Old Fashioned_A Temple Verse Series

by Shayne Silvers

  But that could all be about to change.

  After I’d gotten back from New York City, the Chancery had sent me a summons which mirrored a letter I’d received from them a few months before—for some other crazy shit that had gone down that wasn’t even my fault. Well, mostly not my fault. My point is, at the moment, it felt like I had Faeling debt collectors crawling up my ass.

  I’d decided last week to ignore both and let the chips fall where they may. But now I realized that, if I met with them, the Chancery might be able to tell me who was in town murdering Regulars. Or—barring that—tell me who’d come into town in the last couple weeks; the Sickos could take it from there.

  I cursed silently.

  Guess I was meeting up with those Faeling bastards after all.

  But first, I needed a nap.

  I got home, fully prepared to pass out for at least a solid hour, only to find my door unlocked. I tested the knob and dropped immediately, sliding to my left with my back pressed against the wall, ducking low in case someone planned to gun me down. It may seem silly, but these are the things you get used to in my profession; an unlocked door could as easily mean a hitman as it could a landlord letting in a maintenance guy without your permission. After a minute of waiting, I nudged the door open.

  “Hello, my lady,” Dobby said, sitting in a chair on the far side of my living room. “Is everything alright?”

  I cursed, feeling a little silly, and rose from my very uncomfortable squatted position. “What are ye doin’ here, Dobby?” I hissed. “And how did ye even get in?”

  Dobby, a spriggan I’d been charged with keeping an eye on, raised an eyebrow, which looked somewhat ridiculous given how comically large his eyeballs were; I’d jokingly nicknamed him after J.K. Rowling’s creation, given their startlingly similar appearance, but he’d accepted the moniker before I could change his mind. Interestingly, he seemed to have grown a little since then—now perhaps the size of a prepubescent teenager, as opposed to a second grader. I wasn’t sure what that meant, but part of me worried about what it might mean for his other half—the giant shadow monster he became when the lights went out.

  Because, of course, spriggans could do that.

  “Locked doors rarely pose a challenge to my kind. I recommend installing wards, if home security is especially important to you. To answer your original question, however, I have come seeking your advice,” Dobby said, sounding even more rational and intelligent than when I’d last seen him—when he’d run and hid from me rather than tell me what he knew about my abilities.

  “Does that mean ye plan to tell me what ye know, then? About what I am?” I asked, choosing to finish what we’d begun weeks ago before offering any advice.

  The thing is, my mother, who might have had the answers I sought, died giving birth to me. And my father had never been in the picture to begin with. Lately, I’d begun to strongly suspect that my dad might be a Faeling, and that I was a half-breed of some sort, a hybrid—something which wasn’t supposed to exist. But the last time Dobby and I had spoken, he’d intimated that he knew more than that…before promptly using a magical ring I’d given him to disappear and flee.

  Dobby had the grace to look a little ashamed. “I am sorry I ran from you, my lady. I know you want answers, but it is too soon for you to know the truth.”

  “It’s what?” I spluttered.

  Dobby shook his head, and I could see he was genuinely sorry. “I am not keeping things from you to be spiteful, or coy. You must discover your origins on your own, or not at all. That is the covenant which you have made, though you had no hand in its design.”

  I tossed my phone on the kitchen counter in frustration and fetched a glass from the cupboard. After gulping down some water, I turned to face the diminutive creature. Getting pissed off at a Faeling as old and powerful as Dobby would be as ineffective as throwing a tantrum; no matter how badly I wanted to wring the truth out of him, he’d stick to his party line. That didn’t mean I had to like it, though. “Well, is there anythin’ ye can tell me?” I asked, trying to keep the anger out of my voice.

  Dobby smiled, but it was a sad, slightly downturned thing. “Perhaps. But first, you must tell me what you know so far.”

  I filled Dobby in on what I knew about my power. Years ago, I’d discovered that I could nullify magic in various ways. If a wizard tried to cast a spell on me, for example, it would crash against some invisible force and simply fizzle out—a magical malfunction that left most spellcasters feeling emasculated at best. For those Freaks whose very essence was tied to magic of one sort or another—vampires, werewolves, and the like—this nullification manifested itself in a remarkable decrease in their speed, strength, and stamina. They became as weak, or as strong, as their human bodies would normally be, stripped of their supernatural mojo, essentially.

  Lately, however, I’d realized that this ability was tied to a field which clung to me like a second skin. That field could be manipulated, even expanded; I’d done so a few times now, mostly on instinct. But recently, that field had been going haywire. A friend named Hemingway—also known as Death, one of the four Horsemen of the Apocalypse—had tested my field and walked away shaken. Then, a few days later, Johnny Appleseed had used me like a generator to plant a forest on the Brooklyn Bridge.

  Talk about green energy.

  And then, of course, there were the angels and demons I’d gone up against. “They couldn’t touch me,” I explained. “And I couldn’t touch them. I didn’t cancel out their power as much as repel it. Like oil and water,” I said, stealing the phrase from an old acquaintance who’d seen me take one on.

  Dobby nodded as if everything I said made perfect sense to him, which earned him a glare. He held up a hand. “I can’t tell you much you haven’t already learned on your own, my lady, except to say that nothing you have experienced is unexpected or presents a significant danger to you.” He frowned, then. “Although perhaps it would be best if you refrained from testing the limits of this field you describe.”

  “Why?” I asked.

  Dobby hesitated, considering his response. I fought off another brief flash of irritation and waited for him to explain. He sighed. “The one who tested your power, and the one who used it…I suspect you could inadvertently cause such extreme reactions in others with similar affinities, if you are not careful.”

  “Affinities?”

  Dobby smirked, as if answering that question would give the game away. “You’ll understand one day, if you are meant to. In the meantime, I would be wary of those you feel strongly attracted to, or repulsed by.”

  I massaged my temples. Dobby’s riddles threatened to bring back the pounding headache I’d woken up with, but at least I knew that nothing was technically wrong with me—that my power wasn’t on the fritz, which had been bothering me for a while now. It also explained, at least a little, my animal attraction to Appleseed, and my instinctual revulsion to Hemingway. I flopped on the couch and threw my arm over my face dramatically. “Why can’t ye be a half-giant groundskeeper tellin’ me that I’m meant to be a wizard?” I asked, with a sigh.

  “Because my name’s Dobby, not Hagrid,” Dobby said, chidingly.

  I winced, realizing Dobby had discovered the origins of his name. “Since when d’ye start readin’ Harry Potter?” I asked.

  “Your newest addition filled me in,” Dobby said, sounding amused.

  I shot him a questioning look, then tracked his stare to the houseplant on my windowsill. “Eve!” I yelled, exasperated.

  “Did you know that J.K. Rowling’s parents met at King’s Cross Station?”

  I ignored the plant, rolling my eyes, then turned my attention back to the spriggan. “T’wasn’t supposed to be permanent,” I said. “A joke, that’s all.”

  “I do not mind,” Dobby said. “I do serve you, my lady, as faithfully as my name suggests. So long as you know that I won’t be cleaning up after you and would prefer to wear my own socks.”

  I grunted. �
��I don’t t’ink I have any in your size, anyway. Speakin’ of, how come you’re gettin’ bigger?”

  Dobby studied his hand, turning it this way and that. “I am not…certain. It concerns me that I cannot recall ever having grown before. Although memories of my past are still…hazy.” He glanced up at me, shrugged, and smiled. “At least I don’t have to climb on things as often.”

  I snorted. “So, why d’ye break into me apartment and nearly give me a heart attack?”

  The smile on Dobby’s face fell. “I have an uneasy feeling,” he explained, “and was compelled to come. I believe something has happened to Christoff. He has not visited since you left for New York City, and it seems the bar has been shut down for several days. I wondered if you could tell me if I was simply being paranoid, or if I have legitimate cause to be concerned.”

  “I’m not sure,” I said, honestly, a sick feeling suddenly punching into my stomach and twisting. I didn’t remember Christoff saying anything about taking a vacation before I’d left, and I hadn’t spoken to him since returning. Honestly, I couldn’t remember Christoff ever having gone on vacation; the man practically lived at the bar when he wasn’t at home spending time with his wife and kids…or hunting deer in one of the state forests outside Boston.

  Because—when he wasn’t busy running one of the most popular bars in the city or being a dad—Christoff was a full blown werebear. A Kamchatka brown bear, to be precise. I’d only seen him shift once, to protect his friend and former bar manager, Ryan O’Rye, from the bridge troll I mentioned earlier. That’s how we’d met, actually, and Christoff and I had been on friendly terms ever since. If anything, I thought of him as a kindly, Russian uncle…who could probably fit my whole head in his mouth if he ever felt so inclined.

  “Does the bar usually close without warning?” Dobby asked.

  I shook my head. “I don’t t’ink it’s ever closed, except when they’re changin’ the décor…but Christoff would never go on vacation while that was happenin’. And he’d tell you. He’d have told both of us.” I swung my legs around and sat up. “Let’s go to the bar and check in,” I suggested, though I had a feeling I wasn’t going to like what we found. Of course, that could have been the fact that all I’d had to eat so far today was pizza, and it hadn’t stayed inside me for very long. “But first,” I said, “let’s snag some food.”

  Chapter 10

  I peered through the darkened glass of Christoff’s bar, hands cupped on either side of my face to block out the glare. The interior had been gutted, no longer cluttered by the myriad shades of green from the bar’s previous model—a glorified celebration of all things St. Paddy’s Day. I’d witnessed the transition several times over the years and recognized the bar’s bare bones as a staging point, ripe with possibilities. Still, if that were the case, Christoff would definitely be nearby overseeing the change in decoration. The Russian businessman took micromanaging to a whole new level.

  “What do you think, my lady?” Dobby asked.

  “I t’ink I’m glad ye came by,” I admitted, careful to make sure no one was around to hear me talking to my imaginary friend; Dobby had slipped on the Ring of Gyges and disappeared the minute we’d left my apartment. I’d tried calling Christoff on the way, hoping he’d answer and clear the whole thing up, but no such luck. I leaned back, studying my reflection in the glass. Beneath the thin veneer of makeup, I looked tired and strung out, my eyes bloodshot. I sighed, knowing I wouldn’t be getting a nap anytime soon; since I hadn’t found answers here, I could only think of one other option.

  Christoff’s house.

  Christoff lived in Admirals Hill, a residential district in Chelsea which sat right up against the Mystic River. Chelsea, dubbed Chelsalvador by the less tactful Boston residents, was one of those unique cities which—after weathering catastrophes, rampant industrialization, racial tensions, and corrupt politicians—had emerged whole and healthy. Christoff and his wife had moved there not long after getting married, buying their house for a steal after Chelsea’s stock plummeted in the early 90s. The neighborhood had seen a few shakeups since then, and their property had tripled in value. Christoff claimed their contacts in the area—the Russian Jews who’d settled there around the beginning of the 20th century and never left—were responsible for his success in America. Apparently, they’d fronted him the money to buy both his house and his bar, and he always spoke about his benefactors with great reverence.

  I tried the doorbell first, then knocked. No answer. No cars in the driveway. I glanced at my phone and realized it was only a little after noon. Christoff’s kids would probably be in daycare still, or maybe his wife had taken them out while she ran errands. No reason to be concerned. I walked around the side of the house and tried to peer through a window, but the blinds were closed. When I returned, I found the door standing wide open.

  I stared, then bolted for the open doorway. “Christoff?!” I yelled.

  “He’s not here,” Dobby said, startling me.

  “But the door…wait, was that ye?” I asked, fuming.

  “Wards,” Dobby said, his voice retreating as he inspected the house. “You all need wards,” he repeated drily.

  I shut the door and wandered through Christoff’s house. I’d been here before, around Christmas a few years back, at his invitation. I’d doubt Christoff was in the habit of bringing home all the strays that came to his bar, but I think he’d sensed something in me—my desire to be around people, but not among them, maybe—and offered, citing Russian hospitality as his excuse.

  Ordinarily, I spent the holiday season with my aunt, Desdemona—who wasn’t really my aunt but my mother’s best friend and the woman who’d raised me after my mother passed.

  But, since she and my mother had fled Ireland as young women during the Troubles, and we didn’t have any extended family to speak of, Dez had found comfort in spending time with the matronly women in our congregation, a horde of pious gossipers if I’d ever seen one. Which meant, aside from the day before and the day after Christmas, I always ended up with a lot of free time on my hands. Maybe that’s why I didn’t turn Christoff down; drinking alone loses its appeal pretty fast when even your bartender has better things to do.

  Back then, Christoff’s house had been a rowdy place, obnoxiously full of light and laughter. His wife had hung Christmas lights on every available surface—winding down the bannister, across the mantle, and along the crown molding. Together, she and Christoff told their children stories of Grandfather Frost and the Snowmaiden at the dinner table, plying me with dishes I’d never seen before, eventually tasking me with painting an ornament to adorn their tree. Basically, the whole experience would have made a great Norman Rockwell painting.

  But what I saw now was more like a Jackson Pollock.

  The wallpaper and upholstery was torn and gouged, shredded—bits of drywall and leather-like confetti littered the ground. Blood spatter had dried in swathes along lampshades and paintings. The carpet muffled the sound of the broken glass I stepped on. I found myself wishing, irrationally, that I could take off my shoes; Christoff and his wife had been very adamant about not walking around the house in the shoes you wore outside, and I knew they’d be pissed.

  If they were still alive.

  While trying my best to watch my step, I nearly turned my ankle on a plastic children’s toy, painted in blood. I hissed and hopped away, feeling momentarily overwhelmed. My heartbeat raced, and I realized I was on the verge of hyperventilating. What would I find here? Fear hit me like a physical blow to the chest; not fear for myself—I’d regifted that shit a long time ago—but fear for Christoff, for his family. I ground my teeth and forced myself to take a few deep, calming breaths.

  In moments, I returned my attention to my more familiar, clinical calculations.

  Bullet holes.

  Blood spatter.

  Claw marks.

  All that signified that Christoff hadn’t gone down without a fight, and may still be alive, on the run.


  Or…upstairs. Dead.

  My vision momentarily flashed red at that, but I squashed it down with a very literal gulp. What I needed now was answers, not conjecture, but there was too much chaos to sort through, and I wasn’t Sherlock fucking Holmes. Unlike the crime scene I’d been to earlier, this one had been heavily trafficked. Lots of people. Lots of violence. There were bullet holes peppering one wall. Shockingly, none had shattered the windows or caused a stir in the neighborhood. I shook my head in frustration and drew my own pistol from the compression holster that rode my waistline, just to be safe. It didn’t make any sense; the claw marks and blood spatter I could understand—Christoff was a werebear after all—but the bullet holes meant guns were involved…and not just any guns.

  Contrary to popular belief, trying to gauge the caliber of the bullets from the bullet holes was a waste of time; most entrance wounds were indistinguishable from one another. But, based on the pattern, I could guess the gun was semi-automatic—the trajectory of the holes had an arc to it that comes with firing while moving. Which meant someone had come into Christoff’s home with a gun designed to mow people down. Who would do that? And why? And, most importantly, what had happened to the people whose blood decorated the walls?

  “Dobby?” I called, dreading what he might have found upstairs.

  A crash from above made me jump. “Dobby!” I yelled, breaking for the stairs.

  I ignored the shattered bannister and took the steps two at a time, raising my gun slightly; not sighting, but prepared to fire if I saw something worth shooting at. I headed for the sound of the crash, turned the corner, and was immediately pinned to the floor by the weight of a very large man, my gun skidding across the hardwood to end up beneath Christoff’s bed.

  I realized the fucker must have been hiding behind the doorframe, out of sight, waiting for me to come barreling in, and had used my momentum against me. I cursed myself for being reckless and not clearing the room like I’d been trained. Rookie mistake. The man ground his knee into my spine, yanked my arm behind my back, and pressed the muzzle of a gun against the back of my head. I stopped struggling but hissed out a painful breath. He sure was a heavy bastard.