Cursing Fate: The Piero Codex, #1

By Vince Veselosky

Just because you can see the future coming, doesn't mean it won't run you over.

Mack is a sorcerer, a Fate-bender, who has spent his entire adult life dodging the Seers Guild authorities. Keeping tabs on their Fates helps him choose the best places to hide. Lately, he's been hiding at the bottom of a bottle of bourbon. He's content to stay there. Then one day another mysterious sorcerer casts a big, noisy, illegal curse into Mack's neighborhood. Suddenly the Seers Guild has thrown a dragnet over the city to nab the rogue sorcerer, and Mack is about to get caught in it.

Enter Recca Mann, a sexy private eye with razor-sharp eyes and a hidden agenda. She wants to enlist a freelance Fate-bender to help her catch the rogue first, and Mack fits the bill. Mack would rather hide in his bottle than risk his skin for a stranger's profit, but the Tapestry of Destiny says his best chance of a Fate outside a Guild dungeon is to take the job. The trick is, doing it without Recca finding out that Mack is on the Guild's most-wanted list.

With Guild tracers closing in fast, can Mack find the rogue before the Guild finds him? And if he does, can he trust Recca not to sell him out to the Guild for an extra buck?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Mindvessel LLC
• Release date: May 18, 2018
• ISBN: 9781948895002

Book preview

Chapter One

Right off the top, let's get one thing clear: I am not dead.

I mention that for two reasons.

First, because you might think you're reading one of those supernatural novels where the last page finds the protagonist floating face down in the water, and you find out that the narrator is his ghost. This ain't that.

Second, I mention it because, if you are not the type who thinks they are reading one of those supernatural novels, then you're probably hoping that I've been taken out of the picture, one less obstacle between you and the Piero Codex. If you're thinking that the Seers Guild fitted me with some nice cement shoes, sorry, they were the wrong size. Better luck next time. I spent a long time and a lot of magic trying to make people like you think I was dead, but that cat is now bag-free and never to be sacked again.

I can't swear I won't end up a floater one day, but I assure you that at the time of this writing, I am very much alive.

Which maybe raises the question, if I'm still alive and still protecting the Relic, why write this down?

Could be, I'm planning to hand it down as my legacy to some future worthy apprentice. Maybe, like the Simples, I'm trying to achieve some kind of immortality by recording it all. Or I might say it's for a happy future when the Guild's corruption has been burned out, and seers can live without fear of persecution from our own kind.

The truth is just this: writing it down helps me stay sane.

But, where to begin? Do I go five hundred years back to Da Vinci's apprentice and the origin of the Piero Codex? But what would be the point of that? It's all in the Guild Chronicles. Look it up.

Do I start with the screwed-up circumstances of my birth? Meh. This ain't a biography, and I, for sure, am not TMZ material.

Maybe I start with the murders and my going into hiding? But that story would have a lot of blank pages in the middle.

I think the meat of the story started when she showed up.

I was sitting in Murphy's Tavern on a Wednesday evening. It's a risk to stick your head up like that, and it's cheaper to drink at home anyway. But sometimes you just can't take staring at the same drab walls any longer. Even when they are the walls of your personal bomb shelter, and you don't know when the next bomb is going to fall.

I'm ready to tell you my secret now, Lilly, the bartender, whispered to me over the bar. She was wearing her usual ratty tank top. The ink she sported down both arms made her look like a walking mural. The metal ring in her eyebrow glinted in the spotty light of the bar. The other eye was mostly covered by the fall of her long, luxurious, neon pink hair.

I leaned in.

I see boring people, Lilly whispered, her deep brown eyes locked to mine. "They're everywhere. Walking around like regular people. They don't know they're boring!"

I smiled, that broad smile with the dimples, the one that Marina used to tell me made her all gooey, back when Marina still spoke to me. I was hearing the same conversation Lilly was.

Three thirtyish white guys in a booth, in the standard office drone uniform of khaki slacks and sky-blue button-downs, yammering on about enterprise goals and iterative development and how much they accomplished in their last sprint. One of them was complaining about their staffing model, another insisted that their organizational structure needed to better support business integrations. The third was emphatic about the company's digital transformation. I smirked. I could show them transformations that would make them wet their tighty-whiteys. They were all puffed up, and the more they drank, the louder and more forceful their whining got.

Lilly and I both knew that these losers were drinking at this bar on a Wednesday night because they hated their fucking jobs. When they left the bar, they would go home to the house they hated. Get nagged by the wife they hated. Walk the goddamn dog. And go to bed knowing they weren't getting any that night. Again. Maybe they would sneak off to the bathroom to have a wank before bed. They may as well spend their days wanking too, for all the power they had over their Fates. So, they drank. Loudly.

The bar was in a gentrifying neighborhood, and their type was showing up more and more often. It's getting so a man can't drink in peace. Next they'll put in big screen TVs tuned to some all-sports channel, and then I'll have to find somewhere else to drink.

I don't know if I like you or what, Lilly said to me in a low voice. But I know you ain't boring.

I took a sip of the Basil Hayden's she shoved in front of me. Me? I'm as boring as they come, I said. I set the glass down, but Lilly's eyes were not on the glass, they were on the runic script inked on the back of my hand.

Yeah, she said, her eyes meeting mine again. You want people to think that. Then she went off to pour a draft for another unhappy office worker.

The Redhead drew my attention the instant she walked in the door. She was natural, not from a bottle, with that creamy skin, slightly freckled, that natural redheads usually have. She was dressed casual, tight blue jeans, scoop neck t-shirt showing some impressive cleavage. She was worth noticing. But it wasn't her looks that caught my attention.

When she walked in, she sidestepped, so her back was to a wall, not the door. She did it casually, but the movement made my hackles stand up. I watched her eyes scan the room quickly, then sweep back more slowly, pausing on each face, and on each exit. This was not how a customer entered a bar. It wasn't even how a cop entered a crime scene. It was how a trained undercover agent entered a potentially dangerous room. It was how I entered a room.

One of those exits she marked was behind me to my right. Her eyes paused on me. No way I could make it without being spotted. Fifty-fifty she had a partner covering the back door anyway. It had been almost five years since a tracer had got close to me. As far as I knew, they were still off my trail. Odds were, she wasn't looking for me. I sat tight. Tried to look bored. Took a sip of my bourbon.

The khaki wankers paused their conversation to notice her as she walked to the bar. Then they got louder, hoping to be noticed. She ignored them.

The Redhead set her big purse on the bar, the side nearest the door, opposite me. That was not the kind of bag you used to carry a cell phone and a hair brush. It was a work bag.

What can I get you? Lilly asked. Just another new face to Lilly. She was getting used to them.

420? the Redhead requested.

Coming up.

Red pulled a file folder from her bag. When Lilly returned with the beer, Red asked, You seen this girl around here?

Lilly looked at the Redhead, not the picture. What are you, a cop?

Nope.

Lilly blinked. The Redhead laid down some green and picked up her beer, offering nothing else. Lilly glanced at the picture. Nah, she said. Don't know her.

Thanks, the Redhead said, sipping her beer. Keep it, she told Lilly. The pink-haired barkeep swept up the money.

Red skewered me with her gaze. Her eyes narrowed a little. I had been staring past her, rather than at her, but avoiding her eyes now would just look suspicious. I raised my glass politely. Took another sip of bourbon.

She picked up her glass and shouldered her big bag and walked to my end of the bar.

What about you? You seen this girl around here? She leaned forward against the bar, putting that creamy chest on full display, and placed the picture down in front of her. I was watching her eyes, emerald green and sharp as razors. This woman was dangerous.

Unfortunately, she was watching my eyes, too. And she noticed me not looking at her cleavage. So, she was onto me, as much as I was onto her.

She skip bail or something? I asked, still clinging to the idea that I could somehow appear casual.

Red shook her head no. It's a private matter. A family matter.

I was worried her gaze would drill clean through the back of my skull if I didn't look away, so I dropped my head and took a long look at the picture. The girl in the photo was a cheerleader type. High school aged I guess. Blonde, curly hair. Teeth that probably sent some orthodontist's kid to Harvard.

Never seen her before, I said. Red was looking me over real good. Her sharp eyes paused quite a while on the runes tattooed on my hand. Did she know what they were?

She nodded and reached into her bag. You look like the kind of man who would notice, she said. Who notices things. She held out a business card. If you do see her, give me a call?

She didn't slide the business card across the bar, like she had done with the photo. She held it up, in front of me. She wanted me to touch it. To take it from her hand. After more than a decade on the lam, I knew every trick in the book, and this trick was from page one. (Yeah, I know nobody says on the lam anymore. I watch a lot of old movies. Deal with it.)

The card was enchanted, imbued. Anyone with the sight who touched it was gonna get a splitting migraine for a second. Even if Red didn't have the sight, she knew a wince of pain when she saw one. Tracers have been using that trick to spot seers since Jane Austen's drawing room.

My hand stayed on my glass, which I raised again. And I'm gonna call… I read the name off the card …Rebecca Mann, Private Investigator, because… why? I'm a swell guy? You're a pretty girl? Maybe you'll go on a date with me? I sucked a mouthful of heat from my glass and let it burn for a second. Damn that was good bourbon.

Information is my business, she answered, her expression unchanged, her hand and the card still floating between us. I pay for it. When it's worth something to me. There was a long pause. My friends call me Recca.

Wreck a man, huh? I dropped my eyes to those soft weapons she had laid on the bar. I'll bet!

She smiled. It's more a commentary on my driving than my love life, I think. She laid the business card on the bar on top of the picture. It happens that, in my line of work, I occasionally have a need to hire freelancers. People who… notice things. I guess she had learned what she wanted to know, anyway. Maybe you do some freelancing?

I get by alright on my own, I said.

Recca Mann looked at my threadbare black t-shirt and then back at my face. Sure you do. You got a name, tough guy?

Lots of 'em.

She paused there for a second, waiting to see if I was gonna drop one. I didn't. She chuckled and whipped a bill out of her wallet and flagged down Lilly. Put this toward his tab, she said to Lilly, nodding my way. She started for the door, then turned and gave me a wink. Call me!

The khaki wankers got their nerve up and shouted at Red as she walked away. Hey, don't go baby! We have an extra seat here at our table!

Red shot a smile at the wankers that looked like a medieval shield deflecting a sword blow. Maybe another time, boys. I'm on the clock. I kept my eyes on her until the door closed behind her.

Lilly picked up the bundle Red had left: cash, business card, photo of the missing girl. As the khaki wankers got rowdy, she winced and shook her head. Those clowns are giving me a headache! I wish they would drink somewhere else. She flipped the business card over in her hand and to me she said, Sorry Mack. No personal number on the back. Guess she was all business. She dropped the card in front of me. Too bad, I thought she liked you. Hope she finds that kid, though.

Yeah? Why is that? I asked.

Because, she said, staring at the photo. Nobody stays missing forever, except the dead. That hung in the air for a couple of seconds like smoke from a dying cigarette. You want another one? Lilly nodded toward my empty glass. Then she held up the presidential portrait Red had left. It's on her.

In that case…. I let Lilly refill my glass and nursed it for an hour or so. I don't know why, but I pocketed the business card. Since Lilly had touched it, the enchantment had rubbed off, but I was still a little wary when I picked it up. You never know.

I cashed out and waited. When the khaki wankers got up to walk out, I followed them. They were my camouflage.

My house was a ten-minute walk, about half a mile northeast. I turned south. Didn't spot any tails. Didn't mean there wasn't one. Two blocks down was a grocery store. I went in. Soon as I was clear of the door, I made a dash for the back, cut through the storage room, hopped off the loading dock, hit the next street over, and turned north.

I zigged a couple more zags on the way home, spending as much time looking behind me as ahead. No suspicious double-backs. No repeated faces. I was clean.

If I had followed the rules, I would have packed my shit and skipped town that night. I should have. I should have kept my head down. Stayed under the radar. Found a new hole to hide in. Shoulda woulda coulda. I didn't.

I rationalized it. I figured, she was maybe a tracer, but she wasn't tracing me. Didn't know me from Adam. She wasn't a seer, as far as I could tell. Of course, you can't always tell. But she was definitely gnostic. She was a believer.

There are a few Simples who are aware of the occult world. Most hide in their basements. A few try to crusade for the light. That type never lasts long. Then there are the ones who just accept it and sometimes work it to their advantage. I figured she was one of those types. It was risky. If she knew what I was hiding, there was a pot of gold she could claim at the end of that rainbow. But I wasn't gonna tell. How would she ever know?

I don't know, maybe I was just so tired of those bomb shelter walls that I wanted the next one to drop.

Chapter Two

By the time I woke up the next morning, I had forgotten all about Recca Mann. I went through the motions of life like I did every day. Punched the alarm clock. Snapped the switch on the bare-bulb lamp teetering on the cardboard box that served as my bedside table. Rolled out of bed, a second-hand futon mattress piled with military surplus blankets of camo-green wool. It was late spring. The stifling humidity of Atlanta summer was threatening, but hadn't arrived yet. The nights were a bit chilly. The blankets were warm, if itchy.

My head had that familiar dull ache that amateurs call a hangover. Just another morning for me. I cranked the shower up to full boil and stood under it until the water ran tepid. That used to drive Marina crazy. She had always insisted on showering ahead of me, because she knew there would be no hot water left when I was done. Didn't have to worry about that anymore.

Stepping out of the shower, I reached for a towel. I had cobbled a linen shelf in the bathroom out of two-by-fours and cinder blocks. But the shelf was empty. It was laundry day. I dripped water across the bare concrete floor and dug yesterday's towel out of the olive duffel where I stowed my dirty laundry. Then I kicked the duffel back under the rickety folding table that served as my kitchen. The table held up a microwave oven, an electric hot plate, and an old-fashioned percolating coffee pot. I hauled the coffee pot into the bathroom to fill it. Dumped the coffee in. Set it on the hot plate to do its thing.

I did pushups on my knuckles on the cool concrete while the coffee bubbled. Then I poured a cup and opened the little apartment fridge. It contained five bottles of beer, four bottles of bourbon, and one bottle of vodka. But no cream. Whatever. I didn't mind drinking it black.

After gulping down some coffee, I grabbed my go-bag and headed up the stairs, out of the basement. It took me thirteen seconds to reset the wards and alarms on the door. I used to do it in under ten. I was getting slack.

I shot my eyes across the empty lot behind the dilapidated house. The lot was a sea of weeds growing up through ten thousand cracks in a field of ancient, gray asphalt, surrounded by an eight-foot chain-link fence that hung like a tattered curtain. On the other side, I could see that my bug-out vehicle was still intact. My car was a shitty little hatchback that was old enough to buy booze in this state. I rarely drove it. The vehicle was purchased under a false name, and my driver's license was fake. Getting pulled over by an overzealous uniform who needed to meet a quota would be bad news. You don't use your emergency escape hatch unless it's an emergency. I walked