Maker

Chapter: 5-1

Chapter: 5

Zora appeared back from her scouting mission.

“No dice. They tore up the ground pretty good, but the trail got to a road and ends there.”

“Dammit,” I spat. Seemed like that was the only word I was capable of speaking at the moment. That or some other curse word. The time was just after midnight, and my phone had sprouted a few more cracks. “See you back at base. I’m gonna look around.”

She nodded grimly and tore off into the night heading south.

I made my way back to the road. The cops and fire department were already on the van. Once I saw the flashing red and blue lights through the trees I turned around. I had thought there was a chance someone had survived to interrogate, but it was a long shot. I didn’t even bother getting closer. I could see all the white sheets laid out on the pavement from here.

I went back into the woods and retrieved the penny I’d thrown in the puddle. With no pack, I could use all the weapons I could get. The apples were one-use items, so I didn’t go looking for them.

I had my staff, my clothes, an old penny, some potions and my first aid kit back at the house. Not enough.

My leg and back hurt like hell, but the injuries weren’t fatal. A few fractured vertebrae, ribs, and what felt like a broken femur. Hurt just enough to be annoying. The spells on my shirt, jacket, and pants didn’t just stop bullets and knives after all. I was quite happy for that.

I tried using my boots to run and quickly stopped. They could take me from average human running speed well into average horse territory, but moving that fast only aggravated my leg.

I limped southwest. It took nearly an hour before I got to Chapel Hill and found a busy street, and another twenty minutes for the cab I called to show up.

The ride was uneventful, outside my head at least. The cabbie this time was some brunette guy, with a shaved head, who didn’t talk, thankfully. Despite that, I couldn’t slow down my thoughts enough to be of any use. You could never be sure what you’d get from mixing thinking and panic, but the result was never anything tasty.

I had three days—five if I were lucky—before they found a way past all the traps and into my pack.

Another run in with whatever warlock had smacked me tonight was not high on my list of fun family activities, but there wasn’t much of a choice. I’d stolen things so powerful I didn’t dare touch them, and things so mysterious that I didn’t comprehend them fully. Not only was my pack dangerous in the wrong hands, but I was practically defenseless without it.

I still had a few days. I kept repeating that during the cab ride. It wasn’t as calming as it should’ve been.

The security measures on my pack were considerable. They were far from infallible though, and with enough time and study any competent wizard could find a way in. There were horrible things in my pack. At least it wasn’t the vamps that had taken it.

Raleigh was the seat of power for the vampires in the region. It was central on the east coast; between the deep south and the New England states. I didn’t know what made Raleigh special, but it probably had something to do with the ports at Wilmington, Charleston, and DC. Everything the vampires brought across the ocean came through here at some point. I had some people paid off at the harbors to keep me informed. Vampires didn’t bother with new-fangled, unproven devices like airplanes.

I had a complicated relationship with the local vamps I guess. They all lived in a mansion on an expansive estate on the north side of town. The place was called The Vermillion Falls Manor. I thought it was ironic for a bunch of vampires to live in a place essentially named “arterial bleeding.” Apparently, their leader Duke thought so too.

Duke, knew me, disliked me, but didn’t want to kill me. He had once called me “useful,” which was “the highest praise prey can receive.” I knew what prey meant, but I had no clue what he meant by useful. I was quite certain I’d never done anything that wasn’t antagonistic, but apparently he thought differently.

The vamps didn’t know about me robbing them… for the most part. They just knew there was someone hitting their shipments. I had invented a persona called the Phantom Lorde to throw them off.

When I hit their shipments, I destroyed everything I couldn’t carry. Most times it was mundane stuff. Occasionally there were magical tools included.

Destroying anything magical wasn’t something lightly done. I held onto most of the items so I’d have something to trade to the Martinet for points, or when I needed a favor like “please don’t kill me.” I had been robbing monsters since I was in my mid-teens, and I couldn’t let some two-bit warlock get their hands on any of it.

I was staring out the window, three hairs from panic with a side order of gloomy. Back to my place, whatever sleep I could salvage, and an uncomfortable phone call. I decided I could procrastinate on the phone call, and I was way too wired to sleep.

It was 0200 by the time I got home. It wasn’t the best neighborhood, but wasn’t the worst.

I walked right by my place and into a diner two blocks down. The hanging wood sign out front read “Miles.” A chef named Miles owned the place. He was probably the oldest person I knew; well, the oldest human anyway. He was a dark skinned, formerly muscular man with a head and face full of gray stubble.

Walking into Miles’ made you feel like your grandfather was there to take care of you, give advice, and generally make you feel better about being you. Whether you wanted it or not.

Miles had been in the Marines for over twenty-five years, but he never talked about it. Then he’d become a state or federal officer—some kind of law enforcement—but he never talked about that either. He did that, and somehow ran a a restaurant for most of those years. He’d invested his money well, and now ran a bar and grill in a four-story hole in the wall. You could tell when his day had started based on how many white spots were left on his apron. There was no one there this time of night. In fact, there was almost never anyone there.

Miles’ was closed at random hours—mainly whenever he got tired and decided to sleep. Otherwise, it was open and he was behind the bar, talking to his single patron, cooking, or entertaining one of his thousand grandchildren. I could count on one hand the number of times I’d seen the place full. There were six tables all along one wall and the bar was on the other. There were eight stools. I went to my usual spot; three down from the end.

Most people had a friend or therapist they could tell everything to; a few had their parents or some family member they trusted that much. I had a cook named Miles, and he’d give any therapist a run for their money.

He saw me limp in and plop down on the stool. He didn’t miss a beat. A cold beer was at my normal stool by the time I got there. Finally able to relax, I nearly broke down. It felt like the world was over. I was safe for now… but I sure didn’t feel safe.

“Rough night eh son?” I nodded and took a twelve-ounce pull on the bottle. “Where’s your pack?”

“Stolen,” I said, slamming down the empty with a clunk and a pathetic sounding belch.

“Finally. They’ve sure been trying long enough.”

“Seven years,” I nodded.

“Who was it? That new warlock guy?” He asked.

“I don’t know, probably.”

“Well whoever it is will be on their way to kill you with it soon enough. You can find out then.”

“You want me to sit here and wait til they walk in and ghost me?!” I was on my feet now. Funny how a little adrenaline made everything feel better. I didn’t even notice the leg. Miles wasn’t fazed, of course. Nothing. Fazed. Miles. His face split in a grin that seemed far too big.

“Unless you got a better idea,” he said.

I did. Start stepping on necks until someone told me where my damn arsenal was… and that was the moment I realized I’d been manipulated into feeling something a bit more useful. Anger could be acted upon; anger will get s**t done. Despair? Not so much.

I sat back down, still mad, but there was another beer so I kinda had to forgive him.

“Bastards were well armed. Soaka seems like a good place to start, but it doesn’t matter if I find them. I can’t beat a full-on wizard. These guys were strong enough to be Martinet maybe. I can’t beat the head honcho when I just got my ass handed to me by three of their lackeys.”

“What happened?”

I told him. Everything from the blonde girl hitting my traps to me heading out of town. By the end, Miles was laughing. “There’s four directions on the compass you know? And you always go west. You always pick rock too, don’t ya?”

I did always pick rock. Rock was reliable, solid, and steady. But, what I said was, “I don’t need this s**t old man!” He handed me a broom and turned to toss some chopped beef on the pristine flat top grill. I started sweeping angrily. By the time I was done, there was an open-faced sweet n sour beef something and a third beer waiting for me. Ah, forgiveness, thy name is microbrew.

“I agree, sounds sloppy. I’d have taken you out in the cab, if I’m gonna go that high-profile,” he said, leaning back and wiping out a mug that didn’t need it. “Doesn’t sound like they only wanted your pack. Why not just take it and leave you in a ditch?”

“Because they don’t know how it works.”

“Pssh, got all the time in the world to figure that out once you’re dead. No way I’m gonna leave an enemy alive to threaten whatever I got planned.”

“They had to want my pack. I mean… of course they wanted my pack.” I didn’t sound sure. “What else could they’ve wanted?” I hadn’t even considered that they were after something else.

It must’ve shown on my face.

“Son, if someone tries to kill you, or has an opportunity to kill you—and you’re still alive to ask questions—then the first one should be, ‘How am I still alive?’ Or even better, ‘Why did they miss?’”

“Zora saved my ass.” I said, but I still didn’t sound certain.

“Not good enough. Sounds like she only showed up after they were dragging you along for a while. What do you think they were talking about? Because it sure as hell wasn’t where to put the bullet.”

“Well, they might’ve—”

He cut me off. “And just to spoil it for ya, the answer is never ‘I got lucky.’”

I shoved some more food in my mouth to keep from having to answer. Surrogate grandfathers were there to help and nurture. Sometimes that help came in the form of making you feel like an i***t. “If I had to guess, I’d say Mr. Martinet Warlock is calling you out.”

“What?! What for?”

Miles just shrugged “Get up, go ask him… Hard.”

I finished my beer and headed out. I didn’t feel much better. I was also sleepy, my leg hurt, and I still had to limp three blocks down to the phone booth to make a call I wasn’t looking forward to.

* * *

“Gomez,” said the voice of a Latin man on the other end.

“Hey Christian, it’s Maker.” I tried to keep the nervous tone out of my voice. I didn’t have to report. I wasn’t Martinet or anything, not even close. I just thought it was a good idea to let the nearest Martinet know what was going on before they had to learn the facts on their own. I wasn’t willing to risk them getting one or more of those facts wrong and coming to kill me. I’d only ever met three Martinet, and Gomez was by far the most reasonable.

The others were too trigger happy for my tastes. All too ready to stamp out someone for being a potential threat. Sometimes they were willing to wait until after the crime to kill you, but that was reserved for special occasions.

The most reasonable I’d ever met didn’t mean reasonable. Gomez might’ve been a friend, except that I couldn’t afford to trust him for the same reason I couldn’t trust Rollo. He would kill me if the job required it and sleep well that night. That was why I’d only ever called him from pay phones and landlines in motels located in other cities.