Magic Bites(6)

The protector squinted at the signature. “Mike Tellez. I’ve worked with him before. You do regular work for him?”

“More or less.”

“What was it this time?”

“He had a problem with large pieces of equipment being dragged away. Someone told him he had a baby marakihan.”

“They’re marine,” he said. “They die in fresh water.” An overweight slob who eats powdered jelly doughnuts, wears shirts with fringe, and identifies an obscure magical creature without a momentary pause. Knight-protector. Camouflage expert extraordinaire.

“You got to the bottom of Mike’s problem?” he asked.

“Yes. He had the Impala Worm,” I said.

If he was impressed, he did not show it. “You kill it?”

Very funny. “No, just made it feel unwelcome.”

The memory stabbed me, and for a moment I stumbled again through a dim tunnel flooded with liquid excrement and filth that rose to my hips. My left leg burned with icy pain and I struggled on, half-dragging it, while behind me the enormous pallid body of the Worm spilled its life-blood into the sludge. The slick green blood swirled on the surface, each of its cells a tiny living organism consumed by a single purpose: to reunite. No matter how many times or how many miles apart this creature appeared, it was always the same Impala Worm. There was only one and it regenerated endlessly.

The protector put my papers on his desk. “So, what do you want?”

“I’m investigating the murder of Greg Feldman.”

“On whose authority?”

“My own.”

“I see.” He leaned back. “Why?”

“For personal reasons.”

“Did you know him personally?” He delivered the question in a perfectly neutral tone, but the underlying meaning was all too clear. I felt happy to disappoint him.

“Yes. He was a friend of my father.”

“I see,” he said again. “Your father wouldn’t be available for a statement?”

“He’s dead.”

“I’m sorry,” he said.

“Don’t be,” I said. “You didn’t know him.”

“Do you have anything that might support your relationship with Greg Feldman?”

I could easily provide him with collaboration. If he was to look me up in his files, he would find that Greg had sponsored my application to the Order, but I did not want to go in that direction.

“Greg Feldman was thirty-nine years old. He was an intensely private man, and he disliked being photographed.” I handed him a small rectangle of the photograph. “This is a picture of me and him on the day of my high school graduation. There is an identical picture in his apartment. It’s located in his library on the third shelf of the central bookcase.”

“I’ve seen it,” the protector said.

How bloody nice. “Can I have that back, please?”

He returned the photo. “Are you aware that you’re named as a beneficiary in Greg Feldman’s will?”

“No.” I would’ve welcomed a moment to deal with my guilt and gratitude, but the knight-protector plowed on.

“He bequeathed his financial assets to the Order and the Academy.” He was watching me for a reaction. Did he think I cared about Greg’s money? “Everything else, the library, the weapons, the objects of power, is yours.”

I said nothing.

“I’ve checked on you with the Guild,” he said. The blue eyes fixed me in place. “I’ve heard you’re able but hurting for money. The Order’s prepared to make you a generous offer for the items in question. You’ll find the sum to be more than adequate.”

It was an insult and we both knew it. I thought of telling him that if it wasn’t for Oklahoman cowboys and Mexican whores having a bit of fun, there would’ve been no Texans, but that would be counterproductive. One didn’t call a knight-protector a whoreson in his own office.

“No, thank you,” I said with a pleasant smile.

“Are you sure?” His eyes took my measure. “You look like you could use some money. The Order will give you more than you’d get auctioning it off. My advice, take the money. Buy yourself a decent pair of shoes.”

I glanced at my beat-up sneakers. I liked my shoes. I could bleach them. It took the blood right out.

“Do you think I should get some like yours?” I asked, looking at his boots. “Who knows, they might throw a cowboy shirt with a fringe in with them. Maybe even a girdle.”

Something stirred in his eyes. “You got a mouth on you.”

“Who, me?”

“Talk’s cheap. What can you really do?”

Thin ice. Proceed with caution.