Shark's Teeth (Marla Mason) (2 page)

‘‘So where are we going?’’ Rondeau said.

‘‘I did another divination last night, and got pointed in this general direction, though the tooth fairy wannabe we’re looking for is trying to keep himself hidden, so I couldn’t narrow it down much. Here’s where your psychic-ness could come in handy, if you can rouse yourself to look for anything unusual –’’

‘‘There.’’ Rondeau pointed at a t-shirt shop next to an art gallery, neither of which was doing bang-up business. ‘‘Right there.’’

She squinted. ‘‘What? You see a shirt you want? Those all look too tasteful for you, even the ones with pictures of hula girls riding surfboards.’’

‘‘No, I’ll pick one of those up on the way out. In
between
, can’t you see it? The shimmer?’’

Marla was usually good at spotting folded space, the little dimensional tricks sorcerers used to hide their lairs from enemies, or, more pragmatically, to avoid having to pay rent for prime real estate. But she didn’t see anything now, which meant the guy hiding it was
good
. When she tried to use her awesome illusion-piercing vision to look deeper, a bolt of pain lanced through her head – she’d peered beyond the veil too recently, and doing so again would give her a migraine. Not long ago she’d been granted the ability to see through illusions at will by the lord of the underworld, which was a pretty nice gift, but he hadn’t explained that it would take a toll on her body every time she used it. Probably because he didn’t have a mortal body of his own, and didn’t think about stuff like that.

‘‘I’ll take your word for it,’’ Marla said. ‘‘Show me the way.’’

‘‘I just love barging into sorcerer’s lairs uninvited. That always works out so well for us.’’ But he took her hand and led her toward what appeared to be just a bit of wall separating art from t-shirts, and then led her farther.

They stepped into the folded space, and a door stood closed before them, the words ‘‘Rare Books’’ and ‘‘By Appointment Only’’ in flaking gold and black paint on the glass. Inside, dimly, they could see bookshelves, a counter, and stairs leading up to a second floor. This had been an antiquarian bookseller’s shop at some point, apparently, until a sorcerer comandeered it, hid it from ordinary people – and from other sorcerers – and turned it into a sanctum sanctorum.

Marla tried the knob, and it was locked. What kind of paranoid nut locked the door of his
magically-hidden
lair? Well, Marla probably would, in his place, but still.

‘‘I got this.’’ Rondeau placed his hands on the glass and closed his eyes. ‘‘Hmm. Or maybe I don’t. This’ll take more than lockpicks. He’s got the door alarmed, magically. I don’t think it’s anything, you know,
offensive
, but he’ll be alerted if we break in.’’

‘‘Then we’ll have to break in
fast
.’’ Marla reared back for a kick with one of her steel-toed boots.

‘‘Hold up, maybe... yeah, I think the alarm looks for the owner’s
mind
, sort of examines the shape of it, checks the contours of his mind against some stored template, and I can sense the guy in there, upstairs, let me see if I can...’’ He grunted. ‘‘Got it. Sort of a snapshot of his mind, taken with
my
mind. Now let me hold it up to the door, like using a severed hand to open a palmprint scanner, only less bloody...’’ He put his hand on the doorknob, turned it, and the door swung open. Rondeau grinned. ‘‘Hot damn, I love this brain of mine.’’ He made an ‘‘after you’’ gesture, and Marla slipped inside.

A quick check of the downstairs revealed three rooms and a few corridors constructed of towering shelves – despite the ‘‘rare books’’ on the door, the shelves mostly held used paperback bestsellers from a few decades ago – with no nasty surprises lurking anywhere. Rondeau was working on opening up the rather ancient cash register, because even though he was rich now from the sale of his nightclub, old habits died hard.

Marla tapped him on the shoulder and pointed upstairs. He nodded, and followed her. The stairs were wooden and probably squeaky, but there was nothing to be done about it except to place her feet as far to the sides of the steps as possible to minimize the creaking. The result was fairly quiet, and soon she reached the top of the flight and peered into the room above.

A man who matched Ka’ohu’s description, especially the greasy hair part, was leaning over a wooden desk that was entirely covered by an enormous dead shark. He wore an elaborate cloak covered in red and yellow feathers, which Ka’ohu hadn’t mentioned, but you probably wouldn’t wear something like that out fishing for gods.

‘‘Hey there,’’ Marla said, stepping into the man’s sight. Rondeau lurked farther down the stairs, retaining the element of surprise. He could be smart sometimes. ‘‘What’s with the big fish?’’

The man removed his smoked glasses, revealing rather watery blue eyes, which he blinked at her. ‘‘Hmm. You made it inside without my noticing. I didn’t know there was any new... talent... on the island.’’

‘‘I’m a recent arrival.’’ She strolled into the room, looking around. There were lots more shelves – these held books that looked rather more interesting than the ones downstairs – and a couple of closed cabinets and a few windows that looked out over Front Street and toward the ocean. ‘‘I’m Marla.’’ She waited a moment, then said, ‘‘This is the part where you introduce yourself to me.’’

‘‘I am Kahuna Mo’i,’’ he said, drawing himself up to his full height, not that it helped much. Marla took note of the club hanging at his belt. She’d seen other weapons like it in one of the little museums nearby. It was a leiomano – a short club studded with shark’s teeth – one of the traditional weapons of the islands. She had a feeling she knew where the teeth had come from, too. ‘‘Why are you in my store?’’

She ran her finger over a few of the books on his shelf. ‘‘I’m new in town. Looking for work. I noticed your little magic shop here, thought it was impressively well-hidden, and knew there had to be a man of power here. Since I don’t like waiting tables or selling tchotchkes, I’m looking for a job in the magic trade. That’s clearly your business, so I’d like to learn what you’re all about, and coming in to talk was easier than subscribing to your newsletter.’’ He preened a bit at the ‘‘man of power’’ comment. Loser. Marla mused. ‘‘Kahuna. I know that means sorcerer. What’s the other bit mean?’’

‘‘Kahuna is more like ‘priest’ than sorcerer. And Mo’i is... well, to simplify, it means King.’’

‘‘Kind of a presumptuous name for a haole like you. No offense.’’

He scowled. ‘‘My ancestors may not have come from this island, but I am Hawai’ian in my soul. I have lived for years, and planning, and consolidating my power. I will restore these islands to their ancient glory, and restore honor to the Hawai’ian people. My plan is well underway, and soon, all will hail me as the greatest of ali’i in the islands.’’ He patted the dead shark absentmindedly.

‘‘That restoring honor thing, that’s maybe not a bad idea,’’ Marla said. ‘‘I’ve read some of the history, and the Hawai’ans got a raw deal when the US took over. The separatist types have a point, but I don’t think they’d welcome the leadership of a pasty white guy from... let’s see, I’m crap at accents... Pittsburgh?’’

‘‘Sheboygan,’’ he said, with a little shudder.

‘‘Right. Seems like a kind of cultural appropriation thing you’re up to, my fellow haole. Not that I blame you. I imagine there’s not a ton of good culture to call your own in Sheboygan. But, still, it rubs me the wrong way, so I won’t be calling you Kahuna Mo’i. I’m going to call you greaseface instead, okay, greaseface? Or would you prefer featherbrain? I’m good either way.’’ She walked off a little to the side, so she wouldn’t have to jump over the desk if she needed to attack him.

‘‘If this is a job interview,’’ he said, ‘‘you’re doing a spectacularly poor job as an applicant.’’

‘‘Oops, I let my subterfuge drop. I’m no good at deception.’’

‘‘Then why are you really here?’’

‘‘Let me answer your question with a question,’’ she said. ‘‘Why’d you rip out the shark god’s teeth?’’

‘‘Who
are
you?’’ he said, sounding more bemused than worried, which annoyed her.

‘‘I’m the person who’s going to beat you over the head and dump you in the ocean if you don’t answer my questions. Why tear out the shark god’s teeth? I see they turned back into shark’s teeth, and you made them into a little toy club there. So what’s it good for?’’

‘‘This,’’ he said, snatching the club from his belt and launching himself at her.

Marla grinned. She loved a good fight. He swung the club at her, and she raised her arm to ward off the blow, whispering a spell that gave her flesh the approximate consistency of kevlar – having her skin pierced by the tooth of a shark god couldn’t be good for her.

But when the club struck her, it brought with it a wave of transformative magic that drove Marla to her knees. She grunted as her body tried to change, and gritted her teeth – teeth that wanted desperately to elongate and sharpen – as she fought the magic.

Marla was crap at transformations. She wasn’t much good at remote viewing, either, or astral projection, or body-switching, or anything that required her to give up her iron grip on her self-image. She didn’t have many assets left. The other sorcerers back home had taken her city away, and her weapons, her resources, most of her allies, her money, her apartment, her influence, her minions, her
purpose
.

But they could never take away her will. Or her sense of self. Nobody could make Marla become something other than what she was. That was her greatest asset as a sorcerer, now that all else was gone.

Still, this magic, once unleashed, had to go
somewhere
. Preferably into something alive, or that had once been alive, and since greaseface had danced out of reach, she grabbed the leg of a wooden chair near the desk, and let the magic flow
through
her.

The desk transformed into a rather small, and very dead, whitetip reef shark.

Marla stood up. She
felt
a little sharky, but in this case, that meant she felt like doing violence and moving fast, as if she’d die if she stopped. She stepped toward greaseface, who was staring open-mouthed at the shark (née chair), grabbed his wrist, pulled him toward her as she stepped past him, and tossed him onto the floorboards behind her, neatly plucking the club from his hand as she went by. Aikido was usually too non-brutal for her taste, but sometimes a little elegance was called for.

‘‘Turning people into sharks?’’ she said, looking down at the club in her hand. ‘‘That is a stupid way to kill somebody. Unnecessarily elaborate. Why is this better than a knife in the eye?’’

Greaseface groaned and tried to get up. ‘‘The symbolism,’’ he said, levering himself up on his elbow. ‘‘I have taken the power of a god as my own. That act proves my worth as the ruler of these islands.’’ He paused. ‘‘Also, it’s a lot more interesting than a knife in the eye. But when all else fails, a knife will suffice.’’ He made it to his feet and attempted to rush her – and, yes, there was a knife in his hand, he’d certainly telegraphed
that
intention clearly enough – but before he took his second step, Rondeau smacked him on the back of the head with a very large book bound in what appeared to be wood wrapped in leather.

Greaseface hit the floor like a coconut dropping from a palm tree, and Rondeau began tying the sorcerer’s hands and ankles together using lengths of cotton clothesline he pulled from his pockets. Marla knew better than to ask why he was carrying lengths of rope around; the things he did for fun with his resort friends were always consensual, even if part of the pleasure was pretending they weren’t.

‘‘This must be the guy,’’ Rondeau said. ‘‘The sharknapper.’’

Marla frowned. ‘‘You lost me.’’

‘‘You don’t read the papers?’’

Marla shrugged. Back home, sure, she’d read the papers. But here... how to explain that places besides her city never felt entirely real to her? And now that her city was forbidden,
no
place felt entirely real? So she just said, ‘‘I guess not.’’

‘‘People have been disappearing. Like, five of them this week.’’ Rondeau finished the last knot and rose to his feet. ‘‘Disappeared without a trace... except in all their places? Someone left behind sharks. Big sharks, recently dead. In people’s beds, under their desks, whatever. The cops are totally baffled. Who kidnaps people and, instead of leaving a ransom note, leaves a dead shark? And how do you move big sharks around without anybody noticing? Now we know.’’ Rondeau prodded greaseface with his foot.

‘‘He’s been using the transformative magic he stole from Ka’ohu and turning people
into
sharks,’’ Marla said, ‘‘and just letting them die, drowning in air. The victims are probably sorcerers, or rivals of other kinds. I wonder who the one on the desk used to be?’’ She shook her head. ‘‘I’m glad he did something so incontrovertibly evil. I mean, stealing teeth from a god, it’s not like
I
wouldn’t do exactly the same thing, if the circumstances were right. But grisly murder to further your own whacked-out agenda... that kind of crime justifies what I’m going to do to him.’’