The Neon Boneyard (Daniel Faust #8)
Craig Schaefer
The Story So Far
Daniel Faust was an occult gangster, a professional thief, and a merchant of vengeance for hire. Then he landed behind bars. A prison break did more than leave his old identity legally dead; it gave him the drive he needed to pull his life out of a tailspin and claw his way back to the top. Now he has a new job to add to his resume: underboss of the New Commission, the criminal syndicate taking control of Las Vegas one block at a time.
Daniel’s nemesis, known as the man with the Cheshire smile—or simply the Enemy—is on the move. He’s the villain of the first story ever told, a piece of fiction made real, and he’s out to fulfill the purpose his author wrote for him: to burn the entire multiverse down, one parallel Earth at a time. He’s turned countless worlds into horror-infested cinders, and now he’s preparing for a repeat performance.
Daniel has ruined his plans twice, and in the process uncovered a key to the Enemy’s secrets: a wand owned by 1940s stage magician Howard Canton. The wand has the power to create and banish illusions, and one slight flaw. It only works when you’re trying to do something heroic. Considering Daniel is a con artist and a killer, he and his new tool haven’t been getting along. Now he’s trying to find a loophole and learn more about Canton, namely, why the Enemy is obsessed with the dead magician’s legacy.
His other rivals haven’t been sleeping, and one just sprang a trap long in the making. The shape-shifting cannibal Naavarasi made a play to snare Daniel’s soul along with enslaving his lover Caitlin, the right hand of a demon prince. Daniel and Caitlin fought side by side, found a way out, and left Naavarasi humiliated. Meanwhile, a mysterious syndicate of criminal sorcerers called the Network has been carving out a foothold in Las Vegas.
What Daniel doesn’t know is that his three greatest adversaries—the Enemy, the Network, and Naavarasi—have joined forces. All three are using each other for their own ends, weaving a web of lies, but they share a common goal: to destroy Daniel Faust and all that he holds dear.
Prologue
The man with the Cheshire smile made a deal with the devil.
Ironic, considering how many humans would be quick to give him that title on sight alone: a flickering, photonegative blur of a man. White scratches crackled across his shadowy hands as he pored over a leather-bound book in the darkness of his penthouse office. Given his legacy and his calling, it was a title he’d normally wear with amusement.
Normally.
Tonight he was too distracted to take pleasure in his work, and the pages before him offered up no answers.
THE ENEMY studies the play, read the faded type on the page, seeking insight into his suspicious ally. He doesn’t notice MR. SMITH, ESQUIRE, sitting behind him. Then he speaks.
SMITH: So, most of your power is still trapped inside that thing?
“So, most of your power—” said the agreeable voice at his back.
“Yes,” he snapped. His shadowy feet stayed rooted facing the desk, while the upper half of his body swiveled around to face his uninvited guest. “We’ve unlocked a handful of acts, enough to restore a generous portion of my magic, but we appear to have reached an impasse. It was bad enough that Faust couldn’t just die in prison like he was supposed to. No, he had the gall to attack me in my own home and ruin another sundering. The man is a curse.”
Mr. Smith sat in a chair in the corner of the room, his forgettable, bland suit a gray smear in the shadows. He crossed one leg over the other.
“No use crying over spilled milk and all that,” Smith said, “but perhaps this could have been averted with slightly better crisis-planning techniques?”
“Excuse me?”
The lawyer shrugged. “Your time was running out, you knew you were cornered, and you put most of your power into that reliquary before your enemies could steal it from you. That I understand. But why make it so difficult to open? You could have just, I don’t know, password-protected it. ‘Open sesame’ or something.”
The man’s permanent, pearly smile twisted into a grimace, set deep in his eyeless face.
“I had no idea how long I’d be imprisoned in that miserable void. I couldn’t take the chance that someone would steal the book before I managed to escape, and open it for themselves. No, the keys had to be unique, titanic, complex; difficult was the point. And I broke my magic into pieces so that even if someone did manage to unlock an act, all they’d steal was a small portion of my power and I could eventually reclaim the rest. Still…it wasn’t supposed to be quite this infuriating.”
“Faust,” Smith said.
“Ruiner. Do you know how long it took me to lay hands on a Cutting Knife? There are only nine of the damned things and they’re scattered across the entire multiverse. And he waltzed into my inner sanctum and stole it from me.”
“To be fair,” Smith said with a glance to the office doors, “you do have another one handy.”
The shadow crackled, head blurring as it shook.
“No. Fleiss is my right hand. She’s served me faithfully for a dozen lifetimes. This particular ritual would leave the knife…broken. Damaged beyond repair. She’s too useful to squander like that.”
“Even if it means never getting the rest of your magic back? Fleiss might be loyal, but she hasn’t been hitting too many home runs for you lately, has she? Is she carrying your bags, or are you carrying hers?”
The man with the Cheshire smile turned away. His thoughtful silence was his only answer.
“As it happens,” Smith said, “it may not be an issue. We’ve got one, you know.”
“One what?”
“A Cutting Knife.” The genial man spread his baby-soft hands. “The Network. We’ve got one. We could probably work out an arrangement. Of course, since we wouldn’t be getting it back—not in working condition—we couldn’t do it for free.”
“Name your price.”
“Oh, I couldn’t possibly arrange a contract on the spur of the moment,” Smith said. “I have to run it up the flagpole, talk to the gentlemen in the home office—”
The shadow dashed across the room in the blink of an eye, trailing streamers of jet-black smoke. He loomed over the lawyer. White scratches flickered across his body like flashes of lightning.
“Name. Your. Price.”
Smith didn’t answer right away. A tiny sliver of tongue ran across his lips, and he appraised the man like an auctioneer sizing up a piece of exotic art.
“Rumor has it,” he said, “you found a little something-something down in Mexico. A real, honest-to-goodness interdimensional gateway. A gate leading straight to the heart of the Garden of Eden.”
“I found three,” the shadow replied. “I had two of them destroyed. The third is mine.”
“The Network would very much appreciate access to that gateway. I’d like you to consider granting it to us as a token of goodwill, to celebrate our newly founded partnership.”
“Access? To do what? Have you seen that place? Do you have any idea what kind of a nightmare you’d be walking into?”
Smith rose to his feet. He ran smooth fingertips down the sharp folds of his jacket.
“One man’s trash is another man’s treasure, sir. But I can understand your hesitancy; you want to see results, am I right? So let’s deal with the problem at hand, first and foremost. Give me a chance to impress you with what the Network can accomplish.”
“Faust.”
“Correct.” Smith inclined his head, offering a reserved smile. “We have a team on the ground in Las Vegas, and if my watch is correct…well, they’ve already made their first move.”
*
Is she carrying your bags, or are you carrying hers?