Брайан Макклеллан - Uncanny Collateral

“That? Not me,” he said. He was so pleased with himself that I wanted to put my fist through his teeth. In fact, I was struggling not to. This close on the heels of a fight, the haze of troll berserker was still trying to gain control of my mind. All the hate and revulsion I felt for Kappie wasn’t helping things. My hands balled instinctually into fists, my tusks aching as I tried to get them to retract.

You all right, big guy? Maggie asked cautiously.

I fought with my base, violent instincts. Is he lying? I finally asked.

No. All truth. He had nothing to do with this.

Kappie walked over to me slowly, twirling his cane, and gave the crash site – and then the grass where I’d fought the two draugr – a considering glance. His eyes settled on my tusks. “How powerful of a necromancer did you piss off?” he asked.

I blinked a couple more times. The berserker haze finally began to clear. “What are you talking about?”

He tapped his cane on the thin layer of dust on the concrete. “Draugr will rise multiple times if the summoner is powerful enough, and those guys looked like they’d already been killed once.”

“I have no idea what you’re talking about.” I really didn’t. I was finding it hard to think through the stiffness, the bleeding, and the sudden onset of a screaming headache.

Kappie continued to grin. “If reanimated by a strong enough necromancer,” he said slowly, as if explaining to a thick child, “draugr can’t be killed. Destroy them, and they’ll reform in their graves. You have to put them down for good.” He pointed his cane emphatically at my chest.

I pushed it aside and staggered to my car, where I searched among the broken glass for my phone. It was, thankfully, undamaged. Is he right about the draugr thing? I asked Maggie.

Uh, yeah. Yeah, he is. She sounded awfully sheepish.

I narrowed my eyes. You knew about this?

I didn’t think he was that powerful! she protested.

I sighed and dialed 911. “I’m calling the cops,” I told Kappie. “Unless you guys are gonna give witness statements…” The imps were all back in their cars by the time someone answered the phone. I took a step back, reported the crime, and then stood there, staring at my twisted wreck of a truck while I waited for the cops to arrive.

I got a call from Nadine the next afternoon while I sat at a Cracker Barrel, having a late lunch. “Alek,” I answered.

“How are you feeling today, hun?” Nadine asked.

“Like I got hit by a car, funny enough,” I answered flatly. My troll blood let me shrug off a lot of damage, but everything ached badly, and that headache was still floating around the back of my skull. I wanted nothing more than to lie down and sleep it off for a few days, but that wasn’t going to happen.

“You should go to the doctor. Get some oxy.”

“I don’t have time for that shit.” I’d taken a triple dose of aspirin, and it would have to be enough. I couldn’t afford to be foggy-headed this week.

“I can get you a little weed if you need it.”

“It’s never done jack for me.”

“Sorry, hun. Let me know if there’s anything I can do.”

“I appreciate it, Nadine. What’s up?”

I heard her tapping something out on her keyboard. “Have you checked your email today?” she asked.

“Not for a few hours. I’ve been hitting up a few more informants to try to dig up more leads.”

“Anything?”

“Nope.”

“Well, you’ll get there. Your buddy over at OtherOps has sent you an ID on one of those dead imps. He cc’d me on the email to make sure you got it.”

I took the phone away from my ear long enough to check. “Yup, it’s there. I appreciate it. Did LuciCorp give you any more information on Judith?”

“They just sent over her file. I’m going to comb through it today and tomorrow.”

“Thanks.” I hung up and opened the email from Justin. All it said was heads up , but it had two PDF attachments. They turned out to be a pair of dossiers. The first was of the dead imp – his name, known associates, known addresses, and a list of misdemeanors he’d been attached to over the last fifteen years. The second dossier was far more interesting because it belonged to the dead imp’s brother, who was, according to OtherOps’ information, still alive and well and living in a group home for imps out in Ashtabula County.

Ugh, Maggie said as I paid my bill and headed out to my rented Prius. I hate Ashtabula – trailer parks and meth houses as far as the eye can see.

I like it, I told her. The old reapers used to take me out to a little fair there every so often when I went on ride-alongs as a kid. I wonder if that place is still around. I loved the bumper cars.

Ashtabula is the armpit of Ohio, Maggie insisted.

I grinned. Ohio has a lot of armpits, and we love them all.

I hopped on the freeway and drove east, soon lost in my own thoughts as I tried to unravel this thing Ferryman had brought me into. Imps tend to work in family units, so the dead imp’s brother seemed like a pretty good shot at picking up a lead. Even if he wasn’t directly involved in what his brother was doing, he’d definitely have some idea what it was. If I couldn’t make him talk, I’d drag him back to Kappie, who would be far more interested in throwing one of his underlings to the wolves than getting involved with my clients.

I still couldn’t fathom what kind of creature would think it wise to steal from the Lords of Hell. The human who rented the warehouse in the flats might be my best bet. Humans were always more unpredictable than any of the Other, and I could think of few Other with the guts or stupidity to try and cheat Death. Those that were… well, most of them were gods, or beings way above my pay grade. Assuming it was a human, how rich or powerful did they have to be to hire imps out from underneath the nose of the local imp king? Maybe, I decided, this culprit was a half-breed like me.

I pulled myself out of my thoughts as my GPS led me down a long, single-lane drive in a town called North Kingsville. It was about an hour since I’d received the call from Nadine. I came to a stop thirty yards from an old beat-up plastic mailbox marked with the address I’d been given and looked across the overgrown lawn to a run-down bungalow with ancient, post-World War II wooden siding and a moss-covered roof. A thick forest surrounded the yard, and opposite the house was an overgrown farmer’s field.

I felt Maggie’s presence in the ring – a slight warmth that indicated she was alert and examining our surroundings with apt attention. Strangely, she did not comment as I got out of the car and stood next to it. I watched for any sign of movement. The front door of the house was open, and there were five rusted old cars and trucks parked in the grass in front. I couldn’t hear any noise or see any sign of life. I didn’t need Maggie to tell me something was wrong.

I got my shoulder holster and Glock out of my endless wallet and put them on before walking slowly toward the mailbox.

Despite the disrepair of the place, there were many signs of occupancy. Besides the cars by the drive, grass was trampled by tire tracks all along the drive and yard, as if they’d recently thrown a big house party here. I smelled smoke and soon caught sight of the smoldering remains of a bonfire around the other side of the house.

It didn’t take long to catch the smell of ammonia on the breeze. I took a handkerchief out of my endless wallet and tied it around my face. Meth house, I told Maggie. It’s probably one of Kappie’s. He owns dozens around Cleveland.