by Andrew Dudek
“Right…” Dallas sounded cautious, like a man wading into murky swamp-water.
“But she doesn’t really know how to harness that power. I was thinking you could take her under your wing. Show her the ropes like a real wizard.”
“Take her on as an apprentice?”
“Yeah,” I said. “An apprentice.”
The last word hung in the air for a long moment. One of the hikers took a selfie in front of the burning cabin. Another yelped as he burned his finger on the fire. His friends laughed.
Dallas said, “No. It’s not a good idea.”
That surprised me. I’d been ready for hesitance, reluctance. A refusal was a curve.
“Why not?”
“It’s just not a good idea. I’m not cut out for teaching.”
“Couldn’t you try—”
“I said ‘no,’ Carver! Find someone else to teach your girlfriend how to turn doves into flowers and drop it.” He fell silent for a long moment and watched the fire. “I’ll talk to her, maybe give her some advice, but I can’t train her.”
“Fine,” I said. “But one of these days you’re gonna tell me why. You’re gonna explain what’s your problem with training people.”
He looked at me for a long moment. His eyes were dark. “No,” he finally said. “I really won’t.”
My staff was sitting around the conference table when I walked back into the office. I’d ridden down to the city with Professor Bogart, then taken a cab into Long Island City. The rest of them had piled into Dallas’s old van. Earl, Rob, Krissy, and Madison were all covered with soot. They all looked exhausted and proud. Earl, though, stared off into space. I understood that feeling: he’d led a mission that had gotten a team member killed. It would take a while for him to adjust to that.
I nodded seriously to Earl, said “Good job” to Rob, Krissy, and Madison, and headed out of the room. I wanted to sleep, but my apartment seemed so far away at the moment. There was a couch in one of the rooms upstairs, and I could hear it whispering my name.
“Dave?” Madison followed me out of the conference room. “Are you okay?”
“Sore and tired. I’ll live.”
She looked like she wanted to press the issue, but she just said, “Dallas called. Amy’s with him at the store. He said he’s got some kind of herbal lotion that will help heal her cuts.”
I nodded. Maybe the wizard was changing his mind about training Amy. I doubted it, but you never knew. “Okay. Thanks.”
“Any time, boss.” Madison smiled. “You did good today.”
I mustered the best smile I had—which wasn’t great. “We all did. Couldn’t have done it without any of you. Get some sleep. It’s been a busy week.”
She nodded. “Krissy and I are heading out in a minute. You make sure to get some rest, too.”
I laughed—this one not forced. “Where do you think I’m going right now?”
The couch was lumpier than I remembered and the pillows were gone, so I had to settle for an armrest for my pillow, but I didn’t care. I was asleep before I’d even had the chance to stretch out.
Chapter 34
My back hurt. My shoulder ached and my nerve endings buzzed with the remnants of April’s pain spell. I could move, though, and I was alive, so that wasn’t a bad way to start the day. I headed downstairs and stood in the empty office. There was a bottle of Canadian Tylenol in one of the desk’s drawer, and I swallowed a couple with a gulp of water. The A/C wasn’t running and the office was oppressively hot, so I opened the front door and stood on the stoop. The storm that had been brewing in the mountains had rolled into the city around three or four in the morning. I remembered waking up and listening to the rain drum on the air conditioning unit, feeling content. A cool breeze blew in from over the East River and I enjoyed the coolness.
It was the first day of September. Good day to break a heatwave.
I made a pot of coffee and settled down at a desk and began the paperwork. This was my second Major Paranormal Incident as a captain, and I wasn’t thrilled with the results. A lot of people—too many—were dead or seriously injured. Plus there were lots of witnesses, and I didn’t know what to do about them. I wasn’t too worried, though. People have a tendency to rationalize. Unless someone went on TV and insisted that they’d seen a three-headed dog the size of a buffalo rampaging in Brooklyn, it’d be forgotten and dismissed as the ramblings of the insane. Say what you want about the crazies, but at least they don’t deny what their eyes see.
On paper the MPI had been a success for the Round Table. We’d neutralized a major threat with no crippling injuries or fatalities among Table personnel. But tell that to Paul Ellis. Tell it to Arjun. Tell that to the young women who’d been slaughtered in a cemetery, their only crime the desire to explore the world of magic. They’d just wanted somewhere to belong.
I could sympathize.
While the coffee was brewing in the pot, I used one of the office phones to call the number on the card Lou had given me. A Claimed One had been killed during the operation, and I wanted to offer them the Round Table’s official condolences. The line beeped and an automated female voice told me that the number I was trying to reach had been disconnected. I pursed my lips and slid my phone back into my pocket. So the Claimed were in the wind. Well, I was sure I’d see them again. Probably at the worst possible time.
The front door opened and Madison and Krissy walked in. Both of them had exchanged the short-shorts for jeans and Krissy had on a long-sleeved shirt. I guessed it was even colder out than I’d expected.
“…texted me this morning,” Krissy said. “We’re going out next week.”
“When do you have time to meet boys?” I said, leaning back in my chair. My feet were on the desk and I was holding a big mug of coffee.
Krissy laughed. Madison smiled a little and sat down at her desk.
I saluted them with my coffee. “Who were you talking about?”
“Oh,” Krissy said, “just this guy I met last night. He was camping and he came over when he smelled the smoke from the cabin. He started interviewing me for his job—he’s a producer for Channel—”
“A journalist?” I said. “You didn’t tell him what really happened, did you?”
Krissy rolled her eyes. She had a spectacular eye roll. Really made me feel stupid as a drunken cow. “Yes, Dave, I told a guy I don’t know all about the three-headed dog from hell.”
“Just checking,” I said. “Anyway, what’s this young man’s name, and do I need to set him straight?”
She laughed. “His name’s Christian. I don’t even know if you’ll meet him. We haven’t even gone out yet.”
“Well, let me know. We’ll have a party.”
When I got back to the office, my cellphone was blinking. The voicemail notification icon. I opened it and dialed the number that let me access the mailbox. I turned on the speakerphone and Amy’s voice came through the line, tinny and distant.
“Hi, Dave. Uh…listen: I don’t know how to say this, so just hang in there. I’m calling from Newark. The airport. I just wanted to thank you for everything. For saving me. I have all of this power, and I don’t really know what to do with it. Dallas talked to me last night. He’s a representative of the Magic Council, and I’m too powerful to be allowed to run around untrained. He said there’s a school for people like me, a magic academy, out in San Francisco, I guess. Dallas thinks it’d be good for me. God, Dave, I’ve been wanting to learn magic for real for such a long time, and this is my chance.
“So I’m on the next flight. I just wanted to let you know that I’m sorry for walking away like this, especially for not telling you in person, but I think I need to go as soon as possible. I…I enjoyed our time together, and I really like you, but…well, you know. I hope you won’t hate me. I hope you’ll understand and you won’t think I’m a coward. I hope—oh, hell, they’re calling my flight. Maybe one day we can give it another shot. Bye, Dave.”
“That bitch.” Krissy s
tood in the doorway. Her mouth was hanging open and her arms were crossed over her chest. “That enormous, insensitive, ungrateful bitch.”
I shook my head. “She’s probably right. That school is the best place for her.”
“San Francisco, though? Isn’t that where—”
“May teaches?” I said. “Yep.”
“So your ex-girlfriend is gonna be teaching magic to the last girl that you—”
“Yep.”
“Won’t that be, like, incredibly awkward?”
“Probably.” I forced a laugh. My insides were churning. Another person I’d cared about had left me and all I could do was laugh. There was nothing I could do about it. I looked at Krissy. “What’s up?”
“Oh, uh, well, Earl called. We had a fencing lesson scheduled, but he’s sore from the fight yesterday, so I was wondering…”
I stood up and stretched. “Let’s go. My sword’s not back to full power yet, but the training steels should be enough to handle the likes of you, newbie.”
“Really?” Krissy looked genuinely shocked, but excited, like a pre-teen that’s discovered, despite all evidence to the contrary, there really is a Santa Claus.
“Absolutely,” I said. “I think it’s time I took a more active role in your training. Come on. Let’s see what you got.”
Krissy hurried out of the office, down to the basement to put on her fencing gear. I waited a moment, then followed. For the first time, I realized that Krissy and the others were my friends. They were more than that, really: they were my family. I should have realized it before now, but I’d been too preoccupied with my own self-pity and anger. This, I realized, better late than never, was the place where I belonged. I’d finally found it.
The End
Author's Note
Well, that's it. Thank you, from the bottom of my heart, for downloading this book. I hope you enjoyed To The Dogs as much as I do. If you did, I sincerely hope you'll take a moment to write a review at the online retailer of your choice. Alternatively, you could tell your friends about the adventures of Dave Carver on your social media pages. Word of mouth is vital for independent authors like me, and I can use all the help I can get.
Okay. That's my spiel done. Seriously, though, folks. Thanks so much.
Don't put down the ebook readers yet, we've got a little bit of bonus content for you, including the first chapter in the next book in the Dave Carver series: Sword for Hire. Enjoy!
Preview: Sword For Hire
Blake Atley hated Halloween. He didn’t used to hate it. Like virtually all children, he’d loved it in grade school. In high school and college he’d appreciated the amount of skin showed by girls’ costumes. It wasn’t like he was some fuddy-duddy from birth who hated fun. But as a New York City Assistant District Attorney, he hated Halloween.
It seemed like it brought out all of the crazies—the crime rate skyrocketed around the end of October—and made more work for Blake and his fellow D.A.s. True, virtually all of them would be released after a night in the drunk tank, but somebody from Blake’s office had to review all of the cases. And this year had been worse than normal. Over the last two months, more than double the average crimes had been reported. Arrests weren’t any higher than normal, but there had been dozens of people reporting assaults. So far, not a single one of those assailants had been found. It was like they were hanging around, knocking unsuspecting runners or dog-walkers or even beat-cops on their asses, and then disappearing into the ether. Some of Blake’s colleagues had taken to calling them the “ghost-thugs.” Had a ring to it.
Not everything about Halloween was bad, though. He was looking forward to seeing his kids in their costumes. That brought a smile to his face. The smile got wider as he remembered the first Halloween party he and Jane had attended when they first started going out. He thought it had been their…fourth date. Fifth, maybe. Certainly single-digits. Jane’s costume had been “sexy black cat,” and it was, to this day, one of Blake’s favorite mental images. Maybe Halloween wasn’t so bad, after all.
Traffic was bad—no worse than normal, but normal was bad—on the way out of the city. By the time he got to his neighborhood in Connecticut, he was exhausted and bleary-eyed. He had to slam on the brakes every thirty feet or so, or so it seemed, to avoid running down some brat in a rubber mask who was too stupid to not run out into the middle of the street, waving a bright orange bag of candy.
Blake knew it was unbecoming for one of New York’s official prosecutors to fantasize about beating parental skills and common sense into the morons who’d brought these little costumed geniuses into the world, but he couldn’t help it. Hey, it was a holiday. He was allowed a few moments to not be a lawyer.
It was well past dark by the time he pulled into his driveway. His father had told him that he and Jane should get the worst house in the nicest neighborhood they could afford, and that was what they’d done. Most of the time Blake wished he hadn’t listened to Dad. The houses surrounding theirs were all exponentially nicer. Bigger and better maintained, too. Perfectly manicured lawns, spotless driveways, and expensive siding. The Atley house wasn’t a pit or anything, but compared to its neighbors, it may as well have been something that Jed Clampett lived in before he found the black gold.
The kitchen lights were on. Jane and the kids should have been out trick-or-treating by now. It was a little after seven: prime candy-gettin’ time.
Blake set the parking brake and got out of the car, lugging his briefcase with him.
“Hey, mister!” Blake turned at the call to see a boy of about ten dressed in rags with gray makeup on his face. A zombie, Blake decided. Zombies were all the rage these days, at least according to Peggy at the office, who had a fifteen-year-old daughter. “What gives?”
Blake waved dully, not sure what was supposed to be given.
“The lights are on, but nobody’s home,” the zombie said. When it was clear that Blake still wasn’t getting it, he raised the faded pillowcase he was carrying. “No candy.”
“Oh.” Blake smiled. “Sorry ‘bout that. My wife must’ve left the lights on. There should be a bowl on the porch.”
“There isn’t.” Without waiting further reply, the zombie ran off down the street, towards a gaggle of waist-high aliens and rubber-masked werewolves.
That was odd. Jane, unlike her husband, loved Halloween. When she wasn’t going to be home to answer the door, she left a bowl of candy bars out for the trick-or-treaters. Most of the time, the lucky first kid to show up would empty the bowl into his own bag, but the empty container should still have been there.
Blake looked at his house, at the lights in the kitchen, and he felt a pit in his gut. For a long moment he stood in the driveway, staring at the house, afraid of what he might find in there. Finally, he shook his head. He was being ridiculous and letting himself get caught up in the spooky atmosphere of a stupid kid’s holiday. Jane had just forgotten to turn the lights off, and whatever punk had taken all of the chocolate had just knocked the bowl off the porch, behind a bush. That was all.
He let himself through the front door after checking for signs of the empty bowl (he didn’t find it), laughing at himself for being a superstitious child. “Hey,” he called into the house that he was sure was empty. “Anybody here?”
A chair scraped across the floor in the kitchen. Blake winced, despite himself. Jane hated when the kids (or Blake) pulled the chairs like that. She said it damaged the tile. Blake had never seen evidence of a scratch, but it avoided an argument if he just did it her way.
“What are you guys doing home?” he asked as he bent to untie his shoes. “Shouldn’t you be begging the neighbors for sugar?”
In socked feet he headed towards the kitchen, feeling really good, in the way that only getting over a moment of real terror will allow. He was just a few seconds away from seeing his wife and kids. Even if it was Halloween, that made it a pretty good day.
When he stepped into the kitchen, his toes sank into a pool of bl
ood.
He jerked his foot back from the sticky liquid, cursing. “Jane, what the hell is going on?” This was some kind of prank, he decided, the “trick” part or “trick-or-treat” and the kids had filled the kitchen with fake blood from that party store on the highway. It was pretty real looking, though.
Bits of broken dishes littered the kitchen table. Shattered glass lay among the thick red liquid on the floor. One of the chairs was on its back. Blake’s heart sped up and he was suddenly aware of an intense pounding in his throat. “This isn’t funny,” he said.
He shot a look around the kitchen, focusing on the sliding-glass door that led to the patio where he’d barbecue steaks in the summer, expecting to see his kids’ little feet poking out from under the long curtains. He listened for the giggling they’d be trying—and failing—to conceal. His eyes landed on something on the counter: a hand. A little hand.
No.
Ignoring the blood on the floor, Blake plowed into the kitchen, towards the hand on the counter. No, no, no. The one word repeated over and over in his mind. No.
He picked up the hand, desperately hoping it was a rubber prop, however real it looked. It felt real, too. This was real skin. Soft skin, like a child’s skin. It was familiar, too. This was a hand he had held many times, only those times it had always been attached to an arm. The hand had been pulled from the wrist: there were jagged bits of skin hanging off, and a broken bone poking out. Only the did he notice the sky blue nail polish. Caity’s favorite color.
“NOOOO!” He howled and fell to his knees. The blood on the floor was still warm, but it was cooling quickly. The blood belonged to his six-year-old daughter.
He wasn’t sure how long he kneeled there, near the kitchen sink, staring at the blood. It hit him like a lightning strike, all of a sudden: Caity wasn’t very big; this much blood couldn’t all be his daughter. Blake climbed to his feet and staggered out of the kitchen, tears dropping from his cheeks to land in the puddle of blood.
