Fantasy Noir: Three Stories of Mystery, Murder, & Magic

By Peter Tarkulich

Step into the hardboiled world of Rick Walker, a private investigator with a penchant for scotch, dames, and magic. With reluctant help from a foul-mouthed demon, a nervous young diviner, and a fiery ex-girlfriend, Rick navigates his way through several cases, only to discover that they are all connected in some way.

In "Dark City, Dark Magic", brother of millionaire Frederick Billingsly is found dead, but was it suicide or magic-assisted murder? Frederick hires private eye Rick Walker to answer the question. With the help of the foul-mouthed demon, Beluosis, Rick takes the case. The question is - will he be able to solve the case and pay his rent on time?

In "Dames and Diviners", Walter Prescott is told that it was heart attack that killed his roommate, Jack Carradine, but he thinks otherwise. So Walter seeks outside help - and ends up with the magic-using, scotch-loving private investigator Rick Walker. The two embark on a journey for answers that leads them to a discovery that could mean the end of both of them.

Finally, in "Angel in the Shadows", life has gotten complicated for Rick Walker. Hiding from it all behind bottles of scotch, he finally emerges to take on a case for an old acquaintance. But the case may turn out to be his deadliest yet. With the help of an odd assortment of companions, Rick confronts his demons, both figurative and literal. With surprises around every corner and danger lurking in the shadows, Rick might need more than his charm to get out of this one alive.

"Fantasy Noir" collects the "Mystery, Murder, and Magic" series together. So grab a glass of scotch (neat, with just a splash of water) and follow Rick through all three cases.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Peter Tarkulich
• Release date: Feb 27, 2014
• ISBN: 9781310090356

Peter Tarkulich

Peter Tarkulich is the author behind the fantasy noir series "Mystery, Murder, and Magic", as well as the lighthearted fantasy series "Bardsworth University", based on his webcomic "Bardsworth".Peter lives in upstate New York with his wife, two kids, a cat, and a rabbit. In addition to writing and drawing he also loves cooking, home brewing beer, watching movies and cartoons, and generally living life to its fullest. His goal is to be as successful a Renaissance man as he can be.

Book preview

About This Collection

This book collects all three of my Mystery, Murder, and Magic novellas. If you've read any or all of the novellas, you may notice some changes here and there. I wanted to take this opportunity in collecting the works together to correct misspellings and grammar mistakes that I missed the first time around, smooth out some of the language, and fix some continuity errors (yes, there were a few; please don't try to find them). It still isn't perfect, but then, neither is Rick Walker.

Please enjoy reading about Rick's adventures. Perhaps there will be more in the future. There's still a lot more to explore in Rick's world.

Peter Tarkulich

Book One

Dark City, Dark Magic

I

Rain hammered against the smoke-hazed windows of my fourth floor office, the wind driving the giant drops against the cracked glass like Tommy gun fire. The rapping noise aggravated my already pounding headache. I wondered, not for the first time that morning, why I had bothered to come into the office at all. I would rather have been in my apartment curled up on my ratty cot with a bottle of hooch. I compromised by opening a bottle of cheap scotch that I had squirreled away in a desk drawer.

After I poured myself a generous portion, I faced the window once again and studied my reflection. The office might be a mess, but I took pride in my appearance. I brushed a loose strand of dark-brown hair off of my forehead and checked the closeness of my shaving job. Satisfied, I looked into my reflection's brown eyes and grinned. Cheers.

The alcohol took the edge off of my headache, but it lurked in the background, thumping like a bass drum. Turning back to my desk, I glared at the mountain of paper in front of me, wishing the alcohol would do something about it as well. It was a mixture of unpaid bills and junk mail. Mostly bills. Sick of looking at it, I swept the whole mess into a wire waste basket beside my scuffed and scratched desk. I could remove clean my desk from my to-do list, which came right after write a to-do list.

Reaching for a smoke, my fingers encountered a sadly empty shirt pocket. A sigh escaped my lips as I realized I was down to one pack and no green to buy any more. I pulled the final pack out of my cluttered desk drawer, opened the seal, drew out a cigarette with the reverence that a dying man would give to his final meal, and slid it between my lips. A flicker of flame appeared at the end of my index finger and I lit the tip of the cig with it. I shook my hand to put out the flame and took a long, steady drag.

The smoke blasted back out of my lungs as a knock at my door startled the daylights out of me. I had three guesses as to who it could be. One, it was the landlord, a gnarled old man with a high-pitched voice who would be asking for this month's rent. And last month's. Two, it was the fuzz, looking for answers to questions about unethical behavior on my last case. In my defense, I did solve the case, and anyway, I was just helping the client's daughter celebrate her becoming of legal age. Three, the long shot, was that it was a new client.

If I was a gambling man, I'd have been kissing the horse with the gimp leg.

After downing the rest of my liquid breakfast, stashing the bottle of scotch beneath my desk, and setting the burning cigarette on the edge of the ash tray, I called to my unexpected guest. Turned out to be guests. Two figures walked in, backlit by the sickly yellow lights of the hallway. One was a well-dressed man with a close-trimmed goatee, cropped black hair, and the smell of financial well-being. The other was a gorgeous pair of legs in silk stockings framed between the hem of a short black skirt and shiny black high-heels. I looked up to see the rest of her and wasn't disappointed - hourglass figure, silky midnight hair, full candy-apple-red lips. Her sea-green eyes caught mine and for a moment I was lost in their waters, until the voice of her companion pulled me to shore.

You're Rick Walker? he asked, making a face as if he smelled something terrible. I figured it was just disappointment with me, until I remembered I still hadn't taken care of that rat behind the bookshelf.

I picked up my still-burning cigarette and pointed it at the guy. Depends on who's asking and why. If you're here to give me money, I am. If you're here to collect it, my name is Manuel Ortega.

In my periphery, I caught the dame smirking, but the man narrowed his eyes and continued on. My name is Billingsly. Frederick Billingsly. My brother was murdered.

Shit on me, I knew that name. Word on the street was that Frederick Billingsly was a wealthy man with rich tastes. His menu usually listed rare magical treasures, and the wine list was chock full of illegal items. High-priced antiques, one-of-a-kind objects, unsanctioned enchanted artifacts. Things had just gotten very interesting.

My condolences on your loss, I said with as much sympathy as I could fake.

The police think it was suicide, but I knew my brother. There's just no way he'd take his own life.

And I'm inclined to believe your word over the police's, I said, gesturing for the two of them to sit down in front my desk, as the cops don't know their blowholes from their assholes. I took a drag on my cig and leaned over the desk. So why me?

The two glanced at each other briefly before Freddy answered. We think magic was involved.

My right eyebrow shot up. Magic, huh? I reclined in my seat, tucked the cigarette between my lips, and folded my arms over my chest. All right, you got my attention.

Henry, my brother, lived with us on our estate. Two days ago one of our servants found him dead with a gun in his hand. A gun out of my own collection, I'm afraid. Freddy's resolve wavered a bit, but he marched on like a trooper. He had been shot in the head. There was a note in his handwriting that said, 'I'm sorry, I can't live this lie anymore.' The police chalked it up as a suicide, and I very nearly did, too. Except that there was no motivation for him to do it. And because I know for a fact that magic was involved in some way. You see, I happen to own a thaumotector. I drew in a sharp breath, which Freddy noticed. So you know what it is?

Yeah, and I know there are less than a hundred of them in the entire world.

Yes, well, I checked the thaumotector on a hunch and it registered a small trace of magical residue in the room. Unfortunately, I lack the knowledge and skills necessary to do a thorough examination with the device. It's merely a part of my collection. But regardless, I don't practice magic, my wife doesn't practice magic, and my brother certainly didn't. So where did that residue come from?

I didn't answer. The only thing that had gotten my attention was the revelation that this woman was Freddy's wife. I had figured on that, but there had been the hope that she was a sister or daughter. I had already been in enough trouble involving clients' wives in the past, so common sense dictated keeping myself away from her. But after a covert glance of her plunging neckline and the scenery peeking over it, I told my common sense to pack its bags and take a vacation.

Through great effort, I managed to shift my focus back to the case and asked, Did the fuzz bring in any diviners to the crime scene?

Freddy shook his head. No. They took one look and declared it suicide. Open and shut.

After a final drag, I stubbed out my cigarette and dropped the remains into the ashtray, picking up my pack without thinking about it. Not a surprise. Cops don't like divvies. You can't hide anything from 'em, and cops always have something to hide.

I offered a smoke to Freddy, who politely declined. His wife, however, pulled one from the pack with beautifully slender fingers decorated with dark red nails. I lit the tip of it for her with my finger, at which her eyes sparkled with amusement, and she took a slow, sensual drag from it with her luscious lips. What I wouldn't have given to be that cigarette.

Can you ease my mind on this, Mr. Walker? Freddy spoke, scattering my lustful thoughts. Can you figure out if it was truly suicide or a murder?

I leaned as far back in my chair as I could and took a drag, holding it a moment with a look of thought on my face. There were no thoughts to be had, however; I needed the money, so I needed the case. With a deliberately slow exhalation, I watched the smoke rise into the air and dissipate before I answered.

Mr. Billingsly, this office may not look like much, and I may not look like much - outside of my good looks of course - but my talents are top notch. I can give you an answer. But I'm going to need time and I'm going to need resources.

Resources?

Money. I ask for half my fee in advance to cover possible expenses of the case. Any expenses incurred will be added to the final half of the fee. Expenses was a fancy way of saying pay-offs and bribes. Freddy caught on and nodded eagerly.

Whatever it takes, Mr. Walker.

Please, call me Rick. For a case like this I ask for twenty-five and double-ohs up front. Give me a week to get back to you. If you don't hear from me in a week, it means I'm dead. I wouldn't worry, though, since that doesn't happen very often.

Freddy gave me a nervous half-smile and then began writing out a check. As his pen scribbled away, I stole another glance at his wife. She took a drag, pursed her lips, blew the smoke upwards, and smiled at me. I returned it. God, those lips were like fruit and I wanted to taste them.

"Two thousand five hundred dollars, Mr. Walker. Rick. Freddy handed the check to me. I stared at it for a moment despite myself; it had been a while since I had seen a number that big on a check. Payment for spying on cheating spouses just isn't the same, though the job itself can be fun. But fun doesn't pay the bills. If you get back to me in less than a week, you'll get the other half plus another five grand." My head snapped up. There was no trace of humor or deception on Freddy's face. I nodded, excited at the prospect of a ten-k job.

Pocketing the check, I switched myself to business mode. Before you leave, I have a few questions for you. I leaned over the desk, hands folded in front of me. First, where is your brother's body?

It's in the downtown morgue.

I resisted the urge to sigh in frustration as I realized what that meant, and I continued with the questioning. Who else knew your brother well? Character witnesses, if you will.

Well, besides myself, my wife Evangeline. Finally, she had a name. He also had a business partner, Danny Coleman. He was Henry's best friend. Any one of us could answer questions for you.

Good. Do the cops have the suicide note and the gun?

Yes, they took them as evidence of course.

Nothing like a dangerous challenge. Lastly, can I stop over to look at your thaumotector?

Do you know how to use it? the man asked, his eyes lighting up.

I know enough to get by, I shrugged. Enough to get a little more information from it.

Excellent! Yes, please, come by and have a look. Anything you need. My eyes darted to Mrs. Billingsly on their own accord. She caught the look and winked.

The two of them stood up and I followed suit, shaking hands with Freddy. I'll start this afternoon, Mr. Billingsly. You got a card?

He procured a brushed-steel business card holder from his breast pocket, flipped it open, and offered one to me. Can I ask where you'll start your investigation?

Thrusting the card into the right pocket of my frayed dress slacks, I answered, Probably the morgue. Your thaumotector detected magical residue in the room, but I want to check the body. There might be some there, too.

Freddy nodded. I never thought of that. Good luck. And thank you.

The two of them left, but my eyes saw only one. She turned her head ever so slightly and gave me another wink. It wasn't until the door closed that I noticed the black lace handkerchief resting on her chair. Feeling a smile stretching the sides of my face, I walked around my desk and picked up the souvenir. The scent of her perfume wafted upward to my nostrils and I reverently tucked it into my shirt pocket.

When I realized what I had to do next, the smile disappeared. On instinct, I placed my hand on my chest, finding the medallion resting against my breastbone beneath my shirt. Had to be sure. I proceeded to pull a small black box out of a locked desk drawer, and from the box's padded interior I pulled a piece of white chalk. Giving the floor in front of my desk a cursory dusting first, I drew a circle and surrounded it with various runic symbols. When was the last time I had summoned Beluosis? A year and half ago, I muttered to myself, resting on my heels and dusting my hands. The Timmons murder.

I maintain relationships with a number of demons. One is smoking, another is drinking, and another is my weakness for a healthy-looking dame. And then there's a horned son-of-a-bitch named Beluosis, an actual demon who resides in a nondescript part of Hell. You see, I've never been good at divining. Just never had the patience for it. But for some reason I was very good at demon summoning. I guess that says something about me. So, with the help of a medallion I swiped from one of my professors at the Academy of Magic Arts, I call Beluosis in as a partner on cases that require a good amount of divination.

I recited the words of power, gestured my fingers in a choreographed pattern, and, in a blast of fire and smoke, there he was, all seven feet of glistening crimson muscle.

You, he growled through his fangs. His yellow cat eyes narrowed and I could feel the heat of his hatred flaring from them. The tips of his curled horns scraped the ceiling and caused flakes of paint to drift down onto his smooth scalp.

Nice to see you too, Bel.

I was busy, meat sack.

Oh yeah? Doing what?

Making a man dance by using his intestines like marionette strings.

Sorry I asked.

You still have the medallion?

Afraid so. I pulled it up through my collar and waved it from side to side.

A heavy breath reeking of sulfur escaped the demon and his shoulders slumped. All right, what did you call me up here for? And kill the damn chalk circle, will you?

I bent down and dusted away part of the circle and Beluosis stepped out, taking a seat in the chair that Freddy had been sitting in. The poor thing creaked under the weight of the demon. I offered a cigarette, but he waved it away impatiently.

Murder, I finally answered.

My favorite sin. What do you need me for?

There's a dead body at the morgue that I need you to examine for traces of magic.

The demon grimaced. You're kidding. That's it?

No, but one thing at a time.

Payment? he asked, raising an eyebrow. Well, he didn't have any hair, so it was really just a lump of skin above his eye that rose.

Technically, I didn't need to pay him. Since I was the one who summoned him and I had a demon-protection medallion, he was in service to me. But giving him something in return made him a lot easier to work with. I reached into a drawer and pulled out an unopened bottle of scotch. We did share a common love, and the demon's passion for scotch surpassed mine. Apparently, you can't get any in Hell. And Mom always warned me drinking was a sin. Go figure.

I handed the bottle to him and he barely examined it before slamming it onto the desk. Fuck this piss-water. Give me the good stuff. The stuff in your safe.

How do you know I have any good stuff in there?

Because you don't make enough money to warrant a safe and the only other thing you care about is women. So unless you got a woman in there, crack that thing open.

I struggled to contain an agitated groan. That bottle was going to be for a special occasion, whatever that might be. But, I reminded myself as I crouched down behind my desk and worked the combination dial, ten thousand dollars could buy more scotch. A lot more.

I pulled the door of the safe open and extracted a bottle of thirty-year-aged single malt. The demon handled the bottle with kid gloves, cracked open the seal, and took a pull. His eyes closed in ecstasy. Now that is so good, it should be a sin.

II

The area where the downtown morgue was located was a place most people avoided, but there were a few hurrying through the rain-soaked streets. Thankfully, demons have the ability to shroud themselves in illusion to take the shape or form of whatever they need to. I didn't want to think about what sorts of things Beluosis had become in order to torture his victims in the pit. At that moment, he was just an average-looking Joe in an overcoat walking next to a slightly more disheveled-looking Joe. We were both holding umbrellas that did little to keep the rain at bay.

I hate this, growled the demon, hunching miserably under his umbrella.

You're probably due for a bath anyway.

You're one to talk, meat sack. I've been downwind of you for three blocks. There are parts of Hell that smell better than you do.

I didn't respond because we had reached the back door of the morgue. Overhead, an ancient halogen light buzzed and occasionally flickered, illuminating the worn metal door. I grabbed the knob, muttered a couple of words in the language of magic, and heard a click. A custom spell, devised by yours truly. I may not have been the best student at the Academy, but I was creative.

We stepped in, placed our umbrellas against the wall, and shook the water off of our coats. A twinge of apprehension began to build in my stomach as we made our way down the empty hallway towards the front of the building. There were three