Werehunter (anthology)

Harrison dropped to the carpet, right on top of a spill of guacamole and ground-in tortilla chips, whimpering a little himself.

I have to get rid of this thing, quick, before it breaks the compulsion— She closed her eyes and trusted to instinct, and shouted the first thing that came into her mind. The Parking Ritual, with one change. . . .

“Great Squat, send him to a spot, and I’ll send you three nuns—”

Mage-energies raged through the room, whirling about her, invisible, intangible to eyes and ears, but she felt them. She was the heart of the whirlwind, she and the other—

There was a pop of displaced air; she opened her eyes to see that the creature was gone—but the mage-energies continued to whirl—faster—

“Je-sus,” said Harrison, “How did you—”

She waved him frantically to silence as the energies sensed his presence and began to circle in on him.

“Great Squat, thanks for the spot!” she yelled desperately, trying to complete the incantation before Harrison could be pulled in. “Your nuns are in the mail!”

The energies swirled up and away, satisfied. Andre groaned, stirred, and began extracting himself from the powdered sheetrock wall. Harrison stumbled over to give him a hand.

Just as someone pounded on the outer door of the suite.

“Police!” came a muffled voice. “Open the door!”

“It’s open!” Di yelled back, unzipping her belt-pouch and pulling out her wallet.

Three people, two uniformed NYPD and one fellow in a suit with an impressive .357 Magnum in his hand, peered cautiously around the doorframe.

“Jee-zus Christ,” one said in awe.

“Who?” the dazed Valentine murmured, hand hanging limply over her forehead. “Wha’ hap . . .”

Andre appeared beside Di, bowler in hand, umbrella spotless and innocent-looking again. 

Di fished her Hartford PD Special OPs ID out of her wallet and handed it to the man in the suit. “This lady,” she said angrily, pointing to Valentine, “played a little Halloween joke that got out of hand. Her accomplices went out the back door, then down the fire escape. If you hurry you might be able to catch them.”

The two NYCPD officers looked around at the destruction, and didn’t seem any too inclined to chase after whoever was responsible. Di checked out of the corner of her eye; Harrison’s own .44 had vanished as mysteriously as it had appeared.

“Are you certain this woman is responsible?” asked the hard-faced, suited individual with a frown, as he holstered his .357. He wasn’t paying much attention to the plastic handgrip in the holster at Di’s hip, for which she was grateful.

House detective, I bet. With any luck, he’s never seen a Glock.

Di nodded. “These two gentlemen will back me up as witnesses,” she said. “I suspect some of the ladies from the party will be able to do so as well, once you explain that Ms. Vervain was playing a not-very-nice joke on them. Personally, I think she ought to be held accountable for the damages.”

And keep my RWW dues from going through the roof.

“Well, I think so too, miss.” The detective hauled Valentine ungently to her feet. The writer was still confused, and it wasn’t an act this time. “Ma’am,” he said sternly to the dazed redhead, “I think you’d better come with me. I think we have a few questions to ask you.”

Di projected outraged innocence and harmlessness at them as hard as she could. The camouflage trick worked, which after this evening, was more than she expected. The two uniformed officers didn’t even look at her weapon; they just followed the detective out without a single backwards glance.

Harrison cleared his throat, audibly. She turned and raised an eyebrow at him.