Chapter 4

He went out through the door and I hurry after him . But I keep a distance. No need to let him know he's got a tail. This guy pulled a lightning rafter with a few whispered words. He's throwing around serious magic. Way out of my league. A face to face confrontation probably wouldn't go well for me.

He's headed north of the boulevard and I stroll along, trying to look like another scared customer exiting the club after the accident. Two blocks up, he stops and hails a taxi.

I sight the nearest cab and hop in."Follow that guy."

The cabbie turns in his seat. He's got a stub of cigar between his teeth and a five o'clock shadow. "You serious, bub?"

"Yeah. Only don't get too close, okay?"

The cabbie shrugs. "You're the boss."

He pulls out into the traffic, cutting off another motorist, and does a better than average job of tailing without arousing suspicion.

"You a cop?" The cabbie inspects me in the review mirror.

"Private eye."

"This fella we're following," he asks, "What did he do?"

"Killed a pair of girls. Threw one in front of a bus and the other out a window."

The cabbie rolls the stub of a cigar from one side of his mouth to the other without saying a comment. I settle back into the seat and let my heart rate return to normal. Had I known I would be dealing with a top shelf sorcerer, I'd have brought totems and wards I've gathered over the years. Magic is not my area of expertise, but I know a few counter spells and can even do a few enchantments at a pinch, but I need the right material. Casters that can throw spells with just their force of will are a rare breed. Rare. And Dangerous.

The lead taxi stops at a run-down two-story building if a sagging brick and mortar with barred up windows. My driver slows down and stops a block away. Mr. Vulture climbs out and mounts the steps to the front door, throws a look over his shoulder and then disappears inside.

"Want me to wait?" he asks.

"Please." I hand him a ten, get out and head up the block. The building is in a sad state. I can see why the bars are added. Most of the windows in the ground floor has been smashed out. The rooms beyond, far as I can see, are empty and dark. Mr. Vulture might live here, or he might be squatting. One thing is sure--he's the only one living here. I do a lap around the building. There is no back door, just a fire escape too high to reach. I get back to the front in time to see a light come on in an upstairs window. At least I know where he is. This time I have no intention of letting him drop in me.

I mount the steps. Look around the empty street. No one but the cabby to bear witness. I rear back and plant my foot into the door just below the knob. The wood gives away with a splintering creak. The door swings in and rebounds off the wall. I step into a dark hall with hardwood floors and ceilings. A feeling of long emptiness and neglect hangs over the place. Of course, that might just be the cobwebs.

Surely my entrance has attracted Mr. Vulture's attention. I step through an open door on my right. He'll come down stairs to investigate and I'll get the drop on him. I am in a room with a large, empty fireplace and a milder ceiling. It might have been a nice place to live once. Probably long before I were born. Now it's just cold and creepy. Just the type of place I'd expect a sorcerer to live. In one corner a tall grandfather clock has been covered with a sheet.

At least, it looks like a grandfather clock. Thinking Mr. Vulture could well be hiding under the white covering, I move closer to inspect. I don't get far. From the corner of my eye I spot a shadow detach itself from the deeper black. I have just enough time to be surprised and then something crashes into the back of my skull. The light go out.

I swim up from unconsciousness. An army of angry bees built a nest inside my head while I were out. They are in there right now, buzzing and stinging and generally making life miserable. Being awake is a mistake. I want to go back into the soft black oblivion, but a tiny warning bell is jingle-jangling at the back of my mind.

There is a light on. The glow penetrates the membranes of my closed eyelids. The air is cool. I remember infiltrating the Vulture's hide out and getting the back of my skull bashed in as a result. The pain at the back of my head flares in response. It takes some effort, but I peel open one eye.

Am in a basement and I've been trussed like a Thanksgiving Day turkey. My hands are tied together and suspended overhead by a simple mental hook passed through the ropes. My feet dangle an inch off the stone floor. The light is coming from a ***** bulb hanging from the ceiling. The decorator went for a look that says gothic castle meets fetish club. He succeeded. Chains, whips, knives and other unpleasant looking instruments adorn the walls. Dark red spots stain the floor. At least it's not my blood all over the floor. Not yet anyway. I'll have to think fast if am going to get out of this one.

Before I can formulate a plan, the door swings open. The Vulture comes in with a leather paddle in hand and asks, "Who are you?"

Several options come to my mind. I could lie lie and say that am a cop and that I have the place surrounded. It's an old trick, but I were a cop once and can act the part. Maybe if I say it with enough conviction... Finally, there's the option of trying to lighten up things a bit, answering him by saying " The Ghost of Christmas Past. You've been naughty."

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