The Best Defense by Kristine Kathryn Rusch 2 page

“Good,” he said. “Then you won’t mind handling the most difficult part of the case.”

And Lord help me, I thought he was still talking about the criminal case. Because egotistical me, I said, “The difficult part of any case is my favorite part.”

Which is how I ended up here in this glade, surrounded by willow trees and strong oak and all sorts of green plants I don’t recognize. A place where the breeze is warm and smells of roses, and the little creatures who bring me food and drink have human faces and multicolored wings.

You see, the most difficult part of the case is arguing to get Palmer’s magic back. Apparently, the magical world has laws and rules and regulations just like ours. And while there isn’t jail per se, there are worse punishments, like taking away someone’s magical abilities.

Palmer is Chicagoland’s greatest wizard. He can wave a wand and bring down lightning from the sky to ignite a puddle of magically enhanced gasoline to destroy a mansion made of stone. (And yes, I checked just before I got whisked here. There was a lightning storm that night.)

It seems no one here cares that Palmer destroyed the house. They’re not even that upset that he managed to kill the beings inside, which were‑if the files I have scattered across the grass are to be believed‑dragons that could assume human form.

Seems the dragons had a plan to steal every treasure in the City of Chicago, starting with the contents of the Art Institute but ending with very human treasure like the Chicago Bears‑the actual team members, not the team ownership. When dragons steal a city’s treasure, they don’t move it. They just take over the city. Chicago would have been a haven for evil‑that’s what Palmer says‑and after seeing the folks who run the magical justice system, I’m inclined to believe him.

Not that I have to. I just have to defend him. I have to make the case that even though he used his magic injudiciously and caused sixteen deaths and‑worse, under magic laws‑called attention to himself in the nonmagical world, he was justified in doing so.

Palmer’s right; this is the most difficult part of the case. Not to make the argument‑I’m great at argument. But to understand the stupid magical laws. I have to know the system before I can beat it.

Which is why his magical friends dumped me here, in this glade which is run by faeries. And what I didn’t know at first was these faeries are the kind Rip Van Winkle ran into on his famous night of bowling and carousing. These folks control time. They make it go slow or they speed it up.

Palmer promises me I’ll have all the time in the world to do my research. I won’t lose a day of my life. I’ll be here, I’ll make my arguments, I’ll win my case (I’d better, considering what these people can do), and then I’ll go home as if nothing’s happened.

Of course, I’ll be a little older, a little grayer, a little paunchier. They can’t completely negate the effects of time on a human being.

But, as Palmer says, now at least I’ll know how people seem to age overnight.

As if that’s supposed to cheer me up while I sit here in sunshine‑filled hell, eating the best food and drinking tea by the gallon, reading parchment and watching tiny replays of arguments made through the ages.

And I do mean ages.

Magic has existed a long, long time. Longer than the United States. Longer than the Magna Carta. Longer than England or the Roman Empire or ancient Greece.

Our laws aren’t based on Greek conventions or English common law. They’re a modification‑an improvement (believe me)‑of magical law.

Which just makes it all the more confusing.

And, I’m told, defense attorneys aren’t required here. So no one goes into that side of the magical legal system.

After reviewing one‑one‑thousandth of the documentation before me, I can see why. It’s hard to defend these people against anything. And not just because of the convoluted law, but because of all the things they’ve done.

Fortunately for Palmer, I’m not one of those liberal‑hippie types who gets appalled when his client is actually guilty. I’m not in this to provide a fair trial. I’m in this to provide the best defense I possibly can.

Because I like to argue, and I like to win against impossible odds.

And that’s exactly what I’m going to do.

Call of the Second Wolf by Steven Mohan, Jr.

Last night about two in morning, after I left Charlene the blonde hooker and was home sleeping, someone crept into burned‑out south side warehouse and iced five members of Chinese mob in middle of business transaction.

I do not mean killed, I mean iced, changed into crystalline statues of frozen water.

Good news is that it was cold last night, clear and twenty‑two at Midway, so Chinese thugs did not have chance to melt before Chicago PD showed up in morning and changed them back. Otherwise the bloodbath would’ve already begun.

Bad news is anonymous someone stole 47 kilos of Afghani H from the Chinese and, of course, they are blaming us.

Worse news is Georgi Dorbayeva wants me to fix it.

I stopped at run‑down storefront, dark green paint peeling off the weathered wood in long curls like shavings coming off pencil sharpener. There were dead chickens in window, hanging upside down. Dead chickens and dead rats and dead snakes and God knows what else, but all of it skinned and ready for pot.

“Traditional Chinese Remedies,” said sign over window, and that made me laugh. Sure, nothing’s more traditional than heroin.

I shouldered my way through door. Store inside was tiny, six feet front to back and same side to side.

A wizened old man sat behind a polished mahogany counter watching me kick snow off fine leather boots I’d conjured up night before.

Behind him were shelves of everything practitioner of Chinese magic might need. I saw scorpions crawling over each other in glass jar, individually wrapped tiger penises, stoppered vials of snake venom, ground sea‑horse, duck tongues, million other things. Shelves went up forever, so high I couldn’t see ceiling.

“Valeri Kozlov?” said the man behind the counter. He was short, not much over five feet, and he really did look wise. I might’ve mistaken him for Confucius if he hadn’t been dressed in jeans and a black Rush tee‑shirt.

“Da,” I said.

“I have your item, just as you asked.” He showed me a square box, ten inches on a side, and pulled off the top.

Inside was a blackened monkey’s hand, desiccated and curled into a claw.

I blinked. I’d never spoken with this man before, so why the “gift”? Was this some obscure message from Zhang Shaoming?

I smiled graciously. “Thank you. May we discuss after meeting?”

He bowed his head and raised a hinged section of the countertop. I stepped through and into sudden darkness. Just like that, I was somewhere else.

I pulled out my cell and glanced at backlit screen: “NO SERVICE.” My network promises coverage in all of United States and three parallel dimensions, so wherever I was, it wasn’t store.

I turned in a slow circle, seeing nothing but darkness. I turned again and this time saw a white light shining down on circular table fashioned from polished teak.

Two men sat at table. One I recognized as Zhang Shaoming, Chicago overlord of the Black Dragons.

Zhang was dressed like he just stepped out of GQ: periwinkle polo shirt and charcoal slacks. I’m not sure how old he was (it was rumored he’d been friends with one of the Ming emperors), but he looked late thirties, dark hair smoothed back, eyes black, handsome face relaxed and calm.

Next to him was a wisp of a man, frail and cadaverous. His clothes hung off him, his bony arms swimming in the sleeves of his white Oxford shirt. He wore dark glasses.

He looked like some species of undead. If Zhang thought he could unnerve me with zombie, he was badly mistaken. We Russians know zombies. During Soviet era Russia was even ruled by zombies. Twice.

Missing was any sign of muscle. That scared the living hell out of me. No one had bothered to take the Glock snuggled up against the small of my back, and there was no muscle. That meant Zhang wasn’t worried about me at all.

I felt a little flutter of fear deep in my gut.

We were meeting under an assumption of neutrality, and my safety was guaranteed during meeting. That guarantee was built upon Black Dragon and Krasny Mafiya desire to avoid war.

But if Zhang had already decided that we had hit him, my life was forfeit.

I bowed politely. “It is always an honor, Zhang Shaoming.”

“Valeri Kozlov of the Red Mafia,” said Zhang in a pleasant, conversational tone. “Or should I say Krasny Mafiya?”

I shrugged.

“Someone has stolen my property, Valeri Kozlov.”

I swallowed in a dry mouth. Right to business? No intricate courtesy accompanied by a cup of jade oo‑long? This was not the Zhang Shaoming I knew.

He had to be angry.

“We also learned this,” I said, “through our police sources.”

“And you are here to tell me it wasn’t you.” I actually heard the tightness in Zhang’s voice. Very angry.

I started to sweat. “I am here to tell you truth,” I said. “Krasny Mafiya had no part in this.”

“Then who do you think it was?”

I shrugged. “Maybe Yakuza. Or Vietnamese. Or Italians.”

He snorted. “The Italians?”

“I do not know who it was. I do know it was not us.”

And that was the truth. Georgi hadn’t brought in any out‑of‑town talent, and the only Krasny Mafiya muscle in Chicago who could take down five Chinese magicians without being caught was him and me. Georgi wouldn’t take risk if there was someone else he could use, and my evening had been spent with Charlene the blonde hooker.

Zhang studied my face for a long moment. “Please sit with us, Valeri.”

I pulled out chair and sat down. The zombie still hadn’t moved.

Zhang leaned across the table. “Why do you think Georgi Dorbayeva sent you to this meeting?”

“After what happened, you must be, ah, angry. And so a meeting like this carries with it certain… risks.”

Zhang nodded. “So Dorbayeva would not come himself. Instead he sent someone who could be trusted to speak for him but who could also be sacrificed.”

I said nothing.

“Dorbayeva has been head of the Russian mob in Chicago for eleven years,” said Zhang. “How do you think he has lasted so long?”

“He is a great and terrible magician,” I said. “And he is surrounded by army of loyal supporters who would avenge his death.”

“Like you,” said Zhang.

“Like me,” I said.

“I can’t help but wonder if your loyalty has been repaid.”

“What do you mean?”

“There are few in the Red Mafia who could steal our product despite our careful attention. If Dorbayeva took the heroin and sent you to this meeting…” His voice trailed off suggestively.

A twinge of doubt twisted my stomach. Still, I leaned forward and flashed him a wintry smile. “You will not turn me against my brother.”

Zhang sat back and smiled innocently. “Of course not. We are just having a friendly talk.”

I grunted.

“I have always admired you, Valeri. Powerful like Dorbayeva, but subtle, too. Smart.” His eyebrows went up. “And courteous. So few Russians appreciate the value of courtesy. I have found our discussions to be most productive.”

The zombie took off his dark glasses, revealing blank eyes like hardboiled eggs.

“I would like to keep it that way,” murmured Zhang.

That’s when I felt first feathery touch in my mind.

The zombie wasn’t a zombie, he was sifter.

Right then I went for the Glock, but nothing happened. I couldn’t move. Not even a twitch of my finger.

Zhang smiled. “The first thing Mr. Xi took from you was muscle control.”

I tried to shout. Nothing.

“Don’t worry,” said Zhang in an easy voice. “You won’t need to talk for this next part. Mr. Xi will search your mind for the appropriate information and bring it to the surface where I can read it. Now.” He leaned forward. “Where were you last night, Valeri?”

I felt other seeping through my mind, trickling in like cold mountain stream working its way under and around and through stones. I tried to fight it, but it was in me and I just couldn’t‑

And then I was with Charlene, my hand combing through her thick blonde mane, my mouth on hers, tasting salt and vodka and bitter European tobacco, urgently pulling off her blouse, my hands on her breasts, astringent smell of sex, her body slick with sweat, moving together, together, together until‑

Suddenly a flash of somewhere else: silver bright moonlight on snow, a crooked path leading down to darkness, darkness beneath a stone bridge. Something there‑a, a crucifix ‑bone white in the moon’s pale light, and then‑

And then Charlene’s body is moving under me, rocking with an ancient rhythm that is its own kind of magic, and my mind is lost to my need and‑

I came out of the trance, trembling, soaked with sweat, my breath harsh and ragged in my ears.

“Well,” said Zhang. “It seems you had a better evening than I did last night.”

“Is dangerous,” I rasped. “To use mind sifter. Sometimes.” I paused to breathe. “There is damage.”

“It is more dangerous to cross me, Valeri. A fact I trust you will share with Georgi Dorbayeva at your earliest possible opportunity.”

And then I was standing in the store again, so stunned that I barely registered it when wise, old man in the Rush tee‑shirt slipped the square box into pocket of my overcoat.

I fled into the winter cold. Head down, hands thrust into the pockets of my overcoat, scurrying up Federal Street. The sky was overcast, lending the berms of snow between sidewalk and street its gray color. The wind came up, picking up the chill off the lake. I huddled into my overcoat, but it didn’t do any good. The cold knifed right through thin shell of warmth.

At least my feet were warm, thanks to my new boots‑brown leather lined with lamb’s wool.

We Russians know how to deal with the cold.

Not to mention Chinese.

Despite the cold, the street was filled with people going about their business. I passed multitiered temple, with three green tile roofs, the last topped with a scarlet and gold spire. I passed a bakery just as woman stepped out and was tempted by smell of ginger and warm bread. A dragon fashioned from golden light danced and capered over fireworks store. Well, the new year was coming up.

As I walked, an uncomfortable picture started to form.

First, mind sifter. Zhang had taken big risk using one on me. If the sifter had broken the mind of an apparatchik of Russian chieftain during a neutral meeting, he would’ve set off war. And war between Krasny Mafiya and Black Dragons would be brutal and dangerous.

So. Zhang had to be after something worth the risk. He wanted to know who hit him, yes, but there was something more important.

He wanted his heroin.

Only thing it could be. Forty‑seven kilos of heroin was street value of 32 million dollars, American.

But we didn’t take it, yes? After all, Zhang let me go.

Something kept returning to me: the image that interrupted my memory of Charlene’s fierce lovemaking. Secluded bridge at night. Christian cross.

Surely Zhang had seen it, too.

Which meant he only let me go so his men could follow me right to the stolen drugs.

I had claimed we didn’t steal Chinese heroin. Zhang believed we did and thought Georgi was using it as opportunity to rid himself of a dangerous rival.

Me.

But there was third possibility.

What if Georgi had ordered me to steal Chinese heroin and then covered up my true memory with false one? Such a thing was possible, but dangerous. Overuse of memory sculpting could leave victim lost in a maze of fantasy, unsure of what was real and what was not, lost to everyday world.

In bad sculpting jobs sometimes the actual memory (bridge) leaked through even though prompt (cross) was needed to bring true memories back. But Georgi would’ve gotten me the best sculptor in city.

Unless he wanted me dead.

Americans have always compared Russia to bear, but the truth is she is more like a pack of wolves. We follow lead wolf.

Until he shows even slightest sign of weakness.

Then the pack is on him, snarling and snapping, until the snow is stained bright red.

Maybe Georgi was looking to take out the second wolf as a warning to all challengers: no weakness here.

I turned the idea over in my head. After my father was killed by the KGB in the eighties, Dorbayevas took me in. Georgi and I had grown up together, we were brothers.

Still, I couldn’t rule it out.

Tightness in my gut returned. I am not religious man, but I said little prayer to St. Peter. Please don’t let it be Georgi.

The key to it all was the H. If I could just find heroin, I’d also find truth.

I stopped and looked up. Some time in my wandering I’d walked to a small park: dormant see‑saws and swings blanketed with snow, naked elms mixing with lightly frosted pines, an unused path curling through the trees.

And beyond it the arc of a stone bridge, a pool of darkness at its heart.

While I stood there, it started to snow, big heavy flakes sticking to the cold, cold earth. The snow seemed to soak up all the sounds of the city, covering the park in a blanket of white silence.

There is a magic that requires no spells or charms, a magic older and more powerful than mankind itself.

The ancient forces of the earth had claimed this little park as their own. As long as silence of snow reigned here, no human being could follow me into this place. I would not be observed.

So much for Chinese tailing me to drugs.

I stepped onto the crooked path I remembered from vision, marking virgin snow with my boots, the crunch of snow the only sound in that winter refuge.

I passed under a cathedral of branches and emerged in clearing on other side. The land dipped down, curling into little depression that gave way to a twisted path of ice that would melt into a little stream in the spring.

It was here that someone had built bridge, a gray arch of stone and mortar fording stream. The bridge was small, just wide enough for man and woman to walk side by side.

It might’ve been charming, except here man had left his calling cards: an old McDonald’s bag, a spill of white napkins, a crumpled section of Tribune, two crows fighting over the remnants of a half‑eaten cheese‑burger.

I heard the distant honk of a horn.

It was a warning. Focus on the signposts of man’s presence, and magic of this holy place would be broken. And then one of Zhang’s people could find me.

I turned my gaze from top of bridge. There was nothing for me there. What I was looking for was underneath.

In the dark.

I stalked down the hill, half‑walking, half‑sliding. Walked slowly toward shadow of bridge’s arch. It was small space. Maybe three feet at top of the arch, the ground covered by perfect, white snow.

Undisturbed.

I crouched down, staring at scene for long moment.

The bridge should’ve sheltered ground from above, if snowfall had been light and gentle as it was now. No, this snow had to have blown in. And that couldn’t have happened last night. Because last night was clear and twenty‑two.

At Midway.

Meaning heroin wasn’t hidden here, by me or anyone else.

Then what had drawn me here?

I looked again. If there is one thing we Russians know, it is cold. So much of our magic came from the need to endure the frigid winds that sweep down from the arctic north, freezing the land and everything on it.

To my trained eye, this pool of shadow beneath bridge looked like warmth. Small, yes, but large enough to lie down, keep out the wind with a flattened cardboard box anchored by a couple rocks. Hang blanket up on other side and you would have a kind of cocoon, far from prying eyes of Chicago PD.

So why was no one here?

There were no broken bottles, no used needles, no cast‑off clothes, no used rubbers, no moldering paper bags. Up above there was discarded newspaper and crows fighting over fast food. Down here there was nothing? Why?

I got down in snow, crawled forward.

Looked up.

On the underside of the bridge, at the highest point of the arch, someone had drawn a cross

(bone white in moon’s pale light)

using white chalk.

I reached for it with trembling hand. If this was the prompt, touching it would restore my memory instantly, feelings and facts and knowing coming back like an El slamming into me.

Had Georgi set me up?

I wasn’t sure I wanted to know.

But the part of me that was kind of man that could rise to be a lieutenant in Krasny Mafiya said, Now, quickly, before winter’s spell is broken and human eyes are upon you.

I thrust my hand up and smacked my palm against the cold stone.

Nothing happened.

No drugs here and no memory, which meant what? A trick to throw Chinese off? Or to get me killed? Either way, someone had set me up.

And then I heard a familiar voice say: “Well, looky here, dammit it if it isn’t my boy, Val. How ya doin’, Val?”

I closed my eyes.

Dexter Johnson.

I inched out on my back.

“Slowly now,” said Johnson and now his voice was deadly serious. If I moved wrong he would shoot me.

Or something worse.

I stopped when my head was clear and lay there in the snow, arms sticking up in standard “I Give Up” position.

Dexter Johnson was a tall black man. He was in his late forties, craggy, distinguished face, salt and pepper hair, trim goatee, soulful eyes.

And he was holding a Beretta nine millimeter on me.

“How did you defeat the spell, Dexter? Nothing human could’ve been watching me.”

He spat out a piece of rancid hamburger. “You know the worst thing about stakeouts, Val? You eat like shit.”

I let out slow, angry breath. Angry at myself for being so stupid. “You were crow.”

He shrugged.

“What about second crow? Is that your partner?”

Johnson smiled, bright ivory against his dark skin. “C’mon, Valeri. Sometimes a crow is just a crow. Now why don’t you tell me what you’re up to?”

“I am doing nothing wrong, officer,” I said innocently.

He looked at me a long moment, and then he said, “Carrying, Valeri?”

“Glock,” I said at once, “small of my back.” When it came to guns, Chicago PD didn’t fuck around. “I have permit,” I added as an afterthought.

“Roll over on your tummy, would you, Val?”

I did as he said and he took the Glock, patted me down, and cuffed me. “Where is the permit?”

“Wallet. Back pocket of slacks.” I turned my head so I could see him.

He reached into pocket and grabbed wallet, flicked it open, and searched through contents until he found permit on official yellow paper. He pulled it out and, without looking at it, dropped it to ground. A stray breeze sent it flitting across snow.

Johnson smiled pleasantly. “Sorry, man, can’t find it.”

I knew better than to say anything.

He jerked me to my feet. “Valeri, my brother, I think it’s time you and I had a confab.”

Every interrogation room I’d ever been in is same, walls painted off‑white or slate gray or pale green, a rectangular table, sometimes steel sometimes battered oak, window of one‑way glass facing suspect, dim lighting, and one more thing.

The smell of fear.

Sweat, piss, grease, and BO, it comes off suspects in waves and somehow soaks into everything: walls, table, chairs, everything.

This time Chicago PD handcuffed me to the chair: steel frame painted gray, black cushion, better than anything I’d ever gotten in Novosibirsk. Johnson sat opposite me. I didn’t know who was behind glass.

Johnson leaned back in his own government‑issue chair and steepled his hands behind the back of his head, like this was his favorite place in the world. Hell, maybe it was. “We’ve got you on a nice weapons charge, my man.”

“Lawyer,” I said.

U.S. Constitution is only couple hundred years old, so is not very powerful magic, but sometimes is all you need.

Johnson sighed. “OK, OK, don’t talk to me, then.” He shrugged. “It’s cool. Just listen.

“Last night we got a late tip that a drug deal was going down. We watched the place until morning.”

“Hoping to catch someone in act,” I said.

Johnson shrugged again, as if to say, “Can you blame us?” “Anyway, when we did go in, we found popsicles that had once been Black Dragons, but, and this is the funny part, no drugs.”

“Only Black Dragons are stupid enough to do drug deal without actual drugs,” I said.

Johnson laughed, a rich, musical sound. “Oh, that’s funny, man, real funny.”

“As funny as your weapons charge?” I asked.

“You know how I found you today, Val?”

Now it was my turn to shrug.

“Really? Not even a guess? I tailed you coming out of a Chinese medicine shop.”

“Is a free country. I can get medicine anywhere I like.”

“Yeah, I just think it’s real suggestive when the Russian mob is talking with the Chinese mob the day after this deal went down at the warehouse.”

“Detective Johnson,” I said gravely, “I am not associated with organized crime in any way.”

“Sure, sure,” he said easily.

He knew I didn’t have drugs. He arrested me for gun, hoping I’d be carrying heroin around. A magician powerful enough to take down five Dragons might’ve had juice to transmogrify drugs. Problem is, as with all magic, there are limits. The catch with transmogrification is that changed item retains its principal trait, even in changed form. And what is principal trait of 47 kilos of heroin?

That it is very, very valuable, of course.

No doubt Johnson had his lab rats work quick reveal spells on all my valuables: the Rolex, the $753.47 in my wallet, my gold rings, my diamond stud earring, and my platinum lighter. Apparently none had changed into mountain of drugs, and he was now grasping at straws.

He reached into the pocket of his suit coat and pulled out small, square box and slapped it down on the table. He pulled the top off, revealing the black, shriveled claw inside. “Care to tell me what this is?”

I looked down at it and then looked at him. “Is good luck.”

“ Good luck?” His eyebrows shot up. “A Chinese monkey paw? Man, haven’t you heard the stories?”

I shrugged. Truth was, I didn’t know what the hell it was. But I’d be damned if I’d admit that to Johnson. I’m sure his techs worked the reverse spell on the claw, too.

“Look, Valeri‑”

“No, you look, Detective Johnson. You ignored my permit so you would have a pretext to bust me. By now you have cataloged my belongings and searched the small park. There is no trace of missing drugs in either place. Otherwise you would use evidence as leverage. So. I want lawyer and I want you to be releasing me.”

Johnson flashed me a sour look, but he leaned forward, hands palm down on the table. “All right, Val. I’m gonna let you go. But I have one thing for you to think about. The Chinese think you have their heroin. You might just be safer talking to me than walking the streets.”

He gave me meaningful look. I met his eyes and let my face settle into blank mask.

After a second he gave a little exasperated snort and walked out of room.

First rule of dealing with militsia is never let them know when they are right.

The lawyer that came for me was Stepan Balyuk. Most important thing to know about Balyuk was that he was Ukrainian, not Russian. He spoke Russian with accent, was Catholic instead of Orthodox, said “Kyiv” instead of “ Kiev.” Brilliant lawyer, but still Ukrainian.

None of the Russians liked him, which meant Georgi could trust him with sensitive information because he had no allies.

Balyuk said nothing until his silver BMW was cruising north. Even then he turned on radio and muttered a quick privacy spell.

Then he turned to me. “What happened?”

I shrugged. “Not sure. Both Chinese and militsia think we did warehouse job.”

“What did you tell them?”

I snorted and rolled my eyes.

It was bad if Balyuk thought he had to ask that question. He had earned his position out of fanatical personal loyalty to Georgi. If Balyuk didn’t trust me, neither did my brother.

My stomach tied itself into a tight knot.

For a long time there was silence as Balyuk fought his way through early afternoon traffic. After awhile I noticed that a dark blue sedan was following us a few cars back.