The Darker Carnival (The Markhat Files) by Frank Tuttle

the girl in this glass go, and I won’t level this damned place and bury you in the rubble.”
    He laughed. The footfalls stopped. Every hair on the back of my neck rose, because from the sound he was in arm’s reach—I just didn’t know which arm, or what direction.
    “I warned you not to lie to me, Mr. Bustman. If indeed that is your name.”
    “It isn’t. Now I’m warning you. That little girl leaves with me, now, or I take this place apart.”
    “I could kill you where you stand.”
    I forced a wide grin. “So why hide?” I asked. “I did my ten in the Army. Hated every sorcerer that passed our way. Cowards or bullies, the lot of them. Even so, I never saw one of them hide.”
    Thorkel stepped out of a fold in the dark, one long stride away.
    He was dressed in his carnival master finery, top hat and tailed officer’s coat and brass buttons and silk. His cane twirled in his right hand, only now the head of it glowed the dull red of an ember.
    The dead girl clutched my leg.
    “That,” I said, “Is the silliest damned hat I have ever seen.”
    “So. You came to steal,” he said, indicating the dead girl with a flick of his cane. “You could simply have asked for her. She is past being of any use. I suppose I should have a grave dug.”
    “Her name is Alfreda,” I said. “I’m taking her home.”
    “Shame about her father,” said Thorkel. His smile was wide and his teeth gleamed white. “He died badly, you know. Twitching like an insect.”
    Her wet sobs came heavier.
    “He died a braver man than you’ll ever be,” I said. “The little girl. Out of this glass. Before I lose my legendary composure.”
    “You are no more a sorcerer than you are a newspaper man,” he said. His smile grew. “I sense no power whatsoever about you.”
    “Shows what you know.”
    He regarded Buttercup’s glass. “That is no little girl,” he said. “You may be of some service before you die. Tell me what you know of this creature.”
    “She’s a forty-year-old bartender named One-Eyed Eddie,” I said. “He dresses up like that every All Soul’s Day.” I raised my revolver and aimed it right at Thorkel’s smirk. “I’m done talking. Let her go.”
    “Your magic won’t work here,” he said, through that same smug grin.
    I realized the man had never seen a gun.
    The top of his cane began to glow brighter, pulsing like a slow heartbeat.
    “You might be right about magic not working,” I said. “Good thing I didn’t bring any.”
    I pulled the trigger. My revolver barked thunder and spat yellow lightning.
    Thorkel fell backward, ass over elbows, fancy boots showing me their heels. I shot him again, and again, and then a final time while he was still rolling and thrashing.
    While I switched pistols, Alfreda snarled and leaped.
    Thorkel grappled with her. She flailed and bit and made an ugly gurgling sound that ended with a wet pop and a hoarse scream.
    Thorkel rose to his knees and threw her aside.
    There was blood on his face. His left eye was gone. His coat bore three dark spots.
    But the bastard stood up and raised his cane and opened his mouth to say something I was sure I’d regret hearing.
    I lunged. Alfreda caught him in a bear hug about his knees. I shoved my revolver in his mouth before he could pronounce any magic words.
    He bit down on the barrel. I got my left arm around his head and I fired again in his mouth.
    His remaining eye glazed over. He went limp.
    I let him drop. Alfreda was on him as he fell, clawing at his ruined face with her paper-white fingers.
    I snatched up his cane. It still throbbed a deep blood red. On a whim, I touched it to Buttercup’s mirror.
    Nothing happened. Buttercup managed to turn her face toward the glass, and I saw her bright blue eye peek out at me through the doll’s moving hair.
    I swung the cane, striking the glass with the glowing jewel as hard as I could.
    It bounced off, jarring my arm, but leaving no mark.
    Alfreda was still savaging Thorkel’s