“I thought it was obvious.”
“You’re getting old, Phil. It’s making you shaky.”
“Yeah? And you’re getting . . . shut up.”
Coop ignored him and snapped a couple of tools off his belt. He jammed a minijack between the dragon’s jaws, slotted the handle into place, and began to crank the mouth open.
“There you go, sport,” said Phil. “Problem solved.”
“I get tense when you call me clever. I know it’s a trick.”
“This is too nerve-racking. I hope you like Neil Diamond.”
“I don’t like your Neil Diamond.”
Coop took out a flashlight and peered into the dragon’s mouth as Phil hummed “I’m a Believer.” There were lots of goodies scattered around in the monster’s gob—gold coins, piles of cash, jewelry, guns—but Coop looked past all of that junk for something more valuable. Finally, he saw what he had come here for: a green file folder, closed with a red wax seal. Unfortunately, the folder was back by the dragon’s molars, between a pile of Euros and a stolen Picasso. To Coop, it looked like a portrait of a woman after someone dropped a refrigerator on her head. That probably meant it was expensive. Too bad he didn’t have room for it in his suit.
The poltergeist stopped humming. “Please tell me you didn’t cheap out on the jack. I’d hate to see it fail and for those teeth to snap you in half. Actually, it might be kind of funny, but not while I’m in your head.”
“I bought the best money could buy.”
That my money could buy, at least.
They peered around the dragon’s mouth for other traps.
“So you finally admitted it,” Coop said. “You want me dead.”
Coop inched forward on the line until his head was almost touching the dragon’s front fangs. He pulled a collapsible gripper from a pocket sewn into his suit. He tested the trigger a couple of times to make sure the claw on the extendable arm worked.
“Not at all,” Phil said. “I’m just saying that being eaten by a dragon might be karmic payback for being mean earlier. On your right. Near your elbow.”
Coop looked right. A human eye floating in a bubbling potion was attached to a spray gun full of acid. He crawled underneath the eye’s gaze.
“Thanks,” he said.
“And the team is back together again!”
When he saw that the grip worked properly, Coop extended the arm and pushed it into the dragon’s mouth as far as it would go. It was a good two feet short of the folder. He let his head drop onto his arms, knowing what he had to do.
“I don’t want to jinx anything,” said Phil, “but you’re not really going to do this, are you?”
“I don’t have any choice.”
“Of course you do. Pack up and we go for waffles. My treat.”
“Not tonight. I know I can do this. I have to.”
“Oh, man. I’m definitely going to have to sing.”
“Don’t you dare.”
Phil broke into a full-throated chorus of “Sweet Caroline.”
Pushing himself off with his arms, Coop landed flat on the beast’s tongue and slid forward, scattering piles of gold and diamonds, until he was knee deep in the dragon’s mouth. Before he’d even stopped sliding, Coop thrust the claw forward and grabbed the folder, which he crammed into a Velcro pouch on the front of his suit.
“Are we dead yet?” said Phil.
“We’re doing great.”
Phil went back to his song.
“Except for the singing.”
Moving backward out of the dragon’s mouth was a lot harder than going in. He couldn’t get a grip on the slippery tongue, so he had to worm his way back slowly, past the Bellicoses’ other loot. He was almost out when he caught his leg on one of the dragon’s front fangs and ripped through the suit, leaving a deep gash. The dragon growled sleepily as it tasted blood.
“Ah. I see what you meant. Now we’re dead,” said Phil.
Coop gave one massive push and shot out of the dragon’s mouth hard enough that he almost missed the wire, grabbing it just before he touched the floor.
Slick as a human Skittle covered in dragon spit, cut, and exhausted, Coop inched his way back across the wire to the dining room door. He wasn’t going to sleep tonight. Not for a couple of nights, probably, not with the image of the dragon’s gullet so fresh in his mind. He considered using the rest of the sleep potion to knock himself out tonight, but nixed that in favor of a drink. Many, many drinks.
“I thought we weren’t drinking anymore,” said Phil. “Not after, you know. Which brings me back to your intimacy issues.”
“I didn’t drink until after. And you’re my intimacy issue right now.”
“Careful. I know some Sondheim, too, and I know how you love musicals.”
“How’s this? Give me sixty seconds to feel good over a job well done, okay?”
“Okay. But can I say one thing?”
“What?”
“You forgot your jack,” said Phil.
Coop looked back at the dragon’s mouth, where the jack glistened.
“Damn.” He glanced back toward the door and the way out. “Forget it. With this payout, I’ll buy another. I’ll get a dozen.”
“Damn. We are feeling good. Okay, it’s waffles all around then.”
Coop made it back to the door, dropped onto the hall floor, and packed up his gear.
Not bad, he thought. A tough job, but he got it done. He felt better than he had in months.
“You know,” said Phil. “It’s still a few hours until dawn.”
Coop looked up at the walls. The Bellicoses were out of town at their summer place in whatever milder country the rich had decided to strip-mine this season. He and Phil had the place to themselves. Old masters hung in gilt frames on the walls. Antique Persian carpets covered the floors. Even the bowl holding a pile of wax fruit on a nearby table was gold. He shook his head.
“I was thinking the same thing, but no. The job went all right and now we’re leaving.”
“Buck, buck, buck,” said Phil, doing a fairly convincing impression of a Rhode Island Red.
“Pipe down, Phil. I still have some professional pride left.”
“You still think this one job is going to get your rep back?”
“Why not? No one has ever made it in and out of Bellicose Manor alive. Except for a couple of hiccups, things went just like I planned.”
“Uh. No, they didn’t.” Phil cleared his throat.
Coop finished packing and looked up from the floor.
Damn.
“My snitch said this place would be empty for the whole week.”
He felt Phil twirl around in his skull like he was looking for an ejection seat.
“Well, I’m gone,” Phil said. “Good luck.”
“Don’t you dare.”
Down the hall, a little blond girl in Wonder Woman footie pajamas stood and stared at them. She rubbed her eyes sleepily and squinted when she saw him, like she wasn’t sure Coop was real. He froze, hoping that she’d keep one foot in dreamland until he had time to get out.
“Do you really think you’re that lucky?” said Phil.
The little girl twitched. Something changed in her eyes. Coop knew it was the “Nope, you’re awake” part of her brain finally kicking in. She dropped the glass of water and screamed. Coop stood and put a finger to his lips, hoping the sleepy kid might obey an adult simply out of habit. And she might have, if her face hadn’t peeled open like a flesh banana, revealing a snarling red baboonlike mug.
“Oh, crap,” said Coop and Phil.
Not a kid, Coop thought. A guard imp. There weren’t supposed to be any left in the house, much less one in little-girl drag.
Coop reached into a pocket on his bloody leg and pulled out a packet the size of a walnut. The imp screamed again, its human disguise falling away completely. As it charged him, Coop threw the packet on the floor. A cloud of white smoke filled the corridor. When the fog cleared, three Coops stood si
de by side. Two of them took off running in different directions. The real Coop stood as still as a bacon-wrapped rat at a Rottweiler convention. Guard imps weren’t known for their brains, and most were attracted to motion. But this imp just stood there.
“Oh, hell,” said Phil. “We got the Stephen Hawking of imps. It’s onto us.”
“Shut up and let me think.”
One of the extra Coops came back down the hall, looked around, and sprinted past them down the stairs.
It was too much for the imp. It finally ran after him, screaming like a banshee taking first place in an air-raid-siren sing-along contest.
“See you around, smart guy—”
Something snapped behind Coop and the whole house shook. He turned around just in time to see the dragon swallowing the last of his broken jack.
“The imp woke it!” screamed Phil. “We’re double screwed! Do something, numb nuts!”
Coop ducked as the dragon blew a roiling blast of crimson fire over his head. The beast shook its shoulders, rocking the whole house. The wall started to crack as the monster pushed its way through and into the dining room.
“At least it’s not a Wendigo,” said Coop.
“You’re not funny,” said Phil.
“No, but I’m a good shot.”
Coop took a flat lead conjuring coin from his alchemy kit and flipped it across the room. It spun through the air, striking the nameplate on the front of the painting. The frame dropped like a guillotine onto the dragon’s neck, trapping it. It roared and shot out another jet of fire, but Coop was already down the corridor and out the same window he’d come in, shooting away from the house on the zip line he’d set up earlier. Phil whooped and jumped around in his skull.
“Suck on that, you monster assholes!” yelled Phil.
Coop was halfway across the manor grounds, heading for the stone wall that ringed the place, when he felt the zip line sag. He looked back and saw the imp sliding toward him down the line by one of its claws.
“Sorry, man, but those things eat poltergeists, too, and I’m not dressed for an evisceration,” said Phil. “I’m out of here.”
This time the poltergeist meant it, and Coop felt the sudden emptiness in his head that always followed Phil’s exit to wherever it was he went when he vanished. He couldn’t even feel angry for the guy deserting him. If he could desert himself right now, he would.
He looked back over his shoulder. The imp was close, almost close enough to grab him.
Coop reached into his suit and pulled out the secret weapon he kept for just such emergencies: a set of nail clippers. While the imp took swipes at his face with its free claw, Coop calmly clipped the tips of the ones holding onto the zip line. The imp, possessing just a little less brainpower than a wedge of cheddar cheese, didn’t seem to understand what was happening and why it was slipping. Even when it began to fall it stared at its hand in wonder. Coop thought that he might have seen some kind of realization spread across the imp’s face just before it hit the ground, but he was moving too fast to be sure.
When he was past the trees outside the wall, Coop squeezed the hand brake on the grip, which slowed him enough that he could jump off the line and hit the ground running. He headed straight for his car, parked at the end of a nearby cul-de-sac.
I’m gonna make it.
He didn’t make it.
The car gave an encouraging beep when he pushed the button on his key ring to unlock the doors. The moment he got the driver’s-side door open, though, lights from a semicircle of cars hit him. He had to put a hand up in front of his face to see what was happening. Red and white bars on a few of the cars pulsed like a jailhouse disco. Coop dropped his bag to the ground. Cops. At least a dozen of them.
They’ve been waiting for me this whole time.
At least Phil wasn’t around to start another round of skull karaoke.
Two men in suits reached him first. They flashed badges, but Coop couldn’t read them in the harsh light. He didn’t need to. He knew exactly who they were. A couple of Abracadabrats: detectives from LAPD’s Criminal Thaumaturgy squad.
The taller of the two shoved him back against the car, reached into the front pocket of Coop’s suit, and pulled out the stolen folder.
How did he know what to look for . . . and where?
The detective broke the seal, thumbed through the papers, then showed them to his partner. The second detective looked them over, sighing at what he read. It occurred to Coop that he had no idea, beyond a folder, what he’d been hired to steal.
What the hell did I just give them? Missile launch codes? The formula for Coke? Abe Lincoln’s porn stash? Whatever it was, he knew it was bad.
“Isn’t someone supposed to read me my rights somewhere around now?” Coop said.
The shorter detective drew closer, shaking his head. Coop could finally see him when he stood in front of the light and blocked it. He was a squat man, roughly the shape and size of a mailbox, and, from the look on his face, with even less of a sense of humor.
“This is bad, Coop. Real bad,” said the detective.
Oh, good. He even knows my name. This night can’t get any better, thought Coop.
A uniformed Abracadabrat spun Coop around and handcuffed him, spun him around again to face the talking mailbox. The look on the cop’s face slipped from utter disgust to amusement as he punched a button on his cell phone.
“Yeah,” said the detective. “He’s right here. Put the asshole on.”
The mailbox held the phone up to Coop’s ear. Coop didn’t hear anything for a few seconds. Then someone started talking.
“Coop? That you? It’s me, Morty.”
Morton Ramsey. He’d known Morty since they were both six. Coop didn’t have any magical skills at all, but Morty was a natural Flasher—he could open any lock, window, or door he encountered. The problem was, Morty was a lousy crook.
And right now, an even lousier friend.
“Hey. I’m sorry, man,” Morty said. “They picked me up last night. It was my third strike. I had to give them someone. No hard feelings?”
The mailbox took the phone from Coop’s ear and hung up. He raised his eyebrows at the thief.
“Anything to say, smart guy?”
“Yeah,” said Coop. “Duck.”
It burst through the trees, hissing and limping, heading straight for them. The detective turned around just in time to get a face full of imp, all teeth and what was left of its claws out, and really, really pissed. One of the uniforms shoved Coop facedown on the hood of his car, where he spent the next several minutes listening to a small army of L.A.’s finest trying to pull the creature off the screaming detective.
At least I get a floor show, he thought. Then, They’re going to blame me for this, too.
Still, as he listened to the mayhem, he couldn’t help but smile.
THREE
Eighteen months later.
OUT OF GUILT AND BASIC CROOK SOLIDARITY, MORTY got Coop the best lawyer he could afford, which basically meant he could dress himself and read the charges, but not much else. Coop didn’t like Ferthington, the lawyer, the moment he laid eyes on him. The guy smiled when they first shook hands. Coop didn’t trust lawyers who smiled too much. “Smiling lawyers are fatalists and you’re the fatality,” an old con had once told him. Looking at Ferthington’s eyes, Coop felt like shark chum.
When he told him about it Morty opened his hands, groping for words. “Maybe it wasn’t fatalism. Maybe it was irony.”
“Oh, that’s better. Ironic time passes much faster than regular time.”
In the end, Coop didn’t get the chair (not that he was going to). But the judge was friends with the Bellicose family and sentenced Coop to ten years’ hard time.
Ferthington smiled as the bailiffs led Coop out of the courtroom. It wasn’t fatalism or irony. It was the smile of someone not bright enough to know that he’d been as useful in court as a trout with a speech impediment. Coop started to shout something, but one of
the bailiffs helpfully jammed a nightstick into his side, doubling him over and thereby saving him from the extra time the “attack” would have added to his sentence. Maybe I should have gotten the cop for a lawyer, he thought as he lay in the back of the prison bus, nursing a bruised kidney.
At least the other soon-to-be inmates were impressed that Coop had already been in a dustup with a guard, so they left him alone.
And while it wasn’t the finest moment of his career, at least it covered up how entirely freaked out he was to be back in a bus on the way to jail.
The prison didn’t have a name. Just GPS coordinates and a Viking rune that translated roughly as “Seriously, would you take a look at these dumbfucks?”
Inside, the jail was known as Surf City because of how close to the ocean it wasn’t. Surf City was in the high desert and most of it was underground. This kept it out of the public and, more important, the press’s eye. No need to feed the crackpot industry by letting regular saps get wind that, yes, magical thieves, sasquatches, and succubi were all real and on a bad day just as likely to steal your Prius as suck out your soul.
When Coop got the notice that he was going to be released after serving only eighteen months, it was a mystery to him, and he didn’t like mysteries that involved his skin and bones. At first he thought the prison had gotten his file mixed up with some other con’s, but when the warden convinced him that no, it was really Coop who was getting out, he kept his mouth shut and his eyes down, which meant a certain amount of banging into things, but better safe than sorry. Still, the whole thing bothered him. Even with good behavior, he should have been a good three years from a parole hearing.
In the two weeks between being told he was getting out and the time of his release, Coop went from puzzled to suspicious, back to puzzled, then even more suspicious, and finally, he settled into a nice long stretch of grim paranoia. Maybe he was a lab rat in a prison psych experiment and when he reached the gate to get out, the warden and all the guards would shout “April Fool’s!” and drag him back to his cell.
“Good luck, Coop,” said Rodney, his cellmate, as he was packing up.
“Luck? Why do I need luck? Did you hear something?”