Shadow Duel (Prof Croft Book 9) Read online

  Shadow Duel

  Prof Croft 9

  Brad Magnarella

  Copyright © 2021 by Brad Magnarella

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.

  Cover design by Damonza.com

  Table of Contents

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  Chapter 33

  Chapter 34

  Chapter 35

  Chapter 36

  Chapter 37

  Chapter 38

  Chapter 39

  Chapter 40

  The Doideag’s Prophecy

  Available Now!

  Free Books, Anyone?

  Author’s Notes

  Preview of Blue Curse

  Croftverse Catalogue

  Join the Strange Brigade

  The Prof Croft Series

  PREQUELS

  Book of Souls

  Siren Call

  MAIN SERIES

  Demon Moon

  Blood Deal

  Purge City

  Death Mage

  Black Luck

  Power Game

  Druid Bond

  Night Rune

  Shadow Duel

  MORE COMING!

  1

  “Thanks again for the lift,” I said, gathering my coat and cane.

  “Any time.” Using the hand controls, Bree-yark finished parking his giant Hummer. “No way was I gonna let you cab it all the way out here.”

  “My wallet and I appreciate that.”

  I got out and surveyed the scene. Bree-yark came around to join me, grunting with each step. “What in thunder are we doing here anyway?” he asked, one hand playing visor to his squinting goblin eyes.

  “That’s what I’d like to know.”

  A week ago, the citywide wards had picked up an energy discharge suggesting an arrival into our world. I rushed to the location, an alley in the Lower East Side, and found squat. Just the barest trace of dissipating energy. The conjured creature had flamed out, and the amateur caster had gathered his or her implements and scooted. Best case, the fool had been scared straight. Worst, he’d be fool enough to try again.

  And here we were, just as the sun was rising over a lovely landfill in central Queens.

  My cane tugged toward the valley of garbage, where earthmoving machines were already at work distributing the filth, and clouds of seagulls cried overhead. Minor conjurings typically led me to apartments, back alleys, and the occasional hobby shop, but there was a first time for everything.

  And hopefully a last.

  The wind shifted, scattering debris over the landfill. “You don’t have to join me,” I said, fishing a handkerchief from a coat pocket to breathe through. “I shouldn’t be long.”

  “Forget it. We’re going in together.”

  “You’re still not a hundred percent.”

  “Hey, I’m not the one carrying a cane,” he joked.

  “Well, I wasn’t demon-torched in a time catch and left for dead.”

  Bree-yark waved a hand as if I were referring to a minor bump. But it was a miracle he’d recovered, much less been able to fulfill his duties as my best man a few months later. Of course, we were talking about someone who’d spent nearly a century in the goblin army. He pulled off his collared shirt, his muscled torso a canvas of scars and faded tattoos, and draped it over his rearview mirror.

  “Lead the way,” he barked.

  I donned my trench coat and cinched it tight around my waist, then stuffed the cuffs of my pantlegs into my socks. Stepping over the guardrail, I began picking my way across a slope of rankness. Though I’d never wanted a protective shield more, I couldn’t risk it interfering with a hunting spell that was only tenuously locked onto its target. By the weakness of the signal, the target was probably sublimating, but I was still duty-bound to check it out. Plus, the city had been quiet in the last few months and I needed the practice.

  Bree-yark powered his stocky four-foot frame in my wake, trying hard to conceal his limp. “What are we even looking for?”

  “Shallow nether creature,” I said through my handkerchief. “They’re usually crablike or buggy. And they always show up hungry, so watch yourself.” The thing would have plenty to pick over here, I thought grimly.

  “Don’t worry. I’m packing goblin steel.”

  My lead foot plunged from view, and I nearly face-planted into a plastic bag squirming with maggots. Swearing, I drew my muck-covered foot back out. I was going to have plenty to say to the idiot conjurer when we found him—not only for getting me out of bed in the predawn, but for ruining a perfectly good pair of shoes.

  “You all right?” Bree-yark asked.

  “Fine.”

  The hunting spell continued to pull us toward a nearby hill. Above, a garbage truck beeped into reverse and sent its cargo spilling down an embankment. We were headed for the fresh stuff, which made me wonder if the creature had climbed into a trash container that had been picked up that morning.

  “How are things going with the move?” Bree-yark asked as I started forward again.

  “Oh, you know, adjustments all around,” I answered through my handkerchief. “Tabitha’s not thrilled.”

  Since the wedding last month, Vega had remained in Brooklyn with her son, Tony, so he could finish out the school year. That done, and following some modifications to my West Village loft, they were moving in permanently.

  “Aw, give Tabby time,” Bree-yark said. “She’s used to having you all to herself.”

  “I think it’s more that she’s used to having the loft all to herself.”

  Bree-yark chortled. How he was freely breathing this stuff, I had no idea.

  “How are things with Mae?” I asked.

  “Top notch. Thinking about popping the question.”

  I stopped to peer over a shoulder. “No kidding? That’s great.”

  “Well, she’s old fashioned, and I’m getting tired of just escorting her to her door at night. I’d like to be walking through it for a change. But, hey, this is just between us. I’m still working up the nerve.”

  “My lips are sealed,” I said, the final word ending on a gag. “How is the smell not strangling you?” I demanded, adjusting my handkerchief.

  He shrugged. “When you’ve lived in a goblin barracks, you’ve pretty much smelled it all.”

  As we neared the hill, my cane made small adjustments, guiding me toward a recent spill of garbage. Something skittered beneath the debris. There you are. My body hummed as I gathered ambient energy and funneled it toward my mental prism. A shrinking enclosure would do the trick, I decided. Nothing fancy.

  “Entrapolarle.”

  The invocation vibrated down my cane,
flashed from the opal end, and manifested as a glimmering sphere around the motion. Newspapers, empty packaging, and yard waste kicked inside the sphere, but I was already upping the power, closing the hardened air around the creature like a fist. In a moment or two, the pressure would pop the thing out of existence and I could go take a shower.

  “Hey, Everson?” Bree-yark said.

  I recognized the warning in his voice. The debris around us was shifting, and not from the wind.

  “What the—?” I managed before the entire hill shot upward, lifting me from my feet.

  My sphere burst into sparks, and I landed in a backpedal. Bree-yark caught me, and we craned our necks back, struggling to comprehend what had happened. But as the hillock took shape, so did the situation. What I’d mistaken for a nether creature was, in fact, a piece of something much larger.

  “That doesn’t look like a bug,” Bree-yark said.

  Above us, the pile was morphing into a massive humanoid shape.

  “It’s an animation,” I groaned.

  “Made of garbage?”

  “Apparently so.”

  Another first, but where in the hell was the magic coming from?

  I looked quickly around before refocusing on Stinky. The ends of its upper appendages had morphed into a pair of fists packed with discarded appliance parts and glinting with shards of broken glass.

  Wonderful.

  Moaning, the animation lurched toward us.

  “Stay low,” I told Bree-yark, manifesting a shield.

  Stinky’s descending fist landed against it, driving us a foot into the debris.

  Half in anger, half in desperation, I shouted, “Respingere!”

  Light and force pulsed from the shield, sending the animation back several paces and scattering loose bits of garbage from its body.

  “What’s the plan for this thing?” Bree-yark asked, climbing from his depression.

  I’d managed to keep my handkerchief to my face, and I replied through it now in a muffled voice. “Often it’s just a case of overwhelming the forces holding it together. Like so.”

  I thrust my cane forward and summoned a force bolt. It released with a boom and blew a hole through Stinky’s middle. But the animation ignored the assault, garbage climbing up to fill the void again.

  We were talking hefty magic.

  “Got a plan B?” Bree-yark asked.

  I stuffed my hanky into a pocket and drew my cane into sword and staff. As sunlight glinted along the blade’s nine runes, I considered activating the second one, for fire. But while the elemental flames could burn through animating magic, the question was when? I didn’t want to add fire to Stinky’s arsenal before he succumbed. I slotted the blade home and dug inside a coat pocket.

  “Plan B is to find whatever’s animating this thing,” I said.

  I drew out a premade potion, my charged words igniting tiny gems to activate the potion’s encumbering magic. As Stinky lumbered in for another strike, I hurled the open tube at him. It struck his chest in a burst of steam and spilled the potion down his front. Immediately, his motions turned sluggish.

  “Think you can keep him occupied?” I asked.

  “With pleasure,” Bree-yark replied, stalking past me, a drawn blade in each fist.

  He evaded Stinky’s descending fist and scrambled between his legs. Using the blades like climbing spikes, he scaled the animation’s back. Stinky moaned and rotated in a lumbering circle, arms flailing in slower and slower motion.

  “Keep it up,” I called to Bree-yark, who was hacking away now.

  Freed from having to fend off the animation, I activated the hunting spell again. The wards hadn’t led me to a creature, I decided, but an object. Stinky was acting as some sort of guardian.

  As my cane rattled back to life, I stumbled after its weak pull. After several feet, it aimed straight down at a flattened box of detergent. I kicked the box aside, revealing a section of metal. Swirling energy distorted its dull glow.

  Bingo.

  I cleared the debris from around it until I was looking at the metallic lid of a box the size of a book. It was dark gray with ornate glyphs running around the border. A light, faint and green, pulsed along the lid’s seam. I angled my head several ways, but I couldn’t make sense of the symbols. Protections for what was inside, most likely. Just as strange was the magic they exuded. Not evil, and definitely not infernal, but something about it disturbed me. Like it didn’t belong here.

  I snapped a photo with my flip phone. Then, pulling out a vial of copper filings, I scattered them around the metal box.

  “Any time!” Bree-yark shouted.

  When I looked over, he was dangling from where Stinky had him by a leg, the animation’s other fist drawn back. Shit. With no time to finish the protective circle, I aimed my cane down at the object.

  “Disfare!” I shouted.

  The sudden release of magic blew me onto my back. Off to my left, Stinky exploded, sending Bree-yark somersaulting through the air. He landed nearby, but now the tonnage of garbage that had comprised the animation was raining over us. Stunned, and with no time to invoke a shield, I covered my head in my arms until the final pieces pelted down. Fortunately, I was spared anything heavy.

  “You all right?” I called, peering between my elbows.

  “Never better,” Bree-yark grumbled, shaking a small trash pile from his head.

  I checked myself for any magical damage before crawling forward to where I’d last seen the small box. It was still there, the protective energy in the glyphs disorganized from the release. I hovered my cane over the box’s lid, tempted to crack it open for a peek, but not while it was still active.

  Instead, I retrieved a bag of gray salt from a pocket and placed the box carefully inside. I eyed the strange symbols again before shifting the bag around, burying the box inside the neutralizing medium.

  Though its magic was stifled, the box continued to generate uneasy thoughts. What did it hold? How had it ended up in a New York City landfill? Why had the wards misinterpreted its energy? And most importantly, who had been using it? I may not have recognized its magic, but I’d felt its potential.

  “Found it?” Bree-yark asked, wiping off his arms as he arrived beside me.

  “Yeah.” I placed the salt bag in a coat pocket, glanced over, and did a double take. “Whoa, hold still,” I said, reaching for his head.

  “What?” he barked, leaning away.

  I pulled a hypodermic needle from his temple and showed it to him.

  “Oh.” He rubbed the spot.

  Fortunately, goblins were immune to just about every disease known to man, including hepatitis. I tossed the needle aside and eyed our return route across the landfill. I’d lost my handkerchief, but I was more bothered by the item I’d found. Though it intrigued me, too many questions surrounded it.

  Questions for a more experienced magic-user, I decided. Questions for the Order.

  2

  “Hold yer noses, everyone!” Bree-yark called as we entered my loft apartment.

  Leaning my cane against the coat rack, I set a plastic shopping bag with my potions and spell implements beside it, hoping I hadn’t left something in a coat pocket. I’d swapped my clothes for a spare set I kept in my interplanar cubbyhole and dropped my trench coat off at the cleaners. Bree-yark was wearing the shirt he’d stripped off, and he’d ditched his shoes, but his jeans and my hair still reeked of landfill.

  “Morning, Tabitha,” I said.

  On the window-side divan, a pair of green eyes narrowed from a mound of orange hair.

  “Hey, how’s my second favorite lady doing?” Bree-yark called cheerfully. The two had worked together on a case the year before that had taken us through Epic Con, and they’d actually gotten along.

  “This is not the week to ask me that,” Tabitha replied testily.

  She’d gotten used to me schlepping off to Brooklyn and having the loft mostly to herself. Now, not only was I back full time, but she was having to
share what she’d come to consider her place with an additional two humans she could barely tolerate. She was about to say more, when our smell reached her. Her nose wrinkled savagely from her bared teeth, and she buried her head in her paws.

  “Fucking hell,” she exclaimed.

  “Language,” I reminded her. “We have an eight-year-old in the house.”

  “And a baby on the way,” a woman’s voice added. “Morning, Bree-yark.”

  Ricki Serrano Vega Croft appeared from the back bedroom, guiding a very squinty-eyed and bed-headed Tony out in front of her. She was wearing NYPD blues, the swollen belly above her tactical belt almost eight months along.

  “Whoa,” she said, bringing the back of a hand to her nose. “Tabitha has a point.”

  “And may I remind you that a feline’s nose is forty times more sensitive than a dullard human’s,” Tabitha said. It was the closest to agreement I’d heard between my wife and cat all week.

  Tony, who was still in his Avengers pajamas, seemed not to notice our stink. He managed a sleepy “Morning, Dad, morning, Bree-yark” and climbed onto a chair at the dining room table, head propped in his hands.

  We returned the greeting, and I nodded toward the bathroom. “Why don’t you go ahead,” I told Bree-yark. “Fresh soap and towels are in the closet. Oh, and here.” I brought around the hanger of clothes I’d picked up from the cleaners and tossed him a pair of slacks. “The waist should be about your size.”