Savage: An Urban Fantasy Novel (The Solumancer Cycle Book 2)

by J. C. Staudt

  The host clears his throat and begins to speak in measured tones. The other goblins pipe down and pay attention. He talks for a solid minute before someone interrupts him with a sharp retort. Voices raise in pitch and volume, and the conversation escalates into a heated exchange. Before long they’re yelling over one another in goblic with occasional lapses into English.

  In my cramped position beneath the couch I manage to slip two fingers into my pants pocket and pull out a homemade residue pill. Its gelcap coating encloses a dose of the versatile new mixture I’ve concocted based on information gleaned from the Book of Abominations. After working up a mouthful of saliva, I stuff the pill into my mouth and swallow, shuddering at the thought of its contents.

  Beneath the noise I cast a spell and touch my earlobes. The goblic language morphs from a jumble of nonsense into coherent speech, yet I still have to strain to make sense of the commingled voices.

  “We wants the book. All we needs is a solid scheme to get it.”

  “I haves a scheme, haven’t I? I’d have laid it out for you by now if you’d clap your trap and listen.”

  “I’ve had enough of listening to your schemes, Jrael.”

  “Me too. Your scheme’s as mad as my Auntie Gragie.”

  “I’m telling you we’s gotta strike hard and fast or we’ll never see that book again.”

  “The bloodsuckers won it fairs and squares. It’s lost to us for good.”

  “It will be if you skulkers don’t sack up and join me.”

  “How’s that?”

  “Once Throgmorton’s clears the book, they bring it straight to Mottrov Manor. Gilbert spends his nights poring over it, learning its secrets. Soon as he’s done, he sends it away. Mottrov’s got hiding places. Vaults. Safe rooms. Mausoleums. Sepulchers. No telling where he moves it. The only thing we can be sure of is once it leaves Mottrov Manor, we’ll never find it again. We takes it before it’s gone. That’s that.”

  “Are you mad? Attack the Ascended outright?”

  “I don’t mean we attacks ‘em. I mean we robs ‘em.”

  “What of the alliance? Without the vampires getting us across the Ambassador Bridge, our smuggling operations is done-for.”

  “The alliance stands. We steals the book without them knowing it was us.”

  “That’s bonkers. They’ll know it’s us the instant we sets foot in Mottrov Manor.”

  “Not if they can’t tell we’re there.”

  “They’ll know. Mark me, they’ll know. Vampires always know.”

  “That ain’t true.”

  “It is. They haves a sense for these things, vampires do.”

  “You’re chicken-livered, is what you are.”

  “Say that again. I’ll tear out your gizzard.”

  “I haven’t got a gizzard, you wanker.”

  “I’ll tear out your stones, then. You’ve got a pair of those, haven’t you?”

  “Aye, and bigger than you’re like to carry without a gunnysack.”

  “Come off it, you lot. You’re like swineherds bickering over whose mud’s the brownest. We ain’t getting nowheres squabbling like this. We’s getting that book. And we’s getting it the way I says we is. We ensorcels ourselves, we hides the book Between, and we gets out. Presuming you’s got the wits to follow a simple scheme, they’ll never guess we was the ones what stole it. The alliance survives, and we wins.”

  “There’s another scheme I heard of. Nord said he knows a couple of tricksy gits what robbed a bank without getting nicked.”

  “That’s a spot of drivel if I ever heard it.”

  “No, I swears it. Here’s how. The one git, he rents his-self two of them safe deposit boxes at the bank. Then he packs his mate into a nice big cardboard box and hauls him in like he’s making a deposit. When the banker leaves him alone in the vault, he stuffs his mate into the first safe deposit box and leaves with the empty cardboard.”

  “Must be a small bloke to fit in there.”

  “What with the right spell, it don’t matter how big he is, does it? When the bank closes for the night, the git pops out, picks the locks on all the other boxes, and stuffs the goods into his own. Then he climbs back into the first box, closes his-self up, and waits out the night. Second git comes back the next morning with two cardboard boxes, loads up the goods, cancels his rentals, and Bob’s your uncle.”

  “Something off about that scheme.”

  “Oh yeah? Like what?”

  “Like how he unlocked all them boxes with no keys. They got double locks, you know.”

  “He’s a sorcerer.”

  “I’m a sorcerer, and breaking a double lock ain’t so simple as all that.”

  “Point is, he done it, and they got away with the caper.”

  “Mottrov Manor ain’t no bank. You don’t just walk in.”

  “They take deliveries, don’t they? We’re smugglers. What say we smuggle ourselves? We get one git inside the place, all he has to do is wait it out and let the rest in when the coast is clear.”

  “And what when the first one gets nicked? I don’t fancy starting a war with the Mottrovs.”

  “How bad do you want that book? Because the way I sees it, either we takes the risk now, or we lose out forever.”

  “I’m with you. It’s a raid, like Jrael says. Daytime, while the vamps is sleeping. That’s the only way.”

  “It’s settled, then. We go with my scheme. My gits watching the manor tells me Mottrov’s got the place guarded round the clock, even during the day while he slumbers. We’ll see if we can’t tap into his records and find the opportune moment to strike.”

  “Right. Here’s to luck, and a profitable caper.”

  Tankards clink. Draughts are taken. The goblins splinter off into multiple conversations and turn toward other topics.

  These goblins want the Book of the Grave as badly as I do. While the name Mottrov rings a bell, I’m a little fuzzy on the rest. Mottrov Multinational is one of New Detroit’s largest syndicates and a dominant force in the city’s burgeoning business world. I can only assume Gilbert Mottrov is the vampire in charge. The way the goblins are talking, it’s obvious the ponytailed vamp in the blue business suit who outbid them at the auction was one of Mottrov’s associates.

  Now I’m left with three options. I can try to steal the book from Mottrov Manor before the goblins do; I can piggyback on their caper and snatch the book while it’s in limbo; or I can wait until after the robbery and steal the book from whoever ends up with it. If I go toe-to-toe with Mottrov and his vampire cronies, I stand very little chance of succeeding. But the goblins are right—if they try to steal it and fail, it’s likely the book will be sent into hiding for good.

  Maybe I should let this one go. There are other grimoires. I’m not out of the running yet, but with Lorne Savage missing, my priorities have suffered an obligatory shift.

  This is a decision for later. As much as I’d love to hang around and listen to goblins talk about testicles and green beer, it’s time I got going. I shrug off the language spell and slip into mistform again, floating behind the couch to await an opportunity to cross the insulating barrier. It’s too warm in here for anyone’s breath to mist, so the goblins are likely to notice the shimmer if I try to pass through on my own. I should wait for someone to leave so I can tailgate them.

  Several minutes pass, but none of the goblins get up. Their conversations are a meaningless jumble of goblic again. The residue pill burns off as I hold form, leaving me with less than a minute’s reserve. Either I can solidify right here in front of them, or I can make a break for it and try to get out of sight before I change back.

  No sense waiting.

  I shimmer through the invisible cube barrier into the cold blustery night. One of the goblins stops talking and stares, blinking as if he’s unsure of what he’s seeing. He shoots to his feet and points. I hear the front end of his alarmed shout before the barrier swallows the rest. Wind whips across the rooftop, catching me off-guard and blowing me
toward the edge. The goblins are standing, pulling out their wands, and rushing toward the barrier.

  Crap.

  Chapter 4

  I drop out of mistform and hit the ground running. Bright-colored spells zip past me as I head for the greenhouse. I enter through the glass door and plunge into the foliage, spending my final reserves of magic on an interstice spell. Some creatures can sense the Between wherever they go. My theory is that Buster is one of those creatures. I’m not, so this spell is the only way I’m going to find the portal into the Between without sheer dumb luck.

  It isn’t a large greenhouse, but its crowded overgrowth speaks of neglect. Nor do the goblins appear concerned with keeping the structure intact. A spell zaps an algae-coated windowpane and shatters it, blowing glass dust through the room and sucking out the warm air with a brief whistling noise. I duck and cover to avoid catching a faceful of glass.

  That’s when the portal shines out like a beacon from beneath a cracked flagstone on the path ahead, its jagged fracture leaking purple steam. With the foliage providing cover from the approaching goblins, I crawl for it instead of standing up.

  This proves a wise strategy for staying hidden, but an idiotic strategy for getting to the portal in time. I’m a few feet away when the first of the goblins flings open the greenhouse door and fires off a spell. Even as I reach out to touch the flagstone, a calcifium bolt strikes me in the hindquarters.

  I freeze. Not by choice, mind you. I’m paralyzed. Statuesque. My hand hovers above the flagstone, inches from the glowing fissure, which would’ve saved my bacon and eggs if I’d arrived a moment sooner.

  The goblins gather in the greenhouse doorway. They’re arguing; probably about the shattered window. One comes over and knocks on my head, which makes the hollow clacking sound of a ceramic vase. They surround me and heave my calcified body onto their shoulders. Together they carry me out of the greenhouse, across the terrace, and into the apartment.

  Fifteen minutes later I’m in a lamplit bedroom, no longer paralyzed but tied to a yellow plastic chair the size of a footstool. Pretty sure it’s the kind they use in nurseries and preschools. In fact, everything in the goblin’s apartment is miniaturized, which makes me feel like a giant. The ceilings are deceptively tall compared to the scaled-down furniture.

  A goblin in tan slacks and a striped bowling shirt paces the hardwood floor, spinning the gold ring on his right middle finger. His thinning hair is slicked back, and a pendant hangs from a silver chain around his neck. He reminds me of a tiny British Tony Soprano with green skin and pointy ears. “How d’you like the place?” he asks me in English. “Bought it a few years back. Family of midgets had it done custom. Suits me, ay?”

  “I don’t think you’re supposed to call them midgets,” I point out. “It’s offensive.”

  “Offensive,” he spits in a voice edged with contempt. “I’ve heard every short joke there is. I know offensive. You being in my house is offensive. Who is you, and why’s you here?”

  “Who I is isn’t important. Why I’m here… is.”

  “Get on with it, then.”

  “The grimoire. You want it. I want to help you get it.”

  He narrows his eyes. “What’s in it for you?”

  “A peek between the covers. Maybe you’ll let me photocopy a page or two.”

  The goblin laughs. “What sort of help is you offering?”

  “I can reach the top bookshelf.”

  He slams a fist into my teeth. It’s a stronger punch than I was expecting, and it twists my head back. I gather the warm wetness in my mouth and spit on the floor.

  “That’s new hardwood,” the goblin scolds. He hits me again, in the eye this time. The gold ring puts a sting on my eyebrow.

  I suck it up and give myself a shake. “Nothing a quick mop and polish can’t fix. That’s another service I offer.”

  “Who is you?”

  “Not someone you want to mess with, if you know what’s good for you. I’ve got powerful friends.”

  He snorts. “Can’t imagine why they keep you around.”

  “I’m told my ineptitude is a real confidence booster.”

  “Look, Mister… whoever you is. I’m going to kill you. But first, I’m going to make you suffer ‘til you tells me what I wants to know.”

  “Cool if we skip the killing and suffering part and go straight to the ‘what you want to know’ part? Maybe we can put this whole thing behind us.”

  “There ain’t no putting it behind. You’ve heard too much. So here’s two simple questions. Who is you, and who sent you?”

  “One simple answer. Me.”

  “Right, then. I’ll fetch me mates. You’ll sing like a bird before we’s done with you.” He heads for the door.

  “Wait.”

  He stops.

  “My name is Arden Savage. I’m a bounty hunter.”

  “And a wizard.”

  “And a wizard,” I confirm. “I want the grimoire for the same reasons you do. If the vampires are allowed to keep it, we both lose. I’m offering my help in exchange for some time to study the book. That’s all.”

  The goblin thinks. “Nah. We don’t work with outsiders. You was spying on us. The way I sees it, you can’t be trusted.”

  “Please. You can trust me. I promise. I give you my word.”

  He waves me off and leaves the room to fetch his buddies. I strain my bound wrists toward my pants pocket, but there’s no reaching the residue pills inside. I try standing up, but my ankles are lashed to the chair legs and the most I can do is stutter-step a few inches across the floor.

  “Hello there.”

  I jump in surprise.

  Sitting cross-legged on the room’s miniature dresser is a man with shiny red skin and two nubby white horns jutting from his forehead.

  I squint at him through the dimness. “Calyxto?”

  “You remembered my name,” exclaims the half-fiend. “I’m flattered.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “I own you. You’re looking different these days, oh slave of mine. What’s with the disguise and the new name? You’re not trying to hide from me, are you?”

  “Of course not. Just everyone else.”

  He tilts his head, studying me. “You’re disguised as the guy I mapped you to when we made the deal. Why?”

  “Long story. Not really any of your business. Look, I’m in the middle of something.”

  “I know exactly what you’re in the middle of.”

  “And you decided now was the best time to swing by?”

  “Soulbrokering keeps me busy,” he admits. “I’ve only got you for a year, and let me tell you, the first half has really flown. Come to realize I haven’t collected a single favor from you yet.”

  “I’m about to be tortured and killed by a bunch of stupid goblins. Maybe you could try back next week.”

  “We had a deal, Mr. Cadigan. If you get yourself killed, you’re going to have a hard time paying me back. Trust me.”

  “So you’re my guardian demon now. Is that how this works?”

  Calyxto shrugs. “A guy’s gotta cross things off his list when time allows. I’ll bust you out of here, but no funny business or I’ll bring you back faster than you can blink.”

  “Being that my captors are in the other room deciding which part of me to remove first, I accept. Care to help a brother out?”

  Calyxto gesticulates in a bored manner.

  The ropes loosen and fall slack.

  I rub my wrists and wobble to a stand. “Thanks.”

  “For the purposes of our new agreement,” he says, “there’s no thanks necessary.”

  “What new agreement?”

  He points.

  I look at my palm. Beside the first mark is a second identical one. “Whoa. Hold on a minute.”

  He waves a finger.

  A force pushes me into the chair, where the ropes coil around my limbs like snakes. “Okay, I get it. Another deal. You help me, I help you. Got it
.”

  “Another year,” he says.

  “Another year,” I echo.

  Calyxto sets me free a second time.

  I check my palm to make sure there are still only two marks. “Wonderful. All we need now is some champagne to toast the occasion.”

  “You don’t have time for that,” he says. “They’re coming.”

  Footsteps thud down the hallway.

  “Get me out of here.”

  “You’re out. What do you want, a magic carpet ride?”

  “I wouldn’t turn one down.”

  Calyxto fades into transparency with a grin like the Cheshire Cat. “I’ll be in touch,” he says, just before he vanishes.

  The door swings open. I curse and fumble through my pockets as the six goblins pour into the room, shouting and waving their wands. Stuffing a residue pill into my mouth, I leap toward the window, intending to crash through it like a super-awesome action hero. Instead I make a shallow bonging sound against the plate glass and slump to the floor in a daze. I bite open the pill and swallow in disgust.

  The goblins surround me, wands poised at the ready. “Hold still,” one rasps. “You ain’t going nowheres.”

  “What about him?” I mutter, nodding toward the dresser on which Calyxto is no longer sitting.

  The distraction works. The goblins risk a glance.

  I flick my wrist.

  The room explodes in fire, blowing out the windows and launching me onto the terrace. The goblins go flying, too. Curtains and furniture take flame.

  I roll to a stop, soot-faced and crispy. While the goblins cast water and ice spells to combat the blaze I stagger to my feet and pound pavement toward the greenhouse. This time I reach it without drawing followers.

  I step onto the glowing purple flagstone and slip through the crack between here and there. Many pockets of Between are navigable, but unlike Buster I don’t have the slightest clue how to steer. When the air clears around me, water is lapping beneath my feet. I’m standing on a long slender dock jutting off the north bank of the New Detroit riverside. Falling snow melts on the rough wooden planks and makes tiny ripples in the water.