Small Magic: Collected Short Stories Part 10

She put her hands to her mouth. "How's that...I mean...who could do such a thing?" she asked through her fingers.

"Anybody with central records clearance." Tony opened the small case. "Your husband got any enemies, lady?"

She shook her head. "No....no. But Harold works at city services...he's level four. G.o.d...does it always smell like this?"

Tony and Rick exchanged a look.

"Ma'am? How about making yourself a cup of tea? We'll just be a few more minutes." Tony tried a friendly smile.

Harold's wife hesitated. "Is he going to be-"

"Everything's going to be fine."

She took a step toward the door. "Are you sure?"

"Sure," Tony cracked his grin even wider.

She turned and faded into the hallway.

"Just about done here, buddy." Rick tapped a gauge on the big machine.

"Look, you think we should let him go?"

"You nuts?"

Tony nodded toward the hallway. "No. But the guy obviously wanted out of this situation."

Rick switched off the big machine, and the room fell silent. "Personally, I don't want to fill out the paperwork," he whispered.

"True. It's just that, well...never mind." Tony stepped toward the door with the blood canister. "I'll be back."

By the time Tony returned with the O- cylinder, Rick had retrieved his hose, repacked the big machine, and lit a cigarette.

"Smoking's bad for your health, buddy."

Rick shrugged. "Have you met my old lady? You think I want to live forever?"

Chapter 47: Doping.

She holds the trophy above her head as the stadium erupts in applause.

Despite the cacophony of hands slapping together and cheering voices, the single "boo" lances her in the ear. The trophy drops a few inches, a miniature tennis pro in gold hovering in front of her face.

"Boooo!"

The cheers evaporate. Murmurs travel around the seats in waves away from the man in the fifth row. He cups his hand to the side of his mouth.

"Cheater!"

She narrows her eyes and tightens her fingers around the base of the trophy, feeling the cold marble and metal bars. Her head spins, blood throbbing in her ears. Heat crawls across her neck.

"Boooo!"

She springs toward the divider between the stands and the court, her rubber soles squeaking against the clay surface. "Boo this, you son-of-a-b.i.t.c.h," she howls. The trophy swings in one hand as she hurdles a Lexus advertis.e.m.e.nt. The crowd parts, scrambling for the exits in a noisy bustle.

All except him. The man with black eyes still holds one hand against the side of his mouth. "You cheat," he says. His other hand pantomimes an injection.

She grasps the trophy in her left hand like a club and brings it down against the concrete steps. It snaps in two with a metallic tang. Both ends glint in the afternoon sun, sharp and jagged.

The man doesn't move.

She storms the final three steps and thrusts one crooked point into his torso, just below his left arm. The metal slips in too easily. She expected ribs...some kind of resistance.

"Gonna have to do better," he says, smiling, his mouth curling a little too far.

The blood hammers against her temples, her neck tight and bulging like match point. The other hand swings with a downward jab, driving the second fragment of trophy into the flesh between his neck and shoulder.

There is no blood.

"Sorry," he says, still smiling.

She stumbles backwards and collides with the back of a seat. Pain shoots across her back.

The man stands, plucks both pieces of trophy from his skin and drops them with a clatter to the ground. His fingertips tug at the bottom of his shirt and pull it over his head. They find the hole in his side and peel away the skin in both directions. The s.p.a.ce grows, black and empty, nothing inside his chest.

His eyes almost sparkle. "Empty. Kind of like your victory."

Chapter 48: Little Awful Things.

The first of them hits a window with a wet thunk. Valerie jerks upright at the sound.

"What the 'ell was that?"

Richard mumbles, rolls over and pulls a pillow over his head.

Valerie clutches the quilt, listening. A few more smacks-amplified noises like insect kamikaze against a windshield at high speed-echo from the kitchen.

"Richard, wake your lazy a.r.s.e." Valerie shakes Richard's shoulder.

He moans, sucks a breath into his lungs, and opens his eyes. "What you want to go and wake me for?"

"Something's outside the house."

Smack, ping, crunch.

"Probably cicadas."

"Too big for cicadas." Valerie clicks on the bedroom lamp. "It's so d.a.m.n hot in here besides..."

"My allergies," Richard says, sniffing as loud as he can. "You want me to suffer?"

Valerie hops from the bed and shuffles to the window. "I got to have a breath of fresh air." She shuffles through the hallway, into the kitchen, and unlatches the sliding patio door. Tiny shapes flit in the darkness as Valerie pulls her nightgown close to her throat.

Bit chilly, she thinks. Then she hears the sound, soft and flapping. Tiny wings. She reaches backward, pulls open the patio door without looking, and fishes for the light switch. The tiny shapes sharpen in the light.

"Fairies?" she mutters.

Drawn to the sound of her voice, the little creatures flap their bat-black wings, swarming toward her. They reek of rot and decay with gray, poisoned skin. Valerie stumbles on the patio steps, bangs her knee against the gla.s.s, and struggles with the door. The minute undead dive bomb Valerie's semi-p.r.o.ne form, seeking bare skin with their yellow, pin-p.r.i.c.k teeth and s.n.a.t.c.hing fingers. She moans, and the flitting, black leather of their little zombie-fairy wings cover her body like an undulating shroud.

In the bedroom, oblivious to Valerie's plight, Richard stifles a sneeze and calls out, "Shut the d.a.m.n patio door, will you?"

Chapter 49: The Long Contract.

Two men walk the hallway from the entrance of the museum, their feet tapping out a broken rhythm against the marble floors. The long, pale man wears a suit too dark for his complexion. The other man clutches a hat in both hands; his fingers work the brim like a baker kneading dough.

"You will be impressed, Mr. Bixley." The thin man steps to the wall and snaps on the main switch. Lights come to life down the hallway as electricity works through the circuit.

"I've heard good things, Mr. Gaunt." Bixley looks down at his hat. "The endowment from the Arts Council...the respect of my colleagues..."

Gaunt clicks his tongue. "I'm glad they understand the value of what we do here. Come, let me show you the new exhibits."

The two men continue walking. Soon, tall, gla.s.s-walled enclosures flank them. A simple scene plays out in each. On one side, an grey gentleman reads in his library; opposite, a pair of men sit playing checkers; two windows down, a man stands, hands on hips, admiring a model ship. A damp paintbrush rests in one hand. Each window opens to a living diorama, immaculate to the embossed t.i.tles on the spines of the library books.

"We take special care to make sure each exhibit is accurate." Gaunt folds his hands. "Sometimes, our models balk at the stiff Victorian dress, but one wouldn't want false advertis.e.m.e.nt. It would mar our reputation."

"Women?" Bixley asks.

Gaunt's lips part, showing a slender line of white teeth. "Females are so hard to find, especially in our usual...haunts."

Bixley rubs the back of his neck. He returns the smile despite the sweat that has started to form on his upper lip. "Where...well, what kind of recruitment do you do?"

"Most are vagrants. Last week we pulled two from the alleyway behind First National, one empty bottle between them."

The man with the model ship looks out of the gla.s.s. His eyes appear black, glistening. Bixley shudders and steps away from the gla.s.s.

"He can't see you, of course," Gaunt says, his voice deep enough to resonate in Bixley's chest. "One-way gla.s.s."

"Oh. Of course." Bixley brushes the perspiration from his lip. "Do they know?"

"Do any of us know?" Gaunt's eyebrows knit together as he tilts his head downward. He steps to the wall. "Are you, Mr. Bixley, afraid to die?"

With a shake of his head, Bixley says, "No...well, yes...at times, I suppose."