Grag

Grag kept to the shadows as the dawn sun sent long black fingers poking through the broken windows of what had been a three-story brownstone in the classic New York style. The imp limped slowly around the remnants of a grand staircase, its marble steps and oak railing shattered, the rebar underpinning twisted sideways.

Jagged holes pocked the charred walls, and broken furniture barred his path, but didn't stop his mouth.

"Burn the house down, go ahead. Don't bother warning a person. Don't worry about Grag. He isn't important, is he?" His bulbous eyes narrowed as he peered into the darkness beneath the ruined stairs. "What's this then? A little cave, just for Grag? A place to rest, maybe? To hide until sunset?"

The fallen staircase lay on its side, humped up in the middle to form a ramshackle haven, thick with dust, and fragile. The air smelled of burned wiring and blood, but the accidental cave would shield him from predators, at least for a time. He hoped until dark.

The house was a wreck, but it offered shelter from the sun. Grag was a minor demon, an imp. He could tolerate Sol’s glaring eye for short periods, but preferred moonlight. Something his master, Simon Blackwell, hadn't taken into account often, if at all.

"Fetch this, get me that. Don't spill things. Clean that up. Nag, nag, nag, day and night. Trying to please the man was like trying to fill a sieve with water. No matter how fast you pour, it's never enough."

He squatted in the gravel strewn ruins, scratched his bald head with long scrawny fingers. A mouse poked its nose from between two stones and Grag struck, his skinny arm flashing out to snatch the shivering creature from its hiding spot. He didn't bother to kill it first, but shoveled the little thing into his mouth, crunching its spine with his teeth.

"Not good. Not tasty, but at least my stomach is fuller than before," Grag muttered.

A stray beam of sunlight poked inquisitively into his hole, and Grag shuddered, moving further back into the dark as it struck something small and shiny. Intrigued, Grag inched forward, plucking the item from the dirt and turning it over in his grasping paws.

"Master's ring, aren't you?" he asked the jewel. "One of the poison ones, I'm thinking. Wonder what other treasures got buried in the fight." He shoved the ring in his pocket, careful not to press the tiny catch inside that would release the poison.

A speculative gleam lit his eyes, and he looked over what he could see of the destruction from his hovel. Bits of furniture, broken statuary, shattered window glass and swathes of torn, filthy draperies lay under a thick layer of ash. The brick building hadn't burned completely, but the fight between the master and the witch had ripped it apart. What wasn't burned was broken or crushed.

The outer shell of the brownstone remained, the walls meeting at the corners to lean against each other in a drunken stupor. His single glance into the empty rear garden revealed the broken coal door. Large sections of the house had collapsed inward, destroying the basement maze where the master had kept his menagerie. Not a snippet of magick remained to tickle Grag's senses.

That and the eerie quiet suggested that all of the beasts his late master kept were escaped or dead, but Grag knew better. Too many of the labyrinth's inhabitants were experts in concealing themselves from prey. Grag would not become anyone's breakfast if he could help it.

A hollow screech sounded somewhere behind the wall and Grag shuddered, his suspicions confirmed. "Didn't kill all his pets, did you, witch?" he muttered. "No, you even let some escape on purpose, and some waited you out. Hid in the dark until you went away." He'd seen the soldiers march off, and watched from hiding as the wyvern tracked and destroyed a harpy. "Was it the last?" The screech came again and the imp cowered back into his cave. "I don't think it was."

As dawn brightened into morning, hunger and thirst plagued the imp, but he feared leaving the scant shelter he'd found. The stench of blood was thick in the air, and odd scrapings and clatterings broke the quiet. No birds sang that he could hear.

The low rumble of a delivery truck shivered the air and Grag heard the engine's growl deepen, the vehicle slowing as it approached. They'd have the day's grocery order in the back. He could imagine the driver's shocked eyes as he took in the ruins. Hungry as he was, Grag wasn't stupid enough to go to the window and check. Not yet.

The engine revved, then faded as the truck moved off down the block, delivery canceled.

"They got the right idea, don't they?" he muttered to himself. "I'd best be moving on before that harpy finds me. Or something worse.” He shuddered as he recalled the long list of horrific creatures he'd ordered food for. “But where to go? That's the question. Drakat will find out the master is dead sooner or later. Best be long gone before she does."

In the far corner of his new-made cave, stone scraped over tile, and Grag jerked around to face the sound. A blunt nose poked out of the rubble, the forked tongue darting out to taste the air. The massive head — fully three feet across, wedge-shaped and green scaled — followed.

Naga. The master only had one, Grag thought, horrified. But, of course, the giant cobra had survived. He always did.

"Hungry. Starved." The sibilant words issued from the serpent's mouth like venom. "Where are you, little morsel? Mucalinda would dine."

Terrified, Grag lurched from his hiding place into the wrecked front hall, leaving the snake still struggling to pull the rest of his bulk from the hole under the floor.

Running, the imp tripped over a body, leaping to his feet even as he realized it was Bletch, the master's butler. A velvet lined box, empty now, lay near the body’s outstretched hand. Grag scooped it up without stopping, scurrying into the sitting room. The doors were twisted in their broken frames. They closed, but wouldn't lock.

"Need something to block it, don't I?" he rasped, and braced his back against the doors as he scanned the room.

Two bronze dogs lay on their sides, dented and cracked; their dead gaze still somehow menacing. Knowing they couldn't hurt him without an animation spell, Grag dragged them to the door, bracing it closed with their combined weight. If the naga got free, it might scent him above the varied stench of destruction the house carried. But it would find it difficult to push the statues aside, and the noise they caused would give Grag a warning.

Relieved, he took a few ragged breaths and paused to look around more carefully. Overturned tables and glass shards littered the floor. A gleam of steel flashed from under the couch and Grag reached for it, pulling out a small dagger, which he tucked away in his belt.

A small sack, smelling of magick, lay in a corner. Grag snatched it up, dropping it into his pocket. A few other artifacts found their way into his hands before he stopped searching to rest, all the while listening for sounds of the naga's approach.

The fire hadn't reached this room, but looking up, Grag realized he could see through the holes in the ceiling to the second floor. Light streamed in from the left, and a breeze frolicked through, kicking up dust and teasing the draperies.

Dingy color faded from the imp's cheeks. A window up there was broken. He knew it. The harpy could get in.

"She hasn't yet, though," he whispered to himself. "Cause if she could, I'd be dead by now."

On the far wall, the drapes hung askew, one end of the rod high, the other low, revealing a dark space beyond. Darkness was no barrier to Grag. In fact, he considered it a friend, his night vision better even than an owl's. The crunching hiss of scales over rubble sounded in the hall, pushing him to scuttle behind the drape. He found himself in a long hallway, one he hadn't known existed.

The far end curved out of sight while three doors, one to his right, the other two on his left, marked the passage. He rushed to the first door, but it wouldn't open. He pushed harder, and was rewarded as it scraped along the floor, the weight behind it releasing suddenly with a mighty crash.

Grag's eyes widened as he stared around the small room. A spindle legged desk had fallen over, blocking the entrance. Thin tracks on the dust strewn floor showed where he'd shoved it out of the way.

The ceiling was cracked and bulging, but intact. The space held a narrow cot and decrepit dresser, as destitute and threadbare as the rest of the house was opulent.

"Shouldn't be surprised," he muttered. "My quarters ain't exactly the Peabody, are they? Would have thought Bletch had better, though."

Quickly, he rummaged through the dead half-troll's belongings, coming up with little of value beyond a tarnished silver flask and a few coins. These disappeared into another pocket as a scratching sound drew his attention upward.

Frozen by terror, he watched bits of plaster drift down, slowly at first, but then in larger, quicker chunks until a single, sharp talon poked through. He backed toward the door, tripped over the leg of the desk and went down hard. His arms splayed behind him as the plaster fell in, and the harpy shoved her head through.

"Found you!" she screeched gleefully.

How did she find me? As a rule, harpies have excellent eyesight, courtesy of their eagle forbears. But their sense of smell and hearing was no better than that of an ordinary human.

No time to worry about that now. She glared down at him through the hole she'd made. Another breath and she'd be through.

"Tanchra, don't kill me, please. I— I can pay you!" Arms and legs stretched out, his hands under the bed, Grag scrabbled for anything he might use as a weapon. But there was nothing but dust.

The harpy dropped on top of him. The lower half of her body was that of an eagle, with sharp-taloned feet. Her upper torso and head were those of a human female. Wings sprouted from her back, folded tightly against her body at the moment. Her arms were short but well-muscled, her three-fingered hands sporting long, thick claws.

"Pay me?" the harpy screeched. "You was supposed to free me. That was our deal! I give you my grandeagle's necklace, and you LET ME GO! But did you keep your word? No. Left me in the dark to die, is what you did."

Her sharp-nailed, stubby fingers scrabbled beneath his shirt, drawing blood and screams from him until she found the necklace. Shrieking in triumph, she hopped up onto the bed, scowling down at him as she slipped the gem-strewn gold around her neck.

"Now I have the necklace and my freedom. Now you die for your betrayal!" Tanchra pounced, missing Grag by a talon's width as he rolled under the bed. "Come out here and die like a demon, imp!"

"You've got what you want. Leave me alone," Grag howled.

"Not on your snot-soiled life." She poked under the bed as far as she could with her foreshortened arms, her nails grazing his toes as he squirmed deeper into the dusty dark until his back pressed against the wall. "Come out now and I'll give you a clean death." Tanchra's voice took on a persuasive lilt, as if she was offering a treat to a small child. "Quick and painless, I promise."

The last word came out a harsh screech, and Grag scuttled along the wall until he came to the corner, stopping with a sharp gasp as something poked him in the shoulder. Twisting around, he scrabbled under himself until his fingers grazed metal. The object was small, round and hard, with a sharp spike thrust through it. He pulled the article from under him and held it close to his bulbous eyes.

The bed lurched away from the wall, removing his safe haven. Tanchra shoved the furniture to the opposite side of the tiny room with a triumphant cry.

He was going to die. He knew it.

"I wish I had more time," he cried, sobbing as he curled in on himself, clutching the artifact in his grubby hand.

Very well.

Silence and misty half-light settled over him.

Tanchra was gone.

So was the ruin of his master's house.

Grag sat up and looked around, blinking at the predawn dimness. The moon floated only a foot or two above the roofline of the brownstones across the street, shedding her milky light over a street that looked both familiar and strange.

"What the hell?"

He was sitting in the middle of an empty dirt lot. A trailer occupied one side, stacked a good ten feet high with lumber and brick. A sign near the sidewalk proclaimed this as a Halston-Gingerton building site.

His internal clock told him it was somewhere around three in the morning, but that couldn't be right. It had been midmorning when Tanchra attacked him.

He poked at his chest and thighs, wincing when he hit a tender spot over his ribs where the harpy's talons had dug bloody furrows.

"Where am I? Magick is involved, or my name isn't Grag Anuch-Drakat." He rose stiffly, the object he'd found under the bed pressing coldly into his palm. Absently, he tucked it into a pocket with the other things he'd found in the house.

Turning in a circle, he gazed wonderingly at his surroundings. That was the Berman house to the left, with its black iron fence and giant shade tree with the first, tight leaf buds showing pale green at the branch-tips. The Quarterton place was on the other side, which meant...

He kept turning, taking in the increasingly recognizable surroundings. They'd looked strange because he'd never seen the block without the brooding shadow of Simon Blackwell's home falling over it.

The air was cool, but not cold. The wrong temperature for late November. Even the moon hung in the wrong place, now that he thought about it, and it was far past full, closer to new than it should have been. What happened?

Struck by a sudden wave of terror, Grag stumbled out of the lot onto the sidewalk and headed toward Central Park. He'd try to figure this out along the way, but desperation thrummed under his ribs, urging him to escape before the harpy came back.

Or the naga.

He shuddered and broke into a shambling run.