Chris Lowry [Lowry - Viva Witch Vegas

Copyright 2018 Grand Ozarks Media All Rights Reserved
WITCHMAS DAY "Is there where we're supposed to be?" The Gnome shrugged. "It's where I was told to drop you." "I'm glad he didn't take it literally." "Me too," I answered Elvis. "You too what?" the gnome asked. "I'm glad you didn't take it literally," I told him. Gnomes were practiced at the art of deception and if I tried to hide something from him, even as innocuous as this, he'd worry on it like a puppy with a bone, and that curiosity would turn him into a stalker until he found out. "But I wasn't sure if you could fly." There were no known instances of wizards who could fly. "But I wasn't sure if you could fly." There were no known instances of wizards who could fly.

There were hundreds of cases where wizards attempted a flight spell. None of them were successful thus far. They could use brooms. They could ensorcell cars, and rugs, and I had even seen a bicycle. But so far there were zero success stories of magic men or women who could soar with the eagles. "What if you teleported?" Elvis asked and put a finger on his chin. "In air?" He tapped his long ghostly fingers, shaking the fringe on the white karate jumpsuit and making the sequins sparkle in the sunlight. "In air?" He tapped his long ghostly fingers, shaking the fringe on the white karate jumpsuit and making the sequins sparkle in the sunlight.

Ghosts were less visible in the daytime, but that didn't stop Elvis's ghostly remnant from defying the known laws of magic. "If you could control your thoughts on the way down, push back the panic and concentrate, theoretically you could poof just before you hit and roll with it." I had to think about that one. First, falling is scary. It's our ancestral human nature from when we lived in tress and falling meant pain, or death. That startle reflex is hard to overcome. Skydivers do it.

There are military men with thousands of recorded jumps, so I knew it could be done. But they had a thin polyester cloth to stop them from plummeting to their death and smacking into the ground, turning their bones into razor sharp slivers that sliced through arteries and veins. Blunt force trauma ain't pretty. I've seen people smashed with a Troll hammer, and trust me, squished is gross. Which is how most wizards ended up when they tried to fly. "It's been tried," I told him.

I was unsure if that was true, and he rolled his eyes around searching what was left of his memory to see if I was right. Then he shrugged. So did the gnome. The little man stuck out his tiny hand. "I've got to get going Marshal. "Do you know something I don't?" "Booby," he said in a Yiddish accent. "I know lots of things you don't." He hopped into the back seat of the bi-plane and cranked the propeller. "I know lots of things you don't." He hopped into the back seat of the bi-plane and cranked the propeller.

The rear end swung around, the engine screamed to a high pitched roar and he shot into the sky after just a few bounces down the runway. It took a moment for the plane to balance and settle, but he righted it and puttered toward the horizon back the way we had flown. "What a weird little man," Elvis said into my ear. I could swear the gnome tossed up a middle finger we could see from here. CHAPTER "You know which way to go?" Elvis asked. I glanced around.

We could have been in the middle of nowhere, except it had to be somewhere. Southwest, I was sure. Near Vegas because that's where I needed to be. But the flat scrub and wash pan desert was empty as far as I could see. "How high can you float?" Elvis nodded like an idea just occurred to him. "I could float up and take a look." "Do that," I smirked.

I watched him lift up into the air roughly twelve feet. Add his six foot ghost frame too it, and Elvis was eighteen feet higher than me. "What do you see?" I called up to him. "Desert," he yelled down. "Totally worth it." He spun around and fell back to float next to me. "That's me giving you the funniest look," I said. "There's no street." But I saw the plume he was referring too. "There's no street." But I saw the plume he was referring too.

Something was incoming and by the rooster tail of dust it threw up, whatever it was, it was blazing. She arrived in a cloud of dust that refused to settle on her mode of transportation. A cherry red glossy '74 Caddy Droptop from a time when size was synonymous with luxury. The paint almost glowed under the blazing sun, chrome flashing like Morse code flare signals. The beige interior was immaculate, oversized plus seats in a minimalist style. The driver surprised me.

She was four foot eleven, jet black hair and Jackie Onassis shades that hid three quarters of her face. She gripped the thick wheel with tiny hands at ten and two and looked over at me as the dust cloud parted to blow past her and the Caddy before settling to the ground. "Aren't you a little tall to be a gnome?" I asked. "Aren't you a little short to be a stormtrooper?" she snapped back. I liked her. "You're the Marshal?" She said it like she didn't believe it. "You're the Marshal?" She said it like she didn't believe it.

I shifted my useless leather bomber aside to show her the badge. "I like your hat," she smiled, brilliant white teeth against naturally darker skin. I noticed her canines were a little larger than the rest and pointed. "Thanks," I adjusted the Stetson I'd adopted from my western counterpart. He'd been wearing it when the demon monster I'd created killed him, his blood crusting some of the top of the hat. "Are you going to get in or bake out there all day?" I scooted around the back of the Caddy, drinking in the appearance and appreciating it. "Are you going to get in or bake out there all day?" I scooted around the back of the Caddy, drinking in the appearance and appreciating it.

I had an old pick up truck myself, on the verge of being considered a classic if it wasn't for the dents, dings and shoddy paint job holding it together. This machine was a work of art. Nineteen feet from trunk to grill and seven feet wide. It didn't command respect on the road so much as it earned it through sheer size and attitude. The passenger seat was as plush and comfy as it looked. "Kiko," she introduced herself. "Kiko," she introduced herself.

The glasses were back, hiding her eyes, and her arms and legs were covered with fabric. Only the skin on her hands and a crescent shaped portion of her face was visible to the sunlight. Made me wonder a few things about my new companion. "You know you're not supposed to take rides from strangers," she quipped and dropped the car in gear. Watching her drive was an exercise in itself. She had to sit on the edge of the seat to reach the gas and brake and hanging onto the oversized steering wheel was like watching a kid swing on the monkey bars.

I couldn't relax if I had a spell to make it happen. The only spell I could keep on deck was a poof one to move me out of the way if she decided to cross into oncoming traffic. Lucky for us, there was none. "I don't take candy from strangers," I said after a moment of watching her on the wheel. "Hitchhiking is acceptable." "Knu sent me," she turned to face me. I pointed at the road when she kept looking a little too long for comfort.

Knu was a gnome I knew in New Orleans, a medium who spoke with ghosts, and also one of the most powerful magic users I'd met. She knew the Judge, and wasn't afraid to curse him, which told me something about her level of magic. Nobody messed with the Judge. Gnomes were creatures of Fae, left in this world when the ways were sundered. I had recently learned they were cousins of sorts with leprechauns, pixies and most of the other wee folk of myth and legend. Knu was my teacher in that regard.

She taught me by doing some sort of Vulcan mind meld that showed me her past. She kept a lot from me though. Like how she knew I was headed for Vegas. And how she had a friend ready to offer a ride. I rolled it around in my head. The Judge had popped me up on a riverbank in NOLA after I returned with a dead witchs body, the first I was tasked to track down.