Page 36 of Queens Will Play

Across the street was a three story Victorian house. It was in reasonable shape, though it had a wild feel to it. A ramp replaced the left half of the stairs, and the porch was covered in a non-slip indoor-outdoor material. Smoky and Morio caught up with us as I knocked on the door.

A moment later, a grizzled, older man opened the door. He had long gray hair caught back in a ponytail and wild, bushy eyebrows and his face showed the passage of time in wrinkles and scars. He was wearing camo pants and a gray sweatshirt, and his right leg had been replaced by a mechanical prothesis.

“Well, well, it’s the queen of boobs,” he said, his face crinkling into a snarky smile. “It’s been awhile since you’ve darkened my doorstep. What can I do you for?”

I took a deep breath and said, “Hey Wilbur. Yeah, it’s been awhile. I hate to cut through the small talk, but have you ever heard of shandigoes?”

He snorted. “Yeah, I’ve dealt with those little buggers before. Why?”

“We’ve got a friend who’s being plagued by them. They’ve driven her out of her house. I was wondering—Carter told us that necromancers like them. Would you like to go along with us and help catch them? You can have whatever’s left, if you help us.”

Wilbur’s eyes lit up. “They’re handy in spellwork.”

Morio tugged on my arm. “Are you sure about⁠—”

“What? We have to kill them. Might as well put them to good use, right?”

“I guess,” he said, glancing at Smoky and Trillian.

“Don’t even bother,” Trillian said. “You know she’s going to do this, regardless. Just go along with it.”

Wilbur snorted. “Still the same…it’s apparent who wears the pants in the family.”

“Around our house, the person who wears the skirts lays down the law. And we’re proud of it,” Trillian said, giving him an aloof but knowing look.

“Could be worse,” Wilbur said. “Come in. I’ll get my gear.” He moved back to let us in and headed toward the basement to get his magical tools. He moved around a lot easier now than he had when he’d lost his leg.

I hadn’t been inside Wilbur’s house in a long time. It looked none the worse for wear. It was tidy, though the paint felt old and everything looked about the same. I walked over to one of the sideboards. A picture was on it, and I recognized the person in it, even though I’d never seen him while he was alive. I picked it up, smiling.

“What are you looking at?” Smoky asked.

I showed them the picture. “Martin,” I said.

Wilbur had a brother who died a long time ago. He’d doted on him, and used his magic to bring Martin back as a ghoul, whom he had kept with him for too many years. We finally helped him recognize that he should let Martin go to find his peace. I wondered if Wilbur had managed to find any friends who were actually alive. He’d known a few buddies from a special ops division of the Marines that he’d been in long ago, but I didn’t know if they hung out together.

“We should visit more,” I said. “Wilbur helped us in the war, even in his clumsy way.”

“I guess,” Trillian said, keeping his voice low. “But he might like his solitude.”

At that moment, I heard Wilbur coming back up the steps from the basement. I put the picture back where I’d found it and turned.

“Okay, ready to go. Lead on, Busty.” Wilbur had special names for all three of us girls. He always called Menolly Dead Girl, harking back to Rob Zombie’s Living Dead Girl, and if I remembered right, he’d called Delilah Puddy-Tat. One on hand, it felt as offensive as hell, but with Wilbur, somehow it seemed oddly endearing.

We headed back to the car. I had recently given up my Lexus for a bigger SUV, since Smoky was 6’4” and needed leg room. Trillian was driving, and I climbed into the passenger seat, while Wilbur got in the back with Smoky and Morio.

As we headed for Marion’s house, Wilbur suddenly became very chatty.

“What ever happened to that little bone-walker you had?” he asked.

I groaned. “Rodney, the bone-golem?”

“Yeah. What did you do with him?” Wilbur asked.

Suspicious as to why he wanted to know, I cleared my throat. “He’s around. We keep him locked up, to be honest. Grandmother Coyote won’t take him back and so he’s our problem.”

I’d gotten really tired of Rodney’s crude humor and insisted that he be tucked away. We had a carved wooden box with purple velvet lining that he lived in, and it looked like a miniature coffin. He went dormant when he was in there, so I didn’t feel guilty about sticking him on a shelf and leaving him there. I’d thought about dismantling him, but since Grandmother Coyote had gifted him to us, I didn’t want to piss her off.

“Too bad. I liked the critter,” Wilbur said.