Sinners & Sorcerers: Four Urban Fantasy Thrillers (100 page)

It took about fifteen minutes of high-speed, life-or-death action before we’d shucked all the mice. Tabby only hit one pothole and somehow managed to avoid police detection. When we hit the hills above Fullerton, she finally pulled over.

The road we were on was not a major road, for it meandered through the back hills of Fullerton. To the right of us, just off the road, were big houses nestled behind gated fences. Spruces and pines were abundant here, and I figured that Fullerton was the rare city where a short drive could go from flat, mundane streets at ocean level to hills thick with trees and winding roads.

As I dismounted with trembling legs and tingling fingers, I noticed one remaining hitchhiker clinging to my jeans. He’d found the one place I couldn’t see while on the bike, and it was an area that, despite my fondness for it, had led to most of the troubles in my life. Its pointy little fangs seemed to be caught on the zipper tug.

“Uh, want me to remove that for you?” Tabby said.

I kept my cool because, though traffic was light, it was still Fullerton and people had business. And even in California, a guy on the side of the road frantically beating at his crotch still drew attention and aroused suspicion. A red BMW with tinted windows blew by going about twenty miles over the speed limit.

Tabby triggered the kickstand and came over. “Look at its ribs,” she said. “The poor thing’s starving.”

“Well, this poor thing, along with his buddies, tried to eat me alive—and you, too, I might add. And that’s no place to end a hunger strike.”

Tabby reached down and set a finger on its furry back, and I tried to think of a joke but just couldn’t. The mouse did not acknowledge the contact. Its stomach moved in and out quickly with each little breath.

“I think I know the nature of the curse,” said Tabby. “These mice weren’t conjured out of thin air by my grandmother. They were summoned, using some of her most powerful magic. This guy could have lived miles from here, but it was summoned nonetheless. In fact, there’s probably more on their way now, great floods of mice making their way to either you or your house, though I think it’s your house, since that seems to be the stipulation of the curse.”

“And so this mouse, along with the others, has not eaten since being, uh, summoned?” I asked, still acting calm as drivers passed who were oblivious to the demonic forces just a layer of denim away from my naughty bits.

“It’s in bad shape, as are many of the others.”

“Why doesn’t it eat, then, and leave me the fuck alone?”

“It can’t. Animals, with strong enough magic, can be taken control of. In fact, the smaller the animal, the easier to control, for their life-force, their vital energy, their soul is weaker, a mere glimmering compared to humans. A stronger soul, using magic, can always overcome a weaker one, and, as we have seen, command the weaker to do its bidding, as my grandmother has done here.”

As we spoke, the exhausted mouse barely moved, dangling there limply like a hunter’s pelt. “My greatest fear,” I said.

“No, I think that’s all bait and switch,” Tabby said. “Nana was a clever one. You thought your greatest fear was mice, and she gave you that, but she also knew more about you than she let on.”

“Wait a sec. You’re saying it gets worse than a furry little shit trying to dig its way into my pants?”

I followed Tabby’s gaze and looked down at the mouse. It was an awkward moment no matter how you spun it. The mouse’s nose was not twitching, and its scrawny ribs weren’t moving. It was dead.

“That might be a metaphor for your greatest fear,” Tabby said. “Magic is all about symbols, in case you hadn’t noticed.”

I turned and stepped over the guardrail. Tabby started to follow but I held up my hand. “A little privacy, please. Some things a man just has to do alone.”

With a gentleness that almost bordered on reverence, I cupped the mouse and wiggled it. My zipper went down an inch or so before the mouse came free. I laid it to rest in the tall grass, though I skipped any words of prayer for its eternal peace.

Tabby was on the phone when I got back, reciting an address in the hills north of Fullerton. I deduced it was the deeds office on the line. Maybe when all this blew over, I’d give up my insurance gig and become a detective. Assuming I survived.

When Tabby finished, I said, “Where did you get my keys?”

“From your pocket.”

I shot her my meanest glance. “When?”

“While you were asleep. Or passed out, whatever you prefer. I couldn’t take the chance that you’d freak out and make a run for it, take the easy way out like you always do.”

I thought of those strong, slender hands roaming over my body and I wasn’t sure whether I liked it or not. But for sure I didn’t like the accusation that I was going to let Gerda have her way with my son while I sat on a bar stool moaning about how badly the world had treated me.

Like you’ve spent the past ten months doing?

Sometimes you wish the voices in your head would just shut the hell up.

“You have an address?” I said, deftly changing the subject.

“Yeah, a ‘Louise Sanderson’ bought a cabin about 40 miles north of here two months ago. Remote but not totally off the map.”

“So we go there?”

“Yes, but we have another stop to make first.”

“Yeah?”

“Nana’s magic is strong. Very strong. We’re going to need some major mojo.”

My mouth fell open. “No. Please don’t tell me this gets even worse.”

She nodded. “I’m afraid so, Al. Worse, I suspect the mice are just a secondary curse.”

I seriously did not like the direction this conversation was going. “What the devil does that mean?”

“You’ve been cursed
twice
, Albert Shipway. I’m certain of it.”

“Okay, that’s just not a very nice thing to say.”

“Bait and switch. See, Amanda must have told Nana everything. And Nana figured out your greatest fear wasn’t just the mice, which she probably picked up from some offhand comment.”

I swallowed hard. “I swear, I don’t have any other phobias. Snakes on a plane, bring ‘em on. Spiders, I love the little guys. Dentists, I’m a big fan of laughing gas.”

Tabby almost grinned. Almost. “I think your greatest fear is having to face yourself. To look in the mirror and say, ‘Albert Shipway, you’re a sorry, selfish jerk who ruins everything he touches.’ Like you enjoyed tricking Amanda into falling in love with you while you were secretly married to a damaged woman. Like you knew you were cooking up all the plot ingredients for a Jerry Springer special, taking as much as you could get. Like you knew all this had to end badly, but somehow you’d come out looking like the victim, probably so you could cry on the shoulders of a few more women and have them fall into bed out of sympathy. While you laughed and drank and celebrated at the altar of the wicked little rodent between your legs.
That’s
what I think, Shipway.”

I didn’t dignify the accusation with a response. All I could do, after an awkward silence, was change the subject again. “So, where do we get this major mojo you were talking about?”

“Dada.”

“Huh?”

“Nana’s father.”

I did a quick calculation in my head. That would have put him well over the century mark, maybe up to 150 years. I didn’t think I was going to like this, but what choice did I have?

“Umm, we’re not going to have to summon him from beyond the grave or anything, are we?”

“Depends.”

“Great.” And here I was, thinking all I had to worry about was my wife mutilating my baby and mice treating me like a Thanksgiving turkey.

Tabby headed for the bike.

“Do I get to drive now?” I asked.

“No.”

We turned right off the twisting highway and into a tract of houses. The street was dark, for trees clustered thickly along both sides. I almost expected to hear the cry of a howling monkey, or see a lost Mayan temple rising from behind the thick trees. Instead, I saw huge houses of all shapes and sizes and ages, with gated yards and wild gardens.

Tabby wheeled the bike in front of an iron fence. The fence sealed off the entrance to a long, snaking driveway that disappeared under a canopy of trees. I could not even see the house from where we were, just spiky pines trees and billowy brush.

Tabby took her helmet off, and when a voice crackled over the intercom, I had to restrain myself from ordering a Big Mac Value Pack with extra ketchup. Apparently Tabby understood whatever-the-hell language was spoken over the intercom, and surprised me by answering back in the same jabberwocky. The next thing I knew, the iron gate had opened...so silently that I had not even been aware of it doing so.

As Tabby accelerated onto the property, I noticed a red BMW moving very slowly down the street on my right. My mind told me that this was the same BMW that had sped past me earlier, and my mind also told me that if this BMW had been in such a hurry earlier, then why was it crawling through the streets now? And though Fullerton had its share of BMWs, it seemed like too much of a coincidence, but I had other worries at the moment.

We drove on through the gate, seemingly down a private, winding interstate. We plunged under the canopy of trees and I felt like Ichabod Crane during his last trek through the dark woods of Sleepy Hollow. A bird suddenly squawked nearby—a fat crow—and I gripped Tabitha nervously. Or maybe I just liked squeezing up against her without mice between us.

The lane turned lazily to the right, and I kept my eyes glued to the translucent white cobblestones that seemed to glow with an inner light, my only guide through this dark little forest. And just like that, the brightness of the morning splashed the cobblestones before us, searing my eyes with morning light while the canopy of trees thinned and finally opened to the view of an impressive edifice. Colonial columns, lots of glass, white paint and black trim, all three stories’ worth.

“Some house,” I shouted over the bike. We followed the white cobblestone path as it circled a huge fountain of rather robust mermaids. “Reminds me of the goddamned White House. Who the hell lives here?”

“My great grandfather.”

I shivered a little—a good, funny shiver. “The Dada dude?”

“Yes.”

“This isn’t another one of those homes for retired witches and warlocks, is it?”

“No, it’s all Dada’s.”

She stopped the Harley near a cement path that led up a wide stairway, which, in turn, led between Colonial columns to the huge front doors. “Do I leave the bike here for Jeeves?”

“Very funny. His name is Rudolph, but he’s a butler, not a valet.”

“Rudolph the Butler. Sort of has a good, Christmassy ring to it.”

I held out my hand. Tabby frowned and then gave me my bike keys. I could tell we were starting to develop a level of trust. Or maybe she just didn’t want to waste time arguing.

I followed Tabby up the marble stairs. She pushed a good old-fashioned doorbell, which resulted in a deep, vibrating gong that seemed to emanate from the ground up.

The door opened and Rudolph the Butler appeared. He had a tissue in his hand, and he used it to swipe at his red, wet nose. Rudolph the red-nosed butler wasn’t feeling too good, obviously. However, when he realized it was Tabby standing in the doorway, he broke into a big grin and said, almost too excitedly and almost too unprofessionally: “A pleasure to see you again, madam.”

“Good to see you, too, Rudolph. Is Dada in his study?”

“He is, madam.”

“Is he...
with
us?”

I didn’t like the way she asked that question.

“Indeed, madam.”

“We’ll find our way, Rudolph. Thank you.”

The butler replied with something or other, but the words were garbled from under the tissue. We strode into the big, cool house in search of an ancient great-granddaddy who may or may not be dead.

The house was indeed massive. We moved passed a wide wooden staircase with an ornate newel post. The mahogany floors creaked beneath our feet. Portraits lined the walls, more Meads than you could shake a wand at, and there was even an odd sculpture at the end of the hall. It was shaped like a hand, but there were six fingers.