Nine by Night: A Multi-Author Urban Fantasy Bundle of Kickass Heroines, Adventure, & Magic

by SM Reine

  Great. Another week of week-old garbage.

  Digging my keys from my red vinyl jacket, I righted them to insert in the dead bolt lock...but the door was already open. A prickle of nerves ran up my spine. Had she been out today already? Or had the front door really been open all night?

  Walking inside, I heard the television.

  I shut the door behind me loudly.

  “Mom?” I headed for the sound of the t.v., dragging with me the bag of donuts and coffee I’d grabbed from the street vendor in front of the courthouse. Passing the dining room, I saw that she’d closed the drapes, which was strange, too.

  My mother liked to watch the birds, even in the fog.

  “Mom, you forgot the garbage again,” I said. Pausing, I raised my voice. “Tuesday, Mom. Remember? Every Tuesday. It never changes.”

  No answer.

  A prickle of fear touched my spine.

  “Hey, Mom...I don't have a lot of time. I promised I'd come by, so I'm here...but I can't stay. I just wanted to make sure you were up. Aunt Carol's coming, remember...?”

  When she didn't answer again, I felt my nerves worsen. Moving faster down the hall, I stepped out into the living room, stopping when my eyes met a shock of skin sprawled on the paisley print couch.

  “...Oh,” I said.

  Sighing, half in relief and half in irritation, I crossed the remainder of the room, kicking aside an empty bottle that at least partly accounted for the smell from the faux-Indian carpet. Sitting on the squishy couch I’d loved as a kid, I sank so low I nearly got dumped on the floor.

  I set down the coffee cup I had surfed to safety, and dropped the crumpled bag of donuts to the carpet. Sighing again, I leaned over to tap my mother’s bare back. The skin there was smooth and somehow younger than the rest of her, marked with tan lines from working in her garden.

  “Mom? What are you doing?” I looked at the clock in exasperation. "I have to go."

  I looked around at the open photo album, the crushed cigarette butts that she’d sworn up and down just two days ago that she no longer smoked, the faded, Mickey Mouse drinking glass that had once been Jon’s. I counted five butts in the plastic Waikiki ashtray with the hula girl painted on it, and at least two more in the bottom of Mickey’s glass.

  The only thing I didn’t look at was the television, where the familiar voice of my father could be heard amid kid laughter and cheers.

  The birthday video.

  I had been four. That was right before dad’s MS had been diagnosed, before he started losing weight, before he gave me the ceramic dolphin music box and promised he would never leave me. The day after he died, I smashed the box to a million pieces on the curb outside of our house. The next day, I moved out. I had been seventeen.

  “Mom?”

  A muffled voice emerged from against my mother’s arm.

  “You are an evil, evil child.”

  “You going to church? Aunt Carol's coming, remember?”

  “I don’t belong in church.”

  “Sure you do.” I patted her back. “Where else does an old drunk go for repentance?”

  My mother, Mia Taylor, raised her head. Bleary-eyed and pale, dark circles under her eyes, she looked old to me suddenly, in a way that brought a rush of what felt oddly like anger.

  She also looked hurt. “You are evil. Did you bring coffee?”

  “Yup. With the requisite sugar fat explosion, dunked in chocolate-flavored lard...your favorite.”

  She was already reaching for the bag, her eyes faintly quizzical, like they always were when I cracked one of my dumb jokes. She unfurled the crinkled paper and peered inside.

  Her voice grew timid. “Will you go with me?”

  I failed to completely stifle a snort.

  “Come on, Mom. Conversion? This early in the morning? I’m way too young to fear death that much.”

  As soon as I said it, my eyes made contact with the television.

  There, my father held me in his arms, beaming so wide, his eyes so shining that I couldn’t help but feel him, hearing his laugh through the middle of my chest. Only after I could breathe again did I look at my mom. Her deer-like eyes were wide as she munched on the edge of a donut, chocolate frosting coating her small fingers.

  “You’ve got to get past this,” I said, hating myself for saying it, knowing how often I’d said similar things, bludgeoning my mother with them, who despite all her apparent frailty was the more resilient one.

  It was me who covered myself over in sharp laughs and dismissive shrugs.

  Or, in the words of the boyfriend before Jaden, a Puerto Rican from New York, I was “a cold white woman, made of ice.”

  A faint nausea rose briefly, a pulse of warmth.

  I disagree, a voice said.

  I jumped violently, enough to make my mom look over.

  “What’s wrong?” she said.

  She never seemed to hold a grudge over my cracks. She was a better person than me.

  She patted my leg. “Are you okay, Allie-bird? You look like a goose walked on your grave.”

  I forced my eyes to the television, watched my dad lean down to help my four-year-old self blow out four pink candles on a cake with white, fluffy frosting. Four-year-old me looked up at twenty-eight-year-old me and beamed, wanting to be my friend.

  But watching my younger self wrapped in the gnarled, work-worn hands of my father, I felt nothing but envy.

  2

  AWAKE

  I hunched over an espresso maker, trying to get the metal coffee filter with the pressed coffee crammed inside to fit in the groove. I got it hooked somehow, managed to turn the handle a quarter turn, but it stuck there and wouldn’t budge.

  In the background, I listened to the television over the bar. There, our recently-elected president spoke over the flash of cameras and odd cheer or laugh from the crush of reporters ringing him like fans at a rock concert.

  The media used a parade of what my grandmother would have called “dimestore words” whenever they described President Daniel Caine. He was never just President Caine. He was “charismatic, bold in speech, forty-something President Caine exuding reassurance, his dark chestnut hair shining as he speaks from the White House lawn, the flowers of overhanging trees blending with the honey-blond of his wife’s hair. We only wish we could show you his real appearance so you could see how presidential he truly looks...”

  That kind of thing.

  Refocusing on the espresso maker, I finally got the filter off and hooked on the machine. Clicking it on, I waited for the red light, glancing up at the line of blue suits on the television. I noticed the scarf at the blond woman’s throat, the flash of teeth as the man’s avatar rocked his head back in a laugh.

  I’d never really followed politics.

  But Caine, the new national obsession, was hard to ignore.

  Most of my gal pals found him clinically “hot.” I don’t know how they could tell, honestly, since we only ever saw avatars.

  Even Jon liked him, and Jon didn’t like politicians...at least not successful ones. Liberals liked him. So did right-wingers. I found myself riveted whenever Caine spoke, but couldn’t say I liked him exactly.

  Still, I had to admit, the guy wasn’t anything like our last president.

  Like anyone, he had to wear avatars when appearing in the public feeds. The rumor was, those avatars weren’t far off from his real appearance, though...hardly the norm for celebrities and politicians. He wore just enough to remain legal, in fact. Meaning, enough that seers wouldn’t be able to track him, and national security and the fate of the human world wouldn’t hang in the balance as a result.

  He didn’t even change his age, or make himself ridiculously handsome, like most did. The press corp rumor was that he actually looked better in person.

  “...I have every hope here, fellas.” Caine smiled and I felt the exact flavor of exuded warmth. “...That this new agreement will establish real stability in a previously turbulent part of the world. Cre
ate friends and trusted neighbors out of those who in the past were our enemies.” He paused for just the right beat of time. “You don’t think we’re going to let a few screwballs get in the way of that, now do you...?”

  Laughter sparked through the crowd.

  “President Caine!” My eyes followed the petite female avatar as she pushed her way to the front. “What will your response be to the terrorists?”

  He smiled at her.

  “Donna,” he said. “You know I can’t give you details as to the exact nature of our plans.” He winked at the camera. “...But rest assured, harsh language will be involved. Very harsh language indeed.”

  Another collective laugh rolled through the crush.

  I leaned my back against the espresso machine, frowning.

  Folding my arms, I focused on the dark-skinned, African-American avatar standing just behind Caine. High cheekbones rose above full lips below cat-shaped, amber eyes. His was an undeniably handsome face, one I had also heard mirrored the handsomeness of the man behind it. The female friends of mine who didn’t have a thing for Caine definitely had one for Ethan Wellington, Caine’s new Vice President. My reactions to him were more mixed.

  The man had something, definitely.

  Again, I couldn’t decide if I liked whatever that something was.

  “...I truly believe that we are now laying the real foundations for peace and prosperity in the future,” Caine spoke out over the crowd. “Paving the way for a time when human being will no longer fight human being...”

  A low hiss emanated from the espresso maker at my back...just before it sprayed wet steam all over my uniform. Jumping forward with a yelp, I saw the metal filter belch water and coffee grounds through a warp in the seal. I was still staring at the machine, trying to decide how to proceed, when my best friend, Cassandra Jainukul approached.

  Everyone but her mother called her Cass, but when we were kids, it had been Cassie.

  “Hey.” Cass took in the issue with the espresso maker with polite disinterest. “Jon’s here. So’s your buddy.”

  Gripping the filter’s plastic handle with a resolve I didn’t feel, I gave it a jerk. More steam and water vomited, drenching my shirt.

  Cursing, I leapt back, soaked to the skin.

  “You want me to call Jon over?” Cass folded her arms, bunching up the uniform under her breasts.

  “What for?” I muttered. “He sucks at fixing things.”

  “No, dummy.” Cass pushed shocking, dyed red hair out of her dark eyes. “Not for that.”

  When we were kids, I would have done anything to look like Cass. Her dad was Ethiopian and Thai and her mom something like Scottish and Indian. Cass ended up with a blend of all four that made her beautiful and unique-looking with a delicate face, high cheekbones, full lips and giant, liquid eyes. Her figure had always been better than mine, too. Leggy and big-chested with a tiny waist. She blew stray bangs out of her eyes.

  “...What’s his name,” she prompted. “Your friend. Mono-Man. The sexy guy with the black hair sitting in your section.”

  I turned too fast, knocking the coffee filter with my arm. Cass watched it fall to the rubber mat with no reaction on her face. She found the vagaries of our shared food-service profession even less interesting than I did.

  Cass stared openly at the man in the corner booth, instead. “Isn’t that the shirt we looked at in Aardvarks? You said you liked it, right?”

  I nodded. I remembered.

  “That’s creepy, Al.”

  I said, “Where’s Jon?”

  Cass aimed a finger at the bar.

  My brother sprawled over a counter stool like an adult in a child’s chair. Catching my glance, he waved a hand sharply for me to come over. I shook my head.

  “In a minute,” I mouthed. “Chill out!”

  When Jon threw a spoon at me, I ducked, smiling, and glanced at Cass. She was still staring at Mr. Mono, her lips scrunched in vague puzzlement.

  When she saw Jon motioning us over again, she turned with a grin and started sashaying in his direction. I knew Cass couldn’t help but flirt with Jon. She knew she lacked the requisite, er, equipment, to catch my brother’s eye...but she’d had a crush on him since kindergarten.

  Watching Jon’s knee jiggle up and down, I got a flash of what he’d been like back then, when most people still called him “Bug.” Skinny and pale with thick glasses and too-large hands like his father, he’d been mostly a non-entity in high school, despite getting bullied by some of the real turds in his class. He started doing martial arts before Dad died, tired of being stuffed in lockers and covered in ketchup packets for “being a little faggot” by the mentally-challenged of gym class. Now he had the broad-shouldered, sinewy body of a career athlete. His old coke-bottle glasses had been replaced by contacts over green-flecked hazel eyes about ten years earlier, and he’d grown into the hands, too.

  Jon’s refusal to conform politically extended to his body in the form of streaked blond and black hair and the tattoos he’d started to collect in his early teens. He’d gone a few steps further than me with the barcode, decorating its lines with words about oppression in like six languages.

  Personally, I didn’t need any more reasons for the cops to notice me.

  According to Jaden, Jon and I were a little creepy for brother and sister—even adopted brother and sister—in that we hung out together so much. But I wasn’t about to ditch Jon as a friend just because his parents were cool enough to adopt me.

  Anyway, Jon wasn’t into girls. He never had been, even when we were kids.

  I watched his eyes swivel to the dark-haired man in the corner booth.

  As soon as I got close enough, he let go with a not particularly stealthy whisper.

  “Why didn’t you call me? I told you to call me!”

  “I didn’t know.”

  “How long has he been here?” Jon demanded.

  “Well, if I knew that, I would have known when he got here, right?” I folded my arms. “I didn’t. Know, I mean.”

  For an instant this stumped Jon. He squinted at me.

  Cass said, “I don’t know, Al.” Her lips pursed. “You sure you don’t want to talk to this one? Before Jon goes all kung fu on his ass...?”

  It was my turn to stare at Cass. “What?”

  She nodded towards Mr. Monochrome. “Him. Look at him.”

  I felt my jaw tighten, even as Jon gave Cass an incredulous look. Then both of us turned, following her gaze to the man with the coal-black hair.

  I knew Cass was right, in a way.

  Mr. Mono had little in common with my usual breed of stalker. He didn’t stare at me nervously, clutching flowers or bad poetry that rhymed. He didn’t talk to himself. I’d never seen him wear crosses or pentagrams or so much as a Buddha T-shirt. He didn’t look particularly unstable to me, either...or even like he wanted anything from me. Most of the kooks I came across seemed to be looking for something. A savior, maybe.

  This guy didn’t seem to need or want anything like that, though. Not from me, not from anyone. In fact, he seemed to have all kinds of purpose already.

  He practically breathed purpose.

  In fact, if I didn’t know better, I would think he was on the clock right then. Although, in looking at him, he appeared to be sitting alone in a dingy diner, staring at his own hands splayed on the scratched formica. Still, he must want something from me. No way he could be all right, if he got his kicks following people around.

  Unless someone hired him to follow me around.

  The idea made me pause.

  Still, it felt closer to the truth. The longer I thought about it, the more true it felt. He was a PI maybe. Maybe even a cop. Had I done anything that would warrant a cop following me, though? Even with recent freakout in the bar and the GPS, I figured I was pretty much a nonentity in their eyes. First time offender, no previous history of drugs or violence. I was pretty sure my public defense lawyer convinced them of the “temporary insanity” thing,
even if it didn’t get me off the hook with community service or my suspended sentence.

  I still found Mr. Mono’s ethnicity impossible to pinpoint, too. His mouth broke an angular face in a narrow line below a thick nose and those lamp-like eyes. He touched the formica tabletop with long-fingered hands, staring down at his own digits with the same almond-shaped eyes, the same eerily pale irises. I could gauge no emotion there, or even a precise color for the irises themselves.

  His face remained endlessly flat, his body inconspicuous in its stillness.

  While we watched, he picked up his glass of milk.

  Inserting a finger into the contents, he withdrew it carefully, sniffing the end of his own digit. Frowning, he wiped it clean with a paper napkin.

  Jon stifled a laugh.

  I fought not to do the same, raising an eyebrow at Cass and cocking my head with mock inquisitiveness.

  “Yeah, okay.” Cass shrugged. “But I like his hands.”

  “You said that about Jack, Cass,” I reminded her.

  “Yeah, well I was right, wasn’t I?”

  I didn’t touch that one. I squinted at the black-haired man. “He’s like a walking corpse,” I said a second later. “...Minus the goth. He probably lives in his parent’s basement. I get Asperger’s syndrome, listens to bad cowboy music.”

  Cass gestured with her slim fingers, tugging at a silver chain around her neck. “He looks like there’s more to him than that, Al.”

  “Again. You said that about Jack, Cass.”

  “And I was right, wasn’t I?”

  I grimaced, glancing back across the room.

  The black-haired stranger rose to his feet.

  I watched him reach into a back pocket and extract a money clip. Like he had the day before, and the day before that, I knew he’d leave actual paper money, and well in excess of what he owed. He wore a single piece of jewelry, I noticed, a silver ring on his smallest finger.

  “He’s leaving,” Cass said.