The Strange Fate of Capricious Jones

by Roman, Robert C.

  “Oh, we can use it just fine. Ever hear of psychometry?”

  Jason saw the other man tense. Paul’s eyes narrowed, and Jason felt heat begin to emanate from his foe’s direction. Paul was pulling Power together, but Jason couldn't tell what he was doing with it.

  Jason was, after all, a Keller.

  Paul’s denial was distracted by the Power he was manipulating. “Never heard of it.”

  “Sure you haven't. Psychometry is pretty common among those without the Sight. It's the ability to touch something or someone and see their history.”

  “You don't say? You think that means something to me, Keller?”

  “It means I know how many people you've had a hand in torturing and killing.”

  The disdain in Paul's reply was enough to make Jason stupid-angry. “So, you're going to do what? Take your psychic feelings to Internal Affairs? Tell them I'm a bad man? Who do you think they're going to believe, Keller? The decorated cop, or the crime scene tech with a record?”

  “You're right, Paul. IA isn't going to believe me. They'll write me off as another kook, and my career will take a sudden turn from bad to worse.”

  Paul snorted, turning back to his locker. “Damn right they will. Now get out of my gym, Keller, or I'll remember that no one's in here and beat the hell out of you.”

  “I wasn't going to IA, Paul.”

  “Just shut up and go, Keller. I've got something to do today. It's Mage business, actually. Want to come along and watch? Oh, wait, that's right, you can't!”

  Paul's laughter was harsh and braying. Not even the small amusement of how much he sounded like the ass he was could keep Jason's mouth shut. The words he had been holding back exploded from his mouth, stained slightly with the street accent he had worked so long to lose.

  “I challenge you.”

  Paul's double take was picture perfect. He had been halfway through pulling on his boxers when Jason spoke. Now he froze and turned halfway back to face Jason, incredulity clear on his face.

  “What did you say?”

  “You heard me, Paul Dunn. I challenge you – to a duel arcane, if you’re too slow to pick up on that.”

  “You really think I'm going to waste my time on a stupid Keller like you?”

  “I could just tell everyone I know over in Philly you're too scared to duel a Keller. Word would get around.”

  “Yeah. I don't think you're walking out of this locker room, Keller.”

  Jason was on a roll. He had left the street for a number of reasons, but lack of courage hadn’t been one of them. He let arrogance and contempt color his voice.

  “Not here, moron.”

  Pure street swagger kept Jason in control of the conversation, and he was gratified by Paul’s reaction. The psychopath’s face flushed an angry, mottled red. Jason felt the heat intensify. Behind it, almost but not quite masked by it, was the same filth he'd felt when he first pushed past Paul.

  “You've really got a death wish, don't you, Keller?”

  “When you drop dead, I don't want to have to explain it. Did you want to be the one to out Mages worldwide?”

  Jason could almost see the logic working its way through Paul's brain. As it did, the heat died down to where Jason could no longer feel the filth at the core of it. Jason turned away, heading for his locker. He was still exhausted from his workout. If Paul decided to fry him, there was nothing he could do about it. His next comment was loaded with pure bravado, goading his opponent to keep him off balance.

  “I'll meet you after work. You pick the place.”

  Moments later, after a few inarticulate sounds of rage, Jason heard Paul's locker slam shut.

  FAE EYE FOR THE GOLEM GUY

  © Copyright 2010 Robert C. Roman

  Micah Slate has lived centuries, his lonely existence dedicated to the protection of art. Then he meets Ophilia Morgan, a young artist who has transformed herself into a living work of art. Micah thinks she'll never give him a second glance, but she has dark secrets of her own. When a greedy socialite uses Micah's museum as the setting for fraud and destruction, he and Ophilia will be thrown together in a night of mayhem.

  Excerpt:

  Micah Slate wasn’t a happy Golem. “Ladies. I’m certain we can bring this matter to an acceptable conclusion if we can discuss things rationally.”

  Teresa Gelt’s insufferably superior voice was the main reason he was unhappy. “I beg to differ, you officious peon. There are three hooligans running free in your museum. As far as you’re aware, they’ve already defaced the works from my private collection!”

  Righteous indignation colored Miss Sullivan’s voice. “Miss Gelt! I’ll thank you not to speak of my students like that!”

  “I wasn’t speaking to you, harridan. I wouldn’t be speaking to the land mass here either, were he not barring our way into the museum. A museum I have every right to enter, as you know, Mr. Slate.”

  Micah barely registered Miss Sullivan’s retort. The Words in his head had shifted from a quiet whisper to a low hum, and his temples began to ache in response. He needed to be out of here, to return to his proper duties.

  When Micah spoke, he let his voice drop an octave and rise several decibels. “Ladies! I assure you, my men and mechanical devices are the most effective available. A moment.”

  To buy time for his temper to cool, he drew a device from his coat pocket. With the flip of a few switches, the device printed a list of the locations and status of his men. All of them were where they were supposed to be, which meant that all of the valuable displays were guarded. A few more adjustments and a new list scrolled across the face of the device on a fresh strip of paper. After a glance to confirm the content of the list, he turned the face of the device to the two women, who peered curiously at it.

  “As you can see, Miss Sullivan, the only motion in the museum is in the men’s facilities.”

  “Where are your vaunted guards? There are no guards! You told me there would be guards!” Gelt grabbed at the device, intending to shake it. Her fury peaked when his arm did not yield a whit.

  “Calmly, Miss Gelt! My guards are not listed there. The device shows them on a separate list. You were informed of all this when we gave you a device duplicate to this one.”

  If you had paid any attention at all to the documents I gave you, you would know that, you insufferable blonde bitch.

  “Like I can be bothered to read your scribble or tote about that great hulking metal toy.”

  The device chattered quietly, the list updating itself as new information became available.

  “Look! Look! The restoration room! My artwork!”

  Micah pulled the device around, dislodging Gelt from his arm as he did so. He scanned the newly printed list. The restoration room was indeed listed. He simply didn’t have time for this tonight. Micah drew himself up to his full height and stilled Gelt’s shrill shrieking with a peremptory gesture.

  “Ladies, as I’ve said several times before, if you will be so kind as to wait patiently, I will retrieve the missing students.”

  Micah nodded politely to the tweed clad form of the schoolteacher, who fell more than sat onto the bench next to the museum exit.

  “With the young men gone from the museum, your mind should be set at ease, Miss Gelt.”

  Micah’s icy gaze failed to have a quelling effect on Miss Gelt. Instead, a calculating look darted across her face, followed instantly by her habitual look of angry disdain. Micah was very tired of that look.

  “See here, you cheaply attired thug. The only reason the police have not been informed is the enormous insurance policy on my artwork. If I am forced to collect on that policy, I shall spend it purchasing your petty little museum, after which I will sue you personally into penury and have you imprisoned for fraud.”

  Micah turned abruptly and strode off. Gelt’s shouts of protest at his departure got louder when two of his men refused to allow her through the entryway of the museum. Technically she had a right to enter as part
of the agreement that loaned her collection to the museum, but right now Micah had more important things to worry about than a spoilt heiress’ ostentation. As Micah raced through the halls, the Words in his head changed from a hum to a repetitious whine.

  Protect the Art, Protect the Art, Protect the Art, Protect the Art, Protect the Art!

  The throbbing in his temples led him unerringly down to the lowest public level of the museum. The curator had plans to turn this level into a cafeteria, but for now it housed a display of old armor and weapons. In silence broken only by his own footfalls, Micah heard the door to the men’s bathroom click shut. Micah hit the door with a crash, and three of the four young men inside went sprawling as they were knocked backward. Small pocket knives skittered across the floor as the trio slipped on the slick tile floor.

  The fourth boy was subtly different from the other three. Scruffier. Dirtier. Feral, with hints of unboylike facial hair and the look of fangs about his eyeteeth. Beyond all that, where the other boys wore the uniform of the Philadelphia School for Orphaned Boys, the fourth was garbed in older clothes, badly mistreated and worn near to rags. The fourth boy jumped at Micah, his face contorted with rage. Micah’s hand shot out, clamping the youth’s throat in a vise-like grip. As the Vandal came to a sudden stop, his eyes bugged out.

  “Who the sod ‘r you?”

  “I am head of security for this museum. You and yours will not harm the Art in this building. Understood?”

  The three boys on the floor stared as if they’d only just noticed the fourth in their midst. As one, they babbled about how the escapade hadn’t been their idea, that the boy in Micah’s grip had planned the whole thing. Micah stared them into silence, ignoring the thrashing Vandal as it tried to claw its way free of his hand. With his free hand, he pulled out the device he had used earlier and pressed a red button. A few moments later a woman’s voice sounded from within the device.

  “Frederica will be with you shortly, Micah.”

  “Have any of you three heard of the Zulu nation?” When the boys nodded, he continued. “I thought you might. Frederica’s father was a noble there. He chose to exile himself when his wife bore no sons and only a single daughter. He thought that here, in the weak West, she would learn to be the son he never had.”

  The door to the men’s room crashed open once more, this time silhouetting a figure from an ebony nightmare. Freddie would never win a beauty contest, but no man alive would dare take her lightly. Hands tucked in her trouser pockets, she stared down at the boys from her near seven foot height, watching their eyes go wide.

  She broke the silence in a surprisingly quiet voice, heavily accented with the precise sounds of one taught the King’s English. “What do you want done with them, Mr. Slate?”

  “Oh, just guide them to the exit, Miss Nbele. Let Miss Sullivan know that they became entranced by our medieval arms collection and lost track of time. I’m sure they won’t be any further problem.”

  “As you say, Sir. Come along, boys.”

  After Freddie led the three students away, Micah turned back to the Vandal, who had long since faded to misty invisibility. Even in its incorporeal state, its futile thrashing could not break Micah’s hold. Micah smiled grimly, and let his words come out with more menace than he had ever allowed any mortal to hear.

  “You cannot escape me, Vandal.”

  The thrashing became more pronounced, only the eyes and the section of neck beneath Micah’s grip remaining solid. After a few minutes of thrashing about, the misty form stopped suddenly.

  A voice of shattering glass sounded from where the mouth had been. “Unliving thing! Release me!”

  “I cannot, Muse of Destruction. You know that. As long as you are a danger to the Art under my care, I have the power to bind you.”

  The eyes narrowed, grew crafty. The misty form gave a sudden lurch, and a scream of glass on glass came from where the mouth had been.

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