After flunking out of the Auditor training program, Grimsby tried to resign himself to life as a mediocre witch…
We’re thrilled to share an excerpt from James J. Butcher’s debut novel Dead Man’s Hand, an urban fantasy about a young man who must throw out the magical rule book to solve the murder of his former mentor.
On the streets of Boston, the world is divided into the ordinary Usuals, and the paranormal Unorthodox. And in the Department of Unorthodox Affairs, the Auditors are the magical elite, government-sanctioned witches with spells at their command and all the power and prestige that comes with it. Grimshaw Griswald Grimsby is…not one of those witches.
After flunking out of the Auditor training program and being dismissed as “not Department material,” Grimsby tried to resign himself to life as a mediocre witch. But he can’t help hoping he’ll somehow, someway, get another chance to prove his skill. That opportunity comes with a price when his former mentor, aka the most dangerous witch alive, is murdered down the street from where he works, and Grimsby is the Auditors’ number one suspect.
Proving his innocence will require more than a little legwork, and after forming a strange alliance with the retired legend known as the Huntsman and a mysterious being from Elsewhere, Grimsby is abruptly thrown into a life of adventure, whether he wants it or not. Now all he has to do is find the real killer, avoid the Auditors on his trail, and most importantly, stay alive.
Grimsby opened the door, trying not to let his nerves show on his face. Standing on the other side was a man in a sharp dark suit. He wore a pair of tinted glasses over dark‑rimmed eyes.
He offered a professional smile. “Mr. Grimsby, my name is Peters.”
Grimsby tried to keep his eyebrows from hitting the ceiling, and he found marginal success. Though a taller man would have had problems. “It’s—uh—nice to meet you, sir, but I really should be getting back to work.” He tried to sidle past the man, but Peters didn’t move. He wasn’t large, but his bearing gave Grimsby the feeling that trying to force the issue wouldn’t be wise.
Peters continued his placid smile. “In a moment, in a moment. But first, I’m going to have to ask you to come with me.”
“Why?”
“I think you know. I had a pair of my Auditors speak with you yesterday.”
“Your Auditors?”
Peters’s smile became genuine for the first time, though it was still cold. “Yes. My Auditors. Department Director John Peters, at your service.”
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Dead Man’s Hand
Grimsby’s jaw went slack. Department director. There were maybe a dozen people higher in the chain of command than him, if that. He’d be in charge of every Auditor in the state, and they were indeed his Auditors.
“What?” Grimsby managed. He was impressed he had gotten that much out.
“It’s of little consequence. The important thing, Mr. Grimsby, is that you’re going to come with me.” He turned and took a single stride forward. From his stature, he clearly expected to be followed.
Grimsby stood in place, though it was more due to surprise than defiance.
Peters glanced over his shoulder with singular annoyance. It was a look that made Grimsby squirm. “Now, Mr. Grimsby.”
He shook himself, his shock and fear turning to anger and slightly lessened fear. This time, when he didn’t move, fear played the lesser of the two roles. “I don’t think so.”
“Excuse me?”
“I don’t think so,” Grimsby repeated himself, a bit less shaky than the first time.
“I don’t take well to nos, Mr. Grimsby.”
“Take it well or leave it rare, mister,” Grimsby said, “but I’ve got a job to do.”
“You don’t want this to go the hard way,” Peters warned. “N‑neither do you,” Grimsby said, crossing his arms. “What did you say?” Peters said, his eyes narrowing.
“You don’t want this going the hard way, either. Even more than me. Why else would you be talking to me?” He felt his voice crack but pressed on. “I noticed your people out there. You could have arrested me at any time, but not without making a scene in front of all these folks.”
“Why would I care?”
“Headlines for one. I can think of a couple right off the bat. ‘Auditors Storm Children’s Theme Restaurant,’ or maybe ‘Witches Gonna Get You, and Your Little Kids, Too.’ The last thing you want is a spectacle that people will be talking about.”
Peters’s eyes narrowed into a venomous glare. “You are correct. Such publicity would not benefit anyone.”
“Which is why you haven’t made your move.” “Mr. Grimsby, you’ve got a choice here—”
“No. You’ve got a choice, Director. You can either call your people in here to arrest me, or step aside and let me do my job.”
“Your job? Is that what this is?” He gestured to Grimsby’s robes. “Because I call it a disgrace. To all of our kind.” He said the final words with a disturbing reverence.
“The only person I’m disgracing is myself, as is my American right. Now, pick a lane, buddy. Step aside, or make the call.”
Peters smiled, though the expression was one of millimeters. Then, he stepped aside. “You’re only buying yourself time. My people have every exit covered. Every door, every window.”
“I’m sure they do,” Grimsby said, walking past Peters while trying to keep his legs from shaking. “Tell them to enjoy the show. And don’t eat the tacos.”
He didn’t look back, mostly because he was afraid that, if he did, he might see that crocodile smile again. When he reentered the dining area, the two tables of incognito Agents looked up in telling unison.
He didn’t have much time. He needed to escape, and he needed to go quickly. Peters’s patience wasn’t unlimited, and the majority of parents and children would soon leave. Without the numerous witnesses to exaggerate to reporters later, Grimsby would have no shield from the Department’s wrath.
Yet he couldn’t just walk out. The only thing standing between him and the Department was, horrifyingly enough, the sanctuary of Mighty Magic Donald’s Food Kingdom. The moment he stepped outside, it would be a small matter for some well‑dressed folks to slide up and escort him away into some dark‑windowed car. He’d be locked in a cell, at least for a few days, but if Wudge was to believed, he’d be dead come midnight.
And, after his near suffocation moments ago, he did in fact believe Wudge.
He needed to escape.
And there was only one way out left to him, though he hated to think about it.
The Elsewhere.
But the others would surely follow him once they realized what he was doing. He needed to create a distraction.
He forced himself not to look at the gathered Agents and Auditors, at least not any more so than the scattered collection of bored parents. He put on his best show face and bared his teeth in a smile. “Abracadabra, alakazam, all that kind of thing!” he said, waving his long, loose sleeves in the air. “Welcome, ladies and gentlemen, to the illustrious realm of Mighty Magic Donald’s Food Kingdom. We are pleased to welcome you to our calorically dense, nutritionally deficient lands.”
He made his way from table to table, making eye contact with each person for an acceptable few moments, and then one or two more to assert dominance.
There was much confusion and awkwardness in the air. Good, for he was a confusion‑and‑awkwardness‑smith. “Feast your eyes, and your gullets, on our wide assortment of morsels, from pizza to tacos to our latest fully original delight: nacho‑cheese tiramisu.” There were some unapologetically disgusted sounds, which he capitalized on. “Yes, it is in fact legal,” he said, lingering for a moment next to a table full of Agents. “Write your congressman.” He kept his face pleasant and plastic, and as he did, he summoned up the smallest reserves of Impetus he could manage. Hopefully small enough that the nearby Auditors wouldn’t notice.
“In any case, don’t bind yourselves to just one.” He imprinted a rune on the bottom of the Agents’ table between lumps of dried gum. There were no cries of outrage or shouted spells, so he must have been subtle enough. Although when compared to his words and robe, nearly anything would have been subtle.
He continued his tirade, slipping several more Binds out. None were hugely powerful, but they were numerous. It would have to be enough. “Don’t forget! Partake in our slop‑till‑you‑drop buffet package. If you can finish one of every item on the menu, it’s free! So long as you signed the waiver and can keep it down.”
More uncomfortable gazes. He strode around the dining area and noticed a tray of nachos that were sitting on the kitchen window to be delivered. He scooped them up and set them down on the second table of Agents. “On the house! Oh, come on, dig in! Don’t make me torque your arms like the olden days.” He thumbed a waiting Torque rune onto the bottom of the tray. Before stepping away: “Bring your friends, bring your family, gadzooks, bring your enemies if you want.”
He turned and bared a defiant smile at Peters, who was looming near the front door. “They’ll all get what they deserve, here at Mighty Magic Donald’s Food Kingdom.”
Peters glared, and something twitched in his brow.
Grimsby was no social expert. He couldn’t read subtle emotions or tells. But he could usually tell when he had pushed somebody until they had snapped.
Peters had just snapped.
The director lifted a hand to his earpiece and muttered a single word.
The Agents all began to stand at once.
Outside, the dark cars with black‑tinted windows shuddered as their doors opened. Of the white‑masked Auditors who climbed out, he recognized Rayne’s lean form. Beside her was almost certainly Hives.
Behind them, a long black van’s doors flung open, and four hound‑like creatures leapt down. Bleached‑white dog skulls mounted on metallic bodies of hammered scrapwork.
Yeah, he was pretty sure he had made Peters snap.
Normally, when Grimsby cast Bind, he would first place a pair of runes, then the spell would create a strand of magic, like an elastic band, between them. Sometimes, for more complex maneuvers, he could make three or even four runes all interconnected like a web. Regardless, those Binds were usually—although less so lately— precisely timed and coordinated. This time, however, there was no precision or control. This time, he simply activated every rune in sight.
At once.
Any one of them would have been a sudden burst of quick, violent motion. About the same amount of force as a thrown punch. But when he triggered them all at once, the room flared with blue strands of light, like a web, before they suddenly all tried to pull taut, creating a miniature hurricane.
Tables went flying; pizza launched in shuriken‑like fashion; the plate of nachos spun like a malfunctioning merry‑go‑round. One Agent caught hot cheese to the side of his face and clawed at it, shouting. Another was caught in the chin by the flipping table, toppling him over onto a third Agent. The customers started screaming and panicking, adding even more motion and chaos to the scene.
One Agent drew a Taser from inside her shirt and leveled it at Grimsby. She fired, but the prongs caught in his voluminous wizard sleeve. The thick blue fabric tugged them off course enough that they missed, albeit barely.
The Department forces outside were trying to get in, but the frightened parents were barreling out the door with their kids in their arms. He heard Hives and Rayne shouting over the rest, but their words were drowned out.
Grimsby wove through the crowd, back toward his closet. It was relatively easy given his small size. He cleared the crowd and reached the hall, but in the corner of his eye, he saw Peters. The director had a strange expression on his face, almost one of satisfied realization. Grimsby felt a sudden surge of the man’s Impetus, like a stiff wave of heat from opening an oven. Flames eked out of his flesh and began to wreathe his hand like a burning gauntlet. As he pointed his hand at Grimsby, he suddenly realized what the director had:
Grimsby had followed through on his threat, and the news would already have a field day with what had happened. The fleeing crowd would make sure of that. It would make little difference now if Grimsby were to be arrested.
Or to die resisting arrest. “Immolate!”
Flames roared forth in a tight beam, like burning gasoline from a literal fire hose, surging straight at Grimsby.
He screamed and threw himself to the ground. The fire sliced through the drywall above his head, scorching it to a blackened wound that revealed pipes, wires, and burning studs.
The flame was intensely hot, and even though it missed him, Grimsby could feel burns on the back of his neck where his skin was exposed. His scars flared in sudden white agony, and suddenly all he could see was fire. He went cold, like someone had dunked him in ice water, and he couldn’t move. He could only stare at the fire that still clung to the wall in patches and shiver. He wanted to keep running, if only to get away from the flames, but his body simply ignored him.
The fire felt hotter than it should have been and closer than it really was. His skin seemed to writhe and boil all along his left side, his scars from neck to fingertips alive with the memory of what true pain felt like. He hardly remembered the weeks he spent in the hospital, or the months he spent in physical therapy, the fire had been so many years ago.
But the pain—that he remembered.
It was so real that even now he felt it, even though Peters had missed and the fire hadn’t touched him. He screamed, for it was all he could do.
Then the wall groaned and cracked. A pipe, the plastic warped by the sudden heat, shuddered and snapped, spewing water out like a lanced artery. It rained down over Grimsby, and the sudden coolness of it was like a shock of electricity amid the heat. His mind snapped back to reality, back to MMDFK, and back to the crew of Auditors closing in on him.
He saw Peters glare into his still‑smoldering hand and felt another wave of Impetus, like a resonant bass in his lungs, as the flames were reignited. Peters turned his gaze to Grimsby.
This time, when Grimsby told his legs to get up and run, they desperately obeyed.
He scrambled away, half crawling the last ten feet or so down the hall to the closet. He ducked inside and slammed the door behind him.
Light flared around the seams of the frame as another beam of fire roared past. He heard the wrenching shriek of metal as the blast must have ripped the restroom door at the end of the hall off its hinges.
In a moment of numb panic, Grimsby twisted the lock on the closet doorknob. It wasn’t even a dead bolt. He cursed himself for wasting time. Then cursed himself for cursing himself and wasting even more time.
Before he could let himself fall into a feedback loop, he rushed to the mirror just a couple of feet away. It was long, but part of it had been spiderwebbed by a vein of cracks, leaving only a section about a foot wide and a couple of feet tall unharmed.
If it broke any more, Grimsby wouldn’t fit.
He desperately hoped the mirror would hold together as he removed his glasses, letting the Elsewhere fill his senses, and placed his palms on the mirror’s surface.
In the cramped space of the closet, the Elsewhere had little to warp.
Nearby buckets were wood instead of plastic, broken broom handles were shattered lances, and the lone lightbulb was now a glass lantern with a sleeping bat made of fire within it.
But the mirror was completely opaque, like frosted glass.
Grimsby willed forth his Impetus, directing the energy through his right hand and into the glass. He felt power leaking away through his scars, but he didn’t have time to be efficient. Within a second, the glass became transparent, like thawing ice. Within another, he could see a reflection of the room on the other side, though he was not in it.
After the third second, his hand passed through the glass as though it wasn’t there.
The door beside him burst open, but Grimsby didn’t bother to look. He pulled himself through the mirror, wriggling through the largest unbroken pane within it. As he pulled his feet through, the mirror shattered behind him.
The sound of the breaking glass was suddenly very far away. Then it was gone.
He looked up through the crumbling stone roof to see the black sun, or perhaps moon, hanging in a red sky. He put on his glasses, his mask, and nothing changed. It was the Elsewhere. This time, however, he wasn’t just seeing it.
He was in it.
Excerpted from Dead Man’s Hand, copyright © 2022 by James J. Butcher.
