The Necromancer's Gambit: The Spy
Nicolas Wilson
Knight’s got his hand inside Castle, and he’s about to catch fire; I feel bad for the kid. Not bad enough to take his place up Castle’s ass- or even ride shotgun with him- but that doesn’t mean I can’t empathize.
Then he’s gone, and we’re left with the smell of burnt ass; I hate teleporting. Knight’s phone goes off, and Rook holds it like it’s a baby pissing on her arm. Bishop takes the phone and tries to pawn it off on me, and I look at the caller ID, which says, ‘VC’. “I don’t talk to vampires,” I tell her, which ain’t strictly true. But I don’t talk to their officials, at least. So she lets it go to voice mail.
Then my phone goes off and I think, for a second the vamps have forgotten what happened the last time they called me. But the ID says it’s unknown, and I’m a sucker for mystery. I step out of the room. “This is Pawn.”
“Hello. I’m new in town. I’m told you’re the proper authority to consult.” It’s a man on the other end, western European accent.
“Most days.”
“I am a hunter. From the order of San Michele. I am named Michaelangelo.”
“What can I do you for, Mike?” He heaves a sigh in a pussy Frenchman sort of way and takes it on the arches. “The prey I am hunting is an upir warlock.”
“Now you know that’s normally a pretty foul word in mage circles; people get upset when you call them liars.”
“But he is upir- bound by oath not to practice magic. And he does. So he is an oath breaker.”
“So? You want the number for the VC? I got problems all my own, here.”
“He is related to your problems. He was one of the men who attacked your Castle.”
“Now that is interesting. So where do I find the little sucker?”
“You find him with me.” That stinks to high heaven. Part of our treaty with the vamps is we don’t help hunters. But without him, I don’t know this biter from the rest in the city, and that’s a lot of rocks to turn over.
“What’s in it for you?”
“I came here for him. So this solution is two-fold. You get your conspirator, and are rid of him, in one fell swoop.”
“Okay. But we meet some place public- Saint Mary’s Cathedral. And you bring so much as a pigsticker I’ll be sure Satan has you for a condom before the next Sabbath.”
“I require my tools.”
“Bring all the stakes and garlic sauce as you want. But you bring a man to man weapon and I’ll feed it to you. Them’s my terms. You don’t like em I can send you skipping back across the pond.”
“Your terms are acceptable.”
I poke my head in on Rook and Bishop just long enough to snag Knight’s phone. I only need one guess to know what had the VC’s feathers ruffled. The Order of San Michele is infamous in the same way as the Cosa Nostra- especially in vamp circles.
When Italy was under the control of Napoleon, it was decreed burial on the mainland was unsanitary. So they started dumping bodies on the Isola di San Michele, which came to be called the Isle of the Dead- just outside Venice. Giuseppe Garibaldi, you can think of him as the Italian George Washington, laid siege to the city in the 1860s. Garibaldi had a necromancer in his army, who cast the mother of all raising the dead spells. But San Michele is an island, and getting the corpse army into Venice proper proved more difficult than anybody thought. In the meantime the only living inhabitants on the Island, a small order of monks, were besieged, and almost wiped out. What was left became extremists with a hard on for killing the undead; the meanest hunters in the world come off San Michele.
The Church has its own hunters and antimages, but they tend to be more low key- you know, that whole hate the sin and not the sinner bullshit. But the Order doesn’t have any kind of official sanction from the Holy See; ain’t been slapped down, either, for what that’s worth. But basically nobody likes them, and to boot they’re pompous. And not just regular religious pompous- Italian pompous. Only thing worse than that is French pompous- and even that’s usually a toss up.
I picked Saint Mary’s to piss him off, and he doesn’t disappoint me. He’s fuming, lurking by the pillars in the rear- but lurking so he’s obvious. I’m still not sure I buy he’s Order, but he’s got the regalia right, including the muted white and crimson color scheme. This one’s pretty, with full, long hair so luxuriant I want to tear a handful of it out. And he’s got the situational awareness of a preening peacock. I walk up behind him unnoticed without really trying.
“Hands on the pillar.” He grabs onto it like he’s giving the house of God a great big hug. I saunter to him, taking my sweet time. If his nerves are going to give out- or if I’m getting jumped- this is the moment. But he doesn’t budge, not until I start feeling his arms and sides for weapons.
“This is an affront to this holy place.” He wants to beat seven shades of hell out of my backside, but he’s not starting a fight in a church.
“Take it, Frenchie.”
“I’m Italian.”
“Yet the way me patting you down makes your buttocks quiver marks you distinctly as a Frenchie.”
“You’re a disgusting little man.”
“And you’re a disgusting taller man- the difference is I don’t hide my proclivities behind a veil of religious bullshit. You want to kill people, s’fine by my moral code. But drop the grade-school pretend, huh?”
I let him go, and he glares at me a moment, and he imagines murdering me a dozen times before he remember he’s in a church; he looks to the altar and crosses himself. “We must make haste. The upir may desert his nest.”
“And why would he do that? You spook him?” I shove him back against the pillar he stopped hugging. “And just why does a big strapping hunter such as yourself give a flying fuck what the pissant local constable might have to say about any of this?”
“Because my Order specializes in offensive magics. If the upir were in the open- out in the streets, I could triumph alone against his colony. But his home is protected, and those spells are, to say the minimum, not my forte.”
“So I’m your fucking locksmith? That’s flattering. But why do I doubt this neckchomper’s even my guy?” Because maybe he just needs somebody to pick a lock and I made for a convenient dupe.
“Because no one is talking about a spy against the gambit. No one except me.” Socialist fuck has a point, there.
“Okay. We’ll presume, for an instant, that I’m nibbling on what you’re putting out there, Jacques-”
“Michaelangelo.”
“Mike, then; for some reason I thought it rhymed with ‘cock.’ But assuming that, I need to beat information out of the fangy little bastard. Which is not very conducive to you stabbing him in the heart.”
“I can give you until midnight. I have a flight. He and I must be on it.”
“So you and Dracula are taking that vacaneymoon you’ve always wanted. That’s sweet. But I can’t just let him walk away.”
He finally shoves me away. “Without me, you get nothing.”
“And without me you stake him out with your dick in your hand, hoping you get a chance at him ever. And odds are you not only miss your flight but also your chance.”
“I can delay until before sunrise.” He hesitates. “But there was another reason I contacted you. I believe you are the next target- that he will come to you.”
“That sounds promising.”
I don’t get into his car. No way I’m giving this prissy punk home field. So we hop a cab that I make him pay for.
If he’s full of shit, he’s at least done his homework, because the cab drops us off in the slums- but it’s apartments near enough to the colony that a vamp trying to keep things on the down low might pick one to crash in. We start towards room 13, when a lanky redneck with Edward James Olmos skin comes marching out of the lobby with an attitude. “This ain’t a fagshack- we don’t do hourly- you got to rent for the whole night.”
“S’fine.” I tell him. “We’re looking for a friend of ours- we ain’t staying. But so’s you know, I’m the top. He is a powerful power-bottom, though.” The weasely little clerk goes back inside, shaking his head
That pisses Mike off; I may not be as queer-friendly as Knight, but I’m nowhere near the homophobe this Catholic prick is. “What?” I ask. “I thought the whole reason you monks hide out on that island was for the circle jerks.”
He grabs my collar with both hands and shoves me against the motel’s shingles, and I press my gun into his stomach. “Just so you know, that ain’t my cock- which is bigger.” He looks down, because maybe he wants to see it, whichever it is. “You familiar with the Raging Judge? Fires a 28 gauge shotgun shell. At this distance, it’d cut you in half; your legs would just drop to the ground, and there’d be a moment before the rest of you falls on top of them.”
He lets go of me, and gestures for me to lead the way. Sure enough, the blond is right, and there’s a sigil carved into the other side of the door; can’t see it, but it’s strong enough I can feel it.
There’s a pile of ways I could come at it, but my favorite’s one I learned from a Maori tohunga, calling on their god of war, Maru. It’s the finesse-equivalent of kicking the door in- but not only does it knock the door in on its hinges, it should give some nice feedback inside the room, and if I’m even a little lucky might take out any traps he might have set.
“Maru, these fucks think they can keep us out. Let’s show them just home much tabu we’ve got on tap.” To seal it, I raise my hand in a fist, then knock, and the door caves in like I was hitting it with a patu- which I suspect is exactly what the old god is wielding.
“After you, Mikey.” He leads me in, which works for me. Vamps are dangerous enough I’m not eager to go poking around in a dark hotel room for one.
He stops in the middle of the room, between two fully made beds. “Damnit. He’s gone.”
“Well that’s a bitch.” I kneel down and check under the beds. Mike checks the bathroom, just to be sure. But the vamp hasn’t been here in hours.
We hop another cab and head back to my place. Mike wanders off- I assume he knows what the fuck he’s doing. I go in and leave the door unbolted- since I don’t want to have to replace it after the vamp shoves his way in.
I’m on edge, so there’s no way I’m sleeping. But I go through the normal motions, anyway. I pour myself some whisky on rocks, shut the blinds and turn off the lights. I use the same sound-dampening spell I always use so the neighbors don’t have to hear the porn I put on.
To the vamp’s credit, he sneaks in real quiet, and if I were just a little deeper into the whisky, or if Stormy were screaming any louder on the TV, maybe I wouldn’t notice. I wait until he gets full into the room and shoot him center mass. He goes down wailing like a stepped on cat; fucking drama queen.
“I packed the shells with a little rock salt for that extra kick, recrimped em myself. Vamps don’t much like salt, do they? So that must really suck.” He’s still squealing and writhing when I slap a pair of cuffs around his wrists. “The Raging Judge. The shell it fires, 28 gauge, is bigger than a .50 cal; I bet you’re carrying your guts home in my dustpan.”
Mikey finally shows up. “My hero,” I tell him. The vamp stirs a little, so Mike stomps on his head.
Vamp wakes up a little prematurely; there are still two fingers on his left hand unbroken- but whoever heard of a sigil cast with only a ring and little finger? “Morning, sunshine,” I tell him, and break his ring finger anyway- just to be thorough. He screams and I smack him in the mouth with my pistol.
I grab his pinky, and he tries to pull away, but he’s pretty well duct-taped into that chair, so he don’t get far. He tries to will me with his eyes not to do it, but I break the finger anyway. This time he doesn’t make a noise, just flinches and grimaces. “You’re learning. Good. I don’t need to beat the lifeblood out of you- but I will. Choice is really yours. I just need to talk. Though actually,” I discharge the Judge into his groin. “That’s for Castle.”
“You fuck,” he says. He’s bleeding enough that his teeth are slicked red, made thicker with phlegm, because he’s on the verge of tears.
“I know, I’m a stinker. But I need to know why you killed a friend of mine. Because you seem like a cowardly little shit. And I don’t think you’d have the stones to stand up to Castle, leave alone the juice to murder him. Frankly, I’m a little offended your cabal assumed you were enough to take me out. So talk. Or I can get to work on bleeding you out. Truthfully, I’m leaning towards indifference on whether or not you talk before you die.”
He doesn’t say anything- stubborn fucking vampires. But that’s okay. I lean in close to him. “I’m going to tell you a secret. My job is boring. But what that boredom affords me is the opportunity to be creative. I spend all those nights I’m walking the streets, or posted in my car, just thinking of creative ways to make little superior, durable shits like you suffer: putting those mangled fingers of yours into a blender; dry-icing your eyeballs; but that’s all late-game stuff. When I’m frustrated because you’re not talking, so I engage the mean little kid part of my psyche that just wants to wreck stuff. No. For this early on, I think I’d start with a shunt.” I pick it up off the table for effect, “I won’t get too technical with you, but in this case, it’s just a metal funnel I bought at an auto parts store. And what I do with this is,” I slam its spout into him, in the space in the collar bone. He cries out, but it’s surprise, so I don’t smack him with the Judge this time.
“Now, with any luck, the funnel’s not in a lung, so it’ll provide direct access to your organs. And what we do, well, maybe you can hear the pot of water boiling in the kitchen, well, we pour that into the funnel, and it cooks your internal organs inside your body, in a soup. Now, a normal person, they’d be dead then. But you, well, you’re already sort of dead, anyway. You’ll bounce back. And crucially you’ll still be able to tell me a bedtime story- something that’ll help me sleep better at night.”
He’s about to break, I can feel it, but his eyes flick from the window to me. He’s thinking about lying to me. “You shouldn’t,” I tell him; “lie to me. You’ve probably figured out I’m going to hand you over to the hunter. But you see, Mikey’s a Catholic, and he’s sworn to me, in the name of his God, that if you’re bullshitting me, I can have you back. And then the cycle begins again. So if you want to lie to me now to get out of the pain, just know that it’s a temporary reprieve, and that next time, well, next time I won’t just be surly because you killed somebody I kinda liked- I’ll be really fucking pissed off that you’ve been wasting my time- and maybe putting me in mortal danger, too. This is the last friendly advice you’re getting tonight: you should sing. Key of e flat.”