Ria's Web of Lies: A Ria Miller Urban Fantasy (Ria Miller and the Monsters Book 1)

by Nigel Henry

  RIA’S WEB OF LIES

  RIA MILLER AND THE MONSTERS, BOOK ONE

  NIGEL HENRY

  Copyright 2017 © Nigel Henry. All Rights Reserved.

  No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except in the case of a reviewer, who may quote brief passages embodied in critical articles or in a review.

  This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents either are the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously, and any resemblance to actual persons, living, dead or undead, events, or locales, is strange but entirely coincidental.

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  Cover by Clarissa Yeo

  Editing by M. M. Chabot

  Created with Vellum

  CONTENTS

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Epilogue

  Did you like what you read?

  About the Author

  Also by Nigel Henry

  ONE

  MY NIGHT STARTS out on a rooftop. Whose rooftop, I’m not exactly sure. I am sure that it's your typical New York City blacktop in the middle of your typical New York City summer. Which means it's hot as balls up here.

  The couple in the apartment below me is arguing. I hear the guy say something about grinding and flirting. The woman comes back with something about never going anywhere and having a little fun. God, the things people whine about. I wonder if stupid arguments would go away if people knew monsters were real.

  They start shouting even louder and now I’m curious about what’s going on. I consider climbing down the fire escape to see if I can hear more, but we all know New York City fire escapes are held together by spit and duct tape, and the last thing I need is to get killed before I’m old enough to have my first legal drink. If they’re still arguing four years from now when I'm twenty-one, then I’ll take my chances.

  I feel like I’m about to catch a serious heat stroke, so I unzip my leather jacket and twist my hair up with a tie. Why can’t trolls decide to go on their murder sprees during the cold-weather months? Maybe even spring or fall? Anything but August, the “go screw yourself” of months.

  My father’s voice sounds from the wireless headset in my ear. “I’m in position,” he says. “Either of you see anything?”

  At that, I pick up a pair of binoculars and start scanning the area around Avenue B. I spot my dad near a green dumpster. He’s the tall, lean black dude wearing a ratty old black robe, a dirty white t-shirt, frayed shorts and beat-up brown sandals. There’s nothing beyond him, though. The street’s mostly empty. A pedestrian here and there, but nothing suspicious.

  “Negative,” I answer and sigh. This asshole better not keep us out here all night.

  “Also a negative,” my mom chimes in. She’s sitting at a café a couple blocks down, dressed like a normal person in black jeans, white sneakers, and a black t-shirt with a baseball cap over her head. She’s got on a book bag, which I know has my dad’s regular clothes along with two collapsible batons and two knives.

  Thinking about her weapons reminds me to check mine, so I feel for the slingshot and baton at my waist and the knife inside my jacket sleeve. Then I fumble with the pouch belt I’ve got slung across my chest. I tap each pouch, feeling satisfied that I haven’t lost any salt balls.

  “You sure this is the right area?” I ask as a bead of sweat rolls down my forehead.

  “Perkins was sure,” Dad says. “He’s cleared out as many of the homeless as possible, so if it’s going to show, it’s going to have to come for me.”

  The it in this scenario is a troll. Yes, a goddamn troll. They’re real. And yes, ghosts are real too, and so are werewolves. But we’re not worried about those other things right now. Tonight, we’re focused on trolls: short little assholes with stubby arms and legs, big blunt teeth and a real mean disposition. And probably rabies or something.

  Inspector Perkins, Dad’s source at the police department, says something’s been snacking on the homeless here in Alphabet City and leaving behind some pretty messed up early-morning surprises for the locals. An eyewitness told the cops they noticed something yellow. Now, being yellow and eating humans tend to be defining characteristics of trolls, so we’re here to find the bastard and kill him before he can hurt anyone else.

  Dad, as you probably guessed from his awful outfit, is playing the role of bait. He’s the hobo-sandwich that we hope will lure the troll out of hiding. Then Mom and I can swoop in and take it down. No muss, no fuss. Well, the troll will probably fuss when we stab it in its gross little heart, but we’re not exactly worried about how he feels.

  “Outkast, can you give me another sweep of the area?” Dad asks. That’s my codename for when we’re working a hunt in public. I’m Outkast, my dad’s Hendrix and my mom’s Whitney. Yes, our code names are musicians. Yes, it was my idea. If you can’t have a little fun while hunting monsters, why are you even alive?

  My real name is Ria Miller. I'm just your average seventeen-year-old black girl in New York City, except instead of crushing on boys and dealing with teachers, I fight the things that would like to eat, crush, or possess boys and teachers.

  “On it,” I tell him as I give the block a once-over. Trolls like to hang out in dark, shaded areas. In fairy tales that means under bridges. In real life that would be in sewers or alleys or…

  I spot movement in a storm drain a block east of my dad on Avenue C. I’m about to write it off as a mouse when I see stubby little fingers as they close around the drain and push it out of place. Then I see the troll’s ugly little bald head as it pokes up.

  I hold back a shudder. Trolls are nasty. They look like awful little hunchbacks and for some reason, they’re always covered in snot. And I don't mean a perma-runny nose, I mean they're literally covered in snot, from head to toe.

  “I got him,” I say. “Avenue C, coming from the northeast storm drain.”

  “Okay,” Dad says. “We’re a go. Whitney, wait for my signal. Outkast, don’t move in until Whitney does. Hendrix out.”

  No sooner does Dad finish speaking does he get up and start swearing and stumbling through the street. He passes by a couple walking toward him and they cross the street in a hurry. Then he starts the mumbling and cursing and, I’ve gotta say, he looks convincing.

  I look back over to the troll. It’s out of the sewer now and slinking toward Dad, hiding in the shadows as it goes. That’s the thing about trolls: they don’t look like it, but they can move pretty quickly and silently. They’re pretty strong too. A reasonably fit human would eventually win in a fight, but then again a normal human would be too busy wetting their pants to actually defend themselves.

>   That’s why we’re the ones doing the fighting. I don’t know if that makes us crazy or not.

  Mom’s gone from the café. She’s walking down the block, slowly making her way behind the troll. It casts one beady eye toward her as she passes but then turns its attention back to Dad. They’ve got it boxed in now, but it doesn’t know that yet. Instead, it creeps forward like a greedy little cat. You know, if cats were the size of a postal box, dirty yellow, and had a taste for human flesh.

  The last pedestrians turn the corner, and now the block is empty except for Dad, the troll, and Mom. The troll moves until it's about six feet from my father, then it tenses and pounces.

  Dad’s ready for it, whipping a can of pepper spray from his robe and shooting a jet that hits the troll square in the eyes. God, that’s gotta sting.

  The troll hits the ground and rolls, rubbing at its face and making an awful shrieking sound. It turns to run away only to meet my mother, the collapsible baton out of her bag and fully extended. She smashes the troll in the eye and I don’t have to be near the fight to see the green troll blood as it goes spraying. The grubby little beast is on the floor, pawing at its eyes as Mom cracks it over the head again.

  Finally, the troll rolls free and races down the street back toward Avenue B. That’s my cue, so I grab the climbing rope from my bag and hook one end into the emergency stairwell railing. The other end goes around my waist. I give both ends a quick tug, then collect the net from the bag. I walk over to the edge of the roof and wait, judging the height and the troll’s speed. He’s coming fast and will be below me in three… two… one…

  I jump, feeling the wind in my face and forcing my stomach to stay below my throat as I drop the net on the troll. The rope goes taught right before I splatter on the ground, yanking me by the waist and sending me careening back toward the wall of the building. I pull the ripcord at the last second and the rope breaks from me. I land on my feet and stumble slightly before regaining my balance. Not my most graceful dive, but style points only matter in the Olympics.

  The troll’s still tangled in the net in front of me, so I take the opportunity to pull my slingshot from my waistband. My free hand goes to the pouch belt around my chest. I reach in a pouch and draw a salt ball. Quickly, I slot it in, take aim and fire at the troll’s eyes.

  Now, I don’t care if you’re an inhuman monster with superior strength; getting hit in the eyes with salt is going to suck and it’s going to mess up your day. And this troll’s now having a very bad day. It starts swinging out and trying to claw at me with jagged brown fingernails. I dodge backward, but it still rakes a hand across my jacket, leaving three scratch marks across the chest. Crap, now I’m going to need a new jacket.

  My father arrives a moment later, slamming a baton across the troll’s knee and dropping it to the pavement. It starts to flail, but I wrap the net around it tightly and soon it’s just a wiggling mass of yellow hell.

  Mom’s watching from around the corner. “We’ve got people coming this way. Let’s get this over with.”

  Dad nods and places a foot on the troll's chest. He then draws a knife from under his shirt and stabs the troll directly in the chest. Its eyes bulge and it starts making this awful mewing sound as it slowly starts to change color from yellow to gray. I hate how trolls try to guilt you as they die as if they weren’t trying to eat you half a minute ago.

  Dad yanks the knife out and the troll’s mewing stops. It finishes changing color to gray and then starts to melt. This is the nasty part, the part that makes me glad I’m not the sanitation worker that’ll have to deal with this mess tomorrow. A bit of the troll’s death juices flow toward me and I take a step back to keep my Doc Martens from getting ruined.

  Dad calls back to Mom. “It’s done. Let’s go.”

  Mom nods and jogs over to us and we’re out of the area before the first Good Samaritan arrives on the scene. They’ll arrive to find the worst-smelling puddle ever, no clue to the fact that any one of them could’ve become lunch meat if not for us.

  I’M in a good mood as I settle into the backseat of my parent's Honda, stretching out as the car pulls onto the highway to take us back to Brooklyn. This was an easy night, and we haven’t had too many of those lately. We’re a good team, my parents and I. We’ve been doing this for the past five years, and we work like a well-oiled machine. But things have been hard lately, like last month, when Dad and I had a whole nightmare ordeal with a revenant and her son in Staten Island. So it’s good to get an easy win for a change.

  I take out my headset and stuff it in my pocket before pulling out my phone and starting a game of Fruit Crush. Now that the battle’s over for the night it’s time for some fun.

  “Good work out there tonight, both of you,” Dad says from the front seat. He then calls back to me. “Great roof dive, Ria.”

  “Aww shucks, Dad, you’re going to make me blush.”

  “I mean it,” he stresses. “Perkins said that troll’s responsible for about a dozen deaths in the past three weeks, and we got it down without so much as a scratch. I’m proud of you both.”

  Mom smiles and places a hand on his shoulder. “Maybe this is the start of a hot streak.”

  See, it’s easy to get distracted at times like this, to think that, despite our weird-ass night job, we’re still a regular family. Hell, we even look the part right now. My mother’s beautiful when she smiles. Technically she’s beautiful all the time, with flawless dark brown skin, big brown eyes, and a chest that makes guys stop in their tracks—trust me, I’ve seen it happen. But it’s moments like this, when she’s smiling at Dad, that her eyes really light up, really look alive.

  Dad, too. Most days he’s got big brown bags under his eyes and his lips are brown from the cigs he swore to Mom he stopped smoking. But at times like this, he stops looking like a reporter at a perpetual crime scene and more like the dad-joke-spewing machine he is.

  When they’re both clicking like this it can be easy to forget why we do what we do. But then you catch it; one of them remembers Patrick, my dead brother. And then they remember the werewolf that killed him, and suddenly Mom’s eyes dim just a bit, and Dad’s smile fades a little. Suddenly we’re back to being monster hunters; the only thing between the people of New York City and very untimely, very painful deaths.

  I turn my eyes back to my phone. I don’t need to see it happen tonight. Tonight I want that last image, of Mom smiling with her hand on Dad’s shoulder, to be burned into my memory for as long as possible.

  Mom’s phone rings. Her work phone, not her hunter phone. Although, technically, you wouldn’t hear her hunter phone if it went off since the headset is only audible to the wearer… I’m getting off topic. Anyway, she answers the phone, says a few short “yeses” and “okays” and hangs up.

  Dad glances over. “Work?”

  She nods, sighing. “Yes. Mr. Bannerman needs a contract redacted A.S.A.P.”

  “Mr. Bannerman” is the head of Bannerman Global Group, the investment firm where my mother works. She’s his executive assistant, which means she gets to be at his beck and call twenty-four-seven. Sometimes it even gets in the way of hunts.

  “Do you need me to drop you off at the office?” Dad asks.

  Mom shakes her head. “No, I can get it done from home.”

  I glance down at my watch. It’s almost midnight on a Thursday night. Whatever I end up doing in life, please let it not involve working past five o'clock. Actually, on second thought, please let it not involve hunting monsters forever. This job’s got a short shelf-life, and I’ve got a feeling that once you reach a certain point the only way out is in a box. Or in pieces at the foot of a werewolf. Same diff, really.

  Dad glances back at me. “What do you say you and I get some burgers while your mom works?”

  See, now you’re speaking my language. “Can we go back to that place downtown, the one open late?”

  “I don’t see any reason why not. We did just get the win of the week.”


  “Well, in that case, I say I’m totally down.”

  “All right, you got it,” Dad says. Then to my mother, he adds: “Want us to bring you back anything?”

  “No thanks, sweetie,” she replies. I can hear the frustration building in her voice. My mom HATES it when Bannerman needs something late at night. She says she’d leave if the money wasn’t so good. Not that I see it in my allowance. She sighs before adding: “Could you take care of that thing we talked about?”

  I can see Dad’s frown through the rearview mirror. “I thought we were going to do it together?”

  Now my ears perk up. “Do what together?”

  “Nothing, Ria,” Mom says to me. Then to Dad: “It’s not like I don’t want to be there. But I need to get this done.”

  “You know,” I say, “I’m getting a feeling that this has something to do with me, and I’m hoping it does not involve ballet. I already told you guys I’m not doing it again.”

  Dad purses his lips and I go quiet. Dad only purses his lips when he’s stressed out. Suddenly all of my enthusiasm for the evening is gone. “Fine,” he says.