We Are Not Good People (Ustari Cycle) by Jeff Somers Read Free Book Online Page B

built-in bookshelves, each filled to capacity with a variety of tomes, some old and massive, some cheap new paperbacks. In front of all the books were knickknacks: dolls, snow globes, small sculptures—anything that had caught the old kleptomaniac’s eye at some point. The floor was covered by a thick Persian-type rug with a gold fringe. Between the chairs was a massive wooden coffee table littered with more things: a chess set and board carved from some dark glossy wood; a thick glass ashtray; a small ivory box with no obvious hinge, a gold beetle of some sort on top; a fiddle of uncertain vintage. Taking up the last of the floor space was a huge old-fashioned globe in a wooden frame, the colors faded, the borders out of date, the Communists still in control.
    No matter how long it had been, when I walked into Hiram’s house, I felt choked.
    When I was done telling the tale, Hiram drained his gimlet and sighed, gesturing at the body. “All right. Let’s have a look. Roll him over.”
    Mags leaped up like a puppy and scampered to the corpse, flipping him faceup. His arms flopped out onto the rug, and I could have sworn the sliver of green stone was still affixed to the exact spot on his chest where I had first seen it. The light caught it and made it gleam.
    “Jesus fucked,” Hiram said, stepping back. “Jesus fucked, Mr. Vonnegan, what have you been up to?”
    “What?”
    “Do you know what that is?”
    Panic lapped at the edges of my thoughts again. “No. My education was pretty shitty.”
    The old man looked at me, and then panic broke through and swamped me, because he looked panicked. “You did not touch it, did you?”
    I shook my head, and relief edged into his face.
    “That’s not just any ‘Artifact,’ as your story had me believe. That is a very old , old Artifact, Mr. Vonnegan. Or a piece of it.” He stepped to the left to get a better angle and seemed careful to stay a certain distance from the green stone. “A very dangerous Artifact.” He looked at me again. “The mage in the parking lot—describe him again. Carefully.”
    I did, trying to be detailed, and he started nodding when I was halfway through.
    “Calvin Amir, I think,” he said. He sighed and sat down on the edge of the coffee table, letting his hands dangle between his legs. “Do you know who Cal Amir is?”
    I shook my head. I hadn’t kept up on the gossip.
    “You do know who Mika Renar is, though?”
    The name made me jump, and Mags looked down at his hands and muttered, “Fuck,” a grace note of despair and terror.
    I swallowed thickly. “Renar is . . . enustari .” Archmage. “Probably the most powerful mage on earth.”
    “Not probably,” Hiram said softly. “She is . There are other enustari to fear. Elsa Brandt, be afraid of her, yes. Alfonse Alligherti, stay out of his way, certainly. Mika Renar? Worse than all of them. By an order of magnitude. Cal Amir,” he added almost gently, “is her apprentice.”
    I put my head down in my hands. “Ah, shit.”
    Mika Renar. Ancient, brittle old woman. Probably the worst living serial killer in the world. Able to reach around the globe and swat you off her ass without bleeding a drop of her own. Connected and rich, too, just for giggles. And I’d fucked with her apprentice .
    “Lem?” Mags said, sounding like a lost kid.
    I looked up and forced myself to put my hands on my knees and smile.
    “It’s okay, Magsie,” I said as cheerfully as I could. “We’re with Hiram now.”
    Mags smiled a little, relieved. I hated myself, but Mags could only understand four things at a time. We didn’t have time to teach him anything else. I looked at Hiram.
    “What can I do?”
    Hiram snorted, standing up and heading for the bar. “ Do? Nothing, Mr. Vonnegan. You have a girl who has clearly been marked for ritual in my bathroom. You have a stolen car parked outside my house. You have a man wearing a three-thousand-year-old Artifact neither of us could create or control