Bounty: An Urban Fantasy Novel

By J.C. Staudt

Wizard. Thief. Alchemist. Fraud.

I did it. I became someone else. I narrowly avoided the deaths of my loved ones, not to mention my own. Now I'm suffering the consequences.

A powerful being has left this world, and those less qualified are descending like vultures to consume what's left. This is the vacuum I'm living in, caught between one of the most vicious vampire covens in New Detroit and a goblin gang who wants me dead. But vampires and goblins are the least of my troubles. The Fae Council wants to keep my fiendish former master imprisoned, and it's going to take an army to convince them otherwise.

It's a good thing I know where to get one.

• Language: English
• Publisher: J.C. Staudt
• Release date: Nov 27, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370864232

J.C. Staudt

J.C. Staudt was born in Oceanside, New York, and moved to Virginia at the age of four, where he has lived ever since. He is a graduate of George Mason University, with a B.A. in Integrative Multimedia Studies, and he works for an Engineering and Consulting firm as a New Media Designer. He lives with his beautiful wife in a house lacking pets and children in Manassas, Virginia.

Book preview

BOUNTY

The Solumancer Cycle

Book Three

J.C. Staudt

Bounty is a work of fiction. Names, characters, organizations, places, events, and incidents either are products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, events, or locales is entirely coincidental.

Copyright © 2017 J.C. Staudt

All rights reserved.

Edition 1.0

Contents

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Chapter 33

Afterword

Chapter 1

The portal between worlds is a crackling bluish-purple, glowing against the night sky around a bright white corona. We crouch in the bushes behind a deep ravine where a nearby lake outlet trickles through a spillway to its connecting stream. Shenn is to my left, Ryovan to my right. Baz and Fremantle are hiding behind a berm across the clearing.

Contrary to popular science fiction, the portal doesn’t boast the perfect circularity of a Stargate or a multiverse-threatening interdimensional gateway as found in many superhero movies. It’s more like an amorphous blob of plasma until its occupants give meaning to its shape by popping out like wet toaster cakes. This is only the second time I’ve attended a crossing, so the sight of creatures random in number, size, and species being spat into the world is new and fascinating to me. I compare it to the mystery flavor of those little lollipops with the question marks on the wrapper. You’re guaranteed a surprise, but you never know whether it’s a good one until you’re tongue-deep in the flavor of it.

The flavors of the three creatures who tumble through the fabric of worlds amid the sounds and smells of a cool late-spring evening are dwarf, bugbear, and human. The dwarf rolls to its feet and charges, but the bugbear grabs the human by the leg and swings him like a club to batter the dwarf on the run. The two armored combatants tumble away in a wreckage of steel platemail.

The bugbear puffs its chest and roars, breath misting in the cool night air. Its bellow stops short as the creature looks around, noticing the change in its surroundings for the first time. The human and the dwarf stagger to their feet and do the same. Sometimes, I’m told, the trauma of the passage between worlds takes a second to set in. In this case, I can see it plain in their eyes. The two sides of this fight lose all aggression towards one another as they turn in circles, taking in the trees and the lake and the concrete riser sticking out of the water.

That’s our cue, says Ryovan. Let’s move.

My first crossing was a family of traveling elves. The protocol for that sort of encounter is simple enough; a simple meet-and-greet. Hidey ho neighbor, you live in a different world now, congratulations, sucks for you. The Guardians will typically give friendlies a ride to Misthaven, a halfway house where othersiders can convalesce, adapt to the new world, and regain their memories. We didn’t drive the family of elves there. They refused to be swallowed by our four-wheeled white metal beast, so they walked. And I’ve never been to Misthaven.

The place is run by a nephilim who calls himself Alan Magyar, and who Ryovan claims was a good friend of my father’s. What Calyxto is to the underworld, Magyar is to the heavens. He was born of a human father and a celestial mother, according to Ryovan. I’m looking forward to meeting the guy tonight if we can rein in the three newcomers in the clearing by the lake.

Before we can greet them, a dozen dark figures emerge from the trees and rush the three combatants. They’re lithe and feminine, dressed in black clothing with covered faces. I raise my detection spell. Fewer than half of them emit the blue energy of othersiders, but they all move with the same swift grace. They draw automatic firearms and gun down all three newcomers in a flurry of muzzle flashes.

I stand up to intervene, but Shenn grabs my wrist and pulls me down. When I start to protest, she shakes her head. The figures fall back the way they came and vanish into the shadows of the trees. The whole thing is over before I can process what’s happened.

Across the clearing, Baz and Fremantle come out from behind the grassy berm and take in the scene. Shenn and I follow Ryovan to meet them where the three bodies lay, steam rising from the bullet holes. I flick the safety on my rifle and sling it onto my back, kneeling to inspect the carnage.

The dwarf’s face, and the human’s, are frozen in hollow shock, the latter’s heavy plate-steel armor riddled with bullet holes. The dwarf’s armor is pristine, but his unprotected neck and face are slick with blood. The bugbear’s crude leather apparel did nothing to prevent her demise.

A wave of remorse crashes over me as I stare into their lifeless eyes. These three should’ve gone to Misthaven to be transitioned into their new lives. They might’ve made fine citizens, and done some good in this world despite the trauma of their relocation. Has this ever happened before? I ask.

Never, says Ryovan.

It was like they knew, says Baz. They were waiting for the portal to open, same as us.

Ryovan shakes his head. Impossible.

How does Mazriel know where the portals are going to appear before they open? I ask.

The Guardians look around at each other, but no one answers.

Hey. Did anyone hear me? How does Mazriel know—

Mazriel communicates with forces beyond our reckoning. Forces which, quite frankly, most of us want nothing to do with. It’s her thing. It’s what she brings to the table.

I’d like to get to know these forces. If they can reach across worlds, they can help me find my dad.

Ryovan looks doubtful. We’ve tried everything. It doesn’t work like that.

"Then how does it work? There’s got to be some way to make contact."

We’ve been over this, Cade. We want your father back as much as you do. I’m sorry if this sounds harsh, but I think it’s time you accepted his loss and moved on from it.

I thought I had.

Ryovan studies me with a concerned frown. Let’s get these bodies back to HQ so Janice can look them over.

I guess we’re not going to Misthaven House tonight.

Ryovan shakes his head. Another time.

An hour later we’re standing in Dr. Drummond’s operating theater with the three bodies laid out beneath white sheets on metal gurneys. Janice takes a long puff from a fat Cuban cigar and picks up a dump pan full of lead bullet fragments, giving it a shake. Nine-mil parabellum. In my professional opinion, judging by the quantity, dispersion, and points of impact, I’d say these were fired from submachine guns at close range.

We saw it happen, says Ryovan. What we didn’t see were the killers’ faces. There were around a dozen of them. Cade says they were about half othersiders and half normals.

They were elves, says Baz. I could smell their stink.

They were faster than any elves I’ve ever seen, I say.

Shenn looks offended, then nods, accepting my reasoning.

Did they look like elves? Janice asks.

They could’ve been, says Ryovan.

Personally, I think they were vampires, says Fremantle.

Baz shakes his head and folds his arms. I smelled elf.

Yeah, I agree, "vampires don’t use guns. They’ve got this thing called superhuman powers."

Whoever they were, says Ryovan, they killed with impunity. The bugbear was fighting the human and the dwarf, yet the murderers killed all three without hesitation.

How could they have known where to find the portal?

Maybe they didn’t, Baz suggests. Maybe it was a coincidence.

I give him a level look. Dressed in black. Late at night. Faces covered. Machine guns.

Baz shrugs. Just throwing out ideas, your highness.

You don’t have to call me that, Baz.

I cross the room to inspect the pile of items in the corner, everything the three othersiders had on them when they came through. Their weapons and armor are battle-worn, much of it rusty and nicked. All except the dwarf’s breastplate. A silver emblem in the center gleams with breathtaking luster, clean and unscathed.

Ryovan is curious. What is it?

I’m no detective, but that’s magical armor, broheim.

He inspects it. Think it has something to do with the murders?

Nope. They would’ve taken it. Just saying, don’t throw it in the incinerator. The human’s armor is riddled with bullet holes. This stuff is in perfect condition. The dwarf would’ve survived if they hadn’t shot him in the face.

Ryovan picks up the breastplate and turns it over in his hands. You’re right. Not a scratch on it.

Let me know if any other clues turn up. I’d better get home and get some sleep. Big day tomorrow.

Oh, that’s right, says Shenn, you’re going before the Fae Council.

Wish me luck.

Luck.

That’s helpful.

What time is your audience? asks Janice.

Nine a.m., bright and early.

I’ll be sending positive vibes your way.

Stop being so nice. You’ll hurt yourself.

She flicks me a bony middle finger.

That’s more like it. See you guys. Thanks for letting me tag along tonight.

My relationship with the Guardians of the Veil has been hit-or-miss over the last few months. I’m getting to know them. I’m starting to trust them; to understand the reason my father created them, and to identify with the tenets of their mission. Yet the more I spend time with them, the more I feel as though I’m being pulled in two different directions.

Abandoning Arden Savage’s life is not an option. Sure, I could disinfect the whole apartment, move into the hospital, and leave Arden’s fate in the hands of the Missing Persons Unit. But Lorne and Carmine have been through too much already. Losing a brother under mysterious and unexplained circumstances would break them. They’re both still trying to make sense of what happened to them this past winter, when they became thralls in the service of Gilbert Mottrov. They want to put the pieces together, and it’s driving them crazy that they can’t. I need to be here to help them process those traumatic events.

Familial relations aside, there’s a certain comfort I’ve derived from my newfound affluence. I have no desire to return to the life of paycheck-to-paycheck poverty I had before. In other words, I’m too big a dick to give up being filthy rich and do the right thing.

When I get home, Ersatz is sprawled on the couch belly-up, snoring smoke like a toy train engine. He’s dozed off watching TV again. The guy’s a walking, napping fire hazard. I can’t fathom how he’s managed to sleep on every piece of furniture in the apartment without waking up in his own flames.

If he were a dog or an especially docile cat, I’d plop down on the couch beside him and rub his belly. I can think of no better way to lose a finger, so I grab two pots off the hanging kitchen rack and bang them together over his head. He shoots awake, all spines and prickles. A wisp of flame escapes his nose, which I’m pretty sure is the dragon equivalent of peeing your pants.

What the—what’s going on? What’s happening? he stammers.

You’re sleeping on the job, buddy. Back before I had a TV you’d be awake before the front door was half open. Now sleep through every gunfight on Bonanza like it’s nothing. I ought to have you replaced. A five-pound Chihuahua could run tighter security than you.

He lays down, nestling his chin on his hands with a harried look. Best of luck finding a Chihuahua who can fly, cast spells, and breathe fire.

A dragon with obedience training would be a fair trade, I point out, setting the pots on the coffee table and sitting on the couch beside him.

Shame there isn’t a behavioral modification course for humans.

There is. It’s called prison.

On that note, have you prepared your statement for tomorrow morning?

I’ve got everything ready to go. I’ve been practicing in front of the bathroom mirror.

And you’re still planning to reveal your true identity to the Fae Council.

I nod. I’m taking Ryovan’s advice and going as myself. I know it’s counterintuitive to appear in public while I’m trying to keep a low profile, but if my father was as good a friend to the fae as Ryovan claims, my family name will lend me some credibility. I’m gonna need it. I don’t think they’ll roll over easily on letting Calyxto go free.

Neither do I. Which is why I maintain you’re wasting your time.

I promised I’d get him out.

You promised a fiend who’s done nothing but deceive you since the moment you met him. Further proof of your impeccable judgment.

He saved my life. I’d be a thousand-year-old revenant right now if not for him.

You’d also be a free man.

"I am a free man. He removed the second mark."

Yet your promise binds you to him all the same. How are you any less his slave than you were before?

This isn’t a master-slave thing. I’m helping him as a friend.

I fail to see the difference.

Obviously. I fold my arms and stare at the TV, where two detectives are questioning a hot lead en route to the climax of their one-hour timeslot.

How was the crossing this evening?

Terrible, actually. Thanks for asking. I tell him about the attack at the portal and the mysterious identities of its perpetrators.

Now that’s a crime with an uncertain motive if I’ve ever heard one.

No kidding. Never happened before, according to Ryovan. The attackers didn’t speak to the victims before slaughtering them, and they didn’t stick around to steal anything afterwards. They just gunned them down and took off. And they left the way they came, so it wasn’t like they were passing through on their way somewhere.

Ersatz wrinkles his mouth. I suggest you join the Guardians on a few more excursions. If this becomes a repeat performance, we may have a rather unwieldy problem.

It didn’t feel like a one-off thing. It felt premeditated. But I don’t see how it could be, unless foretelling the time and location of a portal opening is something any amateur psychic with a crystal ball and some black eyeliner can pull off.

It isn’t. You ought to dig deeper into how the Guardians are doing it.

Every time I ask they either brush me off with some vague answer or ignore me entirely.

Ersatz gives a measured sigh. They’ve certainly been secretive for a group who claims allegiance to you.

They claim allegiance to my dad. Until I’ve proven I can fill his shoes, they have every right to exclude me from any trade secrets they’re holding onto.

You were never meant to fill your father’s shoes. You’ve never ruled a kingdom or commanded an army. Your contribution to the Guardians will take its own shape.

Well I’m not about to win them over with my half-assed participation.

Then stop trying to win them over. Let them keep their secrets. The truth will be revealed in time.

Not if it’s a truth they think I’m better off not knowing.

Ersatz narrows his eyes at me. Elaborate.

As I’ve been talking with Lorne and Carmine about what happened with Mottrov over the winter, I’ve omitted certain things, for obvious reasons. Things they might not handle so well from a psychological standpoint. What if the Guardians are doing the same thing to me? Withholding information because they don’t think I can handle it?

I suppose it’s possible. Some knowledge is too powerful to be bandied about carelessly. The grimoires, for instance, contain certain insights capable of straining the unprepared mind to its limits.

The Guardians don’t have any of the grimoires. They would’ve told me.

Ersatz lifts an eyebrow. Would they?

Don’t go making me all paranoid. Mazriel is the one who tells them where and when the portals are going to open. It can’t be a grimoire she’s using. It must be part of her weird voodoo magic.

Trust them if you must, my prince.

You sound really smarmy when you say it like that.

It’s intentional.

I’d never accuse you of being an asshole by mistake.

I’m not an asshole. I’m long-lived. I’ve earned the right to berate you. Especially when you deserve it.

Geez. With friends like mine, who needs black eyes?

That reminds me. I spoke with your best friend today.

Oh yeah? How’s he doing?

Not well. How long has it been since you talked to him?

A few weeks, I think. What’s going on?

He’s not himself. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say he’s depressed. Possibly even having suicidal thoughts.

No way. Not Quim. He’d never do that.

Call him, Cade. Talk some sense into him before he does.

Chapter 2

I suit up the following morning with an ominous feeling looming over me. Not only am I still shaken up from last night’s attack; I’m worried about Quim and nervous as can be about my audience with the Fae Council. This is my only chance to get Calyxto released from his imprisonment and thereby fulfill the promise I made to him. After his obsession with a human girl named Helayne got him landed in fairy jail, Ersatz negotiated a temporary release so he could prevent me from being mind-controlled by the vampire who’d taken me as a thrall. In a roundabout way, I owe the half-fiend my life.

How do I look? I ask.

Like a brown-nosing schmuck who’s about to pucker up to the buttcheek of the Fae Council, Ersatz replies.

Achievement unlocked, I guess. Just trying to put my best foot forward. You know how long it took me to get an appointment with these jackasses.

I do, and I suggest you use it wisely. The fae are not to be trifled with.

I’ll try not to take Tinkerbell’s name in vain. I give myself another look in the mirror, modeling the brand-new black suit I bought myself last week. Most of the clothes in this apartment are fitted to Arden Savage’s measurements, so I needed a Cade-sized one for today.

See that you don’t, Ersatz advises. Saying Tinkerbell to a fairy is like telling a troll it ought to dye its hair pink. Pop culture references are never a wise idea.

Thanks for the pointer. Anything else I should know?

Many of the fae are diminutive in size. Don’t let that fool you. You should never underestimate the ability of a very small thing to create very large problems.

You’re evidence enough of that.

He gives me a flat look. Also, the Council won’t like you.

But I’m King Cadigan’s son.

You’re also not an othersider.

I take the Mas uptown, dialing Quim on the way but getting no answer. I arrive at company headquarters ahead of schedule, turning onto the main driveway of what amounts to a campus covering four city blocks. A stacked-stone sign welcomes me to the Gryphon Media Complex, Where Your Voice Meets Our Future. I prowl the four-story parking deck for a spot, only to end up in one half-covered in shade and adjoining the open roof.

Gryphon Enterprises owns every ad agency, TV station, newspaper, and radio station in the city. The layperson would never know this thanks to an assortment of subsidiaries and shell corporations structured to hide the media conglomerate’s monopolistic stranglehold on the news outlets of New Detroit. When I found out the fae controlled and vetted most everything I’d ever watched, heard, or read, certain things started to make sense. Like the number of times I’d seen stories about murders, vandalism, robbery, and assault whose explanations rang presumptuous at best. If an entire news media is structured around keeping a particular secret—like the existence of othersiders—you can be sure they’ll do a well-coordinated job of it.

Good thing I got here ahead of time; the place is a maze of buildings with identical silhouettes and little to differentiate between them aside from the signs posted out front. It reminds me of a college campus, though I never went to college and visited friends there seldom enough. There’s an air of creativity about the place, the sort of vibrant energy you only find at tech companies with forward-thinking management and unique productivity methods like letting people take naps in lounges full of giant beanbag chairs.

I bumble my way to the correct building, where the pixie receptionist gives me a glittery high-five and a pass to the ninth floor for receiving. The glass elevator takes me past a water tank spanning several floors in which merfolk swim like otters in a zoological exhibit. I take a wrong turn off the elevator and wind up in the accounting department, where a line of spriggans in gray-walled cubicles peck away on ancient print-roll calculators. When I ask for directions to the council chambers, they all point the wrong way on purpose. I enter the hallway and bump into a two-foot-tall clurichaun in a tricorne hat. He’s the leprechaun’s surly drunken counterpart. He excuses himself before ambling drunkenly up the wall and through a doorway on an adjoining ceiling panel.

In folklore, tales of the fae are rife with mischief. Most of them are said to exist solely for the purpose of leading travelers and other unsuspecting humans astray. That’s what Gryphon Enterprises excels at; making normals believe we aren’t living in a world full of myth and magic. They exist to provide secrecy to creatures whose well-being would be threatened if their existence ever went mainstream.

By the time I make it to the council chambers, its six minutes past nine. I’m late. Heads turn as the heavy door creaks open. I slip into an end seat along the back row, hoping I haven’t missed my turn to testify. Around the wide U-shaped table at the front of the room are seated an assortment of fae to make any mythologist cream their jeans. Among the assembled races are puca, pixie, elf, djinn, fury, nymph, sprite, rusalka, brownie, selkie, and even banshee. I’d hate to be in here when someone makes her cry.

At the center of the half-circle, the sidhe Elona Anarian presides in a raised seat wearing a dark ceremonial frock. She is a woman of exceptional beauty with long white-golden hair, gleaming emerald eyes full of cunning, and a countenance which shines with its own light. By no fault of my own, I’m captivated from the moment I lay eyes on her.

Cases proceed in alphabetical order, which puts Cadigan toward the front of the line. It’s only a few minutes before my name is called and I approach the podium at the front of the room to face the long curved table where the members of the legendary Fae Council await my testimony. It’s here that Calyxto’s fate will be decided.

Elona Anarian speaks to me first. Cade Cadigan. You are today present to plead on behalf of the prisoner Calyxto, a creature of the infernal realms accused of violating an honorbound pact.

A murmur ripples through the audience. An honorbound pact, like the fae themselves, is not to be trifled with.

Seth Sildret Wilder, continues the sidhe, a fairy of our own employ in good standing with this council, cites the half-fiend’s improper dalliances with a normal human woman as grounds for his indefinite banishment from the mortal realm. Am I to understand that you, Mr. Cadigan, as a human born of this world yourself, wish to furnish evidence to the contrary?

She’s putting me in a rough spot before I’ve said a single word. I guess you get pretty good at nailing people to the wall when your job is to sit around judging them all day. I clear my throat into the gooseneck microphone, which gives a brief squeal in