Street Magic

'Perkins looked as if he were from the Stone Age,' Pete said.

'That's odd, to be certain,' said Jack. 'Necromancy and flesh-crafting are dying arts. No one apprentices to them any longer. No need, with infernal servants being as easy to compel as they are in this day and age.'

'Grinchley set this on me, as well,' Pete said, drawing out the desiccated Dead Man's Snare from her hip. 'Thought maybe you'd have some use for it.'

Jack whistled. 'Nicely done, Pete. Powerful little bit of conjuring on this one.' He pushed it back at her. 'But you keep it.'

'I really don't think I'll ever have need of this. I hope I won't, at the very least,' Pete said. 'Maybe you could use it to break the ice at parties or something.'

Jack sipped his coffee and grinned. 'You won it fair and square in sorcerous combat, Pete. Keep it. It's yours. And when I did parties, I usually called up a few poltergeists or minor demons. Bit more flash. Speaking of which, I could use some help with this bit if you're not too knackered.'

'Show me what to do,' said Pete, shutting the bathroom door behind her.

'Come into the kitchen and have one of these overpriced pastries and I'll explain things,' Jack said.

After Pete had stirred a cup of espresso for herself, Jack slid into the seat across from her and held out a black velvet sack. 'Got this for you, too.'

Pete slid out a small crescent charm on a plain silver chain. It was cool to the touch and when she held it the constant undertone of magic that hissed to the hidden part of her mind quieted.

'It's a talisman for dreamers,' said Jack. 'It will keep you safe from sundown to dawn.'

Pete admired the way the half-circle caught the light. 'Will it.'

'That's the theory, anyway,' said Jack. 'Really, it depends on you.'

'How do you mean?' Pete said. She put the charm around her neck and felt the silver kiss her clavicle. It felt like dipping a hand into cool water, with cool stones beneath and the moon reflected above.

'Do you want to stop dreaming?' Jack asked.

'This particular dream, yes,' Pete said emphatically. 'And I could do without being haunted, as well.'

Jack's mouth quirked. 'I'm afraid while you hang around me there's always a bit of ghost-light about,' he said. 'But the bugger shouldn't be able to get to your mind so easily with that.'

'Ta,' Pete said, smiling a bit herself. Jack looked pleased, like he'd picked out a birthday gift in the proper size.

'Kid stuff. Don't mention it.' He extinguished his Parliament in the remains of his coffee. His hands shook but a little, and he collected a pen and started drawing on scraps. 'Now, this is what calling the demon should entail, and what I need from you…'

Chapter Thirty

A few hours later, Pete followed Jack through the aisles of a DIY shop, collecting supplies from the hardware department. 'You're joking, right?' she said. 'This is where we get the supplies for a demonic ritual?'

'Some of it, yeah,' said Jack. 'Magic isn't all eye of newt or skinning black cats.'

Pete jerked her trolley to a stop. 'I am not killing a cat.'

'Dagon in a rowboat, Pete, relax. The demon we want doesn't accept animal sacrifices. It would be terribly offensive.'

'Facts I'm sure will come in handy in my day-to-day life,' she muttered, following Jack as he picked out a roll of copper wire.

'Will if you keep on with me,' Jack said with a shadow of a grin. He picked up a box of roofing nails and tucked them into his jacket pocket. Pete cleared her throat vigorously. Jack gave her an exasperated look, one dark eyebrow cocked.

Pete pointed to the trolley basket. 'In.'

'They're fifteen quid!' Jack protested. 'For a box of ruddy nails!'

'I'm sure all the girls at Fiver's would swoon over your criminal behavior,' said Pete. 'But if we get pinched we're never going to track down this ghostie or beastie or whatever in time, so put the bloody nails in the trolley and grow the bloody hell up.'

Jack glared at her, but he dropped the box in the basket and stalked off, leaving Pete to pay for everything.

'Where are we going now?' Pete demanded. She was trailing Jack through the Kings Road, passing between tourists with cameras and pimply children in tight black jeans and Mohawks trying to grasp on to the heyday of punk outside what used to be Sex.

'Picking up a few last odds and ends,' said Jack, turning down a narrow flight of steps to a nameless shop with a black door.

Pete stopped just short of the entrance. 'Jack, this is a dodgy porn shop.'

'Among other things,' he agreed, opening the door, causing an obscenely pleasant bell to jingle.

'Bloody hell,' Pete muttered, following him inside.

'I got what I needed from the spellcrafter's supply when I bought your talisman,' said Jack. 'Just need to see a friend about one last thing.'

The shop was gray—gray carpet, walls that had once been white but lay coated with a decade's worth of grime, grim fluorescent tubes overhead like a morgue. Even the covers of the magazines and videos looked deflated and drained of color, posters on the walls curling up at the edges and exposing mildew.

Jack went straight to the counter and slapped his hand on it, waking the snoring clerk so abruptly he slid off his stool. 'Oi!'

'Mmph?' said the clerk. 'Wotcha want?' He had a ponytail, sad and greasy like a rat's and, if it were possible, was even skinnier than Jack.

'Where's Mr. Towne?' Jack said. 'I know he still owns the place so don't bother to lie.'

'T-Towne?' said the clerk nervously.

'Towne, Melvin,' Jack snapped. 'Manky Mel, the sultan of snuff, wizard of wanking, whatever bloody silly thing he calls himself.'

'L-look,' said the clerk. 'I don't want any trouble with the coppers…'

Jack grabbed the clerk by the ponytail and jerked him down to eye level. 'I'm not a copper.'

'She is,' the clerk squeaked, pointing at Pete. 'And you're probably just here for the money Mr. Towne owes to Left-handed Dick.'

Pete cocked her head at Jack. 'This friend of yours got in with a gangster who calls himself Left-handed Dick?'

'Trust me,' said Jack, tightening his hold on the clerk's ponytail. 'If you knew him you wouldn't be the least bit surprised. Now where is he, you sodding little piece of wormshit?'

The clerk sighed in an almost resigned manner. 'He's on the set, in the back.'

Jack released him with a little push. 'Obliged.'

'What's gotten into you?' Pete muttered as she followed Jack through the musty rows of dirty books and bins of toys. 'Is your sight channeling Guy Ritchie?'

'You'll see,' Jack murmured. His eyes glinted like winter sun on a glacier. 'Now if you value your dignity, keep your mouth shut and stay close to me in here. And for the sake of whatever god you believe in, don't try to be Miss Detective Inspector Caldecott of the Metropolitan Police. It'll just get us both beat to shit and dumped in some gutter.'

Pete started to ask what, exactly, the history between Jack and Towne entailed, but Jack banged through a fire door and shouted, 'Melvin! Look who's back from the dead!'

A heavyset redhead in ill-fitting PVC squealed and covered herself with a sheet, and a voice from Pete's left shouted, 'Fuck! Cut!'

Melvin Towne was nearing Pete's height, which put his eyes roughly even with Jack's chin. He had run to fat but his hands were large and soft, arms straining the pristine white T-shirt he wore. At one time, Pete would have hesitated to attempt an arrest on him by herself—Towne was powerful still and the creases on his brow and at the edge of his expressive hazel eyes leaked violence like a ruptured chemical drum. 'Jack Winter,' he rasped. 'Don't you ever stay dead?'

'Not as of yet, you great cumstain,' Jack replied genially. 'I've come for the limb.'

Towne crossed his twin hams of forearm. 'Threw the sodding thing away.'

'You're a liar, Melvin,' Jack said easily. 'Not only a liar, but a filthy liar, a dog-fucking liar even.'

Melvin sniffed, deep and wet like he had a bad cold, or put roughly a gram of coke up his nose on a regular basis. Pete bet firmly on the latter.

'I don't have your bloody limb,' he said again. He walked over to the redhead and jerked the sheet away from her. 'I don't fucking pay you to sit on your fat arse with your legs crossed.' The girl obligingly resumed the pose she'd been in when Pete and Jack interrupted, wrapping a silk noose hanging from the sprinkler pipes above around her neck and posing on a battered metal dinette chair.

'Choke,' Melvin directed. 'I want to see the eyes popping out of your fat head when you come, bitch.'

Pete would have hesitated, alone, but she wasn't alone now.

She walked over to Towne, picked up his high-end digital camera, and dropped it hard on the cement floor. 'Jack asked you a question,' she said calmly, making herself look Towne in his pockmarked moon face.

'You fucking cunt!' he exclaimed. 'I ought to ram that camera up your arse until I've shot three grand worth of video, because that's what it'll cost to replace!'

Pete pulled out the Dead Man's Snare and wrapped it around Towne's neck, less gracefully than Grinchley had managed, but the effect was the same. 'You are wasting our time,' she snarled. 'Give Jack his fucking limb before I use my other hand to tear your bollocks off, cunt.'

'She'll do it, mate,' Jack said, fishing a packet of Parliaments out of his jacket. He offered one to the plump girl, who silently shook her head.

'Bad for your health.'

'Speaking of which.' Pete grinned at Towne and dug her nails into his sweaty chin, forcing him to look at her as he wheezed. 'Ever shot a brain aneurysm in one of your little faux-death films? I wonder, will you be a twitcher? I think you're too fat. You'll probably just gurgle, shit yourself, and die.'

'In the lockbox!' Towne shouted. 'For fuck's sake! The key's in my pocket.'

Pete tugged at the Snare, and it uncoiled, folding back into her hand. She smiled at her feet, unaccountably pleased. To Towne she said, 'Good man.' To Jack, 'You are getting the key.'

Back on the street, Pete snatched the brown-wrapped parcel out of Jack's hands and tore it open. 'Oi!' he shouted. 'That's me personal property, I'll have you know.'

The parcel contained a plastic box, sealed with packing tape. The box was clear and inside… Pete nearly dropped the box on the pavement. 'Jack, this is a human hand. A mummified human hand.'

'Towne's wife,' he agreed. 'Caught her cheating about fifteen or twenty years ago and chopped off bits and pieces until she was sorry. Filmed it all. Was his first big hit, as I recall.'

Pete stopped walking and thrust the box back into Jack's hands. 'Is this your way of telling me you enjoy the company of people like Towne?'

'I'm not that oblique, luv.' He grinned. 'Saw the video, noticed with my sight Towne had an Egregor, a demon of rage, hanging around him. I bargained the Egregor back into the Black and compelled Towne to give me this as payment.'