Savage: An Urban Fantasy Novel (The Solumancer Cycle Book 2) Read online

  SAVAGE

  The Solumancer Cycle

  Book Two

  J.C. Staudt

  Savage is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

  Copyright © 2017 J.C. Staudt

  All rights reserved.

  Edition 1.0

  Contents

  Title Page

  Copyright

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Afterword

  Chapter 1

  My dragon isn’t allowed to come with me on romantic outings. It’s too much like having a parent around, cramping your style, critiquing your game. I’m not about that life. I left Ersatz at home tonight so I could enjoy my date, free from his prying eyes. And comments. Also, I’ve got something important planned afterwards, and it’ll be better for everyone involved if I’m acting alone.

  Snowflakes hurry to the crowded sidewalk outside the Neon Cafe, a moody coffee bar on the south side of New Detroit where I sit across the table from Shenn, the half-elven girl I’ve been seeing for the last couple weeks. It’s our third date since we collided here one morning in a maelstrom of spilt coffee, and we’ve spent the past hour discussing work and family histories. “So what does your dad do for a living?” I ask.

  “He works for Fitzroy’s Dairy.”

  “Whoa, hold on. He’s a farmer? Did he used to make you get up early and milk the cows?”

  She laughs. A shock of dyed pink hair falls into her eyes; she brushes it behind a pointed ear with the rest, bleach-blonde over dark roots. “No, he’s not a farmer. He’s the president of the company. He oversees day-to-day operations and does… you know, president stuff.”

  “And you swear don’t live on a farm.”

  “No, you goofball. I live in Dearborn Heights.”

  “In what? A house? An apartment?”

  She hesitates. “A house.”

  “Farmhouse?”

  “Shut up, oh my gosh.”

  “I’m teasing you.”

  Shenn rolls her eyes, scratches something off her recycled brown-paper coffee mug, and stares out the window. We’re still in that early stage of our relationship where nothing’s defined, and the lack of definition hangs in the air between us like a heavy nebula, something with its own gravity. They’re always a game, new relationships. Especially these days, where every first date is just a swipe away. You’re both trying not to weird each other out. Express just enough interest to keep the spool turning and hope you don’t run out of thread.

  I get the feeling Shenn isn’t super impressed with me, but for some reason she’s hanging in there. Since this is my first real adult relationship, I’m game for seeing what happens. Learning someone new is fun, even when you discover over the course of your first three dates that you’ve got almost nothing in common.

  A goblin in a three-foot trencher and a low-slung fedora waddles into the cafe and orders a coffee. Greenish-red ears protrude from his hat; black hair as brittle as autumn straw bunches from his high collar. His aroma evokes that of an old blanket sitting in a puddle of sour milk in a basement somewhere. When he rubs his palms together and breathes into his cupped hands to stave off the cold, his clawlike fingernails are an inch long apiece.

  I look at Shenn and smile. She’s noticed me watching the goblin, but she doesn’t mention it. When she smiles back, there’s a second where those pointed elven ears are rounded at the top, her delicate features no different from those of any twenty-something woman you’d see downtown. I still have moments like this once in a great while, where I lapse into denial of the world beyond our own.

  I study her smile. Her cheeks, still rosy with cold. Her hair, bleach-blonde with a shock of pink. I like her despite our dearth of common interests. She hasn’t told me she’s an othersider, but I don’t blame her. I haven’t told her I’m not Arden Savage, either.

  When Shenn and I met at the Hayne’s Market grocery store a few weeks back, I told her the truth. Arden’s truth, anyway. I’m a bounty hunter, and a successful one. I often work nights, and I don’t always know in advance when jobs may come up. This way I can eject from dates when it’s convenient and keep the relationship from moving too fast.

  I’m dating because it’s new and exciting and I’ve finally convinced Ersatz to let me, but also because what human adult doesn’t long for that sort of companionship? I’m well aware of the conflict of interest between maintaining a secret identity and letting a stranger into your life. That’s why I’m taking my time. Before I open myself up to anyone, I need to know I can trust them.

  Shenn works a day job as a project manager for Hoyt-Fjell Development Group, the largest commercial real estate developer in the world. She’s got a government security clearance and a brown belt in Brazilian jiu-jitsu. She’s also college-educated and two years older than me, though she doesn’t dress or act like it. Case in point, she says, “Green Mercury is playing Megatavern on Wednesday night. Wanna come? Tix are only twelve apiece.”

  “Sure. I’d love to.”

  I wouldn’t love to. Green Mercury are a bunch of electric-glam toolbags in sequins and vinyl pants who think hightars are the next wave in musical innovation. They’re a band for teeny-boppers, of which Shenn does a passable impression. It would be fun to take her to a halfway decent concert. Too bad the world’s last good music died with the Rat Pack.

  “Great. Pick me up at six?” She studies me as I try not to stare at the short gentleman in the trencher, who’s waiting while the barista froths his drink. Shenn knows he’s a goblin. She doesn’t know I know, though. When the goblin takes his drink and leaves the cafe, I set about making my exit.

  “Yeah. Six sounds great,” I say, checking my phone.

  “Cool. Do you need to go, or…?”

  “I should. Work.”

  She gives me a sad little smirk. “Right.”

  “I’ll walk you out.” I stand up, drain my coffee to the dregs. “After you.”

  Shenn’s little green sports sedan is parked in a metered spot along the street. She kisses me on the cheek. “So long, Mysterio.”

  I smile. “See you Wednesday.”

  She slumps into the driver’s seat and takes off without giving me a second look.

  I understand why she’s upset. I’ve cut each of our three dates short, and each time my excuse has been the same. What I don’t understand is why she wants to keep hanging out even though she doesn’t seem to like me very much. We’ve had fun together; we’ve laughed, and gotten to know each other a little. There’s something missing, though. I’m letting the excitement of a new experience carry me; Shenn is being carried by something else.
r />   I turn from the curb, pop my collar against the winter chill, and start tailing the goblin through the snowy streets. His blend-in name—the one by which he attempts normalcy in a city full of supernatural creatures pretending to be normal people—is Buster McCracken. A shitkicking fake if I’ve ever heard one. His real name in the seedy underground of New Detroit is Kaz Golug. And Kaz Golug is on his way to an auction.

  Or so my contact on AnonymCity—a site on the deep net where the worst of the worst hire people for jobs no one else will touch—would have me believe. Arden Savage, the bounty hunter I killed by accident six months ago, found most of his jobs on AnonymCity. When I assumed Arden’s identity, I started using his account for my own purposes.

  As Buster “Kaz Golug” McCracken hangs a right around the next street corner, my cell starts ringing. I duck into the doorway of a women’s clothing store and shove my hand in my pocket to silence the ringer. When I pull it out, the name on the caller ID makes my heart skip a beat. I can’t pick up fast enough.

  “Ardy?” says Carmine Savage, the sister I never had, and wish I still didn’t.

  “Yeah.”

  “Ardy. God, where’ve you been? I haven’t heard from you in, like, forever.”

  I hate it when she calls me Ardy. I always let it slide, though, because I kind of have a thing for her. Let me reiterate that we’re not blood-related. Her real-life brother Arden might’ve loved getting called Ardy, for all I know. Since I’m not sure how he felt about the nickname, I never bring it up. “Busy,” I say instead. “Working.”

  Her sigh crackles over the line. “When are you going to come down and see us?”

  “Soon,” I say, same as always.

  I’ve noticed people say ‘come down’ when they mean ‘come up’ and vice versa. Carmine Savage means ‘come up.’ She and Arden’s brother Lorne both live in expensive high-rise apartments, where they sit around all day twiddling their thumbs with their rich friends and laughing about how rich they are. It’s tons of fun going to their parties, which is why the first one I ever attended made me vow never to be caught dead at another one.

  Technically I’m as rich as Lorne and Carmine; I got a one-third cut of the inheritance. I tell them I’ve kept working because it’s my passion, and for the most part they seem to believe me despite their derisive commentary and the frequent looks of disapproval shared between them. Pretending to work a lot gives me an excuse to be too busy to contact them regularly.

  “Listen, Ardy. Something’s happened.”

  I wait.

  “Lorne’s missing.”

  “What do you mean he’s missing?”

  “I mean no one’s seen him for two days.”

  “Have you talked to Dani?”

  “You mean the current live-in whore? Yeah, she’s the one who told me about it.”

  “How about Bisquick?” I ask, referring to Lorne’s best friend and world-renowned douchebag Brian Biddix. I met him at one of Lorne’s dumb parties. The nickname Bisquick was Arden Savage’s invention, but I’m all too happy to carry on the torch.

  “Apparently he’s pissed at Lorne because they were supposed to go golfing this weekend. Dani called Biddix before she called me. Can you believe that tramp?”

  “What a dumb slut,” I agree sympathetically.

  “I know, right? Anyway, I figured you’d be the one to call. You’re good at finding people. Better than the cops.”

  The real Arden Savage was excellent at finding people. He found me while I was living an isolated life in abject poverty. I, on the other hand, couldn’t find the poltergeist who ran off with Arden’s corpse until I enlisted the services of a half-fiend. And don’t get me started on the search for my dad, which was what started all this in the first place. My ‘finding people’ skills are like a child’s art project—well-intentioned but horrendous.

  All the same, I didn’t become another person so I could sit inside my box and ignore the problems of those around me. Lorne and Carmine are my family now. If I can help them, I will. “Any clues as to where he might’ve taken off to?”

  “He told me he was out at the Patent and Trademark Office on Friday afternoon filing on behalf of Savage Systems. Has he told you the latest on that?”

  “Haven’t talked to him in a while,” I admit. “He keeps asking me to come work for him once he gets the company started up.”

  “He says you keep refusing him.”

  “I’m holding out for a higher salary.”

  She laughs. “Shut up. Seriously though, can you imagine having Lorne as a boss?”

  “We both know what that’s like.”

  Another laugh. “Don’t tell him I said this, but I totally understand you not wanting to work for him.”

  “I appreciate the support.”

  “I just wish you’d move closer. I mean, it’s not like you can’t afford to get out of the slums.”

  “The fifth floor of Phipps Plaza Tower is not the slums. My apartment is perfectly fine.”

  “Yeah,” she says dryly. “I’ve been there.”

  “Geez. Tell me how you really feel.”

  “I just want you to be safe. Trying to look out for you. Plus we’d like to see you more often.”

  “I’m doing fine. I’m safe where I’m living now.”

  “You’d think so. Now with Lorne missing, I’m worried about all three of us.”

  “Don’t let your imagination run away with you. He probably just popped down to Chicago for a business meeting or something and forgot to tell Dani. He’s been so caught up with the company lately his mind’s been elsewhere.”

  “Yeah, I guess he has been running with a different crowd these days. Big wigs. Corporate types.”

  Or gangsters, I speculate. “Making connections. Meeting people. Nothing out of the ordinary for the young CEO of a new startup. Is there anything else you can tell me—any other details that might help me find him?”

  “Friday afternoon was the last time I heard from him. We were talking about getting a bunch of friends together for the Super Bowl.”

  “Okay. Just stay calm and I’ll look into it. Call if you think of anything else.”

  “You’re the best, Ardy.”

  I’d love to stay on the phone and talk with her about how her day was or how she’s been spending her share of our deceased parents’ fortune, but Buster McCracken is getting away. “I gotta go. I’m working.”

  “Seriously? It’s nine-thirty on Sunday night.”

  “The bad guys never rest.”

  “Neither do you, apparently. Be careful, okay? I’d better go too. I’m running late.”

  “Running late? It’s nine-thirty on Sunday night,” I parrot.

  “Shut up, you jerk. I have a get-together.”

  Another one of her snob parties. “Have fun. Bye, sis.”

  “Later bro.”

  I hang up and slip my cell into my pocket. Be still, my heart. Yes, I’m sweet on my surrogate sister. Yes, I’m aware of how awkward it is. Half the reason I started dating Shenn was to make myself forget I’ve got the hots for a girl who’s never seen my real face and doesn’t know I’m her brother’s murderer. A jumbo jet in a hurricane’s got a better chance at finding the runway than I’ve got at finding love with Carmine Savage.

  As for Lorne, I can’t help but wonder how a rich playboy like him vanishes without a trace. There’s got to be an explanation. My money’s on a weekend bender or an unexpected trip out of town. Anyway, I’ll worry about that later. At the moment, I’ve got a goblin to follow.

  Chapter 2

  The hardest part about becoming Arden Savage hasn’t been masking my appearance, or keeping up with my arcane studies, or inheriting an upscale apartment and an eight-figure bank account. The hardest part has been adopting my new family—or rather, avoiding them. There’s one simple reason I’ve been so reluctant to spend time with my brother and sister. They’re the people who knew the real Arden Savage best, which makes them the ones most likely to suspect I
’m not him.

  Sure, I’ve got an enchanted belt buckle that makes me look and sound like Arden. But there’s a learning curve associated with becoming another person. It’s more than just looking and sounding alike. It’s the way you move. Your speech patterns. It’s thinking on your toes; acclimating to inside jokes whose births you weren’t around to witness. Possessing the same voice and appearance doesn’t matter much when family trivia time comes around and you’re expected to recall childhood memories you never took part in.

  There’s also the issue of how Arden spent his time. I’ve taken stock of his hobbies and found they overlap with mine in only a few areas. We’re both gun enthusiasts who enjoy working out and watching football. That’s where the similarities end. He was a Green Bay Packers fan, and I refuse to stoop to such levels of depravity. How does someone who grew up in downtown Detroit become a Packers fan? Around here that’s a step below high treason.

  Arden was also a health-food nut, whereas my diet before I killed him consisted of mostly Lucky Charms and whatever I could afford. He golfed occasionally, as evidenced by the lightly-used set of clubs I found in his hall closet. I’ve never swung a golf club in my life. He also enjoyed fantasy football, console video gaming, Netflix, and hip-hop music.

  His most interesting hobby, though, was metal detecting. He belonged to a club and he’s got the magazine subscriptions and everything. Who under the age of fifty does metal detecting? I always thought it was a hobby perpetrated by retired white guys in the years before they lost the ability to walk.

  I’ve done what I can to take on his interests, but some of them just suck. So I’ve kept my distance from my brother and sister, and wisely so. I’m learning who they are as I go along. Someday I’ll know them well enough to fit in during family get-togethers, but for now I’m taking it slow and careful, like my dating life. Biding my time while the broader implications of my hidden identity reveal themselves. And trying desperately to snuff out my crush on Carmine Savage.

  I tail Buster McCracken a few blocks while he weaves unimpeded through the thick nighttime crowds. I’m worried he’ll hear my feet crunching in old snow, but he doesn’t turn to check his six before slipping down a narrow alley behind a Lebanese eatery. The trail ends there; I find no sign of the goblin in the dead-end passage between the restaurant and its neighbor, a coin laundromat. I’m starting to regret not tagging Buster with a tracing spell while he was a few feet away from me in the coffee shop, though I doubt I could’ve pulled it off with Shenn there.