God bless my little Midwestern transplant!
I reached for the scraper, but the New Dead had a different plan. It forced a second hand through the open window and yanked my head back against the glass. I couldn’t fight it off and get the Magick going at the same time.
“Press it—” I grunted fighting against the seared fingers. “—against the dash!”
Cathy stared at me dumbfounded. “Huh?”
“Just do it.”
My daughter pressed the steely edge of the old scraper against the dashboard and that’s when I felt it—Catherine Law had Magick in her blood, and it was right about to blow.
“Think of the winter in Wichita!”
“Dad!”
“Just do it, Cathy!” I shouted, losing my battle with the New Dead’s burnt fingers.
“Okay…”
“Now tell it to get cold—in Spanish.”
“Dad, I don’t—”
“Español, Catalina. Ahora!”
“Hace Frio!” my daughter shouted, squeezing her eyes shut and pushing the scraper hard enough into the dash to leave a mark.
A Midwest winter roared into the engine compartment and all the way to the radiator. Ice crystals raced across the dash and up the window edge. The full tilt red line on our temperature gauge dropped halfway—good enough for me.
Shatter!
The driver-side window exploded under the strain as New Dead’s hands clawed at my face. The overwhelming stench of death and decay filled the car.
Cathy screamed again, and Kris—no doubt pushed over the top by the breaking window—chose that moment to burst into tears.
I turned the key and the Dad Wagon roared back to life. The light had turned yellow, but I didn’t care. We shot through it like a jackrabbit: me, my screaming kids, and the frost-covered Mazda.
I stole a glance at the rear-view mirror and found the New Dead staring at me, unwavering, its tar-black eyes and charred flesh full of pure, unadulterated hatred.
Maybe Porter’s right—maybe the dead really do hate me.
9
Stay Frosty
We hadn’t gone two blocks before Cathy started dry heaving in the front seat—thankfully my daughter wasn’t much for breakfast. Kris was still whimpering, but he’d largely cried himself out at this point.
I slowed the Dad Wagon and pulled us off the highway. “It’s okay. You did great, honey.”
“I… can’t…”
I patted her on the back; she might have been a know-it-all teenager that was more than capable of grappling with the big dogs, but Wild Magick and the first sight of New Dead would get anyone—especially the tough ones.
“Just slow down and take a deep breath. You can do it, count to five. One…”
“Two!” Kris shouted from the backseat.
My daughter ignored us both and continued to gulp down air like it was going out of style.
I pulled off into a gas station parking lot and threw the car into park. We got a few confused looks from the commuter crowd when they caught sight of the Mazda’s frosted hood, but it was Florida, so they just shrugged and kept on going—there’s a reason most Magicians end up down here.
“Dad…”
“Just breathe, honey. I’ll explain everything,” I said, keeping a sharp eye on the radiator needle. “One… two… that’s it.”
Cathy shuddered a few times, and would certainly have booted all over the front seat if she’d eaten anything for breakfast, but after a few minutes she achieved a solid, unbroken breath.
“Good. There you go.”
I pushed opened my door and brushed the glass off my pants.
“Dad… I’m shaking.”
“That’s the shock. Stay here,” I left the Dad Wagon running and ran in to the convenience store, returning with the highest-sugar-content soda I could find.
Cathy’s fingers were a mess, so I opened the bottle for her. “Drink this.”
“Dad, I—”
“Drink, Catherine—now.”
Cathy chugged the soda, and I pushed the frosty Dad Wagon back out onto the road.
“It’s just the drop off from Wild Magick, you’ll be fine—happens to all of us in the beginning. The Magick felt good didn’t it?”
What are you doing? Don’t say that.
My daughter nodded, drinking more from the can.
I checked on the wee one in the rear-view mirror—his eyes were a little on the red side, but he seemed to be handling everything just fine.
“Listen, sweetheart, there’s a lot of stuff you don’t know about, and I don’t have time to explain it all to you now.”
“Wild Magick?”
“Right, unfocused channeling of cosmic power. Especially impressive given the effects of your necklace.”
Cathy fingered her necklace.
“Is… it going to come after me?”
“No.”
“How can you be so sure?”
Good question.
“I just know, okay?”
Lousy answer.
“But—”
“Drink the soda, and help me get Kris to school, then I’ll explain what I can before I drop you off.”
“You expect me to go to school after this?!”
“Yes, I said you’ll be fine—just do what I tell you.”
My daughter nodded and wiped her nose; the kid was tough—maybe she did have more than a little Porter in her after all.
We took the next turn and wedged the melting Mazda into the kindergarten drop-off line. “You have a chemistry test today—which is no end of ironic given what you are drinking—so, just go about your day like nothing happened.”
“Nothing happened?!” Cathy shouted, pointing at the frost-covered dash. “You call that nothing? I want to know what that was. Dad, it… it looked…”
“Dead.”
“Yeah!”
I inched forward waiting for the Millers to let off their volleyball-team worth of children—it was like watching a cavalcade of Shriners exit the car bedecked in pink bows and blond braids.
“That’s what it was, Cathy.”
“Good Morning!” Mrs. Clarke shouted, pulling open the back door—the shock of it nearly cost my daughter another of her nine lives.
“Good Morning, Mrs. Clarke!” Kris said, somehow finding a way to accentuate the typically silent ‘e’ and bring a smile to his teacher’s face.
Tabitha Clarke and Porter had been friends for years, going all the way back to when Tabby had been a compounding chemist. She’d lost her husband a few years back to cancer, and for a while she’d all but dropped off the face of the earth, but now, that ex-scientist was teaching kindergarten and, according to Porter, loving every minute of it.
Science and Magick have a funny relationship, one even I don’t completely understand. But I do know one thing: Tabby, like most scientists, is a human wet-blanket when it comes Magick.
Just standing near the woman could defuse about all but my best efforts, including the one currently keeping my radiator from overheating.
“Off you go,” I said, my eyes drifting to the temperature gauge.
Kris popped up from his car seat and out the door, his troubles all but forgotten.
Oh, to be five.
We pulled back out into traffic and the temperature gauge fluttered upward—as did my daughter’s nerves. “Is it going to come after me?”
“Nope.”
“How do you know?”
I pointed at the Logic Loop dangling from her neck. “You’ve got some premium Dad brand going there. It’ll keep you safe—provided you keep it on.”
Cathy fingered the necklace. “What do you mean?”
I took the next few turns and narrowly avoided a pothole, before rolling to a stop in front of her high school. “I’m going to make this really brief for now. What you saw was Magick. Not the Vegas-style street magicians, but the real deal—the bending of reality to my, well your, will.”
“That’s…”
“Crazy?” I said, dropping the Dad Wagon into park.
“Yes!”
“Guess what, you’re about to be neck deep in it, because it would appear you have the same genes as your old man.”
Cathy’s eyes widened and she ran her fingers over the defrosting dash. “I… really?”
“Cathy,” I said, looking my once-defiant teenager in the eyes. “You’ve got a lot of questions, and I promise I will answer them, but for right now I need you to do three things for me.”
Cathy stared at me, her eyes wavering between determination and abject terror. “What?”
“One. Don’t tell anyone.”
“They wouldn’t believe me if I did.”
True.
“Two. Do not, under any circumstances, ever take that necklace off.”
Cathy placed a hand on Lenar’s Logic Loop and squeezed it until her knuckles turned white.
“And three, go crush your chemistry test.”
“But Dad, I—”
“Tonight. I’ll explain everything tonight.”
“You promise?”
This is going to be worse than the birds and the bees—which I’m still damn glad I had Porter do.
“Yeah, I promise.”
Cathy wiped her eyes and climbed out of the Dad Wagon. In mere seconds a tall, spindly boy broke ranks from the rest of the herding young adults and caught up to my daughter.
What did Porter say his name was? Triscuit?
“Hey, Cat. You okay?”
Cat? Who calls her Cat?
“Hey, Tris,” Cathy said, throwing her backpack over her shoulder.
Tris… Tristan! That’s right, boyfriend of the month.
Bean-pole Tristan leaned down to peek through the open car door. “Hi, Mr. Law.”
“Howdy, Triscuit.”
“Dad!”
“You forgot your chem lab bag, Cathy,” I said, pulling a drawstring back out of the second seat. I handed the bag to Tristan, but not before a pair of heavy rubber gloves fell out.
“I got it,” he said, dusting them off and shoving them back in the bag.
My slightly embarrassed daughter took the bag from Tristan, and together they joined the herd of students headed to first period.
I pulled the Dad Wagon back onto the road, but kept an eye on her from the rear-view mirror. I didn’t know if she was ready for this—or, more importantly—if I was.
Part II
New Pains and Old Mistakes
10
Qwik Fix
I coasted into The Qwik Fix with the needle precariously wavering just under the red line. The Dad Wagon sputtered, but had somehow found the will to surge the remaining hundred feet up and into the lot as the engine heat and Florida sun dripped away the last of my car-saving Midwestern winter.
The Qwik Fix was a squat little building with six car bays and a small front office. Tall stacks of tires huddled around the entrance like giant-sized poker chips pressed together for a big wager. They partially blocked the entrance to the small office, but it wasn’t the office that demanded my attention, it was the parking lot.
Rob ran a tight ship, but he and his guys could fix damn near anything, so damn near everything ended up at The Qwik Fix. The lot was a labyrinth of vehicular history, from roadsters to minivans, with more than a few motorcycles stuffed like bookmarks between the folds of painted steel.
I squeezed the Dad Wagon between a sixties-era Volkswagen, and a brand-new Caddy—it just felt right—and stepped out into the full brunt of the heat and humidity to look for Rob.
I hadn’t even gotten the trunk open before the cotton folds of my shirt began to soak up sweat like a paper towel.
“Morning, Gene—whoa, is that glass?”
Rob Kelly, master mechanic, ex demon lover, and all-around great guy, was a short and remarkably fit young man. He kept his ginger-red hair cut tight to his scalp, which had the effect of making him look like a member of the Leprechaun Marines—however, having dealt with a real Leprechaun during my one summer abroad, I was damn glad Rob wasn’t one.
“Yeah, long story,” I said, pulling my bag out of the trunk and setting it next to the car.
“What’s the problem?”
There might have been a few people ahead of me, but Rob always made room—save someone from a lifeforce-draining Succubus and I’m sure they’d make room for you too.
“Overheating.”
Rob shook his head and climbed in to pull the hood release. “Whoa, Gene, your AC going out too? Looks like it frosted up in here.”
“Oh—”
“I’ll check it, too, but first let me get a look at the engine—oh man!”
“What?”
“I should be asking you that. What the hell? Did you have like a badger in here or something?”
I joined Rob at the front of the car, and together we stared in awe at the shredded innards of the once-proud Dad Wagon’s engine compartment. A potpourri of fluids had already begun to pool under the car—the kaleidoscope of colors sure to be as toxic, and as expensive, as it was beautiful.
“It’s like every line has been sliced—every single one,” Rob said, then got down to eye level with the radiator hose. “Gene, it’s a miracle you even made it here.”
You don’t know the half of it.
“Yeah, sure looks like it.”
Rob pulled back some shredded plastic insulation. “Looks like you’re gonna need a new battery too. There’s some serious terminal corrosion.”
“Ah, yeah—serious corrosion,” I said, without a clue as to what he was pointing at.
I had no doubt Rob knew that I possessed zero car knowledge beyond where the gas goes, but he was the sort of polite mechanic that played along.
Rob dropped the hood back down and guided me away from the Dad Wagon’s bleeding corpse.
“Listen, is this like one of those”—the mechanic looked around the tire stacks to make sure none of his guys were close by—“you know, those demon-sucker sort of things?”
Demon sucker… oh, the life-draining Demon sex-kitten.
“No, I honestly don’t have a clue what happened to the Dad Wagon, but it wasn’t a Succubus. Remember I got her a job at the Hospice? She really was a pretty good one—as infernal Hellspawn go.”
The color returned to Rob’s face. “Thank the Lord. I’ve been dating this new girl now, and she’s amazing—I was so worried you were here to tell me she was a dragon or something.”
Only one dragon I know of, and he should still be sleeping in the Everglades. Pretty sure you’re safe.
“Nope, I’m sure she’s wonderful… and completely normal.”
At least I hope so. This part of Florida is getting too weird, even by Sunshine State standards.
“Thanks, Gene. I’ll get the Dad Wagon working. No charge as usual,” Rob said, guiding me back around to my bag and the pooling remains of the Mazda’s vital fluids.
“No, you’ve got to let me pay—”
The best mechanic in Florida shook his head. “Nope, like I said, free car repairs for life.”
“Rob…”
The young man ran his hand through his hair. “Well there’s one thing… but no, look it’s nothing. No charge.”
I really didn’t want to push the issue: I’d been attacked by New Dead twice, Cathy was getting her Magick on, and the Dad Wagon was a murder victim. But Rob Kelly was a good soul, and you took care of good souls.
“What is it?” I asked, holding out the keys to the Mazda.
The mechanic accepted them and leaned in closer. “It’s Justine, the girl I’m dating. Her mom passed a few days ago.”
“I’m sorry.”
Don’t ask, please don’t ask.
“Yeah, and they weren’t really talking. She’s all torn up about it and I thought. I was just wondering…”
“You want me to play operator and complete a call to the afterlife?”
Rob nodded. “But, listen, it’s a big ask. I know you don’t t
alk about what you do and all, but she’s just a wreck, and I can’t stand seeing her like this. She just wants to apologize.”
“Ah…”
I didn’t want to do it. There’s a reason why Death Magick had earned the reputation it had—Necromancy was serious Deep Magick. Don’t get me wrong, I’d put down New Dead and wrangled a couple of Poltergeists, but mediumship took skill—real talent—and it always drew attention. All of that was exactly the sort of thing I didn’t want to get known for, but this was Rob, and he didn’t ask for anything. Ever.
The ginger-haired mechanic looked away. “Yeah, I thought so. Listen, I haven’t told her anything—it’s fine.”
“I’ll do it.”
“Wait—what? You will?”
I nodded, then picked up my bag and slung it over shoulder—surprised at just how heavy it felt.
I’ve got to get back in shape. One class with Cathy and I can’t even lift my bag without grunting.
“So, can I get that ride to the office?”
11
69 Mallory Lane
I spent the car ride with one of Rob’s guys thinking about Cathy. A small part of me was happy to have another Magician in the family, especially given recent frustrations with my current apprentice, but a much larger and more rational part understood just how dangerous a daughter exposed to the unadulterated darkness of the supernatural world was.
“Take the next right,” I said, guiding my driver toward the office. He seemed to know this part of town pretty well, and as such knew to stay off the main streets and away from the rest of the commuters, but he still missed the turn.
“No problem, I’ll get the next one.”
It was a problem, a rather serious one. I just didn’t know how to tell him.
The car turned and hadn’t gone more than a hundred feet down that alternate street before it hit me like a wave of dread. Each second we drew closer to it I found the air in my lungs harder to hold on to. My driver whistled along with the radio, completely oblivious to the malevolence he was barreling toward.
It was a simple white house with covered windows and a yard full of overgrown weeds. Paint peeled away from the siding and fell in long strips along its wide front porch. A single faded rocking chair faced out to the street, surrounded by rolls of newspaper stacked like cord-wood, while a bent mailbox stood at the road’s edge, leaning toward the pavement as if it wanted to make a break for it, but couldn’t get up the courage.
Dead Set Page 5
