By Charles de Lint
A story of magic and murderThe more and more weird and wonderful murders have baffled the police—but every one dying is by some means hooked up with the city’s elusive Gypsy group. The police are searching for a human killer, however the Romany comprehend higher. They recognize the identify of the darkness that hunts them down, one after the other: Mulengro.
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A second trip to the fridge got him a beer. Popping the tab, he went back into the living room and stretched out on the sofa. One of those “real-honest-to-God-people-do-these-things” shows was on and the announcer’s eager voice was an irritating buzz even at low volume. He got up, turned the channels until he found a documentary, then returned to his seat, watching the screen with the sound off. The beer was just what he’d needed. After dinner he’d take a shower, but right now he just didn’t want to move.
The older of the pair looked to be in her late twenties. She was well-built and tastelessly dressed in a purple leather miniskirt, knee-high beige boots and a flimsy red blouse unbuttoned halfway down her chest. She wasn’t wearing a bra. Her hair was a silver blonde, straight out of a bottle of dye, and her makeup appeared to have been laid on with a trowel. Her companion was younger and slimmer, brown hair cut in a shag style, the makeup not quite so heavy. She was wearing a summer print minidress and high-heeled sandals, and clutched a small purse on her lap.
He set his half-finished beer down on the bartop and laid a two-dollar bill beside it. Without taking his gaze from the brothers, he slipped off his seat, turned and headed for the door. He didn’t know what had gotten into the Gourlays tonight, but he sure as hell wasn’t sticking around to find out. The alcohol on Stan’s breath was strong enough to knock a horse down at ten paces. He reached the street without incident but before he could get into his car, he heard the door to Tinkers open behind him.