Finn Fancy Necromancy (10 page)

You don't want to know what happens if you put that same note under a plastic flamingo.

The gnomes normally delivered right to your doorstep. Obviously, however, Mort didn't want anyone to know about his little deal. The one gnome with a blue hat stepped forward from the group to face Mort, and tucked his sickle into his wide leather belt.

“Gramaraye,” he said in his munchkin voice.

“Priapus,” Mort responded. “Respect to the Giardani family.”

“Respect us by payin' what you owe, necromancer,” Priapus said.

“Pay,” the other gnomes chanted in the creepy way that gnomes do.

Mort reached into the bag at his feet and pulled out a mana vessel and set it aside. Then he pulled out a polished wooden box. He opened the lid, showing the contents to Priapus.

“Ten Toths of mana, and a full set of spirit stones, as agreed. Set these into a protection circle, and they'll help contain even an Elder Spirit.”

Priapus nodded and held up what looked like a bit of carved bone that glittered with silver tracing.

Son of a bitch! Mort was trading our family's heirlooms for illegal artifacts.

Something made me look to my right, but I saw nothing except dust motes and flies dancing in the slanted pillars of light between the trees. And then a sasquatch burst out of the tree line and charged across the path at Mort and the gnomes.

Oh, crap. A sasquatch mercenary, it had to be. The creatures didn't show themselves unless paid or forced to.

The natural magic that camouflaged the sasquatch in the forest didn't work in the open, at least not against an arcana. A mundy would probably see a bear, or perhaps a hairy Grizzly Adams–looking fur trapper type. But I could feel the itch of magic between my eyes, and the giant, loping shape of the sasquatch became clearly visible. It was a male—I could tell by the extra fur that hung like a loincloth. He looked pretty much just like that grainy Bigfoot footage from the 1970's, except the nose was a lot bigger, the eyes small and beady … and he wore a pair of giant combat boots.

Nobody in the circle reacted. The sasquatch charged with its natural predatory speed and silence at Mort's back, and the gnomes, short as they were, appeared unable to see the sasquatch over the top of the concrete bowl.

I opened my mouth to shout a warning and hesitated. Not out of fear, but because the little voice in my head actually questioned whether I
should
help Morty. He'd betrayed me with Heather. He was betraying the family with his illegal trading, and that made it easier to believe he'd helped frame me twenty-five years ago. And damn it, what did he expect would happen when dealing with fraking feybloods?

But all that didn't matter, really. I couldn't just stand by and watch him be hurt. After all, if the sasquatch killed him, I couldn't beat him to death.

“Mort!” I shouted, and began running down the hill. “Look out!”

Mort turned, frowning, and spotted the sasquatch loping toward him. He yelped, and then scrambled at his jacket pocket and stumbled backward.

“Ambush!” Priapus shouted. “Retreat!” The gnomes formed up into a line and ran for the far edge of the circle.

I nearly twisted my ankle on the uneven ground, plowing with reckless speed through ferns and over mossy logs and bumpy roots. Hitting the level path was a shock to my entire body, but I managed to keep from falling and continued lumbering forward.

That's when a female sasquatch leaped out from behind a boulder to cut off the gnomes. Her fur was the color of redwood. A curtain of hair swung loose from where it covered her breast, like furry fringe on a halter top, and unlike her partner, her feet were bare, and big enough to make a clown feel inadequate. With one swipe of her hand, three gnomes went flying through the air. With the other, she snatched up Priapus.

The stream of fleeing gnomes split in a move as coordinated and practiced as a marching band. Priapus shouted something in squeaky Gnomish, and with a “Crack!” the stone beneath the sasquatch fractured. Vines grew up around her feet, her ankles, and kept growing.

At the same time, Mort threw a bottle at the male sasquatch—I named him Harry. What can I say, it's hard to be original when you're tripping your way through a suicidal charge to save your brother. The bottle struck Harry in the face and exploded in a yellowy liquid splash.

The sasquatch screamed and wiped at his face with the frantic motions of someone fending off bees.

I hit the edge of the circle, and this time I did stumble and fall down onto stone strewn with pebbles and pine needles. Pain burned through my palms and elbows, and pounded through my knees and shoulder as I scraped and rolled my way to a stop on the damp ground between Mort and the sasquatch.

At which point I wondered what the hell I was doing.

“Mort, run!” I scrambled to get my feet under me. My hands slipped in oily mud. Castor oil, probably mixed with marigold root, milkweed sap, and sea salt, one of the “potions” arcana kids learn when playing alchemist without the actual alchemy. Excellent natural defense if, say, a family of gnomes decides to turn on you, but little more than an irritant to sasquatches.

My advice, it turned out, was unnecessary. Mort was already running. The female sasquatch—Harriett—grabbed him by the back of his jacket, however, and swung him around to knock down a line of gnomes who had turned to attack her. The gnomes went tumbling, tiny skulls cracking against the concrete. Harriett tossed Priapus aside, and the vines stopped winding up her legs.

I scrambled toward Mort, but a hand the size of a medium pizza wrapped over the top of my head and jerked me to a neck-wrenching stop. Harry twisted me around to face him as I beat at his unyielding arm, then he grabbed me by the neck and lifted me off the ground. I began to choke, and I tore at his thick and matted fur, trying to get at the flesh beneath, but it was like digging through steel wool. Harry didn't even flinch. I heard Mort screaming in pain behind me, but it sounded distant, as though coming down a tunnel, and the edge of my vision started going hazy.

The sasquatch sniffed, and his brow furrowed. He drew me close and snuffled my head, surrounding me with his musky cedar scent, then growled in an annoyed tone and laid me gently down on the ground. As I coughed and sucked in gulps of air, the sasquatch stepped over me. I turned to follow his movement as he stomped across the mana vessel and bag of spirit stones toward Mort. Harriett held Mort dangling by one ankle, and with her free hand tore the last of the vines from her legs. The gnomes had disappeared.

I began a painfully slow crawl toward them, freezing whenever I thought Harriett might notice. Not that I had any idea what I was going to do when I reached them. The only effective attack I knew of was to tickle a sasquatch's feet, which at most would render them helpless with laughter. But to do that, I needed to get them off their feet. That didn't seem likely. Not only could they pretty much tie me up like a pretzel if they chose, but those big feet made for an awfully stable base. And Harry's feet were protected anyway.

“Is yonman target?” Harry asked.

“Yes,” Harriett replied. “And meself has the badbright magestick.” She showed the bone artifact Priapus had been trading with Mort. She dropped it, and Harry crushed it beneath his giant boot.

Harriett nodded at me. “Why no skullcrush yonman?”

I froze.

Harry looked back at me. “Himself be the one bigwarned not to hurt.”

I stared and wanted to say, “Watchoo talkin' about, sasquatch!”

Someone had told them not to hurt me? What the hell did that mean? Was it possible the Legion of Doom actually didn't want me hurt? Yeah, it was possible: neither the attack on the Fey nor framing me for Felicity's death would have led to my death, at least as far as I knew. Or perhaps someone else had sent the sasquatches. Either way, it surely didn't mean anything good.

“Allthis giving meself bad rumblings,” Harry said. “The gnomebrights rabbitted away.”

“Gnomebrights not going tongue-wagging to the magemen for shine of getting holed theyself,” Harriett said. “Youself be shivershaking baby-heart.” She lowered Mort to the ground, still holding on to his ankle, and raised her foot to crush his head.

I'd crossed a quarter of the space, but I was still too far away to do anything. “Wait!” I shouted.

“Wait!” Harry said at the same time, surprising me. “Meself no baby heart. Rightsay, allthis not feel right.”

Harriett lowered her foot to the ground, and lifted Mort back up, shaking him at Harry. “Boss say—”

“Meself not liking boss, sister-mine.”

“Youself not liking nothings. Youself tiny poopy foot.”

Harry roared, a sound of frustration that echoed off the hillside. “Meself not … poopy foot! Meself not baby heart!
Boss
not goodentrue. We leave him, quickrun to mother's cave 'til badbright stormings done.”

“No!” There was an edge of panic to Harriett's voice, and she clutched Mort's leg against her chest like a doll. “Meself needs the boss's brightjuice! Youself heartswore—”

A sharp retort echoed from the hillside, and Harry was knocked off his booted feet as if hit in the head by the invisible fist of a giant. He howled in a sound of raw anger and pain.

A battle cry filled the air, and then Zeke leaped into the concrete circle. I tried not to stare. The giant Norseman was dressed
Miami Vice
–style in an old enforcer uniform—white jacket and pants, and pastel blue T-shirt—and he'd shaved his white-blond hair into a Mohawk, Mr. T–style. He held one of those telescoping batons in one hand, and a Dirty Harry–looking silver revolver in the other. He must have followed me to the fort, hoping to catch me alone or breaking the law. At that moment, I didn't mind.

Harriett roared a challenge and tossed Mort aside.

“Grab your brother and get down to the lower bunker,” Zeke said, then fired his gun at Harriett. She flung her arm up over her face and a puff of dust burst from a spot on her forearm. She fell back a step, then screamed and charged Zeke, while Harry pushed himself to his feet and shook his head.

“Go, you fool!” Zeke shouted, then fired again. Harriett twitched to the side but didn't stop her charge. She swiped at Zeke. He raised his own arm, and her clawed hand rebounded off the white sleeve of his jacket with a flash of blue light. He stumbled back, almost falling.

I sprinted over to Mort, who lay moaning on the ground. “Come on,” I said, hooking a hand under his armpit and hauling him up. He staggered to his feet, and cried out in pain.

“I think my back is broken!” he said. Another gunshot rang out.

“Don't be an idiot,” I replied. “You wouldn't be able to move if it was broken. Now come on!”

Together we stumbled away from Zeke and the two sasquatches. Harry was up now and charged Zeke from the side. Zeke fired his gun at the female again, hitting her in the stomach and causing her to double over. Then he spun low. His baton caught Harry behind the knee, sweeping the creature's enormous booted foot out from under him and sending him flying onto his back once more.

Then Mort and I passed over the rise and headed downhill in a stumbling run. Mort leaned heavily on me, and with his limping it felt like we ran a three-legged race. Again I was grateful that the changeling had kept my body in good shape, and that we were running downhill. We rounded a bend, and the vista opened up beneath us. The Salish Sea gray and choppy, framed by cliffs to the left and the lighthouse to the right. And directly below, between us and the beach, stood the three-floor concrete structure of Kenzie Battery.

Kenzie Battery was a young boy's fantasy fort. The lower level was a series of open chambers connected by a labyrinth of winding, lightless tunnels barely wide enough for a person to fit through, the ultimate playground for games of tag or hide and seek. The second level was a series of steel-lined concrete rooms that had once held ammunition and supplies, and so had great rusting metal doors, and dumb-waiter-like alcoves and shafts meant to pass supplies to the upper level. At either end sat a concrete circle, perfect opposing bases for games of capture the flag. The upper level was open to the sky, a wide concrete slab, with paths that ran through the beach grass behind it down to the rocky shoreline.

Two more gunshots behind us, then the sound of heavy boots pounding down the dirt trail.

“Run!” Zeke shouted.

Near Kenzie, a family speed-walked away from the concrete structure, a father, mother, and a little girl. They must have heard the gunshots. The father spotted us, swept the little girl up in his arms and they began running in the direction of the parking lot.

Great. The last thing we needed was park rangers getting involved.

Well, actually, the last thing I needed was to be fleeing sasquatch mercenaries to begin with, but life is what happens when you're making other plans and all that. Thankfully, this early on a chill March morning, there did not appear to be anyone else exploring the battery at least.

A flicker to my left, in the trees. Damn. The sasquatches were flanking us.

“Watch ou—” I managed to shout before a ton of hairy unhappiness flew out of the trees and bowled me and Mort over. A giant hand shoved me aside, and Harriett advanced on Mort. A series of blue flashes at the edge of my vision told me that Zeke battled the other sasquatch nearby.

I leaped on Harriett's back, and tried to put a chokehold on her past the cushion of hair and thick muscle. But she just ignored me and raised a meaty hand to swipe at Mort.

I scrambled up higher on her back and fumbled at her face until I found her nose and dug my fingers in.

She roared in pain, and grabbed my wrists. She whipped me around her like a bullfighter swirling a cloak and tossed me to the side of the trail gently enough that no bones broke, though I'd have a nasty bruise. I flicked thick mucus off my fingers.