Free Geekomancy by Michael R. Underwood Page A

murmured something that sounded affirmative. “Good. I can buzz by the neighborhood and try to run it off. Best thing you can do come nightfall is be in public, with several people, and carrying a weapon. When they’re in hunting mode, Furrymancers avoid crowds, pick on lone prey. Make sure you’re powered up when you leave home, stay in public, and I’ll shadow you on the way home, in case he’s persistent.”
    “Wait. Furrymancers?” Ree asked, her chuckle like warm water melting the ice-cold fear.
    Eastwood hrmed. “That’s what most everyone else calls them. Officially, they’re Atavists. They can usually only channel their beast for a short time each day, like 3rd ed. D&D Barbarian Rage. If it can’t find you or any other prey, it’ll go back to being someone in a suit.”
    “So it really was a killer furry?”
    “Ish. Furrymancers are weird ones. Pretty rare, thankfully. But if it couldn’t run you down and gut you, it wasn’t that strong.”
    Ree wasn’t sure whether to be offended or relieved. “Um, good?” she volunteered.
    “Oh. What did you find at the Moorelys’?” he asked.
    Ree laughed to herself. He’s really got the absentminded-professor vibe going.
    A shiver went down her body as she recounted the scene and her conversations with the Moorelys. The cops on TV were always so calm; they could maintain distance from the dead while empathizing with the living. Ree wondered if they taught that in the police academy and if she could audit. It hadn’t been too bad when she was there, with the Sherlock mojo on, but afterward . . . Ree shuddered again as she finished up.
    “Does that help?” she asked, hoping for answers.
    Eastwood murmured in the affirmative again. She heard typing through the phone.
    “I’ll add this to the files I have and see if anything shakes out. Then I’ll swing by to deal with the Atavist. Go out with friends, maybe those friends from yesterday. And bring a weapon, but nothing conspicuous. Unless you watch Highlander so you can hide it in a trench coat.” Eastwood started another sentence, then cut himself off. “. . . sorry, rambling.”
    Ree smiled. “No prob. My Highlander tapes are worn to nothing. Methos was my TV boyfriend for several years.”
    “Yeah, right. Just keep your eyes open. And you don’t have to keep doing this, you know.”
    Ree took a breath, a bit of her mind tugging on her to take the out. She shook her head. “To hell with that. I’m not going anywhere. You’re stuck with me, buddy.”
    “It’s only going to get more dangerous,” he said.
    “Good thing I’m not going to be alone, then.”
    Eastwood started to say something, then hung up.
    Ree looked at the phone. “Weird.”
    She searched her bedroom, trying to decide what she could bring, since a butcher’s knife didn’t go with dinner wear, at least not at any restaurant she’d want to visit.
    Ree turned out her closet and found a pair of dusty arnis canes, a training sword from her dalliance with tai chi, some boffer weapons, and the super-tacky Fantasy Sword that she’d bought on a lark at a ren faire three years ago. Her bedside table held a switchblade, which at least was a real weapon.
    However, she looked at the Force FX lightsaber she’d placed on her bed and regarded it like a puzzle.
    I did the genre thing; does that mean I can use you? And if I can, do I have to cart the whole thing around, or can I just take the hilt?
    She replaced the leaning tower of miscellany in her closet, mulling over the lightsaber.
    “Can’t hurt to bring,” she said, unscrewing the plastic blade and slipping the hilt into her coat, keeping an eye on the activation button to make sure she didn’t accidentally turn it on. Ree thought it’d take more than an errant bump to make the thing get all glowy, but she wasn’t willing to risk a foot on her shaky understanding of Geekomancy. She could feel the quippy energy of Buffy in the back of her brain, fainter than Sherlock had