I left my car a block away in the parking lot of a pharmacy, right beneath the sign that said it was for customers only. Feeling especially rebellious, I used the edge of Firestarter, the knife I’d chosen to bring with me, to ignite a cigarette and drew in a delicious lungful of cancerous smoke.
Thankfully, with my unique constitution, I’d never suffer the nasty after-effects of increased nicotine consumption. Of course, that didn’t change how the cigarettes made me and my clothes smell, a fact that Sammy loved to point out from time to time. Indigo sometimes did, too, but she loved cigarettes almost as much as I did. Since rescuing Miranda from that vampire drug den a short while ago, however, she’d cut back, saying it was insensitive to her friend to give in to her own addictions while trying to help her overcome her own.
I would have to be sure to get my fill of nicotine before venturing out to Indigo’s apartment tonight. Whenever we got together with Miranda in attendance, everyone was certain to leave their addictive behavior at the door. In fact, Indigo didn’t even keep so much as a bottle of red wine in her apartment, and I gave both her and Miranda credit for that. They’d both seen and experienced a lot in their lives and staring that trauma in the eyes without blurring the sharp edges of their memories with substances was admirable, to say the least.
A moment later, I stood in the shadows of a three story building, unremarkable in almost every way. Saltwater smell carried from the east, mixed with that pungent aroma of seafood and seagull shit made Boston what it was. There was no nearby parking lot, though a multi-level garage was perched just beyond the building. The building itself appeared to be unoccupied, though it was difficult to tell for certain from the outside. I tested the door, which was locked, because of course it was, then took a quick look up and down the street to make sure nobody was lurking nearby.
Crouching low, I closed my eyes and pressed two fingers to the door, near the locking mechanism and withdrew Firestarter from its sheath at my hip. I dragged the blade through the air, just above the ground and whispered the spell, one I’d learned throughout my long tenure as an Enforcer. I heard the soft click of lock tumblers sliding within the door, then the satisfying hitch of the lock itself disengaging. With a snap of my wrist, I flicked the remains of my cigarette to the ground, then opened the door and stepped into the lobby. The entrance foyer was just as empty inside as the surrounding neighborhood had been outside.
The lobby was unremarkable, no reception desk or other furniture, no signs labelling which offices belonged to which companies— there wasn’t even a sign that there were any tenants at all. A pair of chrome-plated elevator doors sat at the far end of the lobby with a metal fire door to my left, which led to a set of stairs.
In spite of what Indigo had said about no longer being in Enforcer shape, I tried to do what I could for my cardiovascular fitness and chose the stairs. As I entered, the echoing bang of the door closing behind me resonated throughout the narrow upward corridor. The stark, audible finality of the sound made the structure feel all that much emptier, as if I might actually be the only one inside. I emerged on the second floor and opened the door, moving out into the hallway, and turned my head, listening for— what, I had no idea. Nothing came back at me, no stray sounds, no activity, absolutely zero signs that anyone inhabited any of these small cookie cutter offices.
I made my way down the hall and peered into a few of the windows, confirming that the lights were dim and nobody was in sight. Unsure of how to continue, I made my way back to the stairs and once again climbed them, reaching the third floor in a matter of moments. Even before I exited the stairwell, I knew I was in the right place.
The fine hairs along the backs of my arms stood aloft, as a shrill, cool tingle clawed its way down the length of my spine. The scant hint of sulfur carried on the air, a smell likely too faint and indistinguishable to register in human olfactory senses, but to me— a calling card.
Magic had been used somewhere nearby. I touched the knife at my hip, Firestarter’s contoured handle a reassurance as I pushed through the door and out into the hallway. There appeared to be only a single office on this level, a set of double doors to the left. Across the narrow hallway was a utility room and a set of men’s and ladies’ rooms and finally, the elevator about three quarters of the way down. The hallway ended in a large window facing the water and even from all the way down at the other end, I could see the pale sky beyond, almost to the point of where it met the sprawling Atlantic.
Outside the stairwell and in the hallway, the scent and static of recently expended magical energy was even stronger and I immediately walked toward the double doors leading to the third floor office. Firestarter slipped from its sheath, heavy and warm in my right hand and I pressed my left to the seam between the double doors, feeling them give. They were, at least, unlocked.
I shouldered my way through the doors, the stink of magic even stronger within the office. The main interior had once been a cubicle farm, it seemed, with the outline of desks and cubes still etched into the threadbare surface of the bland carpeting. Where there had once been cubes there stood a white Formica table, littered with scraps of fabric and tufts of dark hair scattered about. It was an odd combination and I approached the table carefully, balancing the weight of the knife in one hand. Curling my fingers through one of the fabric scraps I lifted it and studied it, uncertain of exactly what I was looking at. Fine hairs covered the cotton, several of them sprinkling down across my arm and back onto the table as I tried to make sense of what I was seeing.
There were no computers that I could see, no shelves, no chairs— just empty carpet and—
Gooseflesh sparked along my arm. I dropped the fabric and twisted left just as a set of doors I hadn’t seen blistered open with a crash.
“Oh, shit.”
Framed within the opened doorway, an orc shouldered his way through, scowling at me from beneath his knitted brow, ducking and turning sideways just so his linebacker body could fit through its open space. I saw a second orc just over his shoulder, lips split, revealing rotted teeth and a gap-toothed grin.
“I dunno who you are, but you don’t belong here.” The orc’s voice was an undulating growl, deep in its throat. His skin was pale green, littered with knotted flesh and coiled ribbons of clenched muscle. Unlike the orc that Sammy and I had tangled with before, this one made no attempt to be human, it wore no shirt and only a pair of leather pants covered his entire thick-skinned frame. Pointed ears pressed flat against its broad skull and when it sneered, the scant points of fangs were visible between the part of its cracked lips.
“I’m looking for Lucas Androse.” I stood, left shoulder facing the first orc as the second orc joined its clan mate, both of them blotting out the doorway behind them.
“Ain’t here.” The orc took a threatening stride forward, its bare, thick-toed feet pressing into the carpet.
“Do you know where I can find him?”
The two orcs glanced at each other, then the front one looked back. As he drew nearer, I could see the ragged line of a diagonal scar along his bald scalp, cut just below his right eye. It had healed, but not very cleanly. His friend was a bit smaller than the first, thinner in the shoulders, but more athletic looking. Instead of being an offensive or defensive lineman like the other orc, he more resembled an especially athletic tight end. Unlike the other orc, he wore the scraps of some sort of tunic across his chest, torn and barely clinging to his muscular frame.
Scarface didn’t reply. Instead, he simply leaped at me, charging forward with a locomotive force. I suddenly regretted not bringing my shield knife with me, not that I would have had the time to use it anyway. Scarface covered the distance in two swift strides and all I could do was brace for impact. He collided with me, shoulder first, the force lifting me from my feet and launching me into the air. I twisted, smacking the far wall behind me with a bone-jarring thud before I careened from it and hit the carpet, losing Firestarter in the process.
My body flared with agony, the shoulder tackle by the orc inflaming the lingering rib and shoulder injuries I’d suffered in the werewolf skirmish a few nights back. I sucked in breath, my ribs on fire. Shadows fell across me as the orcs redirected their attention, charging to where I was huddled on the ground. Biting back the rib pain, I launched to my feet and scrambled away, just as a dinner turkey sized fist whistled past me and hammered into the wall, pounding a thick divot in the sheet rock.
Grunting, Scarface ripped his hand free, peeling away chunks of plaster. His friend came around the other side, both hands closed into interlocking fists, and he brought them down hard. I tumbled left as his blow struck the floor where I’d been, the ground shuddered beneath my feet. Desperately, I lashed out with a kick and struck his shin, but I might as well have been kicking the trunk of a rigid oak.
Scarface lunged at me, but I scrambled forward on all fours, slipping between his spread legs and threw myself on my stomach to work my way behind him. I hooked my fingers around the handle of Firestarter even as Scarface whirled around, fists clenched. It took less than two seconds to recite the spell I knew by heart, to hack the air, left-to-right and launch a sudden flare of crescent-shaped flame from the arc of my swing. As Scarface lurched toward me, the sudden, mid-air eruption engulfed his face with a roiling whoosh, scorching leathery skin and singeing the fine hairs that remained on his mostly bald head.
He shrieked in agony and wheeled backwards, clawing at his burning face, desperately slapping himself to try and put the fire out. His backwards thrashing collided with the wall behind him, and he went over sideways, making the ground jerk again with the weight of his fall. I swept back, narrowly avoiding another massive fist, but I had a bad angle and couldn’t follow up with my own strike. As I tried to adjust, the tight end sized orc blasted me with a blow to my left ribs and my entire body exploded in a sudden burst of white-hot pain.
I clutched the knife to me, desperate not to release it even as I went airborne, then hit the ground a few feet behind me, rolling awkwardly, my legs flailing. The knife fell loose, but only about a foot away as the ground thundered with the footsteps of the charging attacker. Barely supporting myself on one elbow, I flailed with my hand, trying to grab my knife, noticing for the first time another wall-sized window, this one facing the building to our rear, then deeper into the South Boston skyline.
I clawed the knife from the floor and tried to stand, but the orc was already on top of me, swinging another massive fist in an upward golf drive. With no other options, I threw myself backwards, straightening my legs like a piston, and struck the window with my shoulders. They hit with an audible thwack, loud inside the confined office, but the glass held and did not break.
But then, the orc turned, glowering at me with the amber milk of his eyes. He charged again, a howl emitted from curled lips, his focus purely on me, a crosshair etched across my face. I had nowhere to go, all I could do was tuck my arms inward, tense and await the inevitable impact. It came, driving me hard against the window, so hard a sudden, splintering crack jagged its way along the pane like a fork of lightning through the glass. Then, the window gave, exploding outward in a lurching shower, my own force carrying me with the hailstorm of glass fragments.