Back From Hell (Revenant Files Book 1)

by D'Artagnan Rey

Before his opponent could recover, he placed his revolver against the man’s chin and had barely fired before a green figure darted out. He let the body drop and turned to the other chef, who attempted to retrieve his knife. A headshot ended his efforts and with a hissed groan, another green figure disappeared.

  “Green, red, and blue. We have quite an assortment of ghosts in here,” he told the invisible shade beside him. “Wait, what do you mean they aren’t ghosts? Spirits? I thought a shade had to be… Oh, okay. Well, that’s a pain but you wanted to take care of him anyway so have fun with that.”

  Johnny noticed a silver chain close to one of the fryers and when he pulled it, something chimed. He searched for the secret entrance he needed to open but found nothing so he pulled on it a few more times with a frown. “I think this is for orders,” he muttered. Something rattled in the corner of the kitchen and he looked in that direction. A fridge moved aside to reveal a doorway that accessed a staircase.

  He sighed as he approached it. “Show off,” he snarked quietly before he noticed an iron pan and picked it up. “This will probably be useful in the next few moments,” he said and descended the staircase.

  Judging by their footprints and the way these suddenly ceased, he estimated that at least two guards awaited his arrival around a corner at the bottom. Before he took the last few steps, he stopped and studied their shadows and was almost certain that they held guns ready.

  After a few moments during which he remained utterly motionless, they began to creep to the side so they could see up the stairwell. A loud clang made them swivel to the lowest stairs and they jumped when they caught sight of the bouncing pan.

  Using the advantage of their surprise, he bounded down, kicked one of the bodyguards away, and fired into the stomach of the other. He nodded with satisfaction when a red spirit vanished and he fired almost immediately into the head of the man who had fallen. Another red spirit joined its friend.

  Once he’d scanned the short hallway to check for others, he approached a pair of doors and kicked them in, his weapon ready. The room contained a large ornate desk and a brown leather chair that faced away from him in what had been designed as an office with several drawers and a few expensive-looking decorations.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” a gruff, irate voice demanded as the chair turned slowly. “You come into my home, expel my people, and point that little peashooter at me?”

  When the figure finally faced him, he revealed an appearance different than the spirits Johnny had dealt with thus far. He seemed to have the appropriate skin to be one—or at least what looked like skin, although it was thin and an odd shade of red. His wispy hair was brushed into a coif and his white eyes had no irises. He wore a black silk shirt, black slacks, and well-made black leather shoes.

  When he raised his hand, the bone could be seen through the flesh but appeared to be made of white light rather than calcium. He pointed a pistol at the intruder—one that was regrettably a much larger caliber. “You had better answer me. I can make this fast or very, very slow.”

  “Are you Ciro Corallo?” the young man asked while he held his much smaller revolver trained on him. “Former small-time mobster in the New Orleans Mafia?”

  “Small-time?” the shade roared and pushed to his feet. “You little bastard. I was in charge of keeping the family running while—”

  “Yeah, you were a bookkeeper. Congrats. I’m sure you’ll get a movie someday,” Johnny mocked. “The thing is, I’m not here for who you were in life. I was sent to deal with you for what you’ve done in the afterlife and for what you have done in the living world after you escaped Limbo.”

  Ciro clicked his tongue in disgust. “The best they can send against me is some punk kid playing like he’s an FBI agent?”

  “Make that detective, and I’m twenty-two, you husk,” he retorted. “I’m surprised you were even able to become a shade. That takes strong attachments and a hell of a lot of phantasma. I guess being a pen-pusher gave you some skills, although with how easy it was to get past all your goons, you certainly don’t screen them well, do you?”

  The shade fired his gun but his intruder was ready and dodged easily. “Don’t you disrespect me.” His growl was a warning. “I was simply minding my own business and creating a new organization. I certainly don’t intend to let a little rat bastard like you stop me.”

  “Oh, I won’t.” The young man smirked for a moment as he straightened, holstered his revolver, and nodded at the space beside the shade. “He had already called dibs.”

  Ciro was confused for a moment before he turned his head and was immediately thrust into his desk by a skeletal hand. He dropped his weapon when he was caught by the throat and lifted off his feet. A figure formed beyond the hand. The skeleton glowed with cyan light, his whites eyes illuminated in their sockets. He was dressed similar to Johnny in a dark trench coat, white shirt, and pants and wore a dark trilby.

  “Vic?” The shade gasped and clutched the skeletal arm. “Vic Kane? What the hell? You’re dead!”

  Vic drew him in. “So are you, dumbass.” His voice was gravelly and full of menace.

  Ciro seemed caught off-guard by this for a moment. “Oh, right.” His assailant thumped him into his desk again, picked him up by his shirt, and continued to deliver a sound beating.

  Johnny stood for a moment and looked around the room. “So how long will this take Vic? Should I look around or something?”

  “Give me a minute, kid,” his partner demanded and ceased his assault for a moment to turn toward him. “I’m getting reacquainted with my old pal.” He turned to deliver a solid blow but his adversary deflected it and tackled him. They fell in a tangle and continued to try to gain the upper hand.

  The young man sighed and looked at one of the desks. “Yeah, it will be more than a minute.” He took a pair of black gloves out and slipped them on. “Let’s see if there’s something interesting in the study to steal.”

  Ciro brought both his hands together, chopped them into the back of Vic’s neck, and managed to stop his assault briefly enough to kick him off. He ran to his desk, drew a knife from a sheath that lay on top of some paperwork, and spun to slash at his adversary with more fury than skill. His ineptness allowed the other ghost to catch his hand during a bad swipe and swing him into a wall before he flung him face-down and began to stamp repeatedly on the back of his head.

  Johnny looked admiringly at a gold watch on the desk, then noticed Ciro’s gun on the floor and picked that up too. He placed both on the desk as he took a moment to look through the papers.

  The proprietor grasped Vic’s leg and flung him aside before he raced toward his gun on the desk. Utterly calm, Johnny drew his revolver and shot him in the face. The shot didn’t cause him to react like the possessed ones on the ground floor had, but he was catapulted back. His left eye and a piece of his face were blown away but began to repair themselves a moment later. Vic lunged into him and when he fell, trapped him between his knees and began to batter his wounded face with a flurry of punches.

  The young man opened one of the bottom drawers but found nothing interesting. He checked the others and finally opened the top one and noticed a manilla envelope—those which, in his mind, usually contained something important.

  While the battle between the shades continued, he opened it and a letter slid out, which he read quickly. Some kind of emblem or symbol that looked like an ax on the bottom caught his attention.

  Ciro pushed Vic off of him again. Johnny collected all the items including the proprietor’s gun and wandered to the door as his partner stood and the shade staggered past him to his desk. “Are you done yet?”

  Vic cracked his neck and put his fists up. “I could beat this jackass for eternity.”

  “I know. You told me that before but we have to deal with him now. So how about a real solution?” He aimed his revolver at the small-time gangster.

  The shade laughed. “Do you think you can stop me with that?” he asked while
his red flesh oozed down the side of his face.

  “I think I could, and very, very slowly.” The young man twirled the gun in his hand. “This is a deadeye revolver, one of the few weapons that those of us who breathe can use to hurt the dead. Admittedly you’d probably heal after a while, but you’d be wounded enough to have to return to Limbo.”

  “And you think I’ll go back there?” The shade wiped some of the sludge from his face. “Not on your life.”

  “Or yours,” Johnny replied with a smirk. “They don’t want you back.”

  “You’re a criminal in Limbo, Ciro, exactly as you were in life. You didn’t even try to be different.” Vic spat his disgust. “Then you returned to the living world after you busted out of Purgatory. And since you aren’t anyone special, you’re merely a liability.”

  Ciro laughed but a trace of fear was evident in his bravado. “So what? Do you think you can finish me off with that?” he asked and pointed to the smaller weapon.

  The young man shook his head. “No, but like I said, he called dibs.” He tossed the gun to his partner, who caught it easily. Flames the same color as his bones poured out of the barrel.

  His adversary froze for a moment. “Wait, you can’t be serious.”

  Vic pulled the hammer. “You die in death as you did in life—forgettable.” He fired as the other man cried a protest and the bullet emerged as a small orb of cyan light that struck him in the head. His body was filled with slivers of the light, erupted a moment later, and turned into a smoky substance before it vanished completely.

  Johnny watched it until it dissipated. “This is the first time I’ve seen a ghost obliterated,” he commented as he slipped the envelope into his coat pockets. “Do you think it hurts?”

  The ghost looked at the gun before he slid it into a holster beneath his coat. “I hope so.”

  “What the hell did he do to you?” The young man rolled his eyes. “Sleep with your boney girlfriend?”

  “Shut it, pretty boy,” Vic snapped with a trace of humor. “Let’s return to the bar. I need a drink.”

  “Which means I need a drink.” He sighed and rubbed his temple. “Although honestly, that sounds all right.”

  Chapter Three

  Vic sidled behind the bar while Johnny studied what remained of the lounge. It seemed that all the previously possessed individuals had left as fast as they could—the smart decision, all things considered. The number of people who stood around to gawk after such an event was annoyingly high.

  “Do we honestly have time for this?” Johnny asked as he slid onto one of the stools while the ghost perused the unshattered bottles of alcohol on the wall. “The cops are probably on their way.”

  “If they ain’t here yet they ain’t coming,” his partner retorted with a disgruntled expression and examined a half-full bottle of whiskey before he threw it on the floor. “Ciro had them paid off. They most likely have orders to stay the hell away and let his men take care of any disturbances.”

  Johnny took a fresh pack of cigarettes out and frowned at them before he beat the top in his palm to force one out. “And how long before they get curious?”

  Vic pulled a long-necked bottle off the upper shelf. It contained an amber liquid, which had an eerie glow to it in the low lights. He smiled as he picked a glass up. “Long enough. I found the good stuff.”

  He bit on the top and pulled the cork out, spat it to the side, poured himself a shot quickly, and downed it. Johnny felt the burn in his throat—a damn strong one that almost caused him to cough his unlit cigarette out as it snaked downward. He shook his head as he took a silver lighter out and lit his smoke. “Why would he keep any of that stygia liquor up top if all his boys were in host bodies?”

  “They probably had some ghost patrons from time to time,” Vic responded as he poured another round for himself. “Besides, phantoms or any other dreck can’t help other ghosts possess bodies without the right amount of stygia to stabilize them. He probably had to get his operations established first before he could build his ranks up.”

  The young man took his smartphone out and looked at his notes. “The guy’s probably been running around the breathing side for a while then, huh?”

  The ghost downed his shot and his companion’s face contorted for a moment. “Longer than he should have been. If I can give that bastard one thing, he’s certainly wily. How the hell he was able to escape Purgatory is beyond me. That place locks down some of the toughest ghosts around. How a pencil-pusher slipped through is a question for the ages.”

  “Or maybe the clerk when we turn our bounty in,” Johnny suggested and looked at the device again before he stowed it in his pocket. A thought came to him that made him rub his head. “Shit, I never got my money back.”

  Vic chortled and poured another shot. “Well, it’s a good thing we fixed this. That was a few hundred bucks you lost, right?”

  He nodded solemnly. “A fair amount more than that if you factor in gas and the informants.”

  “It wouldn’t have taken so long if you had simply come in with guns blazing,” the ghost noted with a tilt of his head. “Like I suggested originally. It came to that anyway.”

  “I thought we were detectives, not commandos,” he retorted.

  “You play the field,” Vic snarked. “We’re not hitmen either, technically. Sometimes, sneaky is good but at other times, loud is preferred. I mostly prefer it anyway.”

  “And look at what that got you.” Johnny snickered and glanced at his cigarette. “With all these vices you passed on to me, the thing that killed you was a nine-millimeter.”

  “A .357,” the ghost countered and took another sip. “Give me some credit. I could have shaken a nine-millimeter off.”

  “Isn’t that worse? You should have seen a Magnum coming.” The young man chuckled once he’d adjusted to the trail of the last mouthful down his gullet. “Still, it’s been almost two weeks of footwork. If you weren’t so pushy about getting this gig, we could have found one closer to Austin.”

  “Sulfur ain’t that far,” his companion chided and swished the glass. “That was maybe four hours at most.”

  “Closer to five,” Johnny corrected and pointed at him with his cigarette. “By the way, you don’t get control of the radio on the next ride.”

  “Try to stop me,” Vic challenged and downed his drink as Johnny took a puff, which made him almost spit the liquid up. “I can’t listen to that electric junk you blast constantly. I’m dead and I have more life to me than that so-called music.”

  “And your rodent pack doesn’t exactly thrill me, not for hours on end.” He took a more cautious drag. “The time I was almost thrown in jail when you pinched a couple of greatest hits albums still irks me.”

  “It didn’t please me either and I still don’t have a vinyl player.” He took the box of cigarettes off the table, helped himself to one, and lit it. “And it’s rat pack, you moron.”

  The young man waved him off, slid his hand into his coat, and removed the letter. “I found this in Ciro’s desk.” He placed it on the counter. “Take a look. He might have had help on this side.”

  Vic unfolded the envelope, withdrew the letter, and read it in silence.

  Dearest Friend from hottest Hell.

  I am writing to you with a proposition, one I will not fully explain in this letter, but you should know it can be of benefit to you, me, and many others. I have already begun to act and your actions in this wretched plane have caught my attention. Should you wish to prosper further, I recommend meeting me in our unofficial southern capital if you wish to return to the big time exceptionally easily.

  The ghost tapped the emblem on the bottom of the letter and tried to recall if he’d seen anything similar to what appeared to be a hatchet or ax made of red wax punched into the paper. “So he did have friends. Well, that is surprising.”

  “Is that the only thing that interests you?” he asked and took another drag. “Not the telltale words of a psychopath trying to get
in good with ghosts?”

  His partner shrugged and downed his shot but this time, Johnny had grown accustomed to the hit. “Eh, what can you do? It’s not like that is a shocking turn of events nowadays. Hell, even in my day.” He flipped the glass and placed it on the bar before he refocused on the letter. “There is something familiar about this, though. The salutation ends with ‘hottest Hell.’ Do you think that’s a club or organization?”

  “It could be. Honestly, it’s a pity they simply didn’t spell everything out like those guys in Houston.” The young man chuckled. “That was an easy gig.”

  Vic slid the letter into the envelope and folded it before he pushed it across the counter. “So, are you thinking of heading there?”

  He shrugged. “I merely thought it might be of interest to you. We took this gig because you wanted it so badly. I thought you might want to tie up some loose ends.”

  “Aw, you do think about me.” The ghost chuckled and took a drag and the smoke drifted into his skeletal frame and disappeared. “But this doesn’t matter to me personally. I was after Ciro. He was a loose end I wanted to burn.”

  “So you simply settled for shooting him in the face?” Johnny asked, took a glass from above the bar, and filled it from a bottle of red wine. The ghost sighed as he took a sip and shook his head. “This is too sweet. Liquor ain’t good unless it fights back.”

  The young man shrugged and put the glass down. “So what’s the plan from here?”

  His partner leaned against the bar and the lights in his sockets rolled up as he thought. “Eh, I’m open. If you want to head to Austin and veg, we could probably use the break.”

  “I guess that all depends on what the clerks have for us,” he reminded him as he took another sip. “We are quite popular over there.”

  “They don’t get much work from the living side of things,” Vic said with a dry laugh. “It cuts the middleman out. We may get good money from them, but that’s because they save a bundle working direct.”