Full Metal Magic: An Urban Fantasy Anthology Read online

  I started taking turns at random: a left on West Second followed by a quick right onto North Edna, my gaze constantly sweeping back and forth. Constantly searching for any indication of what in the holy hell had happened here.

  Each turn brought me further into town, offering me more views of the same quaint, rural neighborhoods. Creepy as hell. Like driving through a modern-day ghost town. I slowed the Camino to a crawl as I hooked a right onto Third Street and caught sight of red and blue police lights strobing ahead, tattooing the paneled siding of a ranch-style up on the left. The den window, looking into the home’s interior, had been shattered. Pieces of glass littered the lawn while the curtains fluttered in a soft breeze. The front door stood ajar, yawning like a mouth, and a suspicious patch of red decorated the front walk.

  The cruiser—a deep blue sedan with Valentine Police sprawled across the side in blocky letters—had mounted the curb, coming to a rest on the well-manicured front lawn. The driver-side door sat open, but there was no sign of the cop. No movement. No sound. Just the strobing light, whoosh-whoosh-whoosh-whoosh, washing over the house again and again and again.

  I kept right on rolling, not wanting to get out until I had a damn compelling reason to do so.

  Three blocks later, near the intersection of West Third and North Wood, I saw the kids.

  A bunch of ’em, ranging from scabby kneed preschoolers to surly eyed high schoolers. They loitered around a sprawling brick building—a looming sign labeled it as the Valentine K–12 School—the younger ones hanging from monkey bars or swinging on the playground, while the older ones milled around in small pods on the blacktop and the connecting field. A couple played basketball, a few listlessly kicked a soccer ball back and forth, most shuffled absently from foot to foot. Uniformly, though, they did everything in complete silence.

  No one talked or laughed, which was as downright unnatural as things got. Me? I’m not a big fan of kids—they’re loud and obnoxious, plus they reek of responsibility, which isn’t really my bag. But even I know kids well enough to say they don’t ever do anything in complete silence. Ever.

  Game was definitely afoot. Some kinda creepy-ass Children of the Corn game, which was no bueno and instantly set my teeth on edge.

  But, I’d already sorta committed to figuring out what in the hell was going on here, so against my better judgment I eased the car to a stop. A host of empty placid faces swiveled toward me, fixing on the Camino like a pack of uber-intelligent, rabid wolves. Dammit. With another sigh, I shifted the car into park, popped the door, and slid from the driver’s seat, stretching my weary legs with a groan. I peered over the roof at the kids and casually reached for the monster hand cannon tucked away in a shoulder rig beneath my leather jacket.

  I fingered the pistol grip for a moment, feeling the worn wood inscribed with runic symbols of power, then shook my head, deciding against it. Scary asshole kids were blastin’ out creepy vibes by the truckload—practically screaming I’m gonna murder you and turn your skin into a fleshy bathing suit through a megaphone. But, they were just kids. Kids clearly in need of intense psychological counseling and possibly an exorcism, but I couldn’t just start shooting indiscriminately. Not yet. Poor scabbed-knee bastards could actually be possessed, so it wouldn’t be smart to start fixing a potentially short-term problem with a cylinder full of long-term, irrevocable solutions.

  A pair of high school kids, a boy and a girl, promptly turned, regarding me through hazy, hooded eyes. The boy was your typical corn-fed, football-playing farmhand: big ol’ son of a bitch with sandy hair, thick shoulders, and a pristine letter jacket in blacks and reds. The girl, trailing just behind him, was a prom queen in the making—thin build, crisp cheerleader uniform, and shockingly blonde hair tied back in dual ponytails.

  “Nice town you got here,” I said with a lopsided grin, desperately working to beat down the slobbering-fear-badger clawing at my insides. “Don’t suppose one of you would mind pointing me in the direction of an adult. Any grown up really—cop, politician, your local grocery store bag boy. As long as they can vote I’m interested and if they can buy beer all the better.”

  Naturally, they said nothing, their blank faces hardening as they shuffled toward me, lethargic at first, but only for a moment. Before I knew it, the pair broke into a lurching run, eating up the distance between us. A flash of movement in my peripheries caught my attention—I wheeled in time to see more kids emerging from the houses across the street. They too were lurching my way, closing in with the hungry, coordinated movements of a hunting shark pack surrounding hapless prey.

  The kids were friggin’ rabid, but I wasn’t quite ready to put them down for keeps. Thankfully, I still had plenty of options aside from the ol’ hand cannon. I breathed out, clearing my mind, dispelling fear and worry, and opened myself to the Vis—the cosmic power underlying matter, existence, Creation—just waiting to be exploited by someone with the right talent. Like me. A mage. True, I’m basically a homeless, wandering degenerate, but I’m also a former wet-works man for the Guild of the Staff, which meant I had a thing or two up my sleeve.

  Time came to a herky-jerky crawl as energy flooded into me like a crashing tsunami. Heat and life filled me up, sharpening every sense, infusing my limbs with power and strength.

  Everything came to a grinding halt, slowing to half-speed, then to quarter-speed:

  The high schoolers barreling toward me seemed to hit a wall of invisible molasses; their movements slow, exaggerated. A glance back revealed a cadre of middle schoolers, most sporting jeans and collared T-shirts, headed for me. On instinct, on the level of subconscious thought, I thrust both hands out, conjuring a swirling cloud of silver fog, a force construct, which stretched and curled out in every direction.

  Time snapped back into full speed all at once, the tendrils of creeping power engulfing the kids closest to me, bands of raw energy smashing into ’em like some giant hand, swatting ’em away in a wave. Bodies flew into the air, scattering from the force of the blow. A few kids skipped over the grass—twisting, rolling, bouncing, skidding—while others flipped through the air, ass over teakettle. A flash of guilt poked at me, but I shoved it away. Kids were tough, I reminded myself. Maybe they’d have a few bruises come morning time—assuming they were human, which was no certain thing—but mostly they’d be fine. Probably. Possibly.

  Then, before they could gain their feet and force me to make a real fight of it, I shoved the Vis away, closing myself from the alluring power, and slipped back into the cab of the Camino. Definitely time to beat feet. I pulled the door shut with a thud, dropped ’er into gear, and slammed my foot down on the pedal. The Camino’s fat tires squealed, leaving rubber on the asphalt as the car rocketed forward.

  I stole a hasty look in the rearview mirror, relieved to see none of ’em were pursuing me.

  Nope, not following, but most were back on their feet, and all were staring at me with blank faces and empty eyes. Something flickered beneath the skin of the corn-fed jock in the letter jacket: a ripple of motion—waves washing over the surface of a pond. His hazy, distant eyes seemed to shift for a moment, blue irises giving way to golden eyes slit horizontally with a ribbon of black like a goat’s eye. That kid wasn’t a kid. I couldn’t be sure what the hell he actually was without knocking the holy crap out of him and dispelling his flesh-suit, but he sure as shit wasn’t human.

  Great. Perfect. Asstastic.

  I kept on straight, blasting through a couple of stop signs, eager to leave the satanic school behind, then swerved left onto North Main Street, rear end sliding into the turn—

  I mashed down on the brake a split second later, jerking the steering wheel left to avoid the line of cars running across the street in a makeshift roadblock of steel and glass. Dammit. On my left was an Ace Hardware store, on my right yet another beat-to-shit motel, but beyond that, on the other side of the car blockade, was the police station: a boxy two-story building of more red brick, with a marble face and wide doors. More ca
rs lined both sides of the street, and it looked like someone, or several someones, had fortified the station—turned the place into a friggin’ doomsday bunker. The door and windows were boarded over, and curled strands of razor wire cordoned off the walkway, leaving only a narrow gap that led to the door.

  Could be, I’d finally found the adults.

  Carefully, I threw the Camino into reverse, parking off to the side so some reckless yahoo, like me, for example, wouldn’t rear-end my baby. I slipped from the car, scanning the building for signs of life. Things looked quiet, but I’m an old hand and a former Marine—spent time in Okinawa with the 3rd Battalion 3rd Marines, then later did a stint over in Nam—so it didn’t take me long to catch the glint of a scope on the roof. The shooter was obviously in the prone, doing a damned good job of keeping hidden, but that scope told me everything I needed to know.

  Cautiously, I edged between the cars blocking the street and approached the building, hands raised, palms open—the universal symbol of surrender. I did, however, open myself to the Vis, drawing in a trickle of power, preparing the weaves for a quick and dirty friction shield just in case the guard on the roof got an itchy trigger finger.

  “Go ahead and stop right there, mister,” came a hard-edged voice as I neared the C-wire barrier. “I don’t fancy shootin’ you, but you better believe I’ll pull this trigger if you gimme cause. I fought in Phantom Fury—part of a sniper unit with Three-One. I could drop you at a thousand yards before you blink.”

  “Well, Semper Fi,” I said with a nod, “but there’s no reason to go and do something like that. I’m thinkin’ you and yours have some weird-ass shit hittin’ the fan around here, am I right?”

  He didn’t answer, but through my heightened senses, I heard him shift uncomfortably under my accusation.

  “Listen, bub,” I said, shooting for calm, friendly, “I think I can help you, but not if you turn my head into pink mist, you trackin’?”

  Another tense pause, followed by the squawk of a handheld radio. “Go ahead and lay on down,” he finally replied. “Get your face flat against the ground, hands up and visible. The sheriff’ll be out in a minute.”

  I complied, squatting, lowering myself onto my belly, scanning the door.

  A long squeak broke the tension as a woman, maybe mid-forties and trim, with a tangled swatch of golden hair, stole toward me, sidearm drawn and at the ready. She didn’t speak as she moved, instead she slipped over and cuffed me with a quick, practiced ease, before pulling me to my feet and leading me into the building’s interior.

  Silently, she guided me down a corridor lit by harsh sodium lights overhead, my black boots clacking on the linoleum flooring. We passed a receiving station, manned by a pair of overweight, forty-something men with flat tops and camo jackets. Beyond them were people—more adults packing the station. The douches at the desk regarded me with open hostility and made to get up, but the sheriff waved ’em off and pulled me into a tiny cubbyhole of a room with a single exit, an innocuous circular table, and a couple of padded office chairs.

  The sheriff lowered me into a seat, cranking up on my arms, situating them behind the chair, all without unlocking the fancy steel bracelets. With the kinda power I had at my disposal, a pair of cuffs wouldn’t deter me from breaking loose if I really wanted to, but I wasn’t here to pick a fight, so I kept my cool.

  The sheriff lowered herself into a seat adjacent to mine, letting out a long sigh as she scrutinized me, parceling me up, filing away every detail. She was older than I’d first pegged her, maybe fifty, with dimpled cheeks made for smiling and fine crow’s feet at the corners of her eyes. She looked tired, though, deep purple bags under gray eyes, frown lines creased into the skin by her mouth.

  “I’m Sheriff Copeman, Heather Copeman,” she offered. “My man up top says you might know something about what’s going on in our little slice of paradise. That so?” She leaned forward, elbows resting on her thighs, gaze intense and burrowing. “Or maybe,” she said, “you’re working with that shitheel, Piper. Come to try and push us into paying. Threaten us maybe?”

  “Look,” I replied with a shrug, “whatever’s ailing your town, I’m not a part of it, Sheriff. I swear. And I sure as shit don’t know who this Piper clown is. Never told your man I did. I said I think I might be able to help.”

  “Uh-huh.” She nodded, unconvinced, leaning back in her seat, folding her arms across her chest. “Since you’re not involved in any of this,” she said with a frown, “I’m wondering just how exactly you think you can help us. I don’t even know how I can help us, Mr. …” She paused, lips pursed in thought. “You know, I never did get a name from you. Care to fill that in for me?”

  I cleared my throat, shifting awkwardly in my seat. I had sort of a questionable relationship with the law due to some of my various assignments for the Guild. As a result, I was on a number of different watch lists, though generally I had no problem keeping my head down and my profile lower than dirt.

  I could’ve lied, but at this point I wasn’t sure it mattered. “Yancy Lazarus,” I said eventually, fidgeting in my seat, readjusting my ass in the squishy chair.

  “If I run your name, am I gonna find anything?” she asked, glowering at me.

  “Could be,” I said with a noncommittal nod, “but I’m thinkin’ you got bigger things to worry about—like that roving mob of bloodthirsty teens over by the school. The ones that have you hunkered down on DEFCON five.”

  “And what do you know about them?” she asked, focused as a laser.

  “I know they look like townies, but aren’t. They aren’t even human. Considering the level of paranoia on display here, I’m guessing they’ve probably done some spectacularly horrendous shit.”

  She stood, turned away from me, and started pacing back and forth, arms squeezing tight against her ribs. “Well, those are some awfully wild claims, Mr. Lazarus. Everything okay up here?” She reached up and tapped at her temple with one finger. “’Cause you sound a few cans short of a six-pack.”

  I snorted, then shook my head with a roll of my eyes. “Don’t give me that. You know it’s true—otherwise you’d never have a jarhead up on your roof, ready to blast a civilian in the face. That sorta reeks of desperation and fear.”

  “Fair enough,” she said, her feet still restlessly carrying her back and forth across the narrow room. “But you seem to know an awful lot for someone uninvolved. We’re pretty jumpy around here, so maybe you can shine some light on what you think you know and how you happen to know what you do.” She stopped abruptly, spinning, then slamming her hands down on the table. “Sound fair?”

  “I don’t think you’d believe me if I told you,” I replied with another shrug.

  “Mr. Lazarus,” she said, righting herself, “for the past week, this town has been cut off from the outside world. No radio traffic, no phone calls, no internet. Over the past week Valentine has seen twenty-three homicides—kids murdering their parents. Tearin’ them apart with their bare hands, then eating the remains. I saw a six-year-old bite through the carotid artery of her grandmother. Lapped up the blood like a goddamn cat. I’m past the point of disbelieving anything. Anything. So give me your best shot.”

  I smiled and with a whisper of will conjured a floating orb of flickering flame the size of a softball, which burned like my own personal sun. “Convinced?” I asked.

  She stared at the orb for a solid half minute, the light shining in her tired eyes, mouth slightly agape. “Holy Mary Mother of God. Okay, good enough for me,” she replied, reaching over and keying the radio at her shoulder. “Harlan, this is Copeman. I need you down in interrogation ASAP, over.”

  Sheriff Copeman loitered in the corner, legs crossed, one hand resting on the butt of her Glock, a permanent scowl etched into the lines of her face. She was cagey and understandably so, considering the circumstances.

  The guy across from me, Harlan—first name, not last—was exactly the opposite: easygoing, lots of friendly smiles, unflappable
nature. I’d been expecting a meathead, lots of muscles and tattoos, but Harlan was a short, unassuming man with a slight build, a balding head, and a clean-shaven face. A mousy fella wearing desert camo, his long barrel rifle resting against his leg while he sipped at a cup of coffee from a Styrofoam cup.

  “Piper,” he said tentatively, unsure how to begin, where to go. “Well, he came to us about two months back. A drifter. Real odd duck, though. Sorta thought he wasn’t right in the head.” He tapped at his noggin. “Gave me a bad feelin’ from the get-go.”

  “Can you give me any kind of description to work with?” I asked. “Small, tall, fat, skinny, giant pointy horns, or maybe a snake tail? Anything would be great.”

  Harlan canted his head, then gave a little shake. “Sorry. Fella had a real forgettable face. Pretty average—white, 5'5", brown hair, little pudgy around the gut. But I can’t remember him, not really. No one can.”

  I grunted. A glamour, probably. Only thing that’d explain it. “What’d this guy want? Did he threaten you in some way?”

  “No, no.” He waved one hand complacently through the air, brushing away my question. “He offered to help us. This fella, he came over to the mayor’s office, walked right in like he owned the place. I do security for the mayor—well, did before …” He trailed off. “Before his son ripped out his throat.” He looked down, avoiding my scrutiny. “Guess that don’t matter much now. Anyway, we had us a real bad drought this year.

  “The worst one I can ever remember. Farms were drying up. Crops dying. Then in comes this hobo, no offense meant”—he nodded at me—“says he could get rid of the drought. Had this little flute. He’d twirl it around and around. Said he could play a tune and end the drought.” Harlan snapped thin fingers. “Said he could end it just like that. But he wanted fifty thousand for his effort.