Swift (Strangetown Magic Book 1) (6 page)

Feet sticking to the floor like I was some kind of gecko, I made it to the bar and sat on my favorite stool, it's got my name on it and everything. The hard wood is so smooth you slide off unless you sit in exactly the right spot, so I took my time, wiggled my ample behind until I was assured of my safety, then put my elbows on the bar and rested my head in my hands.

My reflection in the dirty glass wasn't cheering me up as I looked exactly like someone who's house had fallen down, who'd been chased by a troll, watched a new friend squished, and had to cook lunch for an elf and a demon before starting her day's work.

"Pint please, Yuki," I mumbled, turning away from the image that depressed the hell out of me.

"Bad morning?"

"Sometimes it feels like a bad life."

"Different day, same old problems, eh?" Yuki drew my beer, perfect as always, then set it down gently in front of me. I took a sip and things felt a little better instantly.

"Yeah, something like that. Aah, that's good." The beer slid down easier than an eel on a slide, the temperature perfect, the dark liquid bitter and delightful. This is real beer, none of that mass produced crap you get in the new places. This is brewed locally, by professionals with pride in their work, and the bonus is it's damn cheap too.

I slipped a few coins onto the counter for Yuki. He scooped them up, flipping one into the air and catching it on a wrinkled and faded tattoo-heavy elbow—one of his party tricks.

Yuki smiled and carried on cleaning the bar. He's an odd one, been here for as long as I can remember, and apparently one of the first wave of Japanese immigrants to settle in the UK, way back when. Rumors go he was heavily into the Yakuza life right back when it was starting in the seventeenth century, and his ink, now so faded and smudged it's hard to tell what's what, seems to confirm this. Why he won't wear a damn t-shirt I don't now, but as long as I have known him he's been this wrinkly dude with a slender and toned body covered in more scars than should be possible if you are still breathing.

That's Japanese Yakuza wizards for you, I guess. Quirky in his old age, whatever that may be, but enduring. Timeless, and dangerous as hell if you ever try to mess with him.

He must be ancient, like thousands of years ancient, so how he got embroiled in gangster life after so long is a mystery, but for him to look like he does, and to be so powerful with magic, means he's a proper old-timer. This magic we have, that we have gained access to, it doesn't stop you aging totally, but it sure as hell slows down the process. Not immortality, but as close to it as you can get.

I know for sure he was around before the birth of Christ. I've heard the stories of the man, and his tales of the world, but as for his past, for the details, the reasons why he is here, why he refuses to cover the signs of his life, he won't say.

In other words, he's just another magic user with a past, same as us all. We all have tales to tell.

I like him. He's nice, and he is one hell of a fighter.

Once, years ago, somebody decided to try to argue with him, saying the beer was bad. This guy was huge, a proper barbarian, and yes, I mean literally. Club, plaited beard, the lot, and he grabbed Yuki and yanked him over the bar.

Yuki sort of went ape-shit on the guy. He beat him half to death in a frenzy of fists and kicks and didn't even bother to use magic, just old skool art of fighting like I've never seen. I asked him to teach me but he refused, saying he didn't fight any more, and besides, he had a pub to run.

Musings over, I realized I'd drunk half my beer without doing what I'd come here to do. Time to get busy. The sooner I got on the job the sooner it would be over. Was I losing it? My edge, what made me such a good Justice?

No, I was just tired, needed a rest, a sleep. Like for maybe a few decades and when I woke up everything would be back to normal, how it was before the Rift, but that really was just wishful thinking. And anyway, Zeno would be gone then, Mack too, although I did prefer him as a dormouse to a home destroying demon.

Draining my beer, I put down the ancient glass and fished out my phone. I got the email up with the details of the job and read it through again. Damn this new technology, things were much easier when you had a proper piece of paper, a real live person giving you the info. That's progress for you.

Time to get to work.

I caught Yuki's eye and he glided over, raising a brittle white eyebrow. I turned the phone around so he could see the picture I'd been sent. "You know him?" He nodded. "He a good guy?" A shrug of the shoulders. "He hardcore or just playing?"

"He hardcore. Totally immersed."

"Thought so. Shame. I gonna have trouble with him?"

"Lots."

"Thanks." Yuki Ye nodded and went to serve one of the ghosts that refuse to move on—the beer is that good.

So, as I'd assumed by the tone of the email and the look of the guy in the picture, this would be a messy as hell Justice job. He wouldn't submit easily, so this would be no picnic, but it never is. It always sucks and it always makes you feel alive like nothing else.

Time for battle.

I just had to pee first. The beer always goes through me faster than Yuki can take your money.

To the Streets

The city was quiet outside the pub. Ye's is only a few minutes from the heart of the city, the shopping district, a main high street with endless small alleys weaving around the hill and down to the parkland and the river, but it's quiet, set back from the hustle and bustle. The lack of traffic noise was still disconcerting after months of clean air.

It's not until you listen to the city that you realize what's missing, but it's the roar of engines, the beeping of horns, the squealing of tires. It was just background noise, nothing you noticed until it was gone. Now it's as if the city is sleeping, taking a break from the chaos even though it's never been as crazy as it is now.

The narrow alley was empty, peaceful and welcome after the mad morning. The beer had dulled my senses somewhat so, with regret, I let a little magic rise and felt it hit my brain like an ice bath. Foggy thoughts were replaced with clarity and my energy boosted, a hit I am always grateful for but one I knew would leave me needing to eat soon.

Leaning against ancient brickwork, I studied the image of the man on my phone. He had a square, yet long head, thin lips, jaw like granite, thick stubble and the most piercing blue eyes I think I have ever seen. They were cold, heartless, and arrogant. He looked haunted. His hair was a regular brown, hanging halfway down his back, nothing special, neck thick and bunched with muscle just like the rest of him. He was like a troll in miniature, meaning he was massive and looked like he layered muscle onto his body for a living.

Pumi-Sopa Fialkowski, just Pumi to all that knew him, or knew of him. Meaning everyone Strange. For all its integration, those of us deemed Strange are still miles apart from everyday folk. It's a cloistered world in many regards, and we are as much to blame as anyone else. We stick together, each mixing with our own kind, living close by, sometimes many in the same building, and we have our own rules and regulations. But we know of each other, know who is in charge of each group of those involved in magic.

Things may have become a little confused to put it mildly since the Rift, and there has certainly been a lot more trouble, but Strange know their own world, and Pumi was legendary. Yuki had confirmed what I'd heard about him, so it was worth coming, plus the beer was great, of course.

Pumi's a straight up, honest-to-goodness gladiator. Yes, like seriously. A proper, I fought to the death in the ancient Roman arenas and killed and killed and battled tigers and lions and men with nothing left to lose with spears and swords and knives and shields until I won my freedom, that type of gladiator.

And he is sexy as hell and utterly terrifying.

Pumi is also a monster. That should probably be a capital M, but hey, that's not how we talk about ourselves. I'm not a Witch, I'm a witch, and Pumi, he probably deserves to be called Monster, but that would give him too much credit.

He's a monster, meaning exactly that. Otherwise known as a shifter, shape-shifter, changeling, whatever you want to call it. A genuine monster is what I call it and so does everyone else because he is an aberration and feared like no other human being. His type is as rare as a dwarf giving away gold, and he is out of the loop, a loner, neither part of a faction, group, or clique. He is who he is. Unique, a man beyond Alpha who can shift into that which is the form he was born with, from a long line of others just like him. They are far superior to the rest of the shifter communities and so much more powerful it isn't even funny.

He can shift at will, physically or just his inner state, and I have never heard of anyone that has seen him turn into the monster and survive. He earned his freedom by channeling this monster in the gladiatorial ring and triumphing, but now there is no need for him to hide what he is and he is known by us all.

Weird thing is, I'd never known him to cause any trouble. Ever. He kept to himself, a real loner, but a job is a job and if what I'd been told was true then it was time to go get him and deal with him.

Um, yeah. Yikes.

In Search of a Monster

Not long after Strange allowed themselves to be known by the world at large, the shifter communities had an epiphany. They decided to get along. It took time, and it sure as hell kept me busy, but they finally put aside old squabbles, old grudges that meant they fought each other even though they no longer knew why, and they organized, built something real. They are all the better for it.

Even the Rift changed little for them, apart from increasing dramatically their trade in animal skins and the new clothes they began producing that the new Strange took a shine to.

Most shifters moved to a single area in the city, buying up cheap housing in neighborhoods that were always seen as dangerous and poverty-stricken, giving the homeowners a way out and them a way in. This wasn't them shunning outside society, it was how they gave themselves employment and a sense of community—it's no easy thing to hold down a regular job when you could turn into a lion and eat the other telemarketers, or a horse and all your workmates take the piss and jump on your back, yelling giddy-up.

So they got serious and sorted themselves out. Shifter home turf is beautiful, an incredible achievement right in the heart of the city, surrounded by the endless maze of Victorian, red brick terraced houses and their generous gardens. You can smell it a mile away, a curious mix of farmland odors and from spring to late summer the perfume of the gardens—it was like a welcome friend amid the dirt and the stink of fumes.

Now, without the sullied air, the fragrances are almost overpowering in their intensity. With the cars gone the flowers perfume the air with a scent out of this world.

More shifters are spread throughout the country, but they seem to congregate here. I guess that's the draw of magic and of your own kind—it's always better to feel persecuted in company than alone.

They live in the crescent, each house a semi-detached. The gardens behind are about a hundred feet long, but part of the deal is that nobody encloses the rear of their property, just the front. The result is a massive sweeping expanse of land used to grow crops, house animals, butcher, make clothes, process skins and anything else they can think of to be as self-sufficient as possible—with the current explosion in population they are doing damn fine business.

Without knowing where Pumi lived, this seemed like as good a place as any to start the search. Breathing deep of the perfumed air, I wandered around the whole of the crescent on the road side, admiring the floral displays in the small front gardens, each home immaculate, windows sparkling, not a weed in sight, cars parked up, no longer used.

I nodded at familiar faces, smiled and waved, acting casual and trying not to get angry at the frowns some greeted me with. After all, I was a Justice on their territory and usually that meant only one thing—one of them was in serious trouble. Knowing I would end up in trouble myself if I didn't get down to business, I stepped across a cattle grid and entered the weird farm.

And nearly immediately got trampled by a bloody huge bull.

"Whoa there, Bruce," yelled Tantus Crane, a scrawny guy in his early forties, all wiry muscle and rosy farm cheeks. He's also a goat shifter, which I'd be a bit down about but I don't think I've ever seen him without a smile on his face. Better than taking it personally, I guess.

Tantus wasn't meant to be in this part of the farm, but I guess when you have a job to do like catch a wayward bull then the rules go out the window.

"Hey, Tantus, keeping you busy is he?"

"Ugh, you can say that again. Bloody thing got horny and has been wreaking havoc. Randy bugger aren't you, eh?" Tantus tugged affectionately on the rope attached to the ring through the bull's nose and it snorted in reply.

"Guess the warm weather is stirring up the juices. Look, you seen Faith? I need a chat with her." The bull was really freaking me out, and he kept looking at me funny. Tantus too, but I was used to his leers.

"Sure, she's tending the tomatoes. You know where that is?"

"Yeah, I know. Thanks." I got out of there before Tantus could say anything else. He liked to chat but I wasn't in the mood and didn't want to waste any more time now I was in Justice mode and on the case.

Skirting the vegetable plots, past miniature fields of crops I should know the names of but didn't, a walk through the apple orchard and I was at the large polytunnel where the tomatoes were grown.

I stood in the entrance, watching Faith at work. She wore a simple green vest that showed off her tanned arms and highlighted hair the color of the straw bales piled up outside. She is slightly overweight, meaning she is curvy in all the right places, has pendulous breasts that act like they are trying to escape and go off on an adventure, and a bum she can hardly contain in her clothes. Pretty and wobbly, bouncing like two puppies under the covers.