“Anyway, what I was trying to say is that I think my fae magic messes with mundane technology sometimes. The lower the tech, the less likely it is to get gummed up. My cell phones are always dying, and I tend to have trouble with cars or computers that I use for any length of time too, though the older they are the fewer problems they have. I’ve shot a gun a few times before. Sometimes it worked, sometimes it didn’t.”
“Huh,” the big man said, having finally paused his rummaging to stare thoughtfully at Sebastian. It was a less unnerving expression than before—as if Sebastian had changed from a meal to a puzzle—but it still made Sebastian want to squirm.
“Low tech is better, you say?”
Sebastian nodded.
“We’ll try a revolver, then. Something small and concealable as a last resort. That do ya, kid?”
Turning from a pile of what looked like boxes of ammunition, Mallory gave Sebastian a critical look. “What’s your main weapon?”
“Errr, my hands?” A sinking feeling made Sebastian’s stomach clench.
“What happened to that staff you used in England?”
Sebastian winced at the inevitable question, and he tried not to remember the smooth, heavy feeling of Tahir in his hands, or how the fae staff always sent a tingle of energy through him. “Um, long story, but basically my hands are about all I can rely on at the moment.” Or ever, the nasty thought ran through his head. He ignored it.
His words put a scowl on Mallory’s face. “So basically what you’re saying is, you’re useless.”
“I am not useless,” he protested, yet even as he said it the heavy feeling in his gut turned into a stabbing pain, like a knife that twisted painfully at each of Mallory’s words.
“Really? You’re weaponless, you talk too much, and you’re oblivious to your surroundings. You’ll probably just get in the way and then we’ll both end up dead.”
Weak. Unworthy. Worthless nobody—
“No,” Sebastian whispered and squeezed his eyes shut, trying to silence that echo of evil whispers so recently and painfully reawakened after Thiriel had stripped him of his magic. He clenched his fists, then opened his eyes at the feel of carven metal on his finger. As long as he wore his Ring of Cacophony, he was safe, fae wards or no. “I am not—I mean, I have, well, other things...” he finished lamely, remembering just in time it wouldn’t be wise to advertise the few small tricks he had left.
Mallory raised one black eyebrow, and Sebastian wondered how much she knew—or had guessed—about him. But Chief just shrugged. After putting away the crate of ammunition, he turned toward the wall and started perusing the rows of guns hanging there. Finally, he plucked a smallish revolver off its pegs and gave it a good once over, opened the cylinder to show that it was unloaded, then handed it grip first to Mallory.
“Smith‘n Wesson Model 36. Five shots, molded grip, reliable and dummy proof. And here’s a holster for it. Make sure you show him what I taught you afore you let him lay hands on it, so’s he don’t shoot off his own chicken tenders. As amusing as it’d be, I ain’t got time to clean up the mess.”
“Can we use your range, then?” Mallory asked.
Chief scratched the stubble on his chin, the grumpy look on his face darkening to a scowl. Finally, he waved a hand in resignation. “Humph, I suppose so. Just be sure’n police your brass, hear? I got enough to do without cleaning up after your sorry—” Chief’s complaint devolved into a string of muttered curses as he turned back to the wall and headed for a different section, where small swords and a range of daggers dominated his collection. He plucked a pair of daggers with wire-wrapped grips from the wall, then bent and grabbed a plastic carrying case which he set on the worktable with its lid lifted to reveal rows of throwing stars and spikes.
“Had all’a these made up special for you, kid. Figured if you didn’t want ‘em someone would. All of ‘ems wrought iron, so they’ll bend easy if you stab anything that’s not soft and squishy. But if you live long enough to use ‘em twice, I’ll hammer ‘em straight again for free. They end up needing any major forgework then I’ll hafta send ‘em off, but basic shaping I can do here.”
Mallory took the daggers first and balanced one on each hand, then flipped and twirled them around her fingers a few times before tossing them in the air. She caught them with the easy grace of a lifetime of practice, and went back to spinning them. Finally, with a nod of approval and one last flourish, she deftly slid them home into the sheaths Chief was holding out.
Once the daggers were stowed, she turned her gaze to the plastic case, and Sebastian leaned in to get a closer look. The collection of throwing weapons was held in a nest of molded foam. Beside them was a mass of leather straps and buckles, no doubt a harness for carrying all those spikey bits of metal. Sebastian kept his distance out of habit. Since he was no longer full to the brim with fae magic, they probably wouldn’t do a thing to him, but he’d been burned enough times that the sight of wrought iron still made him jumpy.
“I’ll take it all, provided I can test the shuriken before I leave.”
“Ya did hear the part where I said they’ll bend easy, didn’t ya?” Chief growled.
“I did, and if I’m going to buy them I need to know exactly how much stress they can take. Besides, it’s not like you’ve got anything better to do.”
“Humph! Running this operation ain’t cheap, kid, let me tell you. And I’m up to my ears in work. Ain’t got time to cater to your whims.”
“I’ll take that as a yes,” Mallory said with a straight face, though the skin around her eyes crinkled.
Chief gave her a dirty look and was just opening his mouth to retort when a shadowy gray form hopped up onto the worktable in front of him. The big man jumped visibly and let loose a string of expletives that involved a disturbingly large number of indecent body parts and one very unfortunate armadillo.
Sir Kipling wasn’t fazed a bit. Sitting calmly, he stared up at the big man with ears perked and head cocked as if fascinated by this strange human’s behavior.
When Chief finally ran out of dirty things to say, the cat gave the most dainty, winsome little peep of a meow Sebastian had ever heard and leaned forward to rub his cheek on Chief’s arm.
“What’n tarnation is this here varmit doing in my bunker?” the big man grumbled, glowering down at the cat.
“That’s Sir Kipling,” Sebastian said, fighting off a grin at Chief’s irreverent term for Lily’s noble feline. “He’s my wizard friend’s, uh, familiar.”
“Magic cat, huh? Bet he’d taste good with some hickory-smoked barbecue sauce,” Chief said, the baleful expression not lifting from his face. But for all his hostile words, he made no move to push the cat away. Sir Kipling obviously took that as an encouragement, because he stood and began to walk back and forth in a languid figure eight, rubbing his entire body against his victim while simultaneously twitching his tail in fluffy invitation. His tiny little meow, the very embodiment of kitty charm, was so completely at odds with the ferocious yowls he produced in the heat of battle that Sebastian had to put a hand over his mouth to hold back the insane guffaw attempting to escape.
Whether Sir Kipling was weaving a literal spell on Chief, or whether the cat was really just that good, he had the gruff old bear scratching him under the chin within thirty seconds. Sir Kipling leaned into the pets, all but dissolving into a puddle of liquid purrs. Chief managed to hold onto his grumpy expression—the man’s face had probably gotten stuck that way a long time ago—but judging by the way his callous, scarred fingers gently scratched and rubbed Sir Kipling in all of the cat’s favorite places, it was clear who was in charge. Sebastian wisely chose not to point it out, of course. He liked his head right where it was, thank you very much.
“So, I can test the equipment,” Mallory stated—not asked—the corners of her mouth threatening to betray the smug grin that lurked there.
There was a moment of silence in which Chief scowled mightily, but finally he waved the hand no
t petting Sir Kipling at her. “Bah! Get on with it, then, and take this infernal animal with you. I won’t get a lick of work done with this sweet-talking fleabag underfoot.”
Sir Kipling gave an irritated twitch of his tail, no doubt incensed at being accused of inferior hygiene. But with one last mew and rub on Chief’s hand, he hopped down off the table and trotted toward the door at the back of the room, seeming confident that he knew where he was going. Mallory retrieved the holstered revolver Chief had selected for them and stuck it in her belt before picking up the Beretta already lying on the table. With a raised eyebrow and an impatient motion toward the plastic weapons case and pile of ammunition, she volunteered Sebastian to do the grunt work, then turned and walked away. Sebastian glared at her back, but gathered the items up anyway and followed her. Part of him howled and raged at the added delay, but his wiser self knew only fools went into battle with weapons they had never tested—or even handled.
He hadn’t thought he could be more impressed with Chief’s little underground lair, but he’d been wrong. The door in the back opened into a large storage room, with another door off to the right leading to the generator closet—judging by the noise. Sebastian wondered what long-forgotten mining shaft it vented into, since running a generator in an unventilated space was a quick way to commit suicide. He would have to wonder forever, though, since Mallory headed straight to the back of the room, where she got to work opening another bunker door identical to the monstrosity they’d passed through at the front. The “range” beyond it was simply a long, unfinished mining tunnel. It had a low ceiling, but was well lit with floodlights, making the various targets at the end easily visible. As they set up their things, Sebastian noticed Sir Kipling had disappeared and hoped the cat had stayed behind to poke around the storage room, rather than try and explore the abandoned mine on his own. Cat magic or no, he doubted the feline could get through a massive bunker door by himself if he got left behind.
Using as few words as possible, Mallory gave Sebastian a crash course in gun operation and safety. He already knew most of it, of course, but where deadly weapons were concerned, a refresher was always nice. Her wry, cheeky manner had disappeared as soon as they’d left Chief’s presence, and it made Sebastian wonder if she had some sort of grudge against him—beyond his penchant for smart remarks, of course. And yet, cold and insulting were her default settings, right? He didn’t remember her offering more than monosyllabic replies to any attempt at conversation when she’d been with them for a brief time last fall. If something else was bothering her, she was too good at hiding her emotions for him to guess what it was.
Once Mallory was satisfied Sebastian wouldn’t “shoot off his chicken tenders,” they both donned ear and eye protection and got started. Sebastian thought he did fairly well with the little revolver. It only misfired a third of the time, and his shots hit in the general vicinity of where he wanted them to go. After three cylinders’ worth of bullets, Mallory called a halt and declared his performance “unreliable,” but better than his pathetic unarmed combat skills—no doubt referring to the time she had soundly thrashed him when she’d still been John Faust’s personal attack dog. Her words stung, but he tried to shrug them off. It was difficult, considering that every time he tried to give himself a pep talk, the only things he could think about were Lily’s broken bracelet burning a hole in his pocket and the aching emptiness burning a hole in his heart.
Such dark thoughts kept him company while Mallory took her Beretta through its paces, then tested out a few of her spikey bits of iron—or shuriken, as she had called them. Her chosen demo pieces held up well as far as Sebastian could see, but Mallory’s brows drew together and stayed that way as she threw them a second and third time. Apparently, their mere centimeters of drift was a grave disappointment. He would have been happy to hit the target at all, but then he supposed her obsession with precision was one reason Mallory could charge twenty grand for a job and get away with it.
All in all, it was thirty minutes before they finally returned to the bunker with Mallory in the lead and Sebastian once again hauling the equipment. He didn’t mind it this time, though, because it meant they could finally get going back to Atlanta. Chief had returned to working with whatever shop tool he’d been using before and its loud whine only cut off after Mallory tapped him on the elbow.
“The shuriken won’t last for more than a few throws apiece, but hopefully one will be all I’ll need. The firearms are excellent, as usual. I hate using iron bullets in them, but at least the chrome plating will keep the bore from degrading too quickly. Everything else looks to be in order. I’ll give you ten thousand for the lot.”
“Like hell you will,” Chief said, pushing the safety goggles he’d been wearing up to perch on his forehead. “Those bullets take me forever an’ a spell to make, and I could’a bought a whole tropical island with what those daggers put me back. Fifty grand, minimum.”
Mallory’s mouth formed a hard line, and she shot Sebastian a distinctly unfriendly look. “I don’t have that much.”
“This ain’t a charity, kid,” Chief said. “Pay it or leave it.”
Mallory looked at Sebastian again, her gaze challenging this time. Sebastian took the hint and turned to Chief, hoping he was easier to persuade than Mallory had been earlier that morning. “You are absolutely right, Mr. Chief. You—”
“That’s Chief Master Sergeant to you, maggot,” the big man growled, reaching up to pull down his goggles as if he intended to go right back to work and ignore them both.
“Ah, apologies, sir—”
“I ain’t no sir, you dad gum fool. I spent thirty years working for a living.”
“Of course, Chief Master Sergeant,” Sebastian said, backpedaling. “What I was trying to say is that you absolutely deserve compensation, but we can offer you something more valuable than money.”
“That so?” Chief grunted, his expression not at all encouraging, though he did let go of his goggles and lower his hand.
“Yes, absolutely. In addition to a fair payment of twenty-five thousand dollars”—Mallory shot him a laser glare and he gulped—“of which I would be glad to front half, I can offer you something you’ll never get another chance at if you don’t take our deal.”
Sebastian paused dramatically, noticed there were now two dangerous glares pointed his way, and hurried on.
“I can give you satisfaction. You don’t like wizards? Well neither do I—my friend is one of the only decent ones I’ve ever met. At best, wizards are entitled pricks, and at their worst...well, the particular one we’re after is my friend’s father—her own father—and he’s the biggest, slimiest rat turd of them all. He thinks mundanes are no better than dumb cows for him to use however he wants. We’ve been trying for months to rid the world of his sorry butt, and yesterday he—he—” The words stuck in his throat, and Sebastian swallowed hard and forced himself to continue, letting every bit of the pent-up fear and anger he felt flood into his words. “He kidnapped my friend, and I’ve got to go find him and beat him to a bloody pulp before he does something awful. If you help us out, we’ll take him down and make him wish he’d never been born.”
There was a moment of silence. Chief’s sour expression had turned unreadable, and Sebastian felt a flicker of worry, not sure if the change was a good sign or not. He’d meant every word, but he’d also hoped to play on the man’s obvious disgust toward wizards—a disgust Sebastian shared, at least when it came to John Faust.
Finally, Chief spoke, his words slow and reluctant. “As much as I’d enjoy knowing y’all were sticking it to a wizard, satisfaction don’t pay the bills, so—”
A demanding meow interrupted Chief, and they all looked down to find Sir Kipling at their feet, something gray and limp held in his mouth. With obvious smugness, the cat placed his offering by one of Chief’s massive boots, then proceeded to rub against the big man’s legs while twining in, out, and around them in the most blatant display of buttering up Sebastian
had ever seen. Finally, after giving his tail one last flick, Sir Kipling crouched and leapt up to the worktable where he sat primly, large yellow eyes fixed on Chief’s astonished face.
“Well I’ll be darned,” the man said, and reached up to scratch his grizzled chin. “Reckon I heard some’a them lil buggers in the storage room the other day. Guess I better set some traps.” He bent down and picked up the dead mouse by the tail, then held it aloft to squint at it in the light. “And as for you...think I’ll put you in the sink with ‘ol Bernie.”
Sebastian’s lips parted in a laugh, but the sound turned into a spluttering groan as Mallory’s elbow jabbed him squarely in the ribs. Fortunately for him it was his good side—such a blow to his bruised side would have put him on the floor gasping in pain.
“I’ll be sure not to visit again until...how long does it take for a mouse to mummify?” Mallory asked, her expression perfectly serious.
“Exactly,” Chief said with a grunt of satisfaction.
There was a pregnant pause as the humor faded and Sebastian and Mallory returned to staring at Chief, while Chief returned to staring at the mouse, his expression back to its default grumpy face.
The silence stretched on, becoming uncomfortable.
With a casualness that only a cat could pull off, Sir Kipling lifted one paw and rested it on Chief’s arm. The cat cocked his head ever-so-slightly as he continued to stare up at the big man, the only other movement the occasional twitch of his tail.
Finally, “Aw, hell. Take it and get outta my sight, kid. But that payment’d better show up lickety split. Number’s still the same, you know the drill. And as for you,” he said, swinging his baleful gaze to Sebastian, “You’re lucky I ain’t a dog person. Now go get busy raisin’ hell for that wizard afore I kill you deader’n a can of corned beef.”
Sebastian couldn’t think of any reply that would improve his chances of survival, so he kept his mouth shut as he and Mallory gathered up their supplies and made a beeline for the bunker door. Glancing over his shoulder, Sebastian caught sight of Chief—dead mouse still hanging from his hand—giving Sir Kipling one last scratch under the chin before the cat jumped down from the worktable and galloped after them.
Love, Lies, and Hocus Pocus Identity Page 9
