The dance led inevitably to the bedroom.
Ansell moaned with pleasure.
9
The lock wasn't complicated. Raccoon's magic fingers reached inside with ease and found the critical element, a simple spring-loaded bolt. One flick and the bolt was open, the door unlocked. But there was more, an alarm, and something… a sort of trap. Magic pervaded the frame around the door, not the door itself. Clever. It might have worked, too, if Raccoon weren't just as clever. Disabling the alarm took only moments. Neutralizing the clever spell that would… what? Cause sleep. Cause anyone opening the door to fall asleep. Neutralizing that took a few minutes. A very clever spell, indeed. Yes, a spell worthy of Raccoon.
When finally the door swung open, Bandit paused, watching, listening, breathing deeply of the incense-laden air that came drifting into the alley. Nothing seemed amiss. It looked as though he'd defeated this clever combination of security. Very pleasing, very rewarding… But, if his information was correct, the greater reward awaited him inside.
He stepped through the doorway, nearly silent on plastifoam-soled shoes, and into a room that looked much like any other room. The light-intensifying lenses of his mask showed him a small, crowded space divided into three aisles by tall shelf units, a large workbench, some cabinets, hundreds of various small containers, cartons, and boxes. A storeroom. To his astral perceptions, the place was dark, all but emotionless, dead. It was made of things that were lifeless: plastic, metal, and concrete. Substances torn from the earth and so deprived of life. If not for the radiant life energy flowing weakly through the doorway and the faint glimmer from a potted plant on the workbench, the place would have been pitch-black.
The light-gathering lenses of his mask let him scan the labels on the containers. He saw names like U.C.A.S. Fetish, New Magic, Arcane Instruments, Genuine Focii. Bandit recognized the names and knew that the corporations they named produced nothing of any value. He moved to the door on the other side of the room, slipping through it to enter the talismonger's storefront.
Here was life, glowing, radiating, from various points around the shop. Many of the display cases and shelves were filled with tourist trinkets from the boxes in the back room: drums and rattles, knives, wands, crystals, phony bones, plaster shells. Pretty ornaments to amuse the ignorant Baubles and toys for children or relatives somewhere in Duluth. Some of the talismans and potions and painted charms were very real, imbued with true power, shining with magical life, but none were of a quality or power that would interest one who followed Raccoon.
Bandit turned to the stairs, the old wooden stairs leading up from the side of the shop to the room on the second floor.
Here was the true hoard: old wooden tables and shelves and antique, glass-fronted cabinets all shining brightly with power. What they said-the derelicts and street urchins and burnt-out magicians he had overheard on street corners-all of it was true. Raccoon could spend many hours here examining the many glowing items, but that would be unwise. Bandit knew what he wanted, and it lay in plain sight, right on the table hi front of him.
The Mask of Sassacus, said to confer great powers of influence and persuasion, perhaps bound up with special spells. Bandit hesitated even to touch it, but instinct and desire and the danger of discovery wouldn't let him hesitate for long. Cautiously, he lifted the mask in his fingertips, then held it up to his face to see what change that might make in his vision. He learned nothing for his trouble, but assensed great power. He could almost taste the power. He would carry this mask away and learn its secrets. That would tell him its value.
With great care, he slipped the ornate mask into a pouch slung from his belt. In its place, the spot left empty on the table, he put a small crystal dragon with glinting red eyes. Inside this decorative container was the powdered essence of the reproductive organs of a wyrd mantis, a giant Awakened insect of Europe.
The powder glowed with power, but it had no value to Bandit. His magic would be tainted by anything with the least connection to insects or insect totems. That did not mean that the powder had no value to anyone else. Some might find it a very valuable commodity indeed. Maybe not as valuable as the blood of a dragon, the feather of a phoenix, or the horn of a unicorn, but far more valuable than anything else in this shop. That made it a fair exchange, more than fair, for Raccoon had no need to leave anything. Thievery, as some called it, was part of Raccoon's nature.
The room suddenly filled with — light, brilliant light, as from a spotlight. This came from the semi-transparent tubes crossing the ceiling. Bandit felt the light like fire. In one fluid movement, he crouched low to the floor and ducked under the nearest table.
Raccoon guided him well tonight.
Better to hide than to fight.
An old man entered the room. Bandit guessed it was an old man by the pair of spindly legs he espied through the legs of tables between him and the back of the room. He also saw a gun, an old-style revolver, gripped low in a gnarled hand.
"Who's there?" a weak voice rattled. "I know you're here… Got past my ward… Sneaky bastard…"
Bandit pointed a finger and breathed a single word. From the direction in which he pointed came a muted bang and crash, followed by the quick-razor snarl of an alley cat.
"What's this?" the old man murmured. "That old trick. I ain't falling for it."
Bandit grinned. The old man must be a magician, and clever. Clever enough to have set the trap on the alley door. Indeed, as he had said, the cat in the alley illusion was an old, old trick. Raccoon used it often. Most people fell for it.
"Somebody's monkeying around," the old man growled.
Nodding, smiling broadly, Bandit reached into his coat pockets, drew out his hands, then softly blew a long, deep breath at the old man, simultaneously extending and opening his hands.
"Huh?" the old man said, "Now what… another…" He stood unmoving for several moments, then yawned loudly. The spindly legs stumbled backward a few steps, slowly settled onto their knees. Finally, the old man came fully into view as he bent to the floor, lay down, and fell asleep.
In a few moments, he was snoring softly and steadily, his own kind of spell used against him.
Bandit returned to the narrow alley behind the shop. The night was dark and quiet, marked only by the voices of the night: the distant rumble of the subway, the passing of cars on nearby streets, the occasional calls of street vendors and the talk of passersby. Nothing seemed out of place.
A brief walk took him across High Street, through Nishuane Park, jammed with the stalls and booths of talismongers and occultists, to Harrison Avenue. He felt like getting some food.
In front of Seven Hexes Pizza, he noticed a gray and black van. He walked right past it and around the corner into the deep shadows cast by the tall ferrocrete tenements lining Sutherland. The van followed. As Bandit stepped into the dark recess of a tenement doorway, the van glided to a stop at the curb in front of him. The passenger door of the van swung open. A big ork in an armored black vest and black fatigue pants stepped onto the sidewalk and joined Bandit in the shadowed doorway. People called this ork Shank. A dwarf called Thorvin followed along.
"Hoi, Bandit," Shank said.
Thorvin grunted.
Bandit watched these two closely. Their presence here roused his curiosity. They rarely came looking for him except when a special opportunity arose. A glance at their auras revealed only that they seemed calm, untroubled, in harmony with the plex.
"We got a job," Shank said. "Rico wants you in the game."
Interesting. Bandit knew this Rico, too. Rico was clever, in some ways as clever as Raccoon. He had a woman, an Asian woman, who was perhaps more than she appeared. Not entirely human, perhaps something other than human. She was clever, too. "The decker," Bandit said quietly. "Is she in?"