Deep Trouble

  Deep Trouble

  Spells, Salt, & Steel Vol. 3

  Gail Z. Martin

  Larry N. Martin

  Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  A Note from the Authors

  About the Authors

  Falstaff Books

  Chapter 1

  Gnomes suck.

  Gnomes running amok in a cemetery? Even worse. And since the pointy-capped little creatures had taken a shine to pranking those who came to pay their respects to the dead, I’d been called in to put an end to the malicious hijinks.

  Which explained how a grown-ass man like me ended up squatting down behind a cemetery angel in the middle of the night, looking for a two-foot-tall prankster with a helium-high giggle.

  The fact that this wasn’t the worst way I’d ever spent a Saturday night speaks volumes about my life.

  I heard that high-pitched giggle and tried to get a fix on it. When I’d been called in to solve the cemetery’s gnome problem, the only limitation was that I couldn’t shoot up the headstones in the process. Even I know better than to do that. If the living don’t sue you, the dead will haunt your ass.

  Fortunately, I had plenty of tricks up my flannel sleeves that didn’t involve damaging historic grave markers.

  I’m Mark Wojcik, mechanic and monster hunter. I got into the monster hunting business after a wendigo killed my father, brother, uncle, and cousin—and made me wish I’d died with them. Since I didn’t, I spend a lot of nights just like this, going after the things that go bump in the night. On good nights, I know that I’ve done my best to make the world a safer place. You don’t want to know what I think about on the bad nights.

  Greendale Cemetery has a gnome problem. That’s a shame because it really is a beautiful place to be dead. There’s a big stone arch over the front entrance and a creepy concrete “keeping vault” to store bodies when it’s too damn cold to bury them. Everyone who was anyone in Meadville, PA, got planted here when they died—Revolutionary War soldiers, Civil War vets, and all the people who have streets named after them downtown, as well as the guy who invented Talon zippers. In almost two hundred years, the trees have gotten huge, the azaleas and rhododendron have grown to be enormous, and the ghosts have mellowed out.

  I’d have said it was a perfect place for a long walk to appreciate nature if it weren’t for the damn gnome.

  That creepy, high-pitched laugh sounded again, and I knew the game was on. I shifted to get a better view. Dusk had fallen, so the cemetery gates were closed, which meant I didn’t have to worry about bystanders. Just me and the gnome, which already made it an unfair fight.

  Unfortunately, unfair for me.

  I knew the pesky little bugger was trying to lure me into a trap, but I couldn’t sit around all night waiting for a good shot. I dodged from the cover of the weeping stone angel, heading across a short open space for the shelter of a large granite obelisk.

  My foot caught on a trip wire of spun gossamer—strong and almost impossible to see—and I went down, face first on a freshly dug grave. I came up sputtering with a mouthful of dirt and wilted carnations, picking greenery off my sweatshirt. The gnome laughed harder, and I felt my temper rise. This was exactly the kind of mean-spirited tomfoolery the gnome had been playing on visitors, and needless to say, bereaved family members didn’t take kindly to being pranked.

  I made it to the obelisk, still shaking off dirt and flower petals. In the distance, I heard the faint sound of drumming and smiled. I glanced to my right, and the ghost of Norbert Jones shot me the peace sign from where he sat on a tree stump with his bongo. Norbert had been a college student back in the seventies, when sneaking into the cemetery for keggers had been all the rage, and the local cops mainly turned a blind eye so long as no one did any damage. Norbert must have been one toke over the line the night he died because he managed to fall into the ravine behind the cemetery along with his bongo and the keg. The keg hit Norbert in the head, and that sent his future up in smoke faster than a cheap blunt.

  I signaled Norbert, trying to get eyes on the gnome. When I put both hands on the top of my head, pressing my fingers together to mimic the gnome’s pointy red hat, Norbert looked perplexed, then grinned and gave me a thumbs-up. He jumped onto the stump and put his hand above his eyes like a scout, then pointed off to my left. I waved my thanks and moved as stealthily as I could toward where I caught just a brief glimpse of a red tip.

  I moved the stick I’d grabbed from beneath one of the big trees back and forth in front of me like a blind man’s cane and managed to avoid setting off the next tripwire. At least I thought I had until I moved to go around the trap, only to walk into another wire at waist height that brought several precariously-perched flower pots down onto my head and shoulders from where the gnome had set them high up on two tall monuments.

  I growled under my breath as I brushed away potting soil and bits of broken clay pots. I’d been lucky that the pots only clipped the side of my head, landing mostly on my back and shoulders. They were heavy enough to have given me a real goose egg, maybe even a mild concussion, if they’d have hit me square on.

  I’d set a trap of my own, back at the big mausoleum by the front gate, but herding gnomes was harder than it looked. I slipped among the monuments to get a better shot, raised my wrist-brace slingshot, and fired a plastic Pokémon ball full of iron shavings aimed right for the back of the gnome’s red-capped head.

  The ball cracked open on impact, spraying the gnome with powdered iron, and he screamed, jumped into the air, and took off like I’d dropped fire ants down his pants. Iron burns fey creatures, and I was just fine with giving the gnome a rash he wouldn’t forget. Unfortunately, he headed in the opposite direction of the front gate, so I had to chase after him, and this time when I fired, I intentionally hit off to one side—close enough to shower him with iron but steering his escape back in the direction I wanted him to go.

  When I moved to follow him, all of a sudden the sprinklers came to life, dousing me with cold water and—not coincidentally—washing the iron filings off the gnome, who squealed and jumped up and down in the water, glaring at me and gnashing his teeth.

  I noticed that Norbert followed me, still drumming on his bongo, with an expression of bemused curiosity I chalked up to all the weed he’d smoked before he went to the Great Beyond. His long blond hair was caught back in a ponytail, and his tie-dye shirt and bell bottoms made me think that all he was missing was a big dog and a psychedelic van.

  A sopping wet, pissed off gnome headed right for me at full speed. Everybody sees those resin statues and thinks that with stubby little legs, gnomes would be slow. Hell, no. This gnome moved faster than Aunt Trudy’s dachshund snatching a hot dog at the neighborhood barbecue. The next thing I knew, the gnome leaped into the air and caught me full in the chest. I felt like I’d gotten hit with a bowling ball, and the surprisingly dense gnome toppled me over, right into a pile of leaves and compost near the edge of the ravine.

  We went down with a thud, with the gnome pummeling me with his tiny fists and pointy boots. Then the son of a bitch bit me, sinking his sharp teeth into the meat of my forearm. I swung a left hook and clocked that little asshole right in the side of the head, but he hung on like a pit bull, and I wondered if gnomes carried rabies.

  We slid and slipped in the rotting compost like wrestlers in a vat of slimy green Jell-O. I needed to get him to let go with his jaw, but no matter how I tried to pry him loose, he held on, keeping him close enough to kick and punch my chest and gut. His fists and feet felt like stone, and I knew I’d be bruised and sore as hell tomorr
ow, not to mention having a bite on my arm like a Rottweiler used me for a chew toy.

  The gnome kicked me again, and out of sheer fury, I moved my arm to pull the little biter over my knee and smacked him hard on his droopy little ass. That must have surprised him because he opened his mouth in shock, and I snatched my arm back out of reach. Then he launched himself right at my waist, and I knew there was no way in hell he was going to latch on to the family jewels.

  I brought both fists down on top his red hat, knocking the gnome to the ground, and the damn thing went for my ankles. A kick with my steel-toed shitkickers usually ended this kind of misunderstanding, but gnomes are made out of enchanted stone, and it hurt me more than it hurt him.

  The next time the gnome tackled me, we went down in the mud, rolling around like the Glorious Ladies of Wrestling, with me scratching for a hold on his baggy shirt and him snapping his teeth for another good bite of any meaty bit he could reach. We were both covered in mud and leaf muck, dripping wet, and before I knew it, we either rolled right over the edge of the ravine, or the soggy earth dropped away beneath us. Either way, I fell, and the bottom was a long way down.

  I grabbed at the gnome and caught him by the waist of his pants because I wasn’t going to let him get away, even if they had to pry my cold dead fingers from around him. That’s when something icy and unnaturally strong grabbed my arm and flipped me into the air, sending me sprawling back onto solid ground.

  Norbert Jones wiped the mud from his ghostly hands and gave me a thumbs-up, looking extremely satisfied that he’d saved me from the fall that had killed him. Before I had a chance to thank him, I realized that instead of still having a hold on the gnome, all I held were his baggy pants and that the bare-assed little bastard was running away from me, streaking through the cemetery.

  “Thanks,” I yelled over my shoulder, as I took off after the gnome.

  “Come back here!” I shouted, but all he did was turn the other cheek. I did not need the mental image of the gnome with his teeny-weeny wiener dodging around and over the tombstones like a naked track and field event. I went right after him and managed to miss two of the traps he tried to lead me into, so I felt mighty proud of myself. But as we neared the front of the graveyard, I swung around a tall pillar monument and felt my feet go out from under me on a slick patch of soggy lawn clippings.

  That damn gnome giggled when I started to go down. But instead of falling backward onto my ass, I dove forward, using the stretch of decomposing vegetation like a slimy Slip’N Slide. I grabbed the gnome by its hips, tried not to think about what was at eye level, and held on for dear life. When I ran out of slime, I kept a hold of him and rolled until we reached the door of the mausoleum where I’d set my trap.

  I hurled that gnome into the mausoleum like I was throwing a pass on the Steeler fifty-yard line, shrugged out of the pack I wore, and grabbed for my secret weapon. While the gnome lay upside-down and stunned, I leveled a grenade launcher right at his naked ass.

  “Say hello to my little friend,” I muttered. “Meet Big Bertha.” I pulled the trigger, firing a shell filled with holy water, salt, and iron filings. The break-away shell shattered on impact, flooding the inside of the mausoleum. I knew the mixture would weaken the gnome, and so I hauled myself onto my feet and grabbed the stunned ankle biter before he could collect his wits. I clamped cold iron manacles around his wrists and legs, keeping well back from his sharp teeth.

  Then I lifted him by the chain between his feet, trying to ignore his dinky ding-dong flapping in the breeze. I didn’t like doing it, but I still had to read him his rights.

  “According to the Feral Fey Accords of 2011, you will be moved to a sanctuary location approved under the Gnome Relocation Act. If you are caught causing more trouble, the Accords and the Act permit us to report you to bounty hunters, who are licensed to turn your stone ass into gravel. Have I made myself clear?” I gave him a shake just to let him know I was pissed, in case he had somehow missed that.

  I’d take his grunt as a “yes.”

  Dripping with mud, covered in leaf muck and slimy grass clippings, I picked up my pack and slung it over my back. The gnome, I carried upside-down and tried not to let his head bump into too many things on the way back to my truck. I tossed him into the iron cage I kept for just such occasions and glared at him as he swore at me.

  “It’s your own damn fault,” I said, tossing his pants between the bars and reaching for the tarp I used to cover the contents of the cage from curious onlookers. “If you had left the visitors alone, I wouldn’t have gotten called in.” He kicked at the cage and gave me a murderous look.

  “Give me a break,” I muttered as I slung the tarp over the cage. “You’ll like Saskatchewan. I hear it’s nice this time of year.” The Feral Fey Relocation Center was up in the far reaches of the province that even Canadians think is cold. The gnome banged at the cage again. I banged back.

  “Quit yer bitchin’,” I grumbled, as I got into the truck. “I gave you back your damn pants.”

  I speed dialed Father Leo. “I’ve got him,” I said as soon as I heard him pick up.

  “How much damage do we need to clean up?” Father Leo asked. He’s a damn fine priest, a good poker buddy, and my contact to the Occulatum, the secret arm of the Vatican that oversees and supplies guys like me.

  “Surprisingly little to the cemetery,” I replied. The cage rattled around in the back of the truck, and I figured the gnome was throwing himself against the bars. I spiked the brakes, which slammed the cage and its temperamental stone prisoner into the back of the cab. That might have rattled his rocks, I thought. “As for me, nothing worse than a bite and some bruises.” I wasn’t going to admit that the short little fucker threw me off a cliff.

  “Good,” Father Leo replied, although the humor in his voice told me he might suspect the night didn’t go smoothly. “Bring him in. I’ll let the Feral Fey folks know, and they can come to pick him up.”

  “Can you say that five times fast? Feral Fey folks?” I asked. I swear I heard him roll his eyes. “Aren’t they all shifters? Don’t they have problems coming through Customs? Aunt Trudy couldn’t get her dachshund across the border, but the wolf guys can come and go as they please?”

  “If your aunt’s dachshund could change into a person to cross over, he’d have probably gotten right through security,” Father Leo said with belabored patience. “The FFRC agents don’t travel in their wolf form. And they’re the best equipped to deal with low-level fairy repeat offenders, like your gnome.”

  “He’s not my gnome,” I grumbled, hitting the brakes again to silence my unwilling passenger. “I’m driving straight to your place. Can’t be rid of him soon enough.”

  “Nice work, Mark,” Father Leo said, and I knew that he understood all the shit that went with the job. I might not be happy about having mud down my shirt or grass slime in my skivvies, but the job was done, and people could go plant marigolds around relatives’ headstones in peace. As hunts go, I wasn’t too much worse for the wear. And I had ESPN and some cold beer waiting for me when I got home. I knew when to count my blessings.

  By the time I made it to St. Gemma Galgani, Father Leo’s church out in Geneva, I’d spiked the brakes more often than a nervous teenager taking his driving test. Father Leo was sitting on the back steps waiting for me. Leonardo Morelli, aka Father Leo, was the older brother of my friend Tom. Just shy of forty with wavy dark hair and big brown eyes, he probably broke a lot of hearts when he went into the priesthood.

  “Sure is a spitfire,” Father Leo said when I pulled off the tarp. The gnome threw himself against the bars like he was in a cage match, but at least he’d put his pants back on.

  “That’s one way of putting it,” I replied. “I might have used some other terms.”

  Father Leo gave me a sidelong look that was more indulgent than judgmental. For a priest, he’s a pretty okay guy. “They say there are no atheists in foxholes,” he replied. “That may or may not be true. But I d
o believe the good Lord understands and gives dispensation to words said in the heat of battle.”

  I sincerely hoped so, or I was screwed six ways to Sunday.

  Our contact showed up faster than I expected. “That was pretty quick to get here from Saskatchewan,” I said. The FFRC agent might have been in human form, but he moved like a predator. If I hadn’t known he was a wolf shifter, I would have bet Special Ops or Navy SEAL. His dark brown hair had flecks of gray, although I wouldn’t have put his age much past mid-thirties, like me. Blue eyes tracked every motion, wary and watchful. And while I do my best to stay in shape, given the job, this guy looked like he bench pressed VW Beetles. Being a wolf apparently was a good workout.

  “Fortunately, I was in the area,” the Feral Fey guy said. “Had a couple of other pick-ups down in Pittsburgh.” He shook his head. “No offense, but your neck of the woods sure seems to draw the crazies.”

  I couldn’t argue that. “Keeps things interesting,” I replied. “What happens to him now?”

  The gnome glared at us with his hands on his hips. His red hat sat askew, and he looked like he wanted to chew me into little bitty pieces, but at least he had his damn pants on.

  “We have a high-ensorcelled-security compound a long way from everywhere,” he replied. “Iron fencing, plants that repel the fey, magical wardings. Guards are shifters and witches. Maybe a vamp or two on the night rotation. Whole place is filled with iron. If there are individuals who might be rehabilitated, we’ll work with them, but most are too dangerous to ever release.”

  “And the fey let you get away with that?” I did my best to steer clear of the Old Ones, but everything I’d heard told me that they held grudges and had very long memories.

  “We’re doing them a favor,” the shifter replied. “The kind that come to us are outcast. Saves the rest of the fey from having to do the dirty work.”