Authors: John Levitt
Unleashed (9 page)
The other problem was that this creature was resistant to magic, much like a true Ifrit would be. So I also could have used one of Victor’s extensive collection of firearms.
About halfway to us it slowed momentarily, having trouble deciding on who to attack first. I was the obvious choice; if it attacked Lou, I’d be able to intervene. If it attacked me, there wasn’t much Lou could do about it. But it was cautious, and rightly so. One might assume that a puny unarmed human is no match for a wild animal, flush with sharp teeth and tearing claws, but that’s not always the case. I’m one hundred and eighty pounds, in shape, and reasonably strong. A four-hundred-pound tiger isn’t going to have any trouble with me, but a small carnivore, no matter how vicious, is another matter. Carl Akeley, a famous African explorer and hunter, once strangled an eighty-pound leopard to death with his bare hands after it dropped on him from an overhanging branch.
This creature could tear me up badly. If it got to my throat, it could kill me by ripping open an artery before I could get it off. But I could also kill it, grabbing hold of it and pounding its head against the pavement. It wasn’t interested in a Pyrrhic victory.
In the end, I think its obsessive hatred of all things Ifrit was the deciding factor. It swung left and lunged at Lou, the jaws of its curiously flattened face snapping shut inches from his tail.
I didn’t think twice. I glanced up at the Columbarium dome scattering sunlight through the air, twisted the refraction, and neatly divided Lou into five dogs. Not real dogs, of course; Lou and four illusions. Since the creature was related to Ifrits in some way, no illusion would fool it for more than a second. Not if they would obligingly stand still, that was. But with five small identical dogs running frantically in different directions, each one twisting and turning, it wasn’t so easy to tell the real from the fake.
It picked one at random and went after it. Man, the thing was fast. It caught up to the fleeing dog and fastened its jaws on the back of the dog’s neck, and I had a moment’s sick fear that it had guessed right. But no worry; Lou wouldn’t have let himself be caught so easily. The jaws chomped down on nothing at all, with the imitation dog continuing its run as if nothing had happened.
I took advantage of the mistake by sprinting toward the van. The creature saw and came after me, but I had too much of a head start. I jumped in the front seat and slammed the driver’s door in its face an instant before it could reach me. Leaning across the seat, I rolled down the passenger-side window and put the van in gear before it could make it around to the other side.
The fake dogs were still running in circles as I roared off down the street, but the real Lou was easy to spot now. He had stopped and was standing motionless, looking with total disbelief at the van speeding away. I slammed on the brakes and yelled at the top of my voice.
“Come
on
! Through the window. Get a move on!”
on
! Through the window. Get a move on!”
He came tearing across the street, running at full tilt. Instantly the fake Ifrit was on his heels, no more than fifteen feet behind him. Without breaking stride, Lou launched himself through the air like an Olympic hurdler, making it through the window cleanly. The thing sprang through the air after him, but I hit the gas, and by the time it reached the window, the van had moved far enough so that it hit the side of the van instead, making a satisfying thump.
The rearview mirror showed me its stunned form crumpled in the street. I swung the van around and gunned the engine, aiming for it. Not nearly as subtle as a binding spell, but I’m not picky. I thought I was going to get it, but at the last moment it scrabbled off to the side and ducked behind a parked car. Two seconds later, it was stumbling off through a gap between two houses. Lou was staring out through the open window, teeth bared. He didn’t like that thing at all.
I’d intended to go home and think through what had happened with Sherwood, but instead I drove toward Victor’s. This new development was worrisome. How the hell had it known we were here? And if it could track me so easily, what would prevent it from lying in wait outside my house?
What I needed was not a collection of handy spells; I needed one of Victor’s useful collection of deadly firearms. Not that he would hand one over gladly. He’d taken me out to a firing range in the East Bay a month ago, but he still didn’t trust me with guns.
“You never know,” he’d said. “Magic’s not always the best option. If you’re working with me, I don’t want you fumbling with the slide on an automatic while that rabid creature is busy tearing at my throat.”
He had a point, but I wasn’t as clueless about firearms as he assumed. And it was about time I started taking that thing seriously.
Victor was at his desk, working. He was usually working on something—just sitting around and chilling doesn’t seem to be part of his makeup, even with a bad leg. Timothy was there as well, which was unusual.
“Off work early?” I asked.
He ran his hand through dark, unruly hair. He’d recently added a couple of tiny gold hoops to his left ear to keep the others in it company. Pretty soon he was going to run out of ear, though.
“I quit.”
“Oh? Is that good or bad?”
Tim worked for a dot-com, one of the few that was still in business. Long gone were the days where you could bring your dog to work and get rich at the same time. Mostly, people there were now happy just to have a job.
“Oh, it’s good. I was getting bored. I made a lot of contacts there, though, and I think I can make a pretty good living just doing contract work, troubleshooting and stuff.”
Lou ran over to greet him. Timothy was not a practitioner; he was just a normal person, but he was still one of Lou’s favorites. Tim reached into his pocket, pulled out a Snausage, and offered it to Lou, who accepted it gravely. He was just being polite; he doesn’t really care for them that much. In fact, his attitude toward all things dog food are about the same as mine about tofu—he’ll eat it if he’s really hungry, but it’s no cause for celebration.
Victor looked up from his desk with a quick glance of inquiry. He knew I didn’t stop by for random chats.
“I need a gun,” I said.
“I seriously doubt that. What for?”
I told him about the fake Ifrit showing up at the Columbarium, as well as the vision of Sherwood I’d seen. Eli would have been more interested in the Sherwood story; Victor, ever the pragmatist, was more focused right now on the fake Ifrit. He had a point—Sherwood’s apparition could wait, but the Ifrit was a serious and immediate threat.
“So how did it find me there?” I concluded. “Why hasn’t it appeared before? And how about lending me something that will blow its head off next time it shows up?”
Timothy had been listening carefully. There was a time when I would have been more circumspect around him, since he’s not a practitioner, after all, but by now he was one of the family. I trusted him as much as I did Victor. Maybe more.
“Think a moment. What did you do that was different today?” he said.
“You mean besides calling up a vision of a long-dead girlfriend?”
Then I got what he was saying. Of course. Whatever the vision had been, it had involved some sort of enormous magical dislocation. For a creature sensitive to such things it must have lit up the magical landscape like a fireworks display.
Victor looked over at Timothy and nodded approvingly.
“Good point,” he said. “It was the evocation that drew it to you. And the last place we saw it was at the Presidio. It could easily have been hiding out in Golden Gate Park, right next door.”
“Wasn’t there a family of coyotes living there last year?” Timothy said. “They had to track them down and shoot them when they started attacking joggers, remember?”
“Okay, fine,” I said. “So it’s not going to be hiding behind every bush ready to leap out at me. But I’d still like something more than a couple of illusion spells for protection.”
“Fair enough,” said Victor, after a moment’s thought.
He walked over to the giant safe in the corner of the room and spun the dial a few times. The safe is at least six feet tall and surprisingly deep, and you could cram a lot of stuff in there. Sometimes I wondered if he hadn’t magically enhanced the inside space in some fashion. He was more than capable of something like that, and it always seemed there was way too much stuff in there, even for a safe that size.
Victor keeps his more potent magical tools in there, along with some rare artifacts. He also keeps an AK-47 assault rifle locked away, as I knew from experience.
After fiddling with the dial some more he swung open the safe door and rummaged around inside. Eventually he pulled out a long object swaddled in cloth. I could see a rifle barrel poking out of the top, and recognized it immediately.
“The AK- 47?” I asked. “I thought you didn’t trust me with such things.”
“Don’t be ridiculous,” he said. “You’d end up blowing off your own leg.” He reached back farther into the safe and pulled out another weapon, giving a grunt of satisfaction. “This should fill the bill.”
I was disappointed, but also relieved. I’d never shot an automatic assault rifle and a street confrontation is no time to be learning. But I did know how to use the weapon he had in his hand: a perfectly ordinary shotgun.
My grandfather was a man who had possessed quite a bit of talent himself, though I never knew it at the time. But he was also a hunter of small, inoffensive quail and large, strident geese, and by the time I was twelve he had taught me all I needed to know about those weapons. The one Victor held was a standard Remington 12-gauge pump, the workhorse of shotguns.
“I don’t suppose you’ve ever fired one of these,” Victor said.
“That Remington?” I said. “What is it, an 870? Actually I prefer the Browning over and under. But that’s more for hunting birds. This one will do just fine, I imagine. Holds, what, five rounds?”
Victor looked at me suspiciously, sure I was putting him on. I gazed back blandly, then took the shotgun out of his hands, pressed the slide release catch, and cycled the pump a couple of times to make sure it was unloaded.
“What do you think?” I said. “Buckshot or slugs?”
For once I had Victor at a loss for words. His notions about me didn’t include my having familiarity with firearms of any sort, even after the session at the range. I couldn’t blame him, but it was nice for once to throw him a curve. Timothy watched, grinning, making no effort to hide his amusement.
Victor struggled for a moment with the desire to ask me where I’d acquired such expertise, then decided to pretend it was no surprise at all.
“Both,” he said, as if it were the most obvious question in the world. “You might miss with slugs; load four buckshot and one slug. Lead, not steel. Load the slug in first, keeping it for the last chance in case the buckshot doesn’t do the job.”
“Got it,” I said.
He stared at me again, shaking his head almost imperceptibly before reaching back into the safe. He brought out two boxes of shells, one of double-ought shot and one of rifled slugs. I closed the slide so there wouldn’t be a round chambered, slid a slug round in first, then the four buckshot shells so the slug would be the last to be fired. First in, last out. I clicked on the safety, just to be double safe, hefted the gun, and smiled.
“Thanks,” I said. “This might come in handy.”
I HAD JUST ENOUGH TIME TO CATCH A QUICK bite and make it to my gig at the Glow Worm. Now that Jazz at Pearl’s had closed once again, the Glow Worm was the only place left trying to uphold the tradition of quality jazz in North Beach. It was too bad about Pearl’s; it had been a great venue with a lot of tradition and history. But it had closed before—it’s not an easy task to make a jazz club financially successful. It always seems to resurrect itself from the ashes, though.
I debated about whether to take Lou along and decided not. I like having him nearby but he couldn’t hang out at the club, and North Beach is a tough place for a dog on the streets—the sidewalks are often crowded with tourists, and someone would eventually decide he needed a home and try to scoop him up. I didn’t want him biting anyone. Besides, I had the shotgun now, just in case. I couldn’t take it up on the bandstand, but I could at least have it handy in my van.
The Glow Worm is on Columbus Avenue, not far from Pearl’s. You’d think that since jazz clubs tend to struggle anyway, having two of them on the same street wasn’t the smartest move. Maybe that had been a factor in the demise of Pearl’s. So far, the Glow Worm seemed to be holding its own.
I parked in a nearby lot that had a discount arrangement with the club for the musicians, which is another indication they’re a class act.
Weekends usually feature an out-of-town big name, with the rest of the week dedicated to locals. It’s as much a supper club as it is anything else—appetizers are served at the front tables closest to the bandstand and full dinners farther back in a raised portion to the rear. The food’s excellent, and a lot of tourists frequent the place for the food as much as for the music. The live jazz being played up front serves mostly as high-class Muzak to accompany the meal.
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