Bone Realm

by D. N. Erikson

  Copyright © 2016 D.N. Erikson. All rights reserved.

  Published by Watchfire Press.

  This book is a work of fiction. Similarities to actual events, places, persons or other entities are coincidental.

  Watchfire Press

  www.watchfirepress.com

  www.watchfirepress.com/dn

  Cover design by Kerry Hynds

  www.hyndsstudio.com

  Bone Realm/D.N. Erikson. – 1st ed.

  Receive exclusive fantasy stories when you subscribe to the free newsletter at watchfirepress.com/dn.

  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.

  “Mr. Callaway passed away.” I watched the dog’s sharp snout droop a little. “But I’ve taken over the—the apothecary business.”

  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?”

  “His daughter,” 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 hea
rd a sputtering laugh come from the table.

  The demon had stirred.

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

  “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.

  “Half-demon,” the dog said.

  “All the same.”

  The demon’s hand shot out and gripped my wrist tightly. His eyes didn’t open. A second later, his hold slackened, and his arm thudded against the wood with a dull, lifeless sound.

  I let out a short-lived sigh of relief. With payment fully tendered, I needed to deliver. A slash or cut could be stitched like a normal wound. Bites, curses and other supernatural occurrences required special treatment.

  I walked over to the bookshelf and ran my fingers along the coarse spines of the weathered volumes.

  “Was he cut or bitten?” Just to confirm. I was new at this, after all.

  “First-timer.” The dog’s response hung in the air, half-statement, half-question.

  I licked my lips and peered closer at the volumes so that he wouldn’t see my nervousness. “What makes you say that?”

  “You just confirmed it.” There was a pause. “A healing salve will do fine.”

  I cursed softly under my breath, catching myself after a string that would’ve made my mother blush. Perhaps the demon was already working his black magic charms, corrupting me in ways I couldn’t see.

  “I can fix your friend,” I said, finally locating the book I wanted. Hopefully. “How’d he get bit?”

  “I told you all this when we came in.” A pause. “Weren’t you listening?”

  “No.” My own honesty surprised me.

  “Great. He’s bleeding out, you know.”

  I propped the dusty volume open against the shelf. The handwritten script and diagrams were still legible, if a bit faded. An entire textbook on the treatment of werewolf-related injuries. Many of the chapters were dedicated to treating various kinds of bites.

  I hadn’t read most of them. Admittedly, I had been far more engaged in a delightful manuscript I’d imported from England—a novel by an anonymous lady called Sense & Sensibility. Perks of being a print shop owner. Or at least I’d thought so at the time.

  Not so much a perk, now, staring down the barrel of a gun, since I doubted very much that this dog or his demon master would accept “pleasure reading” as an excuse for failing to adequately discharge my duty.

  The text’s medical terminology and instructions made little sense, even with my rudimentary base of knowledge. From the little I understood, bites involving the exchange of fluid were some of the hardest injuries to treat because of cross-contamination.

  I looked up from the worn pages. “I really need to understand the nature of the conflict.”

  “Kalos has something an old werewolf wants. ”

  “And how old is this wolf?”

  “Over thirteen centuries,” Argos said.

  I strained to contain my reaction. But inside, gears turned like the ironworks of the great press in the room next door. A thousand years! I couldn’t fathom living a tenth of that.

  Although it dawned on me that the dog was likely even older. I threw a surreptitious glance over my shoulder. Argos stared back intently, like he was assessing my progress.

  I returned my attention to the medical text, thumbing to the section on alpha wolves.

  “Alphas?”

  “Excuse me?” Argos said.

  “Was it an alpha werewolf?”

  “Albin is big and mean,” the dog replied. “Bigger and meaner than most.”

  “Alpha it is,” I said, making an educated guess and running with it. Not that it was a particularly helpful bit of information, as far as a novice was concerned. If treating a standard bite was a high-level operation, tending to one from an old and powerful creature was even more complex.

  Just as I contemplated hurling the book into the air and fleeing out the back door, there was a sharp knock at the front. Kalos shuddered on the table, but didn’t wake. Argos looked nervous and skittish, like he wanted to run too.

  Exuding a calmness I didn’t feel at all, I smoothed out my apron and took a deep breath.

  “I’ll get it,” I said.

  Argos didn’t answer as I walked out of the back room.

  It was difficult to see in the nighttime, but I could make out at least three men pacing outside the blurry glass. Their uniforms suggested they were members the local watch. I walked to the door, but didn’t open it.

  “I’m sorry, gentleman, but we’re closed for the evening.”

  One of them—the leader—pressed his face against one of the small panes. He was taller, with an air of confidence that made my spine tingle. “It’s a matter of neighborhood safety, ma’am. If you’d just open up, I’ll be happy to explain.”

  “I have an early day tomorrow,” I said. “You’ve woken me from bed.”

  “Do you always go to bed covered in ink, Miss Callaway?”

  I glanced at the blackened apron and flushed around the ears. “How do you know my name?”

  “If you’d just open the door.”

  “I will do no such thing without proper cause
.” His lips twisted into an almost human smile as he turned to confer with his men. Their talk lasted a moment that stretched onward like hours. The dying candle on the counter ejected puffs of smoke into the dim air.

  “Very well, Miss Callaway. But please do not be alarmed.” The man straightened to his full height and shook out his shoulders. “We’re wondering if you’ve seen this man.”

  He unfolded a piece of crisp paper and pressed it against one of the panes. The letters were smeared together, suggesting it had been printed within the last hour. I bristled slightly, annoyed that I hadn’t been contracted for the job.

  Then my heart dropped through the wooden slats when I saw the sketch on the front.

  Kalos Aeon was wanted for theft.

  Disruption of the peace.

  And attempted murder.

  3

  I paused, fears running parallel to one another, each vying for attention. This man seemed strange, but perhaps that was my paranoia. After all, his features were human. What had the dog said about the conflict? I really should have listened better. Everything was a blur, but this fellow couldn’t be more than thirty.

  “Well, Miss Callaway?”

  Squashing the last remaining doubt in my mind, I said, “You can come in.”

  I hurriedly undid the latch and peeked my head out. There were actually four of them—another man lurked off to the side, puffing a tobacco pipe with a detached nonchalance. His clothes didn’t quite fit, being at least two sizes too small. When he stood, he moved with an unnatural quickness.

  He was also apparently the true leader. The flyer-carrier melted into the background, allowing this man to assume control.

  Removing a cap to reveal a thick head of brown hair, he offered a perfunctory bow and gestured toward the counter.

  “If we could talk inside, Miss Callaway.” He gave me a nod that wasn’t reassuring. “It’s okay. I’m a constable. We just have a few questions.”

  “I’m still not sure how you know my name,” I said, backing up as he advanced. His men followed, the last one shutting the door behind him.