The jangling phone jolts me out of my late afternoon stupor. I roll off the mattress and trudge to my desk to pick up the receiver.

“What is it, Lynn?” I mumble.

“Wake your ass up!” Lynn shouts over the din of the crowd in the bar outside, hoarse from chain smoking and years of yelling at drunks.

“Dammit, keep it down.”

“Someone’s here for you. Now get up and do your job so I can go back to mine.” I hear the clatter of glassware.

“You get a name?”

“She won’t say.” Lynn yells an order at someone in the background. “Sounds foreign, though.”

“What’s she want?”

“I’m not your damn secretary.”

“Fine, let her in.” I hang up. The prospective client enters my office as I’m combing my hair into place.

They say don’t judge a book by its cover. But this gal’s a glossy porn rag soaked in poison. Milky skin, silky blonde hair underneath a wide-brimmed hat, big green eyes, pouty red lips, and a stylish overcoat that ends well north of her knees, showing off a slender pair of long legs perched on black pumps.

Socialite or hooker? Depends on your angle.

The woman seats herself before I can pull out her chair. “I am Katia,” she says in a lilting accent, crossing her legs. “I understand you can help me.”

Guessing she’s one of the 90% of my female clients who want to track down a wayward man. Menial, mindless stuff, but it covers rent. I quickly clear off my desk and pull out a stenographer pad and fountain pen. “Max Falls, at your service. What brings you here?”

“Беда, Mister Falls. Trouble.” The woman’s face hardens.

I pause briefly. “Russian?”

“Да,” Katia replies, nodding. “You speak my language?”

Russian’s uncommon around here. I picked some up a while back, enough to get by, but that’s nobody’s business. Wanna know why? Go to any South Side bar, any Strip dive, and watch what happens when someone puts Chancellor or Rather on the tube. Soon as they start reporting on the Commies, which is all the time nowadays, tempers flare, bottles break, vets threaten to reenlist to beat the hell out of Brezhnev.

All-American here, but I don’t want to get the crap knocked outta me just because I can pronounce да and нет correctly.

“Not a whole lot. Hopefully English works for you.”

“It is fine.”

“So, tell me about this trouble.”

The woman removes her hat, letting her golden locks cascade down her shoulders. “I believe my возлюбленный is cheating on me.”

I suppress a sigh. Another photo op. “You need pictures.”

“Да. I need proof of infidelity.”

I frowned. “Why? It’s not a requirement to file for divorce.”

Katia stares at the floor. “I was ... brought to the United States several years ago. At least with photo evidence, I may have a chance to stay.”

“I see.” Probably a mail-order bride, no green card. I’m a little surprised that the guy would pick someone out of the Evil Empire catalog, but beautiful women are wild cards. “Tell me about him. Who is he? What does he do?”

“His name is Peter Holland,” Katia replies, handing over a photo. “I think he used to work for the American government. Now he just, what is the word ... ‘consults.’ Он советует.”

I examine the photo. The sun-faded Polaroid shows Katia and Holland together at a black-tie ballroom affair. She’s a stunner in a strapless black dress and a diamond necklace. He’s in a tux, trim, with a full head of gray hair and a stern countenance. Looks to be in his late fifties, two or three decades older than the woman in front of me.

I start to hand the picture back, but she refuses. “You need it for your work.”

“Sure.” I drop the photo on the desk. “So, Peter Holland consults. On what?”

“I do not know. He sits in his office most of the day, talking on the phone. He does not tell me anything. At night, he goes out. When he comes home, he smells like ... another woman. Or women. I think there is more than one.”

“Why would he do this?” Should’ve kept my mouth shut.

Katia smiles knowingly. “Who knows the thoughts of men?”

We talk a while longer. I gather data on Holland’s work schedule, tennis club, favorite restaurants, potential locations for his wayward trysts. When we get to the issue of payment, she offers a surprisingly large figure, explaining that it’s the entirety of her personal savings. Before I can protest, she says, “It will be worth it. I have the utmost confidence in you.”

“I appreciate that, Mrs. Holland, but--”

“My surname is Belova,” she interrupts, somewhat forcefully. Then, more softly, “But please call me Katia.”

“Okay, Katia.” I pause briefly, collecting my thoughts. “One last thing before we finish. I’m curious how you found me. Who should I thank for the referral?”

“I overheard your name when Peter was on the phone.”

“Ah. Does he know me personally?” And do I know him?

“I am unsure. But he is a magician. Does that help at all?”

A magician?

Fuck.

*     *     *
The feds say less than 1% of all adults possess magical power, whether something classical like fire or air, modernist like metal or electricity, or the ultra-rare bloodborne variety. For most people, magic is more of a liability than anything. Accidental deaths are so common, the local news devotes a weekly segment to memorialize the poor bastards who self-immolate, drown, or asphyxiate trying out their powers for the first time.

I’m one of those odd ones “gifted” with blood magic, a grab bag of more psychological, difficult-to-classify skills: summoning familiars, telepathy, empathy, remote viewing, energy transfer, and so on. As I discovered during a reckless weekend binge in college, my skill set’s limited to summoning, with alcoholic spirits as my primer and my blood as the catalyst. I can only summon one of them for a few days at a time without blacking out, so I mostly use them as muscle. Keeps it simple. If I could remote view, this case--hell, my whole job--would be much easier.

Manny, my buddy in the local force, can’t find Holland in the MPR, the national registry for magic users, so I don’t know his repertoire. Back to basics. I start by tailing the guy.

The first night, while he’s in the bathroom at an Italian diner, I walk by his table and plant a listening device in his coat pocket. Outside, I secure a new earth magic-powered geolocation tracker to the underside of his red BMW M1. After he leaves the restaurant, I follow him to his triple-decker mansion in a Squirrel Hill enclave. Unfortunately, it’s too dark to see much behind the looming walls of his estate.

The days drag on. None of Holland’s conversations are with or about “other women.” There’s shop talk about business deals in the USSR, China, and Vietnam, but I’m not getting paid to investigate that. I start to question whether Holland’s really got a broad or two on the side. Then, the fourth evening after she first swept into my office, I run into беда.

I’m on a quick chow break in the Strip, leaving a Polish deli with a paper grocery bag filled with sausage, pierogis, and rolls. As I unlock my brown El Camino, I hear the shattering of a storefront window down the street. Two figures jump through the broken glass, eyes glazed and bloodied arms outstretched. The bodies are rigid, contorted, strings of spittle hanging from their lips.

Possessed humans? Must be a magician nearby.

I briefly consider leaping into the car and driving away, before tossing my food into the car instead. Sighing, I glance back at the two figures, who are mindlessly hopping in circles. Suddenly, as my hand reflexively drifts down to the pistol holstered at my waist, someone shoves my shoulder. I whirl around and swing the gun up to eye level.

An Asian man, dressed in some sort of long blue robe and tasseled hat, stares at me with glowing red eyes. His skin is pasty, peeling, overgrown with green mold. I gag from the billowing stench of decaying flesh. But I steady myself, and I do what any reasonable guy would do when confronted by an honest-to-God zombie: put a bullet in its forehead.

It does nothing.

The bullet ricochets off the man’s skull and smacks into a nearby tree trunk. My second shot embeds itself in his forehead but otherwise does nothing to slow him down. The zombie grunts and takes an awkward swing with his extended arms, barely missing the collar of my leather jacket. As his hands pass in front of my face, I feel a supernaturally deep chill penetrate my body, like being stuffed into an industrial freezer overnight. I backpedal before my limbs stiffen too much from the cold.

Suddenly, the creature yells out, “Falls!”

I freeze in shock. “How do you know me? Who are you?” My ears register faint screaming and the tinkling of broken glass in the distance.

“Zombie. Jiāngshī,” the figure says, trying to close the gap between us with powerful leaps. “Peter Holland sends his regards.”

I’m not prepared to engage further. Overcoming the stiffness in my legs, I sprint away as fast as I can, searching for a pay phone to call 911.

*     *     *
It’s after 2 am. I’m at The Eighty, nursing my second shot of whiskey, when the cop finally arrives.

“Took you long enough, Manny,” I mumble, pulling out a stool.

Manny Gutierrez, broad-chested and potbellied, settles his substantial girth onto the seat. The stool legs creak from his weight. Lynn hustles up, wiping an empty glass with a towel, but the cop waves her away. “On duty, sweetheart.”

“Sure.” The bartender moves over to a guy slumped at the counter two seats down, shaking his shoulder with a thin, tattooed hand.

Manny side-eyes me. “Well, dealing with some bastard’s magical spawn ain’t easy.” He scratches his thick mustache and beard with a meaty finger. “Could’ve used your help. You’re a registered wiz.”

“Without any of the magical firepower.” I take a slug of the whiskey. “I don’t hang around when a bullet to the head doesn’t solve the problem. Called it in like a good citizen.”

Manny laughs darkly. “The boys upstairs had to dig out the manual on spirits. Fucking Chinese zombie. Some of them thought the Commies were invading.”

“If we ever get invaded, I guarantee Pittsburgh’s gonna be low on the list of priorities. How’d you kill him?”

“Fire. Literally had to spray him with gas and light a match.” Manny fishes a cigarette out of a pack in his shirt pocket and lights it, inhaling the fumes deeply. “Lucky for us, all the poor bastards he infected stopped jumping around when he went down. They’ve all been taken to hospitals.”

“Sounds like you handled it okay.”

“Wasn’t just us. Buncha G-men showed up.”

“What?”

“FBI, man. They don’t like Red wizards and their toys popping up on American soil. At least, that’s what I thought at first.”

“Not Chinese, Manny. Zombie said it was a guy named Peter Holland.”

“Yeah, the men in black said the same thing.” Manny coughs into his fist. “Max, the Zombie was a goddamn CI.”

Surprised, I knock over the shot glass. “What? An informant?”

“Yeah, for the feds.” Manny takes another deep pull on his cig. “We didn’t know that, of course, before we set the bastard on fire. Nothing left but glowing ash.”

“Right.” I wipe the spill with a wad of napkins.

“You blood wizards don’t know each other?” he asks casually, blowing a plume of smoke toward the ceiling. “Can’t be that many of yinz.”

“Never met the guy.”

“What were you doing out there when the Zombie hit?”

“You getting my statement now or something?”

“Just answer the question, Max.”

“Getting dinner from the deli.”

“So, wrong place, wrong time?”

“Something like that.”

Manny snorts and waves the smoke away from his face. “Piece of advice. FBI told us that this bastard Holland summons all kinds of monsters, several at once, and sells their services to criminals for fucking profit.”

“Several at once?” Unreal. People have gone insane doing far less.

“He’s an ugly piece of work. They even say he’s able to hitch a ride like a backseat driver, spying on people through their eyes. Fucked up.”

“Remote viewing,” I mutter.

“Yeah,” Manny says. “And the FBI’s key insider on this freak show just went up in smoke. Try to stay out of trouble.”

“Every day.”

The big cop eases off the barstool, stubbing the cigarette out in an ashtray. “You know, they never found another wiz after you left.”

I shrug. “Cap never appreciated my skills.”

“Yeah. Still, there were some good times.” Manny heads for the door.

“Goodbye, Manny.”

After the policeman leaves, Lynn returns with a glass of water, frowning at the pile of soaked napkins on the countertop. “You look like shit.” She scoops the napkins into the trash.

“Gonna pass out any minute.”

Lynn wraps a checkered blue bandanna around her short dark hair. “I heard you talking about Holland and the Zombie. You know, I’m surprised that summon was a CI for the feds. I thought familiars were bound to their summoner and couldn’t do anything to harm them.”

“I thought so, too. Maybe it’s a loophole. If someone else is doing the dirty work, it doesn’t count.” I rub my forehead. Long-ass day. “Hey, if Manny or whoever comes back, don’t tell them about Katia. She’s out of the loop on this. No need to get her involved.”

“Me neither.”

*     *     *
Cops or no cops, I need to warn Katia myself.

Around 5 the next evening, we meet in the public library on Forbes, across from the old Greek cathedral. Wrapped in a tan trench coat, I’m leaning against the stone railing by the entrance when I see Katia approach under the harsh light of a streetlamp.

She looks good. Light blue jumpsuit, wide leather belt, and heels, out of place amongst the hordes of college students in sweaters and hoodies and the bespectacled librarians in stiff, boxy dresses. I pick out a quiet table on the second floor, away from inquisitive eyes and ears. The green-and-gold glow of a small banker lamp erases the shadows under Katia’s eyes. I update her on the events of the past few days.

“Спасибо,” she says. “I know less about Peter than I should.”

“Powerful people often lead double lives. Don’t feel bad you didn’t know.” I frown. “He may or may not be cheating on you, but the guy’s involved with some nasty business. Have you gone to the police? They could--”

“Mister Falls, that is not an option. I do not want to be sent back.”

“But weren’t you brought--” I stop when I realize I never actually confirmed how Katia was brought to America. Judging by her icy face, she isn’t telling.

“I simply want to prove that Peter cheated on me,” she continues, shaking her head and looking away. “I cannot talk to the police about these other things you describe. Нет. It is too much.”

“He’s going to be on guard, now that one of his minions has been killed. And they say he’s a remote viewer, so he almost certainly knows who I am now.” I look closely at Katia, wondering briefly if he’s listening to this very conversation, seeing who I’m seeing. “I’m sorry, but not sure there’s much more I can do.”

Katia bites her lower lip as she considers my words. “He will be angry, then.”

“What are you concerned about?”

“Come with me.” Katia stands.

“Where are we going?”

“Over there,” she replies, pointing to the history section in a corner of the room, behind the stacks. I follow her there, the shelves of dusty books casting shadows across my face. She turns away from me, undoing her belt and unbuttoning the blouse of her jumpsuit. Suddenly self-conscious, I stand up straighter and take off my coat, holding it across my forearm to cover up the scene. “Help me for a moment, пожалуйста.”

“What was that?”

“Come closer. I want you to see something on my back.” When I don’t reply, she turns her head, tossing her hair. “I do not bite, Mister Falls.” She tugs lightly on the collar of her jumpsuit.

I stand just behind her, layering my coat over the both of us. My hands hesitate, and she reaches up with delicate fingers, nudging my hand down the back of her blouse. I slowly roll back the right side of her collar, exposing the cold, pale, almost translucent skin of her shoulder. Then I see it.

A lumpy, jagged pink scar slashes across her shoulder. I carefully run my fingers along the old wound, down the nape of her neck. More misshapen scar tissue crisscrosses her back.

Silence.

Finally, I help Katia readjust her blouse. As she buttons the shirt and cinches her belt, I slide my trench coat back on.

“You never said anything about this,” I say hoarsely.

“Why would I? It makes no difference,” she whispers.

“It makes all the difference. You need to get out of there.”

“With your help, I will. But I need to think.”

“Do you have someplace you can go?”

“I am not sure.” Katia’s silent for a moment, then looks at me grimly. “There is a way.”

“To escape?”

“Yes. Peter has to go away.”

“He might. If I were him, I would be looking to relocate ASAP.”

“I am not talking about relocation, Mister Falls.”

Very long pause.

“He will take me with him if he goes,” she continues.

“Find someplace to hide, then. There are big cities all along the coasts. Easy to--”

“He will send someone after me. Like the Zombie. I know of these spirits, these familiars. I cannot run forever.”

“The government will take action soon. He’ll have plenty to worry about,” I persist. “You just need enough to start a new life.”

Katia’s quiet for a while, studying me from under lidded eyes. “Perhaps you could come with me. Protect me.”

“I ... the FBI and the city cops are already on the case. I would be a distraction. I think--”

“I trust you, Max.” Katia leans close, forcing me back against a bookcase. I can smell her perfume. “I will do as you suggest. I will get the money first. All you must do is be there when I am ready. Can you do that for me?”

I grunt and push her away, reluctantly. “I’m not a gun for hire.”

“I did not say anything about shooting. I simply want you to protect me from Peter and whoever he might send after us. Consider it ... expansion of your duties.” She draws close again, placing a finger under my chin. “A private investigator can do that, да? Use his weapon when necessary?”

I gotta break this off. But--

“You are being quiet. You wish for more compensation?” Her finger slides down my chest, my stomach. “I can give you more. Whatever you desire. You will not regret it.”

My breathing quickens. “Katia--”

“But--” Katia suddenly pulls away, placing her hands behind her back. “--first, I must get the money, and I cannot do it without you. Will you help me, Max?”

I look at her and nod.

*     *     *
The next morning, I stumble out of my office into The Eighty’s seating area, fumbling with the knot in my tie. Thick gray fog hovers outside. Scattered raindrops rattle the roof. A couple of dim lightbulbs cast a pale, yellow light over the bar. The TV in the corner quietly plays a morning news broadcast, talking heads dissecting the aftermath of the zombie attack in the Strip.

Lynn’s already up, loading fresh tanks of beer under the tap.

“I’m gonna need an Old Fashioned,” I mumble.

“Morning to you, too.”

“Yeah, morning.”

“Little early to be drinking, Max.”

“Stop messing around,” I grumble.

Lynn wipes her hands on a washcloth and begins rummaging in the cabinets for supplies. “You’re really not dropping the case, are you?”

“No.”

“You’re not worried about the feds?”

“Same team, different tactics.”

Lynn stops, a sugar cube in one hand and a bottle of aged scotch in the other. She shakes her head. “You really believe that,” she mutters.

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Forget it.” She drops the sugar into a glass, soaks it in some bitters, and stirs. “You need to rest up first?”

“No, why?”

Lynn snorts. “Buddy, these walls are thin. I could hear you going at it with somebody when I unlocked the doors this morning. Thought it was Katia at first, but even you’re not that stupid. And your place’s empty.” She pours the whiskey and dumps a couple of ice cubes into the Old Fashioned. “Sex on the Beach again?”

“She didn’t stay long,” I retort.

“So? Takes a lot outta you to summon even one.”

“Lynn, mind your own damn business.”

She pauses in the middle of cutting an orange. “I shouldn’t help you with this shit. You wanna fuck yourself over, that’s on you.”

“I know, I know.” I raise a hand in apology. “But Holland could disappear any day, any hour now. If he does, Katia’s going with him. I gotta get to him soon.”

“And do what, Max?” When I don’t reply, she continues, “You gonna kill him? There’s no bounty and you’re no murderer.”

“I’m just there to watch Katia’s back while she gets the money she needs to disappear.”

“Yeah, sure.” Lynn drops an orange slice into the drink and takes a bite out of the rest of the fruit.

“She’s paying a bonus.” Even I cringe a little as the words leave my lips.

Lynn rolls her eyes. “Oh, right! A bonus!” She sets the Old Fashioned on a cork coaster with a thud, a little drink spilling over the top. “There’s not enough money in the world for your stupid escapade.”

“I can help her--”

“You think Holland’s gonna let you waltz out with his money? Assuming she actually finds some? The guy’s a blood magician like you, but stronger! You have no idea what he or his summons are capable of! Hell, even that Zombie knocked you around.” She throws the orange rind into the trash. “You can’t go on the run forever. Fuck no. You got bills to pay, man.”

I look out the front windows, twirling the glass in my hand. Rain’s falling in steady sheets now, dispersing the mist and sending pedestrians scurrying for cover. The reflection of The Eighty’s red and purple neon sign shimmers in the growing puddles on the sidewalk. “How the hell does Holland handle multiple familiars all at the same time? His mind must be in a hundred places at once.”

“Yeah, he’s a tough sonuvabitch. Look, it hasn’t even been a week. Take what you got and dump her.”

I scoop up the drink and walk back to my office. I pause in the doorway, turning back. “No. I owe it to the client to finish the job.”

Lynn stares at me for an uncomfortably long time. Then, she sighs in exasperation and turns away. “Whatever.”

I head inside, shut the door, and close the blinds. Setting the Old Fashioned on the desk, I settle into my armchair and take a deep breath. “Spirit to spirit, water to ether, blood to ichor ...”

I murmur the rest of the spell, watching the glass and its contents glow with a warm yellow light. I take a small penknife out of a drawer and holding my left hand over the drink, make a tiny prick in my fingertip. A couple drops of blood ooze out and splash into the Old Fashioned. The booze fizzes with high-pitched energy before bursting into bright light with a loud crack. I instinctively shut my eyes from the glare.

When I open them, a weathered, grim-faced man stands before me. He’s clothed in button-down white shirt, pinstriped vest and slacks, and clipped red tie. Hot steam billows off his bald head and broad shoulders. He cracks his knuckles menacingly.

“Ah, Mister Falls,” says Old Fashioned. “Someone need a beatdown?”

“It’s a little more--” I wince as a bolt of pain lances across my forehead. Should’ve waited a little longer before summoning again, like Lynn said. “More than that.”

“You okay there, boss? Hate to pop away just because our connection’s iffy--”

“Yeah, Fash. Just a bit of a rough patch.” I clear my throat.

“Then, what’s the deal? Personal protection?”

“Katia, the client, is in a bad spot. She’s trying to get out.”

“Extraction, then.”

“She’s gonna, ah, acquire some funds from her husband first. Then, we need to help her disappear.”

Fash scoffs. “Fuck, she better not be doing anything dirty.”

“Probably not.”

“Probably?” My familiar crashes onto the guest chair and stretches his muscular limbs. “Look, boss, I enjoy smashing heads as much as the next guy, but it sounds like you’re missing some pieces of the puzzle--”

“Stop bitching, old man. We’ll call her first, see what’s what. Then we’ll book it over there.”

“Now? It’s daytime.”

“We don’t have much time. And there’s cover from the storm.”

“Fine.”

“Also, the guy our client’s with is a blood magician.”

The summon raises his brow. “That right?”

“Yeah. Multiple summons, remote viewer, maybe more.”

Fash laughs wickedly. “You’re in some deep shit, pal.”

“It’s not all bad. One of his summons was killed a few days ago, so he’s probably hurting some right now.”

“Can he heal?”

“Dunno.”

“Right.” The spirit stares at my phone. “You gonna call the broad or what?”

“Yeah, yeah.” I pick up the receiver and dial the number she provided when she first visited the office. After a minute of ringing, I’m about to end the call, but just then I hear a click.

“Привет?” Katia’s voice, but with an unfamiliar edge.

“Katia? It’s Max.”

“Кто э́то? Я плохо тебя слышу--” The line beeps once.

“Katia?” I tap on the receiver. “Are you okay?”

She sounds grainy, faraway now. “Привет--Я не знаю кто ты--” A man’s voice momentarily interrupts the conversation, but static soon overwhelms the call. I hang up.

“She’s in trouble.”

“Your plan?”

“Talk it out in the car. Their house is maybe thirty minutes away.” I crouch under my desk, spinning the combo on a heavy iron safe nestled there. The door unlocks. I remove a brown screw-top booze flask labeled “FOR ME.” I hesitate but decide to leave the passport and stacks of cash alone as I relock the safe.

After ensuring my gun is secured in its holster, I gesture for Fash to follow me out. He notices the bottle in my hand. “That bad, boss?”

“It’s my backup plan.” I stash the flask in my left pants pocket.

“You realize if you die, I’m free to do whatever the hell I want over here.”

“If I die, I don’t give a shit what you do.”

“What’s your big idea? Drinking the bad guys to death?”

I shrug. “Let’s hope I don’t have to use it.”

*     *     *
We cruise to a stop along the shoulder of the two-lane road, a couple blocks away from Holland’s mansion. “Nice place,” Fash remarks. It’s still pouring down, with lightning bolts streaking through the dark clouds. A few cars slowly cruise by, headlights on.

“That’s the Hill for you.”

We hop out of the car and onto the sidewalk. We get our bearings underneath the heavy, bowed branches of red- and yellow-leafed maples and oaks. A light wind blows rain in our faces. Fash uses a bit of air power to push it away, keeping himself dry. I content myself with forcing my fedora lower over my brow, rainwater dripping over the brim. Gotta keep the trench coat loose for easy access to my gun and extra ammo. Unfortunately, my shirt and slacks get drenched.

“Even more reason not to go through with this,” Fash says. “You oughta cancel whatever deal you’ve got with the broad. Get out while you can.”

“You sound like Lynn.”

“She’s smart.”

“Unquestionably. It’s about honoring contracts. You’re a summon, for Pete’s sake, you get it.” We keep close to the trimmed hedge walls lining the path. I wonder if Holland has eyes out here. My own eyes?

“No honor in being dead.”

“You’re just jaded.”

“Heard that before.” Fash stops. “Boss, you don’t see any construction around here, do you?”

“No.”

“Then what’s that?” He points to a white van across the street from Katia and Holland’s mansion. A cartoonish logo of a muscle-bound guy in a hard hat, wielding a jackhammer, is pasted onto the side door. Driver seat’s empty. A single orange cone is planted behind the van. “Little out of place among all the Bentleys and Mercedes, yeah?”

“Right.” I stop behind the gnarled trunk of an oak, Fash beside me. “Manny said the feds were watching this guy.”

“Your pal on the force?”

“Yeah. Anyway, they’re on our side.”

“Sure. You tell them we were coming?”

“No. Our shit doesn’t involve them. We get Katia out with her money. They come and do whatever to Holland. Doubt he’s gonna worry about one broad when his own life’s at stake.”

“I don’t know, boss.” Fash chuckles. “You really believe that?”

I resume walking. “Couldn’t reach them if I tried.”

At the next intersection, we linger by the stop sign as thunder rumbles overhead and rain continues to pound down. The construction van hasn’t budged. “Take the side entrance,” I say. “Down this way.”

“Gated?”

“Yeah. Gotta jump it.” Picking up the pace, we turn up the road. The wrought iron gate to the service entrance is on the left, covered in ivy vines. High stone walls extend down the property on each side. There are crossbars on the gate, so even in the slickness of the downpour it’s easy to get a handhold. I go first, clambering over the entryway and jumping down onto the cobblestones.

As soon as my feet hit ground, I hear the click of a gun being cocked. “You’re trespassing, pal,” someone shouts over the rain. “Don’t move.”

Slowly, I turn toward the voice. A bland-looking man in a long black coat and hat stands about twenty feet away, his pistol pointed at my chest. His other hand grips a walkie-talkie. “All units, we’ve got an intruder here at the east entrance.”

“Who is it, Mobile One?” the voice on the other end barks.

“I’ll find out. You, toss your--” The guy doesn’t finish his sentence as Fash leaps down from the rocky wall, slamming him into the ground. My familiar wrests his gun away and delivers an air-powered haymaker to his jaw with a loud crack, knocking him out.

“Thanks,” I mutter.

“Mobile One, report! Mobile One!” the walkie-talkie squawks. “We need backup--” The panicked voice cuts out as Fash stomps on the walkie-talkie with a boot.

“Who’s this overdressed loser?” Fash stoops down, searching the man’s coat for identification. He fishes a black leather object from an inside pocket and flips it open.

FBI.

“Fuck!” Fash says, throwing the badge holder away. “They’re guarding him?” He unloads the magazine from the agent’s pistol and hurls it over the wall, then tosses the gun into a nearby tangled rose bush.

My mind races. “Don’t know. Gotta move.”

We scurry forward, squinting through the rain. A short distance away from the huge mansion is a bungalow with an attached one-car garage and its own little driveway winding up a slope. Lights flicker ominously in the windows as we approach the front door. “You think she’ll be in there?” Fash asks.

“Dunno, but we need to check. Let’s--” A long metal spike suddenly explodes through a window, sending shards of glass flying. Cursing, I dive away as the metal slams into the lawn where I was just standing. Raindrops sizzle on the spike’s hot, orange-brown surface.

Fash rolls to his feet. “Watch it!” I shout as another spike blasts through the shattered window, aimed directly at him. He scrambles away as the spear carves a big chunk of asphalt out of the driveway.

The spikes slither tentacle-like back into the bungalow. Moments later, the front door smashes open. A giant, thickly bearded man in a heavy olive-green parka, cargo pants, and brown work boots storms out. He wields a gleaming sickle. “Подонок!” the man roars.

I whip out my pistol and fire wildly. The giant ducks as the bullets pass overhead. A thick copper shield materializes over his free arm. Moscow Mule. “Take him out!” I yell at Fash.

“On it!” My familiar hurls a volley of air punches, the powerful fist-like projectiles thumping against the Mule’s shield. As the huge spirit staggers, turning his attention to Fash, I use the opportunity to bolt toward the mansion.

I cut across the manicured lawn, quickly surveying the house for an easy entry point. Suddenly, pain knifes across my forehead, and I see flashing stars. I topple forward and get a mouthful of wet grass and dirt. The pistol flies out of my grasp.

Hello, Mister Falls, a voice echoes inside my head. You shouldn’t have gotten involved.

Peter Holland.

The one and only.

Fuck. This guy can do everything.

I stumble to my feet, wiping mud off my face, and pick up the dropped gun.

Well ... not everything. There’s too much you don’t know. Leave now and the feds probably won’t kill you.

A woman’s in danger. That’s all I need to know.

Holland chuckles. Always the shining knight. Well, have fun with Mary.

Who’s Mary?

No reply. Instead, the front door bursts open. A scowling middle-aged woman, eyes bulging with rage, steps into view. The front of her old-fashioned maid’s outfit is splattered with gore. In her right hand is a large cleaver; in her left, some poor sap’s head, blood dripping from the open neck.

“Coming for your wench?” she snarls in a haughty tone, waving the cleaver.

I ignore her, level the pistol, and fire. Mary ducks back inside, dropping the head onto the porch, as the bullet thwacks into the door frame. I run up the stairs, about to burst inside, when I hear a muffled whump from across the estate. A blast of hot air nearly knocks me off my feet. Pain tears across my head and chest.

I stagger to a stop, breathing heavily, heart pounding, head throbbing. It’s a horrifying feeling of weakness, fragility, like someone’s ripped out a chunk of my soul. I gag and spit out a mouthful of blood.

They got Old Fashioned. Fuck. Hope he took out the Mule before he croaked.

Shaking off the pain, I rush into the mansion. The foyer is immense, dimly lit by a golden chandelier, furnished with benches, and floored with black and white marble tiles. Directly in front is a huge spiral staircase. There’s an elegant dining area through the arched passageway behind it. On either side of the stairwell are separate living rooms, one containing a white grand piano.

I quickly scout all the rooms on the ground floor but come up empty. Surprisingly, Holland doesn’t reenter my head. Maybe he’s too busy packing up.

I hear a clattering somewhere above me as I return to the foyer. Gripping the pistol in both hands, I carefully tread up the stairs, rainwater still dripping from my coat. As I glance down, I mentally kick myself for not noticing the trail of fresh blood spatters.

At the mezzanine, I nearly trip over a headless, black-suited corpse slouched against the engraved marble railing, a surrounding pool of blood soaked into the white carpet. Could be the guy I heard on the walkie-talkie. Dunno why Holland’s goons would suddenly turn traitor on his government protectors.

I follow the bloody trail down the right wing of the second floor, where several more empty rooms await. The old maid, Holland, and Katia are nowhere to be seen, but I do find two more dead agents, both decapitated.

Frustrated, on edge, I return to the central stairwell and head to the third floor. The spacious home gym on the left is empty. The high-ceilinged hallway on the right leads to a handful of rooms; I suspect Holland’s hiding behind the closed door at the end. But just as I step off the landing, I sense movement from the nearest room. I stop midstride just as Mary leaps out, screaming and slashing with her cleaver.

I stumble back and trip over the carpet, crashing to the floor. The woman cackles and dives at me, her blade extended forward. I manage to roll away, but as she lands, she swings her arm, slashing the cleaver across my face. Cursing, my eyes water as blood begins to drip from cuts on the cheek and bridge of my nose.

Still clutching the pistol, I scuttle away on my ass, trying to brace myself for a clean shot. While on the ground, Mary lunges forward again, teeth bared. Her blade sinks into the carpet, barely missing my groin. She raises her arm for another strike.

I steady my grip, aim at the maid’s crazed face, and pull the trigger. As the bullet slams into the spirit’s forehead, she erupts into scorching blue flame. Cinders fly everywhere as Mary thrashes in agony. Burning ash manages to get onto my trench coat, but the soaked fabric fails to ignite. Unfortunately, some debris lands on the carpeting and walls, where it starts to sizzle and smoke. I tear off my coat and try to smother the embers, but it doesn’t work. Within seconds, it starts consuming the walls.

As Mary dissolves in a shower of sparks, I hear a shout from down the hallway. Should I bail? Let the feds sort this disaster out?

No. Gotta see this through to the end. Nothing good’s waiting out there, anyway.

Leaving the fire behind, I run down the hallway and kick down the door, pistol at the ready.

Inside, the master bedroom is filled with a strange white mist. No dampness, no burning odor, oddly enough. Two open suitcases lie on top of the king-sized bed, one containing clothes and the other containing a few small bundles of cash and a large black leather-bound notebook.

A figure hunches in a wooden armchair next to the door to the bathroom, features obscured by the haze. The fog lifts as I cautiously approach.

Peter Holland.

The bastard’s not looking good. Hemorrhages stain the whites of his half-open eyes. Blood drips from both nostrils. His breathing is shallow and erratic. When he finally opens his mouth to speak, bloody foam dribbles out the sides.

“Falls ...” Holland coughs weakly, flecks of spittle flying from his lips.

“Where’s Katia? What have you done with her?” I seize him by his shirt lapels. His head lolls. I let go with a shove. He flops backward, gasping.

“She was just here ...” Holland points with a quivering finger at an open window as a flash of lightning briefly lights up the room. “Goddammit, Falls. All this ... for a woman.”

“She’s a client. Now, all I need to know is that she’s safe from your two-timing wife-beating ass and maybe I’ll let you off the hook.”

“You just believed her?” he mumbles.

“You denying it? I saw the scars.” The choking smell of burning timber reaches my nostrils. The fire’s right outside.

Holland’s mirthless laugh is cut short by another bout of coughing. “... worked with some real assholes. That’s why ... fucking feds need me. I’m their link to the Commies, the terrorists. Don’t you ... don’t you remember?”

“Remember? What the hell are you babbling about?”

He shakes his head. “Doesn’t matter now ... Falls, I never beat her. Hell ... not even married to the bitch.”

“Don’t lie, Holland.”

“No reason to ... about to die anyway. Too many familiars dead ... too little time. Was always ... risk.” He starts to slump forward, his chin dropping to his chest.

I slam him against the wall with a hand. Holland groans, his eyelids fluttering. “Where’s Katia?” I shout.

“Hah ... probably took the money and ran ...” The man gasps as a fresh surge of blood streams out his nose and mouth. “You want answers? Just ... that book ...”

“Book?”

“The suitcase ... you’ll see ...” The blood magician sighs deeply, and his eyes close. I release Holland from my grip. He slides out of the chair and collapses onto the floor.

I reach down to feel for a pulse in his neck. He’s gone.

The roar of the fire grabs my attention anew. Blue tongues of flame have devoured the bedroom door. Thick smoke is pouring inside.

I rush to the bed, grab the book, and flip through the pages. There are dozens of handwritten notes, names of summons, powers, contacts, locations, dates, sums of money in neat rows. Too much information to take in. Zombie, Sangria, Bloody Mary, Moscow Mule, Gimlet, Screwdriver, White Russian ...

I read the entry for the White Russian. Katia Belova. 3/8/1977. Pittsburgh, PA. Personal protection. Polymorph (fog).

No.

The inferno rages into the bedroom. Shoving the ledger into my back pocket, I dash across the room and hurl myself through the open window. Glass and wood shatter around me as I tumble awkwardly through the hole and plummet three stories. I smack into an awning, topple off the edge, and land hard on my shoulder and knee. I curse in pain as bones crack and joints dislocate.

Despite the agony, I manage to stay conscious and struggle to a sitting position. Beyond the gates to the estate, police cars, fire trucks, and ambulances have pulled up, blocking the road. Several FBI agents are cleaning up what looks like the scrap metal remains of the Moscow Mule. However, an eagle-eyed cop on the street--looks like Manny--spots me and rushes to get the attention of nearby feds.

Multiple dead agents. The FBI’s key contact to the Commies and the criminal underworld gone. A disappeared client, money unaccounted for.

Hell, I’d blame me.

No hesitation. I pull out the flask, the one labeled FOR ME. I unscrew the stopper and smear some of the wet blood from my face into the liquid inside, sloshing it around while muttering the summoning spell. With a flash of light, it appears.

Unlike most magical familiars, this one’s not even remotely humanoid. Two insectile eyes protrude over a dense mass of writhing green tentacles. Spiny, reptilian limbs click and scrape together. A scaly, serpentine body ends in a large scorpion-like stinger. A disgusting, noxious miasma surrounds the unholy nightmare. I can barely fight the urge to vomit.

The cops and agents notice the monster and start blasting away, not realizing that it can’t be hurt by non-magical weapons. I stare inside the now-empty flask as bullets ricochet around me. They shouldn’t worry. This backup plan’s just for me. For plausible deniability. For forgetting the woman who betrayed me.

I look up at my familiar. The Mind Eraser: one part vodka, one part coffee liqueur, one part lemon-lime soda. So close to the White Russian, yet so far.

Silently, I will it to do what it does best.