by Luke Arnold
Without giving too much away, could you tell us what we can expect from the next novel?
With the big flashbacks out of the way, the stage is set for things to get much more complicated in book two. After what Fetch witnesses in The Last Smile, things have to change. People in Sunder now believe that Fetch is the guy you go to if you hear a rumor about returning magic. So, whether he wants them or not, magical quests start coming to his door.
We get more twisted versions of classic beasts, a huge new player in the Sunder City business world, a lot of murder, a touch of magic and a visit from an old friend.
Finally, we have to ask, if you had to meet a supernatural creature in a dark alley, which would it be?
This premise sounds terrifying, so I’ll say a unicorn. A classic unicorn, though. Not one of mine.
You’ll see what I mean in book two.
if you enjoyed
THE LAST SMILE IN SUNDER CITY
look out for
THE FETCH PHILLIPS ARCHIVES: BOOK TWO
by
Luke Arnold
The name’s Fetch Phillips—what do you need?
Cover a Gnome with a crossbow while he does a dodgy deal? Sure.
Find out who killed Lance Niles, the big-shot businessman who just arrived in town? I’ll give it a shot.
Help an old-lady Elf track down her husband’s murderer? That’s right up my alley.
What I don’t do, because it’s impossible, is search for a way to bring the goddamn magic back.
Rumors got out about what happened with the Professor, so now people keep asking me to fix the world for them.
But there’s no magic in this story. Just dead friends, twisted miracles, and a secret machine made to deliver a single shot of murder.
1
I wanted to die.
Not an uncommon feeling for me, considering my history, but it was more acute than usual. More direct. I was even fantasizing about the best way it could happen.
I’d settled on being burned alive. Someone would turn on the power to the lantern that I was sitting in and it would send a fireball straight up my ass to cook me inside and out.
Not the most painless way to go, but at least at the end I wouldn’t be so damn cold.
Of course, that was impossible. There hadn’t been fire in the lamp for over six years. It used to be one of the largest lights in Sunder City, part of a set of four that shone over the stadium during night games.
The field had been built above the very first fire pit. During construction, it was an open chasm to the maelstrom below. Once they’d installed the pipes that carried the flames through town, they’d decided that it wasn’t safe to leave a gaping hole to hell right at the entrance to the city. So it was covered over, and nobody was allowed to build on top of the plot of land.
Instead, kids used it as a sporting field. It was unofficial at first, but then the city built stands and bleachers, and it eventually became the Sunder City Stadium.
When the Coda killed all the magic, the flames beneath the city died too. That meant no heating in town, no lights on Main Street, and no chance of fire coming up between my legs. I was huddled in the cone at the top of the pole, my arms wrapped around myself, ducking down out of the wind.
I hadn’t thought about the wind when I’d taken the job. That was stupid because the wind ruined everything. It pushed the cold down my collar and up my sleeves. It shook the lamppost back and forth so I was always waiting for it to bend, snap, and send me crashing to the ground. Most importantly, it made the crossbow in my hands completely useless.
I was supposed to be watching over my client, ready to fire off a warning shot if he gave me a signal that the deal wasn’t going smoothly. But firing into this gale, it would either be pushed straight down into the snow or flung up into orbit.
My employer was a Gnome named Warren. He was down below in his trademark white suit, blending into the snowy ground. The only source of light was the lantern he’d hung off the gatepost.
We’d been waiting for half an hour, him down between the bleachers, me up in my metal ice-cream cone. I’d chewed through half a packet of Clayfields, knowing it was a bad idea. They were painkillers, supposed to make me numb, but the cold had already killed the feeling in my fingers and toes, so numbing was the last thing I needed. I should have brought whiskey. I shouldn’t have come. I should have shot the Gnome with the crossbow the moment he handed it to me, and taken myself back to bed.
Finally, from the other end of the field, a figure crossed the halfway line. She was wrapped up far more sensibly (and expensively) than I was: thick jacket, coat, scarf, hat, boots and gloves. The metal case she carried at her side was about the size of a toaster.
Warren stepped out from the bleachers onto the play area, holding his hat in his hands so it didn’t blow away.
They stepped close to each other and it would have been impossible to hear their conversation over that distance even without the howling wind. I brought up my crossbow and rested it on the lip of the cone, pretending that my presence wasn’t completely meaningless.
Back when there was magic, I would have had access to all kinds of miraculous inventions: Goblin-made hand grenades, bewitched ropes and exploding potions. Now the only thing that could take someone down over distance was a bolt, arrow or a well-thrown rock.
Warren reached into his jacket and pulled out an envelope. I had no idea how many bronze bills were inside. I didn’t know what was in the case either. I knew nothing, which put me on familiar ground.
The woman took the envelope and gave Warren the case, then they both stood opposite each other as they examined the gifts they’d received. She counted her cash while he unlocked the box and peered inside.
They nodded to each other and all seemed to be in order. The woman turned and walked away, so I dragged the weapon back from the edge and curled up into a ball again, breathing into my hands.
Then, Warren was screaming.
When I looked back over, he was waving his hat above his head. That was supposed to be the signal, but the woman was already halfway across the field.
“It’s bullshit!” screamed the Gnome. “Kill her!”
Let’s be clear about two things: One, I never agreed to kill anybody. Two, shooting women in the back isn’t really my bag. But if I didn’t at least look like I was trying to stop her, I’d have to give up my fee and the whole night would be for nothing. I crouched down, aimed the crossbow a few feet behind the fleeing lady and fired.
I tried to shoot a spot in the snow that she’d already passed, as if I’d misjudged her speed. Unfortunately for me (and the fugitive) the wind changed direction while the bolt was in the air, picked it up and sent it right at the runaway woman’s backside.
There was a yelp out in the darkness and a thump as she fell.
Shit.
“Yes! You got her, Fetch! Well done!”
Warren grabbed the lantern and ran off, leaving me in the dark while he cursed her and she cursed him and I cursed myself.
By the time I’d climbed down the ladder and made my way over to Warren, he’d already snatched back the envelope and was putting the boot in. I pulled him back, and he tumbled onto his ass. Since he was only three feet tall, it wasn’t much of a drop.
“Stop it, Warren. You’ve got your money back, don’t you?”
I’d hit her right calf. The bolt wasn’t in too deep, but a good amount of blood was dripping onto the snow. When she tried to turn over, it twisted the muscles around her injury. I put a hand on her shoulder to hold her still.
“Miss, you don’t want to—”
“No!” she spun around, lashing me across the face. A line of pain ripped through my skin. Her claws were out, shining in the lantern light, sticking through the tips of her fine gloves. She was a Werecat. When I reached for my face, I felt blood.
“Damn it, lady. I’m trying to help you.”
“Aren’t you the one that shot me?”
“That wa
s two whole minutes ago. Don’t hold a grudge.”
I crept closer again, and this time, she managed not to swat me. She looked Human, other than the claws and a glowing set of cat’s eyes. No fur or other obvious animal traits. Her hair was long, dark and tied back in thick dreadlocks.
“Hold still for a moment,” I said, pulling out my knife. She did as I asked, allowing me to slice the cuff of her trousers up to the point where the bolt had gone through them. The wind and thick material had slowed down my shot so that it went only an inch into her flesh. I pulled out a clean handkerchief and my pack of Clayfields. “Anyone got any alcohol?”
Warren groaned but reached into his jacket and fished out a silver flask. I took a sip that warmed my insides.
“What is it?”
“Brandy. My wife makes it.”
I splashed it onto the bleeding leg and wiped it dry with the handkerchief. She gritted her teeth but thankfully didn’t attack.
I pulled one Clayfield out the pack and put it between her lips.
“Bite down on the end and suck. Your tongue will go numb but that means it’s working.”
Her eyes were yellow-green and full of loathing.
“I wouldn’t mind getting my ass out of this snow,” she said.
“I hear you. Let me do one thing first.”
I crushed the whole pack of Clayfields in my fist. There were still a dozen twigs inside, so when I pushed the cardboard together and rubbed it, I turned them into a paste. The goo slid out of the packet, onto the wound, and I smooshed it around the bolt, trying not to get it on my fingers.
“Is that helping?”
She nodded.
“Here,” she said, and reached into the packet. When she had some of the painkiller on her fingertip, she wiped the liquid along the claw-marks she’d cut into me. I was so drugged up and cold that I couldn’t really feel it, but I appreciated the gesture.
“You ready to try moving? It’s still gonna sting a bit.”
“Sure.”
I helped her up onto her one good foot, put an arm around her back, and we stumbled over to the bleachers like a couple of injured players after a game. She lay down on her stomach and sucked on the twig for everything it would give while I ran alcohol and fire over my knife. When I’d given it my best shot at disinfecting, I sat on the bench below her and went about carefully removing the bolt. Luckily, I hadn’t hit bone and the wound was clean.
“Warren, what was she selling you anyway?”
The Gnome was sitting away from us, sulking, but he was willing to open up the case. Inside, there was something that looked like a crystal flower. Not pretty, though. Jagged and twisted, with edges too sharp to touch. It was sitting in the metal box on a velvet cushion and I had no idea what it was.
“Some kind of jewel?” I asked.
“Not even,” said Warren. “Just glass. Well made, but nothing special.”
“Then why did you want it?”
“I did not want it! I wanted the real thing.”
I watched blood run out of her leg, pool on the bleachers, mix with the water and fall down into the darkness.
“The real what?” I asked.
Warren slammed the box shut in frustration.
“Unicorn horn.”
I stopped working. The Gnome and the Cat sent their eyes to the floor, rightfully embarrassed.
The story goes that there was once a tree whose roots reached so deep into the planet that they touched the great river itself. One spring, the branches bore a crop of rare apples infused with sacred power. When a herd of wild horses passed beneath the tree, they fed upon that fruit.
We don’t know whether the change was instantaneous or if it happened over time, but the animals became connected to the river. Soon, people from all across the continent told stories of a herd of horses with spirals of blue mist spinning from their foreheads. Apparently, each of these misty horns was an actual piece of the river connected to their minds.
That theory was proved to be correct because when the great river froze up, the tragedy was mirrored in the faces of the animals. The horns, once translucent, solidified into sharp stone. Over time, the infection grew back into their brains like pieces of coral. The shards dug deeper into their heads, twisting their faces, their senses and their sanity. Each day, the beasts become more unpredictable and more dangerous. Now a Unicorn in the wild is not only a terrible omen but also a deadly predator.
Even though they’d gone from divine to dangerous, Unicorns were still protected. The idea that someone would hunt one down to take the horn from its head was barbaric. I looked down at the Cat-lady, who had closed her eyes.
“You’ve come to Sunder to sell shit like this?” I asked. She didn’t say anything, so I poked my finger into her leg.
“Ecchh!” She pushed herself up on her hands and hissed at me. Her claws reappeared back out the ends of her gloves, but it was only a threat. For now.
“Where are you getting Unicorn horn?” I asked. “And lie back down, or I won’t be able to get this bolt out.”
She dropped back down and rested her head on her hands.
“I’m not getting it from anywhere,” she said. “It’s just like the Gnome told you. I made it with glass. It’s a fake.”
At least she hadn’t actually been out in the wilderness slaughtering legendary beasts for a bit of bronze. But that was only part of the problem.
“Warren. What do you want with Unicorn horn?”
The little fellow was hunched over, rubbing his hands together, grumbling away in his native tongue.
“Warren?”
He didn’t look up, but he spat out an answer.
“I am dying,” he said. The wind went quiet.
“We’re all dying, Warren.”
“But I am dying soon, and it is not going to feel so good.” He lifted up his hands in front of his face, opening and closing them like he was squeezing two invisible stress balls. “I can feel my bones. My joints. They are… rusting. Cracking into pieces. Doctor says there is nothing to be done. We little folk had magic in our bodies. Without it, something inside does not know how to work.” He put a hand on the case that held the false horn. “I found a new doctor. A Warlock who told me that there is magic in certain things. He said that a horn is a piece of pure magic and if I bring him one, perhaps he can put some of that power back into me.”
I bit my tongue to stop myself from saying the first thing that came into my head—that he was a gullible fool who was only making things worse for himself. If he was sick, then the last thing he needed was to be out in the cold on a night like tonight, looking for a piece of the impossible.
I couldn’t keep my mouth shut for long.
“Warren. You know that’s ridiculous, right?”
He didn’t say anything. Neither did the woman. So, I went back to taking out the bolt and tying up the wound so the woman could at least put some weight on it when we walked back to town. The Werecat and the Gnome didn’t say anything else, and I finally learned to do the same.
We were back in the guts of Sunder City around midnight. Warren paid me what I was owed, and sulked home. Then it was just me and the Cat.
“How’s the leg?” I asked.
“Terrible.” She groaned for extra effect. “Lucky for you.”
“Why lucky?”
“Because I have a swelling desire to kick you in the teeth.”
She said it casually, but I believed her.
“Well, I wouldn’t try it. In your state, you’ll do more damage to yourself.”
“As I said: lucky.”
When we hit Main Street, she told me she’d be all right on her own. I suppose she just didn’t want me knowing where she lived. I was fine with that. I was freezing and fresh out of painkillers, so I wanted to be fast asleep before the medicine wore off.
“Make sure you get a real doctor to look at that,” I said.
“No shit. I can probably catch an infection just by looking at you.”
/> She meant it as a joke, but she wasn’t too wrong. My building hadn’t had hot water since the fires went out. In winter, it takes a stronger man than me to wash every day.
“But thanks,” she said. “If I had to be shot my someone tonight, at least it was a guy who was willing to patch me up afterwards. What’s your name?”
“Fetch Phillips. Man for Hire.”
She shook my hand and I felt the tips of those claws rest against my skin.
“Linda Rosemary.”
The night had worked out about as well as it could have. She’d tried to put one over on us, we’d caught her out, she’d gotten an injury in exchange for our wasted time and we all got to go home to bed. It was fair, somehow. Fairer than we’d come to expect.
She walked up Main Street, one hand resting against the wall, and I thought she’d given me just the right amount of trouble as long as I never had to deal with her again.
But Sunder City makes a few things without fail: hunger in winter, drunks at night and trouble all year round.
2
The piss in my chamber pot was frozen.
I hadn’t really been sleeping, just scrunched up, wearing every item of clothing I owned, pretending I was dead until the sun came up. But even the sun was cold and gray. There was more color in my frozen piss than in that gray, far-away sun.
I slipped out of bed and forced my double-socked feet into my boots. When I first moved into my office/apartment/icebox, I’d liked the idea of being on the fifth floor. The view was high enough to make me feel like I was looking over the whole city, and the fall out the Angel door would be hard enough to kill me if I dived out of there head first. It’s just one of those little touches that makes a house a home.
Sunder was a sprawling city, though not particularly tall. That meant that my building made an impressive lookout, but it also caught the full force of the wind. The breeze came in through cracks around the windows and the gaps between the bricks. It even forced its way into the room below and came back up through the floorboards. I was going to patch the place up when I had the time. Just like I was going to get a haircut and stop drinking and sew up the holes in my trousers before they completely fell apart.
