The witchstone, p.1
The Witchstone, page 1
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PRAISE FOR HENRY H. NEFF
“This book reads like Terry Pratchett and Neil Gaiman had a demonically clever baby. So smart and inventive. Just loved it!”
MARTHA BROCKENBROUGH
award-winning author of The Game of Love and Death
“Packed with wit, adventure, and heart, The Witchstone is a tale of magic and redemption you don’t want to miss. Wicked good fun!”
VERONICA ROSSI
New York Times bestselling author of Under the Never Sky
“There’s something about a demon, right? Especially a less than successful one like Laszlo, who . . . harbors a nascent conscience (something he would no doubt deny). Think of Crowley in Gaiman and Pratchett’s Good Omens. Better buckle in—it’s going to be a thrilling ride.”
CINDA WILLIAMS CHIMA
New York Times bestselling author of the Heir Chronicles
“Christopher Moore fans, rejoice! Henry Neff has written the snark-filled, globe-trotting, feel-good, demon-curse-breaking novel you always wanted—and you don’t even have to sell your soul for it.”
ALAN GRATZ
#1 New York Times bestselling author of The League of Seven
“Incandescently funny . . . A glorious romp that’s clever enough to keep readers infernally entertained.”
PUBLISHERS WEEKLY
(starred review)
“A raucous fantasy novel that centers otherworldly intrigue and the meaningful bonds formed between unlikely allies.”
FOREWORD REVIEWS
BOOKS BY HENRY H. NEFF
standalone novels
The Witchstone
Impyrium
the tapestry series
The Hound of Rowan
The Second Siege
The Fiend and the Forge
The Maelstrom
The Red Winter
Copyright © 2024 by Henry H. Neff
E-book published in 2024 by Blackstone Publishing
Cover design by Kathryn Galloway English and Henry H. Neff
Author photograph by Ira James
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
The characters and events in this book are fictitious. Any similarity to real persons, living or dead, is coincidental and not intended by the author.
Trade e-book ISBN 979-8-212-01551-6
Library e-book ISBN 979-8-212-01550-9
Fiction / Fantasy / Humorous
Blackstone Publishing
31 Mistletoe Rd.
Ashland, OR 97520
www.BlackstonePublishing.com
For those who keep at it
Profit is sweet, even if it comes from deception.
—Sophocles
CONTENTS
1. Laszlo
2. The Overseer
3. The Sin-Eater
4. The Drakefords
5. A Onetime Offer
6. Terms and Conditions
7. Chernobyl
8. Dead Letters
9. Runaway
10. Sir Flapjack
11. Dimitri
12. Echoes
13. A Walk in the Park
14. Ramble On
15. Alpha
16. Outbound
17. Phil
18. Die Alpen
19. Hide-and-Seek
20. Room Service
21. Compulsion
22. Urbs Æterna
23. Signora Bellascura
24. The Lost Magi
25. Collateral
26. The Hotel Augustus
27. Fight and Flight
28. Father Angelo
29. Bring Your Humans to Work
30. Disclosures
31. Princess Primrose
32. Seven, the Sacred Number
33. Excruciare
34. The Duke
35. Sword and Spear
36. The Letter
Epilogue
Acknowledgments
About the Author
CHAPTER 1
LASZLO
Not a bad crew, Laszlo decided. Better than most of the grifters prowling New York’s subways. He watched them do their thing as the F train trundled uptown. There were three, naturally: the Kid, the Shill, and the Watchman.
The Kid was twentyish, with a hint of beard and the surety of youth. The Shill was a middle-aged gal masquerading as an office drone. Laszlo admired her attention to detail: no wedding ring, a child’s macaroni bracelet, sensible flats. Just another single mom working to make ends meet.
The Watchman’s appearance was irrelevant. His only job was to signal if trouble approached. This one was comically inconspicuous: a wizened schlump of sixty in a pilling cardigan. Laszlo took a long pull of his milkshake and watched the gentleman pretend to peruse a magazine. Only a fellow crook would have spotted him.
The game was running smoothly. The latest marks were some Belgian tourists who had boarded at the last stop, three couples chattering in Dutch and toting shopping bags. The Kid had moved in immediately. Sliding into the nearest seat, he set a tray on his lap along with three small paper cups. The tourists looked over as the Kid displayed a red ball the size of a chickpea and placed it under the center cup. Shuffling the cups about, he challenged his audience to guess where the ball might be hiding. One of the Belgians, a florid-faced ox, muttered something to his wife that made her giggle. When he pointed at a cup, the Kid raised it to reveal the red ball. The tourists cheered. The Kid laid a twenty on the tray. Did they care to make it interesting?
The Belgians waved him off. They knew that once money was involved, the hustler would reveal his skill. The cups would become a blur, one’s choice no better than a guess. No, thank you. They were tourists, not fools.
That was when the Shill made her entrance. She boarded at the next stop, pretending to file in with passengers who had been waiting on the platform; in fact, she had been watching from a neighboring car all along. Taking a seat by the tourists, she checked her watch and groaned. One of the Belgian women gave her an inquiring look.
“Running late,” the Shill explained. “Daughter’s sick.”
The Belgian offered the commiserating smile of a fellow mother; she’d been there. The Kid whistled at the Shill.
“Baby sick? Win some cash; buy her something nice.”
The Shill ignored him.
“Come on,” the Kid urged. “Pick one.”
The Shill’s eyes flicked to the tray. She watched with a wary, noncommittal expression as the Kid shuffled the cups. When he’d finished, she uncurled her pinkie and pointed at one. Lo and behold, out rolled the little red ball.
The Kid grunted. “Sharp eyes,” he said, and laid down the twenty. “Wanna spice it up?”
The Shill folded her arms. “Bug someone else.”
“Tell you what,” said the Kid. “You win, you keep the twenty. I win, you don’t lose shit.”
The Shill glanced at the Belgians and raised her eyebrows. Was the creep being serious?
The ox spoke up, his accent heavy. “Don’t,” he warned. “It’s a trick.”
The Shill agreed. She was a seasoned veteran of the subways. There was always a catch with these hustlers. Even so, her interest had been piqued. The Shill conveyed her indecision with a subtle quirk of the mouth. Laszlo almost applauded. Ten to one, she’d come to New York with dreams of Broadway.
The Shill looked inquiringly at the hustler. “I win, I keep the twenty?”
“Yes, ma’am,” said the Kid. He grinned and waited for the green light.
The Shill gave it.
The cups moved faster this time, but not too fast. When the Kid arranged them in a line, the Shill made her choice. Out rolled the ball. The Belgians cheered as the Kid handed over the twenty.
The Shill flushed pink with pleasure. “Lucky guess.”
The Kid shrugged. “Double or nothing?”
The fellow mother touched the Shill’s arm. “Put that money in your pocket.”
The Shill appeared ready to follow this sensible advice; then a girlish grin flashed across her careworn face. “But why?” she wondered aloud. “Even if I lose, I’m not really out anything.”
The Shill risked the twenty she’d won. Once again, the cups were shuffled; once again she found the ball. Now she had two rumpled twenties in her possession. Everyone but the Kid was delighted. He moped but kept at it.
The game continued. The Shill didn’t win every time. Once, she picked the wrong cup and the Belgian loudmouth groaned. It was obvious where the ball had been hiding!
Pigs get fat, hogs get slaughtered, thought Laszlo. Loudmouth was a hog. Every group had one.
The Shill had done well. By the time they reached Herald Square, she was a hundred dollars richer and visibly giddy with her good fortune. Gathering up her things, she bid the Belgians adieu, advised the Kid to find another line of work, and fairly skipped out of the car. An amused Laszlo watched her pretend to join the crowds milling toward the exits. Any moment, she’d dart into the next car to await another pigeon.
Chimes sounded. The doors clattered shut. Laszlo glanced at the Kid, who was packing up his tray with a sullen air.
Loudmouth chuckled. “Anything left?”
The Kid wiped his nose. “Mind your own business, man.”
The Belgian produced a crisp hundred-dollar bill. His male companions hooted. “One more?” he asked.
The Kid shook his head. “Nah. I’m done.”
A second hundred appeared. “You can make it back,” Loudmouth goaded. “Come on.”
The Kid managed to sound reluctant. “Yeah, okay.”
Laszlo stifled a smile. The trap was set. Once again, the Kid hid the ball and slid the cups about. Loudmouth watched closely, eager to impress his mates. When the cups stopped, he jabbed a finger at the center one.
“There!”
Up came the cup. No ball. The Belgian’s jaw dropped open.
“Where is it?” he demanded.
The Kid raised the cup on the right. The ball rolled out and made a wobbly circle before coming to rest. The Belgian reddened even further as his companions teased him. He thrust the hundred-dollar bill at the Kid.
“Again,” he demanded.
The Kid was happy to oblige. Within two minutes, Loudmouth had lost five hundred dollars and was begging his appalled wife to lend him whatever cash she had in her purse.
Laszlo took a sip of his milkshake. The hustlers had had their fun. Now it was his turn.
The Kid glanced up as he strolled over. Laszlo flashed a hundred- dollar bill.
“I’ll have a go.”
The Kid gave him an appraising look. The newcomer was wearing an expensive suit, but one so wrinkled he might have slept in it. He wasn’t old—no more than thirty—and was Hollywood handsome, despite his bloodshot blues. The Kid’s gaze traveled up to Laszlo’s hat. Scratching his ear, he shot the Watchman an irritated look: How did you miss this guy?
“You a cop?” he asked Laszlo pointedly.
“Nope.”
“You gotta tell me if I ask you.”
Laszlo yawned. “That’s a myth. We playing or not?”
The Kid eyed the cash. He was a hog too. He just didn’t know it.
The game began, and Laszlo promptly lost. He handed over the hundred and produced two more.
The Kid clapped enthusiastically. “Ladies and gentlemen, we have got ourselves a player! Where’d you get that hat? It’s dope. You’re like an old-timey detective.”
Laszlo merely sipped his milkshake as the hustler started a new round.
The shell game was an age-old con whose origins dated back to Ancient Greece. Everyone and their mother knew it was a scam, and thus it only worked on marks who grossly overestimated their own abilities. Fortunately, 100 percent of men fell into this category. It had worked like a charm on Loudmouth. During the Shill’s turn, Loudmouth had made it clear to everyone in earshot that he was a Clever Man. Clever Men weren’t fooled by common tricks. They kept their eyes on the ball, and those eyes were sharp. They’d caught that twitch of the hustler’s hand, the one that flicked the ball under cup number two. The hustler tried to pull a fast one, but the Clever Man was onto him. A Clever Man could not be fooled . . .
Needless to say, the Clever Man was wrong.
It never occurred to a Clever Man that he was meant to spot the feints. Doing so boosted his ego; it convinced him that the hustler’s hands might be too quick for some eyes, but not his eyes. The Kid would then repeat the cycle with subtle variations. Once a Clever Man was convinced that he’d figured things out, the Kid would simply palm the ball and hide it elsewhere. The switch happened in a blink—so swift and smooth the mark had no idea anything was amiss. A Clever Man never picked cup number three.
Until now.
“That one,” said Laszlo.
The Kid hesitated. Laszlo wondered if he would try some chicanery, but the hustler resisted temptation.
“Lucky guess,” he muttered, and raised the cup to reveal the ball. “Let it ride?”
“Sure.”
In the next round, the Kid upped his game to include a variety of offhand feints. When he’d finished, Laszlo pointed calmly at cup number two.
“That one.”
Right again. Laszlo ignored the Kid’s bewilderment and glanced out the window. The subway had entered his station. He held out a hand for his winnings.
“This is my stop.”
A muscle twitched in the Kid’s jaw. “And I took you for a player,” he grumbled. “One more? Double or nothing?”
“Let’s see the cash.”
The Kid flashed some bills. Laszlo nodded, then winced as Loudmouth walloped his shoulder.
“Ha!” the Belgian barked. “You’ve got the little punk’s number!”
The Kid rolled his eyes. “Yo. Did someone forget I’m playing with his money?”
Loudmouth merely crowded in for a better view. Other passengers edged over. The Kid’s playful manner vanished. His eyes went cold and reptilian as he set up the game.
This time, he made no effort to mask his skill. The cups darted about like hummingbirds, too fast for the eye to follow. When they stopped, the Kid folded his arms and fixed his opponent with a defiant stare.
“Which one, chump?”
Laszlo tapped his chin. “Hmmm . . . I guess I’ll go with that one.”
He pointed at the center cup. A twinkle flashed in the Kid’s eye. He chuckled as he raised it. “Sorry, man. You—”
A little red ball rolled out.
The car erupted. Laszlo ignored the cheers. He was having too much fun. “Something wrong?” he asked pleasantly.
The Kid said nothing. His confusion was understandable. The ball shouldn’t have been under that cup; the ball should not have been under any of the cups. It was still in the Kid’s hand, artfully tucked between thumb and forefinger. Either he was going certifiably insane, or his would-be pigeon had slipped a second ball into the game. Impossible. Houdini couldn’t pull off a stunt like that. It wasn’t human . . .
The Kid went rigid.
It. Wasn’t. Human.
He craned his neck up at Laszlo. Their eyes met. A glimmer of understanding flashed between them, instant and electric. The Kid looked away.
“I’ve heard about you.”
“I’m tickled. Pay up.”
The Kid reached mechanically inside his jacket and came out clutching a roll of bills. He held up the money, presenting the cash like a holy offering.
Laszlo took only what he was owed. As the train stopped, he tossed back what remained and left an extra fifty on the tray to soften the blow. He gave a second fifty to Loudmouth’s wife and a third to the bewildered Watchman before disembarking. As for the Shill, she received a tip of the hat as Laszlo strolled past her car.
Laszlo was still chuckling as he emerged from the subway stairs into the soft October air. Tossing his cup in a garbage can, he strolled toward Fifth Avenue. On days like this, he simply loved being a demon.
Within the hour, he would change his mind.
Laszlo’s workplace was in Midtown, at what had once been a famously sinister address opposite a neo-Gothic church. Laszlo found the church’s proximity hilarious and occasionally wondered what the rector would do if he learned who’d set up shop across the way. Poor fellow would probably have a stroke.
In grander days, the building’s lobby had boasted undulating steel panels designed by a Japanese sculptor, but the place had been remodeled during the pandemic, and Laszlo no longer bothered going in that way. Instead, he entered via a loading dock, passing a group of construction workers on break. No one looked up as he breezed past. No one saw him slip through a door they had never noticed and never would. Closing it behind him, Laszlo stepped aboard an old-fashioned elevator that, according to the Department of Buildings, did not exist.
