Strange Magic

by Justin Gustainis

  “Then why don’t you get her down here? Sounds like she’d be more help to you than I could ever be.”

  “Not a bad idea, in principle,” Morris said. “But Libby lives in New York City, where she’s got her own private consulting business.”

  “A consulting witch?”

  “Yeah, pretty much.”

  “And she makes a living doing that?”

  “A pretty good living,” Morris said. “With a population as big as the one you’ve got in the New York metro area, it’s not hard to find quite a few folks who believe in magic—or who are desperate enough to need to believe.”

  “Yeah, I guess even if one percent are believers, that still adds up to an awful lot of people.”

  “It sure does, podner. And I’m not going to ask Libby to drop whatever she’s doing and come running out here, if it’s not an emergency.”

  “You don’t think that a bunch of fucking ghouls killing and eating people amounts to an emergency?”

  “No, I don’t,” Morris said. “A threat—yes. One that has to be dealt with—yes. But out there in the desert, a long way from any human habitation...” He shook his head. “I don’t figure the ghouls are likely to find a lot of people to prey on. Besides...”

  When Morris didn’t immediately go on, Sturbridge looked at him. “Besides, what?”

  “Pretty soon, Libby’s going into seclusion for a month with other members of her Sisterhood. She won’t be available for anything else until that’s over with.”

  “Seclusion? You mean some kind of retreat, or something?”

  “Don’t know for sure, but I get the impression that it’s probably a bigger deal than just taking a month off for prayer and meditation. The whole thing’s supposed to be a big secret, so she hasn’t said much about it. The way she put it was, ‘It’s a witch thing—you wouldn’t understand’.”

  “Okay, fine, I get it,” Sturbridge said, his voice sounding a little desperate. “But isn’t there somebody else you could call in to help you?”

  Morris shook his head slowly. “Nobody I could get on short notice. Nobody I’d trust, anyway.” He gave the Sheriff a measured look. “I trust you, Dan.”

  “Even though I’m shit scared?”

  “I’m scared of those things, too, Dan. Seriously. But somebody once defined courage as ‘being shit scared, and still doing what you have to.’”

  “Yeah? And who said that?”

  “Me,” Morris told him. “I did.”

  “Look, Quincey—”

  “It has to be you, Dan. I won’t do it alone—it’s too dangerous. I need somebody to watch my back. You called me in, Dan. This is your county, and it was one of your taxpayers that the fuckin’ ghouls had for dinner. The next victim will be one of yours, too, most likely. Unless we stop it now.”

  Sturbridge turned and walked away—or started to. He stopped after two or three steps and just stood there, his back to Morris. Morris wasn’t sure what Sturbridge was looking at—the Sheriff’s headquarters, people going in and out, the parked cars, or maybe nothing at all. After perhaps a minute, he turned and walked back. His face was expressionless. “All right,” he said. His throat was so tight, he seemed to have difficulty getting the words out. “But I get the fuckin’ flamethrower.”

  “Wouldn’t have it any other way,” Morris said through a grin. “Unless you have some experience lopping off ghouls’ heads with a cavalry saber, that is.”

  “No—they don’t teach that one at the California Police Academy. Not yet, anyway.”

  Chapter Eight

  EIGHTY MINUTES AND six maps later, Libby Chastain put down the magically-imbued pendulum. “That’s it,” she said. “I’m pretty sure we’ve found her.”

  “Interesting process,” Mal Peters said. “We could’ve used you in the CIA back in the old days.” He looked back down at the map, and the building that had been circled in pencil. “How certain are you?”

  “That she’s alive, or that she in this building?”

  “Either. Or both.”

  “I’d bet the ranch, if I had one, that she’s still alive. I’ve never had a false positive reading that continued from one map level to another.”

  “Sounds pretty good to me. Okay, how about the location?”

  Libby pursed her lips for a couple of seconds. “I’d put it close to ninety percent, Mal. That’s been my track record, ever since I mastered the technique about five years ago.”

  “How many searches are we talking about here?”

  “Twenty-six, twenty seven—something like that.”

  They were both staring at the map now, which showed a three-block area of what was still called the Meatpacking District, although the last of the abattoirs and butcher shops moved on decades ago. It runs from the Hudson River to Hudson Street, and from Gansevoort Street north to West 14th. It’s quite a fashionable neighborhood these days, or parts of it are.

  “Not exactly an inconspicuous location, is it?” Peters said. “I was expecting something along the lines of a tenement, or maybe an abandoned warehouse.”

  The building, which was located at the intersection of 9th Avenue, Hudson Street, and West 14th, appeared to be triangular in shape—an unusual occurrence in any city, let alone Manhattan.

  “Maybe they’re following the principle of hiding in plain sight,” Libby said. “Let’s see what Google Streetview can tell us about that building.”

  They soon learned that it was called, logically enough, the Triangle Building, or sometimes the Little Flatiron Building (to distinguish it from the much larger and well-known Flatiron Building in midtown). The oddly-shaped structure had apparently been built in 1849 as a factory for the Herring Safe and Lock Company. That incarnation lasted until the 1880s, when it was converted into stores, with lofts on the top floor. These days, the Triangle Building houses a fancy and well-regarded Italian restaurant, although the top floor lofts still remain.

  “The basement’s got an interesting history,” Libby said, reading from her laptop screen. “The restaurant uses it as a lounge these days, but it used to be a gay bar, and before that a gay leather bar, and before that it was home to an establishment called…” She looked up from the screen then, and there was an odd expression on her face as she said, “The Hellfire Club.”

  Peters shook his head. “That was just the name for a BDSM swingers club that was down there in the Nineties. Nothing like the kind of hell fire that you and I know about—I think the owners just wanted to sound wicked.”

  She gave him a crooked smile. “And you know about this how?”

  “Article in the Village Voice a couple months back,” he said. “The writer was waxing nostalgic for all the kinky establishments you could find in the Meatpacking District back in the old days.”

  “Sic transit gloria,” Libby said.

  “For sure, although I’m not sure ‘glory’ is the proper word. Anyway, whatever happened to the girl, I don’t figure she was abducted by anybody who hangs around that basement these days, Libby. I had a drink there once—the place is about as wild as Salt Lake City on Christmas Eve.”

  “So you know the building,” she said.

  “Oh, sure.”

  “If Kayla is in there somewhere, what’s your best guess as to where?”

  “Unless the people who own the restaurant are in on it, which I kinda doubt, it’s gotta be one of the rooms upstairs.”

  Libby peered at the image on her computer. “Looks like four floors worth of ‘upstairs,’ Mal.”

  “So I see. I think most of it’s been converted to apartments now, with lofts on the top floor.”

  “Shit,” Libby said.

  “Yeah, I know. Can’t you narrow it down any further?”

  “Not from here.”

  “Then I guess we better go scope out the Triangle Building, huh?”

  She looked at him. “We?”

  “Sure, why not? I got nothing else going this afternoon. Besides,” he said with a grin, “we might get
into some trouble. I’d like that.”

  “I’m hoping we won’t encounter trouble,” she said. “But I’ll bring my wand and a couple of odds and ends, just in case. Are you violating the city’s concealed weapons laws, as usual?”

  Peters reached under his jacket and around to the small of his back. A moment later, he produced a small but impressive-looking automatic made of stainless steel.

  “Kimber Ultra Carry, .45 caliber,” he said. “It’s like my Amex card—I never leave home without it.”

  “Fine. Give me five minutes to get some gear of my own together, and then we’ll get going. I don’t want to waste any more time.”

  “The kid’s been gone four days now, Libby,” he said gently.

  “I know,” she said. “But sometimes I get feelings about the subject when I’m doing remote location, and that’s what I picked one up this time—and it’s a bad one.”

  Peters looked at his watch. “Twenty after four. Almost rush hour.”

  “Then we’d better do some rushing of our own.”

  Chapter Nine

  THE SUN WAS low in the desert sky by the time they finished putting up the small tent they’d picked up at a Dick’s Sporting Goods in town. Inside it were the two cavalry sabers, the miniature flame thrower, and enough food and water to last them until morning. No sleeping bags, though—on this trip, falling asleep could well prove fatal.

  “We best gather up all the dead branches and stuff we can find,” Quincey Morris said. “Come sundown, we want us a nice, big campfire.”

  “I hear ya,” Dan Sturbridge said. “Hot as it is around here during the day, the temperature drops like a rock after dark.”

  “True, but that’s not what I had in mind,” Morris said. “I want to make it easy for the ghouls to find us.”

  Sturbridge gave a nervous laugh. “Now that’s something I never thought I’d ever hear somebody say. You figure the fucking things might have some difficulty? Hell, we’re camped no more than a quarter-mile from where they killed the last poor bastard.”

  “Yeah, I know. But there’s not a lot written about ghouls in the literature, and some of what I found contradicts other stuff. Nobody knows for sure whether ghouls hunt by sight, or by smell, or what. Besides, a big fire gives us lots of light to fight by.”

  “I thought that’s what your fancy flashlights were for.”

  “Uh-uh. They illuminate only a small area, although very intensely. Besides, flashlights can be dropped, or knocked out of your hands. We don’t want to be fighting blind, because one of the other things nobody is sure about is whether the fucking ghouls can see in the dark.”

  The worried look on Sturbridge’s face deepened. “So if the—what do you call it? The literature?—isn’t all that reliable, how come you’re so sure the swords and that flamethrower are gonna do the job?”

  “Because I’ve seen for myself that they work. This ain’t my first rodeo, you know. I’ve fought ghouls before.”

  “Yeah? How many times?”

  “Once. That was enough.”

  Sturbridge looked at Morris, then looked away. “Maybe we should’ve brought some more help,” he muttered.

  “Like who?” Morris asked. “Can you see yourself asking any of your deputies to volunteer for a ghoul hunt? Once they figured out you weren’t kidding, they’d start drafting a letter to your boss, asking to have you committed.”

  Sturbridge was silent for a few seconds. “Yeah,” he said finally. “Yeah, I guess you’re right.”

  “Besides,” Morris told him, “with the right equipment, you and me can handle a couple of ghouls—maybe three at the most.”

  “How can you be sure it’s only two or three?”

  “Because of the bite marks on the body, Dan.” Morris spoke slowly, as if explaining things to a small child. “There were only two distinct sets of markings, with some others that weren’t clear enough to ID. That makes no more than three, right?”

  “Yeah, okay, but what if there was some who didn’t get at the guy’s body? You see that with coyotes sometimes. If food’s limited, the alphas of the pack get to eat, while the rest are left sucking hind tit.”

  “Nothing like that has ever been reported in the literature about ghouls. For one thing, they either work solo or in small groups—there’s no ‘pack’ for us to worry about.”

  “But you said yourself the literature wasn’t always accurate. What if it’s wrong this time?”

  Morris tried to keep the sarcasm out of his voice, but didn’t entirely succeed. “Then I guess we’re just fucked, aren’t we?” He took in a big breath, let it out, and then said in a gentler tone, “Come on, podner, let’s get on that firewood.”

  An hour later it was full dark, with about a million stars visible through the clear, dry air. Their campfire provided some welcome warmth in the rapidly cooling night. More important, it illuminated the area around it to a circumference of perhaps fifteen feet.

  Morris and Sturbridge sat a few feet apart on a dead log that they’d dragged to the campsite. “I know you’ve practiced putting on the flamethrower and getting it ready for action,” Morris said. “If something happens, don’t try to rush—let your muscle memory tell you what to do. I’ll keep them at bay long enough for you to get set properly. After that... well, it’s barbequed ghoul for dinner, I reckon.”

  “Why don’t I just strap it on now, and be ready?” Sturbridge asked.

  “We don’t want to scare ’em off, remember? Long as we look harmless, they should come right at us. By the time they figure out what they’ve walked into, it’ll be too late for them to run.”

  “Too late for us, too.”

  “We’re not here to run, Dan. Exterminators don’t run from the bugs—they kill them.”

  The two men sat there for almost an hour, feeding the fire as needed and sometimes making quiet conversation about the Texas Longhorns’ chances of a national championship this season.

  Sturbridge was saying, “I think if they can beat Notre Dame in the fourth week, they’ve got a half-decent...”

  Then Morris put a hand on the Sheriff’s knee, gripping hard. “Sshhh.”

  A few seconds later they both heard something that was midway between a growl and hiss—a sound that seemed to come not from one source, but several all at once.

  The two men sprang to their feet and turned at once toward the source of the strange noise. They had visitors, all right—and as the gray shapes moved slowly into the range of the campfire’s illumination, Quincey Morris realized just how wrong the literature on ghouls had been. They were looking not at two of the horrific creatures, or even three. Morris counted seven of the things, and at that moment realized that what he had mockingly said to Sturbridge earlier had actually come to pass. They were fucked, all right—big time.

  Chapter Ten

  AFTER ENDURING THE claustrophobic misery that is the New York City subway system during rush hour, Libby Chastain and Mal Peters found themselves on Ninth Avenue in the Village, looking across the street at the triangular red brick structure known as the Little Flatiron Building.

  At one point during their crowded and cramped journey, Peters had whispered to Libby, “I thought Ashley told me once that you can use magic to fly.”

  “Not very fast, and not very far,” Libby had muttered. “Especially with two people involved. Sorry.”

  “Too bad. It would be a lot more fun than this sardine can, not to mention smelling better. Any chance you could whip up a spell that would turn everybody else in this car into ants?”

  “Don’t give me ideas.”

  Now as they stared at the building, Libby said, “I’ve never been to this part of town, but darned if that building doesn’t look familiar, somehow.” She had to speak loudly, so that he could hear her over the noise of the traffic and all the people passing on foot.

  “Maybe in the movies,” Peters said. “You ever see Fatal Attraction?”

  “With Glenn Close as the psycho-bitch from hell? Sure
—although it was a long time ago.”

  “That was supposedly the building where she lived. They used what we’re looking at now for the exterior shots.”

  “That must be what I’m thinking of, then. Nothing like giving the place a cheerful history, even if it was made up.”

  After another minute, Peters asked, “So, you getting anything? Is she really in there?”

  Libby shook her head, frowning. “Too many people—I can’t isolate her life energy from all the others. We’ll have to go inside and walk each floor.”

  “What’re you planning to do if we find the right apartment?”

  “Go in and get her, of course. As I said, there’s a good chance she’s in danger.”

  “That’s okay with me—but isn’t that what the cops are for?”

  Libby nodded solemnly. “Quite right. So, why don’t you call 911 and tell them we need a SWAT team from Emergency Services down here right away. You can explain that this witch you know says she’s been getting psychic vibrations that tell her a missing girl is inside, and probably in serious trouble. Go ahead—I’ll wait.”

  “Well, when you put it like that...”

  “Come on—we can catch the light if we hurry.”

  They agreed that the restaurant and its cocktail lounge below street level were the least likely places, and should be kept until last.

  A few seconds later, they were in front of the building’s main entrance. With Peters standing behind her to block the view of any passers-by, Libby produced her wand, muttered a couple of words, and touched the tip to the security keypad. With a soft buzz, the door clicked open.

  Elevators in older buildings are notoriously unreliable, so Peters and Libby took the immense, winding staircase up to the second floor. They walked the well-lit carpeted hallway slowly, Libby holding her wand flat against one leg to avoid drawing attention. Peters had transferred the Kimber .45 from its usual spot near his pelvis to the waistband just left of the belt buckle where it was covered by the light jacket he wore but still readily accessible.