“I will need to meet all of them as soon as they can be gathered,” Malkin said.
“Oh, yeah?” It was rare for all the sorcerers to get together — they usually only had councils when some dire threat menaced the city, something Marla couldn’t handle herself, and she wasn’t sure yet the beast of Felport qualified. “Why’s that?”
“They must meet their new chief sorcerer,” Malkin said. “I will assume your position, of course.”
Before Marla could respond to that bit of apocalyptic nonsense, a long black limousine slid along the curb before them, its back door swinging open. The Chamberlain, dressed in her usual impeccable evening-wear finery, beckoned with an elegant hand. “Come on, then. Let’s hear about the latest disaster.”
Malkin leaned forward, squinting. “Is this woman … a Spaniard?”
“I’m black, dear,” she said. “Of West African descent, though my people are from Felport for many generations.”
“This future is a peculiar place,” Malkin said, but he climbed into the limousine after Rondeau, settling himself down on the dark leather seats across from the Chamberlain and Marla. Despite his ragged appearance — and the fact that this was his first time in a car — he looked at ease. “Your carriage is … most pleasant.”
“I understand you brought a monster to my community,” the Chamberlain said, smiling a smile that was not friendly at all.
Malkin frowned. “I expected sorcerous techniques to improve in the intervening centuries, so that the current rulers could defeat the beast with ease.”
“Kind of like people who die of brain cancer and have their heads frozen so they can be thawed out in the future when there’s a cure for tumors and decapitation,” Rondeau said, apparently trying to be helpful.
Malkin just looked at him blankly and continued. “Instead I find an unprepared … woman playing at sorcery, who did let the beast escape.”
“You might want to watch it with the sexist shit,” Marla said. “You’re kind of outnumbered here.”
“Women can excel at erotic magic, and herbwifery, and certain nature magics, but the more intellectual rigors of advanced sorceries are not suitable for the weaker sex.” Malkin shrugged. “I mean no offense. These are merely facts.”
“Are you sure we can’t send him back in time?” the Chamberlain said.
“I don’t even know what he’s doing forward in time,” Marla said. “Your letter said you were setting a time-trap for the beast. Why the hell did you hitch a ride?”
“The beast seized me,” Malkin said, shifting uncomfortably. “We struggled. Then the beast stepped into the circle of power. We were transported. I … did not intend to join him.”
“Well, now you’re here, and so’s the beast, so tell us what we’re dealing with,” Marla said.
Malkin nodded. “The natives said the beast was a dark god that had roamed the land since the beginning of time. It cannot be harmed by iron, or fire, or blades, or charms. Even my dagger of office, which can cut through all things, only scratched the beast, and the wound closed instantly.”
Marla touched the dagger at her waist — it had been Malkin’s dagger, passed down from chief sorcerer to chief sorcerer over the centuries, and it was one of her most potent weapons, capable of slicing through everything from steel cables to ghosts.
“Some magics worked,” Malkin said. “A spell to make it sleep for a thousand years succeeded in making it slumber, for but half a dozen seasons. Spells of disorientation caused it to wander, lost, for another year. But it learns, and once it overcomes a particular spell, the spell loses all efficacy. I do not know if it is a demon, a sorcerer from long ago who attained immortality, or, indeed, an ancient god.”
“Okay, but what does it want?” Marla said.
“Want? It is a beast. It wants to kill all who encroach on its territory. It wants to rend flesh. It prefers to sleep in the day, and emerge at night, wandering and howling. Its motives are no more comprehensible than those of any other beasts. I am sure it is disoriented by the changes here, and it will go to ground somewhere, hiding, and wait until dark to emerge. And then … ” He shook his head. “The beast will not stop until the city is scoured to dirt. It is clever. It will set fires, build traps. Your people will die.”
Setting arson and building booby traps didn’t sound very beast-like to Marla, but then, Malkin was from another time — he considered Marla and the Chamberlain and even Rondeau, who was Hispanic, basically beasts, too, didn’t he?
“Call together a council,” Malkin said to the Chamberlain. “I will announce my return to the position of chief sorcerer, and formulate a strategy.”
The Chamberlain looked at Marla, raising an eyebrow, and Marla sighed. “I’m not stepping down, Captain Retro. I’m still in charge here. We honor your past service and all that jazz, but you can’t just come back and—”
“Silence, woman. Give me my dagger of office, and let me begin my work. Sorcery is no business for you. Despite your mannish affect you are not unattractive, so perhaps you can serve me in some other—”
Marla punched him in the throat. Malkin gagged, grabbing at his windpipe — Marla hadn’t hit him hard enough to do permanent damage, but he wouldn’t be speaking any spells for a while — and fished a sachet of sleep potion out of her pocket. The Chamberlain and Rondeau both grabbed their noses as Marla slapped the cloth pouch of lavender and stranger herbs into Malkin’s open mouth. He gagged, gasped, and then dropped into a deep, supernatural slumber.
“This guy,” Marla said. “This guy is going to be trouble. I don’t think I’ll be able to sucker-charm him again, either.”
“He does need to confront certain new realities,” the Chamberlain said. “But, Marla, that’s Everett Malkin. He’s legendary.” The Chamberlain had a certain reverence for the past — much of her power came from her relationship with the ghosts of Felport’s founding families, including the persistent spirits of many former sorcerers from the early days.
“I liked him better when he was just a legend,” Marla said. “He’ll be asleep for a while, you mind watching him for me?”
“I — I suppose. And if he wakes up, he can speak with the ghosts — his apprentice, Corbin, is among the residents on my estate. But, Marla, what of the beast?”
“Yeah,” Marla said. “The beast is another problem. I’m gonna have to go see a guy about that.”
Marla wore black, loose-fitting pants and a snug top that kept her arms free, the better to aim the specially modified sniper rifle she cradled. Rondeau was dressed like an extra in a movie about a special forces operation, all black padded vest and a helmet and night-vision goggles (which he found more fun than Marla’s more practical magical night vision). He persistently referred to their operation as “playing dress-up,” which was annoying, but Marla knew she could rely on him in a pinch — and he had a backup rifle, albeit less fancy than the weapon Marla held. They were on the dark balcony of a charming little pied-a-terre a few blocks from the place where the beast and Malkin had appeared. The apartment’s rightful residents were off in Aspen or something, wherever rich ordinaries spent early spring.
“What if the dart doesn’t work?” Rondeau said. “We got a plan B?”
“I throw you to the beast, and while he’s dismembering you, I sneak around and hit him on the head with the rifle butt.”