A FISTFUL OF SPELLS

A FISTFUL OF SPELLS, A Spellslinger Story, by Zach Chapman, artwork by Ben Terdik

 

I threw the two Striga bodies on Sheriff Hickman’s desk, knocking over a dozen half-empty potion bottles. Glass crunched and Hickman flinched.

“I—I don’t need the bodies!” He scrambled from his desk, barely avoiding a purple liquid that streamed to the side of his desk and formed a miniature waterfall.

I was bleeding and still twitching off the dregs of a soul decoction high. By the quiver of Hickman’s bloodless cheeks, I knew I was a hellish sight; the veins in my face were coal-black. It would wear off soon, along with my sharpened aim and heightened agitation.

Standing there, squinting at the motionless Striga, Hickman’s shining head hardly cleared my chin. He wore spectacles and a tiny, ordinary revolver on his hip, much unlike my rune covered casting pistol. A golden star hung lazily from his collared shirt.

“They’re children,” I said.

“Whatever they are, you’ve smashed my potions with their corpses!”

“You’re the goddamn sheriff, not some alchemist’s apprentice. There were two this time. Pay me triple.”

“Triple?” Hickman gaped. “Triple? Double is more than fair. Twenty-five a piece.”

“No. Double ain’t fair.” I leaned in close. My fresh wounds dripped blood onto his boots. A badly brewed soul decoction can turn me a tad sour. So can casting a dozen spells to put down a couple of Striga. They might not look like much when they’re full of bullet holes, but their mutated claws can strike faster than a copperhead.

I continued. “You’ll pay me seventy-five or you’ll deal with the next Striga yourself, Sheriff.”

He stuttered for a moment, like a card player caught cheating at Faro, then gave up. “Right, then. But after this, it’s twenty-five a piece. I don’t care if five of these little bastards bushwhack you. All you spellslinger freaks are the same. They teach you to be greedy fiends in that guild of yours?”

“It ain’t a guild. It’s a fraternal order. And they taught me how to hunt, trap and kill all the known creatures and monsters native to the frontier. And how many are born, or created. Hickman, do you want to know how Striga form?” I paused. “After a tormented virgin commits suicide, their corpse rises as a Striga.”

He said nothing, unfazed.

He turned to his office wall and slid back a panel, revealing an iron safe. Strong illusionary magic protected it, so I didn’t bother averting my eyes as he collected my fee.

I continued. “I want to know, how is it that the small town of Elyia, population 540, has had Striga scaring the ranch hands out of the fields for three weeks straight? These last two mark six.”

Hickman set fifty greenbacks on one of the corpses then another twenty-five greybacks on the other. When he saw my eyebrows furrow he smiled economically. “You didn’t specify what currency. What is it exactly you’re getting at by telling me this, Rick?”

I almost bared my teeth, but the decoction was wearing off and suddenly I felt tired. Blood loss. I needed a drink. “Been at spellslinging a long while. Never seen a Striga… infestation like this before. All I’m saying, something ain’t right in this town. Something a sheriff need tend to. Not a spellslinger.”

“You think it’s my job to prevent suicide?”

“I don’t know.”

That made him chirp a sardonic whistle.

I grabbed my fee and turned for the door. “Those potions stink like a prostitute’s perfume. Check your formula.”

“Rick, you’re forgetting the Striga carcasses.”

“Bury them yourself. Spellslingers’ are paid to hunt monsters. Not dig holes.”

###

Fistful of Spells

Inside the Arrowhead, can-can girls danced. Their ruffled dresses flowed unnaturally, like ethereal spirits adrift. Someone was choreographing the saloon air, manipulating the thin draft like marionette strings, animating their dresses. Ranchers shouted over games of darts, dice and Faro. Normally, my kind of den.

I sat at the bar, alone.

“You’re bleeding,” a dancing girl said. She wore a whalebone corset and a can-can dress with garters. I could tell by her voice and powerful shoulders that she was completely post-spell.

Nowadays saloons were full of girls like her and that was fine by me.

She sat down next to me at the bar and went through her whole spiel. You new in town? You’re so tall. The other guys here’re rather drab. The pianist poked tuneless keys to The Union Ballad from across the saloon and deadened most of her words. I only half listened anyway. Hustling rarely worked on me, but I waved the barman to pour her a drink.

“Rick!” the barman said.

It was Juan—a handsome man as tall and dark as me, with a wit as sharp as a scorpion tail. At first he struck me as a Brewers Guild man, with all that fancy talk, but one day I noticed the remnants of a rat tattoo on his forearm. Rat Thief Firm. Ex-member, or so he claimed. Even though post-spell girls’re more my flavor, he’d nearly talked me into bed twice. I suspected one night I’d take him up on the offer.

“Your drinks are on the house,” Juan said then flicked his hair at the can-can girl. “Unless you’re buying for that púta.”

“In that case I’ll buy.” I slid him the greybacks. “What can I get with this?”

He clicked his tongue at the dead currency and poured half a shot of Coffin Varnish. At the sight of the Confederate money and pathetic shot, the post-spell girl sighed, probably thinking I was an ex-Confederate, and moved on down the bar to someone else. I shrugged and that hurt a little.

“Rick, you scared her off. Jesus, you look like a Dragón de Fuego chewed away your jugoso parts. Hard day casting your spells? Playing town hunter?”

“Yeah.”

“Those Striga gave you no trouble before. Big strong man! You lying to me? You have a violent lover on the side?”

“This time there were two of them.” I downed the Coffin Varnish, Elyia’s local rotgut whisky. Burnt tobacco, cayenne pepper and gods knows what else they cut it with scorched my throat. Once I recovered and steadied my wobbling stool, I asked Juan, “You hear of any missing children? Desecrated graves? Any strange goings on in town?”

“Desecrated graves? Mierda! Talk like that will scare more girls away. I like it! What’s the chismes? Tell me.”

“It’s…” Not my job. None of my business. I kill monsters, not play Pinkerton. In fact, spellslingers have a code about not interfering with human affairs. Shit, what was I supposed to do? Just let this Striga problem keep happening? No.

“It’s what? You talk, I pour. Storyteller’s discount.”

“Today I shot two children… Well, Striga.”

He poured, so I drank and talked about Striga. Four glasses later, Juan shook his head.

“Jesus, Rick. That’s chingado. Kids. Screw that spellslinger code. You gotta do something. East side of Elyia, there’s an orphanage. Maybe you can learn more there.”

There it was. A lead. Something. I killed another drink and made Juan give me directions before leaving the bar.

###

I exited through batwing doors, under the wooden arrowhead sign. Cloudy night had swallowed the sky; not even the moon shone on the streets. Laughter stalked me down an alley until I was out of earshot of the saloon. It’d be a far walk, but I was no longer limping and my arm was mending. Soul decoctions can work wonders.

As I rounded the alley, I spotted Hickman leaving his sheriff’s office. He paused, movements cautious, and looked down each side of the road.

Suspiciously late work schedule, I thought. Not like he had any paperwork.

Suddenly, tailing Hickman seemed much more interesting than snooping around an orphanage. I sank away from his field of vision and waited until he proceeded, then began shadowing him.

I slid to the cover of an open porch, and carefully crept—heel to toe, so my boots wouldn’t cause the floorboards to creak. My right palm itched for the bloodwood grip of my pistol but I forced myself to leave the gun on my hip. Wouldn’t want to get caught trailing the sheriff, casting pistol in hand.

Hickman often slowed his pace, studying the streets like a shady cat. If a saloon was still lively, or if there were folks walking about, he’d redirect down an alley or side street.

I got the sense we were nearing his destination. The west church. Or maybe the weedy graveyard neighboring it.

But that graveyard looked fine. No splintered caskets or exposed coffins. Surely the Striga weren’t coming from those old graves. The hell was Hickman doing there?

Someone—something grabbed my shoulder from behind. A hand. Unsettlingly gentle.

I spun, drawing my sharpfinger—a skinning knife—from my belt. The black demonbone blade reflected no light. I made sure my pursuer felt the point on his neck.

“Rick! Rick, Rick-Rick,” he gushed like a slit bladder. “It’s Juan. Jesus, don’t kill me.”

Gritting my teeth, I hushed him but Hickman had already heard the commotion. The sheriff redirected, vanishing down another street, away from the west church, the graveyard.

“God damn you, Juan. You tryin’ to steal from me? I thought you weren’t a Rat Thief anymore.”

“Lo siento. No soy. Lo siento.”

“Speak English. We ain’t in Mexico.”

I was holding him tight. I could feel his manhood hard against my leg. I removed my blade from his throat and he whispered, “I’m no longer a thief. I wanted to follow you home tonight.”

“I don’t have a home, idiot.”

“You know what I mean. Back to your apartment. I don’t know how long you’ll still be in Elyia. I wanted to hop on you before you ran off. Not sure when I’ll see another spellslinger as fair as you.”

I looked down at what was left of the rat tattoo on his forearm. A long scar split the ink in half. Maybe he really wasn’t a thief.

“Follow me,” I said.

###

I’d rented a ranch hand’s apartment, a drafty, claustrophobic room above a dozen horse stables. The stink of horseshit permeated the walls of my apartment so strongly that it no longer existed as a smell. It was a taste.

A horse sidekicked their stable and, with a clap like thunder, sent my whole apartment rattling. Juan jumped. Horses were nearly extinct, their behavior mysterious to the average man.

“Do you think that was–” he started.

“Relax. No one followed us back. I made sure of that.”

“You were tailing our trusted sheriff? Do you think he’s involved with the suicides?”

“I don’t know. He was headin’ for a graveyard. Could be he was covering his tracks, cleaning up graves. Knew I was on to him. But that doesn’t tell us why. Not to mention at the angle I saw that graveyard none of those graves seemed tampered with.”

“And why did he have Confederate money? Confederate commanders gave out bills for any scalp as dark as ours. Mexican, Indian, they didn’t care. Come to think of it, I heard rumors he killed more recently. Lakotas in the Great Sioux War.”

“So he’s an ex Confederate shit. A scalp-hunter. But that don’t mean he’s spawning Striga.”

We didn’t speak for a long while. My wounds ached.

“You need to go to the orphanage tomorrow,” Juan said.

“That I do.”

“Tonight, you need to spend with me.” He pulled me close and we kissed.

###

The orphanage leaned heavily to one side. Scars from a fire several years back blackened the Georgia style pillars. Shouts of pain and laughter echoed from inside. Children. I imagined the kids playing cowboys and Indians, arguing over who were redskins and who were spellslingers. I pushed through the door.

To the right was a corridor and flight of stairs. Two children raced down, stomping on each step, like marching soldiers. From the entrance a carpet stretched to the left, leading to a dining room that had been converted into an office.

A man stood up from an oak secretary desk that was tucked into a corner. Stacks of paper, an inkwell pen, and a worn black switch cluttered his desk. He bowed, sucked in a deep breath and delivered the most genuinely happy smile I’d ever seen. Straight teeth, neat mustache, saccharine breath. The grin was nearly infectious. I found myself shaking his hand.

“Good morning dear sir. How may I help you? Coming to adopt? You don’t seem like the normal adopting folk. Though, perhaps you want a ward. I see you’re a spellslinger. I know your lot travels. We have many fine boys who learn quick, can watch your back on your travels. They’d make great little apprentices for your guild!”

“Maybe another time. Name’s Rick. I have a few questions, if you don’t mind. Have a moment to spare?”

“Absolutely, Mister Rick. All morning, if these little orphans don’t act up!” He eyed the black switch on the edge of his desk, his smile never once betraying warmth.

“Have there been any children disappearing from the orphanage?”

“Sure. I’m proud to say that our adoption rates have risen quickly in these recent months. Sadly, I think cholera hit a few neighboring towns last year. That would explain the uptick in adoptions.”

“Do you ever see any of the children, after they’re no longer under your care?”

“No. As I said earlier, I’m afraid most of the children go to families in neighboring towns that I don’t frequent.”

“And all of these families that adopt, do they come back? Any parents adopt more than three or four kids? Or come back for seconds?”

“We adopted out a brother and sister at the same time once, but it’s usually one child per couple. Or parent.”

“You adopt out to single parents often?”

“Half a dozen times or so this year.”

Interesting. I thought of the potion bottles on Hickman’s desk. Could be he was adopting all these kids, using an illusion potion to mask his identity, showing up at the orphanage with a new face every few weeks. Covering his trail. Bastard. Then what? Convince the children to kill themselves? Why? A sick fetish?

“Those single parents, they act odd? They have similar mannerisms? Have a particular smell?” Anything demonic about them? I wanted to add.

He cocked his head. “Sir?”

“Sorry. Just thinking.” I decided to change the subject. “Didn’t catch your name.”

“Garth. Sir, is there something I should know about? Your lot deals with monsters, plains banshees and the like. Not orphans.”

“That we do. Have you, ah.” I chuckled the awkward laugh of an adolescent not knowing how to speak to an adult. “Seen anything queer? I’m investigating some strange goings on. Nothing I want to divulge until I know more. Came here as a stab in the dark.”

He considered this. “Other than the increase in adopted orphans, there hasn’t been anything of note.”

As I nodded, a herd of children thundered down the staircase. One tripped, smashing her knee against the floor. A thin wail escaped her lips and tears rolled down her cheeks. Several of the older boys snickered.

“A moment, please.” Garth turned. “Who pushed her?”

The boys quieted immediately and stood very still, fear clear on their thin faces. Garth reached for the black switch on his desk, stroked it. Long, black, mean. Just like the spellsinger masters had used on me when I acted a hellion growing up.

“Upstairs.” He directed the orphans with the end of his switch. “I’ll deal with this later. Mister Rick, where were we?”

“Actually, I’ll leave you to it. I’ll come back by if I think of anything else.”

The pieces were looking less puzzling now. Illusion potions—it was possible. Last I remembered, they reeked just like Hickman’s. He was my guy. Probably. He was my best lead anyways. Just needed to figure his motive. Or catch him in the act.

Garth thanked me for stopping by and apologized for not being more helpful. I shook his hand as I left. I wasn’t far from the orphanage before I heard the crack of the switch and the cry of an orphan.

###

Juan poured me a shot of Coffin Varnish. Arrowhead was dead. Half listening to Juan slander an opposing shift bartender, it occurred to me that many of the people who spent their time in Arrowhead probably used illusion potions to swap their gender for the night. Shit. It could be anyone in Arrowhead. No. Best to go with my gut. There was something off about Hickman.

“Am I boring you, querido?”

“Matter o’ fact.”

“Oh shut up, strong man. If I’m so boring, tell me how your investigation is going. And why you’re breaking your spellslinger code? Isn’t your order supposed to stay out of human affairs. Kill only monsters, demons, fantasmas?”

“Something like that. Certain beasts, ones like werewolves have a human form. My code don’t prevent me from killing those. Anyways, I think Hickman could be behind the Striga. It would explain why he hired me to kill them. Clean up the monsters he creates.”

“But why’s he convincing the niños to kill themselves?”

“Maybe he’s a demon. Shit, I don’t know. I plan to figure it out.”

But if it wasn’t a demon . . . And if it wasn’t some kind of monster causing all this . . . If at the root of this festering tree was a twisted man, what the hell was I supposed to do? Kill him? Wrap him up with a little bow and leave him on Hickman’s desk? Shit, it probably was Hickman. I couldn’t do those things. The Order of Spellslingers, the lodge that taught me everything, imparted a particular code—a caster’s purpose is to slay monsters—never interfere in human conflicts.

Hell with dying children. I pretended to myself. I ought to count myself blessed at the new fountain of continual income.

As Juan ungraciously chewed the fat, inside my head the rotgut scolded me. Kill Striga, get paid, drink. Oh, and keep your head on a swivel, least you get bushwhacked by three or four Striga on the next go. Stay wary of Hickman. Make sure he pays all that’s due but don’t start sniffing the sheriff out. No more stalking or investigating.

“Shut up,” I said to myself.

Juan closed his mouth and looked hurt.

###

Sometime after midnight, the clatter of glass, burning rotgut fumes and obnoxious can-can girls began to grate on me so I retired from Arrowhead, partially drunk.

I hadn’t made it around the alley corner before I was positive Juan was tailing me again.

I didn’t even turn to confront him. “Your hard on for me is getting real annoying, Juan. Creeping up on a drunk spellslinger at night ain’t the wisest move. You’re lucky I don’t put a bullet in your leg.”

He said nothing.

“Really, Juan, I’m tired. Not in the mood. Go back to Arrowhead. Back to pouring patrons’ drinks before you get fired.”

Still nothing.

I quarter turned, ready to slap the horse-shit out of him when a dagger of pain raked through me, slicing my back as if a hoe were being dragged across my shoulder blades.

I toppled over.

The pain crawled across my back, seeped under my skin and flowed through my body, paralyzing me. Physical pain throbbed into mental anguish. This wasn’t just some corporeal assault. Icebergs of hurt lodged in my heart and froze my brain. Memories of my dead sister and father overwhelmed my mind, soaking me in a maelstrom of emotion. Of hatred. Of violence. Of sorrow. Breath stuck in my throat. Tears filled my eyes.

I fought to regain control of my thoughts. The pain struck again as my assailant whipped down at me. Through my tears the dark figure standing over me was nothing but a blur, a black phantom under the blood moon. He lashed me, cutting into my soul. Sorrow flowed out, as if he’d struck an artery.

Of its own accord, my hand shakily grasped my pistol. Instead of pointing the barrel at the figure attacking me, the muzzle touched the soft of my temple, ready to end the pain. My finger slid under the trigger guard.

I fought hard against the sorrow, the craving to end it all. A scream echoed down the alley. I was too dazed to know if it was my own.

My attacker paused, glanced up, and then vanished. Slowly, I lowered the revolver.

Two deep breaths.

What the goddamn hell happened? I spat and wiped my wet face with my handkerchief. The alleyway was clear, save for a stray mutt eyeing me suspiciously. I crawled to the side of a shanty and tried to regain my composure. Instead, I upchucked Coffin Varnish all over my boots and cursed.

Whatever the hell had attacked me surely was the creature driving the children to suicide, creating Striga. It had sucked the happiness right out of my soul. That was the mechanism.

I focused on steadying my breath and prodded my back where I’d been struck only to discover there were no physical wounds.

“Oye!” Juan’s Mexican accent flowed down the alley. “You okay?”

“Why’re you out here? Shouldn’t you be inside Arrowhead pourin’ drinks?”

Obviously, Juan wasn’t above my suspicion, especially showing up in the alley now.

“Sure, but I saw you’d left, wanted to catch another night with you.”

“That so? Convenient.”

“Convenient for what?”

“Convenient for you to peek out and say hello moments after I was almost killed by whatever’s attacking the children.”

Though it was dark, the shock on his shadowed face seemed genuine. I told him what had happened, how I was nearly driven to suicide.

Juan helped me to my feet, grimacing at the retch on my boots. “It attacked you? How? Like with a weapon?”

“A sword? A club? Not sure. I’ll warrant a kind of black European magic. Something old, stinking of the dark ages. Or maybe it was a part of the creature itself, though I’ve never heard of a demon with abilities like that.”

“I should take you back to my place and fix you up.”

“I’ll be fine. No physical injury. Get back into Arrowhead before I crack your head.”

Not only did Juan conveniently say hello right after I’d almost painted the alley with my brains, he had access to body illusion spells.

“Are you sure? How about your apartment?”

“Go. Now.”

“Okay. Bueno. Bueno.”

He disappeared back toward Arrowhead. The ball of despair lodged in my throat had passed, but a certain gloom lingered. I wanted to slump in the alley and think of my past, but I trudged on for my apartment.

Not halfway to my quarters, I saw him—Hickman—sliding between street shadows, his hat pulled low to cover his face in darkness. Looking like that, he could have easily been the figure who’d attacked me. I checked my revolver to see what spells were chambered. Raw glowing Cherokee symbols marched around six firing pins, tattooing spells to the bullets themselves. All were lethal to mortal men. Good.

I followed him to the graveyard. Wind sighed as brown alder leaves blew through wooden crosses and crumbling headstones. A few fresh graves were marked only by blank stones. Probably victims of the recent cholera spate that Garth had mentioned.

Shit—it struck me. The fool was probably burying the dead Striga I’d thrown on his desk. He’d dragged them over earlier and now came back to finish the job. Cautious, I decided to stay close.

A spade rested against a shivering alder. He grabbed it and began digging up one of the graves without a headstone. Hickman toiled restlessly for nearly an hour as I scanned the cemetery’s perimeter. Didn’t spot the bodies. Damn. This wasn’t going anywhere. I decided to be a bit more proactive.

I crept close and leveled my revolver at his back as he grunted, heaving soft dirt. “Hickman, mind tellin’ me what you’re workin’ on?”

Raising the shovel like an ax, he pirouetted fast enough for his hat to catch the breeze and twirl off his forehead. A flap of brown scalp hung over one eye, half covering his ostentatious bifocals. The other eye was sunken in, dull. Ragged, his breath wheezed out of his torn throat.

He lowered the shovel and I lowered my pistol.

Seeing him there, jaw bone and broken teeth clear in the moonlight, the pieces clicked together like the cocking of a hammer on a fully chambered, well-oiled revolver. It wasn’t the potions that stank. It was him. Hickman wasn’t burying dead Striga. He was digging up bones for dinner. Hickman wasn’t a Striga spawning demon. He was a Bone Soldier risen from the killing fields of Little Big Horn. I’d heard tales that the Lakota had cursed Custer’s men to come back as undead creatures.

He said nothing so I cleared my throat. “You were a scalp-hunter for the Confederates. Once you lost that war, when you heard Custer and the like were hunting down Lakota, you couldn’t resist. Had to join. 7th Cavalry at Little Big Horn. You, Custer and fifty-two other men were cursed by the Lakota to an existence of the living dead. Then, somehow you got in with the Alchemists and they taught you enough potionwork to cover your identity.”

His breath whistled through his ragged throat. “Close enough to the truth.”

I waved the gun at him in a gesture. “It’s a great look for you. I think you should lay off the illusion potions. Elyia would love the look. Sheriff Bones. Come now. Don’t fret. I won’t tell your precious town. But you’ll be paying me full in greenbacks now.”

I could hear his dull teeth rub together. I guessed he was cross, but his gaunt face lacked muscle to make a comprehensive expression. “Not everyone can make a living hunting demons like you, spellslinger. I had to make hard choices. I wasn’t some goddamn manifest destiny, agrarian imperialist. My mother was a Hunkpapa Sioux. She was raped by a paleface. I grew up in enmity because I was different. Grew to hate the tribe.”

“Tragic. Seem to be doing fine for yourself, all considering. Enjoy your meal, Bone Soldier. Didn’t mean to interrupt.”

I didn’t care that he was a half-blood Bone Soldier. He could have been Paul fuckin’ Bunyan for all I cared, what mattered was he wasn’t creating Striga.

I turned to go, then thought to ask, “Seen anyone else sneaking about the streets tonight? I was attacked by a demon or maybe a man, didn’t get a close enough look.”

He mimed spitting—a hideously chalky click. “Matter of fact, as I left to feed, I saw someone headed east in a hurry.”

“East?” The orphanage was in that direction.

“I did not stutter.”

“Your bloated corpse mouth is shit for speaking.”

“I’ve come across a few spellslingers. None half as pompous as you, Rick.”

“And I seen and slayed lot of unpleasant creatures, that comes with spellslinging. But I never come across something ugly as you, Hickman. Night, sheriff.”

As I left the cemetery, I heard bones snapping, and visualized Hickman splitting a femur like a decayed twig before crushing the pieces to powder with his sharp, broken teeth. Delightful. My rotgut buzz was gone.

###

I wasn’t twenty yards from the orphanage when a Striga burst from a second story window, raining glass on the earth below. I had time to think, strange, Striga aren’t normally active at night. This one must be fresh.

Then it hit the ground and, reflexively, I drew my gun—Striga are extremely capricious. The beast blurred, covering half the distance between me and the orphanage before I squeezed the trigger.

A concussive blast, a wind spell, hit the Striga’s thin frame and propelled it back toward the orphanage.

This was going to be rough. No decoctions to even my speed against the monster. Just the spells in my belt. As it recovered like a frantic spider flipping onto sporadic legs, I took the moment to rip out the dead shell and shove in a fresh one. Six live rounds.

Claws scraping up loose pebbles, it bounded at me on all fours. The barrel of my revolver spat flame. The Striga leapt into the air with supernatural speed, easily avoiding the blaze. My next spell wasn’t much closer; a jet of blue shot from my gun, icing the Striga’s left claw with a sharp crack.

Damn. That wouldn’t slow it down a bit. It hit the ground, sliding into a hideously fast crawl, zigging and zagging, impossible to accurately target. The small grey streak didn’t relent. I wasted three more spells as it closed in on me.

Two sets of black claws lanced into my ribs.

The thing had been a child earlier that night. Alive. Maybe had run down the stairs, playing Indians and Spellslingers. Now its eyes were black. And its damn hands were butchering my insides like cold stilettos.

I put the gun up to its temple and erased the top half of its skull with a Lakota thunder spell.

Thank god I replaced that first shot.

I shoved off the dead body. The claws made a wet sound as they slipped out from in between my ribs. I crumpled. Sucking in breath stung. I counted two broken ribs. I’d lived through worse. Though no telling how messed up my insides were.

Above, children’s whispers drifted out of the broken orphanage’s window. Time to solve the mystery, Pinkerton. With a grunt, I pushed myself to my feet. I already felt spent from casting but, the hell with it, I tossed out the spent casings and slid six more deadly spells into my revolver.

The orphanage’s door was unlocked. I let myself in, ready to blast the Striga spawning demon back to hell. Garth stood on the stairs, twirling the black switch in his hand. No demon horns or red eyes. Yeah. Should’ve figured it was him. Evil often wears a smile.

“Rick, I was going to kill you tonight. Or rather, make you kill yourself, but I thought, what’s the point? What the hell can you do? Report me to Hickman? I’ve got dirt on that fool. Crossed him during one of his midnight snacks. From that night on, our secrets were tied.”

“And you’re telling me this because… you’re not afraid I’ll kill you?”

He laughed. “You ain’t the first Spellslinger Hickman’s hired. Ain’t the first that caught on to me. When the others confronted me, they mumbled about your Order’s ancient code. A code as old as magic itself. You don’t kill men, only ghouls. Monsters. Striga. See Rick, I’m no demon. I just own a relic infused switch. It leeches all happiness from whoever I whip to me; you felt the pain mere hours ago. Stand there. Glower. But all you’ll do is go tell Hickman. He’ll scold me, but he ain’t going to hang me.”

He waited, but I said nothing.

“You’ll ride off to another town to hunt real monsters. Just like the others.”

“Awful presumptuous of you.” I paused. “Why children?”

“Because of all god’s creatures, they’re the happiest. They… hmmm… are best to feed on.” For a moment, he looked like a man sick with envy. A man addicted.

“Christ, Garth, you know what I’m going to do?” I pulled out my revolver.

His smile twitched then reasserted itself as he watched me flick open the cylinder and empty the spell bullets into my palm. “That’s what I thought. You don’t really care about Elyia. You’re just here for buck. Hickman ain’t going to pay nothing for my corpse.”

Fatigue and blood loss dulled my senses. At the moment, I could’ve really downed a soul. Instead, I slid the fist full of spells into my pocket. Upstairs, children muffled cries, their savior defeated by a mere powwow. From my ammunition belt, I removed a regular bullet. Not a single spell etching reflected off the shell. I chambered the slug and leveled it at Garth’s gut.

“What? What are you doing?” He stuttered and raised the switch, as if it’d protect him.

“Killing monsters.”

I pulled the trigger. A flash illuminated the orphanage. The scent of unenchanted gunpowder curled out of the smoking barrel. Garth toppled down the stairs, clutching his stomach, moaning.

Watching him die, I pulled out my sharpfinger.

###

I slapped Garth’s bloody scalp on Hickman’s desk. He flinched at the mop of wet hair, but didn’t get up. He looked human, not a bit of rotten flesh visible. His illusion spells worked damn good, but they couldn’t cover his stench. I tossed the broken remnants of the evil switch into his lap.

“Don’t need greybacks or greenbacks or any payment to do your job, Bone Soldier. This monster’s on the house. Go to the orphanage. There’s something for you to chew on.”

I was gone before he could respond.

As I limped through town, past Arrowhead, the swinging sign and shitty piano melody begged me to order one last Coffin Varnish and say farewell to Juan.

–End—

________________________________________

Zach is an editor, author, podcaster, and gamer. His fiction has appeared in numerous anthologies and podcasts such as Star Ship Sofa, and Tales to Terrify. In 2016 he edited the anthology Time Travel Tales, which includes stories by Catherine Wells, Sean Williams, and Robert Silverberg. Like Robert E Howard and Joe R Lansdale, Zach grew up in rural Texas and loves writing pulp. He lives in Austin with his librarian wife, a cat, a flock of chickens, and a lazy eyed rescue dog named Dingo. You can find him on twitter @chappyzach.

Ben Terdik is a mixed media illustrator based in Hungary. He’s rapidly built a fan base on social media for his private poster commissions and illustration projects in the US and Europe.

 

 

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