Magic After Dark: A Collection of Urban Fantasy and Paranormal Romance Novels

by Margo Bond Collins

  Coming face-to-face with the man holding up a half-empty bottle of vodka and two Styrofoam cups, however, she found herself totally without a prepared response.

  “Second night in a row,” he said as he slipped past her and into her room. “Pretty good sign that you might be needing this too.”

  “You can’t just come in here like that!” she blurted after him as he plopped into the chair beside the lopsided table and worked to scooch it beside the bed.

  “Apparently I can,” he offered back without much pride, not even bothering to look up as he began to pour the first cup. “Now close the door. Don’t want flies in here, do ya?”

  Not sure what to say, she closed to the door and made her way to the other side of the bed, watching with chilled resentment as he poured the second cup. When he didn’t look up to notice her disapproving gaze, she resigned to sitting on the furthest corner of the bed. As though that was the sign that she was ready to drink, he held out one of the cups to her.

  For whatever reason, she accepted it.

  “Cheers,” he offered noncommittally before emptying his cup into his mouth in one jerking motion.

  “Yeah…” she whispered more to herself, “Cheers.”

  Serafina downed the liquor in a similar motion.

  This seemed to impress the man, who leaned forward in the chair and, letting out a raspy sigh, said, “So, nightmares, huh?”

  “Yup,” she glanced down into her empty cup.

  The man knowingly moved to pour her another.

  “You’d think they would get easier,” he muttered. “Like, sure, it’s never gonna stop…” he began to refill his cup, got impatient, and sipped the small amount he’d already poured before taking a long pull from the mouth of the bottle. “… but couldn’t they at least get easier?”

  Serafina eyed him for a moment. “How do you know my nightmares aren’t a more recent thing?” she asked.

  “They could be,” he agreed with a shrug. “But the ones who aren’t used to the nightmares typically carry on about them for a while, y’know? You can hear ‘em whimpering or pacing or whatever—squirting a fresh batch of tears—for who-knows how long after they’ve woken themselves up. You…” he shook his head and took another pull, “You hush-up the moment you’re back in the here-and-now. You suddenly remember where you are and”—he snapped his fingers—“it’s like somebody pressed the ‘MUTE’ button on you or something. That isn’t something the newbies do; that’s something I’d do.”

  “So why aren’t I hearing you screaming yourself awake?” she asked, holding out her cup for another drink.

  He moved to pour and gave a shrug with his free arm. “Can’t wake up screaming if you never go to sleep in the first place.”

  “Sounds exhausting.”

  He shrugged again, this time with both shoulders as he’d finished pouring. “What? Sleep deprivation?” he laughed. “By definition it’s exhausting. But”—another gulp from the bottle—“it’s better than the alternative.”

  As she watched him, Serafina found herself thinking that maybe he wasn’t that bad. While he was abrasive—like, really abrasive!—she couldn’t help but feel appreciative of his company and the drink he offered. It was then that she realized it was something that she’d never considered needing before.

  But need it she did.

  “So, do I get a name to go with my overly aggressive neighbor who hates cold eggs and has decided to invite himself into my room?” she asked with a teasing grin.

  “So Miss Screamy can smile,” he smirked back. Then, nodding, he topped off both their cups again. “My name’s Ixion.”

  “Ixion…?” she raised an eyebrow.

  “Blame my mother. Had a thing for mythology. Majored in it or something,” he shrugged. “I don’t know. Either way, she figured it’d be a hoot to name me after some dude who knocked up a cloud. Guess she had a sense of humor, too. That, or maybe some messed up aspirations. What about you? You got a fun name too?”

  “Not sure how fun ‘Serafina’ is,” she laughed.

  “Got a story to go with that? Or your folks just like the sound of it?”

  She shook her head. “Could be the latter, though my dad always told me that the night I was born there were more stars in the sky; brighter, too.”

  “Far be it for me to argue with yer daddy, but I’m not sure it works that way,” he said with a chuckle.

  “That’s fair,” Serafina tilted her head, “but unless you’ve managed to stuff your junk into a cloud I feel like we’re in the same boat.”

  “True enough,” he smirked. “That’s why, if I have a kid, I’m going to name them John or Jane or something like that, y’know? Keep it simple.”

  Serafina frowned, looking back into her cup and chugged what was left, letting out a deep breath.

  “Hit a sore spot?” he asked, raising an eyebrow.

  “And if you did?” she asked, resisting the urge to look up at him.

  “Then I don’t bring it up again,” he said flatly.

  She nodded at that and finally looked at him. “Then it’s a sore spot.”

  “Noted.”

  There was no pity or irony to his voice. Not even a hint of curiosity, either. Just raw understanding. He stared out the window for a moment, seeming to purge his mind of the past few seconds before saying, “This city is awful, isn’t it?”

  “It is,” she chuckled at the randomness of his words. “So why are you here then?”

  His eyes went distant as he continued to look out the window, and Serafina suddenly felt colder. His already dark-blue eyes looked black at that moment and she could see the tension growing.

  “Sore spot?” she asked.

  He looked over, seeming surprised to see her there and cleared his throat. In that instant, he suddenly looked younger—as though he was lost and about to cry.

  Then, just as quickly, it was gone.

  “Yeah. Sore spot,” he sighed, pouring himself another. “Want one?”

  “Thanks,” she said, holding out her cup.

  The two continued to drink and Serafina couldn’t help but be thankful for his company. It was the second time in only a few short hours that an unlikely companion had proven to her just how much she’d been separating herself from others. The realization that she was still capable of feeling any sort of happiness in the company of others came as a shock to her, but, more than that even, was the guilt. Did this mean that she was somehow getting over what had happened? Could she truly allow herself to stray from her mission for even a second? Looking down at the cup in her hands, she realized there was no way to justify it—any of it; the drinking, the socializing, the… attraction.

  Serafina felt her insides begin to tie into knots.

  “You going to be okay?” Ixion asked, and she realized that he was staring at her.

  That he’d chosen to word his question that way rather than to just ask if she was okay resounded within her, and she realized for possibly the hundredth time that night that she was drinking with a kindred spirit.

  “I will be, yes,” she said with a sincere smile. “Thanks. For, you know, coming over and… for being here.”

  Offering a single nod, he stood and made his way to the door, still holding the now empty bottle of vodka. Seeing how much the two of them had managed to drink in such a short time, Serafina realized that she was already drunk. This stranger had managed to get her drunk. And now, without any urging or pressure, he was about to leave. Though she was still confident that she’d be able to defend herself in her state if it should come to that, it seemed odd that he wouldn’t at least try something.

  “If you ever need company,” Ixion glanced back and held up the empty bottle as though it were the real company he spoke of, “don’t hesitate to speak up. Better that I not drink alone, anyway.”

  “I’d like that,” she admitted. “But next time I’ll bring the booze.”

  He guffawed at that and asked, “My stuff not good enough?”

/>   “Not for a second round, I’m afraid,” she giggled as she realized her speech was slurred.

  “That’s fair,” he turned, nearly falling as he did, and started out the door. “I’m’a go find a cloud to stick my junk in now.”

  The door closed behind him to the sound of his laughter.

  Smiling, she moved to check the lock—or so she told herself while eyeing Ixion from behind through the peephole—and turned to face the bed like an old lover. With her mind too clouded to worry about more nightmares or the lingering shreds of guilt—what was I feeling guilty for again?—she felt only bliss as she let herself fall on the cushioned surface.

  It was one of the best night’s sleep she’d had in a long time.

  Chapter 4

  Serafina realized she really liked Bailey. After the blonde showed up at the stroke of ten—with coffee, no less!—they’d made their way back towards the subway. Along the way, Bailey staved off any threat of silence, telling Serafina about her family, how her father had been a detective, as well, and stories about growing up in Chicago. When they slipped into one of the side tunnels and started down a vacant track, however, Bailey’s curiosity had overwhelmed any subtlety that she might have been aiming for.

  “So, what are you hoping to find down here?” Bailey asked, her voice even as she kept pace behind Serafina. “I mean, I know I’m not part of the police force anymore, but isn’t it illegal to be walking these tunnels?”

  “You getting scared on me?” Serafina asked, glancing back. “Don’t want to get caught or something?”

  “That’s not…” Bailey paused and shrugged. “You know what? You’re right! What the hell, right? Still, it’d be nice if you clued me in on what we’re doing down here.”

  Serafina nodded and paused to face her. “It’s like this: there is apparently some sort of an underground club in this area.”

  “A club?” Bailey scowled, seeming disappointed. “You’re going through all this to find a club? You know there’s plenty of those up there!” she jabbed a finger upward.

  “It’s not that kind of club,” Serafina said, turning away and beginning to navigate the nearly pitch-black length until she found an old, rusted door.

  Slipping through this, she found herself in another mess of people shuffling around in the same one-tracked manner as before, though there was an undeniable discretion that everybody seemed to be following. All around them were people standing beside booths—some thrown together with whatever they could find and others that clearly had time and money put into them—that held bootleg-this or stolen-that. Copies of movies that hadn’t even made it to theaters were displayed in hand-drawn cases beside stereos with exposed wires where they’d been ripped free from their original homes. Polaroids—some real and some fake—of nude celebrities were spread out over loose DVDs wearing Sharpie titles like “KNOCKING ON HER BACK DOOR” and “CARLEY CAME HOME DRUNK (AGAIN).” Trying her best to ignore the displays and the desperate calls from other vendors offering everything from fake IDs to the promise of some real “tasty” merchandise that they kept in the back, Serafina pushed along.

  “Jeez-us!” Bailey whistled and shook her head. “If the guys down at the station knew about this operation…”

  Serafina stopped at that and spun on her heels so quickly that her companion wound up colliding with her chest.

  “No!” she said, narrowing her eyes.

  “No?” Bailey repeated.

  “No,” Serafina confirmed. “I don’t like this any more than you do, but if you do anything—anything!—to threaten this for me then I’ll…”

  Neither of them needed her to finish that sentence.

  Bailey quirked a brow up at her. “You threatening me?”

  Realizing that she didn’t want to burn any bridges if it could be avoided, Serafina began to soften her words.

  Bailey laughed and patted her shoulder. “You’re a cool chick, Sera. Uptight as hell, but cool. And don’t worry, I won’t rain on your parade, kay?”

  With that, Bailey started on ahead and Serafina was left staring after her, stunned.

  “Well how ‘bout that,” she mused with a grin before following.

  The two spent nearly an hour aimlessly walking about the massive, underground black market, looking high and low for any hint of the club that Serafina had been told about. None of the booths and their respective vendors, however, seemed to be promising any such service. Discouraged, Serafina leaned against a support beam closer to the middle of the vast space and moved to wipe her brow with her palm.

  Bailey caught her by the wrist.

  “Don’t,” she said, pulling her away from the beam. Then, reaching into her purse, she pulled out a small bottle of hand sanitizer and, without a word, fed a liberal amount into her palms. “These places are filthy!” she explained as she gestured for Serafina to work the clear, pungent liquid into her skin. “And we’re not gonna get anywhere if you get yourself sick.”

  Serafina scoffed at that, but worked the unwanted gift into her palms all the same. “We don’t seem to be getting ourselves anywhere as it is,” she muttered.

  Frowning, Bailey turned away and let her eyes drift around the area. Though they’d already made several passes, Serafina was surprised to see that the detective’s scanning gaze seemed to be lingering on things with a new sense of purpose. Then, after nearly a minute of silence and the blonde’s eerie eye-dance, she pointed towards one of the far walls.

  “There!” she announced.

  Serafina, squinting, saw nothing but filthy tile, graffiti, and torn fliers. “There’s nothing there,” she clarified.

  Bailey rolled her eyes and moved one step away from where she’d been standing before pulling Serafina to occupy that spot. Then, planting herself behind her, she pointed again—her arm passing over Serafina’s shoulder like the barrel of a rifle—towards the same block of tiles, street art, and weathered pages.

  “Bailey, there is nothing…” Serafina stopped herself as she realized that, contrary to all appearances, there was something there.

  An arrow!

  If she looked at it just right, that was.

  The corner of that broken tile overlapped just a little too perfectly with the poorly printed flier for greyhound puppies, which, when her eye followed the green line that would have been a pubic hair sprouting from one of the testicles hanging beneath a long, arched penis that had been spray painted across the wall, formed a giant arrow that pointed her gaze to the right. Following this, she discovered another strange arrangement that, sure enough, formed a fragmented sentence—“SECOND… 2… TH-… RT”—and, looking at the second booth to the right of that, they saw a vendor like so many others. Except he wasn’t like any of the others. Though his cart was littered in various goods—fidget spinners, cell phone cases, CDs and DVDs, and a few knickknacks whose only purpose seemed to be to occupy space—he made no move to sell any of it, instead opting to stare into the glowing screen of his cell phone and occasionally look up at would-be customers to turn them away with a stern face or, in fewer cases, nod them towards the back of the cart…

  Where they’d then vanish.

  “What in the…?” Serafina squinted her eyes as she watched the third person in five minutes slip behind the cart and not reappear.

  Bailey chortled. “You think they’re all back there fu—”

  “No,” Serafina started towards the cart. “I don’t.”

  “I get that you’re, like, a ninja or whatever,” Bailey called after Serafina as they made their way down the flight of stairs that were hidden behind the cart, “but the best tactic for getting somewhere you’re not allowed to be without getting attention is, like, super rarely the ‘let me in or I’ll break your knees’-approach.”

  “I didn’t say that,” Serafina defended.

  “Might as well have,” Bailey scoffed. “And, given the speech you gave me about not threatening this for you, I think I should urge you to exercise a bit of tact when going about th
at sort of thing.”

  Serafina rolled her eyes. “You gave him eight-hundred dollars,” she pointed out. “I don’t think bribery is a tactic worth encouraging.”

  “Okay, for starters: bribery is just about the best tactic worth encouraging. And, secondly, it’s not like it was my money!”

  Serafina stopped in mid-step and glanced back at the detective. “Then whose…?”

  Bailey, grinning, gave an exaggerated shrug. “I might have been palming a few bills here-and-there while we were walking around up there.”

  Serafina laughed. “That something you learned how to do as a cop?” she asked.

  “Sort of,” Bailey said with no trace of humor. “They’re all criminals—thieves, pimps, counterfeiters, bootleggers, and whatnot—so what worry is it of mine if they’re getting robbed from? What are they going to do, take me to court?”

  “More than likely kill you, actually,” Serafina said.

  “They’re welcome to try,” Bailey said in a sing-song voice, then, pausing to gaze down into the darkness waiting for them, asked, “So what exactly do you know about this club?”

  “Only what I was told,” Serafina said with a shrug. “I guess when these tunnels were closed down, it became something of a hangout for gangs and criminals. As more and more started showing up, the nature of the ‘business’—if it can be called that—continued to change; growing into… well, that:” she thumbed back up towards the black market they’d left above them.

  “But what about the club?” Bailey pressed.

  Serafina shrugged. “Get enough of the city’s worst in one place,” she said, “and the ones who’ve made a name for themselves will find a way to put themselves over it.”

  “Or under it, in this case,” Bailey corrected.

  “Well… yes,” Serafina blushed. “Anyway, they decided to make themselves an exclusive hangout out of the old subway cars that were left down here.”