Jack Jericho: Volume 1

Chapter 10

"Argh, you sit up, rubbing at your chin.

"That’s the way you want to play, is it?"

You gather your feet beneath you, but the male harlequin tumbles forward and at the end of his acrobatic tumble his foot shoots out, slamming into your chest and driving you back to the ground.

"Okay," you say, "okay." You try to stand.

The female Harlequin takes her turn. Another fist sends you reeling back. Then a foot. A fist. You roll, scoot and tumble, away from Zoltar’s box as the pair of painted Harlequins take turns ringing your bell.

It's impossible to fight back, you can't even get your feet under you. When you try to block him, she hits you and when you try to block her, he kicks you. Just when you start fearing for your life, Sissy intervenes.

"Please," she says, speaking to Zoltar.

"He won't touch your box. | promise. Please stop hurting him."

The beating stops. You are left lying in the weeds, smarting from the punishment. The harlequins stand over you, frozen in place, their faces still expressionless.

They could be a pair of statues standing there.

Sissy continues her plea to the wooden man inside the box. "Would you please let us in? Someone is trying to kill me."

For a long moment nothing happens. Then a card pops into the slot. Sissy takes it, turns it over and reads. "Your wish is my command."

The harlequins do backflips and cartwheels across the open space and come toa stop in front of a brightly painted gypsy caravan that did not exist only a moment ago. A flourish from the silent harlequins gives you permission to enter.

After picking yourself up and dusting yourself off, you stomp up the steps to the door. Sissy thanks Zoltar and hurries after you, but the harlequins block her entry.

A card drops into Zoltar’s slot.

Sissy goes and reads it. "Only him."

You hadn't planned on that. Leaving Sissy here, unattended, makes you nervous. A lot could happen. The worst being that you have absolutely no idea what could happen.

You are a detective, not a magician, and you are dabbling in a world where you don’t know all the rules. But getting the death curse removed is more important.

"Stay here,” you tell her. "Do not wander off.”

"You're going to leave me here?"

"You'll be fine,” you say, hoping it’s true. "Just stay put. I'll be out in a minute.”

"No,’ she shakes her head. "Absolutely not. You aren't leaving me out here with a pair of homicidal harlequins!" She faces Zoltar again. "Please, can | go in?"

Zoltar makes no response.

"Sissy, it's going to be fine,’ you say. "Just stay here."

She crosses her arms. "Fine. But don't be long."

"I'll be back in two shakes of a lamb’s tail, doll.” You pull open the brightly painted door of the caravan and step inside.

The caravan is bigger inside than it looks from the outside. Not much bigger, but there is room to move around. That's often the case with magical abodes, though you couldn't say why.

It disturbed and disoriented you the first time. Now you don't bother questioning it. Go trying to figure these things out and you might drive yourself insane.

The place is cluttered with colorful pillows, cooking pans, bladed weapons, scarves, a hookah pipe, mason jars
full of magical ingredients and more things you don't even recognize. You certainly couldn't name them.

Amongst all this various and sundry chaos sits a wizened old man with watery black eyes and skin like dried-up parchment. He's in purple baggy pants and a blue vest, sitting cross-legged on a low stool.

If he pulled out a rug and flew away, it wouldn't surprise you much. He takes a hit from the hookah pipe and blows vapor in your direction. The sickly-sweet smell of whatever he is smoking invades your nostrils.

You tip your head at him. “Pasha. Always good to see you. Pasha sniffs.

You unearth another stool from a mountain of blankets, pillows and yarn, have a seat and say, "| need a counter-spell. Someone is trying to kill a friend using some serious mojo. Maybe some of those defensive charms wouldn't go amiss either."

Pasha continues puffing on the hookah. His watery black eyes bore into yours like he can see right down into your soul.

"Look, | know we've never seen eye-to-eye," you tell him. "But a lot of innocent people are getting killed. More are going to die unless you help me counter that death curse. What's it going to take to earn your help? "

The old gypsy takes his lips off the pipe long enough to say,

"A memory." His voice is like dried-up parchment with a thick Romani accent.

You can't help but laugh. "You want one of my memories? I have to warn you, old timer, most of them aren't so great."

"Then you have no reason to horde them," Pasha says.

You consider his offer and shake your head. Memories are tricky things. You keep them in your head for a reason. What if you can’t remember your own name when he’s done? How will you help Sissy if you don’t even Know who you are? It’s an awful gamble.

You get up and start for the door. "That’s asking a lot, Pasha."

He inclines his head. "So are you, Mr. Jericho. A death curse is not easily cast and much harder to dispel. Even if you find and kill your enemy, the curse will still be in effect.”

That stops you from walking out. What good will it do to find the killer if you can’t stop the curse from killing? You hesitate with your hand on the door knob. "What memory do you want?"

"You are not such a fool.” He grins. "You will still remember your name."

It’s not the first time Pasha has said something that leaves you feeling he can read minds.

You take a seat on the stool, chew the inside of your cheek as you think it over and then Say, "Alright. But | want your word you can lift the death curse."

"It will be dispelled," he assures you. "And I can give you a powerful totem to use against the evil sorcerer. It will offer you protection.”