Chapter 8 #2
So, I drew deep and pulled at my remaining well of magic, clawing at the ground.
I could feel soil caking beneath my nails.
Something was under there. Some spirit resided under the dirt, under the pipes funneling electricity and water and sewage.
The impression was massive, a resting giant slumbering.
What was it? The park? The spirit of the park, that used to be a vast swathe of undeveloped land? Would that be enough to save me?
My magic was low, nearly empty after the stunt with the water main, but there was enough to make a request.
I entreat you, who have seen yourself carved smaller and smaller, who are now bound by concrete and buildings, who have seen metal and plastic pipes run through you like swords.
The answer in my mind was slow and deep. I was waking something that had been asleep for years. It tasted like copper and grit in my mind.
Child of the Far Realm. Why have you interrupted my rest?
Dieter pulled my head back as he yelled at the wolves trotting up behind him. My heartbeat was loud in my ears and I couldn’t hear anything else over the sound of it. I took a shallow breath when he accidentally loosened his grip.
I would entreat on your generosity. The ones here mean me harm.
Your nature entreats on my generosity. The voice was final, abrupt, unhappy.
You know my people. You know we do not reside here. But they do, and they would do me harm. Will you help me?
In exchange for what?
A favor freely given. A favor from a fair-folk must have value to you.
The noise the voice made was low and thoughtful. It felt like dragging fingers through my brain.
What is your name, child of the fair-folk?
Parker Ferro.
I heard tires, they were pulling a van up. If I didn’t get away, they were going to kidnap me and my gruesome murder would be next.
That is what you call yourself. What is your name?
That’s the only name I have.
I accept your terms, child of the fair-folk. You will be in my debt.
What do I call you?
The voice didn’t answer, but the ground rumbled.
“An earthquake? Are you kidding?” one of the wolves said.
The shaking intensified, the ground seeming to ripple under us. It tossed me and Dieter aside, breaking his hold around my neck. I gasped, the air feeling like ice as I drew it into my burning lungs.
If the wolves noticed it was only where we stood in the park that was shaking—that the sidewalk and street beyond were still, they clearly didn’t know what it meant. Stumbling to my feet, I took two wobbly steps towards the interior of the park.
Dieter moved to follow, his gait steadier since he hadn’t been recently starved of oxygen. A crack formed in the earth, a canyon in the making. Dieter stumbled into it, his leg falling hip deep.
I scraped every bit of magic I had left and fed it to the ground. The spirit consumed it, intensifying the quake. It felt as though my bones were rattling.
Two of the wolves went to help Dieter, and the two that had been stuck in concrete arrived, their jeans torn and covered with gray dust. They approached me, but I was faster, letting myself roll with the movement of the ground.
If I could get farther into the park, I could hide, or let my scent fade and let the air hide me.
I sprinted for the grove of trees bordering the fence and almost made it.
The rolling of the ground faded as the spirit tired, and my magic wasn’t enough to prevent it from fading.
Something tackled into my legs and something else slammed into my back, driving all the air from my lungs. Dieter was shouting, “He’s got some magic going, knock him out.”
The two concrete-dusted wolves pulled me up, dragging me towards the van idling near the entrance to the park. I kicked my feet, trying to dig my heels into the ground, but it didn’t help against their physical strength. I was reminded of an old racist joke:
What do you call a weightlifter who goes hand to hand with a werewolf?
A chew toy.
Like I said, not the most politically correct joke.
Dieter held open the sliding door of the unmarked white van. He grinned at me. “Good work, pack.”
Tossing me in like a sack of laundry, they didn’t even bother to take away my bag.
I reached in and drew out a butterfly knife that I flicked open.
Before they could move, I stabbed the knife into the calf of the closest wolf, yanking it out at an angle that sliced his Achilles’ tendon. He went down and screamed.
The other one turned, and I knifed in his thigh, trying to get at his groin before he got my wrist and yanked back until my hand loosened on the blade. It thudded to the floor of the van and then I had two wolves sitting on me to keep me still.
“Jesus, who is this asshole?” one of them asked Dieter.
In the distance, near the playground, I saw a couple of moms pointing at the van and I realized they had called the police. It looked like a couple of uniforms had answered and they began to jog towards the van, guns out and talking into their radios.
The wolves piled in as the cops drew closer, shouting for the werewolves to freeze.
Dieter was the last one in, and he shouted, “Go!”
The van jerked into movement, sending us all sliding backwards. The wolves regained their balance, while I bounced like a pinball between them. Producing a thick coil of rope, Dieter snapped. “Just knock him out.”
“Night night,” one of the cement wolves said, his arm pulled back.
I felt a solid hit to the back of my skull and that was it, camera off, curtain dropped, lights out.