Gambit: An Urban Fantasy Novel

GAMBIT

The Solumancer Cycle

Book One

J.C. Staudt

Gambit is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 J.C. Staudt

All rights reserved.

Edition 1.0

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Epilogue

Afterword

Chapter 1

Summer is in full bloom across New Detroit, and the ogre crammed into the seat beside me on the five-thirty crosstown smells like it. The bus is bursting with passengers of every size and species, and the ogre’s stench is far from the most offensive in our midst. Heads bob with every bump in the road, lazy in the thick dog-day humidity. I’d give anything for a glass of ice water and a few more inches of space on the bench seat.

Air brakes hiss, and we jerk to a stop beside a forsaken bus shelter with gang signs spraypainted across the plex windows. Tinny music is blaring from a black box radio strapped to the driver’s dashboard way up front. It’s an R&B hit three decades old, and I recognize the melody through the intermittent static of a station barely within reach.

To that soundtrack, the window of the rusted-out Chevy pickup in the next lane rolls down. A dark-haired elf with staccato tan lines leans out and flicks a cigarette butt onto the crosswalk, where a pedestrian on his way home from work stumbles over it. He flips her the bird. She winks at him and says something crude before rolling up her window and peeling out under a traffic light halfway between red and green.

Two humans and a gnome climb aboard the bus and sway down the aisle in search of seats. To most people, the gnome resembles a short elderly fellow with a flowing white beard. Not to me, though. Like the ogre beside me and the elf in the pickup truck, I know him to be an othersider—one of thousands of faerie creatures who’ve crossed over from their world to ours, and who now live among us, hiding in plain sight.

The newbies take their seats. The bus starts moving again.

You been doing that long? asks the ogre, jutting a stubby finger at the embroidered logo on the breast pocket of my polo shirt. He, like everyone else who notices, seems to find it amusing.

Arching my back to unglue the afternoon sweat from my uniform, I fiddle with my horsehair bracelet, spinning it in circles around my left wrist. The strands of hair near the middle are a chestnut brown, fading to black along the edges. Couple years, I say. Why?

The ogre’s shrug makes the seat creak on its bolts. Just curious. How do you like it?

If this guy wasn’t the size of a tractor trailer, I’d tell him to mind his own business. I’d tell him there’s no law that says a guy can’t be a professional housekeeper and hold onto his dignity. Just because the cleaning service I work for happens to be called ZipMaids—and the embroidered logo on my bright purple polo is stylized in a gaudy script most heterosexual men wouldn’t be caught dead in—doesn’t mean it isn’t a perfectly respectable career. Luckily I’m getting off at the next stop, so I don’t need to say much. It pays the bills.

That’s a more lackluster answer than I’d give if I were honest. If I were honest, I’d tell him I love cleaning. Always have. It relaxes me. Gives me time to think. I love getting my hands dirty. More than that, I love the unique opportunities professional housekeeping brings to someone of my particular skill set. Although my skill set isn’t something I’m going to divulge to a stranger I just met on the bus.

Anyone ever give you a hard time about it? the ogre asks.

Just you, you nosy bag of dicks, I want to say, before drawing a surge of magical energy from my bracelet and blasting him out the opposite side of the bus with a shockwave spell. I’m not a complete asshole, though, and the little gnome sitting there probably wouldn’t fare too well against an ogre-sized cannonball. So instead, I stand and sling my heavy backpack over one shoulder as the bus comes to a jerking halt and say, All the time.

The ogre spins sideways like a turnstile to let me out. The back of his tight black shirt reads SECURITY in white block lettering. Below that, in fancier script, SEPHORA, the name of a swanky new nightclub they just opened downtown. He’s a bouncer, I realize. Fitting line of work for an ogre. Have a good one, I say.

Take it easy, he replies.

I thank the bus driver for his service and hit the street, headed toward Reiney Towers to clean for one of my regular clients, Ms. Felita Skaargil. I pass an alley where a hairy homeless guy is digging through a pile of black garbage bags. That’s what most people see, anyway. What I see is a furry wererat sniffing out his next meal. An othersider. His eyes gleam as he peers out at me, twitching his whiskers to catch my scent.

The concierge at the tower’s front desk is not an othersider. He’s an older gentleman by the name of Levi Green who gives me a friendly wave as I enter. Afternoon, Mister Cade.

Hey, Levi, I say, swinging my backpack around to unzip the side pocket. Brought you some new stuff. I hand him a bundle of postmarked envelopes tied with a rubber band. Levi is a huge stamp aficionado. His father was a postman for forty years, a fact of which he seldom fails to remind me. Levi’s been collecting stamps since he was a kid, so I always ask my other clients to save their old envelopes.

That’s awful nice of you, he says, accepting the bundle with a nod.

I hope you find something good in there. I know the last couple stacks were duds.

Ain’t no such thing. I like looking at the postmarks, seeing where people sent them from. Makes you think how big the world is, and how small we are.

You’re a font of wisdom, my friend. See you in a few hours.

Levi salutes me before sliding off the rubber band and flipping through the bundle of envelopes. I hope it’ll be a bright spot in his long boring shift. The thought makes me smile.

I take the elevator to the eleventh floor; a modest altitude in comparison to our typical clientele, but far higher than I’ll ever be able to afford. I knock on Apartment 1131, slide the key into the lock, and push the door open. Housekeeping, I shout, as per ZipMaids protocol.

An eerie silence pervades the austere corners of Ms. Skaargil’s lavishly appointed home. It’s the kind of place that gives you the impression its owner spends more time working to afford it than actually living there. I know this to be true in Ms. Skaargil’s case; I’ve met her once or twice while performing my weekly cleaning services over the past year, but she’s otherwise left me to my own devices. Her constant absence is exactly the sort of arrangement I need, and I always make sure to do an especially thorough job on her place so she’ll keep requesting me.

I slip inside and shut the door. I always dread stumbling over a body when I enter an empty dwelling. Call it superstition. Hasn’t happened yet, knock on wood. Speaking of wood, the floors are due for a good polishing. I should be able to work that into my regular routine and still be out of here by ten.

ZipMaids is a high-end cleaning service for the discerning customer with a taste for luxury. We cater to wealthy clients, I always say, because marble may shine better than linoleum, but there’s nothing shinier than a personal check that doesn’t bounce. Ms. Skaargil has left her payment, with a little something extra for me, in a plain white envelope marked CLEANERS on the entry table in the foyer.

Slinging my backpack off my shoulder, I slip the envelope into the side pocket, now with extra room thanks to the bundle I gave Levi. I unzip the main pocket and unload my supplies. Apron, rubber gloves, sponges, scouring pads, window solution, bleach, lye, vinegar; it’s all there. Everything that isn’t, Ms. Skaargil keeps in her linen closet. I grab a mop from said closet and get to work, but not before grabbing myself that glass of ice water I’ve been craving.

Ice water is about the only mundane thing I’ve ever taken from a client’s house, although I’ve encountered bait of all kinds in my day. I don’t steal the hundred-dollar bills clients leave hanging from pants pockets for the express purpose of catching me on their nanny cams so they can sue ZipMaids for exorbitant damages—or blackmail them for free cleanings. I don’t steal slivers of leftover birthday cake from the titan-sized stainless steel refrigerators dominating every tile-and-granite kitchen in my client base. Nor do I raid jewelry boxes or gun safes or entertainment centers bursting with high-end electronics.

None of these items, or their inherent monetary values, are of particular interest to me. In truth, the things I steal are possessed of quite a different sort of value. While judgmental folks might label me a petty burglar, I prefer to think of myself as a hunter. That’s why I’m here, cleaning Felita Skaargil’s gigantic apartment on a Friday night instead of doing the Friday-night things young people my age are supposed to do. Because although it’s obvious Ms. Skaargil is well-off, I’ve known something less obvious about her for a long time. Let’s just say she’s not from around here.

When I was a kid, my father used to tell me bedtime stories about trolls and fairies and goblins and magic. Like every other kid with a big imagination, I always thought they were tall tales. My mom used to tell him to stop filling my head with nonsense, but she never knew how true those stories were. Neither did I, until his disappearance. Beneath the guise of myths and fables, he taught me about the supernatural world, knowing one day I’d learn the truth and put that knowledge to good use.

One thing he never taught me was how to harvest magic. I remember a handful of stories about an evil sorceress named Exis who murdered supernatural creatures and collected their remains, but I’m not that kind of wizard. Live and let live, I say. Unless you fuck with me, in which case I will show you the business end of my fireball, and you will have regrets.

Contrary to popular fantasy, magic isn’t an all-encompassing force hanging on the air, a bottomless reservoir from which endless power can be drawn at any moment. I wish. It would make my life a hell of a lot easier.

Being a wizard in the real world—if you’re a normal human like me—means scraping together the fuel to cast spells by taking it from the othersiders who produce it. Their bodies radiate the elements of magic on a constant basis, an emanation like heat from a fire. You can draw magical energy from living creatures if you need to, but this is usually bad for the creature you’re drawing it from, so I don’t recommend it except in dire straits. There’s plenty of magic to be found without harming a soul if you know where to look. The best part about stealing it the way I do is that no one ever notices it’s missing.

It takes me two hours to finish the floors, another hour to scrub down the kitchen and dining area, and forty-five minutes to squeegee the picture windows lining the side of the apartment overlooking the riverfront. I pass the time daydreaming; I’ve always been a daydreamer. Cleaning helps me focus on the things I want to daydream about—and there are many, not the least of which are my plans for after I get off work tonight.

With the rest of the cleaning done, I’m off to my favorite spot in the house.

The bathroom.

There’s a certain majesty in scrubbing toilets. When you get a good lather going, like I’ve got after a minute or two, down on my hands and knees in a rich stranger’s bathroom which is comparable in size to my entire apartment, the stress melts off you like sweat during a good workout. There’s nothing quite so humbling as disinfecting that most humble of seats. They don’t call it the porcelain throne for nothing. Chairs are for sitting idly. Thrones are for getting things done.

I finish the toilet and move on. This is the motherlode: Felita’s massive walk-in shower. Removing the single screw on the metal drain cover with a Phillips-head screwdriver opens the door to a world of limitless possibility. From my backpack I retrieve a small Tupperware container with a red top bearing a thin band of masking tape. On the tape, in permanent marker, I’ve written:

1131 REINEY TOWERS EAST

FELITA SKAARGIL

WEREWOLF

Now for the fun part. With yellow-gloved fingers, I reach down the drain and come up with a clump of soggy, silvery-blonde hair with gray fur mixed in. It’s the most beautiful thing I’ve laid eyes on all week. Everyone loses hair down the shower drain, but werewolves are the best at it. Felita sheds like a snake with herpes. I’m surprised she doesn’t have to Drano the thing every other day.

I place my prize in the Tupperware and seal the lid. It’s like magic. As a matter of fact, it is magic. Lightning in a bottle, dontcha know.

That’s when I hear stiletto heels clacking on the bathroom marble behind me. Through the glass shower door, a platinum blonde in a mile-long pencil skirt juts her hip and looks down at me with a puzzled expression. Mr. Cadigan? she asks, uncertain.

Yeah, it’s me, I grunt, standing up.

I’m disappointed in myself for getting so engrossed in my work I didn’t hear her come in. No problem, though. I know a spell for opening pockets of ethereal space behind my wrists so I can hide small objects there for a short time. It’s like I’ve got long sleeves even when I’m not wearing a shirt.

What’s with the screwdriver?

Oh, I was just cleaning out your shower drain.

She raises an eyebrow. You guys really are full-service.

We try, I say, pinning the Tupperware behind my back. Then, drawing a thin stream of energy from the horsehair bracelet around my wrist, I open an ethereal pocket behind my other hand and tuck the plastic container inside.

The floors look great, by the way, Felita remarks.

Thanks.

What’s that you’ve got there?

I lift the screwdriver. Phillips-head. My favorite kind.

She lowers me a steady gaze. Other hand.

I lift it to show her. Nothing.

Her nostrils flare. She sniffs. Are you going to show me what you’ve got, or do we need to do this the hard way?

I’m cooked. This lady can smell a tick on a wild rabbit three miles away. If she can’t smell the fear oozing from my pores through a pane of glass, then I don’t know werewolves like I think I do.

It’s nothing, I try.

She smirks. Yeah. I was born yesterday.

I sigh, closing the ethereal pocket and sliding the Tupperware into view. It’s not what you think.

She grabs the container and reads the tape. Her face twists into a grimace. How could it not be what I think? Are you some kind of wizard or something?

Look, I can explain.

You’re casting spells with my fur, aren’t you?

It’s a hobby. I’m not putting curses on you or anything.

How long have you been harvesting from me?

For like… a while.

I think you’d better go, Mr. Cadigan. I don’t want to see you back here again.

I should finish cleaning—

She shakes her head. No thank you. Please leave.

I—

Get out. Get out now, or I call the cops.

Sheepishly I put away my cleaning supplies and return Ms. Skaargil’s mop and broom to the hall closet. She stands there watching me the whole time. When I try to tuck the sealed Tupperware container with her name on it into my backpack, she holds out a hand.

I don’t think so. Give it here.

I do.

I apologize profusely as I back out of her apartment with my bag in hand.

I’ll be calling your supervisor with a complaint, she promises, just before slamming the door in my face.

Chapter 2

I give Levi a polite smile and a curt wave as I leave Reiney Towers East, neglecting to mention it may be the last time I ever see him. It pains me to think so. Levi’s one of the only normal human acquaintances I’ve got.

I decided a long time ago it was best to maintain a limited social life. Not just for safety, but for secrecy. Or maybe it wasn’t me who decided that. Maybe, as I’ve begun to realize lately, it was a certain roommate of mine who made the decision for me.

If Ms. Skaargil does call my boss to complain, it’ll be the first complaint I’ve ever gotten. I’m sure I won’t be cleaning for her again, but I intend on making my stable of regular clients happier than ever now that I’ll be forced to rely on them more heavily. Somehow I don’t think Ms. Skaargil will call my boss, though. I think she’s more likely to tear out my throat in a fit of lycanthropic rage once she has a chance to think it over.

Luckily the moon won’t be full for another week or so. That gives me six days to change my name and move to Mother Russia. One can never be too careful when dealing with the immortal.

I stop at the gym on my way home to blow off some steam, changing into a sleeveless gray shirt and blue athletic shorts in the sweat-dank locker room before stowing my backpack in a tall locker behind a black combination lock. My horsehair bracelet stays on even when I work out. Even when I shower, and sleep, and when I’m sitting on the can, I never take it off. It’s not the first such bracelet I’ve worn, and it won’t be the last. Nor are the only types of hair woven into its fibers those of a horse.

The gym’s Friday evening pre-happy-hour crowd has died off, so I grab an empty machine, pop in a pair of earbuds, and pump up the jams. I set the treadmill on an incremental cycle and start my run, ushered by the opening notes of The Way You Look Tonight.

People pass on the sidewalk outside, where the front of the gym meets the street in a wall of plate glass windows. I like people-watching, especially without the aid of magic. It means I have to guess who’s a normal and who isn’t. Sometimes it’s easy to judge by posture or height or hair color. Other times it’s impossible to tell who’s from the otherside and who’s from plain old here.

I notice a man standing beneath a streetlamp on the opposite sidewalk. Trenchcoat and hat, shoulders bunched up around his neck as though the summer night is cold. I can’t see his eyes, but he’s definitely watching the near-empty gym. Almost like he’s waiting for something.

The treadmill kicks up a gear as Ol’ Blue Eyes croons. Sinatra always gets my blood flowing. He’s the gold standard, as far as I’m concerned. No other hundred-year-old singer gives me goosebumps while I’m pushing my heartbeat toward double-time. It doesn’t take searing guitars or a pounding drumbeat to get me going. Just a smooth voice and plenty of soul. There’s something to be said for music that’s just as relevant under the gun as between the sheets. He’s timeless, and I will have words with anyone who says differently.

The man beneath the streetlamp is gone. For a while, I zone out and get lost in the routine, chalking him up to one of the many freakazoids one encounters while living in a city like New Detroit. I switch from treadmill to rowing machine, from rowing machine to leg press. I’m halfway through my workout when the classic re-run of Everybody Loves Raymond on the gym TV blinks out and is replaced by a prim blonde in a navy-blue suit jacket seated behind a smooth wooden news desk. She’s one of the fae, as is every newscaster in town—a particularly attractive pixie, as befitting someone whose job it is to lull the masses into a gratified trance. I remove an earbud to listen.

We interrupt this broadcast to bring you a special news bulletin, says the blonde. Earlier this evening, Mayor Jack Everton was found dead in his home, the victim of an apparent heart attack. Special investigations units were dispatched to the scene, though police have reported no evidence of foul play. City Council President Gerold T. Douglas is set to serve as acting mayor until the end of the mayoral term in January. Mayor Everton was serving his third term in office, the second-longest running incumbent in the city’s history behind only Coleman Young, who served a full five terms before retiring due to health issues. Mayor Everton is best known for his success in city-wide rejuvenation efforts and for his role in its historic renaming, a landmark decision met with strong public opinion on both sides. He is survived by his wife and three children; he was fifty-two years old.

File that under Things That Make You Go Hmm. Why are they sending out special investigations units if there’s no evidence of foul play? Something as cut-and-dried as a heart attack shouldn’t warrant such thorough scrutiny. Then again, he was the mayor. I guess they’re just covering their bases.

Sad day. It’s a terrible thing to hear about the passing of a good mayor like Everton. He’s been in office since I was in grade school. New Detroit is the comeback kid of the twenty-first century, a Cinderella story due in large part to his efforts. He did the best he could to rebuild a city whose population boomed, then fell off a cliff, and is now booming again. Most people think the new boom is being caused by immigration from other cities. There’s a different kind