Free Dave Carver (Book 1): Thicker Than Blood by Andrew Dudek Page B

and killed creatures out of nightmares. That late morning, though, I witnessed something that put all of them to shame.
    Lieutenant Elmore “Earl” James got us from Queens into Manhattan in less than fifteen minutes.
    Mostly, I think, he accomplished it with a total lack of concern for his car, a beat-up old Toyota that looked like it had enough mileage to tie a bow around the globe. He weaved in and out of traffic on the Queensboro Bridge, seemingly oblivious to horns, jeers, middle fingers, and swears. Even more amazingly, he managed to carry on a perfectly rational conversation while he did it.
    “This guy we’re going to see can be a little intense, sir,” he said. “He runs a magic shop.”
    “A magic shop.” I tried to keep the skepticism out of my voice, but I guess I didn’t quite succeed.
    “I know what you’re thinking, sir, but he’s the real deal. A wizard. He just uses the shop to make money.”
    “I guess even wizardry can’t compete with capitalism,” I said. “He’s good?”
    “Rob says he’s the best. Most of the magicians in the tristate use him for their supplies. Anyway, he’s a good person for you to know, sir. He’s got almost as many supe contacts as Rob does, and some of them are in places where the Table generally doesn’t go. He’s legit, though—Magic Council member and stuff. He’s a good guy.”
    “Rob didn’t seem to think he’s such a good guy,” I said, remembering the grimace that had crossed the older knight’s face when Dallas’s name came up.
    Earl laughed. “That’s just ‘cause last year they were both trying to fu—” He seemed to spot Krissy in the rearview mirror then. “Hook up with this elf chick at the Tribeca festival.”
    “Who won?” Krissy asked.
    “Rob never told me, so I guess that’s your answer. Anyways, it’s not like he doesn’t like the Table, sir, he just doesn’t get along with Rob. He’ll help us if he can.”
    Less than five minutes later, Earl slammed the Toyota into a parking spot at the base of the steel canyons of a Manhattan street. He had to cut off a twenty-something guy in a muscle car to do it. The guy rolled down his window, but when he caught a glimpse of Earl’s powerful build, he cruised away, looking for a new parking space. Ah, New York. Pollution and parking wars.
    From the street, the Rabbit’s Hat didn’t look like much. In fact, if you hadn’t known it was there, you wouldn’t have noticed it, so easy was it for it to get lost in the shadows of the skyscrapers that neighbored it. The windows were covered with purple curtains. The only thing that suggested the little shop was a place of business was an “Open” sign hanging in the glass of the front door.
    A bell overhead tinged when Earl opened the door and led us inside. The store was lit—poorly—by dozens of candles, in brass sticks on glass counters, with flames of various strange colors: purples and greens and blues. The counters were the kind you’d see in a jewelry store, open so that you could see the wares inside. They contained various gear and ingredients that could be used in magic spells: powders, liquids, crystals, small animal bones and organs, satchels of salt, and dull knives made of iron and silver. Many magicians, I knew, eschewed technology, preferring to focus on the mystic arts of lore. The only concession made by this store to the post-Industrial age was a state-of-the-art computer and cash register set up on the back counter in a corner.
    A half-dozen kids, mostly in their late teens or early twenties, were making a show of looking at items on counters, at the books on the shelves that lined the walls. Mostly they hunkered together, whispering urgently and staring at us with unconcealed nerves. A college-aged man with dyed black hair and a knee-length duster took a cautious step forward and raised his hand, fingers spread wide. I recognized a warding gesture when I saw one. This kid was preparing to work a defensive