“If I hear anything that fits, I’ll let you know.”
“You bet you will. Because now that you’ve seen this, you’re working for me. In an unofficial manner, of course.”
“I’m confused again.”
Simms chuckled, but I couldn’t find the joke. “You’re in a position to sniff around in places we can’t. People will come to you, thinking you’re the guy with answers to the questions we don’t ask anymore. And…” She threw a look up to Richie “And we’re gonna get hamstringed on this one. Lance Niles was making a lot of friends before he died. One of those friends was Mayor Piston. I’ve already been told to report everything about this case to his office. In a few hours, they’re going to tell me to leave it alone and by tomorrow he’ll have his own dumb thugs on the streets breaking down doors. When that happens, I want to have a dumb thug of my own.”
“But why? The Mayor has kicked cases out of your hands plenty of times. You’ve never worried before.”
She leaned in, and there was something in her face I’ve never seen before. It bordered on embarrassment.
“Because this looks like magic, Fetch. I know it can’t be but, if it is, I want to hear about it first.”
I nodded. I had to. She couldn’t have looked more naked if her clothes were off.
“I can’t pay you,” she said. “But there will be a reward. You find the guy who did this, or information that leads us to him, and I’ll make sure you get compensated. But come to me first.”
It was a strange proposal. As earnest as Simms looked, I couldn’t forget the dozen times she’d put her boots into my ribs. Then again, I was desperately out of work and it wouldn’t hurt to have a couple of cops on my side. But those reasons didn’t even matter. I was as curious as she was. After what I’d seen, I wouldn’t be able to help myself. I’d be digging around town anyway. If Simms wanted to pay me to do it, I had no reason to stop her.
“Consider me in your service.”
We shook hands and her fingers trembled against mine. I had a dozen tired lines I could have used on her. The same things I told every desperate creature who came knocking on my door hoping I could make them whole again. On top of that, I could have opened her eyes to the fact that only an insane person would see salvation in the bloody face of a dead man. I could have told her a lot of things. But I didn’t. I nodded, got up, patted Richie on the back, and made my way out onto the street.
The cops outside watched me exit the building like they expected me to make some big announcement, but it was the same story we’d been hearing for six years: death is an ugly son of a bitch and he comes for us all in the end.
Simms was kidding herself. I couldn’t prove that now but I would set her straight when I found the killer. The Human, non-magical killer.
Solving this case could fill up my wallet, get Simms on my side and put a murderous man behind bars, but most of all it would show everyone that I wasn’t trying to make my living pretending that magic was still out there somewhere. There would be a reasonable, scientific explanation for this murder and I was going to deliver it right to their door.
4
I’d been avoiding The Ditch all winter. A few months ago, I got a whole group of Dwarves kicked out of their homes. In exchange, I was given the deed to a mansion with nothing in it but the frozen body of a long-dead Faery. It’s one of those choices that feels wrong every time I think about it but if you gave me another chance, I’d do the same thing again.
To make matters worse, the Dwarves were regulars at my favorite bar and I’d been too scared to show my face there since. They say that time heals all wounds, but that’s only if you sew them up first. Otherwise, when you come back, they’ll be septic, infected and angry.
I kept my head down as I entered and only spotted one of them. His name was Clangor. His red beard and unwashed hair were twisted into braids and he still wore his steel-worker’s uniform, even after years of unemployment. He was sitting at the bar, drinking the cheap dark ale that tasted like grease. He hadn’t seen me and I wanted to keep it that way so I turned left towards the back of the building where they kept the dartboards, payphone and booths.
The Ditch wasn’t warm anymore. Not without the fire. The patrons moved less than they used to. Laughed less. No dancing or folk music, just quiet customers drinking jars to block out the memories of better days.
The only noise came from Wentworth, one of the few Wizards who styled himself with a mustache but no beard. As usual, he was being a nuisance: leaning on one of the tables, yelling at a bunch of Banshees who, voiceless, had no way to tell him to shut up. My guess was that they were Boris’s family. Boris was the post-Coda bartender who’d bought the place cheap after Tatterman retired. He spotted me from behind the bar and his look said, I’m glad to see you, but you should probably get the hell out of here.
I didn’t like making trouble for Boris but I hoped that saving his family from Wentworth’s onslaught might buy me some favor. The Wizard was in the middle of a rant when I approached.
“… they’ll tell you it was an accident, but who really believes ’em? Not me, that’s for sure. A convenient bloody accident for them, I tell you what. Taking my powers away. Your voice. All those things that once put us above ’em. This was an attack, I tell you, and it ain’t over yet. We’re in the middle of a war but our side thinks it’s over so we’re laying down and letting them win. We need to wake up. We need to fight back with everything we’ve…”
The eyes of all the Banshees looked over his shoulder, up at me, and eventually he noticed.
“Hey, Wentworth. If you’ve got a moment, I’d love to ask your advice on something.”
Some people might be embarrassed, being caught out like that. Not old Wentworth. He scowled right into my eyes to let me know he didn’t care that I’d heard him talking about my kind.
“I could be persuaded,” he said.
Boris was watching me carefully so I signaled him to bring over two drinks. He knew our usuals, and Wentworth softened his scowl when he saw the glasses being filled.
“Come over to the corner,” I said. “I want to keep a low profile.”
“Oh, I bet you do.”
The family of Banshees nodded their heads in thanks once the Wizard had turned away. We got into the corner booth and our drinks arrived shortly after. Wentworth didn’t give me his attention until he’d had a good sip.
“So, young man,” he said, with froth falling from his wet mustache, “what brings you before me today?”
I looked down at the burnt milkwood that Boris had put in front of me.
“I want to know how magic worked. Back before it dried up.”
“It didn’t dry up, boy. Your lot cut it off.”
I’d learned a long time ago not to argue with Wentworth over anything. Especially when he was right.
“Yes, before it was cut off. I want to know how spell-casting worked. Specifically, the kind that could be weaponized.”
“Since you’ve had enough good judgment to come to the right source, I will give you the information you seek.” He took another large sip, happy to be asked to speak for a change. “There are three types of spells, each performed by a different category of caster. Sorcerers make up the first two classes. Those are Wizards – who are trained, and Mages – who are not. You can tell a Sorcerer by his white pupils, white hair and flamboyant fingers. Most Sorcerers were born to Human parents. Nobody ever proved how or why they happened. The best we could surmise was that atmospheric magic built up in the mother’s system and was passed on to the fetus before birth. Many twisted minds tried to force the process but, as far as I know, none succeeded.