Walk on the Wild Side - By Karl Edward Wagner Page 0,98

repay them with acts of kindness. Sometimes it just held them at bay.

Blaine Adams had no illusions as to his culinary skills. Only a gremlin could love the dismal messes he left out. And he’d been adopted by a gremlin.

Where had it come from? There were miles of forest, the ruins of old settlements, the forgotten graveyards. Had some immigrant brought the creature here, or was it native to these woods? Useless to attempt to explain magic. Gin and exhaustion called a halt to Adams’ speculations.

Go with the flow, Adams decided, and the next night he lavished half a bottle of Tabasco sauce on the dreadful failure of short ribs and dumplings he had seen the gremlin eyeing in his refrigerator.

Wire Edge came in at about 200,000 words a few weeks later. The contract had called for only 75,000 words, but Adams’ editor was basking in the praise for having brought in a potential year’s best seller for a mere $5,000 advance. She generously sent him a small bonus check and another three-book contract, but a hungry agent had got wind of her new discovery, and he tracked Blaine Adams down.

Negotiations. Contracts. Mega bucks. Mega hype. Hardcovers. Film options. Cover blurbs from the genre’s finest.

The Calling was rushed into print amid a flurry of extravagant reviews and enthusiastic reader reception. The publisher promised more Blaine Adams shock classics in the near future, and the public grabbed up copies of Stalker as fast as the news-stands could stock them.

It was all happening very fast.

By nature shy and reclusive, Blaine Adams left everything to his new agent. He was content to bank his checks, and he refused to appear on talk shows or to do a signing tour.

The elves had abandoned the shoemaker after they realized he had discovered them. Adams did not stray from his routine. Each night he set out leftovers. As the contracts for new books came in, he foraged through his boxes of rejected manuscripts and hopeless starts—leaving them on his desk when required.

Life was good. For both of them.

And then a local bookstore insisted on having a meet-the-author signing party.

Adams should have refused, but the proprietor was an old friend. He was seated at a table laden with hot-off-the-press copies of Wire Edge when the screaming started.

Fans lined up before his table suddenly bolted for exits. Wine glasses shattered on the floor; a buffet table went crashing. Some, suspecting a publicity stunt, crouched behind shelves of books. Adams stumbled to his feet, staring in horror.

The gremlin moved complacently through the scene of panic, pausing briefly to swallow a handful of chicken wings. It wiped its fingers on the remains of the tattered and mouldering antique tuxedo it wore, then hurried over to where Adams stood frozen.

“Sorry I’m late,” the gremlin apologized, “but it took me awhile to dig up this tux: for the occasion.”

Adams guessed where it had dug up the tux, but he was past shuddering.

The gremlin climbed into his vacated chair and beamed over the stacks of books at what remained of its fans. It slung a long arm affectionately around the slumping Blaine Adams.

“Hey, I love this guy!” the gremlin proclaimed. And just wait till you read his cookbook!”

Prince of the Punks

The aged cemetery in Battersea had been in disuse for some years. Weeds grew thickly, cut back only at long intervals by uncaring caretakers. Vandals had knocked over some of the tombstones, broken off bits from the statues of angels. A number of the graves had been opened and robbed. Modern graffiti—some of it Satanic—sprawled across many a Victorian mausoleum.

It was a typical London autumn afternoon. Spitting rain, cold, overcast. Inspector Blount considered himself a fool for trudging along through this mess. Detective Sergeant Rollins gave him reproachful glances but kept silent; he was a tall, sour man in his thirties, ambitious for promotion. Dr Hoffmann led the way vigorously, despite his aged legs. He must be all of eighty. Detective Sergeant Rollins carried his heavy leather bag.

“It’s just a short matter of finding his tomb,” called back Dr Hoffmann.

Inspector Blount cursed himself for venturing out on this lunatic outing. He was rotund and graying, too old for this sort of thing. Still, Dr Hoffmann might lead them to some manner of clues. Anything would help this investigation.

Six unsolved deaths in two months, all with linking modus operandi. All of them teenagers, found within a few miles of this vicinity, puncture wounds to the throat, bodies drained of blood. The tabloid press was