Nicolas Wilson's Blog: News about the novels and writing of Nicolas Wilson - Posts Tagged "the-necromancer-s-gambit"
Preview: The Necromancer's Gambit, Part 1
Thanks, for everyone who has purchased a copy of Nexus. I hope you guys enjoy it.
Time to start sharing excerpts from The Necromancer's Gambit, due September 23rd. The Necromancer's Gambit is the perfect Halloween read, following the trevails of a cell of mages operating in Portland.
The Necromancer's Gambit, Part 1, Initiative
I’m not going to tell you my name. Names have power. But we’ll get to that. For now, know that everyone calls me Knight.
It’s raining, but this is Portland, so that’s redundant. My hair is soaked, plastered to my head. I get it cut at a little shop in Hazel Dell. The owner is a gentle, older woman who decorated the place like it was her parlor: balls of yarn, old portraiture, and a pink, flowery wall paper that all give it a 1950s feel. Each time I go, she’s decides I look like a different celebrity from the 30s or 40s, and insists on cutting my hair that way. Right now I’m Gary Cooper, apparently. But I go there anyway, because she’s the only one who doesn’t disturb my cowlicks, and make me look like Alfalfa.
I check my watch. Rook’s late. That’s not a good sign- or maybe it’s just a character flaw- I don’t know her well enough to say.
I’m huddled under an awning to stay out of the worst of it. Some poor bastard in a beat-up pick-up left his lights on. If it was warmer, or drier, I’d leave it alone- and I should. Never draw attention to yourself. It was the closest thing to a maxim my mother ever had. But the idea of someone having to walk home in this downpour, fuck- being stuck in this city’s lousy enough.
I walk slowly over to the truck, hoping a driver careless enough to leave his lights on maybe didn’t lock the doors. But that would make things simple, and this driver’s apparently a very practical moron.
Simplest unlocking spell I know involves sympathetic magic. You spit in the keyhole, to make the lock a part of you. Then you use an incantation to convince it that you both want the lock open; my favorite I learned from an Irish klepto who might have stolen my heart if she hadn’t made off with my wallet first.
Sympathizing a lock open always reminds me of that scene from Empire, where Luke can’t get his rocks up- because it only kind of works. Sometimes, you just look at the lock sideways, and it’s done. Other times, you can work a lock for hours, and nothing.
The Toyota’s lock has seen better days, and its owner isn’t gentle about shoving his key inside, so it's used to being manhandled, and gives quickly. I glance around. There are enough people on the sidewalk that I’ve definitely been seen, but nobody’s paying enough attention to care. I open up the door, and feel around for a second, just long enough to find the light switch and push it in.
“The fuck are you doing in my truck?” a man asks from behind me. He’s drunk; I’m not sure if the smell or the slur hits me first. I feel a hand on my shoulder, that works its way to the collar of my leather jacket. I turn around.
“Just turning off your lights,” I say, earnest.
“You were busting into my car.” I can’t be sure if he shoves me against his truck, or nearly passes out against his truck, and uses me to cushion his landing. Either way, it’s all I can do not to punch him right in the face. I take a breath.
“You left your lights on and your door unlocked. I just wanted to help.” I put up my hands, in surrender. He knows he’s ploughed, so he stops to think about it; he can’t decide if I’m telling the truth, and I’d guess it wouldn’t be the first time he drunkenly punched an innocent man, so he lets go of my collar.
Without my collar to steady him, he falls most of the way into his cab. He’s drunker than I thought. And even if I call the cops, they’d arrive just fast enough to be worthless. I grab hold of his shoulders, to steady him, “You don’t look so good. Maybe you should sleep it off.” He grunts, and I know I’m not so lucky. I don’t quite remember which Greek or Latin root I need to finish off a drowsiness spell. I don’t dare guess, lest I Sleeping Beauty him- because I really don’t want to have to deep tongue kiss a man tonight- especially not this man.
I slam him hard against the steering wheel. “Whoa,” I yell, for the sake of a homeless man, half-asleep in a doorway with a clear line of sight. “You okay, buddy?”
He’s got a small cut in his forehead, and it’s drooling blood around his brow.
“Maybe, I, maybe I should sleep it off.” He’s not unconscious, but he’s almost passed out from the drink. I fold his legs into the cab and shut the door.
Check back next week for another excerpt or join my mailing list to be notified when The Necromancer's Gambit is available for purchase.
Time to start sharing excerpts from The Necromancer's Gambit, due September 23rd. The Necromancer's Gambit is the perfect Halloween read, following the trevails of a cell of mages operating in Portland.
The Necromancer's Gambit, Part 1, Initiative
I’m not going to tell you my name. Names have power. But we’ll get to that. For now, know that everyone calls me Knight.
It’s raining, but this is Portland, so that’s redundant. My hair is soaked, plastered to my head. I get it cut at a little shop in Hazel Dell. The owner is a gentle, older woman who decorated the place like it was her parlor: balls of yarn, old portraiture, and a pink, flowery wall paper that all give it a 1950s feel. Each time I go, she’s decides I look like a different celebrity from the 30s or 40s, and insists on cutting my hair that way. Right now I’m Gary Cooper, apparently. But I go there anyway, because she’s the only one who doesn’t disturb my cowlicks, and make me look like Alfalfa.
I check my watch. Rook’s late. That’s not a good sign- or maybe it’s just a character flaw- I don’t know her well enough to say.
I’m huddled under an awning to stay out of the worst of it. Some poor bastard in a beat-up pick-up left his lights on. If it was warmer, or drier, I’d leave it alone- and I should. Never draw attention to yourself. It was the closest thing to a maxim my mother ever had. But the idea of someone having to walk home in this downpour, fuck- being stuck in this city’s lousy enough.
I walk slowly over to the truck, hoping a driver careless enough to leave his lights on maybe didn’t lock the doors. But that would make things simple, and this driver’s apparently a very practical moron.
Simplest unlocking spell I know involves sympathetic magic. You spit in the keyhole, to make the lock a part of you. Then you use an incantation to convince it that you both want the lock open; my favorite I learned from an Irish klepto who might have stolen my heart if she hadn’t made off with my wallet first.
Sympathizing a lock open always reminds me of that scene from Empire, where Luke can’t get his rocks up- because it only kind of works. Sometimes, you just look at the lock sideways, and it’s done. Other times, you can work a lock for hours, and nothing.
The Toyota’s lock has seen better days, and its owner isn’t gentle about shoving his key inside, so it's used to being manhandled, and gives quickly. I glance around. There are enough people on the sidewalk that I’ve definitely been seen, but nobody’s paying enough attention to care. I open up the door, and feel around for a second, just long enough to find the light switch and push it in.
“The fuck are you doing in my truck?” a man asks from behind me. He’s drunk; I’m not sure if the smell or the slur hits me first. I feel a hand on my shoulder, that works its way to the collar of my leather jacket. I turn around.
“Just turning off your lights,” I say, earnest.
“You were busting into my car.” I can’t be sure if he shoves me against his truck, or nearly passes out against his truck, and uses me to cushion his landing. Either way, it’s all I can do not to punch him right in the face. I take a breath.
“You left your lights on and your door unlocked. I just wanted to help.” I put up my hands, in surrender. He knows he’s ploughed, so he stops to think about it; he can’t decide if I’m telling the truth, and I’d guess it wouldn’t be the first time he drunkenly punched an innocent man, so he lets go of my collar.
Without my collar to steady him, he falls most of the way into his cab. He’s drunker than I thought. And even if I call the cops, they’d arrive just fast enough to be worthless. I grab hold of his shoulders, to steady him, “You don’t look so good. Maybe you should sleep it off.” He grunts, and I know I’m not so lucky. I don’t quite remember which Greek or Latin root I need to finish off a drowsiness spell. I don’t dare guess, lest I Sleeping Beauty him- because I really don’t want to have to deep tongue kiss a man tonight- especially not this man.
I slam him hard against the steering wheel. “Whoa,” I yell, for the sake of a homeless man, half-asleep in a doorway with a clear line of sight. “You okay, buddy?”
He’s got a small cut in his forehead, and it’s drooling blood around his brow.
“Maybe, I, maybe I should sleep it off.” He’s not unconscious, but he’s almost passed out from the drink. I fold his legs into the cab and shut the door.
Check back next week for another excerpt or join my mailing list to be notified when The Necromancer's Gambit is available for purchase.
Preview: The Necromancer's Gambit, Part 2
Time for another excerpt from The Necromancer's Gambit, due September 23rd. The Necromancer's Gambit is the perfect Halloween read, following the trevails of a cell of mages operating in Portland.
Previously:
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 1
The Necromancer's Gambit, Part 2, Initiative, Continued
“Got plans?” Female voice. Haughty. Not authoritative enough to be a cop- but it’s nobody I recognize.
“Excuse me?” I ask as I turn around.
“You know, if you’ve got a long night of date-rape planned, I can always come back in the morning. I’d hate to intrude on your evening.” I realize then it’s Rook.
“You’re late.”
“You must be Knight; Sister Magdalene said you were grumpy. I’m-” I grab her wrist and squeeze. If she isn’t who I think she is, this is the point I get maced, or maybe a fireball cast in my underpants.
“Don’t.” I give her a second to react, and when she doesn’t I let her go. “Never use your name with anyone if you can avoid it. Names have power.” Magic draws on connection. A name is giving someone a piece of you, and a stronger connection, one they can use to burn you from a distance. “Besides which, when the Salem Circle finally sets up its government, you’re going to be their castle, so you’ve already got a title. You’re Rook.”
“But don’t titles also have power?”
“Some. But less – for the same reason that saying goddamn the President isn’t nearly as effective as casting a diarrhea spell on Barrack Obama. Specificity is your friend- and your enemy.” I’m still awkwardly holding a coffee cup, and push it out to her. “It’s cold.”
“As in ice, or you didn’t grab one of those sleeve things?”
“As in whichever extreme I ordered it at wasn’t enough to overcome your extreme tardiness.”
“I’d retort with a witticism about your tardedness if I‘d had my coffee already.”
She grabs the cup and drinks it like a shot. There’s a sigil on the bottom of it. Not a spell in its own right, just an activator; the sugar in her coffee is transubstantiated. The spell turns it back into an artificial sweetener, one that in significant quantities acts as a laxative. She doesn’t notice the mark- didn’t even check for one- which almost makes me want to activate the spell.
But I don’t. Because I’m trying to be diplomatic, and there are probably gentler ways to teach her caution. “I’m still not 100% on why you’re riding along with me. Our Castle is friendly enough, loves to talk tradecraft, and actually has experience relevant to your new responsibilities.”
“I’m supposed to be Rook eventually. But right now I’m just another sister. Magdalene asked me to come and learn what I could about your gambit, so we could design our equivalent from a position of knowledge.”
“Magdalene? What is she, a first century prostitute?”
Her eyes flash with a memory, and I realize she knows Magdalene’s real name and wants to tell it to me, then she says “Names have power.” I know it, too; Magdalene and I have a history, but Rook doesn’t need to know that. History has power, too.
She takes another sip from her coffee, then asks, “So is this what a magical dick does? Sit around drinking old coffee? And why couldn’t you just wait for me to get here, then let me order for myself?”
“One, because this is the only block in Portland without a Starbucks on the corner, and two, because we have a case. The moment we're inside we're on the clock.”
“So that’s why you had me meet you outside the Cauldron. You didn’t strike me as a dance club kind of guy.”
“Am I that obvious?” I kneel in front of my homeless witness from before. It takes a moment for him to recognize me, and he worries for an instant that I mean to shut him up, until he sees the green of a bill in my hand. “Guy in the truck hit his head pretty hard. You want to keep an eye on him, for me?” He mumbles something that sounds like ‘sure’ and palms the twenty; we both wish it was more.
Check back next week for another excerpt or join my mailing list to be notified when The Necromancer's Gambit is available for purchase.
Previously:
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 1
The Necromancer's Gambit, Part 2, Initiative, Continued
“Got plans?” Female voice. Haughty. Not authoritative enough to be a cop- but it’s nobody I recognize.
“Excuse me?” I ask as I turn around.
“You know, if you’ve got a long night of date-rape planned, I can always come back in the morning. I’d hate to intrude on your evening.” I realize then it’s Rook.
“You’re late.”
“You must be Knight; Sister Magdalene said you were grumpy. I’m-” I grab her wrist and squeeze. If she isn’t who I think she is, this is the point I get maced, or maybe a fireball cast in my underpants.
“Don’t.” I give her a second to react, and when she doesn’t I let her go. “Never use your name with anyone if you can avoid it. Names have power.” Magic draws on connection. A name is giving someone a piece of you, and a stronger connection, one they can use to burn you from a distance. “Besides which, when the Salem Circle finally sets up its government, you’re going to be their castle, so you’ve already got a title. You’re Rook.”
“But don’t titles also have power?”
“Some. But less – for the same reason that saying goddamn the President isn’t nearly as effective as casting a diarrhea spell on Barrack Obama. Specificity is your friend- and your enemy.” I’m still awkwardly holding a coffee cup, and push it out to her. “It’s cold.”
“As in ice, or you didn’t grab one of those sleeve things?”
“As in whichever extreme I ordered it at wasn’t enough to overcome your extreme tardiness.”
“I’d retort with a witticism about your tardedness if I‘d had my coffee already.”
She grabs the cup and drinks it like a shot. There’s a sigil on the bottom of it. Not a spell in its own right, just an activator; the sugar in her coffee is transubstantiated. The spell turns it back into an artificial sweetener, one that in significant quantities acts as a laxative. She doesn’t notice the mark- didn’t even check for one- which almost makes me want to activate the spell.
But I don’t. Because I’m trying to be diplomatic, and there are probably gentler ways to teach her caution. “I’m still not 100% on why you’re riding along with me. Our Castle is friendly enough, loves to talk tradecraft, and actually has experience relevant to your new responsibilities.”
“I’m supposed to be Rook eventually. But right now I’m just another sister. Magdalene asked me to come and learn what I could about your gambit, so we could design our equivalent from a position of knowledge.”
“Magdalene? What is she, a first century prostitute?”
Her eyes flash with a memory, and I realize she knows Magdalene’s real name and wants to tell it to me, then she says “Names have power.” I know it, too; Magdalene and I have a history, but Rook doesn’t need to know that. History has power, too.
She takes another sip from her coffee, then asks, “So is this what a magical dick does? Sit around drinking old coffee? And why couldn’t you just wait for me to get here, then let me order for myself?”
“One, because this is the only block in Portland without a Starbucks on the corner, and two, because we have a case. The moment we're inside we're on the clock.”
“So that’s why you had me meet you outside the Cauldron. You didn’t strike me as a dance club kind of guy.”
“Am I that obvious?” I kneel in front of my homeless witness from before. It takes a moment for him to recognize me, and he worries for an instant that I mean to shut him up, until he sees the green of a bill in my hand. “Guy in the truck hit his head pretty hard. You want to keep an eye on him, for me?” He mumbles something that sounds like ‘sure’ and palms the twenty; we both wish it was more.
Check back next week for another excerpt or join my mailing list to be notified when The Necromancer's Gambit is available for purchase.
Preview: The Necromancer's Gambit, Part 3
I know we're moving fast, but with the release date coming up fast, why not? Here's part 3 of your intro to The Necromancer's Gambit, due September 23rd. The Necromancer's Gambit follows the trevails of a cell of mages operating in Portland.
Previously:
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 1
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 2
The Necromancer's Gambit, Part 3, The Investigation
Rook follows me to the entrance of the Cauldron. I can already feel the oppressive bass pounding from inside, and the heavy stink of sweat and smoke on the air. I hand our cover fee to a woman in her mid-thirties trying too hard to cling to her late twenties. “Hand stamp?” she asks, and I shake my head. “You’re supposed to get a hand stamp,” she says, bored but annoyed.
I peel a Hamilton and set it on top of the cover. She shrugs and waves us in.
Rook gives me a look. “You don’t trust the ink?” Her tone is skeptical. Exactly how green are the witches out of Salem these days?
“Psychography- spirit writers.” I’m having to talk louder than I like to overcome the music, but the crowd in the Cauldron is 60% mage; it takes more than a dry discussion of magic to turn heads in here.
“I thought that was mostly the ideomotor effect-” she yells back, “like dowsing, or using a Ouija board.”
“Adepts can transcribe otherworldly communication- but that’s only half the craft. They use apothecary inks- magic distilled in liquid form.” Generally, the covens like their magic fresh- fresh ingredients, fresh rituals- some bullshit about it being closer to the natural way of things, and more pure. Elixirs like apothecary inks never really caught on with them, especially in an isolated Circle like hers. “You ever been spirit-written? I don’t recommend it.”
I pull out my phone to send a text, tell Pawn that we’re here. “It helps if you claim to have OCD? Like how vampires tell people they have porphyria. Helps explain away the little eccentricities- keeps people from getting too curious about things they wouldn’t understand.”
Pawn sticks out as he pushes his way through the crowd. He’s in his late forties, early fifties, buzzed, thinning hair, short, stocky build. And he only sticks out more because he doesn’t recognize he’s at least fifteen years too old for this crowd. “Body’s in the champagne room,” he says, and spends a moment too long looking at Rook.
“Body?” she asks, pretending as a courtesy not to notice him leering.
Pawn leads us past a bouncer, into the backroom. There’s a corpse in the middle of the floor. The body’s charred, and mangled, in an unnatural pose; I’ve seen similar, from falls- particularly somebody who fell without trying to catch themselves.
Pawn stalks around Rook, seeing if she’ll respond to his assertion of dominance. When she doesn’t he figures she’s just a piece of meat. “So this is the rookie, huh? Gotta say, she’s a sight prettier than you when I trained you.”
“Yet you just keep getting uglier and fatter, as the years pack on,” I say. He grunts; from her look, I can tell Rook feels bad for him, but only because she doesn’t know him. “It’s burnt to hell. You have a vamp sniff it out?”
“Was a vamp that brought it to me, one of my CIs.”
“And I had my money on you pocketing the informant stipend.”
There’s a hint of pain in his expression before he buries it- he doesn’t appreciate being shamed in front of the new girl, but plays it off. “I take my cut, but the informant’s good. Never had a problem with him before.”
“Bring him in. I’ll want to know what he does. Witnesses?”
“Just the vamp.”
“The bouncer?”
“Tim. He was outside. Heard a crack, then the thump. Presumably the port, then the landing. Room was empty at the time. But he got the vamp to check it out.”
“You like the bouncer for it?”
“Nah. He’s a solid citizen. Worked here for better of a decade. Never thrown me out on my ass- which is something. Always pays his taxes. Besides which, bartender corroborates him being outside when she heard the sounds, then him fetching my CI.”
I’m not so sure. “Still, grabbing the vamp-”
“Cauldron’s been a hangout for most of his tenure. This ain’t his first dog and pony.”
Pawn’s being uncharacteristically thorough, tonight, but for some reason that puts me more on edge. “Get him in here anyway.”
Check back next week for another excerpt or join my mailing list to be notified when The Necromancer's Gambit is available for purchase.
Previously:
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 1
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 2
The Necromancer's Gambit, Part 3, The Investigation
Rook follows me to the entrance of the Cauldron. I can already feel the oppressive bass pounding from inside, and the heavy stink of sweat and smoke on the air. I hand our cover fee to a woman in her mid-thirties trying too hard to cling to her late twenties. “Hand stamp?” she asks, and I shake my head. “You’re supposed to get a hand stamp,” she says, bored but annoyed.
I peel a Hamilton and set it on top of the cover. She shrugs and waves us in.
Rook gives me a look. “You don’t trust the ink?” Her tone is skeptical. Exactly how green are the witches out of Salem these days?
“Psychography- spirit writers.” I’m having to talk louder than I like to overcome the music, but the crowd in the Cauldron is 60% mage; it takes more than a dry discussion of magic to turn heads in here.
“I thought that was mostly the ideomotor effect-” she yells back, “like dowsing, or using a Ouija board.”
“Adepts can transcribe otherworldly communication- but that’s only half the craft. They use apothecary inks- magic distilled in liquid form.” Generally, the covens like their magic fresh- fresh ingredients, fresh rituals- some bullshit about it being closer to the natural way of things, and more pure. Elixirs like apothecary inks never really caught on with them, especially in an isolated Circle like hers. “You ever been spirit-written? I don’t recommend it.”
I pull out my phone to send a text, tell Pawn that we’re here. “It helps if you claim to have OCD? Like how vampires tell people they have porphyria. Helps explain away the little eccentricities- keeps people from getting too curious about things they wouldn’t understand.”
Pawn sticks out as he pushes his way through the crowd. He’s in his late forties, early fifties, buzzed, thinning hair, short, stocky build. And he only sticks out more because he doesn’t recognize he’s at least fifteen years too old for this crowd. “Body’s in the champagne room,” he says, and spends a moment too long looking at Rook.
“Body?” she asks, pretending as a courtesy not to notice him leering.
Pawn leads us past a bouncer, into the backroom. There’s a corpse in the middle of the floor. The body’s charred, and mangled, in an unnatural pose; I’ve seen similar, from falls- particularly somebody who fell without trying to catch themselves.
Pawn stalks around Rook, seeing if she’ll respond to his assertion of dominance. When she doesn’t he figures she’s just a piece of meat. “So this is the rookie, huh? Gotta say, she’s a sight prettier than you when I trained you.”
“Yet you just keep getting uglier and fatter, as the years pack on,” I say. He grunts; from her look, I can tell Rook feels bad for him, but only because she doesn’t know him. “It’s burnt to hell. You have a vamp sniff it out?”
“Was a vamp that brought it to me, one of my CIs.”
“And I had my money on you pocketing the informant stipend.”
There’s a hint of pain in his expression before he buries it- he doesn’t appreciate being shamed in front of the new girl, but plays it off. “I take my cut, but the informant’s good. Never had a problem with him before.”
“Bring him in. I’ll want to know what he does. Witnesses?”
“Just the vamp.”
“The bouncer?”
“Tim. He was outside. Heard a crack, then the thump. Presumably the port, then the landing. Room was empty at the time. But he got the vamp to check it out.”
“You like the bouncer for it?”
“Nah. He’s a solid citizen. Worked here for better of a decade. Never thrown me out on my ass- which is something. Always pays his taxes. Besides which, bartender corroborates him being outside when she heard the sounds, then him fetching my CI.”
I’m not so sure. “Still, grabbing the vamp-”
“Cauldron’s been a hangout for most of his tenure. This ain’t his first dog and pony.”
Pawn’s being uncharacteristically thorough, tonight, but for some reason that puts me more on edge. “Get him in here anyway.”
Check back next week for another excerpt or join my mailing list to be notified when The Necromancer's Gambit is available for purchase.
Preview: The Necromancer's Gambit, Part 4
Here's part 4 of your intro to The Necromancer's Gambit, due September 23rd. The Necromancer's Gambit follows the travails of a cell of mages operating in Portland.
Previously:
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 1
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 2
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 3
The Necromancer's Gambit, Part 4, The Investigation, continued
The bouncer is a few inches north of six foot, and with his shaved head looks like Mr. Clean. He has a sternness to him, like he’d prefer to crack your skull to talking, but there’s a childlike glee in his eyes- he enjoys playing the heavy, but play is all it is.
“Did you touch anything in the room?” I ask it flat- not quite mean, just cold. I haven’t figured out what kind of witness he’s going to be just yet.
“No.” He’s incredulous, almost laughing at the implication he’s involved.
“Not even the victim? Not to check for a pulse?”
He slows up, recognizes someone sizing him up, and levels his eyes at me- not menacing, but fixing me with his eyes to tell me he’s being polite right now instead of talking with his fists. “He’s a kebab. I also didn’t check my bacon at breakfast for a pulse- or my burger at dinner.”
“Bacon and burgers? Not going to live long that way.” His eyebrows shoot up. Pawn laughs, because between the two of us we justify keeping a Burgerville open 24 hours- the manager on MLK told us as much one night- whereas Tim's built like a Finnish underwear model.
“And who was here?”
“Just the stiff.”
“Why was the champagne room empty?”
“In this economy, we don’t always staff the room. Bringing in girls who can’t make cab fare during their shift - let alone cover the stage fee- that’s not fair.”
“Stage fee?”
“Yeah. It’s pretty standard. The venue charges a dancer a flat stage fee to perform, to me always seemed more honest than taking a cut. A lot of the clubs in Portland will hold the good shifts hostage unless girls commit to working dead weekday shifts. But they’re more dependent on dancers than we are. We cater to a slightly more diverse crowd.”
“So you’re not just the bouncer.”
“Part owner, now. I started bouncing, and back then room and board was part of the compensation. Then the recession hit and things started going lousy, Trish began paying me in shares of the club. Eventually I just owned half- so now it’s half mine and I work here for a cut of the profits- which is usually just enough to cover my tab at the bar, plus the cot and hots.”
“Was all that before or after you started shtupping Trish.”
He blushes a little, which is even easier to tell with his cue ball head. “Uh, I think I had about a 40 percent stake, then. We’d worked together for seven years or so. She tends bar, and I bounce, seven nights a week. Spend that much time with somebody and you either really get to appreciate them, or really start to hate them.”
“So you’re plowing the bartender, congrats,” Pawn says. “That part of your compensation package make up for the lost pay?”
“I could pop you like the hairy little zit that you are,” Tim says, without ever losing the glee in his eyes. I bet he could- and it kind of makes me want Pawn to keep provoking him.
But when he doesn’t, I continue with the questions. “That does muddy the waters, though. If your girlfriend is your alibi for not being in the room when it happened.”
“Ask around. The place wasn’t exactly empty when it happened. Just about any table should have at least one person who can vouch for me.” I nod at Pawn and he heads back to the main room to find out.
“You weren’t in the room. What’d you hear?”
“Loud pop. Like a car backfiring, or a gunshot. I actually got a little scared it was a gunshot.”
“This place got a gun?”
“Under the bar.”
“And you didn’t get it?”
He smiles, that kind of smile that says he knows he did something foolish. “Well, I’m four steps down the hall when I think I should get the gun. But then you have me turning tail away from trouble- which never looks good- a bouncer lives or dies on his reputation. And it would showcase me second-guessing myself, which makes me look like an indecisive fool.”
“In front of Trish.”
He blushes all over again. “Yeah. So I tell myself I’ve never had to pull the shotgun before, tonight can’t be the night I’ll need to. Denial to save my pride- and I’m sure Trish will give me an earful tonight about it. But I bust in. And there’s the corpse. I’m relieved, actually, not to have a gun in my face. So I come out all calm, shrug at people looking to me for some kind of information, and tell Trish we’ll want to put in a call to you. But then I see somebody at the bar, somebody I remember seeing with your stout friend.” He nods at where Pawn had been standing a moment ago.
“The vamp?” Pawn comes back in, and nods that he’s got confirmation.
“Yeah. So the vamp sniffs out the area, and of course there’s magic in the air. But before I can even get back to Trish to put through a call, your Pawn shows up.”
“Before?”
“Hey, I was in the car, in the area. On my way to a strip club, if you need to know, but I wasn’t more than three minute’s distance.” That seems too convenient. But I’d seen enough of Pawn’s expense reports to know he probably didn’t have a CI he didn’t wine and dine in strip joints.
“So am I done here?” Tim asks.
“I think so. But we’ll need to get the body out. You mind doing the honors?”
“I was hoping to go home not smelling like old jerky tonight.”
“And I was hoping not to catch a corpse. Tonight seems to suck all around.”
Check back next week for another excerpt or join my mailing list to be notified when The Necromancer's Gambit is available for purchase.
Previously:
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 1
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 2
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 3
The Necromancer's Gambit, Part 4, The Investigation, continued
The bouncer is a few inches north of six foot, and with his shaved head looks like Mr. Clean. He has a sternness to him, like he’d prefer to crack your skull to talking, but there’s a childlike glee in his eyes- he enjoys playing the heavy, but play is all it is.
“Did you touch anything in the room?” I ask it flat- not quite mean, just cold. I haven’t figured out what kind of witness he’s going to be just yet.
“No.” He’s incredulous, almost laughing at the implication he’s involved.
“Not even the victim? Not to check for a pulse?”
He slows up, recognizes someone sizing him up, and levels his eyes at me- not menacing, but fixing me with his eyes to tell me he’s being polite right now instead of talking with his fists. “He’s a kebab. I also didn’t check my bacon at breakfast for a pulse- or my burger at dinner.”
“Bacon and burgers? Not going to live long that way.” His eyebrows shoot up. Pawn laughs, because between the two of us we justify keeping a Burgerville open 24 hours- the manager on MLK told us as much one night- whereas Tim's built like a Finnish underwear model.
“And who was here?”
“Just the stiff.”
“Why was the champagne room empty?”
“In this economy, we don’t always staff the room. Bringing in girls who can’t make cab fare during their shift - let alone cover the stage fee- that’s not fair.”
“Stage fee?”
“Yeah. It’s pretty standard. The venue charges a dancer a flat stage fee to perform, to me always seemed more honest than taking a cut. A lot of the clubs in Portland will hold the good shifts hostage unless girls commit to working dead weekday shifts. But they’re more dependent on dancers than we are. We cater to a slightly more diverse crowd.”
“So you’re not just the bouncer.”
“Part owner, now. I started bouncing, and back then room and board was part of the compensation. Then the recession hit and things started going lousy, Trish began paying me in shares of the club. Eventually I just owned half- so now it’s half mine and I work here for a cut of the profits- which is usually just enough to cover my tab at the bar, plus the cot and hots.”
“Was all that before or after you started shtupping Trish.”
He blushes a little, which is even easier to tell with his cue ball head. “Uh, I think I had about a 40 percent stake, then. We’d worked together for seven years or so. She tends bar, and I bounce, seven nights a week. Spend that much time with somebody and you either really get to appreciate them, or really start to hate them.”
“So you’re plowing the bartender, congrats,” Pawn says. “That part of your compensation package make up for the lost pay?”
“I could pop you like the hairy little zit that you are,” Tim says, without ever losing the glee in his eyes. I bet he could- and it kind of makes me want Pawn to keep provoking him.
But when he doesn’t, I continue with the questions. “That does muddy the waters, though. If your girlfriend is your alibi for not being in the room when it happened.”
“Ask around. The place wasn’t exactly empty when it happened. Just about any table should have at least one person who can vouch for me.” I nod at Pawn and he heads back to the main room to find out.
“You weren’t in the room. What’d you hear?”
“Loud pop. Like a car backfiring, or a gunshot. I actually got a little scared it was a gunshot.”
“This place got a gun?”
“Under the bar.”
“And you didn’t get it?”
He smiles, that kind of smile that says he knows he did something foolish. “Well, I’m four steps down the hall when I think I should get the gun. But then you have me turning tail away from trouble- which never looks good- a bouncer lives or dies on his reputation. And it would showcase me second-guessing myself, which makes me look like an indecisive fool.”
“In front of Trish.”
He blushes all over again. “Yeah. So I tell myself I’ve never had to pull the shotgun before, tonight can’t be the night I’ll need to. Denial to save my pride- and I’m sure Trish will give me an earful tonight about it. But I bust in. And there’s the corpse. I’m relieved, actually, not to have a gun in my face. So I come out all calm, shrug at people looking to me for some kind of information, and tell Trish we’ll want to put in a call to you. But then I see somebody at the bar, somebody I remember seeing with your stout friend.” He nods at where Pawn had been standing a moment ago.
“The vamp?” Pawn comes back in, and nods that he’s got confirmation.
“Yeah. So the vamp sniffs out the area, and of course there’s magic in the air. But before I can even get back to Trish to put through a call, your Pawn shows up.”
“Before?”
“Hey, I was in the car, in the area. On my way to a strip club, if you need to know, but I wasn’t more than three minute’s distance.” That seems too convenient. But I’d seen enough of Pawn’s expense reports to know he probably didn’t have a CI he didn’t wine and dine in strip joints.
“So am I done here?” Tim asks.
“I think so. But we’ll need to get the body out. You mind doing the honors?”
“I was hoping to go home not smelling like old jerky tonight.”
“And I was hoping not to catch a corpse. Tonight seems to suck all around.”
Check back next week for another excerpt or join my mailing list to be notified when The Necromancer's Gambit is available for purchase.
Preview: The Necromancer's Gambit, Part 5
Here's part 5 of your intro to The Necromancer's Gambit, due September 23rd. The Necromancer's Gambit follows the travails of a cell of mages operating in Portland.
Previously:
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 1
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 2
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 3
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 4
The Necromancer's Gambit, Part 5, The Investigation, continued
“Shouldn’t we analyze the crime scene?” Rook asks.
“This isn’t the scene, just where they dumped the body,” I tell her. But there’s something hopeful in her voice, so I decide to give her the remedial lesson quickly.
I kneel beside the body, and use my pen to move what’s left of his pants to the side. “Look at the burns, melted skin, charred muscle. Heat of this kind would have destroyed this room, but the carpet isn’t so much as singed. Point of fact, there’s no blood, no melted skin, nothing in the carpet. He was well-done before he ever got here.”
“The other reason we won’t find anything is here: look at the ankles. Snapped, but through the burnt flesh- you can see the difference between the meat on the outside and on the in; body fell post-mortem. And you smell the brimstone- sulfur, rotten egg stink? Killer teleported it in here, and either fucked up the transport spell or didn’t give a shit, because the exit was too high. Corpse came in in an orthostatic position- standing; the fall caused the compound fractures, probably to the tibia. Best we’re going to get will come from the corpse itself, but we’ll have to get it to the lab to analyze it.” I turn to Pawn. “Bring my car around.” I toss him the keys.
I unfold a wedge of silk and lay it flat next to the body. Tim helps me roll the corpse up in it like a burrito, and I put my coat on its shoulders. “Now help me lift the bastard.” I get most of the weight in the legs, and Tim lifts the head and throws that over my shoulder.
We make our way across the dance floor muttering apologies. “He’s a little drunk. Excuse me. My friend’s sick. Can you let me through?” We’re lucky it’s nearly last call, and everybody’s either hammered or looking to get laid. Rook’s an appreciated distraction, and makes two men carrying a body through the club less seedy than it should be.
Pawn pulls up, and I set the corpse in the front seat with a little difficulty, belt him in.
Rook gets in the back, and Pawn saunters off. “What was that about a vamp?” she asks as I start the car and pull out into traffic.
“That’s right, Salem doesn’t have a colony. But vampires can smell magic. They’re not too specific; this guy could either be magic or have died by it, but it at least lets us know when to look into things, and when to just leave it for the normal cops.”
“So where are we taking the body?”
“Bishop’s lab.” That didn’t seem to be enough for her. “You could call Bishop a renaissance man- but she’d probably say that’s sexist. She’s our resident polymath.”
“She?”
Her coven likely told her we don't allow women into gambits, which isn't strictly true- though it isn't the norm, either. “Yeah. We recruited her from a Seattle coven, when our old bishop, Alfil- the elephant- quit. We didn't think he’d retire. He never used to forget anything, but his mind started to go. First little things, incantations, names of spirits, but it got worse, until half the time he’d forget I wasn’t a pawn anymore.”
“About that. Pawn said he trained you. But unless I’ve got things backwards, you basically outrank him- at least as far as a gambit can be said to have ranks.”
“It’s a long story. And since you’ve only met him tonight, a little too early to tell. But that long story short, I took his spot, he took mine.”
“In other words, he got demoted, and they promoted you.” Almost too bad she isn’t looking to be a horsey. Seems to have the chops.
And I’ll cop to being impressed that when we get to Bishop’s lab, she isn’t dainty about getting the corpse out of my car and back on my shoulder. He’s still heavy, but I shudder to think how much he weighed before most of the moisture was cooked out of him.
Rook beats me to the front door by several seconds, and is about to reach for the knocker. “Wait.” She stops, and lets me through. I knock out, “Shave and a hair cut,” with my fist and leave a six beat pause before finishing with, “two bits.”
“A second,” comes Bishop’s voice through the door, then she opens it. Rook is shocked that Bishop’s younger than she is.
I push my way between them with the corpse. “Fresh delivery of long pig, a little overdone. But I know how you like your meat- as charred and blackened as your shriveled heart.” She grins at me.
Bishop never knew her father. Her mother told her he was in politics, though she never knew if that meant he was in the Seattle gambit or if he worked somewhere in the non-mage government. Her mother died when she was 16, officially protoscience-related lung cancer. Bishop spent her last two years as a minor as a ward of the gambit, apprenticing with the brightest minds they had. When she turned 18, King convinced her to come to Portland.
Because she was new, by far the youngest member of the gambit, and maybe because she was our only girl- try as Queen might to make that not true sometimes- she developed sometimes-paternal relationships with the rest of us- a whole handful of flawed father-figures.
On the subject of figures, she's maturing, aged enough I can't tell myself she's just the kid she was when she moved down here anymore. She's got short, red-brown hair that she's always forgetting to pin back. Because of that, it's rare when she doesn't have a piece of food or corpse hanging from it.
“You always bring me the nicest things,” she says, still smiling at me. “But come in, come in, the coffee’s a little cold, but the hot cocoa’s warm and fresh.”
I set the corpse down on her slab, while Rook stares at her. “You’re so pleasant, and, and bubbly, despite him setting a dead body down on your table. It’s weird.”
“It helps that the cocoa’s caffeinated. Loco Cocoa. But it’s only weird because of the dichotomy, since you spent the evening with the glower twins. They see the ugly side of people. I get to see the fascinating side- which is frequently the inside.” Bishop sets down her mug, and tears into the silk sheet, unwrapping the body like it’s Christmas. “You want the sheet back, or the usual?”
“Yep.” She’s got a chute down to her incinerator in the basement, and she drops it in. The silk is contaminated, physically from contact with the body, and magically, because I’ve been carrying it around in my jacket pocket. Burning it means keeping the next crime scene clean, and preventing somebody from dumpster diving and using it as the focus of a sympathetic spell against me.
“So this is the Salem Rook, huh? Seems a bit dainty to be a castle, but it’s nice to meet you.” Rook frowns, and looks at Bishop’s skinny arms with some confusion. “And nicer still that your coven is finally joining the 21st century.”
“Uh, it’s nice to meet you, too.” Rook reaches out and shakes Bishop’s hand, then immediately walks to the sink and begins vigorously scrubbing her hands.
“No offense. But I don’t want to contaminate the evidence.”
“Okay,” Rook says, while Bishop finishes drying her hands and puts on a pair of gloves. “So what is it a Bishop does?”
“I’m a protoscientist. I study things that aren’t accepted as fact by most people, but that exist anyway. Alchemy’s a good example. Before chemistry was a science, a lot of the foundation for it was laid by alchemists. Same with the astronomical aspects of astrology. But protoscience isn’t just limited to the arcane. For example a colleague of mine in BC is studying binaurul beats, used to induce specific brain states, applicable for health or just getting someone baked with sound. The theory is that it can be used to induce shamanic trances, but it’s really just sigil magic by a different name.”
Bishop spends a moment taking in the body, before she says, “I was thinking of getting some KFC, and when you said you were bringing the new Rook, I thought we could split a bucket, but now, the smell of this- why go out when we can eat in?” Rook stares at her with wide eyes. “What, are we not laughing about that, yet?” Then she says, “Oh, right- she doesn’t know the story.”
I take that as my cue to tell it- since Bishop only knows it secondhand, anyway. “Alfil, in one of his later in life oopsies- this was right before he retired- was supposed to check some decomposition for me, to see if it was natural or supernatural. Instead, he spent the better part of an evening performing a complex diagnostic spell on sliced, peppered turkey, while eating corpse, lettuce and tomato sandwiches. Really, he was lucky; he only got mild food poisoning. I get worse from the Chinese takeout down the street.”
“I think that’s because they age their corpses,” Bishop said solemnly.
“How long you think it’ll take to get an idea what we’re looking at?” I ask her.
“I can tell you you’re looking at a big burnt guy. If you want me to be able to point out more than roast chestnuts and a blackened tree stump, you’ll have to give me a few hours.”
“Cool.” I check my phone. “It looks like Pawn’s got his CI to the safehouse. Let us know when you've got something concrete.”
Check back next week for another excerpt or join my mailing list to be notified when The Necromancer's Gambit is available for purchase.
Previously:
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 1
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 2
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 3
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 4
The Necromancer's Gambit, Part 5, The Investigation, continued
“Shouldn’t we analyze the crime scene?” Rook asks.
“This isn’t the scene, just where they dumped the body,” I tell her. But there’s something hopeful in her voice, so I decide to give her the remedial lesson quickly.
I kneel beside the body, and use my pen to move what’s left of his pants to the side. “Look at the burns, melted skin, charred muscle. Heat of this kind would have destroyed this room, but the carpet isn’t so much as singed. Point of fact, there’s no blood, no melted skin, nothing in the carpet. He was well-done before he ever got here.”
“The other reason we won’t find anything is here: look at the ankles. Snapped, but through the burnt flesh- you can see the difference between the meat on the outside and on the in; body fell post-mortem. And you smell the brimstone- sulfur, rotten egg stink? Killer teleported it in here, and either fucked up the transport spell or didn’t give a shit, because the exit was too high. Corpse came in in an orthostatic position- standing; the fall caused the compound fractures, probably to the tibia. Best we’re going to get will come from the corpse itself, but we’ll have to get it to the lab to analyze it.” I turn to Pawn. “Bring my car around.” I toss him the keys.
I unfold a wedge of silk and lay it flat next to the body. Tim helps me roll the corpse up in it like a burrito, and I put my coat on its shoulders. “Now help me lift the bastard.” I get most of the weight in the legs, and Tim lifts the head and throws that over my shoulder.
We make our way across the dance floor muttering apologies. “He’s a little drunk. Excuse me. My friend’s sick. Can you let me through?” We’re lucky it’s nearly last call, and everybody’s either hammered or looking to get laid. Rook’s an appreciated distraction, and makes two men carrying a body through the club less seedy than it should be.
Pawn pulls up, and I set the corpse in the front seat with a little difficulty, belt him in.
Rook gets in the back, and Pawn saunters off. “What was that about a vamp?” she asks as I start the car and pull out into traffic.
“That’s right, Salem doesn’t have a colony. But vampires can smell magic. They’re not too specific; this guy could either be magic or have died by it, but it at least lets us know when to look into things, and when to just leave it for the normal cops.”
“So where are we taking the body?”
“Bishop’s lab.” That didn’t seem to be enough for her. “You could call Bishop a renaissance man- but she’d probably say that’s sexist. She’s our resident polymath.”
“She?”
Her coven likely told her we don't allow women into gambits, which isn't strictly true- though it isn't the norm, either. “Yeah. We recruited her from a Seattle coven, when our old bishop, Alfil- the elephant- quit. We didn't think he’d retire. He never used to forget anything, but his mind started to go. First little things, incantations, names of spirits, but it got worse, until half the time he’d forget I wasn’t a pawn anymore.”
“About that. Pawn said he trained you. But unless I’ve got things backwards, you basically outrank him- at least as far as a gambit can be said to have ranks.”
“It’s a long story. And since you’ve only met him tonight, a little too early to tell. But that long story short, I took his spot, he took mine.”
“In other words, he got demoted, and they promoted you.” Almost too bad she isn’t looking to be a horsey. Seems to have the chops.
And I’ll cop to being impressed that when we get to Bishop’s lab, she isn’t dainty about getting the corpse out of my car and back on my shoulder. He’s still heavy, but I shudder to think how much he weighed before most of the moisture was cooked out of him.
Rook beats me to the front door by several seconds, and is about to reach for the knocker. “Wait.” She stops, and lets me through. I knock out, “Shave and a hair cut,” with my fist and leave a six beat pause before finishing with, “two bits.”
“A second,” comes Bishop’s voice through the door, then she opens it. Rook is shocked that Bishop’s younger than she is.
I push my way between them with the corpse. “Fresh delivery of long pig, a little overdone. But I know how you like your meat- as charred and blackened as your shriveled heart.” She grins at me.
Bishop never knew her father. Her mother told her he was in politics, though she never knew if that meant he was in the Seattle gambit or if he worked somewhere in the non-mage government. Her mother died when she was 16, officially protoscience-related lung cancer. Bishop spent her last two years as a minor as a ward of the gambit, apprenticing with the brightest minds they had. When she turned 18, King convinced her to come to Portland.
Because she was new, by far the youngest member of the gambit, and maybe because she was our only girl- try as Queen might to make that not true sometimes- she developed sometimes-paternal relationships with the rest of us- a whole handful of flawed father-figures.
On the subject of figures, she's maturing, aged enough I can't tell myself she's just the kid she was when she moved down here anymore. She's got short, red-brown hair that she's always forgetting to pin back. Because of that, it's rare when she doesn't have a piece of food or corpse hanging from it.
“You always bring me the nicest things,” she says, still smiling at me. “But come in, come in, the coffee’s a little cold, but the hot cocoa’s warm and fresh.”
I set the corpse down on her slab, while Rook stares at her. “You’re so pleasant, and, and bubbly, despite him setting a dead body down on your table. It’s weird.”
“It helps that the cocoa’s caffeinated. Loco Cocoa. But it’s only weird because of the dichotomy, since you spent the evening with the glower twins. They see the ugly side of people. I get to see the fascinating side- which is frequently the inside.” Bishop sets down her mug, and tears into the silk sheet, unwrapping the body like it’s Christmas. “You want the sheet back, or the usual?”
“Yep.” She’s got a chute down to her incinerator in the basement, and she drops it in. The silk is contaminated, physically from contact with the body, and magically, because I’ve been carrying it around in my jacket pocket. Burning it means keeping the next crime scene clean, and preventing somebody from dumpster diving and using it as the focus of a sympathetic spell against me.
“So this is the Salem Rook, huh? Seems a bit dainty to be a castle, but it’s nice to meet you.” Rook frowns, and looks at Bishop’s skinny arms with some confusion. “And nicer still that your coven is finally joining the 21st century.”
“Uh, it’s nice to meet you, too.” Rook reaches out and shakes Bishop’s hand, then immediately walks to the sink and begins vigorously scrubbing her hands.
“No offense. But I don’t want to contaminate the evidence.”
“Okay,” Rook says, while Bishop finishes drying her hands and puts on a pair of gloves. “So what is it a Bishop does?”
“I’m a protoscientist. I study things that aren’t accepted as fact by most people, but that exist anyway. Alchemy’s a good example. Before chemistry was a science, a lot of the foundation for it was laid by alchemists. Same with the astronomical aspects of astrology. But protoscience isn’t just limited to the arcane. For example a colleague of mine in BC is studying binaurul beats, used to induce specific brain states, applicable for health or just getting someone baked with sound. The theory is that it can be used to induce shamanic trances, but it’s really just sigil magic by a different name.”
Bishop spends a moment taking in the body, before she says, “I was thinking of getting some KFC, and when you said you were bringing the new Rook, I thought we could split a bucket, but now, the smell of this- why go out when we can eat in?” Rook stares at her with wide eyes. “What, are we not laughing about that, yet?” Then she says, “Oh, right- she doesn’t know the story.”
I take that as my cue to tell it- since Bishop only knows it secondhand, anyway. “Alfil, in one of his later in life oopsies- this was right before he retired- was supposed to check some decomposition for me, to see if it was natural or supernatural. Instead, he spent the better part of an evening performing a complex diagnostic spell on sliced, peppered turkey, while eating corpse, lettuce and tomato sandwiches. Really, he was lucky; he only got mild food poisoning. I get worse from the Chinese takeout down the street.”
“I think that’s because they age their corpses,” Bishop said solemnly.
“How long you think it’ll take to get an idea what we’re looking at?” I ask her.
“I can tell you you’re looking at a big burnt guy. If you want me to be able to point out more than roast chestnuts and a blackened tree stump, you’ll have to give me a few hours.”
“Cool.” I check my phone. “It looks like Pawn’s got his CI to the safehouse. Let us know when you've got something concrete.”
Check back next week for another excerpt or join my mailing list to be notified when The Necromancer's Gambit is available for purchase.
Preview: The Necromancer's Gambit, Part 6
And now, part 6 of the preview for The Necromancer's Gambit, due September 23rd. The Necromancer's Gambit follows the travails of a cell of mages operating in Portland.
Previously:
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 1
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 2
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 3
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 4
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 5
The Necromancer's Gambit, Part 6, The Interrogation
The safehouse is on the other side of town. We stop at Voodoo Doughnut because they have the least bad coffee around at this time of night. Rook orders a voodoo doll and a diablos rex; “You’re practically a stereotype,” I tell her. She refuses to try a bacon maple bar.
On the way back out to the car she says, “I couldn’t help but notice you left a fairly sizeable tip in the jar- well north of fifteen percent. There an actual Vodun Botono in there?”
“I have no idea. Once I complained when their coffee gave me heartburn, and for a week I had blood in my stool,” she looks down at her already headless voodoo doll donut with concern. “But I’m a regular, and you don’t screw with the people who make your food.” She shrugs, and bites off another of his limbs.
The safehouse is within walking distance of Voodoo, and I can’t help but think that isn’t coincidence, but we drive, anyway. Pawn’s smoking in the alley, and I hand him a box from Voodoo, the phallic cock-n-balls with “eat me” written down the shaft in red frosting. “Again?” he asks.
“If you didn’t slurp the whole thing down every time I brought you one-”
“Prick.”
“And the nuts. I’m told it’s important you don’t neglect those.” He grinds his cigarette out on the brick and lets it fall. I catch it in my hand and bring it inside, throw it in a trash basket. It’s sloppy- leaving around something personal like that- but that’s Pawn. I can’t honestly tell if he’s just come to expect me to clean up his messes, or completely doesn’t give a fuck.
His vampire CI’s in the next room, visible through a one-way mirror. Rook’s staring at the glass, trying to figure it out; there’s a slight flicker that gives away that it’s not just half-silvered. Then she spots a small red mark in the corner. “That sigil blocks light going in but not out,” I tell her. “It sidesteps the second law of thermodynamics by mimicking an optical isolator, somehow imitating a Faraday rotator. I have almost no idea what that means, but Bishop was adamant it involves physics.”
Pawn ignores the science talk, and starts speaking through the cock-n-balls in his mouth, “Gothy little fruit goes by Maleficitus. Real name’s Cedric. Kids an illegal and a vampire- and a simperer, for what that’s worth. He’s just a winner on all kinds of fronts.”
“Why’s he bleeding?” I ask.
“He tripped, and landed on my fist.” He laughs, and genuinely doesn’t seem to understand why nobody laughs with him.
I open up the door into the interrogation room. “You’ve really got to be more careful,” I said, and close the door on him before he can follow me in. “You okay?” I ask the kid.
“What the fuck, man? I’ve always been straight up with the gambit.”
“I know.” I pick up a box of tissues on the table, which he seems to be stubbornly refusing, and offer them to him. “And we appreciate that, we really do. But Pawn’s a dick, and about the only way he knows to show his appreciation is to spit in your face.”
He takes one of the tissues and dabs at his bleeding nose.
“You have any idea how hard it is to get vampire blood to coagulate?”
“I know you’re not the first vamp to bleed all over this carpet; we may still have some coagulant factors.” A few seconds pass and Pawn opens the door long enough to hand me a bag and an IV; he waits there a second, hoping his fetching it means I’ll let him into the room- but I don’t. I jab the needle in Cedric’s arm, hand him the bag, and position his arm so the bag stays above the needle.
“Thanks.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry, about all of this. It’s inconvenient, even if it weren’t for Pawn. But I have contacts in the police. If I were to handle it the way they’d like, you’d be sitting in their interrogation room. And they wouldn’t make the kind of accommodations it’d take to keep you alive. Not to mention that if you tried to tell them you were a vampire, they’d figure you for a lunatic and pin the murder to you and never bother looking anyplace else.”
“I didn’t do shit, man.” But I get the feeling he doesn’t quite believe that; he’s hunkered down, only occasionally looking up at me, like a dog who hopes his master isn’t pissed anymore.
But I’ve got no reason to beat on him. “I’m not accusing. Or threatening, for that matter. I just want you to know your place in the world at the moment: it’s precarious. You were the first person on my scene. Did you see anyone suspicious? Smell anything?”
He sniffles through blood still coming out his nose. “Won’t be smelling shit for a while.”
I’m getting tired of the petulant act. “Don’t pretend you couldn’t tell me everything about everyone in the room, down to their blood types.”
“Blood’s about the only thing I do pay attention to.” He’s preening- and yeah, now I do want to beat on him a little- but Pawn’s already a lock for bad cop. But ‘bad’ is relative.
“I’m not some college girl you’re trying to bang- I know you’re a predator. And you know your prey. You have to. Especially in a place like the Cauldron. It’s the only way you can keep from trying to feed off a mage or a hunter, or maybe something worse.”
“Mages stink to high fucking heaven of the craft. It’s in your blood, on your clothes, fingertips. I ain’t ever been close enough to know if you shit magic, too. But hunters, yeah- never know when the rabbits have claws unless you’re careful.” Something flashes in his eyes, and I know- and suddenly all his bravado makes sense.
“You don’t know the room, do you? Because you weren’t there- not initially. So who the fuck pointed you towards the body?
He is a predator, and knows he’s cornered, so it’s die trying to kill me, or, “Patrice.” He says the name softly, protectively.
I change my tone, trying to reassure him. “And who’s she?”
“Girlfriend.” He clams up anyway. The body’s likely a dead end, and whatever is going on with this vamp is probably my only lead- and no amount of magic can heat back up a cold trail.
“You kept her out of your narrative. Why? Or maybe you’d like to tell me why you haven’t asked for an advocate from the VC. You know that’s your right, by treaty, right?” He doesn’t deny it fast enough, and he knows I have him by the short hairs. “I got all day. And Pawn’s got all night. Given the amount of blood you’ve lost already, I’d be surprised if you’ll last that long.”
His eyes flash red at me, but before he can do something stupid he recognizes it’s the situation that’s gone wrong on him. Being stupid only makes it worse. “I turned her.” He flicks his tongue over his eye teeth, and I notice his fangs are drawn- he was that close to jumping me. But it’s out there, now. His secret. Even if he could delude himself into thinking he could kill me straight up- fighting his way out, through Pawn, and I’d be surprised if he hadn’t smelled Rook, too.
I try not to betray too much. By treaty, the vampire colonies police their own. Anything that might endanger the colony- like turning a human without sanction, or killing during feeding- is forbidden. Which means if they find little Cedric and his lady out, they either murder the both of them, or spend the next decade torturing him to make sure the lesson sticks. Maybe both, if he finds the colony in a lousy mood.
But that’s if they find out. “We’ll need to talk to her.” There’s a moment, where he calculates attacking me, and how many milliseconds it would take to tear out my throat, and I pull the meanest spell I can remember into my forethoughts, but his muscles relax. “I don’t report to the colony authority, and what consenting adults do is their business. But I need to know what I can about this murder. So I’m asking that you bring her in, so I can talk to her.”
“Not that little pit bull of yours?” He’s earnest; it’s at least a part of why he lied to us- he knew Pawn would get his licks in, and he was trying to shelter her.
“He doesn’t even need to be in the room.”
“So am I free to go?”
“Keep her nose clean. You know what they’ll do to the both of you if she gets found out. Other than that, yeah. I’ll see if we have a brick of halvah, and I can get you another bag of coagulant factor, unless you want me to try to cauterize it.”
“You’re as likely to burn a hole in my face.”
“Fair enough.”
Check back next week for another excerpt or join my mailing list to be notified when The Necromancer's Gambit is available for purchase.
Previously:
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 1
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 2
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 3
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 4
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 5
The Necromancer's Gambit, Part 6, The Interrogation
The safehouse is on the other side of town. We stop at Voodoo Doughnut because they have the least bad coffee around at this time of night. Rook orders a voodoo doll and a diablos rex; “You’re practically a stereotype,” I tell her. She refuses to try a bacon maple bar.
On the way back out to the car she says, “I couldn’t help but notice you left a fairly sizeable tip in the jar- well north of fifteen percent. There an actual Vodun Botono in there?”
“I have no idea. Once I complained when their coffee gave me heartburn, and for a week I had blood in my stool,” she looks down at her already headless voodoo doll donut with concern. “But I’m a regular, and you don’t screw with the people who make your food.” She shrugs, and bites off another of his limbs.
The safehouse is within walking distance of Voodoo, and I can’t help but think that isn’t coincidence, but we drive, anyway. Pawn’s smoking in the alley, and I hand him a box from Voodoo, the phallic cock-n-balls with “eat me” written down the shaft in red frosting. “Again?” he asks.
“If you didn’t slurp the whole thing down every time I brought you one-”
“Prick.”
“And the nuts. I’m told it’s important you don’t neglect those.” He grinds his cigarette out on the brick and lets it fall. I catch it in my hand and bring it inside, throw it in a trash basket. It’s sloppy- leaving around something personal like that- but that’s Pawn. I can’t honestly tell if he’s just come to expect me to clean up his messes, or completely doesn’t give a fuck.
His vampire CI’s in the next room, visible through a one-way mirror. Rook’s staring at the glass, trying to figure it out; there’s a slight flicker that gives away that it’s not just half-silvered. Then she spots a small red mark in the corner. “That sigil blocks light going in but not out,” I tell her. “It sidesteps the second law of thermodynamics by mimicking an optical isolator, somehow imitating a Faraday rotator. I have almost no idea what that means, but Bishop was adamant it involves physics.”
Pawn ignores the science talk, and starts speaking through the cock-n-balls in his mouth, “Gothy little fruit goes by Maleficitus. Real name’s Cedric. Kids an illegal and a vampire- and a simperer, for what that’s worth. He’s just a winner on all kinds of fronts.”
“Why’s he bleeding?” I ask.
“He tripped, and landed on my fist.” He laughs, and genuinely doesn’t seem to understand why nobody laughs with him.
I open up the door into the interrogation room. “You’ve really got to be more careful,” I said, and close the door on him before he can follow me in. “You okay?” I ask the kid.
“What the fuck, man? I’ve always been straight up with the gambit.”
“I know.” I pick up a box of tissues on the table, which he seems to be stubbornly refusing, and offer them to him. “And we appreciate that, we really do. But Pawn’s a dick, and about the only way he knows to show his appreciation is to spit in your face.”
He takes one of the tissues and dabs at his bleeding nose.
“You have any idea how hard it is to get vampire blood to coagulate?”
“I know you’re not the first vamp to bleed all over this carpet; we may still have some coagulant factors.” A few seconds pass and Pawn opens the door long enough to hand me a bag and an IV; he waits there a second, hoping his fetching it means I’ll let him into the room- but I don’t. I jab the needle in Cedric’s arm, hand him the bag, and position his arm so the bag stays above the needle.
“Thanks.”
“Yeah. I’m sorry, about all of this. It’s inconvenient, even if it weren’t for Pawn. But I have contacts in the police. If I were to handle it the way they’d like, you’d be sitting in their interrogation room. And they wouldn’t make the kind of accommodations it’d take to keep you alive. Not to mention that if you tried to tell them you were a vampire, they’d figure you for a lunatic and pin the murder to you and never bother looking anyplace else.”
“I didn’t do shit, man.” But I get the feeling he doesn’t quite believe that; he’s hunkered down, only occasionally looking up at me, like a dog who hopes his master isn’t pissed anymore.
But I’ve got no reason to beat on him. “I’m not accusing. Or threatening, for that matter. I just want you to know your place in the world at the moment: it’s precarious. You were the first person on my scene. Did you see anyone suspicious? Smell anything?”
He sniffles through blood still coming out his nose. “Won’t be smelling shit for a while.”
I’m getting tired of the petulant act. “Don’t pretend you couldn’t tell me everything about everyone in the room, down to their blood types.”
“Blood’s about the only thing I do pay attention to.” He’s preening- and yeah, now I do want to beat on him a little- but Pawn’s already a lock for bad cop. But ‘bad’ is relative.
“I’m not some college girl you’re trying to bang- I know you’re a predator. And you know your prey. You have to. Especially in a place like the Cauldron. It’s the only way you can keep from trying to feed off a mage or a hunter, or maybe something worse.”
“Mages stink to high fucking heaven of the craft. It’s in your blood, on your clothes, fingertips. I ain’t ever been close enough to know if you shit magic, too. But hunters, yeah- never know when the rabbits have claws unless you’re careful.” Something flashes in his eyes, and I know- and suddenly all his bravado makes sense.
“You don’t know the room, do you? Because you weren’t there- not initially. So who the fuck pointed you towards the body?
He is a predator, and knows he’s cornered, so it’s die trying to kill me, or, “Patrice.” He says the name softly, protectively.
I change my tone, trying to reassure him. “And who’s she?”
“Girlfriend.” He clams up anyway. The body’s likely a dead end, and whatever is going on with this vamp is probably my only lead- and no amount of magic can heat back up a cold trail.
“You kept her out of your narrative. Why? Or maybe you’d like to tell me why you haven’t asked for an advocate from the VC. You know that’s your right, by treaty, right?” He doesn’t deny it fast enough, and he knows I have him by the short hairs. “I got all day. And Pawn’s got all night. Given the amount of blood you’ve lost already, I’d be surprised if you’ll last that long.”
His eyes flash red at me, but before he can do something stupid he recognizes it’s the situation that’s gone wrong on him. Being stupid only makes it worse. “I turned her.” He flicks his tongue over his eye teeth, and I notice his fangs are drawn- he was that close to jumping me. But it’s out there, now. His secret. Even if he could delude himself into thinking he could kill me straight up- fighting his way out, through Pawn, and I’d be surprised if he hadn’t smelled Rook, too.
I try not to betray too much. By treaty, the vampire colonies police their own. Anything that might endanger the colony- like turning a human without sanction, or killing during feeding- is forbidden. Which means if they find little Cedric and his lady out, they either murder the both of them, or spend the next decade torturing him to make sure the lesson sticks. Maybe both, if he finds the colony in a lousy mood.
But that’s if they find out. “We’ll need to talk to her.” There’s a moment, where he calculates attacking me, and how many milliseconds it would take to tear out my throat, and I pull the meanest spell I can remember into my forethoughts, but his muscles relax. “I don’t report to the colony authority, and what consenting adults do is their business. But I need to know what I can about this murder. So I’m asking that you bring her in, so I can talk to her.”
“Not that little pit bull of yours?” He’s earnest; it’s at least a part of why he lied to us- he knew Pawn would get his licks in, and he was trying to shelter her.
“He doesn’t even need to be in the room.”
“So am I free to go?”
“Keep her nose clean. You know what they’ll do to the both of you if she gets found out. Other than that, yeah. I’ll see if we have a brick of halvah, and I can get you another bag of coagulant factor, unless you want me to try to cauterize it.”
“You’re as likely to burn a hole in my face.”
“Fair enough.”
Check back next week for another excerpt or join my mailing list to be notified when The Necromancer's Gambit is available for purchase.
Preview: The Necromancer's Gambit, Part 7
And now, the last preview for The Necromancer's Gambit, due September 23rd. The Necromancer's Gambit follows the travails of a cell of mages operating in Portland. Stay tuned later this week for the cover reveal.
Previously:
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 1
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 2
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 3
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 4
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 5
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 6
The Necromancer's Gambit, Part 7, The Interrogation, continued.
I barely have to look at Pawn for him to go scurrying for the halvah and the CF. He’s in deep shit, and he knows it. And Rook’s full of righteous pissiness. I should have expected as much, since it’s noble goddamn sentiment that’s kept most of the covens out of proper government.
“Let me see if I’ve got your job description straight: you beat and bully the people who help you until they probably won’t help you next time?”
I try not to snap at her. Interrogation’s never pretty, even when Pawn isn’t involved. And I also don’t have the heart to tell her just how vanilla this one actually was. “That’s probably how this played out. But more often than not, interrogation gets you information a witness wouldn’t give up willingly. Interrogation’s a part of what I do. So’s scene investigation. Tracking. Pawn goes home and blackout drinks tonight away, and Bishop, after a day or two pulling apart that overcooked McNugget gets to set it aside. But this case is mine until I bury it. Pawn’s an ugly little thug-”
“Thanks,” he says, before realizing he should have kept his nose buried in his refrigerator, trying to find the halvah.
“but he’s a terrier, and barks real loud to keep people in check. But when they become unchecked, it’s my job to find them and shut them down.”
She wants to fight it out, but her diplomatic instincts kick in. “Fine.”
“Just take it,” I hear Pawn from the other side of the room. Cedric walks toward the door, and Pawn keeps jabbing him with the halvah and CF; he won’t take them, and I understand why. I grab them from Pawn, and Cedric takes them, gently, out of my hands. He nods to me, but his eyes are sad.
“Sorry about that little trip you took,” Pawn says, and claps him on the shoulder.
Cedric’s eyes go red again, and he nods in my direction. “If he weren’t here, I’d rip through your neck like tissue.” He slams the door before Pawn’s hand can start to gravitate to the snub-nose in his pocket.
“Guess I won’t be using him as a CI anymore.”
“They’re gone,” I tell him. “Whatever goodwill he banked with us or the VC, he can’t trust anymore. So he’ll take Patrice and disappear, go to a new city, start over with a different colony.”
“Hey, don’t blame me,” Pawn says, before I even get a chance to. “I know Patrice, and that she’s been hanging around Cedric. But I didn’t fucking know he turned her. Christ. I’d have torn out his fangs if I’d known that. You know those VC fucks- look for any reason to pitch the blame on us humans.”
“They’re human, too,” I correct him.
“Keep telling yourself, that, pal. I prefer not to share a species with people who see me as livestock.”
“What’s our next step?” Rook asks.
“Pawn will track down Patrice, if he can, and I’ll ask her, gently, what went on.”
Pawn, midshaft on the cock-n-balls, glares at me. “But their story seems to match Tim’s, so it’s probably a dead end. Otherwise we’re waiting on Bishop.”
“Want to get some more coffee?” she asks.
“Slightly warmer, or colder, this time?”
“Sure. Let’s walk.” I figure pumping her legs will get some of the tension out so we hoof it to Voodoo. We get less than a block before I realize she’s watching over her shoulder. “Worried about the vamp?”
She blushes. “Shouldn’t I be?”
“Wary, not worried. One to one, a mage trumps a vamp. They’re faster, stronger, more agile- but that only matters if they can get in close. So it’s basically suicide for a vamp to attack a mage. It might be worth it for him to try to kill Pawn- he’s a big enough prick- but you and I, no. That’d be suicide times 2.”
“Unless there’s more than one of them.”
“There’s a treaty, between the vampire colonies and the gambits. They don’t attack us, we don’t attack them. It’s a fragile peace, but one that’s beneficial enough that nobody’s looking to violate it. And Cedric has broken their rules; he can’t trust any of them with it- so he couldn’t ask any of them for back up.”
“How close do you work with the colony?”
“Kind of depends. If they’ve got trouble they’ll consult with us. If we’ve got a vamp suspect, we’ll consult with them. Theoretically, we could call them for back-up in a pinch- but I’d hate to have to rely on that. In a city this size, you’re almost guaranteed to have either an infestation or a colony. Since Salem’s the capital, I’d be surprised if you didn’t have a few vampires there, hangers-on or manipulators. I know a good extermination guy I can recommend to your Circle.”
“A hunter?”
“Not one of those genocidal pricks. More of a catch and release specialist. Besides, if you can point them out to a nearby colony, they’ll take care of it.”
“I don’t think I like the euphemism.”
“It isn’t one. Most likely they’d set up a colony. Organize it. Without it, pretty soon you end up with an infestation- a de facto colony that’s rogue, doesn’t enforce the rules, and tends to attract the worst elements. Then it’s kill or be killed.” I hand her a card. “Just talk to my guy. Better to know. What the Circle does with the information is up to them.”
She’s still mulling the idea when I get a call. It’s Bishop. “Better fucking come down here.”
“B? What’s wrong? You in trouble?”
“Just fucking come. And bring Pawn.” We run back by the safe house. He’s doesn’t say a thing, but he’s ready when we get there- him not dragging his ass shows just how rattled he is.
Bishop’s never been this taciturn before. I don’t know what that means- but it’s bad. I speed through several of Portland’s perennial construction zones, and it’s probably a miracle I don’t get pulled over.
Bishop opens her door as we pull up, leaves it ajar. She’s standing by the body, staring, by the time we cross the threshold. “I didn’t want to do this over the phone. Even with the protective spells. It’s Castle.”
“What’s Castle?” I ask, because she can’t mean what I think she does. “Did he call you? Is something up?”
“No, that corpse is Castle. Our Castle.”
“Shit.”
Check back next week for another excerpt or join my mailing list to be notified when The Necromancer's Gambit is available for purchase.
Previously:
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 1
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 2
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 3
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 4
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 5
The Necromancer's Gambit, part 6
The Necromancer's Gambit, Part 7, The Interrogation, continued.
I barely have to look at Pawn for him to go scurrying for the halvah and the CF. He’s in deep shit, and he knows it. And Rook’s full of righteous pissiness. I should have expected as much, since it’s noble goddamn sentiment that’s kept most of the covens out of proper government.
“Let me see if I’ve got your job description straight: you beat and bully the people who help you until they probably won’t help you next time?”
I try not to snap at her. Interrogation’s never pretty, even when Pawn isn’t involved. And I also don’t have the heart to tell her just how vanilla this one actually was. “That’s probably how this played out. But more often than not, interrogation gets you information a witness wouldn’t give up willingly. Interrogation’s a part of what I do. So’s scene investigation. Tracking. Pawn goes home and blackout drinks tonight away, and Bishop, after a day or two pulling apart that overcooked McNugget gets to set it aside. But this case is mine until I bury it. Pawn’s an ugly little thug-”
“Thanks,” he says, before realizing he should have kept his nose buried in his refrigerator, trying to find the halvah.
“but he’s a terrier, and barks real loud to keep people in check. But when they become unchecked, it’s my job to find them and shut them down.”
She wants to fight it out, but her diplomatic instincts kick in. “Fine.”
“Just take it,” I hear Pawn from the other side of the room. Cedric walks toward the door, and Pawn keeps jabbing him with the halvah and CF; he won’t take them, and I understand why. I grab them from Pawn, and Cedric takes them, gently, out of my hands. He nods to me, but his eyes are sad.
“Sorry about that little trip you took,” Pawn says, and claps him on the shoulder.
Cedric’s eyes go red again, and he nods in my direction. “If he weren’t here, I’d rip through your neck like tissue.” He slams the door before Pawn’s hand can start to gravitate to the snub-nose in his pocket.
“Guess I won’t be using him as a CI anymore.”
“They’re gone,” I tell him. “Whatever goodwill he banked with us or the VC, he can’t trust anymore. So he’ll take Patrice and disappear, go to a new city, start over with a different colony.”
“Hey, don’t blame me,” Pawn says, before I even get a chance to. “I know Patrice, and that she’s been hanging around Cedric. But I didn’t fucking know he turned her. Christ. I’d have torn out his fangs if I’d known that. You know those VC fucks- look for any reason to pitch the blame on us humans.”
“They’re human, too,” I correct him.
“Keep telling yourself, that, pal. I prefer not to share a species with people who see me as livestock.”
“What’s our next step?” Rook asks.
“Pawn will track down Patrice, if he can, and I’ll ask her, gently, what went on.”
Pawn, midshaft on the cock-n-balls, glares at me. “But their story seems to match Tim’s, so it’s probably a dead end. Otherwise we’re waiting on Bishop.”
“Want to get some more coffee?” she asks.
“Slightly warmer, or colder, this time?”
“Sure. Let’s walk.” I figure pumping her legs will get some of the tension out so we hoof it to Voodoo. We get less than a block before I realize she’s watching over her shoulder. “Worried about the vamp?”
She blushes. “Shouldn’t I be?”
“Wary, not worried. One to one, a mage trumps a vamp. They’re faster, stronger, more agile- but that only matters if they can get in close. So it’s basically suicide for a vamp to attack a mage. It might be worth it for him to try to kill Pawn- he’s a big enough prick- but you and I, no. That’d be suicide times 2.”
“Unless there’s more than one of them.”
“There’s a treaty, between the vampire colonies and the gambits. They don’t attack us, we don’t attack them. It’s a fragile peace, but one that’s beneficial enough that nobody’s looking to violate it. And Cedric has broken their rules; he can’t trust any of them with it- so he couldn’t ask any of them for back up.”
“How close do you work with the colony?”
“Kind of depends. If they’ve got trouble they’ll consult with us. If we’ve got a vamp suspect, we’ll consult with them. Theoretically, we could call them for back-up in a pinch- but I’d hate to have to rely on that. In a city this size, you’re almost guaranteed to have either an infestation or a colony. Since Salem’s the capital, I’d be surprised if you didn’t have a few vampires there, hangers-on or manipulators. I know a good extermination guy I can recommend to your Circle.”
“A hunter?”
“Not one of those genocidal pricks. More of a catch and release specialist. Besides, if you can point them out to a nearby colony, they’ll take care of it.”
“I don’t think I like the euphemism.”
“It isn’t one. Most likely they’d set up a colony. Organize it. Without it, pretty soon you end up with an infestation- a de facto colony that’s rogue, doesn’t enforce the rules, and tends to attract the worst elements. Then it’s kill or be killed.” I hand her a card. “Just talk to my guy. Better to know. What the Circle does with the information is up to them.”
She’s still mulling the idea when I get a call. It’s Bishop. “Better fucking come down here.”
“B? What’s wrong? You in trouble?”
“Just fucking come. And bring Pawn.” We run back by the safe house. He’s doesn’t say a thing, but he’s ready when we get there- him not dragging his ass shows just how rattled he is.
Bishop’s never been this taciturn before. I don’t know what that means- but it’s bad. I speed through several of Portland’s perennial construction zones, and it’s probably a miracle I don’t get pulled over.
Bishop opens her door as we pull up, leaves it ajar. She’s standing by the body, staring, by the time we cross the threshold. “I didn’t want to do this over the phone. Even with the protective spells. It’s Castle.”
“What’s Castle?” I ask, because she can’t mean what I think she does. “Did he call you? Is something up?”
“No, that corpse is Castle. Our Castle.”
“Shit.”
Check back next week for another excerpt or join my mailing list to be notified when The Necromancer's Gambit is available for purchase.
Cover Reveal: The Necromancer's Gambit
I'm excited to share this with you guys, and more excited to get The Necromancer's Gambit out to you in a few days. And then on to the next project. We'll start sharing previews from Banksters next, a sexy thriller following the machinations of a sociopath, due for release early November.
Visit The Necromancer's Gambit's goodreads page for quotes and early reviews, as they come in, or join my mailing list to be notified when The Necromancer's Gambit is available for purchase.
Visit The Necromancer's Gambit's goodreads page for quotes and early reviews, as they come in, or join my mailing list to be notified when The Necromancer's Gambit is available for purchase.
Grab The Necromancer's Gambit for $.99, from December 12th through 15th.
I figured I'm probably not the only one looking for some reading in between the social events. So for a limited time, you can grab The Necromancer's Gambit for pretty cheap, from Amazon.
Buy it here.
Buy it here.
News about the novels and writing of Nicolas Wilson
Follow along for news, interviews, information about upcoming releases.
- Nicolas Wilson's profile
- 96 followers
