Grit & Shadows Boxed Set: Urban Fantasy and Horror Collection: Volumes 1 - 3

by J. D. Brink

  I give the revolver a reassuring squeeze.

  The hall is dark. Purple light shines from a far room, the source of the sex noise. I creep down with my gun at the ready, then spin into the doorway.

  My sights level on Gene: plump, naked, and tied to the four posts of his king-sized canopy bed. Lying comfortably next to him is...

  Persephone?

  His naked companion sits up, hair short and purple and matted together in sticky ropes. Her skin is dark and mottled, a moody blue in this light.

  She sees me and throws herself across Gene’s vulnerable body. “No!” she croaks. “No, he’s mine!”

  There’s no one else in the room. Just a big automated wardrobe and an oversized padded chair. The purple light shines from a long thin lamp on the wall.

  I dial it up to white.

  The girl is still blue.

  This isn’t Persephone. This one looks... underdeveloped, incomplete. Her skin has an artificial sheen to it, like stretched rubber, colored in varying shades of indigo. Her areola and nipples are blotchy and oversized. Eyes are mostly white, the irises colorless. One ear is visible through the thick purple strands of what would become hair, though it’s little more than an irregular bump on the side of her head.

  She holds up one hand, warding me off, fingers webbed.

  “Harry!” Gene screams. “Harry, thank God! Get me out of here.”

  This isn’t his kinky fantasy come true.

  Gene’s a prisoner. He’s strapped down naked, his little cock worked raw.

  “He’s mine,” the girl declares, voice gurgling. “I love him. I need him.”

  I relax, give a grin.

  “What happened, lover boy? In too big a hurry to replace your tainted goods? Looks like maybe you tweaked this one a bit too much, popped her out of the oven a little too soon.”

  “Harry, please!”

  “Why’d you do it, Gene? Why’d you send that thug after me? Was it because I was going to turn you in to Libra or was it because of Persephone?”

  “Harry, you’re my friend, I would never—”

  “Cut the bullshit.”

  He cries out, voice dry and scratchy. “She was mine, you son of a bitch! I made her for me! And you took her. Ain’t seen me in ten years and you come right in and take my girl. Again! I hate you, Harry Celeste, hate you!”

  “Where’s Persephone?” I move closer, so he can see my gun.

  The girl crouches over him on all fours, like a mother leopard.

  “You get me out of here,” he says, “and I’ll tell you.”

  “Tell me first.”

  “I locked her in the kitchen. Yesterday morning.”

  The sealed door.

  I use the same key code and it opens.

  The room is dark, lit only by the flickering bulb in the open refrigerator. The shelves of the fridge have been torn out, food spilled out across the floor. Among the shadows I see a table, some stools, counter tops.

  No girl.

  Then something moves in one dark corner.

  “Harry?”

  I hear Persephone slide against the wall, getting to her feet. She stumbles into the light and falls into my arms, still in the vest and skirt from last week. An empty jar of baby food slips from her hand.

  “Eating in the Underworld again?” I whisper, though she managed to change the menu.

  Maybe I’ll buy her dinner this time, somewhere sunny.

  I kiss her cheek. She smells good, like a woman.

  “We’re leaving,” I tell her.

  Gene is bellowing from the bedroom. “Harry, get me out of here! I’m sorry. We’re friends, for God’s sake. After all these years, you’re still my friend!”

  “When the board asks who’s been stealing their money,” I call back, “I’ll tell them where they can find you.”

  We seal the door behind us, locking Gene in his sound-proof paradise.

  Persephone leans on me down the hall.

  In the elevator, I hold her.

  Part Two

  Mime

  Mime

  It was just past midnight and there was a mime trapped in an invisible box behind Donatello’s.

  Pauli had just been commenting to Mouse how there had been a dumpster there a few years ago, back when this was a regular drop. But the dumpster was gone now, relocated because the police had found too many bad things in it, which was why Don’s had been off the drop list for so long. The place was cold now, safe.

  Except for the goofy painted street rat feeling out some ghostly prison where the dumpster used to be.

  The mime smiled at Mouse and Pauli as they came out the back door. His face was white and his hair such a pale blond it looked like bleached bone, all contrasted by a red scarf and black leotard. He stood under the alleyway street lamp like it was a spotlight, waving now with one hand and propped against the air with the other.

  The two men shared a look. “You think he saw anything?” the smaller man, Mouse, asked his friend.

  “Saw what?” Pauli said, approaching the clown. “We’re just two dish washers closing up late. Ain’t that right, Smiley? You didn’t see nothing, did you?”

  The mime jerked his head back and forth like a cartoon character.

  Both thugs laughed, though the humor died quickly as they crowded into the dim spotlight. All three stood within the ring, very close, very quiet.

  Pauli folded his thick arms and glared.

  Mouse smoked his cigarette, the red glow reflected in his steady eyes.

  The mime just smiled lazily.

  Mouse finally flicked the smoldering butt into the clown’s chest. “What the hell you doing here this late?” he demanded.

  The mime made a pillow of his white-gloved hands and laid his head there, asleep for a moment. Then his eyes popped open; even his eyes were almost white, so light was the grey of his irises. He straightened his neck and shook his head, as if disappointed.

  “Couldn’t sleep, eh?” Pauli slapped Mouse’s shoulder with the back of his hand. “Hey, what do you know, I speak mime!”

  Mouse looked the alley up and down but it was dark and empty, save their own silver Cadillac. “What’d you do, walk here? Ain’t no houses ‘round here, no buses running this late.”

  The mime made like he was running in place, stumbled and recovered, then shook his fist back at whatever invisible obstacle he’d just tripped over.

  Pauli cracked up. “Oh, I think I like this guy.”

  “Yeah? Well I don’t.” Mouse groped him, feeling around his skintight clothes, pinching the soft red fabric at his neck.

  Pauli became serious. “You ain’t wearing a wire on us now, are you, friend?”

  The white face also became serious and moved in the negative. He drew an X over his heart and held up one hand.

  “You know what would happen if you were?” Mouse asked.

  One finger cut the air across his red scarf.

  “That’s right,” Pauli said. Then he back-slapped Mouse’s arm again. “Hey, you know who this guy reminds me of? Remember Lexi? Sexy Lexi? Thought he was a funny man.”

  Mouse rolled his eyes. “Yeah, he thought he was fucking funny. Don’t miss that guy.”

  The mime thumbed at himself and shook his head, as if to say, Me neither. His face drew into deep frown, fingers fluttering down like tears from his eyes. He tugged at his legs, which were now fast to the ground. Then he started swaying, hands flat and rising to show the water level. The silent crying became mute pleas for mercy, until his fingers brushed his mouth and he blew up like a blowfish to keep from drowning. But he could only hold his breath so long. His grey-white eyes roamed to and fro, mouth finally popped, and he silently gasped in a death swallow of ethereal water.

  Then he took a bow.

  The two thugs shared a look.

  “Yeah, that’s right,” Pauli said suspiciously. “Lexi’s swimming with the fishes.”

  “Hey, Pauli, while we’re strolling down memory lane, you remember
Tanner?” Mouse glanced around, then nodded upward at a nearby fire escape. “Might be a good night for remembering Tanner, eh?”

  “Yeah, might not be a bad idea.”

  The mime held the tail of his scarf aloft and dropped his head, hanging dead, just like Tanner.

  The next instant he was smiling casually again, pointing at himself and shaking his head: You don’t want to hang me like that.

  “You’re pretty fucking smart for a homeless circus freak,” Mouse growled.

  “Think he’s a cop?”

  “Nah. This ain’t no cop style. Maybe some wiseass, thinks he’s got money coming. That it? You keep up the silent treatment if you get paid, is that what you think?”

  The mime rolled his eyes at such a ridiculous idea.

  Pauli leaned in close. “No, wait. You know who this guy really reminds me of? Whitey Brown.” He gave the obligatory chuckle at the name. “Remember that albino fuck? Looks a lot like him.”

  “Except Brown’s dead.”

  “Yeah,” Pauli said, not quite sure.

  The mime nodded in agreement and drew another invisible line across his throat.

  The thugs’ eyes met and decided on action.

  Mouse seized their victim, twisted his arms to the rear and kicked the back of one knee. The mime dropped into a kneeling position.

  Pauli pulled a switchblade.

  “Fun’s over, Smiley. You should know, I fucking hate mimes.” He popped the knife and let the lamp light play on its edge. “Hey, Mouse, you know the best thing about killing a mime? No one hears him scream.”

  Pauli gave a humorless laugh and jerked the red scarf out of the way.

  Beneath it, a fine bloodless slit gaped in the mime’s throat.

  The clown’s eyes burned with new fire and a smile flashed on his face as a straight razor flashed in his hand.

  No one heard Pauli or Mouse scream.

  Part Three

  Lonely

  Lonely

  Dead of night, kicked out of the bar when the lights came up. Paul moves quickly to the sidewalk, a bouncer right behind him. But he’s not running from the big guy in the “STAFF” t-shirt, he’s trying to catch those last few girls...

  Damn.

  Two of them scurry down the street together double-quick, giggling loudly. Maybe they saw him coming. The last girl, the blonde he’d watched come back for beer after beer—his last chance—is climbing into another guy’s car.

  The pink neon glow above the door goes dark.

  Nothing left to do but go home, he tells himself.

  But I don’t want to, he answers. At least not alone.

  Paul’s car is one of two left in the lot down the street. The other one has flattening tires, doesn’t look like it’s moved in weeks. His VW bug starts up like it’d rather take a few weeks off, too. The trip across the country was hard on it.

  Paul’s rattling car slows down at a light, red and green cast down the empty streets. There’s no sign of life, no traffic. He glides through the red.

  Be careful, he tells himself afterward. I’m too drunk to get pulled over for something stupid.

  A figure flashes by on the sidewalk, didn’t notice her till it was too late. At least he thinks it was a her; that peripheral glimpse of white seemed feminine.

  Paul finds his foot on the brake, his car turning around in the nearest parking lot, a field of black devoid of any other cars.

  Am I really doing this? he thinks.

  Better than another empty night alone.

  There’s a girl meandering around an alleyway: thin, blonde hair, white sun dress. He hugs the curb in the wrong lane and rolls down the passenger side window.

  “Aren’t you cold?” he calls out nervously.

  She’s dancing all by herself, does a spin that flares her short dress out, then stumbles around to look at him.

  She must be drunker than I am, he thinks.

  The girl catwalks to the car and leans down, letting the view of her small breasts hanging inside the dress linger a second before bringing her face down into the widow.

  She’s cute, short curly hair, dark eyes that shine in the dashboard light. Her lips are full, black lipstick smeared at the corners.

  “Hi,” she says.

  “Hi.”

  “What did you ask me?”

  Paul clears his throat. “Um, I asked if you were cold.”

  “Always,” she says, smiling. “But it feels warm in here.” She reaches in, puts her palm against the heating vent. Her skin is pale, nails are black.

  “Come on in,” he says, voice trembling just a bit.

  “Okay.” She unlocks the door through the window and slides into the seat, all the warmth inside rushing out.

  “Colder out there than I thought. I’m Paul.”

  “I’m yours,” she says quietly, then looks away.

  Paul isn’t sure if he heard that right but takes his foot off the brake. The car starts rolling again.

  He clears his throat and turns up the heat. They cross a block in uncomfortable silence.

  “Where we going, Paul?”

  “Well, not many places to go. All the bars are closed now.”

  He steals a glance at her, looks her up and down. Despite being almost starvation-thin, she has chubby sort of cheeks and her skin is almost as white as her dress. She and it look like maybe they could use a bath, but she smells of something sweet.

  “Lilacs.” The word just tumbles out of his mouth.

  She looks at him, puzzled.

  “You smell sweet, like lilacs, and the white ones are the sweetest kind. Which is funny, you know, ‘cause you’re kind of all—”

  She smiles at him, dark eyes glittering as they pass under a street light.

  All white except for the eyes, and lips, and nails... Her eyes have almost no whites to them at all.

  “Sorry,” he says, turning back to the road just in time for a stop sign. “My mom’s a florist. I’m not like, way into flowers or anything, I’m just... A little drunk.”

  “Me too,” she says, reaching over and squeezing his hand. Her touch is like ice. “If there’s no where else to go, why not just go to your place?”

  “Um, sure, we could do that,” Paul says. “It’d certainly be warmer.”

  But she’s too eager, he tells himself. I’m not this lucky. She’d probably steal everything I own.

  His minds counters immediately: Everything’s still packed up. What’s she going to do, carry heavy boxes down the street?

  “It’s just down the street here. I guess I’ve been going that direction the whole time.” He flashes her a nervous smile. “I just moved here, you know.”

  “From where?” She crosses her legs and plants an elbow on the armrest.

  His hand checks the dial on the heater, assures him that it’s turned up all the way.

  “Iowa.”

  “Iowa?” she laughs. “I’ve never been there. Never been out of the city. Is it pretty?”

  He looks at those chubby cheeks, those thick smudged lips, yellow curls hanging like overgrown vines, those glittering darks eyes. “Not as pretty as you.”

  Idiot! yells the voice in his head. If you weren’t so drunk you wouldn’t have said something so stupid!

  She laughs, her voice like children at play.

  “Thank you. That’s definitely an Iowa thing to say, but sweet.” She leans over, her pursed lips touch his cheek and he almost misses the turn.

  The automated gate opens slowly then grinds closed behind them.

  Around the back and up a flight of stairs is his front door. He fumbles with the keys.

  “Wait,” she says, taking his elbow and gently spinning him into a kiss. Their lips hold lightly for several seconds. When they part, her breath comes out like fog.

  “Thank you,” she whispers. “I’ve been so lonely.”

  Paul swallows. “Me too.”

  Inside is his small, dark apartment.

  He reaches for the light switch bu
t she places a hand over his. “No, I like it this way.”

  She dances into the living room as he tosses his jacket on the closet floor. The glow of night lights through the windows is enough to see by.

  “Two empty bookshelves,” she says, “a TV, and about a dozen cardboard boxes. At least you have a chair.” She slides behind the big recliner, embraces it, then scratches her fingernails across the upholstery in a slow, seductive withdrawal. “I guess we could share it.”

  “Or,” Paul says, “we could share the bed.”

  “Oh,” she chirps, “there’s a bed, too?” She takes his hand and lets him guide her into the bedroom.

  The room’s bare except for a mattress and box spring, dressed with sheets and a heavy quilt.

  She pushes him down on it, straddles his legs, and pulls the white sun dress over her head. Underneath is nothing but her pale and imperfect skin: scratches on her shoulder and belly, a scar under her left breast. Her stomach is flat, a small divot for a navel; hips narrow, their bony crests visible. A thin stripe of blonde hair rises from between her legs.

  His hands sweep over and cup her breasts, kneading them as he kisses the cool skin below her sternum, then wraps his arms around her and tongues her nipples.

  Their mouths lock together. Her tongue is like a scorpion tail, lashing in and out, striking and retreating.

  She strips off his clothes, never away from his face for more than a few seconds, sucking his mouth and the very breath from him, then she’s licking his ear, kissing his neck.

  He shivers.

  She slides into his lap, her knees up on the mattress, and he slides inside her. Her body seems to get colder and colder as they go, but now it’s stimulating, like a dive into an icy pool. They fuck there on the edge of the bed in their carnal rhythm, both loud, moaning, panting...

  Paul opens his eyes, his body curled up on the edge of the mattress.

  On the beige carpet is the red glow of the alarm clock: 5:23.

  How long has he been asleep? Is she still here or has she slipped out and taken all his valuables with her?