell of sulfur swims in a cloud of toxic black smoke around me.

  When the smoke clears, we’re standing at the bottom of a circular tunnel made of rough-hewn stone where the air is too humid to breathe. The tunnel opens onto a landscape unlike anything I’ve ever seen. Beneath a sky of threatening clouds where red-orange light broods and smolders, a pathway of stepping stones dots the surface of a fast-moving river of magmatic mud.

  This place feels heavy with badness. That’s the only word for it; badness. It isn’t evil, per se. It’s the opposite of goodness. Every vice known to mankind hangs in the atmosphere, cloying and oppressive. Cardinal sins like greed, lust, and hubris are so thick on the walls you could scrape them off and butter your toast. This place is more like hell than I expected.

  “Thanks for the ride, Githryx. I guess I’ll see you when I get back. If I get back.”

  “I go with,” he says. “Malanx crush you like bug without I say word on your behalf.”

  “I don’t need her to like me. I need her to not like the fae more.”

  “Already not like fae.”

  “Then maybe I have a chance.”

  “A chance, a chance. Now we go-o-o.” Githryx flaps past me into the underworld and flies in little circles, lifting himself on gusts of hot air. He yips and hollers with the excitement of a child at the gates of a theme park. He’s home, and loving every second of it. Wordless, he beckons me onward.

  The stony landscape before me looks ready to melt, and I hesitate to step onto it for fear of liquefying the soles of my shoes. Githryx doesn’t look worried, so I take him at his word and cross the threshold. I’m surprised when my foot doesn’t burst into flame at the first step. I guess the intense heat is more about discomfort than damage.

  “Follow me, highness,” Githryx sings. “We go our merry way.”

  The way begins anything but merrily. The distance between the stepping stones requires either a long step or a short hop, and I’m drenched in sweat before I’m halfway across the river of burning mud. Every time the fell wind blows, charcoal particles cling to the slickness of my skin. This sauna wrought of hellfire makes my tired bones want rest more than ever.

  The river’s opposite bank is a soft spongy surface which gives way to my footfalls and springs back into place afterward. Ahead lies a thick gray smog which only darkens as the river’s glowing effluence recedes behind us. Under the faint crimson light spilling from the clouds I become aware that the smog isn’t made of smoke or fog. It’s
made of garbage.

  There’s a stench to the whole mess, like someone emptied the contents of a waste dump into a giant blender and set it loose in the breeze. Objects which by any rights should fall to the ground float on the wind instead, moving with a slow eerie cadence. Soon I’m forced to clear the air in front of me with my hands, and I find myself swimming through an asteroid field of drifting refuse. There are rotten things and sticky things and things that ooze and burst at a touch. There are bits of broken glass and slivers of metal that make me wish I’d brought goggles and gloves.

  Meanwhile, up ahead, Githryx is having the time of his life. He’s fluttering through the morass with all the exuberance of a hippo at an oasis, twirling his body and dive-bombing the ground before climbing again with a flap of his leathery wings. That is one screwed-up little devil, I muse, though I suppose it comes with the territory.

  It feels like forever before the debris field clears. There are things stuck to my body from head to toe. I can’t begin to imagine what some of them used to be. A long shallow rise crests at a bald hilltop several hundred yards ahead. There stands a grotesque fountain made of a shiny black-brown cartilage, ribbed like the chitinous exoskeleton of an insect. Dark liquid dribbles from its twisted spouts to splash in lopsided catchbasins and stain the ground around it.

  “What’s that?” I ask.

  “Come. Follow,” Githryx replies, and leads me up the slope.

  I’m still not sure what to make of the spongy surface beneath my feet. When I consider what it might be, a void opens in the pit of my stomach. I start feeling even sicker when I clamber breathless to the top of the rise and get a closer look at the fountain’s thick brown liquid. The ground around the fountain is pockmarked and corroded, and time has worn a cleft into the slope where the liquid runs down it like a tiny canyon river.

  “What’s it for?” I ask.

  “The Shrine of the Seven,” he explains. “Tribute to the Seven Lords of the Underworld. Baradz the Tempter; Hollum the Feaster; Searix the Fury; Yiggolim the Liar; Dewl the Wastrel; Abokez the Judge; and least but not last, you favorite and me… Malanx the Tyrant.”

  “Tyrant. Tempter. Feaster. Fury. Liar. Wastrel. Judge. It’s like a who’s who of career politicians.”