The Evil Wizard Smallbone (13 page)

J
erry had left Beaton looking for somewhere he could hang around with guys like him, guys who liked motorcycles and didn’t pay too much attention to things like speed limits and drinking age and the laws of property. What he’d found was a one-pump gas station off a two-lane road a mile away from a Podunk town. He couldn’t hang out, and he couldn’t make friends. He couldn’t even hunt with the pack because he didn’t have his pelt yet.

Fidelou Gas and Motorcycle Repair was the only point of contact between the Howling Coyotes and the outside world. Whoever ran it was responsible for taking delivery of the merchandise sold in the General Store and supplying gas to the pack when they hunted on two wheels instead of four legs. If he was a mechanic, he also ordered parts and patched up dents and straightened wheels. If he was good enough, he was allowed to touch the Boss’s machine.

The town mechanic, the Boss told Jerry when he gave him the job, was the most important member of the pack.

That was not the way it felt to Jerry.

Back home, Jerry had considered himself a pretty good mechanic. Not in his dad’s class, but still completely competent to fix anything, providing he had a manual and the right tools. But he couldn’t fix the Boss’s machine. He guessed that Fidelou Gas and Motorcycle Repair probably had the right tools, but without a manual, he didn’t know what to do with them. Oh, he’d hammered out the dings in the fenders and waxed everything that could be waxed, but he couldn’t get the motor to catch and he was afraid to take it apart completely in case he couldn’t get it back together again.

It was a gray afternoon, nippy and windy and threatening snow. Jerry was out in the garage, staring helplessly at the Vincent. He was stumped. Not even the Boss was going to take a motorcycle on the road in this weather, but eventually there’d be a thaw. The Boss would want to ride his Vincent, and Jerry didn’t think he’d listen to any excuses.

The frozen silence was broken by the rumble of an engine. Jerry adjusted his Portland Sea Dogs cap and went to the garage door.

A truck was turning off the county road, tilting and skidding as it crossed the icy asphalt to the rusty pump. Jerry swore. He knew that truck, from its rusty tailgate to its corroded front bumper. He ought to. He’d been tinkering with it since he could hold a screwdriver and driving it since his feet could reach the pedals. He’d taped the heavy plastic over the broken passenger-side window and installed the gun rack across the back. He’d hoped never to see it again.

The engine cut off, the door opened, and his father got out. “Hey, son!” he roared. “Aren’t you glad to see me?”

Jerry glared at him. “How the hell’d you find me, Dad?”

His father hitched his jeans up under his belly. “Followed my nose, I guess. My fool boss decided he could do business without me. You and Nick were gone, so I thought I’d hit the road, see what turned up.”

He strolled over to the repair bay. “My, my. Now that’s what I call a fine machine.” He stroked the round speedometer. “You know what it is?”

Jerry scowled. “It’s a Vincent.”

“It’s a Vincent Black Lightning,” Gabe said, as if Jerry hadn’t spoken. “British built. Only made a handful before they went out of business. Most terrifying motorcycle ever made, before or since. Costs a fortune, if you can even find one. What’s it doing here?”

Jerry shrugged. “It’s the Boss’s. I’m fixing it.” Pride flared in his narrow chest. “I’m the town mechanic.”

“Are you?” The old man bared brown teeth in an unpleasant smile.

Jerry clenched his fists and glared.

But Gabe wasn’t paying any attention to him. Gabe was taking in the garage. “Mighty sweet setup you got here,” he said, surveying the well-stocked tool bench. “Roof over your head, nice work space. How about you share some of the sugar with your dear old dad?”

“It’s not as sweet as you think,” Jerry said. “The Boss expects you to work for nothing, and when he says ‘Jump,’ the only thing he wants to hear is ‘How high?’ And if he don’t hear it, he’ll tear your throat out and eat what’s left.”

His father laughed and gave him a whack on the shoulder that made him stagger. “You’re a comedian now, huh? I bet your mean boss’ll sweeten up real fast when I get this baby running.” He ran his hand along the fuel tank, where the word
VINCENT
was painted in black on a chipped golden banner. “Let your old dad take a look-see.” He knelt stiffly. “You know, as long as she has fuel and fire, she should run. Let’s put in new spark plugs, clean the points, and adjust the carburetor. She’s kind of dirty, too.”

He looked up at Jerry. “Get me a spark-plug wrench, a small screwdriver, and a beer,” he said. “I’m going to show you how an expert does it.”

It was true. Whatever else Jerry’s dad was, he was a genius with motorcycles. Jerry sighed. “Okay,” he said. “But first I got to take you to the Boss and introduce you.”

Gabe shrugged and got up heavily. “Always happy to meet a guy can afford a machine like this. Where’s he at?”

“Couple miles down the road,” Jerry said. “I’ll drive.”

Jerry generally didn’t get into town unless Fidelou called for him or he had a delivery to make. There wasn’t much action during the day anyway, what with coyotes being mostly nocturnal. Today, however, the open space in front of the castle was crowded with what looked like the whole pack of Howling Coyotes, on two feet and four, all of them intent on the castle gates.

As Jerry pulled up in front of the General Store, he heard the noise of a serious dogfight.

“I don’t think this is a good time,” Jerry said.

Gabe snorted. “It’s a good time for me.”

A chorus of snarls and hysterical barks and growls swelled, dropped away, and broke out again. “Really, Dad, we better wait. The Boss’s bite is worse than his bark, you know what I mean? You don’t want him mad at you.”

His father got out of the truck and started shoving his way through the crowd.

Jerry’s sense of self-preservation fought his curiosity and lost. If there was a fight going on, he wanted to see it. Besides, as attractive as the thought of the Boss tearing his dad into pieces was, it would mean that he couldn’t fix the Vincent. And if his dad didn’t fix the Vincent, Jerry would be the next to suffer.

So Jerry got out of the truck and found a place where he could see what was going on without being too noticeable himself. Right out in front of the castle gate, a huge white wolf and a were-coyote stood in a churned-up mess of snow and mud, growling like a hive of wasps. Their heads were down, their legs stiff, their ruffs raised. They were both covered with mud and streaked with blood from a dozen bites and tears.

As Jerry watched, the were-coyote made a desperate leap. The wolf seized the coyote’s foreleg in his great jaws and jerked his massive head. Jerry heard a crack followed by a scream that trailed into unhappy yipping. The wolf released the coyote’s leg, shook himself from snout to tail, and flowed upward into Fidelou the loup-garou, his black hair wild, his eyes amber-bright, his wolf pelt dry and gleaming white.

He looked down at the were-coyote licking at his fractured leg between pitiful whines. “You are a fool,” he said. “But you have given me a good fight. I will let you live.” Fidelou gestured to his two guards. “Take him away and dress his wounds. It is over,” he went on, raising his fierce yellow eyes to the watching pack. “You may sleep now. We hunt at moonrise.”

Hiram and Audrey hauled the wounded coyote into the castle, and the pack began to drift away toward the trailers and the houses. Jerry wanted to drift with them, but his father was still there, standing in the muddy slush. His thumbs were hooked into his belt loops, his head was tipped to one side, and his eyes were narrowed like he was studying a troublesome engine.

Fidelou looked him up and down, transferred his yellow gaze to Jerry. “Who is this person?”

“He’s my dad,” Jerry said, his mouth dry. “He’s a mechanic.”

“A mechanic.” The thin, dark lips twitched. “Like you?”

The cold sweat of terror ran down Jerry’s back. “Much better. He knows all about Vincents.”

The yellow eyes shifted toward Gabe. “This old mongrel? It is not possible.”

“Neither’s turning into a big old dog,” Gabe said. “Yet I see you done it.”

Fidelou leaned forward and sniffed, his narrow nostrils flaring wide. “Beer,” he said. “Oil and axle grease. Sweat — old, not fresh. You do not fear me. You are a fool, then, or possibly mad.”

Gabe’s cheeks, already red from the wind, turned a mottled purple. “You bet I’m mad. It ain’t right to treat a beautiful machine like you done. You don’t deserve her, and that’s a fact.”

To Jerry’s astonishment, Fidelou smiled. “It is beautiful, my Vincent, is it not?”

“No, she ain’t,” Gabe snapped. “She’s pretty enough on the outside, but her engine’s banged up something pitiful. She could be beautiful, though.”

“Ah.” The smile grew wider. “You love my Vincent.
Bon
. I love it, too.”

Gabe spat. “No, you don’t. You love the power and the roar.”

Fidelou’s dark brows bristled, and a growl rumbled in his leather-covered chest. Gabe folded his arms, his face hard as a fist. Jerry stood open-mouthed, afraid to move, almost afraid to breathe.

Fidelou began to laugh. “You are right,
mon brave
. I love my Vincent because it is magnificent and it is mine. Now you are mine as well.” He flung his arms wide. “Welcome to the Howling Coyotes, father of Jerry. Come into the castle and we will talk.”

N
ick trudged back from the Town Meeting, the satchel banging at his hip and the words of the ritual ringing in his ears.
We are swimmers and fishers. We are beasts and men
.

They were. They really were — even Lily, whom everybody treated like the unofficial mayor of Smallbone Cove. They were seals, or they had been until Smallbone hauled them out of the sea and turned them into people. It was wrong. Nobody should have the power to monkey with the nature of things like that, changing people into animals and animals into people just because they wanted to.

And what about this Fidelou? Nick remembered the howling that had chased him through the woods the night he’d come to Evil Wizard Books. Was that Fidelou? Was he the threat Smallbone had been talking about? What were the Sentries?

When they reached the pond, Smallbone turned and glared at him. “Out with it!”

“What?”

“You’re already on the simmer,” Smallbone said. “You’ll boil over soon.”

Nick scowled. “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

“Town Meeting. You’re bursting with questions. By the Rules, you get three. Speak up, now. I ain’t got all day.”

Nick hesitated, looking for a question he thought Smallbone might actually answer. “Who’s Fidelou?”

“He’s a loup-garou. That’s French for werewolf, but he can take any shape he’s got a mind to. He sailed over from France three, four hundred years back, drifted down from Canada about the time I found the Cove. We got a history, Fidelou and me. He thinks he’s the greatest wizard who ever howled, and I think he’s a big sack of wild magic with the brains of a vole. Powerful, though, and magic clear through. Not a drop of human blood in him. You know them islands all down the Reach? They’re rocks we threw at each other, last time we fought.”

“Did you really . . . ? Scratch that,” Nick said hastily. “Um, how do the Sentries work?”

Smallbone started walking again. “They keep out whatever I don’t want in my territory, mostly Fidelou. If they were working like they should, the Stream would have risen and swept them Howling Coyotes right off. Still would, if they tried to cross the bridge on four feet. Even as it is, Fidelou can’t get in until they’re all down.” He picked up his pace. “Hurry up with that last question, Foxkin. I got work to do.”

They passed out of the woods and into the meadow. Smoke curled from the chimneys of Evil Wizard Books, and its many windows twinkled in the thin sunlight.

“What’ll happen if the Sentries fall?”

“Fidelou will blow in like a hurricane,” Smallbone said shortly. “Then I’ll fight him, and I’ll win or he will. Either way, the Cove’ll go to wrack and ruin. And now I’d like a little peace. You’re a kid, ain’t you? Go off somewheres and play.”

Then Smallbone opened the back door, stalked inside, and closed it, leaving Nick outside in the snow.

Nick kicked the boot scraper. That hurt, so he levitated it as far as he could, which was almost to the woodshed. Then he trudged out through the snow to fetch it, because Smallbone would want to know how it landed all the way out there and Nick couldn’t think of anything to tell him that wouldn’t get him turned into something with too many legs, or maybe none at all.

When he finally came inside, the kitchen was empty except for a gently snoring heap of black and ginger fur on the rocker. Nick shucked off his jacket and marched into the bookshop.

It was quiet but not peaceful. The air quivered with tension, and even the clock seemed to be ticking faster than usual, like a panicky heartbeat. Or maybe that was him.

“Listen,” he said. “
E-Z Spelz
is great, but if it comes down to a fight between Smallbone and this Fidelou guy, I’m going to need a weapon or more protection or
something
. Bow-Wowzer Meowzer just isn’t going to cut it.”