At the Behest of the Dead by Timothy W. Long Read Free Book Online Page B

Winged monkeys take flight.”
    “Hey, that was a fire imp, and I had nothing to do with the warehouse burning to the ground. It was pure bad luck.” Coupled with a brimstone spell gone awry. I ran across the imp after a couple of drinks and jumbled a word or two. So instead of gathering mist from the air and chasing him off, I accidentally set him on fire, which is sort of like preparing a needle for a heroin addict. He ran around in larger and larger circles, apparently enjoying the way the wind made the flames flare up.
    “I heard about the murders. Some tourists got tore up bad,” Frank said.
    Frank wasn’t as old as me but there was sadness behind his gaze. His features were a contrast of wrinkles and sun kissed leathery skin. When not dashing around at night , he was often doing work for charities or Native American rights, although he did grumble about the casinos and how he should have invested in one years ago. Frank was a good man and a good friend.
    The biggest problem with Frank was that he felt free to walk around naked when he was freshly morphed. “Changer’s don’t carry clothes,” he had told me on more than one occasion.
    “This is the Pacific Northwest. Serial killers are a dime a dozen.”
    “But you don’t think that’s it, do you?”
    “I think something did a number on the victims. Something that’s not human and not demonic. No glyphs I could see. If a demon were unleashed in Seattle, the league would be up to their neck in lawsuits.”
    “Could be a changer. Could be worse. That’s why I plan to accompany you.”
    “Ah Frank, you’re all heart. I’m just going to look around, not get into trouble. Don’t you have some female hawks to chase around or baby deer to terrorize?”
    “Someone has to keep an eye on you since Glenda dumped your pale butt.”
    “It wasn’t even a real relationship. Jeez, Frank,” I said, but it stung.
    Christ, he has to go and bring up Glenda. He may as well punch me in the gut and piss on me while I was down. I stared at him for a moment until he looked away, then he smiled in that impish way of his and slapped me on the back.
    “Just think , chief, maybe we can hook up with some girls in Belltown later on.”
    “Right, Frank. I’m sure they will go for a tired warlock dressed from head to toe in black and a naked Indian.”
    “Hey brother. I look good naked.” He strutted a few feet away. In the blink of an eye he jumped and formed in the air. His hawk shape beat at the night sky and he was away like a shot.
    My take off wasn’t as clean.
    I zipped up my black leather jacket, slid goggles over my eyes, and then strapped on the helmet. All that gear weighed me down but it was better than screaming around in wind that would feel fifteen degrees cooler than the actual temperature.
    I threw my legs over the band of maple like it was a fence. The wood was still warm, the curious after-effect of using it the night before. It was just like a regular pitchfork, until I felt through the layers and found the edge of the cusp. I wrestled with the barrier for a half second before channeling a touch--just a tiny amount into the wood that responded with something like glee.
    So you have read the books about the boy wizard (and I have always wondered where she got some of her info) and how he uses a broom to flit around. Sounds like fun, right?
    Let me try and break down why it’s not.
    Ever been in a small plane when the air is breaking through cracks and tiny holes in the fuselage or streaming in through the windows? Pretty loud, huh. Now, imagine you are plastered to the windshield.
    First of all you can’t hear a thing because of the air rushing past your ears. Forget about talking to someone as you fly. It screams and whips by, creating a howling banshee cry. The air is also ice cold when it hits your body. The leather helps but it isn’t enough. But because you have to concentrate on staying aloft, forget about a spell to stay warm while you’re up