Patrick Thomas 7

CONTENTS

INTRODUCTION 999

BRBRBRAAAGGING RITES A Hunt Adventure 131313

AAATTTTTTAAACK OF THE TROUSER SNAKE A Terrorbelle Tale 31

A STITCH IN TIME A Case of the Soul Collector 474747

SPSPSPAAAWN OF LIGHTNING From the World of Agents of the Abyss 595959

NIGHT CRIES A Story Of The Nightcriers 727272

WORKING GIRL A Tale of the Daring 959595 Sample file TESQUE, TESQUE A Story of Fugtown 999999

PPPUT YYUT OUR DEMON ON MY SHOULDER A Little Insanity Featuring Lunay 123123123

CCCARDIAARDIAARDIAC ARREST A DMA Casefile 149149149

BARBARIAN SUMMER A Chronicle of Mog & Mikki 163163163

DDDYSENCHANTED A Hell’s Detective Mystery 170170170 8 MYSTIC INVESTIGATORS

Sample file Patrick Thomas 9

INTRODUCTION

It was a dark and stormy night when Neal Levin walked into my office. He looked a little nervous. These publisher types usually are. Sales numbers, returns, book buyers, temperamental authors, and the price of paper tends to wear on a man. Personally, I was hoping for a dame in red, but it’s probably for the best. My wife’s tougher than Terrorbelle and the jealous type. Marie’d never believe a lady in a slinky dress was just trying to hire me for a case, particularly since I don’t have a private investigator’s license. Still, I had the hat and the coat, not to mention the office for the day. Luckily for me I saw the real owner heading out on an out of town case and drop his keys. I’d leave them on the desk when I left and maybe water the plants. Back to Levin. He seemed like a nice guy, owned an outfit by the name of Dark Quest Books. I’d heard of them. Nice operation, but it seemed they were having a little problem and needed my help. They had made their mark in the gaming field and were looking for a new challenge by getting into novels and collections of the fantasy and SF variety. “I heard you were the guy to talk to,” said Levin. “Don’t believe everything you hear,” I said. “You interested in taking on a job?” Levin asked. “Depends. What are youSample looking for?” file I asked, taking a bite out of my lollipop. I had never smoked and wasn’t about to start just for a more effective noir atmosphere. I admit I toyed with the idea of lighting the end of the lollipop stick, but it just wouldn’t catch fire, even after I dipped the end in the bottle of whiskey I found in the bottom drawer of my borrowed desk. “Paranormal mystery. Hardboiled, wisecracking guys and gals facing down monsters, invincible mages, zombies, urban legends, maybe some Nazis,” he said, excited to the point where he started jumping up and down. That or maybe he sat on the keys in his chair. I had tossed them on the way in and hadn’t found them, until now. True, I could have switched on the overhead light to look, but that would have ruined the noir atmosphere I was trying for with the glow from the single desk lamp. “Nazis?” I said. He nodded. I had a story about Frankenstein taking on some Nazis, but I wasn’t about to tell him that. Not yet anyway. “What do you want from me?” “You’re the guy, the force behind Dear Cthulhu, the greatest advice column ever.” I blushed, but pulled the fedora down so he wouldn’t notice. “And the insanely funny, yet touching Murphy’s Lore series. People love your 10 MYSTIC INVESTIGATORS stuff,” he gushed. Well, maybe not gushed, but he was enthusiastic. I nodded modestly thinking he really should have gushed, but you can’t force gushing on someone. I know, I’ve tried. “You’ve already got great paranormal mystery characters. Terrorbelle the pixie/ogre hybrid who kicks butt and takes names. Agent Karver of the Department of Mystic Affairs who recovered from being a demon possessed serial killer to redeem himself hunting down bad guys.” I acknowledged that with another nod. Both characters had made the rounds of the anthology and magazine circuit and had amassed a following. I may even have smiled because he looked just about ready to gush and I didn’t want to say anything that might spoil that. “There’s Negrel the forgotten god who became Hell’s Detective. Can’t get more hardboiled than him and all three of them operate in your Murphy’s Lore universe. Great cross marketing there. Then there’s Mog, the barbarian single father and his daughter Mikki. There’s your dark super heroes and anti-heroes from the Daring.” “You’ve done your homework,” I acknowledged. “I’ve done more than that. I had you followed to see if you were the guy I needed. I had to be sure. I know you have stories in the works about a boggart bounty hunter who’s a high school teacher. You have an Agents of the Abyss series that puts a spy spin on classic monsters. Your Nightcrier novella made a big splash in the crypto-zoology community. You’ve got a federal soul collector with no name that hunts down the nearly dead and a gorilla with a human brain that works out of a city full of freaks and genetic mutations called Fugtown. Not to mention the crazy woman Lunay from a comic book that never made it to the public.” “There are reasons for that,” I said. “I’d love to hear them,” heSample said. file “I’m sure you would,” I replied, but there are some things even tough guys don’t talk about. Or me either for that matter. When Levin realized I wasn’t going to volunteer anything, he reached inside his coat pocket. I leapt to my feet, reaching across the desk. A submachine gun would have been the weapon of choice, but I had to make do with what was at hand. I was about to clobber him with a sub sandwich. It would be a real tragedy, mainly because it was supposed to be my lunch, but better unfed than dead. I could get another sandwich, but I was wearing my best fedora. In fact my only fedora and they’re hard to come by these days. Before my chicken parm made the ultimate sacrifice, Levin raised his hand to show he wasn’t pulling a piece. “Easy, I’m not armed,” he said. Turns out he had pulled a piece, but of the paper variety. “I’ve come to make you an offer.” And he said it without trying to do a Brando impersonation. Not often you don’t see that. I was impressed. Patrick Thomas 11 “I don’t do well with strong arm tactics,” I growled. It was true. The last time four guys in pinstripe suits, fedoras and tommy guns cornered me in an alley, I sobbed like a baby. It was embarrassing, especially since they were just selling tickets to a high school production of Guys & Dolls while in costume. I recovered quickly and only bought one ticket instead of the half dozen they were trying to push on me. But I showed them. I ended up heckling their performance. Sad, too. They were good. A little too good if you know what I mean. Maybe they weren’t so much acting, but acting out. Where the singing fit in, I just don’t know, but I digress. “No, this is what I want to offer you to do a book for me. In fact I’d like to hire you to do three,” he said. “Plus maybe a Dear Cthulhu collection.” I opened the paper and looked at the number. It was a nice one. It could have used a few more zeros, but he knew I wasn’t Stephen King and I’d never pass for J.K. Rawlings without major surgery and some intense British diction lessons and there just wasn’t enough time for that. “Of course, that’s my per book rate. You want a deal, you got to pay my rate plus expenses.” That’s what all the PI’s tell their clients. I wasn’t going to be the one to buck almost a century of tradition, especially if it got me more money. Levin looked at me, but my eyes were steely or at least my eyeglass frames were. Steel or titanium. I couldn’t remember and felt it would look pretty silly to start putting magnets up to my face to check. Maybe later after he’d gone and I was alone. I leaned back and put my feet up on the desk. The chair fell over backwards, but my catlike reflexes kicked in and I caught myself before I hit the floor. Levin was probably impressed, but hid it well behind his palm and what sounded like a chuckle, but was probablySample a gasp of file awe. Levin argued a bit about what expenses he would cover, but he was just going through the motions to save face. We both knew I was the best man for the job and a writer, like a PI, needed steady work to pay the bills and survive in this cold world. It was what we did. Tough guys stand up against the malevolence of the world. PI’s did it with their fists and a gun. Me? I did it with a keyboard, a word processing program, most of ten fingers on said keyboard, and the occasional brave chicken parmesan sandwich. And a trench coat and hat for when negotiations got tough. “What do you want to call the series?” he asked. “Mystic Investigators,” I replied, keeping to myself I already had planned the series before his visit. “I like it,” said Levin. “So we have a deal?” “As long as you hold up your end of the bargain,” I said, narrowing my eyes. “The light in here too bright?” he asked. “And do you smell something like a burnt lollipop?” I shook my head, but smiled. Always best to keep them 12 MYSTIC INVESTIGATORS off balance. “I’ll keep my side of the deal, but out of curiosity what happens if I don’t?” I laughed and refrained from pointing out what curiosity did to felines. Maybe he’d be okay. As far as I could tell, he wasn’t overly furry and had no tail. True, I could check, but that wasn’t the kind of thing you asked another guy, especially one offering you money. Or if it was, it was a business arrangement that I wanted no part of. “Let me ask you a question. What happened to the guy you hired to follow me?” Neal Levin looked perplexed. “Actually, he hasn’t reported in for the last couple of days.” The publisher’s face shifted to a look of worry. “You wouldn’t know anything about that, would you?” I smiled and pushed one copy of my now signed contract back at him, taking the other for myself. I knew his goon had been following me. He was good, but I was better. Unfortunately for my shadow, I mistook him for someone into intimidation and musical theater. I could have told Levin not to worry, that his stooge was okay, just a little worse for wear. He’d wake up in Tijuana with one hell of a headache, wondering why the natives were expecting him to sing show tunes. That wasn’t my worry. Not anymore. Levin would get the books he needed to get a leg up on the fiction market. I wouldn’t be disturbed by some goon trying to follow me. Word would get around, it always does. My rep would grow. And hopefully I’d never have to consider major surgery or British diction lessons to advance my career ever again.

Sample file Patrick Thomas 13

BRBRBRAAAGGING RITES A Hunt Adventure

It’s never a good thing to see a student hurled by a window, but it’s not exactly unprecedented at Franklin High School, the largest high school in Arcane County, Mississippi. Trolls, fey, weres and the occasional dragon numbered among the students and kids get into fights. It happens. It even happened to me back when I was a student here. This time was different because it wasn’t a student doing the throwing. I glanced out and saw an adult brag. I knew the school staff by sight and he didn’t belong, but security was on it. My job was to try to get my class back into their seats. “Let’s get back to work people,” I said, but I might as well have been herding cats. “Ouch. That had to hurt,” said Trina. Her mom’s the Purlieu city witch, a position more powerful that the mayor and city council combined. Elected officials can be voted out, but the city chooses its own witch protector. A lot of the students here try to use their parents’ positions and powers to circumvent school authority. Trina doesn’t. Considering how much people fear and respect her mother, it just shows whatSample kind of kid file Trina is. “That one too.” A second look outside revealed two security guards collapsed against the school’s brick walls and they weren’t the only ones down. In addition to the one student that went by my classroom window, there was another kid on the ground. None of the four were moving and there were a few dozen kids still outside in the courtyard. “Mr. Hunt, he’s moving toward the rest of the kids,” said Trina. “I could…” “No,” I said. Trina’s a decent witch, but she’s still a kid. I wasn’t about to let one of my students engage a hostile psycho. It’s not like I wanted to either, but someone had to stop him from hurting more people. “I’ll take care of it.” “Listen to the big, bad bounty hunter,” whispered Lonnie. The dwarf worked hard to convince everyone he was the born rebel. I opened the second floor window. “I want all of you to go next door to Mrs. Applestone’s class. And Lonnie,” He looked up, his face fallen at the realization that I had heard him. “I want a fifteen hundred word essay on a famous bounty hunter in history by our next class.” I taught social studies, but 14 MYSTIC INVESTIGATORS still liked to hand out the occasional report and had learned early on to give an amount of words rather than pages. Otherwise I got huge fonts and two-inch margins. “But tomorrow’s spring break.” “And a big, bad bounty hunter would care why?” “Well, I don’t know about the big part,” he said. I smiled. At four foot five, I’m well above average height for a boggart, but I still towered under most of my students. “Make it twenty five hundred words.” His face dropped even more, then lit up. “Any famous bounty hunter?” “That’s not related to me,” I said. I’m hardly famous, but my grandfather Sift is a bit of a legend. Back in the day he brought in rouge fey, stagecoach robbers – even a killer dragon. Transylvania has engaged his services to capture vampires, which is infinitely harder than killing them. In more recent decades, Israel hired him to bring in Nazis. Especially impressive considering that since the ousting, most magic races can’t survive a week outside one of the nine focal cities. Purlieu and the surrounding Arcane County is the focal for North America where the unofficial motto once was “Come here or die”, at least as far as any race that depended on magic for survival. That’s because the mystic races were forcibly relocated into the focals after the more powerful governments had the Earth mystaformed to limit where magic was located. The Allies felt they had no choice after Hitler’s reign of terror and the damage he did both to and with mystic folk. Which brings us back to my grandfather—Sift brought in der Führer himself. Everyone thought Hitler was dead, but he had only faked his demise by dragon fire and hid out in Argentina.Sample It’s fileSift’s most sensational capture, which means Lonnie wouldn’t have to do much research to do his report and that would ruin the point. I stepped up on the windowsill. “You’re not going to jump?” asked Trina. “We’re only on the second floor.” My grandfather used to throw me from this height when I was a toddler. Boggarts aren’t terribly powerful, but we know how to take a fall. “Now go next door,” I said and hopped out. One of my students gave a little scream as I fell. I’m not overly graceful, but I landed on the strip of grass below with only a minor stumble. Students who were taking their free period in the commons were rushing away from the brag, books and papers falling as they ran. A member of the goblin family, a brag has brown skin instead of the typical gray or green. This one was taller than me, but that’s hardly a major accomplishment. He lunged toward a pixie named Miranda who had broken one of her wings playing volleyball in gym class. Logic dictated that students shouldn’t be allowed to play sports where the ball is bigger than they are, but school Patrick Thomas 15 rules do. The Board of Education got sick of discrimination lawsuits and allows anyone who wants to participate in a sport to do so as long as their parent or guardian signs a waiver. Pixies aren’t used to walking and with such little legs are terribly slow. One of the other students could have picked her up and carried her, but having her small stature pointed out that way ticked Miranda off. The other students were so used to having her refuse, they probably didn’t think about it until it was too late. The brag looked like he was going to do a lot more than break her wing. Reaching down, I picked up the thickest textbook I could reach and chucked it at the brag’s face. It got his attention, so I hit him with another two. It didn’t hurt him, just pissed him off, which is what I was trying for. I dumped the food off one of the nearby plastic cafeteria trays and flung it along the cement sidewalk, right at my pixie student. “Miranda, jump,” I shouted. She realized what I was doing and listened, coming down on the tray as it passed beneath her. It stopped when it hit grass, but that was more than twenty-five feet from the psycho. “Thanks Mr. Hunt,” she said. “My pleasure, Miranda. Now get inside,” I said. There was no arguing as one of her larger girlfriends lifted her up and ran into the building. “You want a piece of me, too?” said the brag. “Sure, but what piece? I suppose I could mount your head on the wall of my den, but why would I bring something that ugly in my house?” I said. “You think you’re funny, boggart?” he said as his body began to change and I realized the student that had flown by my window had not been thrown. He’d been kicked. The bragSample transformed fileinto a horse, although not entirely. His head changed proportions, but stayed humanoid. His already long, brown hair became a mane. “What are you going to do? Hit me with another book?” I enjoy a challenge, so I hit him with three books. “Do I get a prize?” “My hoof in your chest,” he said, spinning and kicking out with both rear legs. He was strong and fast, but angry enough to both tell and telegraph exactly where he was aiming. Boggarts aren’t strong, but we’re quick, so he missed me. If I had been a little slower it would have been me flying past a window. I clapped. “Impressive. Maybe if you shaved those legs and put on some fishnets, you could get a job in the chorus line on Narrow Street.” (Purlieu’s answer to Broadway.) The brag spun and kicked again, but this time it was even wider so I had to dive underneath. One hoof caught my shoulder and I fought to not let the pain show on my face. “Stand still, you shuck,” he said. Now he was trying to piss me off. “Ugly and a racist to boot,” I said.