Full Metal Magic: An Urban Fantasy Anthology Read online

  Rachel posed next to me, standing sideways, hands on hips, head tilted. Her black-lipstick smirk said all she was going to, as if that was enough.

  "She's with me," I offered.

  "Talent?" came the gruff request.

  "Don't I get a plus one?"

  "This ain't no wedding."

  I snorted. An underground magic club that didn't allow dates. Maybe they were serious after all. Maybe that meant I didn't have to dance. Lucky me.

  The bouncer waited. The line behind us shuffled impatiently.

  The dead pigeon was nothing. Now for the real trick. Misdirection.

  My date lifted her arm and spread her fingers. She turned her wrist so the streetlight hit the back of her hand. In her shadowed palm, a tendril of darkness snaked and swirled.

  The bouncer lifted his eyebrows again, not out of contempt or skepticism or any of a number of passive-aggressive expressions people use to display superiority. This time the romanticized security guard was curious. Confused even.

  He was so confused he didn't realize it was my magic he was clocking like a hawk. Rachel didn't have any of her own, but I wasn't a one-trick pony so I lent her some of mine.

  The magical slither of shadow wiggled in her palm like a sixth finger. Then it stretched and reached out for the bouncer.

  "That's enough," he said, backing away from the ghostly appendage. He unhooked the velvet rope and gave us a wide berth as we went inside.

  "Stop," pleaded Rachel. "Stop. I don't like this anymore."

  The blindfold pressed tight against her temples. It hurt. A kind of indirect pain. Not through force but loss of circulation. A strangling claustrophobia. The final realization of a rat caught in a trap.

  "Please," she said. "This isn't funny." The haze of the drugs left her voice hollow, but she begged anyway. "I want this to stop."

  Music was the first thing that greeted us. Soft and distant. Then mustiness. The smell of alcohol forever married to the carpet. A corridor led to a cramped entry hall. Nothing too fancy. A few couches. Two bathroom lines. Another bouncer kept watch on the sparse club goers, but they were too exhausted or too out of it to cause trouble.

  Rachel and I pressed deeper through double doors until the muffled electronica and square footage exploded into a blaring dance hall. We stood on a raised platform of lounge seating that skirted the room. Wet bars flanked both walls. A few steps below, a mass of people rocked to the DJ's beats on the unfinished cement floor.

  I wasn't good at these places. Where to start?

  Rachel didn't delay. She marched straight into the chaos without thinking, shoving through. I eyed the crowd full of rambunctious energy, as eclectic as you'd imagine. And definitely dancing.

  "Great," I muttered and went in after her.

  Every trade has real players and wannabes. Those that got it and those that don't. Spellcraft is no different. It's a vocation that seventy-five percent of the civilized world no longer believes in. Even among the believers, only a small fraction has any ability at all. That makes it a narcissistic pursuit. People slide a penny across a table with magic and suddenly think they're special. Walking god complexes. At the very least, they think they've got it figured out. The truth is they're often more lost and disenfranchised than everybody else.

  Navigating the throng only confirmed my suspicions. It couldn't be denied these were real animists, tappers of the spirits, channelers of the patrons. This was an exclusive playground after all. They'd each shown a talent to gain entry. But these partiers were more infatuated with the idea of slinging spells than doing anything tangible with their spellcraft. The crowd reeked of overcompensation. You could tell by the way they wore their power on their sleeves.

  Lots of black clothes and gemstones. Jewelry with stars and moons. Hot topic witches. Tribal ink for the shamans. Finger bones. Taxidermy frogs. No joke, I even saw a few wands. Granted, this is coming from a guy who wears a giant skull-and-pentacle belt buckle, but it looked like a Halloween party in here.

  And maybe that's all this was. A party. A safe place for fledgling animists to gather, away from the prying eyes of the oblivious majority. Simple unadulterated fun. I couldn't find fault with that, even if I had no idea what fun was anymore.

  Rachel and I weaved through the theatrics and made for the far side of the club. Some dude did an about-face when she squeezed by him.

  "Hold up there," he said, grabbing her hand. He held her delicate fingers, black-painted polish, and checked her out with a confident smile. "You look like you're itching to dance."

  I rolled my eyes as I approached.

  She yanked back her arm coldly. Not a word, though. She just watched him through sunglasses with a smirk.

  "Aw, don't be like that," said the guy.

  He was Salvadoran, probably. Tanned skin, black fauxhawk, a gold watch and a heavy chain. He sidled closer to Rachel.

  "At least let me buy you a drink."

  She was consistent. Instead of saying anything, she turned around and started away. To me, that was answer enough. Our friend didn't think so. He spun her around by the shoulder.

  "Hey. Don't do me like that, bitch."

  No smirk now. Rachel considered him passively, without emotion.

  With typical Cisco Suarez timing, I slid between Romeo and Juliet. "Relax, buddy. She's with me."

  Firm but not aggressive. I was getting ready to chalk it up as another crisis averted when the dude-bro opened his mouth.

  "She's still a bitch," he said.

  What did I tell you about overcompensating?

  The Salvadoran was my size, a bit over six feet and well muscled. A jean jacket with cut-off arms showed his tribal tattoos to anyone half paying attention. There were too many swirling stage lights overhead for a proper inspection, but I figured his ink for enchanted. Nothing to be concerned about.

  The bigger issue was that my success tonight hinged on being incognito. I didn't wanna tear ass on the first chump who talked tough. I couldn't exactly back down either. Just in case someone important was watching, I had to let them know I was the real thing.

  "You've made your point," I told him, fire in my voice. "No reason to keep making it."

  The wannabe shaman considered me. Like I said, I didn't look like an easy target, but he didn't look like someone who made wise life choices. He flexed.

  "What about you?" he challenged. "You got a problem?"

  "Not a big one," I answered.

  He flashed open his jacket. Strapped to his chest was a two-inch throwing knife. The Salvadoran showed a set of crooked teeth. Gold there too, engraved with the words "Step Back." Might as well have said "Douche Bag."

  Rachel stood behind me, watching intently. I could feel the tension in her, ready to spring at a moment's notice. Me? I released a long sigh and put on like I was in my fifth hour of a calculus lecture.

  The Salvadoran's gaze strayed to either side of us. Looking for his friends. That was his second mistake. It showed weakness. He was probably affiliated with a small-time street crew. Used to having backup. Thugs like him were a dime a dozen. The problem was there were a dozen of them. Scared most people shitless. But he was isolated now. None of his buddies stepped up to intimidate me.

  What's that? Oh, the first mistake he made? Forgot to mention that. His first mistake was stepping up to me to begin with.

  Before you see someone fight, it's hard to know what they're capable of. A place like this especially. But this guy was counting on that. All bark and no bite. He was used to his prison swagger being enough of a deterrent to back people down. Not enough for me, though. Cisco Suarez was the unflappable model of serenity.

  "Okay, bro," he said. "I get it. She don't wanna dance, but you do."

  The gangbanger lifted his hand between us. At first I thought he was going for the knife. If he had, I would've shut him down before he got that far. Instead, he held up an open palm, fingers curled. What did I tell you? No balls.

  With a sizzle of spellcraft, the kn
ife appeared in his grip. The tip of the short blade rested against my stomach.

  Eat your words, Cisco. Had to give it to him. It was a curious trick. Only thing to do was double down on my initial read.

  "Watch it," I warned. "That's a new shirt."

  His eyes flared. I wasn't supposed to keep talking. I was supposed to shut that smart mouth and scurry away like a dog who'd been smacked on the nose with a rolled-up newspaper. Once again the Salvadoran had advanced an arms race he didn't want to win.

  He watched me with hard eyes, grinding his teeth, wondering who the fuck I was. I let him wonder. At this point, he was his own worst enemy. Anything he imagined was worse than what I'd actually do to the chump, so I let him grind on the possibilities for a while.

  Eventually, it was time to put this little charade to an end. I set my jaw. "Either stab me or walk away. It's your move."

  Talk about tough, right? This could've been the story of how Cisco Suarez got stabbed on a fake date in a fake club. Instead the gangbanger lost his nerve. He hissed and disappeared into the crowd.

  I glanced over to Rachel. "You really can pick them, can't you?"

  She didn't say anything. Then again, she wouldn't.

  "Okay," I sighed. "Lead the way."

  The men forced Rachel to the floor. She couldn't see anything. Maybe this was all a bad dream, but she knew better.

  "Please, Derek. Why are you doing this?"

  Rachel curled her body into a fetal position as groping hands knotted her wrists and ankles with rope. Her arms were pulled at opposite sides, straight away from her body. On her back, she whimpered as they spread her legs apart. She was utterly helpless.

  A sudden tug ripped her blouse away. Her back was cold against the raw concrete. Tears filled her eyes as she heard the others. Their reverent murmurs. Their breath on her skin.

  I trailed Rachel off the crowded dance floor, past the bar, and out to the back patio. She was single-minded now. As was I.

  I know a thing or two about revenge. That served-cold bullshit is just a rationalization for people who watch the years pass without getting theirs. I'd lost years myself. Wished I could get them back. But I, at least, knew how to handle payback. Not Rachel. She was out of time.

  The outside patio was concrete, broken up by strips of manicured grass and potted palm trees. A few Tiki torches lined the outer path, but most of the light came from crisscrossing cables strung overhead. The orange light of Edison bulbs warmed the amply cushioned wicker furniture beneath. A wooden fence connected the adjacent buildings to enclose the property. Nestled in the corner, another DJ spun chill-out beats. Beside him was a small outdoor bar with a single bartender. That was where Rachel hiked.

  She positioned herself at the end of the bar. Out of the way. Unassuming. She leaned her back against the bar top, elbows resting, and turned her head to me so she faced the main yard. I squeezed between a small gathering at the front and considered her.

  Beneath the raised hood, behind the large sunglasses, was a face I didn't want to think about. Pretty. The shades didn't suit her. Made her look standoffish. Then again, that's exactly what we needed right now.

  The bartender slid me a menu, a yellowed paper clipped to leather backing. The small bar didn't have beer or other alcoholic staples. It was an experimental craft cocktail bar. Maple mojitos. Drinks with genever and muddled guava. Stuff like that.

  I was more interested in the bartender though. White guy with a five-inch orange goatee, a few beads knotting its length. He had tattoos too. Color strips running up both arms. I didn't think I needed to worry since they were Simpsons characters, but you never know.

  "What'll you have?" he asked.

  I slid the leather toward him. "What I want isn't on the menu."

  He quirked his lips. "That right?"

  I nodded at the side of the building behind him. Behind Rachel. A reinforced steel door was set in an alcove behind a row of potted plants. Black lacquered. Nearly invisible from the main floor. For anyone that did see it, it was just another sealed-off vestige of Downtown Miami history.

  "I want past the black door," I said.

  The black door. It's a heavy-handed metaphor for the unknown, what some call the hidden world of spellcraft. A menacing barrier, locked to most, keeping prying eyes from the business of the magically inclined. Most of the world lives outside the black door, safe from its confines. Safe from the truth. Those that venture past it are forever changed.

  I was done changing, but I needed the truths behind this particular door.

  The bartender was smooth. He didn't even look. "That door's locked," he said. "It's not part of the club. A different property." He picked up a rag and casually wiped the bar top.

  "I'm looking for Derek," I said plainly.

  That got the reaction I was looking for. A pause. Cold consideration. With a single name, I was no longer a nosy drunk. I was a situation. An interloper.

  A loose end.

  A bird flapped overhead, landing hard on the string of lights above. The sway of the cable made the orange glow play across our faces with menacing implications.

  The bartender narrowed his eyes. "Who?"

  The bird croaked. I slanted my eyes upward. A warning.

  Normally I'd close my eyes and see what my thrall saw, but it no longer had eyes. I turned to the main floor and peeked through the gathering at the bar. The Salvadoran was back, barging through the patio with a sneer, four of his gangbanger buddies in tow. He scoured over the crowd, looking for me.

  "Hey, buddy," repeated the bartender. "How do you know Derek?"

  I wrapped the blindfold around my fist. Red, but no longer bright. Silk, but no longer smooth. As I squeezed it, dried blood flaked away. The memory of its fetid dampness around my skin made me shudder.

  I held the cloth up to the bartender. "I have something Derek wants."

  Sometimes blindfolds are just blindfolds. Not always, though. Animists wear blindfolds when they seek a special kind of sight, a special kind of knowledge. That's what I had done. But this was Rachel's blindfold. I wasn't sure if that meant anything. I didn't know its purpose before I'd reclaimed it.

  Admittedly, I have a tendency to overthink things. Sometimes blindfolds are just plain, old-fashioned blindfolds.

  The bartender's eyes fell on the silk and stuck there. He knew exactly what this had been used for. I wanted to pummel him. Demand answers. But unless he was Derek, I had to play along for a while.

  He laughed and said, "I don't know what that is." Insincere. Didn't project nearly as much confidence as he'd hoped.

  "It's not just the blindfold. I have a girl, too." Again I nodded toward the black door. The bartender's eyes fell on Rachel waiting beside it, her head tilted back and to the side, clocking us. The black lipstick framed a bold smile against her pale skin. She was ready, said her expression. She was game.

  "Who is she?" he asked.

  "She's no one," I answered with a devilish smile. "No one's better than someone."

  The bartender chewed his lip before nodding slowly. "Okay," he said. "You want to play in the Underground? That's on you. But if Derek doesn't like you, you'll never see sunlight again."

  I took a cue from Rachel and smirked. This guy was real cute. If only he knew I lived in the shadow. "Everyone likes me," I said.

  He shrugged. "I warned you, man."

  The bartender walked around the bar and banged against the metal. Two slow raps and two fast ones. Rachel and I hunched close. There was a faint design on the door. Two red spots painted over the black lacquer. Two widened ovals, like eyes filled with the wonder of another world.

  "Hey!" yelled a voice behind us. The Salvadoran spun me around by the shoulder. His knife was in his hand again. "What was that you said about making my move?"

  He sucked his gold teeth threateningly. His crew surrounded us against the building. They were hastily armed with bottles and brass knuckles.

  I clenched my fist, feeling the spiked dog collar
tingle on my wrist as I tapped my spellcraft. A mass of blackness bit at my hand like flames.

  Behind me, the black door squeaked open. The gangbangers all tensed in surprise, five heads swiveling in unison at the sound. They murmured and shuffled nervously. The Salvadoran in my face quivered, another surge of adrenaline blasting through his body. He must have been pissing himself again over what he'd gotten into. Backup included, they all shied away as a unit from the open black door.

  "So that's why they call you Step Back," I mocked. His lips twitched closed to cover the gold-toothed inscription, but he didn't remove his eyes from the black door. "Aren't you guys supposed to be at the little kid's table?" I was feeling pretty good about beating the Salvadoran at his swagger game until I felt the presence at my back and flinched.

  Another bouncer. Another doorman. Except this door's very presence spooked hardened thugs. This giant was a whole foot taller than me. Had the height of a basketball player but a heavier frame. It was a safe bet this guy couldn't jump for much, but anybody with two eyes saw he was a fighter.

  "Trouble?" he asked in a light, scratchy voice.

  The Salvadoran opened his mouth nervously. He spun around to see his buddies had left him. Instead of mustering the courage to speak, he sprinted back indoors.

  Smart move. I got the feeling I should do the same.

  "This guy wants to see Derek," reported the bartender. "Says he has a girl."

  I nodded boldly, going for unfazed.

  The giant motioned his arm to the open doorway. Chipped stairs descended into darkness. Rachel impatiently entered and I followed.

  "Watch out," added the bartender with a snort. "I don't trust them."

  I flashed the bartender a scowl but the giant stepped between us. He ducked through the doorway and pulled the black door shut with a bang, cutting off the source of light. Three locks clicked and the bouncer said, "Welcome to the Underground."

  Rachel pulled against her bindings. "Derek, I'm scared."

  She was sure what would happen next. She almost didn't care anymore. Not about herself, anyway.