It looks like The Grimnoir Chronicles: Hard Magic, will be out from Baen in spring of 2011, so in the earlier part of the year. When I know the month, I’ll let you guys know ASAP.  The feedback on the snippit rampage was excellent.

Also, I’ll finally be making it back down to the south. I’ll be attending LibertyCon in Chatanooga the first week of July.

Last Friday I went ghost hunting. Yes, I know that sounds weird, but I’m also an accountant who writes novels, shoots guns from helicopters for fun, and has eaten some stupid things on dares. Basically I like to try new stuff.

I met Tom Carr of Wasatch Paranormal a couple of years ago at ConDuit. Tom hobby is talking to himself in the dark in the hopes that dead people will respond. He’s a paranormal investigator. He did a panel where he talked about ghost hunting and played some of the audio that he’d caught over the years. I found Tom to be a funny and insightful guy, and when he started inviting some of the local authors to come along on a hunt, I took him up on it.

Now I’m a skeptical kind of person. I’ve never seen a ghost. My personal religious beliefs account for that kind of thing, but it wasn’t anything I’d ever thought about a lot. My knowledge of ghost hunting was based entirely around watching the TV show on Sci-Fi (excuse me, SyFy, because that is the dumbest marketing change I’ve ever seen).  I will admit, that I enjoy that show, but mostly tuned in for the last couple minutes for the video and audio reveals.

I wasn’t expecting to see anything, hear anything, and I mostly figured that I would go out and freeze my butt off in the dark, but like I said, I like to try new things. My wife asked me if I wanted to take our video camera, but since I wasn’t going to see anything, I was probably just going to drop it and break it and therefore feel stupid, so I left it home. (which I came to regret later).

I met Tom and his crew from Wasatch Paranormal in Tooele. We were joined my fellow fantasy author, Paul Genesse. www.paulgenesse.com I’ve known Paul for a few years, great guy, great writer, and I’m happy to say that he’s going to have some good news to announce here pretty soon about his writing career. Paul’s background is in cardiac medicine, so he’s a pretty analytical person. So I reasoned that at least two of us out there would be bored.

Hoo boy, was I wrong.

We travelled to Mercur, which was an abandoned mining town. The town itself is gone, but parts of the cemetery are still there. Tom and his crew liked this place, because they had gotten some interesting things on tape. It is considered one of the most haunted places in Utah, and many ghost hunters travel out there in the hopes of spotting something.

Mercur is an eerie place. Many of the graves have been fenced off, but the majority of them have just kind of been reabsorbed into the ground, so even as you are wandering around, you’re probably walking on someone.  According to the records there are over a hundred people buried there, but only forty or so are marked off. There is only one headstone still standing, and of course, it is for an eleven year old girl, and the locals keep leaving baby dolls on it, which I found kind of creepy. (at first).

Absolutely nothing happened for the first couple of hours. It got darker. It got colder. We wandered around. All of us were wearing digital recorders. I like wandering around in the desert at night, so I was cool with that though. That’s probably one reason that I like living in Utah.

Then we got to this one spot where many people say they’ve had strange things happen to them. Some “psychic” from an earlier trip said that they felt this low spot had once had a cabin on it, and the dirt was up on the walls for insulation.  Being a farm-kid, (and therefore understanding that water likes to go downhill) that took me all of thirty seconds with my stupidly bright flashlight to debunk, because if there was a cabin in that spot, it was because whoever lived there really liked to be damp.

But there is something weird about that particular spot. WP brought a K2 meter. If you’ve ever watched one of those ghost hunting shows then you know how they work. They measure fluctuations in electromagnetic fields. Many ghost hunters believe that the supernatural has some effect on electromagnetic fields, so by using the meter they can pick up fluctuations. In layman’s terms, it is a little box with a flashing lights on it.

Various things can set off the meter, like radio waves, cell phones, magnets, that kind of thing. For the last few hours the K2 hadn’t done anything. It would occasionally flash once in a great while, probably from a random neutrino or something, hell if I know.

So we’re now at this low spot, and Tom suggested that we do an EVP session. (Electronic Voice Phenomenon) Basically you ask questions, and hope that ghost happens to be hanging out there so it will answer your questions, and you get it on the digital recorder. We start doing this, and I feel a little silly, but hey, it’s cool.  Then the K2 flickered.  So somebody said, hey, if you’re here, come over and touch the little green light.

So it goes off again… Tom said, fine, let’s talk. Touch the green light once for no, and twice for yes.  We then proceeded to have a five minute conversation with a dead guy.

Okay, I’m a skeptical kind of guy. My initial thought is that this is either A. Random electrical interference that is just happening to coincide extremely closely in timing with our questions. Or B. It is rigged somehow. Then somebody asked a question, that was kind of a double negative, that confused me, and I’m still alive. So far, everything had been two clear flashes all the way, or one clear flash all the way, green-yellow-red.  The nebulous question got at green-green-yellow-huh?  And for the first time, I thought, hmmm… maybe we’re talking to a dead guy. 

It was a very convincing conversation. 

So when we got back to the “safe area” (i.e. place with fire for warmth, and snacks) I checked the K2 meter. I reasoned that the most obvious way to manipulate that conversation would be by pushing a button on the box. There is only one button. Off/On. And when you shut it off, the little green light goes away completely. The light never went away, so it wasn’t that.  Nothing else came near the box, but I could set it off by putting my cell next to it and turning it on.  However there was no indication that anything ever came close to the box, and the operator’s hands were visible the whole time.

Okay, so moving on, as the night went on, more people began to freeze and left, so then there were only five of us left. It was quieter, and then it got weirder.

We had two more conversations using the K2. I won’t go into a ton of details, but either I spoke with a dead Italian immigrant miner who happened to like guns and found it great that I was carrying a gun though it looked different from what he was used to and he personally preferred revolvers—OR—I am actually able, through my psychic powers of wishful thinking able to manipulate the Earth’s magnetic field on demand with my brain in a pattern that makes for a very convincing Q&A session.  Because which one of those sounds less far-fetched?

And to make it weirder, remember, I’m not the ghost hunter, I’m the skeptical guy who thought doing this sounded fun.  The 2^nd conversation was my doing.  We were blundering around in the dark, and two of us had thought that we’d seen something moving in the bushes. I assumed it was probably a rabbit.  So I walked over by myself to where I’d seen the shadow to see if there were tracks (ground was soft, since it was still a little damp from thawing, and I’ve killed a lot of animals, and I’m pretty good at spotting tracks) because that would be “debunking” and it made me feel smart.

Only when I got over there, I got this really weird feeling. All of a sudden the air got oddly still. All the hair stood up on my legs. “I said, hey Tom?”  and I got “Yeah, I’m on my— Whoa! Did you see that?” Apparently the three people behind me saw something move between me and them.  Okay, now I’m a little weirded out, but then the K2 went nuts and we ended up having another conversation.  (this time the K2 was being held by a different person).  

Oh, and I forgot the part about how we ended up on guns. This is Utah. We’re all armed, all the time. (and don’t you forget it! Red State Boo Yah!)  Tom was carrying a gun. Earlier in the evening, he jumped, because his Springfield XDM had shifted in its holster by itself. (we did actually get the rattling sound of the holster on audio right after an EVP of what sounds like a groan or a moaning noise).  Of course, this didn’t happen to me, so I can’t say what happened exactly, but it sure made him jump.  (I’m pretty sure he had on a Blackhawk, excuse me BLACKHAWK!, Sherpa with the finger lock, so BLACKHAWK! can now advertise that their retention system is ghost proof too)

So that’s how we got to the gun question. Tom asked if the “person” we were talking to had been the one to play with his gun. Very clearly, one full flash. No.  Okay, then, did somebody else try to move my gun? Yes. Are there more than one of you here? Yes. Are there more than two of you here? Yes. Are there more than three of you here? No.  Are there three of you here? Yes.

Okay… Now we’ve wandered into strange territory. There are only five of us present. I can see everyone’s hands. No one else is anywhere near us. Nobody is waving electronic devices or magnets around the box to set it off and, oh wait, yeah, I’m the one that started this one… Okay, my skepticism just took a kick to the teeth.  

But wait, there’s more. After clustering around the fire to stay alive, shooting the bull and laughing, I hear very clear and very loud footsteps coming up on the rocks behind me. (and keep in mind, my hearing sucks).  In fact, several of us heard them. Most of the people had left earlier, so I turned fully expecting to see that somebody had forgotten something and had returned. There was nobody there. So I took my 120 lumen Streamlight and I lit the hillside up. Nothing. I ran to the edge and shined the light down into the ravine, figuring that it must have been a deer. Nothing. I’ve used this flashlight to spotlight coyotes. There was no cover big enough to hide anything large enough to make that kind of noise. But I sure as heck heard it.

Then three of us went out. Tom the ghost hunter, and the two guest writers, Paul and I. And guess what? This time we have a K2 conversation with a little girl, who apparently thinks it is great when people leave dollies on her grave. Tom agreed to leave one for her the next day.

Okay, that’s it. I’m done. Good night.

It was an interesting experience to say the least.  The time between those three Q&A sessions, the K2 did nothing. I was never at any point scared, but I would describe the emotions I felt at the three different times as 1. Huh?  2. Weird… and 3. Awww, sad.  Well, the I’ll admit, the footstep incident was creepy, yet exciting. Okay, so my honest opinion? Mercur is flippin’ haunted.   

Tom’s organization: Wasatch Paranormal http://www.wasatchparanormal.com The website is under construction, but he does put up all the EVPs he’s every caught on there. And he’s got a ghost hunting podcast called Residual Haunting http://www.asprn.com and Tom’s got a book out about how to conduct your own ghost hunt http://www.lulu.com/content/paperback-book/talking-to-yourself-in-the-dark/8352589

The snippiting rampage draws to a close. This  is the last free sample chapter from my upcoming 2011 novel, The Grimnoir Chronicles: Hard Magic. I do not yet know the release month.  If you are just joining us, the links to the previous chapters are below.  I’ve just got one request. Please post in the comments of this thread and let me know what you think, if you’d like to get this, and if you are interested in the world of TGC.

Chapter 1 http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2010/04/07/7-days-of-grimnoir-sample-chapters-from-the-grimnoir-chronicles-hard-magic/

Chapter 2 http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2010/04/08/the-grimnoir-chronicles-hard-magic-chapter-2/

Chapter 3 http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2010/04/08/the-grimnoir-chronicles-hard-magic-chapter-3/

Chapter 4 http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2010/04/09/the-grimnoir-chronicles-hard-magic-chapter-4/

Chapter 5 http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2010/04/11/the-grimnoir-chronicles-hard-magic-chapter-five/

Chapter 6 http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2010/04/12/the-grimnoir-chronicles-hard-magic-chapter-6/

 

Thanks for reading, – Larry

 

MAGIC LEADS TO TERROR – City Firemen were unable to contain the FIRE that ripped through a Mar Pacifica estate on Sunday evening until there were only charred remains of the home, belonging to famous big game hunter L.S. Talon. A TERRIBLE DISCOVERY was made once the DEADLY flames were extinguished. So far, SEVEN human bodies have been recovered from the scene. Local residents say that there was a great commotion and much GUNFIRE before the conflagration spread.  RUMOR is that Mr. Talon was a supporter of MAGIC and was himself an ACTIVE. He has been missing since Sunday and is believed to be amongst the DEAD. 

Article, San Francisco Examiner, 1929.

 

 

 

 

Chapter 7

San Francisco, California 

 

The address on Grandpa’s note was on the far west side of the city. The neighborhood was called Richmond, and a lot of things must have changed from when Grandpa had drawn his little map. The area was filled with new houses, stores, and churches. Every now and then they would pass an area that was nothing but sand dunes, but then quickly enough there would be more homes. Some of the larger places had been started, but then abandoned when the developer’s money had run out along with everyone else’s.

“Lots of Jews and Irishmen in this part of town,” the driver told Faye helpfully. “The Russians built a great big church up over that way.” Faye just kept watching out the window. As Grandpa had always said, her brain would just get to spinning sometimes, and the real world would fade away. She lost track of time as the town turned into suburbs, and then into an area of gentle green hills as they went south.

She snapped back to reality as the cab stopped. “We’re here. This is the address you gave me.”

“This? This is it?” she asked, staring out the window. “Are you sure?”

“Yeah,” said the driver. “Not what you were expecting, I guess.”

There had been a house here once, that much was obvious, a really large one from the remains of the foundation that was poking out of the ground. Weeds had grown up over the crumbling brick and what had once been a big chimney stood like a monolith.

“Looks like it burned down a long time ago,” the cabbie said. “You want me to take you back?”

There was a strange smell in the air when Faye stepped out of the cab. It was kind of fishy but not too offensive. It took her a moment to realize that she was actually smelling the ocean for the first time. This couldn’t be it. This had been her only clue from Grandpa. She started to wander toward the ruins.

“Lady?”

There had once been a fence of iron bars around the property, but whatever had engulfed the house had been so hot that the metal had softened and bent, and now the fence just looked lopsided. She ran her fingers across the bars and they came away orange with rust.

“Hey, lady! Pay me,” the cabbie growled.

“Oh, sorry,” Faye mumbled as she returned to the cab and carefully counted the money out exactly. The cabby looked at it in disgust before driving off, and it was only a moment later that she remembered Gilbert warning her that people in the city also expected tips.

The gate was lying in the weeds. The grass was hip deep on what had once been a lawn. Faye thought that she could just barely smell the ash as she gingerly put her weight onto the charred boards of what had been the porch, and it reminded her of another, more recent, fire. She noticed that somebody had etched strange symbols into the crumbling floor, and she stepped over them carefully.

There was nothing else there.

Somehow she knew that something bad had happened here, something worse than the fire. Lives had been lost in this place. Death was in the air. 

“I’m sorry, Grandpa. I didn’t expect this,” she said as she slowly turned around. “I thought maybe somebody around here would help me.” She had been so certain that the address would hold the answers that she had not thought about what she would do next if there were no answers to be found. She was on the outskirts of a strange city, had no friends, and no idea what to do. She picked out a pile of bricks and sat down.

Why am I here?

Faye wasn’t sure. Grandpa hadn’t even really given her any last words, he’d just choked out half a sentence before dying, given her some weird metal thing, which she’d managed to already lose half of, and now she was just alone. She wanted to cry, but she felt like she’d already cried all her tears, and now she was just all dry and hollow inside.

A fat brown squirrel crawled up onto a nearby board. It cocked its head at her curiously, as if wondering what this strange human girl was doing sitting on some ashy bricks in the middle of its forest.

“Hello,” said the squirrel.

Oh, great, now I’ve gone crazy.

“Hi,” Faye responded.

The squirrel just kept looking at her, twitching nervously like squirrels do, and for a minute Faye thought that maybe it had just sounded like the little animal had spoken. Grandpa had always said that she got her brain spinning too fast sometimes and that if she spun it too hard it might break. The squirrel examined her for what seemed like an abnormally long time, and Faye started to doubt that she’d heard anything at all, and felt stupid for talking to it.

“Nice ring,” the squirrel said. Its voice didn’t seem to match, like the sound wasn’t coming from the animal, but through it. It had a deep, scratchy, male voice. “It set the ward spells off. Where’d you get it?”

“My Grandpa gave it to me,” she answered, holding up her hand to show off the black and gold band. She could have sworn the squirrel nodded thoughtfully. “He gave me a list with some names on it. I’m looking for somebody named Pershing. Could you help me, little squirrel.”

“We’ve got a live one at the old place,” the squirrel said, like it was talking back over its shoulder. Faye looked into the grass for other squirrels but didn’t see anything else hiding in the grass.

“Are you okay, Mr. Squirrel?”

“You ain’t from around these parts, are you, kid?” asked the squirrel.

“Is it that obvious?”

“Well, yeah, actually…” The squirrel twitched and swiveled its head back toward the road as it sensed something. A large black automobile was coasting to a stop on the road. Its whiskers twitched violently as the doors opened. “Shit! If it ain’t some Imperium mother-fuckers!” exclaimed the squirrel, then it swiveled back to her. “Damn it! Hide, girl! Hide! Go!” Then it leapt off the board into the grass.

Faye watched the profane little animal disappear, then switched back to the car. Three men had gotten out and were heading straight for the fallen gates. They reached into their coats and came out with guns. She scrambled behind the pile of bricks and ducked down low. It was just like what had happened to Grandpa, and she realized that she was shaking uncontrollably.

She could hear the crunching of the grass as the men moved. They were obviously city-folk, not hunters, loud and clumsy. She risked a peek around the side of the bricks, and the closest was going to be on the porch in seconds. And there, right in the soft ashen wood, clear as day, were her footprints, leading right to where she was hiding.

“Psstt. Over here.” The squirrel’s head poked up out of the weeds. “Stay low.”     

It was either follow the squirrel, or Travel before they found her, but she didn’t know where to Travel to, and if she appeared in front of one of the other men, they’d shoot her dead just like they had done to Grandpa. Faye crouched down, bunched up her dress so she could crawl, and hustled after the squirrel. The animal was gone by the time she got there, but there seemed to be an indentation in the grass. When she pressed on it her hand went right through into an empty space.

There was a footfall a few feet away. With no time to think, Faye shoved her head through the grass and found herself staring down an ivy-coated chute. There was only a foot of light before everything was masked in shadow. She kept going, scooting down a gentle slope. Spider webs hit her in the face and insects skittered across her body. A second later her hands landed in soft dust, and she pulled herself into a tight black space. A few spikes of sunlight pierced the darkness from holes in the floorboards above. Every time one of the men took a step, ash cascaded through the light. Something furry and warm pushed past her lips and she almost screamed.     

“Easy…” the squirrel said softly.

“Where are we?” Faye whispered.

“Coal cellar… Hurry up, Francis. Imperium assholes right on top of us.”

“I’m not Francis. Who’s Francis?”

“Shut up, kid. I ain’t talking to you,” the squirrel hissed. “Move your ass, boy.” There was a thud directly overhead and one of the men shouted something. They’d found Faye’s tracks. “Shit… They’re gonna find us. Never a grizzly bear or a moose or a Doberman around when I need one… Hey, girl, you got any Powers?”

“Yeah,” Faye whispered. “I’m a Traveler.”

The squirrel sighed. “What? Son of a bitch. I was hoping you had super strength or shot lightning bolts out your eyes or something because these Imperium goons are gonna find us any second.”

“My name’s Faye.”

“Did I ask for a life story? We’re about to get killed here…” The squirrel let out a long sigh. “Aw hell… My name’s Lance. You just scoot for the woods. I’ll hold them off.”  

She wasn’t sure what exactly the squirrel, Lance, was going to do to fight off three men with guns, so she reached into her pocket, and pulled out her little revolver. She cocked the hammer as slowly and quietly as possible. The squirrel rubbed up against her face again. “Are you daft? The only thing you’re gonna do with that little thing is piss them off. What is that? A .32? Jesus, you ain’t hunting squirrels. Gonna use that to put us out of our misery?”

There was a sudden crash. A pile of ash broke lose from the ceiling, obscuring the tiny shafts of light. Then another crash, and a much larger shaft of light appeared as one of the men smashed a hole in the floor with his boot.  “Go!” Lance shouted. The furry shape left her face, bounded up into the light, and launched itself into the air.

One of the men screamed. “It’s crawling up my pants! Kill it! Kill it!”

“Quit being a punk, and step on it, Al. We’ve got business.”

There was a commotion, shouting, and then one of the men started to laugh at his companion’s problem. They didn’t know they were dealing with a magic squirrel. Faye thought about the area near the front gate, concentrated, feeling her magic. She hadn’t Traveled since getting the bug stuck in her foot, and for the first time in her life, she was scared to use her Power and hesitated.

I can do this.

Her thoughts went ahead of her. The air was clear of objects, the grass was tall, waving, not a concern for a normal, but for her, every piece represented potential death, a single blade of grass potentially as deadly as a steel knife. No leaves in the air. No big pieces of sand or grit, no bugs, only particulate so small that her passage would brush it aside. Nothing was about to enter that space. She saw everything. And it all happened within a tenth of a second and she was gone.

Faye appeared an inch over the tall grass, still in the same prone position she’d been in the cellar, and dropped like a stone. Her landing was cushioned by the weeds and she popped right back up.

The three men were standing in a circle over something. One of them was pointing his pistol at the floor, and she knew that the magic squirrel was just as dead as Grandpa had been. “Lance!”

The men looked up simultaneously, guns rising toward her, and Faye prepared to Travel again, but their eyes collectively jerked upward as something passed through the air over her head with a rustle of cloth in the wind. A petite shape landed between the men in a crouch, knocking one of them sprawling.

It was a woman in a red dress. She rose quickly, slammed her palm into another’s chest with a terrible crack, throwing him back and completely through the brick chimney, collapsing the entire structure in a cloud of red dust. She spun back toward the last man, just as his gun stabbed out toward her, and Faye screamed. There was a gunshot.

The man’s head snapped back. The pistol dropped from lifeless fingers before he collapsed into the ash.

“Good shot, Francis,” the woman shouted, then she turned back to the first one she’d knocked down. She kicked a giant beam casually out of the way, bent down and grabbed a handful of hair, dragging the struggling man from the ashes. 

There was the sound of an action being worked, and Faye turned to see a man standing back at the gate with a bolt-action rifle. Faye almost Traveled, but he didn’t point the rifle at her, instead he gave her an easy smile. “It’s going to be all right. We’re here to help you.”

The man was young, probably not much older than her. “Are you Lance the magic squirrel’s friend?”

“Huh?” At first he seemed bewildered by that, then he started to laugh, like she’d said something hilarious.

Faye was confused by his reaction. “Come on! I think they squished him!” she cried, then Traveled back to the house. Her shoes hit the ashen floor, just as the lady in the red dress was smacking the last man senseless. The scary woman glanced up, surprised. She was holding the much larger man effortlessly by the neck, one arm cocked back to hit him again, her delicate knuckles covered with his blood. Faye paid her no mind. These new people seemed to be on Lance’s side, and he had saved her life.

“Oh no!” Faye cried, falling to her knees next to the hole in the floor. The squirrel was inside. It moved weakly. “You’re alive!” She picked up the tiny body and hugged it close.  The magic squirrel blinked stupidly. It must have gotten hit in the head.

The young man joined her a moment later, putting one hand gently on her shoulder. “Come on, we’ve got to get out of here. There might be more coming.”

“I wish they would,” said the woman. She appeared with a limp form thrown over one shoulder. The man was much bigger than she was, but she didn’t seem to notice the weight. “I hit that other guy through the chimney a little hard, but this one’s alive. I can remedy that real quick if you want…”

“Naw, the General will want to question him,” said a gruff male voice. “Francis, bring the car up and stick him in the back. Looks like some tough guys working for hire. They probably won’t know anything about the Imperium, but it’s worth a shot.” He sounded strangely familiar and Faye looked up. A burly, darkly-bearded man was standing at the base of the porch with his thick arms folded. He was wearing rough work clothes and a wide-brimmed hat. He was shorter than Faye, but nearly two men wide in the chest. Faye stood, still cradling the squirrel.

“Lance?”

The man’s eyes twinkled as he grinned. “That’s me… Hell, kid. What’re you doing with that squirrel? I’m too proud and not near hungry enough to eat that flea-bitten thing for dinner.”

Faye looked down at the squirrel just as it regained its senses and bit the hell out her thumb. “Ow!” She flung her hands wide and the little animal scurried into the grass.

Lance turned and started to walk away with a pronounced limp, realizing a moment later that she wasn’t following. “You comin’ or what?”

Somewhere in Colorado

When Jake Sullivan woke up again it was later in the day and there were brown mountains outside blocking the sunlight, but a pair of electric lamps lit the train compartment fairly well. They were still moving and the air felt thinner when he inhaled. Someone was sitting in the chair next to the bed, reading a newspaper. The banner proclaimed that it was the Denver something or other, and the headline was about some anarchists causing trouble, but Sullivan didn’t feel like trying to move his head far enough to try and read it. He must have groaned, because the paper dipped down, revealing a thick pair of glasses and a friendly smile. “Evening, Jake. How’re you feeling?”

“Not dead. So could be worse.”

The man chuckled as he folded the newspaper. “Understandable. We haven’t had the pleasure of being formally introduced, though we’ve met twice now, I’m Daniel Garrett. I’ve been sent by my employer to make you an offer–” 

“Not to be rude, Dan, but which way’s the toilet?”

That caught him off guard, and he pointed for the rear of the compartment. “Well, you have been asleep for a really long time… But Ira said you shouldn’t try to move—“ Sullivan sat up abruptly, feeling the stitches pull and ache. “Never mind, I suppose.” He swung his legs off the bed, heaved himself up, and stumbled for the back. Walking would have been difficult under normal circumstances, but the rocking of the train made it worse. 

“Never been in a train car that had a private toilet. Now that’s high-class,” Sullivan stated on his return. This time there was a whole pitcher of water at the bedside instead of just a cup. He picked it up and started drinking

“Yes, I bribed our way onto the very best…” Garrett said as Sullivan pounded down the entire pitcher. “It was the first thing out of Chicago, well, this or a freight car, and the Doctor said he needed something decent to work on you, so I made sure I passed around enough dough to keep the crew from talking about the big, busted-up fella in the wheelchair.”

Sullivan slammed the pitcher down. “That’s better.” He leaned against the rocking wall, feeling every ache, stitch, and bruise, and he still had a cold. “I’m starved, any chance I could get you to spring for a couple of steaks?”

“Of course…” Garrett replied. “I… I thought you wanted to know what was going on first?”

Sullivan grimaced as his stomach growled.  Burning that much Power always made him hungry, and that wasn’t counting the blood loss. “You talk. I eat.”

That’s it.  Thanks for reading the sample chapters.  I promise it just keeps getting better after this, including the greatest climax I’ve ever written. Please leave a reply in the comments section below so I can guage the interest/excitement level.  And if you enjoyed this, please tell your friends.  Thanks, – Larry

EDIT: Now available for preorder http://www.amazon.com/gp/product/1439134340/ref=s9_simh_gw_p14_d5_i3?pf_rd_m=ATVPDKIKX0DER&pf_rd_s=center-2&pf_rd_r=0XE8PAHK71HG2DXWSB89&pf_rd_t=101&pf_rd_p=470938631&pf_rd_i=507846

The snippets continue. There will be one chapter posted after this.  For those just joining us, I’m doing a chapter a day for a week from my upcoming novel, Hard Magic. Book one of the Grimnoir Chronicles.

For those of you just joining us, here are the links to the earlier chapters.

Chapter 1 – http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2010/04/07/7-days-of-grimnoir-sample-chapters-from-the-grimnoir-chronicles-hard-magic/

Chapter 2 – http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2010/04/08/the-grimnoir-chronicles-hard-magic-chapter-2/

Chapter 3 – http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2010/04/08/the-grimnoir-chronicles-hard-magic-chapter-3/

Chapter 4 – http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2010/04/09/the-grimnoir-chronicles-hard-magic-chapter-4/

Chapter 5 – http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2010/04/11/the-grimnoir-chronicles-hard-magic-chapter-five/

After the last one is posted, I would really like to get your opinions. 

As always, I hope you enjoy.

-Larry

 

 

 

 

I swing as hard as I can, and I try to swing right through the ball. The harder you grip the bat, the more magic power you use all at once, the more you can swing through the ball, and the farther the ball will go. I swing big, with everything I’ve got, muscle and magic. So now they’re talking about banning us Actives from baseball because we’re not fair, not sporting? Hell, I hit big or I miss big. I am what I am and I live as big as I can.

George “Babe” Ruth, interview after hitting his 200^th season home run, 1930

Chapter 6

 

New York, New York 

 

Billionaire industrialist Cornelius Gould Stuyvesant had many offices, but the one that had the best view was on top of the relatively new Chrysler Building. Not only did he like this particular office because it enabled him to look out over the city, which he considered his personal fiefdom, but he also found the building aesthetically pleasing. It was pointy.

His favorite pointy building had been the tallest building in the world, briefly, before the Empire State Building had been completed. He had a suite there as well, but preferred this location because from this position he could watch his fleet of trans-Atlantic passenger dirigibles docking at the Empire State, or his cargo airships landing at the industrial pads closer to the ocean. It made him feel like a child with a model train set.

Cornelius stepped away from the window as a servant brought him the morning paper. He took his place in a comfortable recliner and opened first to the obituaries, as was his daily custom, to see if anyone he disliked had died, but sadly the announcements held no joy.

On the bright side, that meant that his most hated enemy was still suffering and wasting away under the curse of the Pale Horse. His spies had confirmed that he had taken gravely ill, and he had not been seen in public in almost two years. The thought made Cornelius smile as he turned the pages. He still owed that foul Harkeness a favor, but whatever it was would be worth it.

The Times spoke of more war in Asia as the Imperium annexed another bunch of islands he’d never heard of, Herbert Hoover looked like he was going to be trounced by Governor Roosevelt (not that Cornelius minded, since he had donated plenty of money to both sides), and more general lawlessness and moral decay around the country. Most of the news was old hat for a man who had informants everywhere, but one item caught his attention.

“Well, I’ll be…” he muttered around his morning cigar as he studied the photograph. It was a grainy shot of one of the Imperium’s new tri-hulled, super-dirigibles, taken over some Dutch colony. It would look like a big blurry blob to most viewers, but he recognized the design because it had originated amongst the Cogs employed in his engineering department at UBF.

He disliked Cogs, just as he disliked all magical people, himself and immediate family excluded, but he had grown fabulously wealthy from their brilliance. Every Cog was already a genius in their own way, absolutely fanatically brilliant at something, but then they could occasionally use their Power to push them over the top, to achieve the most brilliant of all creative achievements. The Imperium’s new Kaga class flying battleship was a perfect example.

Nine-hundred feet long, with three separate hydrogen-filled hulls, each hull cordoned off into ten separate armored chambers, the Kagas were the biggest thing to ever take to the sky. Hydrogen was far more dangerous than helium, but provided more lift. The Imperials had asked for hydrogen in the specifications for an unknown reason, probably since the main source for helium in the world was unavailable to them in Texas, but with the redundant mechanical and magical provisions, the Kagas would be virtually indestructible, with armaments that outclassed the best dreadnoughts of the Great War, but with four times the speed, its own parasite air force, and a virtually unlimited range.

The picture was a bit different than the blueprints he had seen, more bulbous. The Imperials had added a few things that he did not recognize, but that did not concern him. UBF had been paid to provide the hull and engine design. His eldest son had arranged the deal while serving as the ambassador to Japan, may God rest his soul.

The government had forbidden the sale of super-science to the Imperium as part of the embargo, but Cornelius Gould Stuyvesant knew that laws were to keep the lower classes in line. Whereas, he did what he wanted, but did so in secret to avoid the hassle of know-nothing’s petty harassments.  The embargo forbid UBF from the construction of any warships for a foreign power. Cornelius was currently overseeing the construction of the Emperor’s personal flagship at the UBF plant, but since it was officially a diplomatic and scientific vessel, it was perfectly legal.  The warships, like the Kagas, on the other hand, were quite illegal, but with the economic slump, the Imperium were the only people with money to burn.

He’d sold them the Kaga design a few years ago. He was just surprised to see that the Imperium had gotten the bugs worked out so quickly. Once they started using their new super dirigibles to further their domination of the East, the US Navy would be forced to come to UBF for their own next generation airships.

Cornelius loved a good arms race as much as the next robber baron.

Chicago, Illinois

The Grid Iron Club was usually quiet on Sunday mornings, but today was the exception. Lenny Torrio was pacing up and down the bar, throwing bottles and whatever furniture he could pick up in a fit of rage.

His remaining seven men were standing around, waiting for the bout to pass like they always did. These spells had earned Mr. Torrio the nickname of Crazy Lenny, but they always eventually subsided.  They’d lost five boys last night, shot to death, and poor Amish tossed out a window. The old Rasmussen Hotel had been evacuated right before the boiler had exploded, and they’d just got word that the city inspectors were saying the building was unsafe and was going to fall down. They all knew that it was a mess and the public outcry would bring the law down on them hard.

Mr. Torrio was going on about how Al Capone was sure to move in on them, when some new faces arrived. It was another Japanese, this one younger than the last one. It made the men uneasy when they saw how unnerved the new arrival made their boss.

“I’m sorry about your friend,” Torrio sputtered. “Really I am. Please, give your Chairman my full respects.” The Japanese did not speak or move.

Another man entered behind the Asian, this one was white, tall, muscular, with a badly scarred face and one milky white eye. Apparently, seeing him really shook Mr. Torrio. “Whoa, hey old buddy, been a real long time. I’d heard—“

“Heard wrong,” he grunted. “Call me Mr. Madi now, Lenny.”  

“Is this about last night? About Jake? Look, I’m sorry, ‘cause I just did what I was told…” Torrio looked back and forth between the two newcomers, apparently confused. “I didn’t know you were working for the Chairman now.”

The big man with the bad eye shrugged. “I don’t care about Jake. I go where the action is, Lenny… Your sources find anything on these other guys the Chairman’s lookin’ for?”

Torrio raised his hands defensively. “You know how it is with demons, man. You got to sort out what’s true and what’s not… but that device you were looking for, that your…” he nodded respectfully toward the Jap before continuing, “dear deceased associate showed me the drawing… it’s in California. I saw a skinny girl on a train, not far from where I found that old Portagee for you. She was easy, ‘cause she don’t know about Finders.”  

“Turns out that bit ain’t so important. What about the others?”

“They’ve hidden themselves too good, but I know Christiansen was last in the mountains and Southunder was on the ocean somewhere. I’ll track them down for you, I promise.”

“Well, that narrows it down a bunch.” Madi turned to the other man and spoke real slow in a language that none of the men understood. The Japanese gave a quick reply. Madi asked a question. The Oriental nodded once, and the big white man went back to Torrio. “My associate doesn’t think we need your services anymore and that you brought too much attention.”

“Aww, come on Madi,” Lenny begged. “It ain’t like that. Where else are you going to get another Finder as good as me?”

“Oh, somebody else told us where to find them already, and if we need to summon any critters… I figure we’ll get by,” Madi answered as something strange moved in the shadows of the warehouse rafters. Everyone looked up as the Summoned fell from the ceiling, spread its eight-foot wingspan, and settled gently to the floor. It hissed at the men with both heads and they instinctively stepped back. Claws clicked on the hardwood as it scuttled around the end of the bar and out of sight. Something squealed, and the dragon came back with Mr. Torrio’s imp clenched in one set of jaws. The other head came around and snapped onto the creature’s legs. 

“Mildred!” Lenny shouted as his imp was ripped in two. “No!”

The dragon kept chewing as the imp’s body dissolved into smoke. The whole crew was so distracted by the sight that they didn’t see the man called Madi reaching for his shoulder holster.

Ten seconds later Crazy Lenny Torrio and his entire gang were history.

San Francisco, California

 

It was all a little overwhelming, and all Faye could do for her first few minutes in the big city was gawk like the country girl that she was. There was an astounding number of people packed everywhere, scurrying along in every direction. The train station was easily ten times the size of the station in Merced, and there were more human beings milling around the platforms in those first few minutes than she had seen cumulatively in her entire life.

The air smelled like diesel, and humanity, and all sorts of unfamiliar perfumes. She tried to shrink down, uncomfortable, not used to moving through a crowd.  The people were so packed that they moved in waves, almost like a herd of Holsteins, only far more colorful.

Many of the men were in suits, some were in work clothing, and Faye saw military uniforms for the first time. One handsome young man in white, (Gilbert had said that meant Navy), winked at her as he went past, and Faye looked down, blushing. The young man was elbowed in the side by one of his friends and they all had a laugh.

The women were astounding, their dresses so pretty and flashy that Faye instinctively felt drab and boring in comparison. Their hair was all done up in ways that she had never even imagined, while hers was just flat. Many of them had jewelry and more wore furs, and almost everyone had a hat far nicer than her simple straw one.

Feeling under-dressed compared to other women, Faye paused long enough to put on the only piece of jewelry she possessed, the gold and black ring from Grandpa’s bag. It wasn’t nearly as fancy as the big things with all of the sparkles like the others had, but Faye figured it would do. The ring was too big and flopped around on her finger, but at least it was something.

She made her way through the masses, walking in the direction that seemed most of the other debarking travelers were heading. Somehow she ended up inside a building with really tall ceilings and big stained glass windows and then she was swept out onto a sidewalk along a street where more fancy cars than she had ever imagined were speeding back and forth.

She had seen Mexicans before. They came through the San Joaquin valley and picked the crops every year, but the Mexicans here were different. They didn’t seem to be passing through, they looked like they lived here. Faye saw other colors of people for the first time too. They were just part of the crowd, working just like everybody else, and nobody here seemed to pay them any extra mind. She tried not to stare, because that just didn’t seem polite.

When she looked up, the sheer massive tallness of the surrounding buildings took her breath away. A great black shadow was moving down the street, and she nearly broke her neck craning her head back to watch the super-dirigible passing overhead. She watched the giant bag until she could no longer track it behind the big buildings and it was the most magical thing she had ever seen.

San Francisco was supposedly one of the least harmed cities by the depression, being such a mighty cosmopolitan hub of commerce, and having all of those military folks stationed at the nearby Peace Ray spending all their money here had to help things. Faye could only begin to imagine how this place could have possibly been any fancier four years before. Compared to the Vierra farm, or especially the shack she had lived in before that, San Francisco was astounding.     

Gilbert had told her about how taxi cabs could drive her right to the address on Grandpa’s note for a fee. At first she thought that sounded absurd. Paying somebody good money to ride when you could just walk? But her foot still hurt from the stupid beetle and the city was so overwhelming that the idea of walking across it was terrifying, so she got in line behind the other travelers waving at the curb, and studied them, so that when it got to be her turn she wouldn’t look too much like a stupid hick.

Faye was so distracted by her new surroundings that she didn’t see the man watching her from the steps of the train station. He paused long enough to crumple and toss a telegram sheet before following.

Unknown Location

Sullivan’s head hurt, and the inside of his mouth was dry and tasted like he’d been chewing on rotten mouse-flavored cotton-balls. The first thing he saw as he came to was a cup of water sitting on the side of the bed. Forcing himself up with a groan, he reached for it, but the fresh stitches in his arm and chest pulled and burned. His head swam, so he had to give up and lay back down.

The water just sat there, taunting him.

At first Sullivan thought that he was really dizzy, because the tiny room seemed to be swaying, but then he saw the vibrating ripples in the water cup, and realized that it was the room that was moving, and not him. There was a rhythmic noise coming from under the floor, and after a moment his fogged brain put together that it was steel wheels on a train track. The thick curtains had been drawn, but enough light leaked around the corners to indicate it was afternoon.

He was on a train, in a private luxury car, apparently.

He vaguely remembered stumbling up a ramp under his own power, being led by the German on one arm, and the fellow with glasses on the other, and at some point he had wound up in a wheelchair. The trip from the Rasmussen was a blur, and Sullivan knew that he’d lost a lot of blood on the way. That swordsman had stabbed him good. It was only through luck and the timely intervention of the two strangers that he hadn’t got his head chopped off.

Sullivan frowned at the water, contemplating his next move.          

There was something fishy about the swordsman. The goons he’d popped had been Lenny Torrio’s boys, but the Japanese was way out of Lenny’s league. He’d never met someone with a Power like that, or with the ability to adapt so quickly. Sullivan had been challenged by all sorts in Rockville, and he’d always won because he was meaner, tougher, and faster than the other guy. This one had been different. But he’d still managed to squish him like a bug, nonetheless. He hadn’t used his Power like that since he had last lost his temper. That time had got him sent to prison, but strangely enough he felt equally justified in both uses.

It hurt to move his head, but he tried to rise a bit. There was a wheelchair shoved in one corner, blocked in by a regular wooden chair so it wouldn’t be able to roll about. Several bloody towels were piled on it.  Beside the water cup was a leather surgeon’s bag, still open, and a few implements were sitting on a white cloth. He couldn’t remember a thing, but apparently he’d had one hell of a night.

One wood paneled wall slid open, revealing itself as a door. The man that entered was in his forties, short and chubby. “Good afternoon, Mr. Sullivan. Glad to see you’re awake,” he said, walking over to the bedside, humming absently. He spared no time manhandling Sullivan’s arm so he could inspect the stitches. Sullivan cringed in pain, but the man didn’t seem to notice. “Hmm… Not my best work, but you’re not dead, so I’ll call it a win.”

Sullivan nodded his head at the water. “What? Oh yes? The side effects of opiate based pain relievers can include cotton mouth, which can be rather unpleasant,” the man stated matter-of-factly. It took him a second to realize that Sullivan didn’t want a medical lesson, he just wanted a drink. “Oh, yes, sorry. Here you go.”

He managed to spill half of it, but Sullivan cherished the victory over his enemy, the cup. “Who are you?” he finally croaked. “Where am I?”

“Dr. Ira Rosenstein. I was harassed by Mr. Garrett into coming on this trek. Mr. Koenig is in the next room getting some sleep. They had a late flight. I believe Mr. Garrett is in the dining car. I tried to tell him that I would prefer for you not to move for several days, but he was adamant that you must return to California immediately. The General must be briefed on the presence of an Iron Guard. Can you imagine? An actual Iron Guard acting with impunity within the United States? But of course you can, obviously. You did kill him after all, and in a particularly spectacular manner, if Heinrich is to be believed, though he does tend to embellish.”

Sullivan just nodded, as if he had any clue what the doctor was talking about.

“You will need to take it easy for awhile. Your physical condition indicates to me a rather intense lifestyle. In addition to what I attempted to fix last night, without my regular staff or equipment, in a moving train car rather than a proper operating room, but I digress… As I was saying, you are suffering from several other very recent punctures, contusions, and lacerations. I would strongly suggest that you tone down your activities, Mr. Sullivan.”

“You a Healer?”

Rosenstein snorted. “As if… No. I am a doctor. I work for a living. Yes, I do happen to be a Cog, so I am a particularly gifted surgeon when the opportunity arises, the finest in Chicago. But I went to medical school and have continually educated myself at every opportunity to further my knowledge of anatomy and the most cutting edge surgical techniques, if you will excuse the pun.” He smiled.

Sullivan didn’t get it, but he’d had a really hard week. “Sure…”

The doctor continued. “Most people do not realize that Cogs are not just limited to machines or theoretical equations capped with bursts of magical brilliance. Some of us prefer to toil in fields of a medical nature.  Whereas Healers…” He waved his hand dismissively. “Know absolutely nothing of anatomy or biology, but work their magic from base intuition, and oh how everybody just loves Healers. They just put their hands on you and poof, you are all better. And then everyone showers them in money. Do you know how many years I went to school, Mr. Sullivan?”

“Uh… a lot?” He could tell it was a sore spot.

“Yes. A lot.” Rosenstein raised his voice. “Have you ever met an Active Healer that wasn’t an insufferable bore? Full of themselves with a God complex and an ego bigger than Lake Superior?”

Sullivan had never actually had a conversation with a Healer. They were, after all, the rarest of the rare of Actives, or so he had thought, until he met a Jap who could shrug off dozens of rounds of .30-06. He shrugged.

“Well, trust me, sir. They’re all pompous, the lot of them. The only thing they’re good for is publicity.” 

Sullivan nodded. The miraculous ability of the Healer and the wondrous ingenuity of the Cog were the single biggest reasons Actives had been so accepted, even celebrated in American society. Some types of Powers did not fare so well. Heavies were generally valuable as dumb lugs, useful in industry, so he was in the middle of the pack. Other types were actually discriminated against, even despised.

Rosenstein checked the wound on his chest next, clucking approvingly at his work. “I am rather surprised that you survived this wound. It struck bone, but managed not to shear through. It is almost as if your bones are extremely dense… hmmm… You should be dead.”

Sullivan didn’t say anything, but he knew that it was probably because of all of his experimentation at Rockville. When breaking rocks had become too easy, he’d broken rocks in increased gravity. Sullivan had made his body as hard as his attitude. Even when he wasn’t altering his weight through magic, he tipped the scales at eighty pounds heavier than he looked. Toward the end, when he was using all his Power, he’d broken rock with his bones.

“Good thing Garrett thought to call me. Helping out is the least I can do.” He held up his right hand and used his thumb to wiggle a black and gold ring. “Considering I owe the Society my life.” Then he went back to work.

“Who’s the Society?”

The doctor paused, fingers on the bandage. “Excuse me?”

“The Society. What is it?”

“The Grimnoir, of course.” A look crossed Rosenstein’s face, partway between confusion and embarrassment. “I thought you were…” He grew even more troubled. “Oh my. Excuse me a moment,” and the chubby man leapt up and hurried from the room like he had just discovered his patient was inflicted with a highly contagious plague.

Sullivan sighed and watched the ceiling. He was a patient man.

Three minutes later the German entered the room, rubbing sleep from his eyes. Rosenstein stayed in the doorway, fidgeting nervously. The German pulled up the chair, knocked the bloody towels on the floor, and sat on it backwards, arms resting on the back, studying Sullivan. “I will handle this, Doctor,” he said finally. The doctor gladly fled, closing the door behind him.

The new visitor was young, with extremely short hair and a neatly trimmed goatee. He waited a minute before grinning. “Ira is worried he said too much about us. Very good surgeon, but he’s always fretting about something.”

The smile seemed genuine, but Sullivan knew better than to trust anyone. “Who are you?”

“Heinrich Koenig, at your service,” he said. “Fade extraordinaire and all-around problem solver.”

Sullivan nodded. The German was probably in his early twenties, so at least a decade younger than Sullivan, but behind that easy smile was something dangerous. Sullivan could recognize a fellow traveler of the hard life, a survivor. Underneath the friendly veneer lurked the soul of a killer. “Thanks for stepping in there.”

“We did the world a favor by ending that man, perhaps more than you will ever know,” Heinrich replied. “No thanks necessary. That is what we do.”

“We?”

“I cannot say that yet.”

“What are the Grimnoir?”

“That isn’t my place to explain. My associate will be back soon, and he is supposed to give you the pitch. Believe it or not, the reason we were at your hotel room was to make you a job offer. Daniel’s the one that’s good with words. Me, I’m more a man of action.”

“I got a couple of G-Men who’d agree with that.”

Heinrich shrugged modestly. “I have my talents.”

So did Sullivan. “How’s the jaw?”

The smile left. “You broke it in two places. Luckily we have a Mender on staff. She put it back together, fixed Francis’ knee too. Having a Healer around is nice.”

“The blonde on the blimp?”

“Yes.” Heinrich reached up and rubbed his jaw. “A very good one. It still hurts though.”

“Yep. Imagine it would.” Sullivan grunted. He wasn’t the apologizing type, and he was still waiting on some answers. “So you going to tell me what the straight deal is, or are you just here to waste my time?”

The German chuckled coldly. “The straight deal is beyond your comprehension. You have no idea what you have just walked into. We are in a war, the likes of which even you have not seen.”

“Don’t get lippy,” Sullivan replied. “I managed to stack a few of your relatives back in the biggest war ever, so don’t tell me what I haven’t seen, kid.”    

The German frowned. He was too young to have fought in the Great War, but Sullivan knew the country had fallen apart after the armistice. There were some tough feelings there, he could tell, but Heinrich kept his cool. “I just ask that you be patient, and your questions will be answered.” 

“I’m about done with this nonsense.” Sullivan gasped as he tried to sit up, all of the stitches pulling in his chest and arm like strands of fire. “I’m walking out that door, and don’t you try to stop me.”   

Heinrich uncurled his arms from the chair back, paused as if in thought, then reached into his grey suit coat and pulled a revolver from the inside pocket. Sullivan tensed, ready to Spike, but Heinrich just smiled again as he flipped the revolver around and handed it over butt first. “I believe you left this at the hotel. Your big gun was unfortunately smashed to bits.”

Sullivan warily took his Smith & Wesson. He swung out the cylinder. It was still loaded.

“You wish to go? Your clothes, or should I say, the bloody remains of your pants and your shoes are under the bed. Unfortunately, neither I, nor my associates have anything that will fit you, my large friend. Feel free to leave at any time. I believe we are in Kansas by now. You should have no problem wandering around the mid-west, especially missing half your blood. Oh, and the police are looking for you. Apparently Herr Hoover is a little upset about you destroying a downtown hotel in a rather newsworthy manner and wants you brought in. I am sure he will understand why the mob and an Imperium assassin were trying to murder you.”

He would also want to know why exactly Sullivan had gone to meet with Torrio. Hoover would more than likely send him back to Rockville just for being a pain in the ass.

The German continued. “Or…you could continue to rest until my associate returns, and then everything will be explained in full.”

It hurt to move. It hurt to think. Just rising this far had made him dizzy. Sullivan glowered and slowly lowered himself to the bed. He kept the .38 in one big hand.

Heinrich stood. “Very good. Daniel should be back in a moment.” He turned to leave.

“Answer me one thing,” Sullivan said just as Heinrich reached the door. “You say we’re in a war… what side are you?”

Heinrich paused. “This war is in the shadows beyond nations. I am on the side of righteousness, of all that is free, or holy, or good, Herr Sullivan… Rest. You look like death.” He closed the door.

Of course, the Grimnoir thought they were the good guys. Everybody thought they were in the right. The evilest bastards he had ever met had still thought of themselves as the good guys. It was just his dumb luck to blunder into a bunch of true believers. Sullivan closed his eyes and went back to sleep.

Chapter 7 http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2010/04/12/the-grimnoir-chronicles-hard-magic-chapter-7/

The sample snippets continue.  I had no internet access yesterday, so I’ll put up another one of these tonight.  (most of you check in Monday morning anyway, what did people do at work before the invention of the internet? ) If you think TGC is going to be awesome, please spread the word. 

For those of you just joining us, here are the earlier chapters:

Chapter 1  http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2010/04/07/7-days-of-grimnoir-sample-chapters-from-the-grimnoir-chronicles-hard-magic/

Chapter 2 http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2010/04/08/the-grimnoir-chronicles-hard-magic-chapter-2/

Chapter 3 http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2010/04/08/the-grimnoir-chronicles-hard-magic-chapter-3/

Chapter 4 http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2010/04/09/the-grimnoir-chronicles-hard-magic-chapter-4/

-Larry

 

 

Gentlemen, we have now reached the last point. If anyone of you doesn’t mean business let him say so now. An hour from now will be too late to back out. Once in, you’ve got to see it through. You’ve got to perform without flinching whatever duty is assigned you, regardless of the difficulty or the danger attending it. If it is steering the clouds and calling down lightning, if it is hurling fire or steel, if it is breaking the German’s will, or dragging their Battle Zeppelins from the sky, if it is the closest kind of fighting — be anxious for it. You must know your Power, how to shoot, and how to stay alive. No matter what comes you mustn’t squeal. Think it over — all of you. If any man wishes to withdraw he will be gladly excused, for others are ready to take his place.

General Theodore Roosevelt, from speech given to 1^st Volunteer Brigade (Active) before second battle of the Somme 1918

Chapter 5

 

Chicago, Illinois 

Sullivan tossed and turned, fevered dreams eating at his peace.      

Finally he gave up, and lay there, shirtless and sweating, miserable and sick, partially awake, his mind still running through the remnants of a muddled dream. Fields of mud and broken trees sticking out of the ground like splintered bones and so many Zeppelins in the air that they seemed to blot out the sky and the Germans that they just kept killing over and over and over while the Kaiser’s sorcerers would just wake them up and send them back into the fray until their bodies had been so pulverized that they could no longer hold a rifle and his brother getting half his face torn off by artillery and General Roosevelt dying in a spray of blood and fire under the claws of a Summoned and…

Then he was awake. Sullivan sighed, staring at the dark ceiling. His internal clock told him that it wasn’t even close to morning, but he wouldn’t be falling back asleep any time soon. He decided that the dream must have been from talking to Lenny. It had reminded him of the bad old days.

He heard flapping at the window, and at first he dismissed it as just a pigeon. But it had sounded too… leathery. Sullivan just kept breathing deep. Listening. 

#

Amish McCleary didn’t like being called a retard, but he was too scared of Mr. Torrio to complain about it. He would prove to the boss that he could pull his weight around here, and that he wasn’t just good for eavesdropping on meetings with bootleggers and hustlers.

He was going to pop the Heavy himself. The big lug had a reputation. He was supposed to be a real tough guy, a hard case, but Amish knew nobody was that tough when they were asleep in bed and you kicked in the door and sprayed them down with a Tommy gun. Who cared if he was asleep? The word on the street would still be that Amish McCleary had been the man who’d had the balls to take down Heavy Jake Sullivan.

That would show Mr. Torrio. Even Al Capone would have to respect him after that, and maybe then nobody would make fun of his cross-eyes anymore.

The Jap sat next to him in the front of the Packard. Amish was scared of Mr. Torrio, but he was terrified of the Jap. One time Amish had gotten curious to see if the Japs thought the same as white men, so he’d used his Power to try to Read him, even though Mr. Torrio had warned him not to. It was like his Power had hit a brick wall. Amish wasn’t a very strong Reader. His Power barely worked once in awhile, and he could only really get into the heads of the really dumb. When he tried to read smart people he just kind of bounced off. The Jap hadn’t just bounced him, he’d booted him out of his head and across the street. Amish’s head had ached for the last three days straight.

The Jap didn’t bother to look at him, like he was too good to give Amish the time. “The demon returns,” he said simply.

The Jap must have had really good hearing, because Amish didn’t hear the wings flapping until ten whole seconds later. Mr. Torrio’s imp settled on the side mirror and squawked at him. Amish listened for a second. He didn’t speak Demon good like Mr. Torrio, but he could get the gist of it.  “The Heavy’s asleep. Let’s go.”

The Jap held up a hand. “Send one man in first to make sure the lobby is clear.”

Amish hesitated. Mr. Torrio had put him in charge, not the Jap. He didn’t know who the Jap was supposed to even be or who he worked for, but all of a sudden he thought he could give the orders? But Amish hesitated, because first off the Jap scared him to death, and second, it was a good idea.

#

Daniel Garrett checked his pocket watch for the fifth time. It was almost three o’clock in the morning.

“It is exactly two minutes from the last time you checked,” Heinrich stated, not looking away from the window. The German seemed nonchalant as he watched the nearly empty street and the front of the Rasmussen Hotel, but Heinrich was always composed. The entire world could be exploding around them in flames and Heinrich would still play it cool.

“Well, sorry. I don’t have your Teutonic nerves of steel,” Daniel muttered. “Are they moving?”

“Nein. Only the one went inside, probably to check the registry. The others are still waiting. We should take them now.”

“There’s at least six of them.”

“All the reason to go now. Element of surprise, my friend.”

The two of them had arrived on the last dirigible of the evening. A contact at the Chicago police had told them where Jake Sullivan was staying. The Grimnoir Society prided itself on having contacts everywhere.   

Daniel leaned forward so he could see out the stolen Chrysler’s passenger side window. He did not like stealing automobiles or blimps, but they were in a hurry, and besides, they always left the things they’d borrowed where they could be found when they were done.  He had to shove his glasses back up his nose. His natural vision was terrible. “You don’t even know who they are…”

“We’re staking out this particular hotel because of our mysterious Heavy, and a group of suspicious men arrive and are also watching the same hotel… Coincidence?”

Daniel thumped his head dramatically on the steering wheel. “Figures. I wonder what Sullivan did to tick them off?”

“I do not know, but he seems to have that effect on people.” Heinrich rubbed his jaw. Jane had Mended it good as new, but Daniel knew from personal experience that a magically fixed bone would still ache for days afterward. It was obvious the Society’s best Fade felt guilty for letting a Heavy knock him out. You don’t sneak up on Fades, they sneak up on you. “I’ve already said it once, but I do not have a good feeling about this Heavy.”

“Don’t feel bad. You should have seen the information the General gathered on this one. You’re lucky he didn’t eat you. Wouldn’t be the first German he’s done in, I figure,” Daniel said, trying to make his young friend feel better, and failing. “They quit pinning medals on his chest when they ran out of room, and you saw how big he was.”

“I don’t trust him. Maybe the Imperium is here for the same reason as we are?” Heinrich mused. “What do we do then?”

Daniel didn’t answer at first. He didn’t think he had to. It was open season on anybody who worked for the Imperium, and if they hired the Heavy, then he was fair game too. “You don’t even know they’re Imperium.”

“I can smell s–” Heinrich shifted. “He’s coming back.”

Daniel leaned forward again so he could see a man walking quickly from the hotel entrance to the parked autos. They conferred through the windows for a moment. After some discussion, doors opened, and men began to pile out. Long guns were removed from the vehicles and quickly covered in loose coats. The man who stepped from the passenger seat of the lead vehicle was familiar, Japanese, dignified, and Daniel swore under his breath as recognition came. He looked just like the photographs smuggled out of Manchuria. “That’s Rokusaburo.”  

“Told you so,” Heinrich said. “Imperium scheissen.”

The Japanese killer pulled a thin, three-foot, black object and held it under his long coat as he walked casually toward the hotel entrance.

“An Iron Guard, here in the US? I can’t believe this! Damn it. I wish we had the rest of the crew.” Dan moved to start the car. They would need to alert the General that one of the Chairman’s best men was in the States. There was no way just the two of them could take on an Iron Guard. There were other Grimnoir in the Midwest, and if he could raise enough of a force in time, they might be able to—“Heinrich, what’re you doing?” he hissed as the young German opened his door.

“I’m going to go and talk to this Heavy, like Herr General ordered,” he smiled as he got out. “Coming?”

“Are you crazy?” Daniel hissed. “Rokusaburo will cut us to bits. He can’t be killed!”

Heinrich shrugged. “He is magic. He is not immortal.”

Daniel banged his head on the steering wheel again.

#

Amish and two Torrio men, Brick and Hoss, stepped out of the elevator on the tenth floor. The Jap trailed them silently a few feet behind, his long black coat almost hitting the carpet. Amish had left the other two covering the lobby. He wasn’t expecting this to be too hard.

The imp couldn’t tell them a room number. It wasn’t like it could hop down the brightly lit hallways like a miniature kangaroo checking room numbers. It peeked through windows. That’s about all the stupid thing was good for, but the logbook at the desk had Sullivan’s blocky signature under Room 109, so that’s what Amish was looking for.

He’d draped his overcoat on top of his Tommy Gun, not that he needed to bother. The desk clerk had been passed out drunk. He tossed the coat over his shoulder as he rounded the corner and spotted the gold letters for 109.

#

Daniel Garret went straight for the front door while Heinrich went for the side. Fades worked better in the dark. Mouths always preferred the public.

There were two gangsters in the low-class lobby. One was sitting in a chair next to the desk, pretending to read the newspaper. The other was acting like he worked there, behind the counter, except he hadn’t even bothered to remove his hat. Both of them looked good and stupid. Dan kicked his Power up a notch.

“Good evening!” he said, friendly as could be. “I’m in need of a room.”

“We’re all full. Go away,” grunted the man behind the desk. His posture told Daniel that he was holding a gun under the table.   

Dan always did enjoy a challenge. He reached out, his magic telling him the emotional state of the two. They were small-minded and brutal men. The beauty of being a Mouth was that the dumber your audience, the easier they were to steer. Strong minds were much harder to sway, and they could usually sense the intrusion. “Hey, don’t I know you guys? You look really familiar.” So far, so good, so Dan pushed harder.

The two men glanced at each other, feeling a sudden deep sense of camaraderie. “Uh, yeah… I think I know you,” said the one with the paper.

“We’re friends, don’t you remember… that one time? We all got together?” Dan asked, pushing as hard as he could. There was no time for subtlety. He was their buddy, their old pal. His magic was based on lies and coercion, but any moral qualms he’d had about using it had been put to rest once he’d seen the Imperium schools in action.

“Oh yeah!” said the one behind the desk.

“I need a favor.”

Both of them were smiling now. “Anything, bub.”

“What room is Jake Sullivan staying in?”

The goon flipped open the book and scanned down the page. “Tenth floor. Ninth room. Our buddies is up there now to whack him.”

“Good. Good. Thanks a lot. That really helps me. You know what else would help a ton?” Both were smiling and nodding.

“What?”

“Anything for a pal!”

Dan hesitated. He wasn’t as heartless as he’d thought. First he had to know. “Are you bad men?”

“I’ve killed three people for Lenny Torrio!” said the first one proudly.

The second one snorted. “Big deal, I once broke an old lady’s hip because she owed Mr. Capone protection money, then I beat her head in ‘cause she got lippy.”

That would do. “Great, guys, just great. Do me a favor, would ya?”

“No problem.” They both were grinning stupidly.

“Give me a second to get out of the way, then I want you to kill each other.”        

A Mouth couldn’t force someone to do something that they normally wouldn’t consider. It didn’t work like that. Even someone as strong as Dan could only sway someone down his natural path. All he could do was push what was already there. If he’d asked a decent person to murder a friend, it would simply break the spell. Only a real piece of work would take such a small amount of Influence to do something so heinous. Dan wasn’t even in the elevator before they started shooting.

Heinrich caught the door right before it closed and slipped inside. “That didn’t take long.”

“Not much loyalty amongst gangsters, I suppose. Tenth floor, please.”

#

Amish checked the safety on his Thompson. He wasn’t going to screw this up. Brick was the biggest, so he moved up to kick the door. Hoss reached up and unscrewed the hall light, plunging them into shadow. The boys had done this kind of thing before. The Jap just hung back, looking bored.

There was a big glass window at each end of the hall, and enough street light was coming in that Amish could still see his buddies. This was going to be great. He squeezed the Thompson tight. “Do it. Do it!”

Brick reared back and kicked hard. His considerable weight tore the lock right through the jamb, and the door flew open with a bang. Amish leapt through, screaming, turned toward the bed, spotted the lump in the middle of the blankets and mashed the trigger. He fired from the hip, stitching hot slugs through the bed, the headboard, and the wall. He jerked the foregrip back down and kept ripping the bed, flinging feathers and bits into the air, until he’d hammered through the entire 50 round drum in one continuous smoking burst.

“Take that, stupid Heavy! Yeah!” Amish shouted. “That’ll learn you up real good.”

Hoss rushed past him, double-barrel shotgun in hand, grabbed the blankets and yanked them off the bed, revealing nothing but a pile of bullet riddled pillows and clothing. Hoss started to shout, “Where is—“ but then his chest and head erupted in a shower of red as a swarm of giant bullets stitched him. Hoss tumbled dead to the floor. 

The Heavy stepped out of the bathroom, shirtless, holding an enormous black cannon to his shoulder. The smoking muzzle swiveled toward the doorway where Brick had appeared and there was a terrible thunder. Brick disappeared back into the hall and Amish blinked as something hot and wet splattered him in the face and it took him a second to realize that he had just been hit with part of Brick’s skull.

The cannon settled on Amish last and the Heavy paused, with a little smile that seemed almost sad. “Lenny couldn’t even bother to come himself?” Amish pushed the release and yanked the drum out of the Thompson, then fumbled at his pocket for a stick mag. The Heavy just shook his head, disappointed.

Then everything was wrong, down was now behind him, and Amish screamed as he fell through the door and into the hallway. How–  He felt his collar bone snap as he hit the wall. Gravity came back suddenly and Amish spilled onto the hall carpet. Pain washed through him in waves. The Heavy appeared in the doorway, glanced quickly both ways, and saw the Jap.

“Who are you supposed to be?” The Heavy asked.

The Jap didn’t answer. He just opened his big coat and showed his sword. Amish looked back and forth between the two terrifying men and knew that he was about to see one hell of a fight.

But the Heavy just did his trick with gravity again, and now down seemed to be the end of the hallway. The Jap began to fall, but whipped his sword out and jabbed it into the floor, and he was hanging there as Amish tumbled down the carpet past him. The window barely slowed him.

Amish opened his eyes inside the shower of glass to see that he was gliding over the street ten stories below. I’m flying! It was the most wonderful thing he’d ever experienced, until he reached the end of Sullivan’s range, then gravity returned to its normal direction and the street rushed up to meet him.

#

“Who are you supposed to be?” Sullivan asked.

The man at the end of the dim hall threw open his coat, revealing the blue-wrapped hilt of a sword. His hand hovered over the handle of the blade, waiting.

Jake’s curiosity did not run as deep as his apprehension at facing a crazy guy with a giant razor. He Spiked, bending gravity’s pull to a different angle. The dead body and the cross-eyed Reader slid down the floor, but the other drew his sword in a flash as the Power hit, took it in two hands, and drove the silver blade deep into flooring. The Reader zipped past, hit the window, and took the whole assembly with him into the city.

The swordsman hung from the end of the blade, parallel with the carpet, dangling, patiently waiting for the Spike to subside, watching Sullivan curiously the whole time.

The Power needed to distort gravity for so long was too much, and Sullivan let go, letting himself fall against the doorway. The swordsman landed on his hands and knees, then took his time getting up. He pulled his blade from the wood, then spun it once quickly through the air, before letting it dangle loose in his hand. His fedora had gone out the window with the Reader, but other than that, he seemed fine.

“I did not realize the Americans had developed their Heavies to this extent.”

“I’m big on self improvement.” The man was an Oriental. Sullivan had worked in a few Chinatowns before, and the truck drivers that had driven the 1^st Volunteer around France had been Vietnamese, so he had more cultural exposure than a lot of his countrymen, but this man spoke English better than Sullivan did, and had a much nicer suit. Probably almost fifty, but strong and fit, he was remarkably tall compared to the other Asians Sullivan had known, probably just under six foot, and appeared a little too confident. “You ain’t from around here, are you?”

“I am impressed with your level of mastery, Mr. Sullivan,” he gave a very formal bow. “It is a great honor to battle one such as you.”

Sullivan raised the Lewis gun to his shoulder. “There’s nothing honorable about battle,” he replied, pulling the trigger.

A short burst of thirty caliber bullets hit the swordsman square in the chest. Sullivan lowered the machinegun, but the swordsman was still standing. “Impossible.” A string of .30-06 should have put even the toughest Brute on their ass.

The swordsman started forward slowly, raising his weapon, both hands on the hilt, blade held rigid next to his head.

Sullivan leaned into it this time. When the first Heavies started drifting into the 1^st Volunteer, they had been put to work as machine-gunners. Even the least powerful Heavy could carry five times as much weight as a Normal. An Active Heavy could lower the tug of gravity on his weapon, so even a pig like the Lewis Mk3 was handy to run around with. But the less a gun weighs, the more it recoils, and the harder it is to control, so a clever Spiker actually increases the pull on his weapon when it was time to put the hammer down.

The giant barrel barely moved as Sullivan pounded the remainder of the drum magazine into the swordsman.  Each 30-06 bullet hit with an impact sufficient to quarter an elk, but instead of tumbling through flesh, the bullets exploded into fragments against his body. The hallway was pummeled with noise, the air was thick with unburned powder, and shining brass cases bounced along the floor.

When the Lewis bolt finally fell on an empty chamber, the swordsman was still there, clothes tattered, but flesh unharmed, and his slow walk turned into a charge. The sword descended as Sullivan desperately used his Power, hurling his attacker back. The swordsman fell a few feet but instantly adjusted, caught a door knob with his foot, and drove himself back toward Sullivan in a leap. The big man shouted as the end of the blade flickered through his skin.

Sullivan stumbled back, blood pouring down his bare chest. He Spiked again, totally reversing gravity, and the swordsman fell toward the ceiling. Again, he adjusted, twisted, and took the impact with his hands, rolling across the roof, getting closer. Sullivan cut the Power and the swordsman dropped, hitting the ground in a perfect crouch, coat billowing around him, sword extended behind. He looked up and smiled.

“What are you?” Sullivan gasped, reaching deep, gathering Power. He had one last trick. 

“I am Rokusaburo of the Iron Guard, Herald of the Imperium, warrior of the Emperor of Nippon. Know that before you die.” he said with pride. He rose and extended his sword, aimed directly at Sullivan’s heart. “I represent the future.”

“Not if we can help it.”

A grey shape appeared through the wall, colliding with the swordsman, locking up on his extended arm. Both of them crashed into the wall, cracking through the boards. The swordsman roared, the grey shape was instantly flung off, and the German from the stolen dirigible landed at Sullivan’s feet.

“Need a hand?” the Fade asked.

Sullivan shrugged. “I suppose.”

The swordsman came out of the wall swinging. The blade was insanely fast, and Sullivan was barely able to raise the Lewis. The metal cooling jacket around the barrel split in two. The German started pumping rounds from a pistol into the attacker and Sullivan was rewarded with bits of bullet jacket hitting him for the effort as they ricocheted off the Jap’s skin.

Rokusaburo spun into the hall, and they had to leap back to avoid being eviscerated. The sword lanced forward, and Sullivan barely blocked it, the Lewis flying from his hands under the impact. The blade instantly returned, humming through the air, and the tip pierced his bicep. The steel came out in a splash of red that painted the wallpaper, and Rokusaburo stepped back, triumphant, as Sullivan crashed, bellowing, into the wall.

The sword flicked back to finish him, but the swordsman’s head rocked as he was struck from behind, and the blade passed within a hair’s width of Sullivan’s throat. He jerked his eyes up to see a bespectacled man walking down the hallway, firing a handgun repeatedly into Rokusaburo’s back. It was just as ineffective as before, but at least it was distracting. The swordsman turned toward the new threat.

The Fade came off the floor, leaping past Sullivan, and kicked the Imperial in the back of the legs. The Japanese went to his knees, but simultaneously reversed his sword and drove it up, right through the German’s guts. The Fade was too quick on his Power, and the silver blade erupted through a nebulous grey smoke. The mass sidestepped, reformed into solid flesh and bone, and kicked Rokusaburo square in the skull.

The swordsman’s head snapped back hard, but then came right back wearing a vicious snarl, and the German had to dive back to avoid the sword.

Apparently hitting him did about as much good as shooting him. Sullivan pushed himself off the wall and stumbled forward, splattering blood in great pulsing gushes from his arm, but still he was calm, analytical, trying to find a way around Rokusaburo’s Power. Even while bleeding out, Sullivan was able to note that the Jap’s clothes were shredded, but it was like his skin turned to hardened steel on impact.  He had never heard of the Power of indestructibility before, but like any other Power it had to have limits. It had to run out eventually, or break when pushed too far.

Sullivan cleared his head, using his Power to see the world as it really was, mass, density, and force. He could feel the Power of his opponent, and he understood then what was happening. The Jap was like a reverse Fade. Instead of making himself hazy until his body could pass through solid things, this one was increasing it until nothing could pass through. It was taking a staggering amount of energy. 

It was time for Sullivan to play his final hand.

He needed to get real close for this to work. He was too big and slow to get past that three foot razorblade without loosing a limb. He needed a distraction. The man in glasses had reloaded his pistol and started shooting again, diverting Rokusaburo’s attention long enough for Sullivan to hiss, “Fritz. Take the sword again. Then get back.” The German nodded quickly and moved in.

The Fade charged in one way, going grey, just as Rokusaburo swung through him, and Sullivan dove straight at the swordsman. Superbly trained, the sword was already coming back around in a killing arc.

They collided. Sullivan took every bit of Power he had and let it all go at once, channeling it through his body, increasing gravity’s strength, bellowing at the world to pull them down under the strength of fifty Earths. The swordsman gasped as the magnificent force crushed down on him. He fired his own Power, and Sullivan could feel his own hammering like bombs against a bunker as the two magical forces slammed together. The floor beneath splintered and exploded, and the two dropped through, hitting the next floor down without even slowing, blowing through landing after landing, ten stories in an every quickening cascade, until they crashed through a series of pipes and into the concrete of the foundation.

Still Rokusaburo’s Power held, invulnerable, struggling, taking the impossible force. The foundations cracked and turned to powder under the pressure, but Sullivan kept pushing. The walls bent. The lights crackled and died. Sullivan could feel something burning beneath the swordsman’s clothing, some other alien source of Power that he was drawing upon to sustain his invulnerability. Then finally, inexorably, he felt his enemy weaken. Rokusaburo screamed in frustration. His Power flickered like a flame deprived of oxygen, and then it was extinguished.

The full impact of Sullivan’s Power hit him then, and Rokusaburo was just gone, replaced by a sudden pressurized red mist that instantly coated the entire basement.

Sullivan lay there for a moment as the world returned to normal. It took a few seconds before he could breathe again. He slowly pulled himself out of the dripping crater, and spit a mouthful of blood that he was relatively certain was his own. His Power was gone. He’d never felt so tired. Gradually realizing that he was bleeding, he mashed one big hand against his torn arm, but the blood just leaked between his fingers.

The Japanese sword was twisted like pretzel and embedded in the floor. The damaged boiler was hissing and screaming. It hurt to turn his head, and he was certainly no boiler mechanic, but all those gauges breaking and steam shooting out like that had to be a bad thing.

A grey shape fell through the broken ceiling and the Fade landed softly next to the indentation. He took in the majestic mess in awe, then looked down at his shoes in disgust and kicked away something that had probably been one of Rokusaburo’s more elastic organs. He paused long enough to pick up a piece of the broken sword. “Souvenir,” he explained with a smile, then noticed the hissing boiler. “Come, my large friend. I believe this building is going to fall down on our heads very soon.”         

Sullivan didn’t know if he could trust the German, but he was too tired to argue.

Chapter 6 – http://larrycorreia.wordpress.com/2010/04/12/the-grimnoir-chronicles-hard-magic-chapter-6/