Silent Partner

We didn't waste time with protective rites. We pulled weapons and on three, Frank kicked in the door. We opened up, blasting chunks away until the thing started acting dead. Then we sent it on. It didn't go easy. Even as hamburger, it still took all seven greater circles and a solid hour of chanting to rest the damned thing. Like I said, serious juice.

By the time we were finished, the cops had sent over a couple of squad cars. The kid was gone. We stuck around long enough for the meat wagon boys to show and left clean up to them. Privileges of the gold badge.

Anyway, I was in a hurry to get back to the station. Alice from the lunch counter finally agreed to go out with me and I really, really needed a shower.

But traffic stopped cold in the Barrows with about a mile to go. Rush hour. Over fifteen minutes or so, we crawled past half a block of tenements and Glo-Writ signs declaring "Checks Cashed Here" and "Tattoo Tattoo Tattoo".

Frank stared absently out the window at a pack of goblins hanging out in front of the grocer on the corner. There were eight of them, slouching in a loose circle with a casual menace that drove foot traffic into the street.

“Damn duskies," Frank muttered. "Ought to run ‘em in."





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