Gremlin Night by Dale Smith (top 10 non fiction books of all time txt) 📕

the train to move this way, picking up speed, until it derailed, no doubt in an area where dozens, even hundreds of people would have died in the explosion and release of toxic chemicals.

What’s more, that kind of death had the potential to unleash nasty manifestations—hobgoblins, ravagers, flesh reapers, and other murderous supernatural killers. How did that map with heists and gremlin sown chaos?

Thoughts raced through my brain. Distraction coupled with generating more fear from the collective human subconscious in Portland, which could bring more nasties to the edge of existence, which he could then pull across with his super-staff. Or perhaps just attract more mana around which he could harvest.

The road was curving away from the rail line up ahead.

I had a sudden flash of insight. I didn’t have to physically stop the train, since there was no human engineer aboard, the locomotive cabin looked to be empty, dark. The gremlins, prompted by the trickster, had gotten the train moving. Take the gremlins off it, and the train’s original state should resume. I hoped. Grasping at thin reeds were part of my business.

What I needed was a different route to draw the gremlins on to. Someplace with magical power, to anchor the spell I was going to cast. And there was the perfect one not far away.

13

The St. John’s bridge spanned the Willamette river just a couple of miles north of the railyard. It was a classic suspension model, with tall spires, and huge concrete support pillars underneath the span. The perfect place for a spell anchor.

But first, I had to connect the gremlins to me, and I had to do it right. The train was still building up speed, going perhaps fifty miles an hour now. I pulled a U-turn, and braked to a stop, facing it.

I drew my binding knife. I used Latin. The train, still hooting like a dragon, lit up in golden light. Tendrils of golden magical light spread from the gremlins to me. Casting an attraction spell was easy. Dealing with what you’d attracted with your sorcery that was the hard part. I’d cross that bridge when I came to it. Or, more literally, when I arrived under it.

The gremlins began jumping off the train, dozens and dozens of them, charging toward me. My eyes widened. That had worked fast. I gunned the Ducati and drove fast for the road out of the railyard, and uphill toward Greeley. Now, the problem would be maintaining the spell until I got to Cathedral Park.

I needed more mana.

To do that, I needed to anchor the spell to one of the bridge pillars. The latent potential and energy of bridges, which soared against gravity, were perfect places to anchor spells. That was why manifestations tended to be found around bridges. Bridge trolls were the classic example, but there were other, modern ones, of course. Chances were (I hoped) there wasn’t one actually there.

I roared up Greeley toward Lombard. I was going to have to break some traffic laws in order to get to the St John’s bridge faster.

“Can you conceal me from human eyes?” I asked the shadow slug.

Hey, I’m of shadow, right?

Good point.

A moment later, the Ducati and I went dark, like a shadow. I could still see the bike and myself, shadowy objects, barely visible in the night.

Human eyes and human technology won’t detect you as long as you are in my shadow.

"Sound, too?” I asked.

All emanations from you.

A cloak of sorts. That was handy. I punched the accelerator and slipped between two cars. I glanced back and saw the golden thread of my spell trailing behind me. The gremlins were still chasing us, but were blocks back now. If much time passed, the spell would fade and they would turn to causing mayhem in their immediate vicinity.

I blew through the red light at Denver, accelerating to over seventy. Lucky for me traffic was light.

Until the panel truck two intersections later.

I hit the brakes, then gunned it before the car following the truck reached the intersection. My throat was raw from all my shouting.

“Since we’re literally joined at the hip, I’m assuming we’re still good clockwise,” I murmured to the shadow slug.

I’d never heard a giggle in my head before. I nearly jumped off the Ducati.

Forgive me, the shadow slug said. Your last statement was, I’m not sure how to put it.

“Funny?” I offered. “Amusing?”

Is that what it was? Hmm. Yes. What a delectable sensation. Yes, it was funny.

A bizarre conversation, but pretty much par for the course in my line of work.

I zigzagged around a line of cars and drove into the St. John’s neighborhood. The bridge loomed in the distance, with the forested west hills behind it, on the far side of the river.

I was back at the river. Rivers were also sources of mana and the magic that flowed from the interaction between that mana and the collective human subconscious.

Cathedral Park was beneath the bridge, beneath the soaring cathedral like bridge.

I rode the Ducati through the streets downhill at sixty miles an hour, and skidded to a stop beneath the bridge.

Suddenly the Ducati and I flashed back into sight. My breath came out in frosty gouts. My heart pounded in my ears.

My knees went wobbly and I nearly fell. I had broken heaven only knew how many traffic laws and risked death the gods only knew how many times to get here.

Get a grip, Liz, I told myself. The bridge span was overhead. The huge concrete pillars holding it stood in the green of Cathedral Park. I started the Ducati up, and drove onto a path into the park. No doubt I was breaking a park rule, but had bigger troubles to deal with. The spell thread from my binding knife trailed off uphill to the east. It began to fade. I needed to anchor it.

“Do you see the mana well?” I asked the shadow slug, because, try though I might, I didn’t.

It’s the middle pillar. See?

But I didn’t. I