Excerpt

How had he gotten mixed up in this mess? Gavin Baddock, Attorney at Law. Shyster at work, more like. He had no illusions about himself. He was simply a lawsuit chaser, helping con artists milk the system any way they could.

When Carl Grunnecht came to him with a misuse of persona claim against some beer company called Green Knight Brewery, Gavin hadn't cared one bit about the particulars, just how he could make the silly claim work.

Carl was a huge brute of a man, easily 6'5 and broad as a barn. His shaggy mane and beard curled redly over shoulders and chest, and he had an odd accent that Gavin couldn't place. Not quite Irish, not quite German.

But it was the story the big man spun that convinced Gavin he was crazy.

Carl had rattled on and on about fairies and party tricks, a fortune made during the French Revolution, working with magicians in Vegas, all utter raving as far as Gavin could tell.

It wasn't until Carl invited him to his home that his world had collapsed.

Gavin had walked into a museum of beheading. Axes, swords, and a huge guillotine decorated Carl's shabby apartment, which stank of a strange coppery reek that made Gavin's gorge rise.

When the giant lay down with his head in the guillotine and handed him the rope, Gavin played along, trying to humor him. But when he yanked the release, the huge, gleaming blade fell with a horribly final "thunk" and Carl's head dropped into the waiting basket.

Gavin had frozen with shock for what felt like hours but in truth was only a minute or so.

Then he'd run. Down the stairs, out to the sidewalk, down toward the lights and hubbub of the real world.

Gavin finally felt safe enough to stop and catch his breath. As he opened the door to a ubiquitous Waffle House, meaning to grab some coffee to clear his head, a huge meaty paw fell on his shoulder.

"Vy you run avay, Mr. Baddock?"

Gavin looked up at the shaggy head, ran through several possible responses, and finally did the only sensible thing.

He passed out.