"Stop!" O'Meara commanded.
I froze.
"That will be passworded anyway." O'Meara snapped on blue nitrile gloves, pushing past me. Instead of touching the laptop, she focused her attention on the plastic cup attached to the side of the laptop. It contained a single chopstick and metal stylus, both well chewed. Gingerly, she drew them both out. "Now, with these, we can track his body."
"Hello?!" A clear, strong voice rang out. Hopping up on to my hind legs, I peered over the top of the stall to see Veronica standing in the entryway where I'd set up the flashlights. Her cheeks shone with tears as she held a pulsating wand in one hand and cradled Gus to her chest with the other. The movement drew her eyes to me. "Thomas! What is going on?"
"A vampire got Jet. We think." I added the last part after a thought of warning from O'Meara.
"Thooooomas?" Alice was struggling to her feet, a bit ahead of the rest of the Stables. "Is Jet—?"
"Yeah, hang on." Behind me, O'Meara was frantically inscribing a circle, propelled by the specter of a hundred barn animals drowning us in questions. "We're going to do a tracking spell," I said, before assuming my place across from O'Meara on the circle.
O'Meara began without any sort of preparation. It started out in a very similar manner as the tracking spell we had used in Trevor's apartment, but thanks to a bit of tass, the spell could hold considerably more complexity. It took the flimsy thread of connection on the typing stick, strengthened the connection, and wound it around a part of the spell that hurt my brain even more than usual, rotating not in the alien direction of tass but of time itself.
We get one replay at this. Ready? O'Meara thought as the last bit of the spell slid into place.
I blinked, surprised and awed by the complexity we had assembled. I could have replicated the tracking spell with a novice, but this intricate spell would be like constructing an engine by hand. You're certainly more than fireballs. I got a warm glow of pride from her.
You better believe it, kitty. She released the spell, and it whirred into motion. Our senses slammed back into our own reality.
There was Jet, squinting at the laptop, silhouetted in silver light. He flickered, as if he was being projected from an old film reel. The way his ears were drooping indicated he was not a happy goat.
"This was roughly twelve hours ago," O'Meara said. Not for my benefit; Veronica now stood in the doorway. Gus's eyes shone as he watched his old friend.
"Jet?" Gus twisted out of Veronica's arms and padded toward the flickering goat. Veronica closed her eyes and bit her lip as Jet spat his stick into the can beside the laptop. Gus stole a glance back at his magus before licking his chops in the same way he did before losing a poker hand. "Hey, buddy, you there?" he addressed the ghost. "You're not dead. Right? This is all some magic bullshit. Tell me where you are, man."
The image spun and abruptly stalked toward the stall's exit. He stopped, peering at something on a pouch by the exit.
"Take it! Take it, you alfalfa-loving moron!" Gus hissed.
Jet looked from the pouch up at a hook that had a tool harness hanging on it. Then the image shot Gus an annoyed look, as if to say, I ain't got no hands, dummy. With that, he drew himself up as tall as one can when you're two feet at the shoulder and trotted out into the Stables.
Gus whirled and leapt onto O'Meara's thigh, who made a tiny "eee!" of pain as his claws pierced her jeans. "He looked at me! You saw that, didn't you? Can he hear me? Can I warn him?"
O'Meara's eyes flicked to Veronica, whose face wore a small frown. We wondered what Veronica was telling Gus, but perhaps Gus wasn't listening to her either. "Gus," O'Meara began, "sometimes, in the presence of loved ones, the images will react, but it never changes anything. Now, if you could extract your claws from my leg, and we'll all find out where he went." Not waiting for him to comply, she started to follow the apparition.
Outside, the fallen Grantsvillians erupted into the cries and bleats of, "Jet? Jet! He's alive! Alive?" None of them would be able to see the image, but apparently they could hear the distinct sound of his tiny hooves on concrete. "Where?"
O'Meara tried to push through the crowd with Veronica in her wake. I took a quick peek in the pocket Jet had peered into. A round object sat there with a gun barrel sticking out of one end. A mouth gun. I'd heard Jet talking about them, but I never thought they'd actually been made. A revolver placed inside a casing that allowed it to be held in the mouth and then fired by jabbing a button with your tongue. The harness he'd stared wistfully at had a pocket that would have fit the gun perfectly if he had someone's assistance to put it on. So, rather than wake anyone, he walked away with only his horns for protection.
Outside: "O'Meara! Thomas!" Alice bounded to the forefront of the crowd, shouldering aside a sheep and a pony who had moved too slowly to get out of her way. "It happened again, didn't it? It got Jet this time! Where is he? What happened? Tell meee!" She stomped her feet in agitation.
I watched Jet's image slip through the gate as O'Meara pondered a list of half-truths to tell Alice. We had no time to lie. Pushing myself through the crowd, I did not speak until my nose nearly touched the cow's ear. "Yes, it got him. But we're not going to let them get away with it. We have a trail, but we got to move now, or we'll lose it!"
Alice blinked once, then her ears twitched. "The hoof sounds?"
The four of us nodded.
"Everybody out of the way!" Alice erupted into a bellow. "Moooove it! Give them space." Alice turned to plow a path toward the entrance; anyone too slow to listen was shoved aside by her bulk. Once at the gate, I caught sight of the ghostly goat and broke into a trot. Gus was roughly tossed onto my back as Veronica invoked the ability that was the namesake of the Blackwings, transforming into a crow and also alighting on my back. That only left O'Meara off the cougar bus. She briefly considered jet-propelling herself, but the excess heat of that could cook Veronica and Gus. She had just settled into a jog when a large roan stallion came up beside her and invited her onto his back. I suddenly became the slow bus.
Or would have were it not for the sound of several hundred hooves at my heels. "We're going to find out what happened to Jet!" Alice had declared to the entire Stables, and now our small investigative unit was at the head of a herd following a ghost.
Jet's travels took him toward the southern part of the casino before the tunnel terminated. He climbed up a ladder and head butted open a manhole cover, which took some impressive acrobatics for a hoofed mammal. Alice scowled and declared the herd would go around. "Don't let Jet out of your earshot!" she commanded the four of us as we crawled up into the blistering heat of the afternoon sun.
It's a bit odd to think of a ghost existing in broad daylight, but Jet plowed on with an occasional glance over his shoulder at us. A block away from the manhole we'd emerged from, he made a sudden swerve into a bar doorway, and the image exploded like a cheap firework.
Veronica cawed. It sounded dirty.
Hit a ward. O'Meara looked up at the sign declaring the bar to be THE THIRSTY ERMINE, with a weasel twisted around a beer bottle. Squinting, I saw the ward: faded golden lines grew up around the brick building like vines. Nothing you couldn't blow a hole through with a bit of effort, but its thorns would stymie any attempt to peek inside. Some of the casinos were warded in a similar manner, but this looked far older.
Can we just track him after he left? I asked.
O'Meara gave a sigh. Nope. We'll need something he touched after he left to resume the trail. The ward severs those connections. We'll have to do this the hard way. Ask people questions.
Veronica returned to her human form, although Gus dodged her attempt to scoop him up. She eyed the sign warily as O'Meara pushed through the door. Walking in behind her was like being roasted and frozen at the same time. Frozen due to the AC being turned up so high that the air stung my nose, and roasted by the angry glares that hit us from every single occupant in the bar. It wasn't packed, but the bar contained far more people than one
would expect in a bar at four in the afternoon. None of those glares belonged to any human, either; hooves were as common as shoes, while eyes and skin tones ventured into rainbow hues.
I heard a chuckle radiate from O'Meara. Oh, it's that sort of mythic bar. Let me order a beer so I can have you hold it.
What are you doing? I attempted to peer at her thoughts to divine her intentions, but she shut the door on my nose.
Just watch this.
23
There Is No Easy Way
"Nothing here for you, Mistress Inquisitor." The bartender bared his flat teeth, eyes narrowing so you could just see the glints of gold flanking his bar-shaped pupils. I'd seen satyrs before but never one so old that his goat bits had invaded his human bits.
"Black ale, please. And I'm not an inquisitor," O'Meara said.
Those eyes slid to me as his two-fingered hands placed a dirty glass beneath a tap and pulled the handle. The ale rushed out from the tap and danced within the glass as if happy to be free. "You're about to ask a question, and you're a magus with a big cat. To us, there is no difference. We are not your dogs."
This close to the strip, the majority of these people had to work in the casinos unless they subsisted on gold at the end of rainbows. Why all the hostility?
Would you like it if your boss followed you to your favorite bar? Cause that's what we are. Mythics work for magi because they have to. While there are other wild spaces they can live in, not many have electricity or running water.
But we have no house.
They don't know that. They see you and assume I'm a high-rank something or other. But some will recognize me.
O'Meara smiled, laid down a tenner and then raised her voice so it rang through the bar. "We're looking for a goat. Jet was his name, and his color. He was murdered after he left here last night, or perhaps murdered here. His people are coming for answers. You have ten minutes before they get here."
Raising her glass toward the bartender, she then chugged the beer down with an audible series of glugs. The empty pint glass slammed down on the bar. She wiped the foam away from her mouth and hawked a huge loogie into the glass. It filled with orange flame. "It's been a long time since I played the game. But I remember. Do you?"
What are you doing? I mentally cried. My thoughts went to the eyes staring at us; many of them went beyond projecting hostility and now broadcast murderous intentions, many of those in faces attached to rather large bodies.
Don't interfere. Don't you lift a paw in my defense. It’s all—
A barstool smashed into O'Meara's side before the thought finished, knocking her a step sideways but no farther. A satyr the size of a minotaur pulled himself toward O'Meara. "You'll stay down after I put you there," he bellowed.
I winced, expecting the satyr to burst into flame. Instead, O'Meara stomped on the rim of the stool, popping one of its legs into a waiting palm. She tossed it up toward the big guy's head. He swatted it away with a swing of a hand, but O'Meara followed it in with a right hook that hit him right under his arm. He grunted but did not stagger, retaliating with the backswing of his swat, catching the side of her head. Yet there was no sound with the blow; she bent as a willow in the wind.
Spinning, a boot lashed out at the cloven hoof. Steel toe met keratin. The hoof lost. The satyr fell down, his face falling into O'Meara's brutal uppercut. His mouth ejected a single tooth. His outstretched arms closed on her waist. O'Meara twisted too slowly, and the hands locked around her girth and pulled her down.
O'Meara's anchor flared to life and her skin flashed white hot, stinging my eyes. I blinked. O'Meara stood over the satyr, his hair smoking, a wide grin on his face. "That's one!" he declared. The bar erupted in cheering as the big guy climbed back to his feet.
"Lucky shot," O'Meara hissed.
"You're rusty, Sarge." He led with a wild haymaker that probably would have shattered either O'Meara or his fist. Bouncing back first to avoid the blow, she then leapt forward, snagging his horn with an outstretched hand. Body still twisted from the punch, she slammed a knee up into his kidney.
With a spray of spittle and a bray of pain, he spun, back arched, hand grasping at air. O'Meara stepped back and delivered the toe of her boot directly between his legs. The bar oooh-ed in sympathy.
O'Meara cracked her neck with a dramatic flair. "He got one. Glass is still burning. Anyone think they got better?"
A younger satyr with a thin sneer stepped from the crowd. O'Meara's eyes met mine for the briefest of instants.
There are three ways to get respect with satyrs like these. Memories were boiling in her mind from that time before. You can outdrink them, outfight them, or outscrew them. I'm only good at this one.
I watched. O'Meara fought dirty, pulling horns, kicking hooves or feet out from under the challengers, relying on an uncanny toughness and a near insensitivity to pain. She'd let an overextended blow land and make them pay dearly for it. More than once, a satyr went down with the snap of bone. The crowd cheered her for those.
But they never cheered harder than when she was forced to use magic. After she blew a fellow across the room, the bar shook so hard with the stamping of feet that plaster rained down from the ceiling. He did not return to the ring. He had forced her to fell him with magic.
The glass went out. A bell rang through the bar. O'Meara still stood, bloody, bruised and with a cracked rib or two. Yet a satisfied grin shone out, the blood on her teeth enhancing it somehow. A cheer went up, and her glass was refilled.
I looked over to Veronica for the first time since I had entered. She sat with an aristocratic air thick around her, an upward tilt to her nose. Her first defense mechanism to anything she did not understand: to place herself above it. Gus, however, watched everything around him with a sort of shining wonder. Two satyrs helped O'Meara to a barstool. The murderous mood had broken into a festive, cheerful babble. Yet it hadn't spread to the bartender. While the other satyrs crowded around her, he melted away from her, served his fellows beers, and then shrank back as if he might be burned. Several other patrons followed suit, sulking back in their booths.
The door burst open. "What's going on here?!"
Alice stood in the doorway, chest heaving, nostrils flaring, no doubt full of the scent of O'Meara's blood. As one, the patrons of the bar turned to her, raised their glasses, and cheered "HeeeeeeeyO!" Then laughter burst through the bar, breaking up like a spitting firework.
Alice recoiled in confusion, shook her head and plodded on into the bar towards where I stood with Veronica. She had claimed a table within earshot of the gaggle of satyrs that surrounded O'Meara at the bar. At the doorway, a herd of Stables residents peered after Alice but did not follow her in.
O'Meara gestured to Alice to join her at the bar. The big satyr, the one who had called O'Meara "Sarge,” addressed her first. "Heyo, so you're the one looking to find your friend? The black goat?"
Alice's wariness melted away, and she shook with excitement. "Yes! Jet is his name! Was he here last night? I think something killed him - like my friend Trevor."
"I remember him," said another satyr, who wore jeans over his hairy legs beneath a faded Joe Camel t-shirt. "Came in with that leggy spell wolfie."
"You'd notice her legs, Jimmy, but did you see her hair?" another quipped.
"She's no mutt. She's a 'yotee. Mix that up and she'll rip off your balls." A satyr sitting at the edge of the crowd grumbled as if he had firsthand experience.
"You let spell dogs in here?" O'Meara asked as an aside.
"Oh, sure! If they got somebody to vouch for them. Everybody's gotta have a place to go where their masters don't hear."
"Did she have a name?"
"Yeah. Bobby."
I was suddenly off in my own world. Bobby had been Trevor's supervisor at the Luxor. I remembered her from the brief encounter at the Luxor's staff bar. Doug had intercepted me and Rudy before I could talk to her. Had he done it on purpose? Certainly, if he was the vampire and she was a lackey f
etching his meals. Yet Doug had agreed to let me speak to the Luxor employees about Trevor. I'd just been too busy having my - our - lives threatened by a thug named Death to go back to the Luxor.
"Next steps?" Veronica asked, startling me from my thoughts.
"We find Bobby. Try to figure out when she's not working."
"Can O'Meara track Jet from here?" she asked.
I quickly conferred with O'Meara as she attempted to stave off another beer. "No, not unless they didn't wash the bowl he drank from."
Veronica nodded. Gus's eyes had shifted from wide shock to narrowed slits of barely contained rage. His hackles stood, even as Veronica clutched him to her chest as if attempting to protect all the occupants in the bar from the six-pound feline.
"If this Bobby did it, don't you kill her, Thomas. You save that for me." His eyes stole up to Veronica. "For us. Understand?"
I nodded, although I had a hunch that things would be a tad more complicated.
"We're going to find Jet's body, if there is one. We'll let you know if we find it." With that, Veronica and Gus left.
We'd better get to work. O'Meara reached out to me. She'd extracted herself from the crowd, leaving Alice stranded in it as the satyrs urged her to try a bowl of green liquor. I allow her to give me a brief ear scritch. I caught the dusty scent of chalk and realized that she hadn't meant going to find Bobby.
I just broke a bunch of bones. If we don't fix them, we'll get an even worse reception next time.
I peered around her at Alice, who had her muzzle deep in a bowl. Several others of the herd looked on with interest. And if we wait a little longer, the herd will be too sloshed to follow?
She flashed me a grin. Better to ditch them here than in the casino.
24
A Bobby
After repairing all the bones O'Meara broke, saving her own ribs for last, O'Meara and I snuck out. Not that sneaking out on Alice was that hard; after the satyrs got a third bowl of punch in her, she had become entranced by conversation on how best to polish one's hooves to a shine. Rudy picked us up with the aid of the Capy bros, who had at least fixed their AC.
High Steaks Page 14
