Silver Clouds Dirty Sky A Montague and Strong Detective Novel (Montague & Strong Case Files Book 4)

by Orlando A. Sanchez

 

  “Who’d you call?” I winced, as Peaches’ voice crashed through my skull while he inhaled the sausages and entered the pub. He settled on the last one and started chomping loudly. “SuNaTran?”

  “Of course. Cecil has offices everywhere.”

  “Can we get another Goat?”

  “They were fresh out, unless you meant an actual—?”

  “The car, not the quadruped.” I looked at Peaches. “We have enough animals—thank you.”

  “I’m sure Cecil will send us something appropriate,” Monty said, tugging on his cuffs. “I told him we needed room, speed, and durability.”

  “An M1 Abrams would be perfect,” I said, as I walked into the pub. I had no idea how to shrink a ginormous hellhound. “This is going to be fun.”

  EIGHTEEN

  “ARE YOU SURE there isn’t a spell or incantation to reverse this?” I asked the scowling Monty. “You know, something Latin: doggosmalliticus or reversocaninusgiganticus?”

  “First,” —Monty held up a finger—“that’s not even remotely Latin, and second,” he said, holding up another finger, “there are no hellhound reversal incantations.”

  “That you know of,” I said, frustrated. “I’m sure this Dahvina person probably knows one or two. Maybe we can get a C-5? He would fit in that.”

  Monty just kept scowling. “SuNaTran will deliver the vehicle soon, and I don’t want to be here when the sun rises,” he said, sipping a cup of tea. “There are no incantations for this—you need to use your bond.”

  “Where did you get tea?”

  “This is a waystation neutral zone,” he explained as if that meant something to me. He continued when he saw my expression. “It means it’s self-maintained. It’s too small to have a staff. The spells keep it clean and stocked. If you want something, you only have to request it—with the appropriate symbol. Would you like a coffee?”

  “Yes, please,” I said, checking to make sure I had my flask of Valhalla Java. I felt it in the inside pocket of my jacket. “That would be perfect.”

  “You know what else would be perfect?” he asked, walking to the back room. “A normal-sized hellhound. Focus.”

  “That was just cruel.” I stepped close to the sprawled-out Peaches, who took up most of the floor. “Never, ever, tease with coffee. Lives could be at stake here, you know—starting with mine.”

 

  “You know his name?” I asked after the mental megaphone stopped ringing in my head. “Why don’t you ever use it? Actually, why do you sound so different now?”

 

  “You sound like a mage,” I said. “I need to get you back to normal size, so let’s do this.”

  I placed a hand on his head and closed my eyes. I focused my breath, and felt for the physical sensation of the bond I felt before. It was like trying to grab smoke. I felt it on the edge of my awareness, but every time I tried to grasp it, it would evaporate.

 

  “No thanks, boy,” I answered quickly, raising my hand. “No mastication required. I just need to focus.”

  I closed my eyes again and felt for the bond. It was there, a tenuous flow, entangled with two other strands of power linking us. I sat on the floor and slowed my breathing. I let my senses expand, but I didn’t reach for the bond. It slowly solidified around my thoughts.

  I placed a hand on Peaches’ head again, and mentally reached for the bond. A surge of power rushed through my arm and forced my eyes open. I grunted in pain and saw Monty enter the room with a look of concern on his face. He began to gesture, but I shook my head, and he stopped.

  The power coursing through my arm increased, and it felt like the muscles were tearing themselves apart. I wanted to let go, but found myself unable to remove my hand. I clenched my jaw and started reaching for my mark.

  If I could pause the pain for a few seconds, maybe I could figure out another way to do this. Peaches started growling and shifted quickly into a whine.

 

  I know, boy, but we have to try this. Don’t fight the bond.

  Red energy flowed around us, and his runes erupted with light. In the space of a few seconds, I sensed him getting smaller.

  It’s working. Just a little longer now.

  I had no idea how long it would take. I just hoped the pain would end before I drew Ebonsoul and removed my own arm. Another surge blasted through my arm, and I felt that familiar weightless sensation of being launched across the floor and into a far wall. I landed some distance away from the newly shrunken Peaches.

  “Let’s not do that again,” I muttered, as I rolled into a sitting position.

  All sensation in my left arm was gone from the shoulder down. I slowly looked down with trepidation, breathing a sigh of relief to find it was still intact and attached. I touched it gingerly and winced. It felt slightly barbecued, but my body was dealing with the damage as warmth flooded the area.

  I tore off my coat and yanked up my shirt. Angry red skin greeted me when I examined my arm. I had just gotten a one-arm tan with a setting of “surface of the sun.”

  “That looks painful,” Monty said, as he looked at my barbecued arm. “I’ll be right with you.”

  Monty walked over and placed his hands on Peaches. Golden light cascaded onto his body and enveloped him. He then stepped close to me, placed a hand on my arm, and let the same golden light suffuse the area.

  “That should help with the injuries,” Monty said, standing and dusting off his pants. “I don’t think that’s a transformation you want to encourage.”

  “Agreed.” I rolled down my sleeve and rested my head against the wall as I caught my breath. “At least he’s back to normal.”

  “For a hellhound, yes.” Monty sipped more of his tea.

  “I was going to personally disintegrate your pal, Thomas, but I think I’ll let Peaches have him.”

  “We need to find Thomas first.” Monty looked over at Peaches, who was slowly standing. “Do you think your creature can still ‘hear’ you?”

  “Only one way to find out,” I said, and focused to make the floor stop swaying. “Let me try something he enjoys.”

  Hey, boy. How about we go get some more black pudding?

  Peaches stood and stretched out, sticking out his tongue.

 

  He shook his body, padded over, and began licking my face.

  What’re you doing? Don’t lick me. No. no!

 

  “Stop the tongue assault!” I demanded, pushing him away. “Ugh, yes, he can still hear me, and isn’t trying to Metatron my brain. Doesn’t mean he’s listening, though.”

  “Good, now when you speak to him you’ll only sound slightly deranged,” Monty said, and headed to the entrance. “I believe our transportation is here.”

  I stood slowly, bracing myself against the wall as a black Lamborghini Urus backed up in front of the pub. As far as vehicles went, it was a work of automotive art. If you enjoyed pretty. It wasn’t a Goat, but it would do.

  I opened the back door and Peaches bounded inside, rocking the SUV. The driver turned quickly at the motion, and I held a hand up to calm him.

  “Just my dog,” I said and got in on the left-hand side next to him. The steering wheel was on the wrong side, of course, which meant I would be subjected to Monty’s ‘bat out of hell’ driving. This was going to be as pleasant as riding a rollercoaster without a destination.

  Monty walked over to the driver’s side and nodded as the driver stepped out and handed him a card.

  “Here you are, sir.” The driver tipped his cap. “Cecil sends his regards.”
<
br />   “Thank you, Lewis.” Monty got in as the driver walked away and stepped into one of SuNaTran’s signature Phantoms. It pulled away as Monty read the card and handed it to me. It read:

  T,

  Enjoy your stay in London.

  P.S. Kindly treat this one better than the Pontiac. If Simon is with you, gently remind him that the pieces of the Aventador are still hanging in the shop.

  Cecil.

  “Is he blaming me for that?” I asked, offended. “I didn’t destroy the Goat or the Aventador. One was your Ghost Magistrate and the other was a troll.”

  “I warned you not to go on that date.” Monty felt around the dash for the scanner. “Surprised he didn’t send us a tank.”

  Monty pressed his palm on the panel and runes flashed across the dashboard. The engine roared to life. It was a throaty European sound, but it lacked the menace of American muscle. I missed the Goat.

  “Strap in,” he said. “We need to put some distance between us and this place.”

  “I’m not going to miss Cool Cats & Blokes,” I said, reaching for the seatbelt, looking back over the sprawled, snoring Peaches and out of the rear window. “At least you left it mostly standing.”

  He gave me a stare and shifted the vehicle into drive. “That damage was the demon.”

  “Which Peaches erased with his omega beams,” I added, looking back again at the sleeping beast. “You know they’ll blame a mage for this. I’ll give you three guesses who.”

  “Doesn’t matter.” Monty swerved around some early morning traffic. “Thomas wasn’t lying when he said the destruction of the Tate will be used as a motive to target the other factions.”

  A few near misses and I started imagining us wrapped around a pole. “Why can’t the steering wheel be on the proper side?” I asked and held my breath as he made a sharp turn into what seemed to be oncoming traffic. “I’m never going to drive here. Bunch of maniacs.”

  “Right side is the proper side.” Monty cut down a narrow side street barely wide enough for the SUV. “Ford was the one who changed American cars to the left side, consigning all of you to inferior driving abilities.”

  “Still wish we had the Goat.”

  “Not practical for these streets unless you enjoy getting stuck,” he said and turned onto the Waterloo Bridge.

  “Where to now?”

  He handed me the key Hades had given him. It was an ornate skeleton design about four inches in length. It was too large to fit any normal door. When I turned it, I could see the subtle runework along the shaft even though it was indecipherable to me.

  “We need to go find a Wordweaver.”

  “Is there a Cloisters here, or this being England, a Wordweaver Castle?” I asked.

  He glanced at me quickly. “Hades was being serious,” he said. “These Wordweavers are very proper and stand on protocol. They frown on what they perceive to be rudeness.”

  “This Dahvina is a noble, right? Maybe the Wordweaver Estate?” I asked, channeling my inner Julia Child. “I need to practice my lifted pinky for teatime.”

  “That—that right there will get us killed,” he said. “Do not try an English accent. Actually, just don’t speak.”

  “No promises,” I said in my best Bond. “I’ll take my coffee stirred not shaken. Is there a Bond museum we could swing by?”

  “We’re going to die,” he muttered under his breath as he turned into traffic and nearly side-swiped another car. “Hold on.”

  He floored the gas and gave me whiplash.

  NINETEEN

  “YOU REALIZE WE aren’t being chased?” I asked, as we sped through the streets. I turned around. “Are we being chased?”

  “No, and I intend to keep it that way.” He swerved around a corner.

  “Did Cecil send you this to test the limits of the vehicle, or are you calling this thing you’re doing driving?” I asked, white knuckling the handle of the door and trying to tighten my seatbelt.

  “We’re almost there.”

  “I thought the Wordweavers here would be in some swanky castle,” I said, as he drove into London. “This looks like you’re heading into the city, not out of it.”

  He crossed Waterloo and turned left on to the Strand. Being immortal did nothing to diminish my fear of being mangled by a truck due to Monty’s driving. It only meant I would be alive to experience the bone-crushing, limb-shredding impact of smashing into one of the large vehicles that blasted by us.

  “The Wordweavers here prefer to stay close to the word,” Monty said, making a right onto St. Martin’s Lane. “Unlike Aria and the Weavers in the States, these aren’t cloistered away. They own a group of theaters near Covent Garden.”

  “Is Aria like the American Dahvina?”

  Monty shook his head. “No, there is only one Dahvina at any given time.” He stopped the vehicle and ended our drive of death. “They aren’t mages so I’m not privy to the details. I do know that the Dahvina is usually the most powerful of all the Wordweavers.”

  “In London?”

  “In the world.”

  He got out, and I saw why he had stopped. The streets were too narrow for any kind of vehicular travel. I opened the back door and poked Peaches.

  “Let’s go, Mr. McSprawl.”

 

  “You just ate three sausages large enough to feed a small village,” I said, amazed. “How can you even think about food?”

  Monty stared at me, as did some of the people who walked by. My Vulcan mind-meld with Peaches was still new to me.

 

  I promise to get you some food after we’re done here.

  We made a left on the even narrower St. Martin’s Court to avoid the foot traffic and stares. We made a right on Charing Cross Road and another on Great Newport. At the end of the triangular block sat a large memorial to Agatha Christie.

  “Here,” Monty said, and approached the memorial.

  I looked around. The memorial was a bronze cast of a large book with a bust of Agatha Christie in the center. At the base were the titles of some of her books and plays. They were in English and translated into a few different languages.

  “I didn’t know you were such a huge fan of mysteries,” I said, still looking at the memorial. “Let me guess, Miss Marple?”

  “As much as I appreciate Dame Agatha,” he said, narrowing his eyes at the memorial, “I’ve never read a Miss Marple.”

  “You know, if you grow out a mustache, you could pull off an excellent Poirot.”

  He ignored me and crouched down to the base of the memorial. He rubbed a finger under the translations, and a string of runes appeared.

  He stood and quickly turned Agatha’s bust clockwise and then back to center. I saw a bright flash across the street.

  “The entrance.” He crossed the street and headed to a stairway leading down.

  “Seriously?” I asked, looking at the memorial. “That’s what I call a doorbell.”

  “Let’s go. We only have a minute or so before the door closes again.”

  I followed him downstairs. At the foot of the stairs, two large, black ironwood doors covered in runes remained closed. Monty placed a hand on one, and the locks clicked open. He pushed, and it silently opened into a large corridor.

  It seemed to be the basement of a theatre and smelled damp and musty. Monty stopped walking, and I pulled up next to him. Gargoyles, or what seemed to be gargoyles, adorned some of the corners looking down at us from the corners with silent screams and expressions of anger.

  “We wait here,” he said, quietly.

  I looked around the basement. “I get this is England, with a rich history, but even a Goth would say this is too goth,” I said in a hushed tone because it felt like the gargoyles were watching me. “You think they have a picture of Shelley hanging around here somewhere?”

  “No, but we do own her first draft of The Modern Prometheus,” a voice said behind
me, and nearly caused me to grab Grim Whisper and shoot blindly. “Welcome, Mage Montague, Mr. Strong, and companion. Please follow me.”

  The Wordweaver wore the usual flowing white robe covered in silver runic brocade. Her long black hair flowed behind her as she led us through the corridors.

  “I almost shot her,” I muttered to Monty, as we followed. “What is with magic-users and the ninja tactics?”

  Monty shook his head and remained silent.

  “I can assure you, Mr. Strong,” she said, as we walked, “I was in no danger from you or your weapon. Thank you for your concern.”

  “You’re welcome?” I answered, as Monty rolled his eyes at me.

  We traveled through more winding corridors until I saw a large wooden staircase leading up. It was one of those staircases that put the ‘grand’ in grand staircase. Several steps led to a small platform, that led to another series of steps. Huge railings capped by more gargoyles with arms extended waited for us to ascend. The Wordweaver stopped and motioned for us to climb the stairs.

  “She is waiting for you.”

  “Word travels fast around here,” I said with a grunt of pain as Monty elbowed me in the ribs. “I mean, thank you.”

  “Shut it,” he hissed, as we climbed the stairs. “I would like to leave here of my own volition. Not be carried out in a jar.”

  I didn’t answer because it was one of the few times I noticed Monty was nervous. It meant this Dahvina was a serious heavy hitter and could dust us with a word—or he was just being overly polite and my ‘rudeness’ was giving him a fit. I was leaning towards the latter.

  “I promise to be on my best behavior,” I said, using my happy Julia Child’s voice. The one when she’s about to pull the dish out of the oven and she’s overjoyed at the results. “Minding my p’s and q’s.”

  “I swear, Simon, if you embarrass me—”

  “Embarrass you?” I gave him a shocked look and held a hand to my chest. “Heaven forfend.”

  “If you embarrass me more than usual, I will charbroil you…slowly.”