Love, Lies, and Hocus Pocus Beginnings Read online

  Stepping back, Sebastian let go and glared at Fester, trying to decide. The problem with a truth coin was that it didn’t tell you what was a lie, just that there was one. It was a helpful trinket, but had its limits. This little weasel was mostly telling the truth, but the situation still smelled fishy. Yet the genuinely terrified look in his eyes when he mentioned “big trouble” made Sebastian’s stomach tighten. What Cory had done to him was low. It hurt to be betrayed by someone he’d only tried to help. But addicts couldn’t help themselves. He knew that. Cory needed help, and the only thing he would get on this track was a bullet to the head. If Sebastian could find out what was stolen, maybe he could make it right somehow, get these people off his friend’s back. Maybe with the problem gone, Cory would be easier to find. Then all he had to do was get back his artifact, and check that sorry excuse for a human into rehab.

  “Alright, set up a meet,” he said.

  * * *

  Fester had given him directions to a run-down building in one of the more unsavory neighborhoods, saying someone would meet him there at 9:00 p.m., sharp. Well, someone met him all right. They jumped him the moment he walked in the door. Though half expected, it still took him by surprise. He could have fought back, but then he’d never find out what was going on and that would annoy him. Not to mention never finding the artifact. So he let them pull a bag over his head, tie his hands behind his back, and bundle him into what sounded like a van which screeched off into the night as soon as he was thrown inside.

  Now he lay on the carpeted floor, wrinkling his nose at the stink of cigarette smoke and other less savory things strong enough to smell even through the bag. Listening to the engine hum, he wondered which body part they would threaten to break first, or if they’d just skip straight to a bullet in the head. Criminals were sadly predictable, especially those with so little self-respect as to wear their pants around their knees.

  After five minutes, he got tired of lying on his side and rolled over to sit up. As soon as he raised his body, a foot shoved him back down. He sat up again, and the foot shoved him down a second time, more roughly.

  “Keep your ass on the floor, or I’ll put a bullet in it,” said a voice he assumed belonged to the owner of the foot.

  He chuckled. “Excellent suggestion, except that I am keeping my bottom firmly in contact with the floor already. It’s my head you seem to have a problem with. And I suggest you come up with a more realistic threat, because you’d be an idiot to shoot me in a moving vehicle. The bullet could hit who knows what and kill us all. Then again,” he mused, reconsidering, “you are an idiot, which means you’d probably be stupid enough to do it.”

  “Shut your face, freak, or I’ll—” the voice began angrily.

  “—you’ll what? Oh please, do tell. Just make it good. If it involves a gun, I may die of boredom.”

  The thug’s response was a kick to the ribs, driving all the breath out of Sebastian’s body and making him curl to the side. As unwise as he knew it was to taunt his captors, he couldn’t resist. He’d never been able to abide bullies, especially stupid ones.

  “Oh, bravo. A really brilliant stroke,” Sebastian coughed out as he tried to catch his breath. “I’m sure you’re known by all your friends as the fiercest kicker in all of Southland. Your mother would be so proud of you, attacking a bound man, lying helpless on the floor. It’s such a brave step toward actually having a pair.”

  The faceless thug growled a string of obscenities, and this time Sebastian heard the rustle of a pant leg in time to roll away from his kick.

  “Give it a rest TJ, he’s jus’ messin’ with you,” a voice called from the front of the van, probably the driver.

  “But this little—”

  “Shut up, TJ. He’ll get what’s comin’ to him,” a third voice said.

  “Fine,” the one called TJ grumbled, and Sebastian grinned beneath his bag. The next time he tried to sit up, no foot kicked him down, and he spent the rest of the trip leaning against the inside of the van, counting.

  * * *

  When they arrived approximately fifteen minutes later, Sebastian calculated they were in the central or south central area of Atlanta. Knowing the area’s reputation for drug trade, he was unhappy, but not surprised.

  His captors pulled him roughly from the van, leading him blindly down a sidewalk and then into an alleyway between two buildings. He knew this from the echo of their footsteps bouncing off the surrounding terrain. He heard the scrape of a metal door being opened and was then shoved into a building that sounded empty and unfinished—echoes bouncing off concrete floor and walls sounded very different from echoes off a finished floor and drywall. The lights overhead buzzed like fluorescent lamps and he could make out the glow of their long shapes through the bag on his head. He was led through several rooms, some of them virtually empty and some occupied by men conversing in low voices, occasionally breaking out in nasty laughs as jokes were shot in his direction. Finally, they led him up a flight of stairs to a second story. He was sat roughly down in a wooden chair and tied to it. The men who led him up had a low conversation with someone across the room, and he also heard the sound of whimpering and the scraping of chairs. Then his captors traipsed back down the stairs, their footsteps echoing off the cement.

  Cocking an ear, Sebastian grinned beneath the bag. At this point he was supposed to be frightened and intimidated, wondering what they would do to him. He could feel someone watching him from across the room.

  “Look, could we just get on with it?” he asked the silent figure. “I’m on a tight schedule and wouldn’t want to miss my appointment with the next gorilla who wants to threaten me.”

  There was no response, but after a few moments he heard footsteps approach. The bag was ripped off his head and he squinted in the fluorescent light. The man standing over him was tall and muscular, hard-faced and grim. Sebastian was surprised. He didn’t look like your typical punk material, here to rough him up over some stolen money. This guy looked experienced. Probably the boss. What in the world had Cory done?

  The man put a foot up on the seat of the chair, between Sebastian’s legs, and leaned in, looming over him. “You got a schedule to keep, huh? Well, that’s the least of your worries. Right now you should worry about whether I’m gonna blow your brains out.”

  Well, that was just peachy, Sebastian thought. Time to stall. “Obviously you want something, or else you’d have already done it,” Sebastian replied, feigning boredom as he scanned the room. It was then that he spotted the source of the whimpering. Tied to a chair similar to his was Fester Jones, face black and bloody from a beating. He avoided Sebastian’s gaze, staring at the floor as he shook in fear.

  Sebastian wasn’t scared, exactly, but he did have a healthy respect for death threats. And it seemed the thug wasn’t bluffing, because the bloodstains on the floor didn’t all belong to Fester. There were too many and some were quite old. Time to tread lightly. “So, why don’t you explain what’s going on and I’ll see how I can help.”

  “You can help by telling me where the hell that rat Cory is and what he did with my money,” the boss yelled, getting right in Sebastian’s face. His breath stank of stale cigarettes and vodka.

  Making a face, Sebastian leaned away from the offending smell. “Now why in the world would I know that? Good grief, I came to you looking for him. He stole my stuff too. Though, judging by your operation,” he peeked around the man’s bulk and eyed the wads of cash and bags of white powder on the desk in the corner, “he probably took more from you than from me.”

  The man stood up, scowling, and glanced back and forth between his two captives, finally settling his glare on Fester. “What kind of story is this joker feeding me?” he asked, moving to loom menacingly over the man. “If this guy isn’t for real, I’m gonna kill you both, you sorry, sniveling, piece of shit.” He turned back to Sebastian. “He said you was Cory’s contact. That you came to rat on him and get a reward. Well the reward is staying alive. N
ow stop playing games and start talking.”

  Sebastian sighed. He would have rubbed his temples if his hands hadn’t been tied. Apparently, in some wild and unrealistic fantasy, Fester had imagined he would get a pat on the back for telling falsehoods and “handing” him in. By the look on Fester’s bloody face, the man had realized the flaw in his plan.

  “Obviously, there’s been some kind of misunderstanding,” Sebastian began, calmly, only to be cut off by a solid punch to the jaw that whipped his head painfully to the side.

  “Yeah? Well ‘obviously’ you think I’m playing some sorta game,” the boss said. “That scum stole from me and then had the balls to rat to the cops. He lost me a whole shipment and now the cops are breathing down my neck. I’m gonna find that little shit, cut off his balls and feed ’em to him. Now tell me where he is, or I’ll find a better use for your hands than being attached to your body.” He drew out a knife from his pocket and flicked it open. As he did, Sebastian saw the SLB tattoo on the inside of his wrist.

  Ah. So that’s what Cory had done. Well, points for ratting out this ugly excuse for a human, but that still left Sebastian bound to a chair, being threatened with dismemberment. It wasn’t as bad as it sounded—he had a few tricks up his sleeve—but it was still pretty bad.

  But just as he opened his mouth to speak—what, he had no idea, but something would come to him—there came a shout from downstairs.

  “Hey boss! Big Cs on the phone for you, says it’s important.”

  The boss snorted, flicking his knife closed again. “Looks like you two get a little time to get your story straight and save your sorry asses.” He turned and descended the stairs, starting a muted conversation that Sebastian was utterly uninterested in.

  Ignoring the sniveling Fester, Sebastian tested his bonds, making sure they gave when he pulled. Then he started whispering. “Elwa, Jastiri’un. I know you’re still mad at me about last time, but I really need your help. I’ll make it worth your time, I promise.” He waited a few heartbeats, but there was no sound. “Come on, Jas. I know how much you love messing with people. I’ve got the perfect thing for you. I’ll give—I’ll consider giving you anything, just name your terms.” He fell silent again, waiting with bated breath, heart pounding. In his desperate rush, he’d almost promised to give Jas anything. Accidental or not, if Jas had taken the deal, Sebastian would be bound to his promise.

  Finally, there was a slight waver in the air in front of him, and a pixie appeared. But this was no normal pixie. Sebastian didn’t know if he’d always been that way or had changed over time, but the creature he called Jas wasn’t exactly corporeal. Fae, from what he understood, were purely magical beings given physical form. Jas loved waves of any kind. Radio, light, sound. He loved playing with them. Maybe he played with them so much, he became like them. In any case, he looked like a constantly shifting, dancing hologram. Sebastian didn’t even know if Jas was a he. It was just the pronoun that seemed to fit him the best.

  “Ah, there you are, I—” but he was interrupted by rapid squeaking. It wasn’t really squeaking, just very fast, high-pitched talking. It took a lot of practice to understand. Practice that Sebastian had. He’d spent enough time in…well, he’d been around them enough to know.

  “Okay, okay, I got it. A White Russian every night for a month,” Sebastian said. Mixed drinks were as good as gold to pixies, who couldn’t quite grasp the principles of mixology. They just knew mixed drinks were good and didn’t come in a bottle. “Yeah, and no more comments about your taste in music. Sorry, I didn’t know you were so touchy on the sub—” more squeaking “—right, sorry, when you said no more comments you meant no more comments. Do we have a deal?”

  An affirmative squeak.

  “Great, listen up. I need you to call every cop in the area to this building, now. Get on their radios, fake a dispatch call. Say there’s armed men, money, and drugs, a gang called the Southland Brothers. Then, get the men downstairs fighting. I know you don’t need any pointers on that,” he winked at the hovering hologram, and it gave a squeaking laugh. “Don’t let anyone leave until the cops get here, okay?”

  Jas nodded and, with a crackling like radio static, disappeared. Sebastian hoped there were some cops close by. Things were about to get ugly, fast, and he wanted the authorities to catch these criminals at the scene—blood, money, drugs, and all.

  He had finished talking with Jas none too soon, as the sound of booted footfalls drifted up the stairs. Soon the boss was back in front of his chair, smiling dangerously. He flicked out his knife again. “Now, where were we?”

  Sebastian grinned. “I think we were discussing how proud your mother was when you won the dumbest man alive contest. It was really quite an achievement for you, considering.”

  “Why you little,” The boss backhanded him, and Sebastian rolled with it, letting the force of the blow glance off his cheek. Looking back, he could see the fury in the man’s eyes wasn’t quite out of control. Well, he couldn’t have that. Time to push more buttons.

  “Your girlfriend must really love money, since there’s nothing else attractive about a repulsive, spineless, moronic bully like you.”

  He almost didn’t get to finish his insult before the man, face redder than a tomato, dropped his knife and grabbed him by the front of the shirt with both hands.

  In a flash, Sebastian whipped his hands out from behind him where they’d been bound to the chair, grabbing the thug by the back of the neck as he head butted him solidly. He made sure to keep his chin tucked, striking the boss full in the face with the crown of his head. With a crunch, the man’s nose broke, and he was out cold.

  Pushing the unconscious, bleeding form off him and onto the floor, Sebastian stood. “You know,” he said to empty air, “you really ought to hire men that tie better knots.” That wasn’t quite fair, since he technically couldn’t be bound by human means anyway, thanks to another fae ability he’d picked up, but nobody needed to know that.

  Cocking an ear, he thought he heard sirens in the distance, and he grinned. Good ol’ Jas. Any minute now the chaos would start downstairs.

  Sure enough, angry voices started floating up from below.

  “What did you just say about my mother?”

  “Hey, where’d my stack go, it was just here.”

  “You think I have a big mouth? It wasn’t me who got himself thrown outa the club last week.”

  “If you call me that one more time, I swear I’ll punch your face in.”

  The dull thump of fist hitting flesh was music to Sebastian’s ears. Pretty soon people would start pulling guns. He’d seen it before. Jas loved sowing discord, more so than most pixies. So, being a manipulator of sound and light, he could easily make you hear and sometimes see whatever he wanted you to. He was a pixie alright; they lived for trouble. Yet, Sebastian felt no pity for these men. You reap what you sow.

  Ignoring the sounds of escalating arguments downstairs, Sebastian moved to Fester’s bound form and looked down at the trembling man. “Out of the goodness of my seriously pissed-off heart, I’m going to give a chance to redeem yourself.” He leaned in. “Soon the cops will be here and this little gang will be toast. These low-life thugs hurt others and prey on weak, vulnerable people like my friend Cory. You strike me as a weak and vulnerable person yourself, and too much of a coward to get up to serious trouble. So, with your ‘overlords’ destined for lockup, I suggest you get someone to remove that tattoo. That is after, of course, you tell me where Cory is. Capisce?”

  Fester nodded vigorously, looking like a bobble-head doll. “I—I’ll tell you, just d—don’t hurt me. I didn’t wanna sell you out, h—honest. Cory saved my life, an’ then he got himself in trouble, an’ I wanted to help but I was sc—scared. I told him he couldn’t stay with me ’cause the gang, they knew we was tight. B—but I didn’t tell them nothin’. They’ve been leanin’ on me real hard, said they was gonna gut me an’ my girl if I didn’t find Cory an’ the money. I didn’t know what to do
. Thought if they got you, they’d leave me alone.”

  Standing up, Sebastian considered the man’s words, surprised to discover he had a spine after all. “Well, congratulations for being slightly less of a coward than I first assumed.” He leaned back down again, face stony. “But you still haven’t answered my question.”

  “O—okay, okay,” Fester said, shaking even harder. “He’s d—down in Pitts. Said he knew a place where he could lay low. That’s all I know, I swear.”

  “No name? No address?” Sebastian got out his coin, wrapping his fingers around its cool surface.

  “N—no, I swear. All he said was Pitts, no details.”

  Sebastian put the coin back in his pocket. “Fine. It’s a start.”

  Turning in a circle, he took quick stock of the room and his escape options. Through one of the windows, he could see the roof of a shed next to the building. If he could get the window open, he could drop down and make a run for it before the cops got there. No need for him to get mixed up in it all. He was just the messenger.

  After precious seconds wasted wrestling with the rusted window latches, he finally got it open. Then, taking the knife from the unconscious gang leader, he cut Fester’s bonds and hauled him to his feet by his shirt collar. He pointed out the window at the shed. “Jump.”

  Fester shrank back. “I—I don’t like heights,” he stammered.

  “Would you rather stay here and explain to the cops your place in this illustrious gang?” Sebastian asked with raised eyebrows.

  Vigorous head shake.

  “Fine. Out you go then.”

  But once Fester had climbed up and was sitting on the sill, legs dangling out, his fear overcame his don’t-get-arrested instinct. “I th—think I’ll just stay here.”