Dead Silver

by Max Florschutz

  “Are you referring to that tangy smell?” she asked.

  “Yeah, the scent you get from active magic use,” I said. “Have you ever noticed that around any chupacabras?”

  “No,” she said. “Why?”

  “Oh, nothing,” I said, shaking my head. So much for my theory about the Salas’s goats and Felix’s dog. “Just something I was wondering about.”

  “I’ve never heard of a chupacabra having an actual relation to magic,” Hainsworth said. “And none of the varying studies I’ve done have ever indicated otherwise. As far as I’m concerned, they’re simply another biological curiosity that we don’t yet understand, much like the platypus to the early settlers of Australia.”

  “However …” she said, drawing out the word with a pause, “I suppose such a thing could be possible.”

  “So I’m kind of at square one with that angle, huh?”

  “Not likely,” Hainsworth said. “If you’re experiencing what you think may be magic scent around the area of a chupacabra attack, you should check for other sources before assuming the chupacabra is the sole cause. It’s quite likely that there is some other interference.”

  Like Rocke’s runes, I thought. So much for that theory.

  “All right,” I said with a sigh. “Thank you for your time.”

  “If you don’t mind my asking,” Hainsworth said, “what exactly are you trying to do, anyway?”

  “We want to catch the darn thing,” I said with a laugh. “What else?”

  “Ah, in that case, best of luck,” she said, the phone clicking as she shifted position once more. I could sympathize with the desire—thanks to my phone’s cord, I’d been stuck next to the wall for our entire conversation. “I actually traveled to Silver Dreams once myself, but only to speak with the locals. I had no luck, but …” There was another rustling sound, as if she was shrugging. “Who knows, perhaps you’ll get lucky.”

  “Thanks,” I said. “And thanks again for taking time out of your day to help.”

  “My pleasure,” she said, sounding genuinely honest about her enthusiasm. “And not just because I’d be the one benefitting if you succeeded. Best of luck to you.” There was a faint click, and the call disconnected.

  “Bye, I guess?” I said to the empty line before putting the phone back. I couldn’t tell whether that last bit about wishing us luck had been sincere or not. Maybe she was just annoyed that I’d assumed she was a man. Or that I’d called her out of nowhere.

  Still, she’d been helpful in pointing out that a chupacabra could have damaged Rocke’s rune and taken down the cow. The part about the neurotoxin was news to me, as well. What information I’d gleaned from the web either hadn’t mentioned that detail or I’d ignored it, but it was something that could prove useful. And it certainly helped explain how an animal the size of a small dog had taken out several larger animals.

  But something still felt slightly off. I couldn’t quite place my finger on how or why, but something just wasn’t fitting into place yet.

  It had to be the magic scent, I decided. Of all the things I’d asked her about, that was the one she’d been most certain of. A chupacabra didn’t leave any magical residue. Not enough, at least, to be noticed in the fifty or so years that people had been studying them.

  So if that were true, why the fear on the part of the animals? I leaned back in my chair, the wood creaking as I tilted it up on two legs. Up until now, my best guess had been that the Salas’s goats, and possibly Mercury, had associated the scent of magic with the chupacabra and that their fear was related to that. But if the chupacabra wasn’t making the scent, then why were they so terrified of it? If it was the runes making the scent with the chupacabra, I could almost see that, except the goats at Rocke’s other client hadn’t been worried at all. Had the chupacabra just not gone back? It still wasn’t a satisfactory enough explanation.

  There was a thump next door as the shower finally turned off, and I dropped the front legs of my chair back to the ground with an alarming creak. Rocke was done with his shower, from the sound of it, which meant I probably another ten or twenty minutes to do whatever it was I felt like doing before he was ready to go do whatever he was planning.

  Still, I thought as I stood up, blood rushing to my legs as I stretched, there is something that I could do to pass the time.

  I picked up my staff and settled down on the floor with my legs crossed. I rested my staff across my knees, rolling it back and forth beneath my hands for a moment before finding a comfortable position.

  It had been a while since I’d just sat and meditated. The past few days had been fairly hectic, and aside from a few prayers, I couldn’t really recall a moment when I’d taken the time to just let my mind relax. I shut my eyes and let out a deep, long breath, relaxing every muscle in my body.

  Aside from a slight sense of peace and chance to organize my thoughts, there was a more practical reason for me to sit and let myself focus. I’d used almost half of the energy stored in my staff when I’d given Rocke the boost in the cave, and the staff had held a fairly substantial charge at the time. While I couldn’t force any of my own life-force into it—my magic simply didn’t work that way—meditation had proven to speed up the process. My grandfather had always declared it was a way of life ordering itself, but it just seemed a common sense sort of thing to me. My staff picked up surplus energy when I was using my abilities, and meditation was sort of a halfway-state. I didn’t have to open my eyes to know that in my hands my staff was already glowing.

  My mind calm, I began to let my consciousness drift, stretching out around me. Not having immediate pressures of everything that had been going on over the last few days was actually a fairly nice feeling. I could sense Rocke next door, his life-beat once again solid and concrete, as if carved from his namesake. I could feel life in the lobby too. Probably Larry, still sitting behind the reception desk watching cartoons.

  I pushed my senses farther, taking my first, real look at the desert since I’d arrived. It was certainly different from home. Back east, everything was tall and proud, pulled up in trees that soared into the sky. Here everything felt … sturdy. Like it had weathered eons and would continue to for many more. I couldn’t help but smile. Rocke fit right in.

  Come to think of it, where does he come from anyway? I wondered. I’d never asked, and he’d never offered. He seemed comfortable enough with the desert. Maybe he’d grown up in one?

  It might be worth asking, I thought. And if he doesn’t answer, I can always guess. After all, now that he’s back on his feet a little harassment could be warranted—

  A chill ran down my spine as something brushed against my senses, and I snapped away from those thoughts, my mind focusing with laser-like intensity. Something—different—if that could be the word for it, had just brushed against my awareness. It had been faint, barely the lightest touch on the edge of my senses, but …

  My brow knitted as I pushed my awareness out, pulling power from my staff rather than giving. What was that? I stretched to my limit, life all around me singing to my mind in a brilliant symphony of consciousness.

  Nothing. At least, nothing past the desert shrubs, mice, and assorted wildlife. No sign whatsoever of what I thought I’d felt. I strained, burning out what little energy I’d just put into my staff.

  Still nothing. I pulled my mind back, shaking my head. I was just on edge; that was it. Between all the unanswered questions and Rocke’s recent vanishing act, I just wasn’t myself. Which meant that I definitely needed to be spending some more time relaxing. Before I imagined anything else.

  I let out another deep breath, and took in the desert around me.

  Chapter 13

  “So, the plan is just to continue like normal then?” I asked as my Rover rattled down the drive towards the home of Rocke’s second client. I twisted the wheel, swerving to avoid a particularly nasty pothole.

  “What do you mean?” Rocke asked, taking a moment to look away from my map. He’d
been staring at the clusters of attacks for almost the entire drive now, his eyes half-lidded.

  “After your abduction,” I said, twisting the wheel again. “You’re not going to get involved with the investigation?”

  “Only if trouble comes looking for me again,” Rocke said, patting his side with his hand. He was wearing a light jacket open at the chest, and I’d seen the unmistakable shape of a holster underneath it as he’d climbed into my car. “But yeah, that’s the plan. I’ve already got one job, I don’t need another, and the police are already on it.”

  “But you were involved,” I pointed out as I rounded the final turn to park in front of what I had been informed was Mrs. Fimmlewit’s house. “You aren’t worried that it might have been targeted?” My Rover rattled to a halt as I turned the key, and Rocke began folding my map.

  “Look, Hawke, I was involved, but that doesn’t mean it was purposeful. What, two other people have disappeared now?” He finished folding my map and tossed it on the dash. “Trust me when I say I had some time to think about it in the hospital. I can’t think of any solid reason why anyone would pick either of those two over me. There’s not enough of a connection. I gave the cops everything I could think of, and they’ve got people on the job. Besides, my talents are better suited to what we’re doing here.” He gave me a shrug and opened the door, a rush of hot air sweeping into the interior of the Rover.

  “And if it turns out there was some specific reason you wound up there?” I asked as I opened my own door and stepped out, heat rushing across my bare skin. It was going to be a very hot day. “And someone comes looking for you again?”

  “Then I get involved,” Rocke said, giving a sort of half-smile. “Trust me,” he said as he turned towards the house, “I’m not letting my guard down again.”

  “Are you using spellruned bullets?” I asked as I pulled my staff out of the backseat.

  “Yep,” Rocke said, nodding as he walked up the front steps and onto the porch. “Stunners. I want to talk to someone after I shoot them.”

  I nodded as I followed him up towards the porch, wondering if he’d made the stunners himself. He probably had. Any sort of “magically enhanced” bullet cost a fortune because of the time it took to make them. For Rocke to walk around with a whole magazine of stunners said quite a bit about how seriously he was taking everything. The rubber bullets were cheap on their own, but the hours spent carefully etching stun-runes into them were another matter. He could’ve sold the bullets in his jacket and had enough to live on for a few months.

  “So you never met Mrs. Fimmlewit?” Rocke asked as he knocked on her front door. I shook my head.

  “Not once,” I said, offering a shrug. “But to be fair, I’ve only come by twice.”

  “Nice old lady,” Rocke said, knocking again, a little bit harder this time. The sound of his knuckles striking the wood echoed through the home. “A little hard of hearing, though.”

  I nodded as I stepped back, taking in the outside of the home. For as someone as old as she apparently was—in addition to being a widower—her place was in pretty nice shape. It was small, a simple two-story affair that had a couple of rooms but little else, and the porch Rocke and I stood on only covered the front of the home. There was only the one entrance, so when Rocke decided to give up knocking he had to head back down the front steps before he could start around towards the back of the house. All in all, it was a fairly nice little home for someone who lived alone.

  “She must be out,” Rocke said as he followed a well-worn path along the side of the house. I followed, taking time to admire some of the flowers planted underneath the windows. They looked a little dry, but they were in decent enough health for the most part. I paused for a moment as Rocke passed around the back of the house, bending down and taking a deep sniff of a particularly vibrant red blossom. It had a pleasant scent, not what I’d expected, but nice all the same. I didn’t recognize the flower either.

  I made a mental note to ask Mrs. Flitter—Whatever-Her-Name-Was about it when I got the chance. It was a pretty flower, and my garden back home could always use more color.

  The faint bleat of a goat reached my ears, and I pulled my attention away from the colorful array of flora. Rocke had found the goat pen. There wasn’t much for me to do while he redrew his runes, but I wandered over anyway, wondering if I would have to keep the two goats from bothering him while he carefully carved into the wood.

  Interestingly enough, these goats seemed better behaved than the Salas’s. Those goats had alternated between fits of terror whenever Rocke’s runecrafting sent out a spark of magic scent and insatiable, hungry curiosity when it hadn’t. These two seemed content to sit and stare at him while he worked. One goat noisily chewed its cud, jaw working as it stared at me, while the other seemed more interested in reaching any of the nearby brush with its tongue. I could see signs around the pen of where it had done the same with varying success. All the nearby branches and scrub had been picked clean of bark or had their ends bitten off, whatever the goats could get at. I saw both animals perk up slightly as Rocke’s rune sent off a brief spurt of ionized scent, but there wasn’t any heavy fear reaction like the other goats had shown. Just like I’d noticed the day before.

  Curious, I thought, stepping up to the pen. One goat regarded me for a moment through lazy eyes, its chewing slowing for just a moment before picking up the pace again. The other pulled its head back through the slats and trotted over, sniffing and looking up at me with wide eyes.

  “Food?”

  I almost let out a laugh. I’d yet to meet a goat that hadn’t said some variation of the same phrase, and today was not the exception.

  “No,” I said, pointing to the goat as Rocke shot me a questioning look. “No food.”

  “No food?” the goat asked, bleating. “Hungry!”

  “You’re always hungry,” I said back, reaching out with one hand and giving patting its—no, her head. “When are you not?”

  “Really hungry,” the goat said. “Really, really hungry. Bring food?”

  I had to hand it to the goat, I was a little impressed with her capacity for making her wishes known. Most goats never got past “Food!” But this one was—in her own way—telling me that she was hungrier than normal. Either she was more intelligent and rational than the other goats I’d encountered, or the others just needed hunger to bring out that extra edge.

  Still, I thought as I looked at her side. Her stomach was slightly pulled in, as if she hadn’t been fed in a while. I frowned as I looked a little closer, the goat nibbling at my fingers while I was distracted. She did look a little underfed, and once I checked, so did the other goat. Both of them would probably be fine for a few more days, but it was clear that they hadn’t been fed this morning.

  “She forgot to feed them,” I said, casting my eyes around for the most likely place the widow would have stored her hay.

  “What?” Rocke asked, the faint scratches of his runecrafting coming to a momentary stop.

  “The goats. She hasn’t fed them recently,” I said.

  “Oh,” Rocke said. The scratching resumed.

  I rolled my eyes. Not his department, I thought as I caught sight of a small wooden shack sitting near one corner of the house. A well-cleared path had been made from the side of the pen to the shack.

  Only one way to find out, I thought as I walked down the path. Behind me, both of the goats rushed to the side of the pen closest to me, and I grinned. From their reaction, I’d guessed right.

  The shack was small but stocked with a modest amount of grain and several bales of hay. A wagon sat just inside the door, probably to help move the hay between the shack and the pen, but I didn’t need it. Besides, I wanted out of the baking, dusty shack as quickly as possible. It didn’t help that the goats had started frantically bleating the moment I’d pulled the door open.

  “You’re feeding her goats now?” Rocke asked as I dropped the armful of hay into the pen. Both goats dove forward and
attacked it with gusto, their loud cries of “Food!” replaced by noisy chewing and the occasional contented bleat.

  “She must have forgotten,” I said, shrugging. “It won’t hurt them. They were hungry.” I glanced down at him, eyeing the faint scratches he’d made in the wood. “How far along are you?”

  “About halfway,” he said, shrugging and wiping the back of his hand across his forehead. “You sure you don’t have any skill with these?”

  “I’m no wizard,” I said, shaking my head. “Staff notwithstanding.” Rocke nodded, his attention already back on his work, carving the rune into the wood with meticulous care.

  Runes were interesting things. No one was really quite sure exactly how they worked, although there was quite a bit of research that went into it, and even more theories circling around that. The most compelling one I’d heard was that the runes were designed to mimic the nerve process that a person’s body created when using magic. Sort of like how a print of a hand-signal would convey the same meaning as seeing someone make it in person.

  Of course, not knowing exactly how they worked didn’t keep people from using them. If you had any sort of magic projection ability—something my shaman talents specifically lacked past very limited interactions—and with enough practice, you could scratch out a rune and imbue a bit of your magic into it. The trick was that the rune had to be nearly flawless. If a single line was even slightly off, you could spend upwards of a few hours crafting a single rune and putting your own energy into it only to wind up with nothing to show but lost energy and cramped fingertips.

  So while runecrafting was an option, especially for those with weaker magic who wanted to do something more spectacular, it wasn’t a common one. Most people weren’t determined enough to spend the time and effort involved in learning how to craft them. Those who did and got good at it however … Well, Rocke and I had faced one before, a necromancer who’d been educated enough to use runes like batteries and was practiced enough to sketch them just about anywhere. Most with that kind of skill were usually quiet about it, or gainfully employed somewhere they could put their talent to use.