The New York Magician by Jacob Zimmerman Page A
Authors: Jacob Zimmerman
Tags: Urban Fantasy
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"Ask away."
"I've thought about this pretty hard, and I don't recall either agreeing to perform any service for ... well, you know. I also don't recall him charging me to do anything."
"That's amusing. What did he say?"
"Well," I thought about it for a moment, "he acknowledged my presence, and accepted the message I'd been charged to give him, and said that even though he knew what I was going to say, I had to say it to fulfill my charge. I said it, and he stated my charge was complete."
"Was that all? You're sure? When did he Frankenstein your timepiece?"
"He said ... " I ran down. Malsumis took another drink, uncharacteristically patient. "Oh, shit."
"Was that the sound of realization?"
"Mal, he said 'for your grandmother's sake.' Right before he hit the watch."
Malsumis actually choked on his drink. I stared at him, but he recovered quickly and placed the glass back down. By the time it hit the bar, he was in perfect control. "For your grandmother's sake?"
"Yeah. What did he mean?"
"You tell me, Michel. You're supposed to be good at this talking-to-the-powers routine."
I scowled at him. "The shrink act, Mal. It's not you."
The other shrugged. "Doesn't matter. What do you think he meant?"
"Either he owed my grandmother something ... "
"Unlikely."
"Yeah, I think so too. Or somehow ... "
"You're almost there, Michel. I can tell from the smoke."
"Suck my monkey dick, Malsumis. Somehow ... he hit the watch because of something my grandmother did. Or didn't do."
"Yes."
"Oh, hell." I looked at Malsumis in horror. "Mal, what happens to those talismans you mentioned in the case of the contract holder's death?"
The Abenaki god grinned at me with extremely sharp canines and eyes burning in his dark-skinned face. His straight black hair fell across his forehead as he answered. "The contract passes down, Michel. Inherited. The obligation traverses the generation, and thus also does any tool or talisman originally granted the contract holder."
"You're telling me my gran’mere had a contract with fucking Cthulhu? "
Malsumis finished his drink and waggled his thumb and forefinger at Rose for the check. "That's exactly what I'm saying, boy. And now, of course, that contract has passed to you."
"But I have no idea what it is!"
"Well," said the Amerindian Elder, signing some form of his name to the credit card slip without looking at me, "Maybe you'd better swallow some of that annoying French pride and go ask, hadn't you?"
II
Gas pressure disqeuilibrium among the urban rejecta
* * *
The wraith moved down Broadway, a disturbing ripple in the atmosphere of Manhattan with death on its spiderspun mind. It slipped past pedestrians and vehicles with the elliptical flutters of a windborne leaf's breeze, slowly sliding downtown past 12th Street in the evening lightplay of streetlamps and signage. I almost lost it when the light changed and traffic swung from 12th across the avenue, but the heat-shimmer of its presence outlined the shape of a person in the warble of halogen headlights.
I didn't know why it was here, but I had a fairly good idea what it was here to do. Wraiths move slowly, patiently; they can be diverted by a cross breeze, but they never stop. Not once. They're implacable, and they'll follow their designated culmination until they reach it and wrap their fields of eldritch energy about it in autonomic ecstasy.
They wander until they kill. Human nervous systems can't handle the wraith's embrace, but they'll only enfold their target, the person to whom they’ve been attuned.
The real problem is that I was fairly sure this wasn't just a wraith. It was moving wrong. It looked like one, that much I was sure of; but it just didn't slide right. I worried at the thought, a bit of skepticism caught in a tooth, for the past two blocks. I'd seen it upon leaving the bar and turned to follow it automatically. My reluctance to accept it as what it seemed wouldn't leave me, and I wouldn't leave it. It fluttered down
"I've thought about this pretty hard, and I don't recall either agreeing to perform any service for ... well, you know. I also don't recall him charging me to do anything."
"That's amusing. What did he say?"
"Well," I thought about it for a moment, "he acknowledged my presence, and accepted the message I'd been charged to give him, and said that even though he knew what I was going to say, I had to say it to fulfill my charge. I said it, and he stated my charge was complete."
"Was that all? You're sure? When did he Frankenstein your timepiece?"
"He said ... " I ran down. Malsumis took another drink, uncharacteristically patient. "Oh, shit."
"Was that the sound of realization?"
"Mal, he said 'for your grandmother's sake.' Right before he hit the watch."
Malsumis actually choked on his drink. I stared at him, but he recovered quickly and placed the glass back down. By the time it hit the bar, he was in perfect control. "For your grandmother's sake?"
"Yeah. What did he mean?"
"You tell me, Michel. You're supposed to be good at this talking-to-the-powers routine."
I scowled at him. "The shrink act, Mal. It's not you."
The other shrugged. "Doesn't matter. What do you think he meant?"
"Either he owed my grandmother something ... "
"Unlikely."
"Yeah, I think so too. Or somehow ... "
"You're almost there, Michel. I can tell from the smoke."
"Suck my monkey dick, Malsumis. Somehow ... he hit the watch because of something my grandmother did. Or didn't do."
"Yes."
"Oh, hell." I looked at Malsumis in horror. "Mal, what happens to those talismans you mentioned in the case of the contract holder's death?"
The Abenaki god grinned at me with extremely sharp canines and eyes burning in his dark-skinned face. His straight black hair fell across his forehead as he answered. "The contract passes down, Michel. Inherited. The obligation traverses the generation, and thus also does any tool or talisman originally granted the contract holder."
"You're telling me my gran’mere had a contract with fucking Cthulhu? "
Malsumis finished his drink and waggled his thumb and forefinger at Rose for the check. "That's exactly what I'm saying, boy. And now, of course, that contract has passed to you."
"But I have no idea what it is!"
"Well," said the Amerindian Elder, signing some form of his name to the credit card slip without looking at me, "Maybe you'd better swallow some of that annoying French pride and go ask, hadn't you?"
II
Gas pressure disqeuilibrium among the urban rejecta
* * *
The wraith moved down Broadway, a disturbing ripple in the atmosphere of Manhattan with death on its spiderspun mind. It slipped past pedestrians and vehicles with the elliptical flutters of a windborne leaf's breeze, slowly sliding downtown past 12th Street in the evening lightplay of streetlamps and signage. I almost lost it when the light changed and traffic swung from 12th across the avenue, but the heat-shimmer of its presence outlined the shape of a person in the warble of halogen headlights.
I didn't know why it was here, but I had a fairly good idea what it was here to do. Wraiths move slowly, patiently; they can be diverted by a cross breeze, but they never stop. Not once. They're implacable, and they'll follow their designated culmination until they reach it and wrap their fields of eldritch energy about it in autonomic ecstasy.
They wander until they kill. Human nervous systems can't handle the wraith's embrace, but they'll only enfold their target, the person to whom they’ve been attuned.
The real problem is that I was fairly sure this wasn't just a wraith. It was moving wrong. It looked like one, that much I was sure of; but it just didn't slide right. I worried at the thought, a bit of skepticism caught in a tooth, for the past two blocks. I'd seen it upon leaving the bar and turned to follow it automatically. My reluctance to accept it as what it seemed wouldn't leave me, and I wouldn't leave it. It fluttered down
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