Johnny Black, Soul Chaser: The Complete Series (Johnny Black, Soul Chaser Series)

by JJ Zep

  “Now there something you don’t see everyday,” the guard said. He peaked through the open door and came back with his face the color of ash. “Right, that’s it, I’m off,” he said. “You’d be well advised to leave too Alphonse, looks like old Nick’s come for Citizen Marat.” He placed his rifle on the ground and walked away.

  “Wait for me,” Alphonse called after him. “If we hurry, we can still get a decent seat at the executions.”

  vingt-huit

  “Simone!” Marat shouted. “What is that frightful commotion out there? One is endeavoring to compose inspiring rhetoric, you know. Simone!”

  We followed the sound of the voice and found Marat in a salon to the back of the house. The room was empty except for a copper, high-backed bathtub placed at its center. The floor was tiled with a drainage-grid to one side. A wooden bucket stood next to the grid, no doubt to fill and empty the tub. There were heavy drapes on the windows, now drawn.

  In the tub itself, sat Marat, a grotesque and ill-formed man with a face scabbed and oozing from his skin disorder. He had a towel wrapped loosely around his head, a pen in his hand and a sheet of paper resting on the board that served as his writing desk. The rest of the tub had a sheet drawn over it, most likely in the name of modesty.

  “What is the meaning of this?” Marat demanded. “I’m not receiving visitors today. Guards! Guards!”

  “Cut the crap Commie,” Jitterbug growled. “You know why we’re here.”

  “Who said that?” Marat snapped and then seemed to notice Jitterbug for the first time. “How remarkable,” he said, “An imp.”

  “Yeah, an imp, you Roman runaway. An imp that’s here to haul your ass back to everlasting damnation.”

  “Thank goodness,” Marat said, “For a moment there I thought you were the Girodins, come to assassinate me.”

  “Are you hearing me, Commie? Jitterbug yelled. “I said we’re here to drag you back to hell, you nitwit!”

  “Most extraordinary,” Marat said. “I appear to be hallucinating. I really must tell Simone to cut back on the mineral salts in my bath water. An imp, of all things, what an imposition.” He started to giggle, moved on from there to a chortle and was soon laughing hysterically.

  “Oh, my god.” Marat chuckled, “the impudence of it all, an imp!” He laughed so hard that the sheet covering the bathtub were pushed aside, and as I looked into the water I saw the Jitterbug was wrong, that Jean-Paul Marat was most definitely not Commodus.

  “Jitterbug,” I said, “I think you should take a look at this.”

  “What now?” Jitterbug grumbled. “Do I have to do everything around here?”

  “Jit? Johnny? Fancy meeting you two here.”

  I looked towards the door and saw Pandora Jain in her leather soul-chasing outfit, just entering the room. By her side stood Ringo. He was wearing his familiar red soccer shirt, and on his head was perched Jitterbug’s bobbit.

  “Erm, alright then?” Ringo said.

  “My word, there’s another,” Marat giggled. “It’s an implosion of imps!” He roared with laughter.

  Next to me I heard Jitterbug begin to growl, a low and terrifying thrum that sounded not unlike a muscle car revving up.

  “Ringo,” Jitterbug rumbled, “The very imp I’ve been looking for.”

  “Alright, Jitter,” Ringo said. “Haven’t seen you since, what, Peking, 1947?”

  “Spare me the reminisces,“ Jitterbug said, “And give me back my bobbit!” The sentence was delivered with each word at a louder volume than the one before. By the time he reached ‘bobbit’ he was positively screaming.

  “An impertinent imp,” Marat said and unleashed another volley of manic laughter.

  “Give you back your bobbit, or what?” Ringo sneered.

  “Or what? I’ll show your or what, Joko!” Jitterbug yelled, he flew across the room, actually leaving the ground in the last few yards, and plowed into Ringo’s midriff.

  “Oh dear,” Pandora said as the two rolled around on the ground. “The imps seem to have got themselves into a bit of a tizz. No matter, I’ll just nab Commodus and be on my way.”

  She walked towards the drainage grid and picked up the bucket. In the background I could see Jitterbug and Ringo still trading blows and insults. Jitterbug had two fingers shoved up Ringo’s nostrils and was dragging him around like a plow ox.

  “Yeoww!” Ringo screamed.

  “I’ll give you a hard day’s night, Sergeant Pepper!” Jitterbug yelled.

  “Imperious,” Marat chuckled.

  Pandora was now approaching Marat’s tub with the bucket in hand, and he soon lost his sense of humor. “Now look,” he said. “I really must draw the line here, a woman in my bathing salon, most inappropriate. Simone! Send for the guards.”

  “I’ll save you the trouble Pandora,” I said. “Marat isn’t Commodus.”

  “Oh, I know that,” Pandora said, filling the bucket from the bathtub. “I wasn’t talking about Citizen Marat, I was talking about him.”

  She swung the bucket, drenching Claude Duval with its contents. For a split second a comical look of surprise appeared on Duval’s face, and then he collapsed to the floor like a marionette with its strings cut. In the next moment, a firefly-like spot of light seeped from the body, did a lazy circle on the wet tiles and, before either Pandora or I could react, slithered across the floor towards the drainage grid.

  vingt-neuf

  “Stop him,” Pandora screamed. She made a dash for the retreating light but on the wet surface her feet failed to gain any purchase. Her legs slipped from under her and she was thrown into the air and came crashing down onto the tiles like a hapless cartoon character.

  “Ow!” Pandora said.

  On the other side of the room Jitterbug now had Ringo by the ears and was bashing his head against the floor. “Hang in there, Ringo,” Jitterbug growled, “You’ll be seeing Lucy in the sky with diamonds any minute now.”

  Behind the two brawling imps, I could see Charlotte Corday just entering the room with the knife clutched to her breast. What she made of the scene in front of her is anyone’s guess, but she seemed not to notice, and advanced on Marat with a look of almost angelic sanctity on her face.

  “Girodin assassin!” Marat screamed. “Guards! Guards!”

  Pandora, now on her knees, made one last desperate attempt to grab Commodus and failed. The spot of light that was the soul of the one-time Roman emperor slipped through the grate and disappeared down the drain.

  “Jitterbug!” I shouted, “Wrap it up, we’ve got to move.”

  I plunged into the bathtub, almost drowning Jean-Paul Marat in the process, and out the other side. The minute I hit the floor, I felt myself leaving Jacques Le Noir’s body behind, felt myself becoming insubstantial, becoming liquid as I slithered across the slick floor towards the drain cover.

  “No!” Pandora shrieked as she realized, too late, what I was doing. I reached the grid and poured myself through the opening, and then I was falling.

  I can’t say that traversing the plumbing system of the Marat residence was a pleasant experience, but it was a swimming pool compared to the Parisian sewers. You’ll understand if I don’t relive the experience in any great detail here, but suffice to say that it was filthy, reeking and putrid. I think I may well have set a personal best for holding my breath.

  Eventually, however, the pipe emptied into the Seine and I dived deep hoping to get a sighting of Commodus. The water was cloudy and cold but I thought I could make out a dim light in the distance, and I pushed myself off after it.

  Commodus didn’t seem to be making much of an effort to get away, and I soon realized why - he was not a very strong swimmer. I, on the other hand, had been on the swim team at school, and I quickly gained on him. He saw me coming and kicked out frantically, trying to get away. There was nowhere for him to escape to, so I let him reach the shallows where he lay, half in and half out of the water, breathing heavily. I pulled myself onto the riverbank next to him
. Out of the water his body took on a tenuous, ghostly shape, with his soul-light shining like a beacon within.

  “Let me alone, pleb!” he spluttered. “I command it.”

  “Sorry Commie,” I said. “No can do.”

  “I can pay you,” he said. “Get me back to Rome and I’ll make you rich as Crassus. I’ll make you a senator, give you a province, whatever you want.”

  “Tempting though that is, you know they’ll just send out another soul chaser team to jar the both of us.”

  “Curse you then, Johnny Black, curse your soul to Hades.”

  “You and me both.” I said, as a large, green frog hopped onto a stone close to Commodus. The frog regarded us with interest that brought to mind my encounter with the hungry fish on my first day in Paris. To the frog the two of us must have looked like lunch - two fat fireflies basking in the sun on the riverbank.

  “Don’t look now, Commie,” I said, “but…” At that moment the frog flicked out a tongue and swallowed Commodus whole.

  trent

  Having just had Commodus for an entrée, the frog turned its attention to the main course - me. It blinked its large, yellow eyes, ran its tongue along its lips, and then suddenly darted it out at me. Anticipating the strike, I rolled away and threw myself into the water. I heard a splash as the critter came after me, and I dived for the protection of a small rock on the riverbed. I kicked hard, knowing all the while that I was unlikely to out swim the frog. The rock seemed a mile away and I expected to be swallowed at any moment.

  Just then there was a flash of red through the water. Jitterbug drifted past me, did a neat little turn, and came back with the frog safely sealed in the SPAA apprehension jar and an impish smile on his face. I could see why he looked so pleased with himself, his bobbit was perched proudly on his head.

  Jitterbug indicated for me to follow him but I shook my head and struck out for the riverbank instead. I pulled myself from the Seine and sat down of the bank as my impish friend emerged from the water himself.

  “Just what are you playing at?” Jitterbug said. “The job’s done. Let’s blow this joint.”

  “I’m not going back,” I said.

  “What! Have you flipped your lid, Dexter? You can’t stay here.”

  “Why not? What have I got to go back to? A century working the furnace?”

  “You don’t know that,” Jitterbug said. “Dope could put in a word. They might go easy on you.”

  “You know that’s not going to happen.”

  “Yeah, probably not,” Jitterbug admitted. “You’ll probably be chopping wood and shoveling coal until you’re 125.”

  “Thanks, Jit,” I said. “I needed that.”

  “Don’t mention it,” Jitterbug said. “Anyway, even if you wanted to stay, I couldn’t leave you here. As an SPAA Agent it’s my duty to bring you in.”

  “Thanks a bunch, bud.”

  “Ipso on the sarcasm there, Blackwell, I said if you were to stay here it would be my duty to bring you in. If, however, you were to give me the slip in the portal, the way Commie did, well, that’s a different matter altogether.

  “You’d do that for me?”

  “Yeah, whatever. You kind of helped me track down my bobbit, so I kind of owe you one.”

  “Is there a side-shaft in the Seine portal?”

  “There’s two, the left one goes to medieval Moscow during the Black Plague, the right one goes to the Wild West. Or is it the other way around?”

  “You’re not sure?”

  “No, I’m sure,” Jitterbug said, “Left to the Wild West, right to the Black Plague. I think.”

  “Precise as ever,” I said.

  “Again with the sarcasm. I’m trying to help here, you ingrate,” Jitterbug growled.

  “Yeah, I now. Thanks Jit, I really appreciate…”

  “Save the soppy crap for one of your broads, Dexter. Let’s go.”

  Jitterbug jumped into the water and I followed him to the portal. We’d barely begun our ascent when he pointed out a pair of side-shafts, one left and one right. He pointed me to the left shaft, then gave me a little wave and floated upwards clutching the jar with the frog in it.

  I looked left and right, examining each portal as though they’d give me some clue, as to which was which. One of them led to the wide-open plains of the American West, the other to the worst pandemic in human history.

  I chose left and entered the shaft praying that I’d made the right call.

  Find out more about JJ. Zep, his books and upcoming projects at http://www.jjzep.com

  Go West, Johnny Black

  (Book Four of the Johnny Black,

  Soul Chaser Series)

  by

  J.J. Zep

  PUBLISHED BY:

  JJ Zep

  Copyright © 2012

  www.jjzep.com

  one

  Bodies of water are portals, doorways that we Soul Pursuit and Apprehension agents use to travel from hell to various times and places in history. If you’ve followed along on my soul chasing missions thus far, you’ll know that I’ve ridden these portals to 1920’s Chicago, to ancient Rome and to revolutionary Paris.

  The portal I was entering now would - I hoped - take me to the old west. I say hoped because my impish assistant, Jitterbug, hadn’t seemed that sure himself. And if he was wrong then I’d end up, not in the Wild West, but instead in Moscow during the Black Plague, a prospect I was not even prepared to contemplate.

  Now, you’d be forgiven for wondering what the SPAA was doing, sending me on a mission with such imprecise intelligence. The truth is, I wasn’t on a mission this time around. No, this time, I was a fugitive myself. On the run from Mr. Abaddon - the second most powerful demon in hell - and the punishment I was likely to face for leaving Hades Correctional without the proper paperwork on my last mission.

  Serious though that charge was, I didn’t have time to worry about it now. What I needed to do was to get moving, before they sent someone after me. And, of course, they would send someone after me. Hades Correctional did not take kindly to souls going AWOL, especially those of former agents. I just hoped I was far away by the time the alarm went up.

  I cast one last, wistful glance upwards, towards the surface of the pool. For a brief moment, I considered giving myself up and surrendering to the tender mercies of the Hades Conciliatory Commission. But that moment soon passed, there would be no turning back. I pulled myself into the side-shaft.

  Unlike some of the other waterways I’ve used, this one was clear and calm. I paddled along gently for the first fifty yards, feeling almost as though I was in a trance. The passage made a gentle curve and seemed to bend back on itself. As I approached the curve I felt myself beginning to accelerate, and as I rounded the corner I was suddenly hauled forward into blackness. I felt myself falling without resistance and then came the gut-wrenching reversal and I was propelled upward and thrust into the raging, churning waters of a fast flowing river.

  I hit the surface and had a quick look at my surroundings, fearful that I might have ended up in the Moskva. But the steep red walls of a canyon and clear blue skies above belied this. Wherever I was, I was most certainly not in medieval Russia. Jitterbug had been right after all.

  It was pointless fighting the current, so I let myself go, and enjoyed the rush of the whitewater ride. I was thrown into jagged rocks, pushed under the water and dragged along the riverbed. But, of course, none of this posed any danger to me in my present state. Souls, you will remember, are liquid in water, and but for a small firefly-like speck of light, entirely invisible.

  Up ahead I could now hear the thunder of a waterfall and I allowed myself to be pushed over. One minute I was in the river, the next I was in freefall, twisting in the air and crashing into a deep pool of cool, crisp, water below. I paddled across the pool and slid between the rocks that formed a natural dam at the other end.

  The river proceeded at a much more sedate pace after that, and eventually the canyon opened up onto
a dusty plain. Based on the distinctive red rock, the sparse brush, and the flat-topped mesas in the distance, I figured I was in either Arizona or New Mexico. I wasn’t sure exactly what year this was, but as the time frame was the old west, it was likely to be some date between the mid-eighteen hundreds and the turn of the century.

  The river had now started to narrow. Before long it wasn’t much more that a stream, and as it continued on its way across the prairie, it was reduced to a mere trickle. Pretty soon, I was sure it would dry up altogether.

  Which left me with a problem. I needed to find a host, and I had a feeling that was going to prove difficult out here in the middle of nowhere, and nigh on impossible, if the river dried up completely.

  Up ahead the creek now made a bend and as it did I saw a man straddling two rocks that the water coursed between. As I passed, he crouched and dipped his canteen and I flowed through the opening and down its neck.

  two

  I was scooped up into the dark interior of the canteen and the man sealed its lid plunging me into complete darkness. Then, it seemed, the man started running, and I found myself being bounced and tossed and thrown around even more violently than I had been in the river. The sloshing of the water against the sides sounding like some giant, industrial washing machine but, after a time, the jostling stopped and I could hear a grating sound and light suddenly streamed in.

  “What kept you so long?” I heard somebody growl.

  “Crick’s almost dry,” another voice said. “I was as quick as I could be.”

  “Give it me,” the other man said.