Ruby Callaway: The Complete Collection

by D. N. Erikson

  Martin’s rounds were impressive. I understood what he meant by stand back, though.

  Staring at the handiwork, I sighed. Now the real work began. I returned to my bag of supplies hidden around the corner, taking out a folding shovel and a cluster of C4. Then I headed to the exposed door of the Realm Rift.

  Glancing at the expired vampire, I said, “You got further than most, bud.”

  I armed the C4 and started the countdown timer before tossing it into the hole. Then I threw the wooden hatch shut and hastily shoveled dirt on the entrance. After giving it one last pat, I took a step back and stared at the tiny mound.

  Wiping the dirty sweat from my brow, I reflected on the last three years of work. Everything had come full circle. More than thirty years ago, I’d taken Harcourt Leblanc through this very Rift, buried in the sub-vault of the Golden Tiger. And now, three decades on, his path of chaos had charted a circuitous route back here.

  Not that I gave him any credit.

  Fuck that guy.

  I threw the shovel on the pile and stared. Then, heart skipping a beat, I placed the shotgun on the dirt pile. To the starry night, I whispered, “I’m no longer a hunter. I’m something more.”

  That would be the gun’s epitaph.

  I strode away from the final remaining Realm Rift, not looking back as a gigantic fireball erupted in the neon-bathed night. My job was complete. The final link between the worlds was severed.

  Well, unofficial link. The standard channels remained open—but as part of legislation passed soon after MagiTekk’s fall, they were monitored, like the borders between countries. Someone couldn’t dance through the entrance to the Fae Plains without proper identification

  The law had made no mention of the Realm Rifts or other weak spots, like the one Odessa had ripped through the Tributary. So I had taken it upon my shoulders to close them, one by one. Wandering the globe, evading the local authorities and supernatural hoodlums as I did my thankless work.

  Pearl had been wrong. My journey hadn’t ended at the source.

  That was merely where my true purpose had been born.

  I brushed dirt from my hands as I walked up the Strip, taking in a world of infinite possibility. This chapter in Earth’s existence was finally over—a lengthy chapter that could now be relegated to the history books.

  The wisps danced in the air, cutting a path through the brilliant neon glow. I peered at them, the swirl of colors charting a strong path with no set end. Curious, I wound my way through the city, listening to the chime of slots and the merry drunkenness of tourists seeking to escape their lives. My intuition led me to a clothing shop, still open at this hour. A holoscreen played on the window, bearing news of a fiery explosion. The ticker suggested it was the most recent in a long spate of suspected arsons that spanned the globe.

  “You’ll never get things right, will you?” I rolled my eyes as the talking head vehemently condemned my “dangerous and irresponsible” actions.

  If only he knew.

  I pulled the door open, stepping inside the pristine shop.

  A short man hurried to greet me, looking surprised to have a customer so late. He pushed his thick-framed spectacles up his nose and cleared his throat.

  “Miss, we’re closing.”

  “I’m just browsing,” I said, following my intuition toward the back rack.

  “Really, I have to lock the register, you see, and—”

  “How much for this?” I looked at the dress, dumbfounded. The wisps danced around it furiously.

  “That? It’s not on sale.”

  “On sale?” I glanced at my dirty jeans and shirt and smiled, realizing he was an asshole. “I came right from work.”

  “And what work would that be? Dumpster diving?”

  “It can be shoving my boot straight up your ass.”

  “Fine.” The small man gave an elitist sigh and shuffled over. He took the dress off the rack, holding it up for me.

  A dead ringer for the little black dress I’d picked out three years ago. Waited and waited for Roark in, as he’d run off to uncover the truth about his brother’s death. Fate was whispering in my ear, urging to give him a call.

  “It’s five-ninety-nine,” the clerk finally said. “You want it?”

  He snapped his fingers and let out an annoyed huff when I didn’t answer. I glanced at him, then at the black dress. Something felt off. It wasn’t really me.

  “Not my style, right?”

  “Maybe you should try a less expensive place.”

  I reached into my back pocket and pulled out a small pouch of gold coins. No one said that closing Realms had to be devoid of profit. I’d acquired them from a group of marauders in an eventful trip to the Plainsof Eternal Woe.

  I wouldn’t suggest visiting. The name was fairly accurate.

  They’d wanted to keep the Realm Rift open.

  I’d disagreed.

  Their loss.

  The clerk’s eyes almost bulged beyond the glasses. “I’m, uh—I apologize miss. Clearly, your appearance is not reflective of your—”

  “It’s accurate enough.” I wasn’t the ball gown type. Those sessions in the forest had long become part of the fabric of my soul. Imprinted upon my bones, as Aiko had put it.

  I walked past the rack, ignoring the wisps. At the end, tucked in a corner all alone, was a snug red dress.

  I handed it to the salesman. “This is me.”

  The clerk blinked, his gaze shifting between me and the dress. “It is.”

  He wasn’t lying. Ruby was adventurous. Bold. Making a statement. Never afraid of standing out.

  I’d decided all that long ago.

  And now, today, I was adding one final piece to the story.

  She believed in second chances.

  And new beginnings.

  The gentle fragrance hovered in the bedroom’s crisp air, lingering lazily on the sheets. It mingled with the familiar aftershave, fighting for aromatic dominance. Eden Marshall’s new perfume line wasn’t bad. A girl could certainly do worse.

  The apartment was modern and elegant, but nothing ostentatious. Those days of corporate extravagance were long over. The biggest luxury was a piece of art salvaged from Malcolm Roark’s collection. The Fall of Icarus, if I was correct.

  I wondered if it was the real thing or merely a good forgery.

  But I think it served its purpose either way: a gentle reminder to be mindful of arrogance.

  The wisps hovered excitedly by the bedroom’s entrance as the electronic key buzzed in the front door. Footsteps tapped on the hardwood before stopping sharply. A pistol cocked. Then two fierce blue eyes peeked into the bedroom, accompanied by the gun’s barrel.

  The fierce gaze melted into an expression of stunned surprise.

  “A little dramatic, don’t you think?” I gave the eyes a wide smile.

  “You—you broke in,” Roark said, stating the obvious as he walked inside, taking me in.

  “Is that a problem?”

  Roark’s handsome jaw was twisted in confusion. “I’m just—I don’t know.”

  “I think the correct words are, you look amazing, Ruby.” I held the smile. “And wow, it’s fucking incredible to see you after three years.”

  I bit my lip, wondering if that was too bold.

  But Roark grinned.

  “That doesn’t even begin to cover it.” Roark sat down next to me on the bed. He no longer wore the short-sleeved polo in honor of his brother, trading it in for a well-fitted dress shirt and tie. “So, red, huh?”

  “You like it?” I turned toward him, pursing my lips suggestively.

  “I love it.”

  “Then you better get me out of this thing, because it’s uncomfortable as hell.”

  And I’d waited a long time.

  Roark reached over and brushed his hand through my hair, letting his firm, strong fingers trace slowly down my neck to the zipper. He paused and winked, then pulled gently, the red dress falling off my shoulders.

/>   Everything disappeared around us. The past, the present, the future.

  Who we were or what we might become.

  None of it mattered.

  Because, in this moment, our journeys were finally complete.

  THE END

  Bone Realm (1812)

  A Ruby Callaway Novella

  1

  Philadelphia, 1812

  The dark-haired man and his dog entered my father’s print shop covered in blood from head-to-toe. A long, jagged cut ran along the man’s torso, reaching his sternum—fresh, from the way it bled. The dog barked twice to get my attention, its black-and-white markings dappled with shades of carmine.

  “Hello? Welcome to Liberty Printworks.” I glanced between the dog and his master, a tall, lean saber of a man. A realization stirred, deep within the recesses of my mind, that this night would be different than the others.

  “Is the apothecary in?” The words were quiet, weary, the man’s lips barely moving.

  I ran my fingers through my hair and tried to respond. But what does one say in this situation? My work was meant to be secretive. I kept my mouth shut tightly, hardly able to breathe.

  The wounded man cleared his throat, his eyes flashing a faint shade of amber. I swallowed hard, my mouth going dry. He held my gaze, the wild eyes glinting in the dwindling candlelight. Even as I looked away, the expression haunted me. I shivered and stared at the coins glimmering inside the shop’s cash box, trying to steel my nerve.

  The floorboards creaked beneath the weight of his approaching footsteps.

  “I think you have the wrong address,” I finally said in a voice much smaller than I’d have liked. My throat felt scratchy. Father would have laughed until tears sprung at the corner of his deep blue eyes had he seen me at a loss for words. Or at what I said next, which was, “Although we do offer discounts on bulk printing.”

  The man lurched forward, slumping across the counter. His eyelids fluttered twice, then shut.

  “We don’t need anything printed.”

  With a furrowed brow, I glanced at the door, wondering if another customer had entered. That wouldn’t do. Father had been very explicit about maintaining separation between our two clienteles. More critical than between the Constitution’s church and state.

  But the door stood still, its tiny glass panes reflecting the dim light.

  “Our rates are competitive.” I almost bit my tongue as the words came out. Somehow, when my father had explained an apothecary’s duty—on his death bed, in rasping words—it had seemed altogether unreal.

  But the wound this man bore came from no blade or musket. An animal’s claws had torn deeply through his skin with deliberate force.

  “You can have all the gold you want.” The voice bore the hint of a growl. I shivered again. “Just tell Mr. Callaway we require his services immediately.”

  “And whom am I currently addressing?”

  The voice assumed an aristocratic air. “Argos.”

  “Like the dog from Homer’s—”

  “My friend is dying,” Argos replied, a snippiness in his voice. I leaned out over the counter to find the dog’s brown eyes staring intently up at me. “We can discuss Odysseus later.”

  His plumy tail offered a stiff, perfunctory wag. I had known it was the dog speaking, but seeing it occur was another matter entirely. One could never accuse me of being religious, but I did believe in certain things. A few I held as fundamental tenets of reality.

  Including that dogs, under no circumstances, formed words.

  The room spun slightly, and I had to steady myself against the counter.

  “My father passed away.” I watched the dog’s sharp snout droop a little. “But this is the apothecary.”

  The admission finally came out. Part of me expected the walls to shake. But to my minor disappointment, the room remained quiet, with Argos unaffected by the stunning revelation.

  “And you are?”

  “The new owner,” I said, clearing my throat. “Rebecca Callaway.”

  “Well, Rebecca.” I saw his lips turn up in what looked like a smile. “My half-demon friend here needs a…”

  There were words said. Many more, in fact, regarding the nature of the wound and the excursion the pair had been undertaking when misfortune befell them. Others, too, explaining the referral and how the Callaway name had come up.

  But, really, none of that was of any concern after hearing one little word.

  Demon.

  For some reason—after Argos’ long snout closed, and he looked up at me expectantly, a slightly doleful look on his face—I said in a surprisingly loud voice, “If you’d step around the counter, I think I can help your friend.”

  As the dog leapt up on the unconscious demon’s back, I recalled some of Father’s most important words.

  “No vampires or werewolves, Rebecca,” he’d said, a stern look in his eye, resolute even though the rest of his face looked like discarded paper ready for pulping. “Unless you require the money. Creatures of darkness pay well, at the very least. Except for one species which you must always avoid. Without exception.”

  Demons.

  2

  After locking the print shop for the night, I instructed Argos to lie down on my cot in the back room. His nervous pacing and incessant questions were driving me mad. I could deal with the low whine and sad, hopeful expression I caught every time I hurried between the apothecary’s table and Father’s supplies.

  I could not, however, deal with a high-strung border collie’s constant interruptions. Especially as I struggled to remember the blur of information I’d been studying over the past six months.

  The back room was a mislabeled jumble. In his final years, Father’s eyesight had been poor, his fingers wracked with pain. All but the simplest cases had been turned away. He’d explained this to warn that business might be slow—or nonexistent.

  He’d been right. The demon was the first creature to enter my doors seeking help. I would have been better off shuttering the enterprise entirely, focusing on Liberty Printworks. But the apothecary business was a family tradition. More than that, really—a charge, a duty, to heal those creatures unable to find help through more traditional means.

  The man on the table groaned and writhed. He’d muttered incoherently as I’d dragged him over the counter, his weight unwieldy. My forearms still quivered from the strain. It was true, however, what I’d read: in times of great adversity, the body marshals a hidden strength beyond its apparent abilities.

  I hoped—silently—that the same would prove true about knowledge. I’d only begun the most rudimentary of studies into the healer’s craft. Hardly what one would consider field ready.

  But the field had come in search of me early.

  I dropped a pair of scissors against the drawer, and Argos let out a sharp bark.

  “You’ll both die if you keep it up,” I said.

  “I don’t understand.”

  “Because I’m not going to be able to save your friend if you keep whining.” My hands shook as I reached over to pick up the fallen tool. “And after that, I’m going to stab you from insanity.”

  Really, I had no grounds on which to be so bold. Father had warned me about the powers of essence. Perhaps this dog contained a ferocious power belied by his slight stature. Instead of a reaction from Argos, however, I heard a sputtering laugh come from the table.

  The demon had stirred.

  “He’s harmless,” the man groaned. “Total coward.”

  “I brought you here, Kal,” Argos said somewhat indignantly, forgetting his anxiety after being insulted. “And this mortal can’t treat me like this.”

  “Since when did you look down on mortals?”

  “I’m just saying,” the dog muttered, letting out a sigh.

  Scissors in hand, I approached the table with trepidation. The demon’s half-open eyes stared at me lazily. His chest quivered, blood dripping from the deep gash. It looked as if his enemy had tried to rip his
heart out.

  “Kal?”

  “Kalos,” he said. “Kalos Aeon.”

  “That’s an interesting name,” I said, still grappling with the truth. I was talking to a demon. A demon! The word echoed in my head over and over, dancing in front of burning flames.

  “I’ll take your word for it, Rebecca.” He coughed, blood dribbling down his chin. I wanted to ask how he heard my name when he was asleep, but I understood from the reading that most supernatural creatures possessed senses far more acute than humans’.

  Or, as they seemed to call us, mortals.

  “You were attacked by a werewolf.” My hand hovered over the ribbons of red flesh crisscrossing his chest.

  A faint smile creased his lips. “Careful.”

  My ribs seemed to crush together. “Why?”

  “You might burn forever in a hail of fire for helping me.” One of his eyes opened fully, scanning my face for a reaction. Then—and I couldn’t be sure, given his state—he winked and fell unconscious.

  In brash defiance, I pressed my fingers along the wound’s ridges. To my minor surprise, the print shop did not suddenly self-immolate. His skin twitched, but he didn’t stir again. I had thought the gash was solely a result of claws, but a closer inspection revealed punctures.

  A bite complicated matters.

  “Can you help him?” Argos asked, voice somber.

  “You mentioned something about gold earlier?” It seemed crass with the man dying, but I was breaking most of Father’s rules. Tossing them all to the wind seemed imprudent. Supernatural creatures—especially those of the night—had a reputation for skipping out on their tabs.

  I threw my shoulders back into what I hoped was a confident pose and turned toward the dog. He glared at me through narrowed eyes, his snout closed.

  Finally he said, “Right jacket pocket.”

  I worked my hand into the demon’s leather coat. It crinkled as I dug the coins out. They, like much of the demon’s clothing, were stained with blood.

  “There’s a premium for demons,” I said, mentally counting the money. Somehow, I had expected these two to be dirt poor. But this was more money than I’d seen in a year. I took half and returned the remainder to his pocket.