Blood Tally

Chapter 1

Part of my job – a disturbingly large part of it – is the expectation that I will be sworn at, spit upon, punched, stabbed, and even shot. The fact that I work for the supernatural elements of this world rather than, say, a loan shark doesn’t seem to make a lick of difference. Nobody likes debt collectors. That’s just human – and sometimes inhuman – nature.

I’m lucky that I’m well-equipped for the job. I wear a flak vest, have a handful of magical tattoos, as well as the thick skin of a guy with troll ancestry. I go into every situation armed, though not always openly. And best of all, I have a ring on my finger that belongs to my best friend Maggie. She might be trapped in there just as surely as I’m trapped in my job, but she’s still a powerful jinn; an ace in the hole that nobody sees coming.

Basically I’m trying to say that I have a dangerous job and I’m always ready for those dangers. Which makes it disconcerting when the job is too easy.

I stood outside my truck, wearing my flak vest loose over an old Tom Petty T-shirt, eyeballing the little suburban house that matched the address of this morning’s collection. The house was … picturesque. It was a little three-bedroom on a third of an acre not far from the square in Chardon, Ohio. It had brick siding, seventies-style metal trim, and someone had ripped up all the lawn in order to plant dozens of raised garden beds. A sign beside the mailbox asked passersby to “please not pick from the garden unless given permission” in perfect, hand-painted lettering.

There was another sign in the window. In the same neat, hand-painted lettering, it said “Scrying, Healing Remedies, Palm Reading, and Misc. Sorceries. Weekdays 10 a.m.–4 p.m. or by Appointment.”

Why aren’t you going inside? A voice in my head asked. You’re sweating like a pig.

I took off my ball cap emblazoned with the winged Valkyrie Collections logo and wiped a forearm across my brow. Maggie was right. I don’t do well with heat – I’ve got northern-European troll blood in me, after all. Summer had come on hot and strong this year, and the air conditioning in the truck hadn’t worked right since coming back from the shop after my run-in with Nick the Necromancer and his draugr earlier in the spring.

“I don’t trust witches,” I muttered under my breath.

I could practically hear Maggie roll her eyes. Nobody trusts witches. That’s part of their schtick. But she called you, so this shouldn’t be a problem. Besides, I’ve never met a witch who couldn’t be dealt with by a quick punch to the nose. They’re more dangerous when you don’t know that they have it out for you.

“Yeah, yeah. I know.” I continued to hesitate, uncomfortable memories flitting around the back of my head.

Something you want to talk about? she asked.

For the last couple months, we’d been trying to be more honest with each other. Ten years of an ask-no-questions partnership had trained us both to keep a lot back, but the events surrounding that aforementioned draugr incident had forced us to reassess our relationship. We both needed to be more open. “I was seventeen,” I finally said. “Collected from a witch who owed one of our clients. She cast some bullshit hex on me that gave me hives. Ada had to get an OtherOps injunction to make her get rid of them.”

Maggie laughed for just a few seconds too long.

“That’s enough,” I told her peevishly, scratching under one arm at the memory. “Let’s get this over with.” I pulled out an embossed envelope containing the name of the item I’d come to collect, as well as a very brief file on the person I’d come to collect it from. I tapped it against one palm. “What do you have on her?”

Maggie hummed softly to herself for a moment, then said gave an indeterminate Hmm.

“What’s that mean?”

The house is protected by the normal sorts of wards. Basic stuff, nothing fancy, but woven exceedingly well. There’s a rock golem in the corner of the garden who appears to be attached to some kind of alarm. One of the bedrooms is protected from even high-level scrying.

“I repeat my previous question.”

It means, Maggie said, that she’s not very powerful, but she’s quite talented. She uses the tools she has at her disposal better than most witches I’ve met.

“But there’s nothing that’s going to kill me when I ring the doorbell?”

Don’t be dense. She’s a small business owner. You think she’d booby-trap her own front door against potential clients?

“Point taken.” I headed up the narrow flagstone walk to the front door, raising one hand toward the doorbell only to have the door swing open to reveal an old woman. She couldn’t have been taller than five foot two, bent and gray, her face covered in warts, wearing a black cloak and a black, pointed hat. She looked like something out of a cartoon, and she grinned up at me with yellowed teeth.

“Good morning, my dear,” she crooned. “Come for a healing potion, have you? Scrying on a woman? A man? Hoping to cast impotence on a rival?”

I lifted the embossed envelope. “Olivia Martin?” I asked. “My name is Alek Fitz, from Valkyrie Collections. You have an overdue library book I’ve been sent to collect.”

In the back of my head, Maggie laughed about something.

What’s so funny? I asked her.

Just wait and you’ll see.

Olivia blinked at me for a few moments, then retreated into the house, leaving the door open behind her. “Come in, come in,” she called.

I followed, letting my eyes adjust to the dim light of the home. “Are you Olivia Martin?” I asked, trying to keep my tone neutral.

“That’s me.”

“It’s just that your file says you’re twenty-seven.”

“You know,” Olivia responded, “you’re a lot better looking than I expected.” Her voice sounded different, and I couldn’t quite place how. Maggie continued to chuckle in the back of my head.

“Uh, thanks?” I responded. “You’re not quite what …” I trailed off as my vision finally adjusted to the dim light of the interior. Olivia had gone into her kitchen. She’d taken off the pointed hat and the cloak and tossed them on the couch. In the place of the old woman was an athletic blonde with long hair tied in a ponytail over one shoulder. She wore yoga pants and a tank top, padding around barefoot. She was almost petite, with a sweet face and tired eyes. “Oh,” I finished.

She pursed her lips as she returned to me, handing me a glass of ice water. “That’s sweet, but I don’t date cops.”

“I … what? I didn’t ask you on a date, and I’m not a cop.”

“No, but you were thinking it. I can see it in your eyes. You ogled me.” She sighed, as if being ogled was an annoyance she’d learned to live with. “Reapers. Cops. Same difference. Meatheads all around.” She gave me an apologetic smile.

“I did not ogle you.” I had definitely ogled her. “And I don’t date debtors.” Even to me it sounded petulant.

“Good,” she responded.

“Good,” I said.

We stared at each other for a couple of moments before I cleared my throat and pulled on my best professional face. “Never say that to either an OtherOps agent or a reaper. They’ll be super pissed.”

“I just did.” Olivia tilted her head to one side. It was a challenge. One of those “I don’t like authority figures and I want you to know it” sorts. I’d met plenty of them in my line of work, so I didn’t rise to the bait. Instead I gulped down the ice water and found a coaster on her coffee table where I could set the glass.

“Yeah, well. I’m not a normal reaper.” I shook the envelope at her. “You’re overdue, Olivia. You owe my client, Grimoire Lending, a shitload of fines and their book back.”

Something seemed to change in her face. I couldn’t quite place it. “Yeah, well your client – who I’ve had a great relationship with for the last eight years – lent me a cursed book without the proper warnings. I can’t get the damned thing out of my house. So if you can get it to leave, feel free to do so. I’ve already made the minimum fine payment on a credit card.”

I pulled out my phone and checked my email. There was one from three days ago from Nadine that I hadn’t bothered to read, and it confirmed that the debtor was making payments. That made my job so much easier.

“Where is it?” I asked.

“Kitchen table.” Olivia stood to the side as I entered the kitchen. It wasn’t a big house, with the kitchen, hall, and living room all kind of running into each other, with the bedrooms on the far side of the living room. The kitchen was about the same size as my own, with just enough room for a sink, oven, microwave, table, and a workbench covered in various herbs. More cuttings hung from drying racks along the ceiling, just above Olivia’s head – which meant I had to duck to not get a face full of whatever she was preparing for her spells and potions.

The book was leather-bound, clearly old, but not particularly special-looking. It was about the size of a mass market paperback and was titled HOW TO SUMMON A DEMON AND MAKE FRIENDS WITH IT TOO!

“Demonology is some dangerous shit, you know,” I said over my shoulder.

“Oh, I’m aware. A girl’s got to have hobbies though, right?” She stood in the entrance to the kitchen, watching me.

I snorted. Is she strong enough to handle demons? I asked Maggie.

I would say no, except for how precise her wards are. I don’t know a lot about demonology, but I’ve heard that technical skill is more important than raw strength. Still nothing I’d recommend for dabbling.

“What’s the deal with the hat and cloak?” I asked Olivia, examining the book from all angles before taking a seat in front of it.

“The clientele for my sort of work has expectations.”

“Ah. They want you to look like a witch?”

“Exactly. I have the training and experience, but I don’t really fit the picture. Also, I’m technically not a witch. I am a nondenominational practitioner of witchcraft. At least until the lawsuit is over.”

That brought to mind a bit of local gossip I’d heard from Nadine. “You get caught up in that Cleveland Coven thing?”

Olivia came around and sat down kitty-corner from me at the table. She looked genuinely surprised. “You know about that?”

I shrugged. “Just office gossip. The Cleveland Coven is trying to sue everyone and their grandma over the use of the word witch.”

Olivia’s brow wrinkled. “It’s fucking protectionism, and I’m sick of it. Just because I don’t want to join their goddamn Wiccan union doesn’t mean they get to bully around …” The last few words turned into a snarl before she cut herself off. She inhaled sharply, muttering something under her breath and passing a hand across her face to regain her composure. “Sorry. It’s just tough to be a small business owner in this economy, you know?”

“Hey, you don’t have to tell me. I’ve dealt with members of the Cleveland Coven before. They’re” – I thought of the hives I had for seven months – “petty is the kindest word I can think of.”

Olivia leaned back in her chair as if reassessing me. We stared at each other for just a few seconds too long before she cleared her throat. “Have you ever collected an overdue book before?”

“Nope,” I responded, turning my attention back to the tome in front of me. “One of my colleagues usually handles the Grimoire accounts, but he saved up three years of vacation and is going to be gone the whole damned month, so here I am.”

“You do seem more the punchy type than bookish.”

“That’s the second time you’ve implied I’m stupid.”

Olivia had the courtesy to look embarrassed. “I didn’t …”

“It’s fine,” I waved her off. I wasn’t normally that sensitive, but having a pretty woman tell me I look like an idiot just kind of put a damper on my morning. “It comes with the territory. And you’re right, I’m more the punchy type, except for today.” I eyeballed the book for a few more moments.

The hesitation seemed to make Olivia nervous. “I do hope you know what you’re doing.”

I opened the embossed envelope and slid out a metal bookmark. It was gold, just thick enough so the soft metal could keep its shape, and stamped with arcane symbols. There was also a paper with a set of instructions on it. I read the instructions. Olivia stood up, backing up to the far side of the kitchen.

You probably should be careful, Maggie warned.

For what? It’s a book.

It’s a grimoire, and those can have minds of their own.

What’s the worst that can happen? I asked.

Famous last words.

“It’s a pop-up book,” Olivia told me.

“Like, a kid’s book?”

“Not exactly.”

I read the instructions again, shrugged, and slid the bookmark carefully between the cover and the first page. Nothing happened.

Huh, Maggie said. I think that worked. I felt something click inside the book. The curse should be lifted long enough to get it back to Grimoire Lending.

Fancy that. Something went right for once. I grinned at Olivia. “Worked like a charm.”

“Uh …”

Duck! Maggie shouted.

I knew better than to question when Maggie barked a warning, so I threw myself to the floor. I felt something swish right through the air where my head had been and heard a thump against the far wall. Olivia rattled off an angry litany of something that might have been magical spells or swearwords. I rolled over, got to my knees, and found myself face-to-face with one of the most horrific creatures I’d ever seen.

At first glance, it was a tarantula the size of a rottweiler. It had eight smooth, spindly legs, a fat, hairy midsection, and a mouth full of clicking mandibles. There was only one set of eyes, however, and they were almost human. They glared at me with a fury I’d seen in countless debtors whose days I’d interrupted. It hissed and spat at me, hesitating as it looked around as if to get the lay of the room.

I rolled backward and onto my feet in a move that would make an action star proud. “What the fuck is that?”

“It’s a pop-up demon! I told you it was a pop-up book!” Olivia was stuck in the corner and, to her credit, seemed more irritated than she was scared. She made a move to try and get around the demon but backed up again when it turned its attention toward her.

Any suggestions? I asked Maggie. Now that I wasn’t staring down the demon’s mouth, I could see that those spiderlike qualities ended with the general shape. The legs and back were covered in armored carapace, the hair growing through cracks, and light hitting that armor seemed to bend strangely, as if the creature really was two-dimensional.

The house is warded against weapons, so don’t draw your Glock. Otherwise … good luck. Demons aren’t really in my wheelhouse.

The demon clattered one way, then another, then turned and lunged toward Olivia. I read the movement and leapt at the same time, grabbing it by its rear two legs and yanking it away from her. I swung it up and around and whipped it against Olivia’s oven, shattering the glass and bending the metal. The demon grabbed the oven as I tried to pull it back for another blow, set its other six legs, and jerked itself out of my grasp.

I could feel my tusks pressing against my gums, ready to split through the flesh. The tattoo of Mjolnir on my right hand flared into a blue light, but, to my surprise, sizzled and flickered out.

It’s warded against basic sorceries too, Maggie said.

You could have mentioned that!

I did say the wards were very good.

Olivia scrambled past me, diving into her living room and disappearing around the corner. “Careful of my alchemy table!” she yelled over her shoulder. “Just keep it busy for a minute!”

“Keep it …”

The demon leapt at me, legs open like an Alien facehugger. I sidestepped the leap and snagged a leg, feeling three others brush across my arm and shoulder, tearing through my skin with ease. Using its own momentum, I hurled it past me once more. Dried plant matter scattered, wood shattered, and the air filled with the scent of lavender. I barely noticed the blood running down my right arm. A haze settled over my vision, my jaw hurt from the tusks that had ripped involuntarily through my gums, and I glared at the stupid little pop-up demon trying to right itself in the wreckage of Olivia’s alchemy table.

Before the thing could recover, I ripped the door off Olivia’s oven and, like a professional wrestler leaping into the ring with a folded metal chair, took it to my opponent. I slammed the creature again and again, punctuating each blow with another word. “Why. Can’t. This. Shit. Ever. Be. Easy?”

“Alek!”

My name cut through the haze and I hesitated, oven door held over my head. I blinked a few times. Dried herbs filled the air, nearly choking me. The demon was little more than a paste in the corner. The oven door in my hands was barely recognizable as such. Olivia stood in the doorway, a silver crucifix in one hand, a lit candle in the other, and a look of fascinated horror on her face.

“I … guess I don’t need these,” she said.

I dropped the oven door. I breathed deeply for several long moments before I had the clarity of mind to retract my tusks. Was that thing poisonous? I asked Maggie.

Nah, you’ll be fine. Cut pretty deep, though, so you might want some stitches. And bind those wounds quick.

I felt a sudden, rather stupid embarrassment. The kitchen was completely trashed and Olivia’s alchemy station and collection of drying plants – no doubt representing dozens of hours’ worth of work – had been destroyed. The offending book was still on the table, sitting open to the first page. I stepped over and closed it, tucking it firmly under my left arm just in case it wanted to spit any more demons at me.

“Sorry,” I mumbled.

“Well. I, uh … I’m glad you’re the punchy kind of reaper after all.”

With my rage subsided, my right arm really hurt. I checked the drawers by the sink until I found the kitchen towels, took one, and waving off Olivia’s offered help, tied it one-handed around the trio of gashes. “I’ll get you a new towel set,” I promised. I wanted to offer a new kitchen too, but that wasn’t really within my budget.

“Don’t worry about it.” Olivia glanced with dismay at her kitchen, then fixed me with the same wary, grossed-out look I myself had given the pop-up demon a few moments ago. An awkward silence stretched on.

“I should go,” I finally said.

“Seems like a good idea,” Olivia agreed.

I went to my truck, fished a company polo out from underneath the passenger seat, and tied that around my arm as well so I wouldn’t bleed all over everything. I tried not to look back at Olivia, who was still watching me from her front door.

I thought that went well, Maggie said as I got in and started up my truck.

Oh, shut up.

She was very cute.

Yes, she was. And I just trashed her house.

Not really your fault. Grimoire Lending didn’t warn you about the pop-up demon.

What the hell was up with that, anyways? I followed the instructions.

It was, to be honest, a very tiny demon. Probably some kind of guard dog set to get around the bookmark you used.

Some days, I really hate the Other.

Maggie laughed again. I tried to ignore her as I called in my report to Ada. The phone rang twice before it was picked up.

“I got the book,” I told her without saying hi. “Grimoire didn’t bother to tell me about the pop-up demon hiding on the table of contents, so they get to pay for the hospital bill when I go get stitches. They should also pay Olivia Martin for a new kitchen.”

There was a moment of silence, then a long-suffering sigh. Ada answered me with her frog-like, sounds-like-a-smoker-but-doesn’t-smoke voice. “Did you follow their instructions?”

“To the letter.”

“Fine. File a report. Did you get the scheduling update that Nadine sent you?”

Per usual, Ada didn’t bother to ask if I was feeling okay or would like the rest of the day off. I took my eyes off the road just long enough to glance at my email inbox. A new appointment had been added to my calendar. It said I had a meeting with someone named Boris Novak at 4 p.m. I didn’t recognize the name. “Yeah,” I told Ada. “New client?”

“He is. Be polite. I’m told he can be abrasive.”

“Who is he?”

“You’ve got his file in your email. Take care of it.” Before I could ask anything else, Ada hung up. I frowned at my phone for a moment before returning my eyes to the road. Ada didn’t often leave new clients to me. It wasn’t that she didn’t trust me – it was just she preferred to do the business side of things herself. “This is weird,” I said aloud.

It kinda is, Maggie agreed. She sounded off to me.

“Oh yeah? I didn’t notice.”

Maybe? I don’t know. I could be wrong. She was definitely leaving something out of the conversation.

“Wouldn’t be the first time,” I muttered. I dropped by the office first, leaving the grimoire to be returned to my client, then headed to the closest urgent care where I could get some stitches. I pulled into the parking lot and went into the waiting room, where I showed the secretary my cut-up shoulder. I plopped down in one of the ratty waiting-room chairs and pulled up my email to check Boris Novak’s file. The file itself was pretty slim – very little information, even for a new client – but something stood out immediately.

“Son of a bitch,” I swore. “I hate working for vampires.”