Cold Iron Task

Book 3: The Unorthodox Chronicles

by James J. Butcher

Genres: Fantasy; Fantasy action & adventure; Contemporary Fantasy; Urban Fantasy; General Fiction

Synopsis

Grimsby, a junior Auditor in the magical Department of Unorthodox Affairs, finds himself on the other side of the law in this spellbinding urban fantasy.

Grimshaw Griswald Grimsby may have one case under his belt, but he’s still a novice Auditor in Boston’s Department of Unorthodox Affairs. And he’s already made mistakes.

Desperate to repair his fraying friendships, he doesn’t ask too many questions when a mysterious patron offers him the chance to join a heist of an otherworldly vault—and in the process find answers that could make things right. 

Complications arise when Grimsby learns that his partner, Mayflower, is keeping secrets about his past. Between facing new demons, old horrors, and monsters—both Usual and Unorthodox—Grimsby soon realizes nothing is how it appears and that not asking enough questions just might be his downfall.

Release date: March 4, 2025

Publisher: Ace

Print pages: 480

Sample

One

The Huntsman glowered as he ground the old jeep over the grit-strewn pavement. The unyielding seasons had battered and cracked the empty lot to the point that it looked like a parched desert of gray. The morning was chill but bright. Fall was quickly coming to a close, but the weather was as yet mild enough to leave the barren asphalt melted dry of frost by the sun.

He pulled the old jeep up beside a dark, sleek vehicle without mirrors at the lot's center and cut the engine. It sputtered and died like something under the hood had strangled it. Standing just beyond the engine block of Mayflower's jeep, and staring at the covered manhole that led below, was Damien Grieves.

The newly appointed Department director didn't move as Mayflower climbed out and stepped onto the cracked pavement. He simply stared down at the manhole, his arms crossed over the breast of his perfectly pressed suit.

"Thank you for coming, Les," the director said without looking at him.

Mayflower grunted, pulling at the lapels of his own, threadbare jacket to better settle it over his shoulder holster. It was getting old.

Then again, so was he.

"Figured I ought to," the Huntsman said. He paused and looked around. "No one else?"

"No. Figured she wouldn't much care if anyone else was here."

"Not sure she'd give a damn about us being here, either."

Grieves chuckled, the first sign that he was anything beyond a talking statue, and straightened, moving to grip his hands behind the small of his back. "I think she would have."

"Maybe."

They remained quiet for a moment before Mayflower's ear caught the sound of claw on concrete. It was something he had heard frequently enough in his long years to recognize in an instant. He turned, reaching for his revolver, but before he could draw, Grieves dampened the movement with a steady hand.

Behind them, a dozen or so paces away, sat a cat.

Or at least a monstrous re-creation of one.

Its body was carefully hammered metal, its claws razor blades, and its tail made of chain links. In fact, the only part of it that truly was a cat was its bleached white skull, topped with ears of copper-one of which had been carefully folded down at the tip.

It was a familiar.

More specifically, Mansgraf's familiar.

Mayflower and his punk of a partner, Grimshaw Grimsby, had spotted the abomination when they had last delved into the old witch's lair below, and though he still felt the urge to gun it down, it was Grimsby's voice from back then that stopped him more than Grieves's hand.

Instead of drawing the gun, he drew a breath and sighed. The abomination could live-for now.

The cat, for its part, mimed licking its paws despite not having a tongue and ignored him completely.

"Guess that makes three," Mayflower said, shrugging away Grieves's arm.

"It was pawing at the entrance when I arrived," the director said. "I didn't care for the thought of leaving it down there."

"You'd rather it be loose up here?"

"I will collect it when we are done."

Mayflower crossed his arms. "So long as it's not my problem."

Grieves nodded and knelt down and inspected his own work. The manhole had been etched with careful spellcraft-but though it was of a kind Mayflower wasn't familiar with, that hardly narrowed it down. He avoided learning anything more than he had to when it came to the work of witches.

He'd leave that to Grimsby.

However, while Mayflower might not know the details, he could still recognize the intent.

After all, it was why Grieves had invited him.

They were here to bury Mansgraf.

"Why now?" Mayflower asked. "It's been a year."

"Indeed. I believe that is time enough."

"Have to admit," Mayflower said, taking a breath of cold air, "I half expected her to come back. Knowing her, it wouldn't have been that crazy."

Grieves said nothing. He brushed away a bit of dirt from the runes on the manhole and stood. "I take it you don't fully know what she has down there, either?" he asked.

"No. Seemed smarter to keep it that way."

"Agreed. This ward will see to it that what lies down there remains-or at least none of it comes out on this end."

"Probably for the best."

Grieves nodded. "Would you like to say any words?"

"This ain't a damn funeral, Grieves."

"Isn't it?"

"Is her body down there? Or do you still have it in some freezer?"

The director glanced over; his gaze alone could keep corpses frozen. "Her life's work is down there. Everything she fought to trap, every secret she sought to learn, every power she wanted to keep from those who would abuse it. It's all down there. I'd say that's more Mansgraf than a few bones, wouldn't you?"

Mayflower growled but didn't argue.

"So, if you have anything you would like to say, Les, now is the time."

Mayflower gritted his teeth so hard he felt like they might crack apart to match the pavement. Mansgraf had been gone a year, but that wasn't much different from before. He had once been her partner, and even then he might not see the old bat for months at a time-hell, once she had vanished for seven years. He'd figured she had been dead then, too.

But she had always come back-up until he had asked her not to.

He shook his head.

Now she was gone again, and this time it was for good.

He didn't much like that idea.

"I hope you found some peace," Mayflower said quietly.

The director gave him a moment more, but he had nothing left to say. For someone like her-someone like him-peace was everything.

He had only known it once.

Grieves raised his hand and the runes began to glow.

Mansgraf's lair would be sealed, and within it, all that she had fought for.

Mayflower just wished her bones were there as well. It seemed a more fitting burial for a warrior.

He turned away and left Grieves to his magic. Damien was ruthless, but Mayflower didn't doubt his intentions to keep Mansgraf's secrets out of anyone's hands. After all, he was the only other person who knew where the lair's entrance was, and despite his position as director, he hadn't informed the Department of Unorthodox Affairs.

If nothing else, that told Mayflower that Grieves retained some small measure of spine. Perhaps a vertebra or two.

He left the director to his work, though he noticed the familiar had vanished. He shook his head; that would be Grieves's problem as well. He returned to the old jeep and climbed in, leaving the witch in the rearview.

The jeep rattled oddly, beyond the usual clatter of the rune-carved bars that encased the back seat, but Mayflower's attention on the road matched his grip on the wheel-unwavering and rigid. His mind kept trying to drift into the past, but it was a place that held few comforts for him. Instead, he focused on keeping both it and the jeep in their lanes and kept his thoughts blank.

The gray day grew toward noon when he pulled into the drive at home.

Two women stood on his doorstep, waiting. He recognized them both.

Miranda Finley, a Department Analyst, and her sister, Sarah Finley-his neighbor.

He felt his old heart clatter to a halt even as the jeep's engine did. If they were both here, that could mean only one thing.

He stepped out, paling as a cold sweat dampened the silver-threaded lining of his jacket.

Miranda ran up to him and hugged him hard, her multicolored hair a frayed mess, her hooded eyes so reddened that the freckles on her cheeks were lost. Even with the platform heels of her heavy black boots, her head didn't reach his collar.

Sarah, meanwhile, offered him a subdued smile and a small wave over her sister's shoulder. Tall and willowy, she still seemed strong beside Finley, though it looked to Mayflower to be by necessity.

He felt his chest twinge as he nodded to her, then forced himself to put an arm around Finley. There was only one thing that could have brought them both to his door like this.

Their father.

His oldest friend.