Blood Scent: A Junkyard Druid Urban Fantasy Novella (Junkyard Druid Novellas Book 1)

by M. D. Massey

  Maureen was already jogging away from the parking lot when I pulled up. I took the hint and locked my uncle’s junker up, then headed after her. Man, that kelpie could run. She had a quarter-mile lead on me already, and that gap was increasing. I figured I knew where she was headed and decided to take it easy. No sense in wearing myself out before the sparring started.

  About a mile after I hit the green belt, a pale-skinned, red-headed blur tackled me from the left side of the trail. I managed to roll with the impact, but we landed in a scramble. Somehow, she ended up on top of me, choking me with my own shirt.

  Besides the lack of oxygen going to my brain, I had to admit that I didn’t mind it much. Like I said, Maureen was one hot fae girl—and having her hips grinding on top of mine brought back feelings I hadn’t experienced since Jesse died.

  I tried to relieve the pressure from the cross-choke she had me in by squeezing her elbows together. Unfortunately, she was stronger than I was. So, I decided to just sit back and enjoy it.

  That was a mistake.

  Maureen leaned in close to me, chest to chest, as she sunk the choke in deeper. She dropped her head next to mine and whispered in my ear. “Keep your mind on your training, lad. I’m not here to entertain or amuse you, and I’m damn sure not going to lay your sorry ass.”

  I was starting to fade out, so I tapped her arm several times.

  “Oh, you think that vamp is going to let you tap? Pfah.” She released the choke and rolled off me before I passed out completely. I laid there for a second, letting the blood reach my brain again before I spoke.

  “Sorry, Maureen. It won’t happen again.”

  She knelt a few paces away, observing me through slitted eyes. “See that it doesn’t. Not that I’m not flattered, as you’ve grown into a fine-looking young man. But that sort of thing will get you killed, and I don’t need that on my conscience.”

  She stood and brushed her running tights off. “Now, get up and get your ass in gear. Every thirty seconds I have to wait at the dam’ll be a set of hill sprints after we finish training.”

  I rolled to my knees and waited for the dizziness to subside as I watched her athletic figure race away from me. “Man, I need to get out more,” I muttered, as I sprinted after her.

  Roughly thirty minutes later, I pulled to a stop at the foot of the dam, panting much like the day before—but not quite so exhausted. Maureen wasted no time at all and tossed me a practice sword before I could catch my breath. We sparred for an hour or so, and once again she had the better of me in every exchange.

  Still, I could tell my reflexes were improving, and I was starting to get my rhythm and timing back as well. If I had to guess, I wouldn’t be quite so bruised tonight as the night before. It was progress, and I’d take it.

  After we finished, Maureen grabbed some water bottles from a cooler she’d hidden in the trees. She handed me one and regarded me with a curious look.

  “So, you haven’t dated at all since Jesse…?” She let her question trail off, to avoid saying what no one wanted to say.

  I shook my head. “It hasn’t exactly been a priority. I’ve been too busy with other stuff.”

  “Dr. Larsen told me. Trying to off yourself and failing, from what I hear. You’re over that now, are you?”

  I took a swig from the bottle and gave her a thumbs up. “I’m staying on my meds and doing what the doc suggested. Meditation, music, and community. Seems to be working.”

  “Good to know. But you need to get laid, lad—that much is obvious. Young men have needs, and you can’t ignore them just because your heart is aching. Might even help with that, you know.”

  I wiped a drop of sweat from the tip of my nose and stared at the ground. “I know. I just…”

  She squinted with one eye and gave me a frown. “You’re just not ready yet?”

  “Nope.”

  “S’all right, son. Time will heal that wounded heart. Take it from someone who has lived a sight longer than you, eh? Just hang in there and give it time.”

  I smiled, even though I didn’t feel it. “That’s the plan, right?”

  Maureen returned the smile. Hers looked more heartfelt than mine. “That’s the spirit. Fake it ’til you make it, and all that.” I watched as she took the practice swords and hid them back in the trees, along with our trash. Once she’d erased all trace of our presence, she turned to me with an evil grin.

  “You owe me three sets of hill sprints. Once you’re done, meet me back at the warehouse.” She took off at a blistering pace, her lithe legs eating up the distance with sure and steady strides.

  I cursed her silently, swearing to get even with her in a future sparring session.

  The next week went much the same. I got a bit faster and less winded, and left with fewer bruises each day. When I arrived at the warehouse on the seventh day, the realtor’s lock had been removed and the front door was propped open. I gave myself a minute or two to catch my breath, then nervously marched in.

  The air inside smelled musty and stale, with just the faintest hint of old pipe smoke. The old man had loved his pipe back in the day. The aroma brought back pleasant memories of simpler, if not easier, times. Maureen sat just inside at the reception desk. She finished typing something on the computer, then turned to face me.

  “Sorry—just sending a response to the city about this old place. They’re threatening to file a tax lien on it, saying it’s an eyesore and all that. Thing is, the taxes are paid up, and I’ve paid every fine they’ve levied. I’m afraid I may have to reopen the business, just to get them off our backs.

  “Bah, but you don’t want to hear about that nonsense. Probably don’t even want to be here, eh?” I shrugged. “S’what I figured. So, I’ll be brief. It’s been a while since you hunted anything human or other, and I think you need a tune-up gig to get you back into the swing of things.”

  “What did you have in mind?”

  She narrowed her eyes and crinkled her nose slightly. “Refresh my memory… did you and Jesse ever have the opportunity to hunt a fetch?”

  I rubbed my neck and thought back to our hunting days. “Hmmm, can’t say we did. I remember Finnegas telling us about them, but from what I remember they’re rather rare—aren’t they?”

  She held up a finger and pointed it at me. “Indeed, they are, and for good reason. They’re doppelgängers, as you’ll recall—except they steal a bit of luck from the people they impersonate. It’s how they power their magic, you see. And, the longer they impersonate them, the more luck they steal.”

  “Ah, so that explains why the people they impersonate usually die.”

  “Eggs-actly. Their luck goes to hell because the fetch steals it, and then one day bam! They get hit by a truck crossing the street, or a piano falls on them, or they get struck by lightning, or their pharmacist dispenses the wrong medication… well, I think you get the point.”

  “You want me to track a fetch down?”

  She tapped the side of her nose with one finger. “A sharp one, you are. Sure enough, we seem to have recently acquired the company of one such creature in these parts. The locals aren’t aware of it, mind you, but the fae ’round here talk. This fellow showed up a few weeks back, and he’s been impersonating the locals to accomplish all sorts of mischief. Petty theft, running up bar tabs, dining and dashing at restaurants, and the like.”

  “So, you need me to catch him and run him out of town, before someone’s luck runs out.”

  She tilted her head. “Or kill the slimy bastard—makes no difference to me. Just don’t underestimate him. They’re known to be sneaky little devils, and he’ll stick a knife in you just as soon as he’ll say hello.”

  “I’ll keep that in mind. Any idea where he’s hiding out?”

  She pointed to a framed map of the town on the wall, and circled a small section with a dry-erase marker. “All the people he’s impersonated so far live in this neighborhood. Chances are good he’s squatting in an abandoned house or something simila
r. That’s likely where you’ll find him. And go armed, for goodness’ sake.”

  I gave her a halfhearted salute and headed for the door. “Alright then. I guess I’m off to fetch a fetch.”

  8

  The area Maureen had pointed out on the map was an old neighborhood. It was a mix of painstakingly restored Victorians and Craftsman-style homes, as well as shotgun houses and small cottages that were holdovers from when it had been the poorest part of town.

  Home-flippers looking to make a quick buck were snatching up the older houses in the area. And because homes here were in demand, there were zero abandoned properties to search. All the unoccupied homes were either under construction or under contract, according to the signs in the yard. I found it highly unlikely that the fetch would be holed up in one of those homes—not when he could simply impersonate a local resident and live in comfort. I just hoped no one had died in the process.

  Born and raised in this town, I knew most of the townies in every neighborhood. And in every small-town neighborhood, there was always one person who was a bit too nosy for their own good. On this side of town, that person would be Mrs. Schmidt, a widow whose family had lived here since the town had been founded by German settlers in the 1800s. I’d done yard work for her when I was a kid, but I hadn’t spoken to her in years. As I walked the cracked paving stones to her front door, I hoped like hell that she hadn’t passed on since I’d last seen her.

  I pressed her doorbell button and smiled at the old-school buzzing sound it made. Several seconds later, someone cracked the door and a rheumy eye peeked out at me.

  “Whatdya want? If it’s work you’re looking for, I already have a Mexican who does my lawn. And if you’re with the Jay-Dubyas, I’ve been a Lutheran since the day I was birthed into this world, and I don’t intend to switch religions now just to cover my bases. So, you’re wasting your time.”

  It was definitely Mrs. Schmidt. Like many of the older townies I knew, she was ever-so-slightly racist and lacked even a hint of self-awareness regarding that fact. Institutional racism ran deep in these old towns, and while times had changed a great deal, some old folks never would. Most didn’t mean any harm by it; they simply had no idea that society had changed and passed them by decades ago. Growing up in a small Texas town, I’d learned to ignore it, for the most part.

  “Mrs. Schmidt? It’s me, Colin. Colin McCool? I’m Leanne’s son.”

  The eye squinted at me for a moment. “Hang on, let me get my glasses. I can’t see a damned thing that’s closer than five feet without them these days.”

  A now bespectacled eye returned to the crack, widening with recognition. The door swung open. Mrs. Schmidt stood there, leaning on a walker in a brightly-flowered muumuu dress and house shoes. Her hair was done up in curlers, and she wore a hair net over the entire affair.

  I waggled my fingers at her and smiled. “Hi, Mrs. Schmidt. Long time no see.”

  She frowned at me, then a smile broke across her face. “Little Colin McCool, my but how you’ve grown. Come in, young man, come in.” She turned and shuffled toward her living room, and I followed obediently, shutting the door behind us.

  Mrs. Schmidt patted her hair self-consciously. “Please excuse my appearance. I have a potluck at church tonight, and there’s a spry old man I’ve had my eye on for some time now. Planning to make my move tonight.” She eased herself onto a slightly worn couch, directly in front of a TV set tuned to a game show channel. “Have a seat, child, and tell me what brings you to my door.”

  “Well, ma’am, I’m working for a real estate investor, helping him spot deals and opportunities in this area. He’s interested in a few homes in the neighborhood, and I’m curious whether you know anyone who might consider selling. He’s particularly interested in people who may have lost their jobs recently, and who might need to get out from under their mortgage.”

  “Sounds like a real vulture to me. Heck of a way to make a living, profiting from the misery of others. How’d you get mixed up with an outfit like that?”

  “Oh, it’s just something I do on the side, to save money for college. Honestly, I don’t care for the people I work with—but it pays well. And occasionally, I get to help people in need.”

  She blew her nose into a crumpled paper towel, then stuffed it in a pocket in her muumuu. “Well, I suppose you have to do what you have to do. Times being what they are and all. Mexicans coming over the border in droves, stealing all our jobs. If they weren’t so useful, I’d say throw them all in jail.”

  “That’s a very progressive viewpoint, ma’am. Very forward-thinking of you.”

  “Please. It’s not like I’m going to start voting Democrat. It’s just that I can see the writing on the wall.” She pointed to a tray full of Brach’s candy on her coffee table. “Now, have some sugar while I think for a minute.”

  I snagged a couple of orange slices, chewing on one and pocketing two more for the road. Mrs. Schmidt scratched her leg and moved her dentures around in her mouth while she considered my question. It was rather unnerving to watch, so I kept my eyes glued to the TV set.

  “Hmm… well… Sue Schulz lost her husband a while back. Tragic accident, that. The fool was driving down the highway reading a book while his electric car did the steering for him. Ran right into a semi—flattened him and that fancy car like a pancake. No, but she doesn’t need the money. Settlement should keep her in yoga pants and lattes for life, the little hussy.

  “Then there’s Pete Thompson across the street. Used to work on cars, but he lost all his fingers in a tragic bull-riding accident. The idiot got drunk and thought he could last eight seconds. He got tossed, but his hand got stuck in the rope. Popped all four fingers clean off. I figure his insurance checks should be running out soon, so you might approach him.

  “Then there’s that Middle-Eastern fellow down the way. Sanjay, Sanjah, Sanjan—something to that effect. I can’t ever get those people’s names right. Not like any one of them can speak proper English, so I don’t feel bad about mangling their names a smidgen. He’s been acting funny lately, hanging around his house all day and not going into work, avoiding his neighbors, that sort of thing. I called the sheriff and told them to investigate him for terrorism. Anybody who gets shifty like that overnight must be planning something terrible.

  “Anyway, he must be hard up for cash about now, because I’m sure he’s lost his job already. And if he does try to blow something up, well… your boss ought to be able to get his house dirt cheap on auction. After he goes to jail, that is. Unless he’s one of those suicide bombers—but either way, it ought to sell cheap. Kind of like those meth lab houses. Bound to be full of chemicals and whatnot, besides stinking of all those exotic spices he cooks with. Every time he makes dinner I can smell it all the way down the street. Damned nuisance, if you ask me.”

  And this is why I moved to Austin, I thought. “That’s great, Mrs. Schmidt. You wouldn’t happen to have an address for Mr. Sanjay?”

  “Don’t need one. His is the red brick house down on the corner, the one with the pagan statues in the flower bed. Can’t miss it. And when you go down there, tell him to quit stinking up the neighborhood.”

  Mrs. Schmidt’s house smelled like cabbage and mothballs. I figured a little curry would be an improvement, but I kept my mouth shut as I stood and looked at my phone. “Oh, look at the time. I’d best be going, but I want to thank you, ma’am. You’ve been a tremendous help.”

  She waved a hand at me and dropped it back on the couch’s armrest. “Bah, it’s nothing. Besides, after that horrible accident your girlfriend was in, well… I’m just glad to know you’re doing alright.”

  I forced a smile. “I’m getting there, Mrs. Schmidt. I’m getting there.”

  Her expression was one hundred percent false sympathy, and I knew she’d be gossiping about me later. “Excuse me for not getting up, young man, but my show is coming on. Don’t forget to tell San-jiminy to close his windows when he cooks.”

  She tur
ned her eyes to the TV set, and I locked the door for her as I exited the house. Mrs. Schmidt might have been a bigoted old busybody, but she’d been good to my mom after my dad had died. That was the thing with people. Morally speaking, most weren’t all good or all bad, but instead occupied the spaces between.

  But when it came to the fae, they were all bad in my opinion. As far as I was concerned, killing an unseelie fae was just like squashing a black widow, or cutting the head off a poisonous snake. Even if the thing had no intention of harming you, it might down the road—so it was best to end it before it ended you.

  Not like I had any room to talk. I’d killed my own girlfriend. Or rather, the curse had. I could blame the fae for it, and I did. But ultimately, I was the one that did the killing. And now I had to live with it.

  After I left Mrs. Schmidt’s house, I walked back to the car and dug around for a few items inside my Craneskin Bag. Then I took a quick detour across the street, leaving an envelope with most of the cash Luther had advanced me in Mr. Thompson’s mail slot. I had been classmates with his daughter, and I knew her dad was helping to pay her way through school. I figured they needed the money more than I did—and besides, I had more coming.

  Once that was done, I cut through Mr. Thompson’s yard on my way to the alley and headed for Mr. Sanjay’s house.

  9

  I didn’t know Mr. Sanjay, but a quick look on social media told me he was single with no kids. He was also employed as an engineer at one of the larger tech companies in town. He was the perfect target for a doppelgänger. I was certain I’d found my fetch, and seeing Mr. Sanjay’s yard confirmed my suspicion. The grass hadn’t been mown in weeks, and there were bags of trash piled up outside the back door.

  Thus far, I hadn’t a clue why this fetch had decided to take up residence in such a small town, where the likelihood of being caught was much higher than in a large metropolis like Austin. And I could only speculate as to what his game was in impersonating Mr. Sanjay and taking over his life. Was he hiding out from someone or something? Did this fetch travel from town to town, stealing the lives of humans and moving on before he got caught?