Well, it was mostly black. The 92 4Runner had seen its fair share of scrapes with a left front fender in primer gray and enough dents to show its battle scars from years of use. Someone had keyed the driver’s side a few months back, undoubtedly knowing that I was a cop. The inside wasn’t much better, either, with torn cloth seats and a stash of Big Gulp cups in the console.

  I started it and headed out toward Bonnie Brae. I had parked my home next to Bonnie Brae Park. After the neighbors figured out I was a cop and not some hoodlum casing out the neighborhood, they were glad to see me. Except they weren’t thrilled with the old 4Runner. Some were bold enough to leave me Lexus and Honda brochures on my door with the latest SUV and crossover models circled.

  My home was one of those tiny houses; the type you see in all the hip and suave sustainability e-Mags. It looked like it was a little over 100 square feet. Originally the outside had looked rather dumpy, but with a little woodwork, some paint, and some pretty siding, I made it look more impressive.

  I chose the Bonnie Brae neighborhood because it wasn’t far from the station house and tony enough to keep the riff-raff out. So, when I drove up to where the house was supposed to be—it wasn’t.

  “Fuck. Not again.” I stared down the lit street. I needed to get a tracking spell. I parked the Toyota where my tiny house should have been, got out of the truck, and sighed. Someone had stolen my home.

  Chapter Five

  “I can help you find your home.” A rough voice grated in my ear. I jumped in surprised and turned to see the little demon hovering just above my shoulder.

  “Tuzren, don’t do that!” I had almost pulled my Glock on the little demon for the second time.

  “Sorry, you need to pay more attention to your surroundings. You’d think you’d be good at that being a cop.” Tuzren eyed me cynically. “I bet you don’t have a tracking spell on it.”

  I frowned. “You steal it? Give it back.”

  “Of course I didn’t steal it,” Tuzren said, sounding affronted. He twirled his little forked tail in his hands. “I don’t have any use for a mortal’s trailer…”

  “It’s a tiny house.” I glared as I corrected him.

  “Whatever. And I don’t need it.”

  “Says the demon who was Dumpster-diving earlier. How long have you been outdoors?”

  “None of your concern.” Tuzren shrugged. “You want my help finding it or not?”

  I turned to walk back to my truck. Demons always had ulterior motives. “I can find it myself.”

  Tuzren let out an exasperated sigh. “Look, Ironspell-Cabas, I know you don’t trust me, being a demon and all. Let me show you my goodwill and find your mobile home…”

  “Tiny house,” I corrected him.

  “Tiny house for you,” he said. “You won’t owe me a thing.”

  I turned to face him and raised an eyebrow. “Nothing?”

  “Nothing consequential.”

  “Ah the equivocation.” I turned away and started walking.

  “Okay, just a night under a roof, okay?” Tuzren said, catching up to me. “Maybe some decent food. That’s it.”

  “That’s it?” I repeated. “All for finding my house?”

  “Yeah.”

  I opened the truck door and looked at him. “Okay, but just for one night’s stay and a meal—and that’s it.”

  “Deal?” The demon’s face lit up.

  “Yeah, deal.” I sighed, knowing full well I shouldn’t trust the demon. “Where the hell is it?” I climbed in and closed the door.

  “Patience, Oh Great One.” Tuzren snapped his fingers and tire tracks magically lit up on the road. “There’s the thief’s tracks,” he said as he flitted into my truck through my driver’s side open window. He settled on the headrest on the passenger side. “Follow the Yellow Brick Road.”

  “A Wizard of Oz fan?” I raised a skeptical eyebrow. Tuzren just grinned. I put the key in the ignition and started the truck. The Toyota grumbled to life and soon we were on the road following the thief’s trail. Oddly enough, there were markers looking like I was following Street View. “Nice touch. I’m sure Google appreciates the royalties.”

  We ended up going down University to Buchtel Boulevard near the University of Denver. The sun was already peeking over the city, red and swollen from all the pollution. The brown cloud had existed as long as I could recall, but it was never this bad. Even with all the environmental regulations in place, the air was still nasty. I wondered idly what caused so much pollution. Sure, the population had grown substantially, but not enough to warrant this much smog.

  The demon’s map led us into one of the University’s parking lots. My little house sat in the corner. Someone had spray painted it with graffiti, but left in a hurry, dropping the spray cans as they did so. They had left their tools to strip the tiny house of everything it had. As I drove up, Tuzren flapped his wings excitedly and took off through the window, making a dive for the tools and the spray cans.

  I parked and surveyed the damage. The thieves had started painting the insignia of the Goblin Gang – a “G” with a backward “G” to let me know who had ripped me off. A two-bit gang with more muscle than brains. How the hell did they manage to show up in Bonnie Brae without someone taking notice? Goblins didn’t drive trucks, so I guessed maybe they recruited some humans. That would explain the final location of my tiny house. They planned on stripping it down and sending the raw material north on the highway to a shady recycler.

  Only they didn’t expect the safe guards on my house. I sighed and pulled out a small vial of purplish liquid. After the first time someone spray painted the house, I researched an alchemical formula that would eliminate spray paint from the exterior. I opened the vial. Violet smoke escaped from the vial and I tossed the contents at the house. The liquid splashed on the graffiti and climbed across it, eating it up. It ate up the dirt and grime from the road as well. The tiny house looked new.

  “Nice spell,” Tuzren remarked. “Haven’t seen a morph potion set up to clean off graffiti before. You should sell that stuff. You’d make a fortune.”

  I shrugged. “I offered it to the Denver City Council, but because I’m not on the approved magical vendors’ list, they don’t even want to talk to me.”

  As tiny houses went, it was actually a nice looking place. It had a modern design with large picture windows that let in the sun and showed a sparse interior. You could see the kitchenette, built-in couch and dining area, and the ladder that went to the loft where a person could sleep. The white birch siding made it look like some upscale place that belonged more in the mountains than in the city. Unfortunately, it made it especially attractive to vandals. I pulled the ticket off that the campus cops bestowed on it and tucked it in my pocket. Great. Another ticket.

  “Nice digs, if small,” the demon said.

  I sighed again. The demon confirmed my suspicions: third-rate lackey. Someone summoned him, found him anemic, and didn’t bother to send him back. Typical. Wizard wannabes were always pulling that shit. Sure, they had some magic, or bought a spell off some unlicensed dealer, but for the most part, they were only slightly better than the non-magical population.

  I walked to the door, and seeing it partially open, I drew my Glock and pushed on the door, letting it swing to the inside. On the counter was a bantam hen, pecking at something in the sink. I relaxed and holstered my weapon. With a gesture, I disabled the threshold wards.

  “Fluffy, what are you doing out here?” I said to the bantam.

  The demon started salivating. “A chicken? You have a pet chicken?”

  “You leave Fluffy alone,” I said, pointing at Tuzren. “Don’t you even dream about eating her.”

  Tuzren flitted inside toward Fluffy. I took a step after him, but found I didn’t need to. “Whoa!” Tuzren said.

  The tiny house’s inside changed radically once you entered it. Tuzren hovered midair in the spacious foyer outside the fully equipped and stocked kitchen. The birch wood and chrome staircase spiraled upward next to him. It led to the upstairs where my study and at least ten bedrooms sat. I say “at least” because I’ve never gotten a full count. If you counted them, the house kept creating new rooms. Same with the basement. I suspected it’d do the same on the main level, but I was happy with the arrangement and the house seemed to sense that.

  Tuzren flew to the front door threshold and moved his head back and forth to see the illusion and the reality. He whistled appreciably. “That’s some crazy temporal magic you’ve got.”

  “Close the door,” I said. “Leave the chicken alone.” I walked in and inspected the defense runes along the wall. None had been tripped. That was a relief. I walked over to Fluffy, a bantam Ameracauna hen and rubbed her comb gently. She was pecking at some ground meat on the counter. Apparently, the house was rewarding her for a job well done.

  “Did you do all of this?” Tuzren said, buzzing around.

  “No, a family friend did. Gave it to my father before I was born as my birthday present to have when I was old enough. Mom gave it to me on my eighteenth birthday.”

  “It’s bigger on the inside.” Tuzren noted sagely. “So, it opens its own pocket dimension?”

  “Yeah, and it takes some getting used to. Temporal mages use these things to travel in.”

  “It moves too?” The demon was impressed.

  “It can, but I don’t let it do that much. Its outside morphing switch got stuck or something. Mom was big into the tiny houses and had it appear as one. It won’t morph into anything else since, so I’m stuck with it. I’ve tried but I haven’t been able to change it. Not my first choice in how it looks, but it could be worse. The temporal mage’s own ship developed the same glitch. It looks like a British telephone booth.”

  “Hah,” the demon said. “I bet that’s hard to explain with all the smart phones around.”

  “Yeah, I’d imagine it is.” I glanced out the window. “Look, I’m tired from last night, but I’ve got to get this hauled someplace where someone won’t tow it. You stay here. You can have one of the upstairs bedrooms except the first one on the right, which is mine.” I paused and glared at the little demon. “Don’t mess anything up, and leave the chicken alone.” I added extra emphasis to my words. Once I get us back to Bonnie Brae and get some sleep, maybe I’ll make dinner and figure out what you can do.”

  “No need to get snotty.” The demon crossed his arms.

  I looked at Fluffy and scratched her head as she gave the demon a gimlet eye. “Don’t worry, he’s only here for one day,” I said to her. “You know what to do, if he gets out of line.”

  Fluffy clucked and let me scratch her back. For a chicken, she wasn’t a bad sort. I walked out the door and closed it. I then backed up the Toyota and hooked the trailer to the bumper hitch. Within a half hour I was back on the road with the tiny house behind the Toyota.

  I shifted the truck into second low to give it a little more power as I turned onto University and let my mind wander. The 4Runner was long in the tooth and I was pulling what had to be well over the max gross vehicle weight, so I got in the right lane and prepared for a lot of honking. Damn, the speedo said it was doing 25. Wow, no land speed record there.

  While I drove, I replayed the fight with the troll in my mind. What in the hell was a troll doing in Washington Park? It wasn’t exactly troll habitat, which made the whole thing suspicious. Sure, it was a park with agricultural roots, but it was right smack dab in suburbia going into full urban. Trolls didn’t hang around metropolises for good reasons. Sure, they weren’t as sensitive to ferrous materials like other supernatural critters, most notably the Fae, but they were cave and underground dwellers for a reason. Sunlight turned them to stone, which is why most hung out under bridges if they couldn’t find a cave. Still, bridges weren’t ideal for them.

  The closest troll colony I knew of was near Red Rocks over in Morrison. Not only did they have enough rock overhangs and caves to hide in, but they liked the music and junk food that came out of the natural amphitheater during concerts. In the past, occasionally a junkie or pot head would go missing after a concert, but since the DPDS sent a squad after the troublemakers, they had been on their best behavior. Mostly. The City and County of Denver which owned the venue erected signs warning Normals to beware of the trolls. Still, it wasn’t uncommon for parents to get their kids to behave by offering to feed them to the monsters.

  But this didn’t explain what the troll was doing in Washington Park, or why it was alone. Trolls didn’t hang out alone, if they could help it. They were ferocious, strong, and terribly dangerous, but loners they were not. Stories about a single troll under a bridge came about the time when humans almost drove trolls to extinction and what few trolls in farmlands were forced under bridges or deeper into the wilderness.

  I stopped at the post office and picked up my mail from the PO Box. A letter from DU’s alchemy department admissions program was in the stack of typical junk mail. I went back to my truck, sat in the driver’s seat, and opened the letter.

  Dear Prospective Alchemy Candidate:

  This letter is to notify you of our decision regarding your admission to the DU Paranormal Studies Alchemy Masters Program. While your credentials, grades, and project are impressive, we regret to inform you that we feel that you lack some of the qualifications necessary to become an Alchemist here at the University. Thank you for your interest. We wish you the best of luck in all your endeavors.

  Sincerely,

  H. E. Carnaz, PhD,

  Dean of Wizardry and Alchemy Studies

  Well, shit.

  Chapter Six

  I read and reread the letter to make sure I understood it correctly. They had just rejected me for their alchemy studies? I stared at it for a long while, a conflicted mix of anger, disbelief, shock, and rejection roiling around in the pit of my stomach. Sure, the name, Ironspell, wasn’t as respected in magic circles as it used to be, but they had no reason to reject me. My magic scores were exemplary and my project demonstrated a clear understanding of transubstantiation. I couldn’t imagine who could have a better application.

  I stared at it. I had pulled in some serious favors having two of my father’s friends look over the application and the project. These were high powered mages who knew their magic, and now the dean was telling me that I wasn’t good enough?

  I stared at the dean’s name: H. E. Carnaz. New name. I didn’t recall a change in deans at the University. What happened to Dr. Johann Henrik? Henrik had at least known of my father, having gotten his doctorate at the same time, but Carnaz? I didn’t recognize the name.

  I pulled out my smartphone, searched Carnaz’s name, and found nothing relevant listed online. Not even a photo or a listing at DU. DU’s page for Wizardry and Alchemy Studies still showed Henrik.

  Shit. There went my chance at being something other than a street cop. Not that I minded being a street cop, but the DWTF used more magic. They had plenty of garden-variety wizards, which is why I opted for alchemist mage. I was above average when it came to transubstantiation and transmogrification—all my undergrad professors had said that. And now, my chance at getting a promotion went to zilch. I banged my head against the door pillar of my SUV in frustration.

  I wallowed in self-pity for the next half hour. Once or twice I almost torched the letter, but decided to hang onto it instead. Maybe mom could recommend a good voodoo houngan or mambo who might help me curse the asshole. I wasn’t into dark magic, but I was tempted.

  Instead, I started the SUV and continued the drive to Bonnie Brae Park. I thought about going to a Supe bar—they served even at this time of day. As depressed as I was, my body was aching from the little set to with the troll. I needed sleep more than alcohol right now, and I had a “guest” that was eyeing Fluffy as a chicken dinner. Best get the tiny house parked someplace and get some rest.

  The drive was painfully slow as the Toyota’s engine whined with high RPMs. Moving the tiny house was really more than the old 4Runner should tow, but it wasn’t like I could afford a one ton on my salary. Granted, I didn’t have the bills normal people did, but I really couldn’t afford a new rig.

  After I parked the tiny house in the usual spot, I locked the 4Runner and set the wards. I then unlocked my front door and wards and walked inside. No sooner than I did than a wild-eyed Tuzren came flying down the stairs at what I would only call breakneck speed.

  “Help me! It’s after me!” Tuzren screamed. His ugly gargoyle face was cherry red from flying as fast as he could. His Denver Broncos t-shirt had new rips in it. His lashing tail was bleeding dark ichor and splashing it on the walls and floor. On top of the stairs appeared Fluffy, obviously stalking him.

  If a bantam chicken could have a murderous look in her eyes, she did. Demon ichor dripped from her bill and demon’s blood coated her feathers. She let out a loud squawk which sounded more like a roar than a cackle a chicken would make. She stepped silently down the steps, eyeing Tuzren.

  “I told you to leave the chicken alone,” I said.

  “I was hungry,” Tuzren whined. He flitted behind me to make sure I was between him and Fluffy.

  “I have a whole refrigerator full of food, and you go after the animal I told you specifically to leave alone.” I sighed in exasperation. “Look. Go into the kitchen and get something to eat while I calm her down.”

  “Right.” Tuzren flew off.

  Fluffy let out a loud snarl, and I could swear I saw teeth showing in her beak. Normally, I’d wear mail gauntlets to handle her, but they were in the other room, so I picked her up, hoping I wouldn’t need stitches. Surprisingly, she relaxed in my arms and I petted her. She began to cluck softly to me.

  “I know—he’s an idiot of a demon.” I cooed at her.

  She clucked again and eyed me curiously.

  “It’s only for one night. The little guy helped me find the house.”

  “Bbb-awck?” Fluffy said.

  I shook my head. “No, not permanent. And anyway, I don’t need a demon to help me out here.”

 

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