by J. Gertori
“Back home?”
Sam stood by a chair near the bookshelf, and Ellis yelled incoherent babble. As Sam sat, the chair disappeared, and his tailbone mashed on the ground. The book in his hand flipped open, and an eloquent voice sprang from the pages:
Chapter One
The Girl With The Golden Touch
The summer Arin’s dragon egg hatched, she had two plans: learn how to fly atop said dragon, and raise it to be an ally. She didn’t succeed at both.
Sam slammed the book shut, clearing his throat.
“What?” said Ellis, with an embarrassed giggle. “Gotta make the place look full when I’m doing interviews. Which reminds me, don’t touch the picture frame behind the stairs, or the gold statue in the hall, or anything on the third floor.”
“Third floor?”
“You know what—go ahead and avoid the third-floor stairs as well.”
Sam dusted off the chair remnants and unscrewed the elixir jar. “By the way, isn’t rifting illegal?”
“Well, ‘illegal’ is a bit harsh. Most wizards would say it’s frowned upon. The higher ups just don’t want us rifting into walls. Besides, mine is only one way. I’ll do whatever to get here quicker and report the story first. But that’s none of your business, fleshling.” He sighed. “I’m sorry. It’s noon, and I usually have a big lunch in me before any near-death experiences.”
Ellis walked into the kitchen and revealed a long yellow fruit from a bottom compartment; it looked like a stretched lemon. “Scalpo,” he whispered as he positioned the wand. “Asservio.”
After slicing a thin sliver, Ellis walked away, but the quill wand remained in place, repeating the slim cut just as he had done. The inside of the fruit transitioned from a dark red to neon blue. The reporter returned with two plates, one with a dollop of fragrant rice atop a smear of sauce.
“You like sweet or savory?” said Ellis, pointing at the slanted cuts of fruit.
“Savory.”
Ellis tapped the air with his wand and mumbled a spell. Thin slices of scarlet, crimson, and orange, flew from the cutting board and adorned Sam’s rice.
“Now that’s some presentation,” said Sam, gawking at the dish. “What else you got?”
Ellis cracked a grin. “This is a hearty melon. There’s no need for extras. Take a bite. You’ll see.”
Sam prepared a spoonful of rice and folded the sliver to avoid gnawing on its yellow skin. It smelled of minced rosemary, and far better than the swampy stench from Ellis’ wand. He bit the food and discarded the skin. “Mmm. This taste like chicken,” said Sam, gorging the rice. “Fuck that’s cliché, I know. But it’s like a moist chicken breast.”
“The closer to red, the more savory the taste.” Ellis stacked two bluish slices and bit them together. He relayed the strong flavor profile of strawberry pie and chocolate.
Sam couldn’t be disturbed. He took a bite of the crimson slice; his head flopped, and his knees buckled. “Pulled pork. This—is—pulled—pork.” He groaned in ecstasy, devouring the remaining rice to cleanse his palette before chomping the scarlet slice. “Okay, bacon and—what is that—maple? Are you serious?”
“Give us the details, Sam. We wanna know where you came from, how you got here, your idea of perfect Sunday—everything.”
Sam, busy sucking the fruit skins, spared a second to reply: “New York—Mr. Gaspare’s apartment—brunch and a movie.” He refrained from licking the plate but finished the meal with a glass of purplish water. As he curved around the counter, he noticed a photo on the refrigerator of Ellis wearing chef attire.
“You know Sir Gaspare outside Trida? What’s he like?” Ellis addressed Mavis before Sam could answer: “Side thought—one-third column with weekly illustrations. Call it Artifecs Doing Fleshling Chores.”
“We’re getting sidetracked,” Sam said.
Ellis agreed, waving his arms about as if doing so cleared his thoughts. “What’s the story, Sam?” He leaned on the kitchen island and directed Mavis to ready itself. “Why did Mack slaughter those animals?”
Gas climbed Sam’s chest, pausing mid-way until he patted the burp loose. The food had the aftertaste of Thanksgiving dinner and the uncomfortable fullness that was synonymous.
“Told you, buddy. Hearty melons are no joke.” Once again, Ellis addressed the pen: “Possible spin-off article: Fleshling Tries Trida Cuisine.”
“Do you want to hear my take on the crimes or not?” Feeling the food rumble in his stomach like a sunken ship, Sam said, “Off the record, please. It’s only a theory until I can prove it.”
“You heard the man.” Ellis shooed the pen and notepad away. “The floor’s yours.”
“That list I stole from Mack’s house had one item left uncrossed: Obsolete Offering.”
“Never heard of it.”
“Neither had Gibb. He did say the ingredients were crazy old—older than his crusty ass. Flash forward to this morning—I met this giant named—”
Ellis broke into laughter. “Alright, stop there. Giants are nocturnal. Nocturnal means they—”
“I know what it means!”
“Then, you understand what you’re saying’s ludicrous. We’ve got night universities for that reason. You sound like the guy who sends us tips about the faceless cat of Tinsingtail Way.”
The pen and notepad bounced in the air. If Sam were to picture what it would look like for these tools to laugh, this would be it.
“I saw what I saw. The giant took me into a garden with a running stream, constructions carved into the rocks, and a fountain that taps into your hidden memories.”
Ellis leaned in, his eyes wider. “Let me guess; this is where he serenaded you.”
Sam clenched his teeth. “He went by Simon; the biggest giant I’ve seen. He sat on a dusty throne like an old king, and we literally bumped heads. I gave him a cut on his eye that dripped blue. Not to toot my own horn, but there wasn’t a scratch on me. I left through passageway hidden in an abandoned park.”
The retelling of his time with Simon sounded more and more farfetched as he went on, despite that Ellis now listened with bated breath. “Simon pointed me to Okra Island by way of the Ree Bridge, but I ended at Lixferg School of Magic. There, I learned about Obsolete Offering, and why Mack didn’t, or should I say, couldn’t, cross it off his list.”
“Oh, c’mon—by the time you finish this story, my kids will be running Tattersall Press.”
“Back then, they used Obsolete Offering to make counter curses.”
“Mack was brewing a counter curse? Then, what’s Obsolete Offering?”
“It’s the blood of the person the counter curse will be used on.”
“So Mack needed the blood of the person he meant to un-curse?”
“You know, maybe your pen should take notes. You don’t follow along that well,” Sam said.
Ellis sported a grin like verbal jabbing was how he liked to conduct business. “He made it to use on Dara Avabelle. Boom. Solved,” the reporter said.
“That was my first thought, too, but I don’t think Mack would curse Dara just to un-curse her. Mack had a calendar with three days circled. Maybe he needed to finish making the counter curse by the final day—the day of his death.”
“Creepy.” Ellis bounced his head as if he played with the theory. “It’s not as exciting as mine, but I guess it’s publishable. One question: what does this have to do with Gixxer? Hate to burst your bubble, but that attack just happened, and Mack died yesterday.”
“That’s the part I’m still toying with,” said Sam, strolling around the loft. “You mentioned Mack sold animal parts to the rogue market. Maybe he was paid to find the ingredients for the counter curse but didn’t deliver in time.”
“Now that’s a story I can get behind!”
“That would mean the hunt for Obsolete Offering continues. Whoever commissioned Mack might’ve attacked Gixxer. What do Athens chameleons, spiked fowl, and the fucking titan of octopuses have in common?”
“Besides bei
ng crazy unique? I mean, you talked to Gixxer, didn’t you?”
“You might be onto something. I’ve seen a spike fowl talon, and there’s so much magic in that alone; I could only imagine what else they do. Which leaves the Athens chameleon.”
“Oh, you’ve gotta see those with your own eyes. Athens chameleons were Edmond Lekly’s favorite animal—known for adapting into any shape imaginable. Come to think of it, the Athens chameleon and the spiked fowl were two of the first animals brought into Okra.” Ellis crept from behind the kitchen island. “Hey, real quick, I gotta friend whose dog does backflips. Should I tell him to lock little Jasper away, just in case?”
Sam flung his arm. “Mock all you want, but it’s something. By the way, you should check out the library at Lixferg. They’ve got a statue of—”
“Emer Feeny. I know. I did an article when they rolled out the five spotters. The porcelain version has a real shit attitude. Personally, they freak me out. And what’s with the sudden movements? They just leap out at you, begging for a question.”
“Right?”
Sam sat on a bench by a huge window, which opened into an incredible view of the city. “This is a big place for one person.”
Ellis shoved a panel in the bookshelf, which rotated to reveal a locker of thin cabinets and cut-out swatches. “Mom and Pops used to live here. My pop claims he built this place himself, but there’s no way he could’ve designed this. Mom, however, I don’t doubt. They’re the best journalists out there and made a career traveling the world. No matter the scoop, they always came back before dinner time.” He tapped a khaki swatch with his wand then dragged it along his suit jacket. The new color palette of crème blazer against his dark skin looked stunning.
“Like a good son, I took over the family paper. Nowadays, sweet Eva Rae and old Rousseau are enjoying themselves in Courfield Cottage. I have to keep the newspaper alive with a fraction of their wisdom, and none of their contacts. Had an employee once, but he stole our biggest story and used it to get his foot into Octavius Daily.” Ellis’ jaw clenched. “Now it’s just Mavis and me,” the notepad crumpled its top sheet, “and Cliff.”
He flicked another swatch, and his tie rolled from the bottom to his neck, where it detached and bounced into a drawer. The collar of his shirt shriveled away, and black stripes flowed across like watercolor swimming onto a page. The smell of soil filled the room as ashes fell from his wand.
“This will do for now. You’re up,” Ellis said with excitement.
“Me? What for?”
“We’re gonna find out what curse the killer’s trying to undo. They’re looking for an old ingredient, so it stands to reason it’s an old curse. I thought that was the point of your rant: determine what it is, corner the killer, sell ridiculous amounts of subscriptions. Easy enough.”
“I appreciate the enthusiasm, but I can do this myself. Just point me in the direction of someone who might know.”
“Sure thing. Although, if the curse is older than Gibb Knottley, then you’ll need the big guns—an Artifec. But seeing as how you’re such great pals with Sir Gaspare, that shouldn’t be too hard. Although, I’d suggest Sir Molting; he’s much more accessible. Then again, it’s a decent walk from Ardmore Heights to Fulvus. If you leave now, you can get there in a couple of hours. That’s if you’re not sniffed out by houndstooth tigers.” Sam’s head dropped. “Or—or—you stick to your word and give me that exclusive. I’m talking ‘interview with a fleshling,’ first-hand accounts from Dara Avabelle, and a picture or two.”
“Wait, you can get me to Sir Molting? That might work. Scrutors were looking for him; his brew brought people into the gates after me. Kill two birds with one stone.”
Ellis looked elated with the chance to fatten his article. “This story keeps getting better.”
In a slow shuffle, Sam joined Ellis at the locker. “Disguise me, but nothing extreme. A pair of sunglasses should work.”
“Oh, poor, poor, Sam. Don’t fool yourself.” He removed a gold tie bar from the locker and, with a shake, the bottom unraveled like a rolled parchment. “I don’t need to hide, but you’re gonna have to go all out. Lucky for you, I live for disguises. No, no—that’s not enough. Outside of family, there are three things I love in this world: fashion, tacos, and can you guess the third?”
“Disgu—”
“—Disguises.”
After an extensive chat of the merits of tacos, Sam relented. He might’ve been Lekly’s busiest tourist that weekend; his tattered garb had the souvenirs to prove it. Fresh clothes wouldn’t be the worst idea.
Ellis stood before the locker. His gaze shifted between his cabinet and the parchment of disguises. He snapped his fingers as if an idea had dislodged in his brain. With the end of his feathered wand, Ellis tapped on a combination of items and snickered. He circled his wand at his side like a cowboy spinning a lasso, and he surged it toward Sam.
The fleshling’s shirt turned stark white as the sleeves crept to his biceps, and blue stripes drove across his body. A tingling sensation irritated his jaw as his scruff lengthened to biker gang proportions. His brow inflated enough to cast a shadow.
“My mistake,” said Ellis, speeding to Sam’s front. “Forgot you’re not used to charms. Nothing a nip and tuck won’t fix.” He flatted his palm on Sam’s brow as if he were kneading a stubborn wad of dough. Then he sliced the beard into a well-groomed contour.
Sam flinched at his reflection, admiring his burly jaw; gone was his oval face, which made him look ten years younger, and crows feet complimented the creases from his smile.
“Alright, you’re a genius,” said Sam to the dancing reporter. As he maneuvered inside the new outfit, a smooth texture brushing against his body. “The inside feels soft.”
“Like velvet, right?” said Ellis. “We call it Climate Liner—helps regulate your body to the outside. That way you’re never too hot or cold. It’s in most clothes: undershirts, unmentionables, hats, and even pet clothes. But some people don’t like the feeling.”
“And the matching stripes?”
“It’s our unofficial uniform! You have to wear the stripes if you’re representing Tattersall Press.” Ellis twisted his wand, and a blue jacket floated to Sam’s shoulder. A white letter M from a drawer sewed itself to the jacket’s front. “M For McQueen,” he said.
Two fake jobs in a single weekend—not bad, Sam thought. But how would he add them to his resume? Gnome babysitter by day, a sartorially inclined reporter at night? He asked Ellis permission to use the office bathroom, and as if the layout couldn’t be any more unorthodox, the shower and toilet were in separate rooms.
After ten minutes, and seven color changes to Ellis’ pants, the pair returned to the basement. The pen and notepad that had followed Ellis like needy puppies didn’t tag along. Sam thought they must’ve been busy writing bogus stories for the next issue of Tattersall Press.
“Hope you have another rifting potion.”
“Silly fleshling—I told you, those vials go one way. But since we’re in a rush, I do have something that’ll do the trick.” Ellis retrieved a tiny box from a closet. “Between the two of us, I know a guy that smuggles gems out of the Mage Evidence Quarters. Best part: it only cost me five months of advertisement space in our paper.” Ellis laughed, slapping Sam on the shoulder.
He showed off a withered matchbox with four black matches. Three of them had mustard-yellow heads. The fourth was bright blue. The lid of the box had an illustrated crow, and an oval inscription that read: Where the crow goes, only it shall know.
“I’ve used two so far. All you gotta do is shut off all of the lights. If I paint a vivid picture in my head and think hard about where I want to go, we’ll be there as soon as I light the match. Well, not exactly there, per se, but the closest pitch-black space.
“In my last trip, I pictured an alley in Gonzaga Ridge but rifted into an old man’s pantry. I spent days convincing the mages a rogue slinger named Mr. X had rifted me there. I didn’t brea
k under their interrogation, and I never mentioned the matches. Sometimes I have nightmares of the pantry; I can still smell the cracked tuna cans.”
“Great. Looking forward to it,” said Sam.
Ellis waved his hand across the bulb beside him until its swimming white glow vanished. The lights throughout the basement followed suit, leaving the room pitch black.
“What happens when you light the blue match?”
Ellis fell silent for a few seconds. “I have no clue,” he mumbled. His barrage of laughter sounded creepy in the absolute darkness. The closest bulb lit with Ellis’ help, and soon the entire room brightened. He triple-checked that the blue-tipped match remained untouched. “Good call, McQueen.”
Ellis brushed over the bulb once more, but a thud from upstairs stole their attention. Then came footsteps.
SIXTEEN
The Gang
Sam advanced on the basement stairs behind Ellis, triggering each creak the reporter had avoided. As Ellis reached the top, he stuck his stiff finger backward, which Sam swatted away. In the hall, gentle whispers accompanied the mysterious footsteps. From inside his jacket, Ellis withdrew his quill wand. He clung to the wall and flipped the stick straight.
“What was that?” whispered the intruder.
Ellis mouthed something to Sam, which failed as Sam couldn’t read lips to save his life. They inched closer to the corridor, where a face-to-face showdown would be inevitable. Jabbing his fingers into the air once more, Ellis signaled when he planned to strike.
A fizzing sound rang through the office like a lit firecracker. Bang! A corner chunk of the wall—an inch away from Ellis’ arm—flew across the room. The fragment fanned out like a deck of cards.
Without further hesitation, Ellis slid across the compromised hall. He stabbed his wand forward as he glided past the middle. A bright spark flew into the hallway followed by a loud thud. Then came profanities from a familiar voice.
Another orb zoomed toward Sam, connecting on a steel cart Ellis used as a bar. Its wheels popped off, and it collapsed as its legs transformed into strings no thicker than linguine.
