Crime Spells

None of the Russians liked him, which meant Georgi could trust him with sensitive information because he had no allies.

Balyuk said nothing until his silver BMW was cruising north. Even then he turned on radio and muttered a quick privacy spell.

Then he turned to me. “What happened?”

I shrugged. “Not sure. Both Chinese and militsia think we did warehouse job.”

“What did you tell them?”

I snorted and rolled my eyes.

It was bad if Balyuk thought he had to ask that question. He had earned his position out of fanatical personal loyalty to Georgi. If Balyuk didn’t trust me, neither did my brother.

My stomach tied itself into a tight knot.

For a long time there was silence as Balyuk fought his way through early afternoon traffic. After awhile I noticed that a dark blue sedan was following us a few cars back.

I was pretty sure it was Krasny Mafiya muscle in case I tried something. Was Georgi offering up Balyuk as a test?

“Where are we going?” I asked.

“Meeting,” said Balyuk, tersely.

He slowed beamer down, stopping behind stalled moving truck.

I glanced at him out of corner of my eye: big beefy man in expensive suit, red hair, blue eyes, pale skin, the faint outline of a Roman cross under his pale green Arrow shirt. No way for me to read him. If only-

Something smashed through front windshield. It was the size of an anaconda, but ebony with scarlet eyes, as big around as man’s thigh and impossibly long.

It wrapped itself around Balyuk and squeezed. I heard crunch of ribs snapping. Then it reared back and sank three-inch fangs in lawyer’s neck.

“Liod,” I shouted, and suddenly the dragon was a statue of crystalline ice.

Giving me time to pull my Glock and shoot the Chinese thug coming up over the hood pop-pop-pop three times in chest. Then I dropped guy coming around passenger side with a head shot.

I put next bullet into the dragon. It shattered into a million pieces, filling car with tinkle of breaking ice.

It was already too late to save Balyuk. His throat was a bloody, broken mess, his stylish shirt stained black with blood, his breathing labored and ragged.

But he was still alive.

I reached over and touched his chest, feeling the cross beneath his slick shirt.

My eyes darted to the rearview mirror. The men in the dark sedan were ru

I turned back to Balyuk and for a second our eyes met.

Then I popped buttons of his ruined shirt and my fingers found bloody cr-

Knowing shot through me like electric current.

I stalked silently through cold warehouse, a wolf at home in the frigid wastes of the world, winter’s master. From the shadows I saw Chinese and their heroin. The Black Dragons were powerful and brave, but it would not save them.

They were in my world.

I must’ve passed out after that, because I came to in hotel suite. It didn’t matter, though.

Because I knew everything.

When I awoke, Georgi was leaning over me, and for just a second I saw the boy I grew up with, not the man I knew now. His eyebrows were hunched with concern, his full, red lips slightly parted.

And when our eyes met a bright smile exploded across his face.

He glanced back at the others in the room. “You see? It will take more than Chinese tricks to kill my little brat.”

Brat.

Brother.

My throat closed painfully.

“You are well, Valeri Mikhailovich, yes?”

“Yes,” I said weakly.

Georgi quirked an eyebrow. “Apparently your sit-down with Zhang did not go so well. Why do they believe we stole drugs?”

My eyes flickered to the guards and then back to Georgi. “When Zhang and I were talking… our minds touched. I saw…

Georgi shook his head, the question plain on his face.

“Georgi,” I murmured.

He leaned in to hear me.

“There are traitors,” I whispered.

His eyes widened. “Nyet,” he snarled.

I looked at the guards again.

It was impossible for someone to take advantage of Georgi’s trust, for he trusted no one. No, the answer was suspicion. With Georgi, suspicion was the lever.

He turned to the guards. “Out.”

One of them hesitated.

“Out,” he roared.

The door snicked shut and just like that Georgi and I were alone.

There was a second of silence, and then he asked the question I knew he would. “You have proof?”

I nodded. “Square box in coat.”

He pulled the box out of my pocket, opened it. Looked at the curled, black monkey hand. Picked it up and studied it, frowning.

Because, of course, there was nothing there. Just stupid good luck charm.

And for the second he was distracted, I pointed my right hand at him and shouted “Siwang.” The Chinese death curse worked instantly, turning his blood to dust, squeezing the air from his lungs. He looked at me, eyes wide, mouth distended in a silent scream.

Then he fell, still clutching the monkey’s paw in his hand.

And there he lay, chieftain of a mob at war with Chinese, a Chinese charm clutched in his hand, the taste of Chinese magic still charging the air.

What would you think?

Zhang would take blame, and I would lead war of vengeance. And anyone who did not show me proper loyalty would find himself on front lines.

And so I found my prayer had been answered. I knew who set me up, had arranged for poor sculpting job, who had bought monkey paw, who had been holding heroin all along, and it was not Georgi.

Was me.

I stumbled out of bed and found my boots. Johnson had been looking for an object of extreme value, and his glance had passed right over my boots. As a Chicagoan he thought he knew cold. Bah! He did not know cold. Anyone who has survived Siberian winter knows true value of good pair of boots.

I carefully tucked them away for time when I could use $32 million worth of heroin.

Then I went to the dried, blackened husk that was all that was left of Georgi Dorbayeva, and knelt down. A single tear slid down my cheek.

My brat.

But this is way of world. There can only be one lead wolf.

The thing Georgi forgot is that lead wolf owes his position to strength, but the second wolf owes his to guile.

I gently touched my brother’s desiccated face.

Is not a lesson I will forget.

The Old Girlfriend of Doom by Dean Wesley Smith

Sometimes even superheroes can’t save the day, or the girl, or the dog, and that fact is even sadder when the girl is one of the superhero’s old girlfriends.

Honest, Poker Boy, and just about every superhero, once had a childhood, a life as a young adult, without powers. I only discovered my Poker Boy super abilities later in life, after I had lived a fairly regular life until the age of twenty-nine. Little did I know that someday I would put on the black leather jacket and the fedora-like hat and become Poker Boy, savior of blind women, lost husbands, and dogs.

It was Christmas Eve, a holiday for me just about like every other one. I was home, alone, in my double-wide mobile home that I had bought twenty years ago with the money from my wi

I was watching some lame Christmas program on television and eating a television di