Pure Dead Magic by Debi Gliori

pronto, toot sweet.…”
    “How did you get my name?” interrupted Pronto.
    “Look, Toots, or whatever you call yourself, get this—I can’t find you four expert terminators at such short notice. Three I can do, four, no can do. Either you take this Tillybun bloke and we’ve got a deal, or you’re stuck with the three we got.”
    Pronto decided.
    “Right, squire, we’ve got a deal,” said the fat man, retrieving the receiver from his clammy fist and replacing it under his chins. “OK, we cut the rabbit in. Usual place, give my client an hour to find himself a motor. Yeah, yeah, he knows the form. Unmarked bills, in the left luggage at the station. Yeah. You too. Bye.” Sweating copiously, the fat man replaced the receiver and collapsed in his chair. Mopping his face with a lace-trimmed handkerchief, he began to draw a map for Pronto.
    Exactly one hour later, Pronto arrived in a rented van at the agreed rendezvous. Edinburgh was in the grip of festival fever, and the chosen location was thronged with tourists, street performers, jugglers, acrobats, and, regrettably, more than one fully dressed rabbit.
    Pronto had no trouble spotting his three experts. They stood in a group, wearing sunglasses, black suits, and deep scowls. They were far more conspicuous in the crowd of brightly dressed, happy festival-goers than their companion in his rabbit costume. As instructed by the fat man, Pronto stuck his head out of the van window, pretending to ask directions from passersby. “Anyone know where I can find a theater group called Terminator Four?” he yelled.
    Three large guys began to move in his direction. Nearby, a well-dressed rabbit detached himself from an audience of small children and began to hop toward the van. One small boy appeared to be reluctant to say goodbye. He clung determinedly to the rabbit’s leg, his face crumpling with the effort.
    The three large men climbed into the rear of the van, holding the door open for their lopsidedly hopping companion.
    “Get OFF,” the rabbit growled at the leechlike child. “Leggo, or I’ll …”
    Abruptly the child let go before he could complete his threat. The rabbit bounded into the back of the van, slamming the door behind him.
    Across the street, an apprentice piper, in full Highland dress, began to coax the opening bars of “Auld Lang Syne” from his bagpipes. It sounded awful, but it masked the squeal of brakes and the child’s earsplitting wail, “That bunny’s got a GUN!”
    Swerving to overtake a trailer, Pronto shuddered at the memory. In the passenger seat beside him now, the rabbit twiddled dials on the radio, played with the heater controls, and wound the window up and down, all the while keeping up an endless flow of chatter.
    “Know what this motor needs, eh?” he asked of the company in general. “Needs some of them furry dice, dunnit?” he said to no one in particular. “My mate’s motor, now there’s a really cool set of wheels—he’s got the dice, tinted windows, alloy wheels, sound system big enough ter blow the windows out.…”
    “How useful,” muttered Pronto. “No vehicle should be without one.”
    “That’s what I mean,” continued the rabbit. “And he’s got satellite navigation, turbocharged twin-cam fuel-injected whatchamacallits …”
    “Really?”
said Pronto, investing that one word with every ounce of sarcasm at his disposal. “And your ‘friend,’ what does he do?”
    “Eh? What d’you mean, ‘what does he do’?”
    “I mean,” said Pronto, speaking very slowly and carefully. “What. Does. He. Do. For. A. Living. Your. Friend?”
    “Uhh. I get your meaning. He doesn’t do nothing for a living. He’s dead.”
    “Oh dear, how sad,” said Pronto insincerely.
    The van began to slow down as they approached a vast rusting bridge. Pronto riffled through his pockets and turned round in his seat. “Look, we have to pay to cross this toll bridge. Has anyone got any change? I only have big