by Chris Lowry
Cassidy's foot scuffed through the blood and broke the plane of the triangle.
The portal collapsed with the demon still on this side.
It roared and bounded toward the witches.
Hilda scrambled up.
"Fortress," she screamed and crossed her arms in an X in front of her naked chest.
The demon bounced off an invisible field. It roared again and ran for the edge of the parking lot.
"Damn," Hilda muttered.
She glanced at the thief as he disappeared through a hole in the fence on the opposite side of the parking lot.
"What do we do?" Cassidy asked.
She held her head down and refused to meet Hilda's burning gaze.
"The thief of course," she spat. "He has our property."
Carla held out their dirt encrusted dresses and they donned them.
"We can't summon Sullamaie without the grimoire," she said.
Cassidy nodded.
"He's going to do some damage."
Hilda caressed her stomach.
"Damage was the plan all along," she smiled.
CHAPTER TWO
He paused at the edge of the fence to look back over his shoulder. The witches were getting dressed. At least that's what he thought they were, witches or some other type of supernatural villain.
They had to be villains because what type of person summons a demon and then does that with them.
It couldn't be for any good purpose that was for damn sure.
Tyrone took off through the brush and bounded up on a railroad track.
He was less than a mile from downtown and the small pub where he was supposed to meet the man who hired him.
After the meeting, he had one plan.
Get the hell out of Dodge, because that giant bullheaded demon didn't make it back to the underworld or wherever else it had come from. It was currently running loose in Memphis, and the direction it was headed in took it straight to St. Jude's.
He wondered if he should call the police.
Wouldn't that be an ironic little kick?
A thief calling the cops to ask for help.
Technically it wouldn't be help. Tyrone would be warning them about a disaster in the making, though he wasn't sure they would believe him.
He wasn't quite ready to believe it himself even though he had watched the ritual and summoning with his own eyes.
"Damn," he said and scrambled down the railway embankment to cut across a ditch.
He could see the baseball stadium up the road several blocks away. There were cars lined on either side of the road which meant people, but he didn't slow or relax.
The streetlights on this side of town were still subject to being shot out or knocked out, and the streets were bathed in darkness.
The man who hired him had warned of supernatural AND mortal bad guys and Tyrone was a man of caution.
His erstwhile employer and predicted the ritual, and advised the best time to grab the book, and had paid in cash with a promise of more to follow on delivery.
He was accurate in prediction, so Tyrone thought he would listen when it came to the warnings as well.
He could smell a wind blowing off the muddy waters of the Mississippi River, the sickly-sweet stench of dirt and decay that carried laughter and strains of blues guitar off Beale Street.
The bar wasn't far now.
He heard a roar from the east, something that sounded like a cross between a lion and Godzilla.
Even though he was running fast, he ratcheted it up a notch or two to go even faster.
CHAPTER THREE
Before that movie came out, you could have called magic the fifth element. I hesitate to even use the word magic because it conjures (see what I did there?!) up images straight out of Vegas.
Damn illusionists.
They fool everyone into thinking that has something to do with magic, or the tricksters who roam around in cheap tuxedo's pulling rabbits from hats. They're pale imitations of what Magic is really about.
I was nervous and taking it out on poor mildly talented hacks. Be glad there weren't any around, although a street performer on the corner up from Beale was using sleight of hand and misdirection to entertain the pre-ball game crowd.
It was a Tuesday night in Memphis, the Snowbirds were getting ready to play and I was on my first blind date in eighteen years. Nineteen years. It had been so long, I couldn't remember.
How I fooled someone into setting me up on a blind date is a whole story in itself, as was the reason I haven't been on one in practically forever.
I selected the bar because of its proximity to her neighborhood, which was on the river and just North of 240. Downtown crowds would be thick, but during the game, the bars and pubs tended to empty out as people wandered to the stadium.
There would be plenty of people watching as the game let out, just in case the conversation was running light, and of course the pub since libation is the best social lubricant ever created outside of a love potion.
Love potions are illegal by the way and if I catch you using one, I'm legally obligated to arrest, detain or even kill you depending on the severity of the offense.
If you're a wizard, that is.
The badge on my belt lets me do that.
The power in my will lets me enforce it.
Marshal of Magic.
That's my title, and job, and even though I wouldn't go so far as to say it's a calling, I'm pretty darn good at it.
Most of the time.
That's because I'm lucky.
Very lucky.
At least at magic.
Right now, I didn't feel very lucky as I stared at the clock above the bar for what must have been the hundredth time.
I did it enough to make the bartender notice and she shot a dimpled smile my way.
"You need another hon?"
I tilted up the brown bottle and swirled around the two sips of brew inside.
"Please," I said and swallowed the rest of the Southern Pecan craft beer down with a satisfied grunt. It wasn't ambrosia but smacked pretty good of being a powerful social lubricant.
She popped the top on a bottle and swiped it in place of the empty in front of me. I appreciated the artistry.
There was a mirror that ran the length of the bar and I faced it full on so I could watch the door.
I didn't look that bad tonight.
Not for a ninety-five-year-old man.
I didn't look it though. That's a perk of being a wizard, the slow aging process. I was born in 1921 and looked forty. I'd look forty for the next three or four hundred years, and then age slowly over the next hundred or so more.
If I lasted that long.
Most Marshall's didn't.
I'd had the job for two decades which made me practically an old timer in the ranks.
I looked old in the eyes, I thought.
But after what I'd seen in the Sidhe Wars, which you called World War II, and the Fairy incursions, on top of the hunting of Warlocks and Sorcerers and Sorceresses which were what we called Wizards gone to the dark side, I wasn't surprised.
She was definitely late.
I had arrived early.
Like I said, nervous.
Eyes up at the clock again. Fifteen minutes late.
"Damn it." I sipped the beer, and pondered why being stood up bothered us as a people so much.
Nobody liked rejection, but it's not like I knew the woman who was a no show. The cold heartless woman who probably hated dogs.
The door opened and my heart fluttered.
A young sweating black guy flitted in. He pulled the door shut after him and glanced around the room.
I knew that look, so I glanced around the room too.
He scowled.
I guess the person or persons he was supposed to meet wasn't there either. Or maybe he was stood up too.
He walked toward the back and caught me staring in the mirror, giving him some serious eyeball.
"Who t
he hell are you?"
I turned around and set my back to the bar. Sure the mirror was great for watching the comings and the goings, but nothing beats a good old fashioned face to face when you do this.
I slipped open the side of my leather coat to reveal my badge.
"Marshal?" he squeaked and blanched.
Totally worth it. Every time.
I did the eye thing up and down, trying to track details. I wasn't too worried about him. He didn't give off that low level vibration users of magic can feel off of each other, and my precog always gave me about two seconds of a head start on anything.
"Nice grimoire," I said.
He glanced down at the book, then started to shove it in a backpack over one shoulder.
I let my hand ease down to the edge of my belt.
"You don't look like a practitioner."
The Judge said a couple of us Marshal's watched too many Westerns growing up, that we had this sense of spell casting like gun slinging.
But I was the Marshal of the East. If you think I was bad you should see the guy from the West.
The young man in front of me licked his lips.
"I- um-"
Um is the universal signal. It lets the person you're talking to know that you are now about to lie your ass off, and that your mouth was engaged before your brain started.
"I'm meeting someone it belongs to," said the man.
Nice recovery.
"What's your name?"
I used the squinty eye thing a lot of people know from Clint. Clint rocks by the way.
"Tyrone," he answered.
"Tyrone," I rolled it around my tongue. "You're playing with forces that are beyond your ken."
He nodded and wiped the back of his hand across his sweaty brow.
"Don't I know it."
"Why don't you just leave that with me," I suggested and patted the bar.
He looked like he wanted to.
"I would, sir," he said.
Sir? Do I look like a sir? Or was it just a respect thing?
"But I can't," he finished.
I nodded.
Didn't have to talk.
Just squinted.
I let my eyes say it all.
Feeling lucky?
The door opened and she walked in.
My heart did that flutter thing again as I saw her.
Auburn hair to just her shoulders, athletic, pretty face framed behind sensible glasses and a fashionable business suit. She looked frazzled, like a person who had been delayed by circumstances beyond their control. A little crease was on her brow as she glanced around the room and her eyes settled on me.
She smiled.
I'm a sucker for a gorgeous smile. There's just something contagious about them.
I smiled back.
Tyrone smiled too.
Damn it Tyrone, I can't be tough and sweet at the same time.
I motioned him to move along with my head.
That grimoire might not have been his, and I didn't know the whole story but Tyrone had dealt with the law before, that much I was sure.
He nodded again and skedaddled to a table in the back. Fast.
She moved across the room and slid up on a barstool beside me.
Smiled again as I spun around.
"Sorry I'm late, but parking was a bitch."
She waved a finger to the bartender and asked for a martini.
"Was it my idea to meet down here on a game night?" she asked.
She knew whose idea it was.
Too bad my luck didn't extend to zingers.
Want to read the rest of the adventures of the Marshal of Magic?
Grab your copy of Witchmas today.
OTHER WORKS by CHRIS LOWRY
Conscripted
Mission One
Shadowboxer
Decreed
Credible Threat
Moon Men
Super Secret Space Mission
Holy War
Nazi Nukes
Time Out
Jack’s Wild
