by James R Tuck
Kat perked up, spine straightening. “You knew Deacon before tonight?”
“I met him almost seven years ago. He did my first tattoo.”
Kat grunted. “Damn. That's weird.” She shook her head. “I've never met anybody who knew him before . . . well, before.”
“I didn't know him, he tattooed on me. It only took about an hour.” She thought back to that day, remembering her nervousness, the intimidation factor of walking into a tattoo shop. It was an alien experience, unlike anything she had done up til then in her, at the time, nineteen years on planet Earth. “When I first walked in I thought he was going to be an asshole to me for wanting my stupid girly tattoo, but he was really nice and talked me through the whole thing. Not an asshole at all.”
Kat smiled. “Oh, he can be an asshole but he has a big heart.”
Tiff face felt warm. “I noticed.”
Kat's smile disappeared like someone had ripped it off her face. “You need to drop that right now or hit the door.”
Tiff sat up in her chair. “What the hell does that mean?”
“Listen, I get it, but it's never going to happen.”
“What. The. Hell. Do. You. Mean?” Tiff's voice pushed between clenched teeth.
“I hear it in your voice and I see that look in your eyes. I've seen it before with other girl's.” Kat's finger snapped the air as she pointed. “Deacon can be, well he can be a little . . . what's the word?” Kat tapped her chin, thinking. Her eyebrows went up as she found the word she had been looking for. “Overwhelming. He can be overwhelming. He sweeps in and rescues you from whatever situation you're in. He's big and strong and cocky. He's got the guns and the muscles and the tattoos and the badass car.” She waved her hand in the air dismissively. “It doesn't work for me, but I see that it does for others. Well, give it up. He's taken by someone you can't compete with. Save yourself the heartache and me the headache.”
“You mean you and him are . . .”
Kat laughed. “Didn't you just hear me say it didn't work for me? I like my guys smaller and geekier, more beta than alpha. Deacon is all alpha, all the time. No, I mean his heart does and always will belong to his wife.”
Tiff's eyebrow's pulled together under blue and black bangs. “But his family died almost five years ago.”
“Oh, you know about that? Doesn't change anything. You'll never replace her for him.”
Tiff stood. “Listen Kat, you need to understand something. You don't know me. At all. I don't care what other girls do, but I don't think for one moment I could replace his wife. I wouldn't want to. I'm here because Deacon sent me after telling me the place I've worked at for the last month was closed for good. I haven't even gotten a paycheck from there! I like Deacon, and yes, I think he's attractive, but that's my business. And, while I feel really sorry for what he's gone through, I'm here for a job and a job only, not a relationship.” Fire glittered in blue eyes. “Do I make myself clear?”
Kat stared at Tiff for a long moment. “Crystal.”
“Good.”
“You've got some backbone girl. It's good. You'll need it around here.”
“Does this mean you're about to give me a gun?”
Kat laughed. “Not until you get some range time downstairs and learn how to use it again. And you'll need to apply for a carry permit.”
“Downstairs? There's a gun range here?”
“Yep, in the basement. Polecats is bigger than it looks. Here.” The rosary dangled at the end of Kat's fingers. “You will need this.”
“Ummm, I'm not Catholic. In fact, I'm agnostic.”
“That won't last long. But take the rosary. It's required for the job. Doesn't matter if you're Catholic or even if you're an atheist.”
The rosary was heavier in her palm than it looked like it would be. She looked at it closer. The beads were silver-plated steel bearings connected by short sections of titanium chain. The cross was solid silver, a tiny figure pinned to the crossbeam by miniscule rivets. Tiff slipped it over her head. The metal crucifix thunked her sternum between her breasts.
Kat's phone rang. The ringtone echoed out in the big room, bouncing off the metal cabinets. Metal guitars ripped into a chunky riff, “Walk” by Pantera. Kat pulled it out of her pocket and looked at the screen.
“That's Deacon. I'm going to take this in my office. Head downstairs and help Father Mulcahy finish cleaning up. He'll take care of you from here.” Kat was already walking toward the door, fingers moving over the touchscreen of her smartphone. “Welcome to the crew.” And with that she was out the door.
Glad to be here.
I think.
Tiff followed her, turning right and heading downstairs.
* * *
Paper towels, paper towels, paper towels.
Tiff was back upstairs looking for the supply closet. She'd cleared the main room of trash and glasses. Father Mulcahy had been there when she started, but Kat called him upstairs to do something, leaving her to finish the job, which she had.
He was back now and in the kitchen, smoking and running the glasses through the industrial dishwasher. The shotgun had moved around the club with them, never more than arm's reach away from Father Mulcahy. Now it leaned against the sink beside him.
The guns didn't bother her. She'd grown up with them in the house. Her dad never kept his rifles locked in a case, they were always in closets and even under beds, hers included, from the time she had more than a crib. She'd been raised to respect firearms, but not to fear them. Being honest with herself, she was a little excited by the prospect of learning how to shoot a pistol and to be able to carry one, even if she would never use it.
She found the narrow side hall with two doors. They were plain, unmarked.
The closest one or the farthest one?
She stood there trying to remember what Kat had told her.
Farthest. I'm positive the farthest door is the supply closet.
Walking to the end of the hallway she turned the knob and opened the door.
Moonlight Gleam's Reviews asked me to sum up why I chose to write about Deacon and all his adventures, why did I create this broken man to be my main character. Here is what I wrote them. It's insight into our beloved hero.
THE MAN FOR THE JOB
Why Deacon Chalk? Why make a character like him? Why make him so bloodthirsty, so rough, so DAMN violent?
Because that's the kind of man you need to keep your ass safe when the monsters come calling.
Deacon is the modern-day, urban fantasy version of the noble barbarian you find in early pulp stories like Robert E. Howard's Conan, Michael Moorcock's Elric, and even Edgar Rice Burroughs' Tarzan. He's been thrust into a world of evil and monsters under the worst circumstances that could possibly be, and he steps up to the task of being the hero. The deaths of his family and the depth of his faith combine to be the furnace that forges Deacon into both a hero and a weapon in the fight between Good and Evil. Take away either one of these and he is not the man for the job.
What's the job?
Fighting evil. Nothing more. Nothing less.
Monsters are the evil. They do evil things. Plus, they're hideously powerful, far outstripping the abilities of a normal man to stand against them.
Weaker men hide in fear when monsters come to their home. They tremble in the night, locked behind doors and shuttered windows. They cling to their family and pray that the monster pass them by, that it finds another victim in the night. Someone they don't know. Someone that is not them.
Deacon cannot do that.
Once, he might have been able to, but never again. Not after the night his family was taken from him by evil.
Now he is the man for the job.
He will not quit. He'll bleed out every drop of his blood to keep a person safe. He's also shaped by the forces he fights. They drive him to acts of brutality that would make a normal person go mad.
But Deacon decided a long time ago that he wasn't going to hand-wring over what he had t
o do. No second guesses, no recriminations, no backing down. Deacon never once will question if he's becoming a monster. He doesn't care. As long as people are safe and he doesn't violate his personal faith then he does not look back. He is the Alpha Male, with all that comes with it, written as he truly would be. He's rough, he's hard to handle, he's brutal. I worked really hard to show just how flawed someone would be who chooses to fight monsters, to put themselves in that gap.
They would be downright damn scary.
The Deacon Chalk series is not a series where the characters waltz through the story and you know that they will be okay, that no one will die or be hurt, that at the end of the story everyone will feel like they belong until the next book.
To hell with that.
All bets are off in this world. It's dangerous. It's dark. It's deadly. Don't get too attached to anybody, there's no gaurantee they'll make it to the next book.
Just like it would be if the Deaconverse were real.
Thank God it's not.
I can't remember where this interview wound up. This one falls between BLOOD AND SILVER and BLOOD AND MAGICK. It's an early glimpse at everyone's favorite O.C.I.D. agent and the ever lovely Charlotte the Were-spider.
O.C.I.D. Interview with charlotte
Special Agent Silas Heck: Thank you for coming in today Miss Vale. This should only take a few moments of your time.
Charlotte Vale: You're welcome, although I am not sure what this interview is about.
SAH: This is just a basic survey.
CV: It seems very official being done here at the Police Station.
SAH: Don't be concerned. They're extending the courtesy of utilizing their office, this is not a police investigation. You're new to the area Miss Vale?
CV: Yes, I recently relocated.
SAH: From?
CV: Albuquerque, New Mexico. That's where I grew up.
SAH: Why did you relocate?
CV: For work.
SAH: You were a school teacher in Albuquerque?
CV: Rio Rancho, but for all intents and purposes, yes.
SAH: But you are not currently employed as a school teacher now in Georgia?
CV: No.
SAH: You haven't been employed as a school teacher for over seven months have you Miss Vale?
CV: No.
SAH: Why is that?
CV: I was . . . traveling.
SAH: I see. (makes notes on clipboard) Do you know a man named Deacon Chalk?
CV: (silence)
SAH: Answer the question Miss Vale.
CV: I do.
SAH: How would you describe your relationship with Mr. Chalk?
CV: We are not related.
SAH: The relationship is romantic then?
CV: NO! Wait . . . I mean, we're friends, just friends.
SAH: And your relationship with Mr. Longinus? Would you characterize your relationship with him as 'just friends'?
CV: No. I would characterize my relationship with him as more than friends.
SAH: So you and he have an intimate understanding?
CV: What is this in regards to again?
SAH: Just a basic survey ma'am, please answer the questions. Do you currently know the whereabouts of Mr. Longinus?
CV: No I don't, but why...?
SAH: Does Mr. Chalk stay in touch with Mr. Longinus?
CV: I don't know. I assume he does.
SAH: Do you work with Mr. Chalk as a bounty hunter?
CV: What? I'm a schoolteacher.
SAH: Technically, Miss Vale, you are an out-of-work school teacher.
CV: Show me your badge again. What organization did you say you were with?
SAH: The interview is over Miss Vale. Thank you for your time
Meet a new character that you will see again. Phoebe Fluffenstuff, Were-Pomeranian. This is a Deacon story, even if he's not the main focus. This is a Deaconverse tale through and through. I wrote it for THE STRUGGLE, an anthology put out by Sheila Hall that is chock full of goodness from some good friends of mine, including Delilah S. Dawson and Karina Cooper. I'd pick it up if I were you even though this story is a reprint.
THE RAVENOUS
The first thing she felt was the burning.
It smoldered in her shoulders, deep in the sockets, tendons pulled to capacity, the ball of her humerus tight against the bursa. The deep-banked fire pulsed across her chest and crept up the muscles of her neck.
The skin around her wrists also burned, a liquid acid scorch in swaths that swirled from her hands to halfway up her forearms.
Silver.
Razor-thin wire of silver cut her skin, separating it, burning and itching and seething in the lycanthropy-tainted blood, her lycanthropy-tainted blood, that ran over them. The fever so hot it made a cushion between her and the weight of the manacles that clamped her hands viciously behind her back, clamped them to the back of the chair she was chained to.
Light so white it became a heated weight on her head and shoulders glared down at her in a circle. The concrete under her was stained in abstract colors. Her nose told her the story, separating scents from odors from aromas. Hydraulic fluid, sulfuric acid, blood, motor oil, dirt, and friction-melted rubber.
Still in the warehouse.
Movement drew her attention to the edge of the light circle. A man and a woman stood there, watching her. As she lifted her head the woman started forward. The man stopped her, one beefy, tattooed arm held out, blocking her way. The edge of light bounced off the nickel-plated semi-automatic pistol in his shoulder holster.
"Wait." was all he said.
She swallowed.
Her mouth tasted terrible.
And parched.
Bone dry and foul like sand made from ground skeletons.
Swallowing again, she found a ghost of her voice. "So, we aren't out of the woods yet?"
The woman's face broke. She pushed her way past the man's arm and stumbled to kneel beside her. "Oh Pheebs. I'm so sorry. I didn't . . . I couldn't . . ."
"It's okay, Kah." It wasn't but she couldn't say anything else.
"It's my fault."
The man stepped forward, big hand falling on the woman's shoulder. She stood, big brown eyes shimmering and spilling tears down high cheekbones. He guided her behind him.
She looked up at him, squinting in the harsh light.
"We need to talk." he said.
She shrugged. It rattled the chains against the iron manacles on her wrists and pushed more heat from inside her shoulders out into her straining chest muscles. "I thought we might."
He squatted beside her, hand hovering near the grip of his pistol. She'd seen him in action. He could clear leather and have that gun pointed in the blink of an eye. In his other hand was a strip of cloth. "You only get one chance at this."
Kahsondra moved her hand, reaching toward her. Her voice trembled from behind the man. "I had to, Pheebs."
"Shut up, witch. I'll get to you in a minute. Go outside and let me deal with the fucking mess you made here." The man didn't turn, didn't stand, didn't yell; he simply spoke the words but the effect on the Norse-born witch was immediate. Her mouth clamped shut and she turned, retreating out of sight into the shadows that hung like curtains beyond the light's edge.
The man sighed. "Like I said, you're only going to get one shot at this."
"Are you sure he's in there?"
"According to your friend he is. I watched her do her thing, he disappeared, and only you were left. He's either there or he's free." His eyes locked on hers. "I don't know which one I'm hoping for."
She nodded. "If he's there, I can handle it."
"You don't have a choice."
She lifted her chin, indicating the scrap of cloth in his hand. "Is that for what I think it's for?"
"Only if you think it's for blindfolding you so you can concentrate."
She sighed. "Let's do this then."
The man nodded and stood, moving the cloth toward her face.
"Deacon?"
/>
The cloth stopped moving. "Yeah?"
"If I can't do it, don't hesitate."
"You know better than that shit."
She did.
Moving a step he pushed the cloth against her eyes, cutting off the light. Her eyelids pulled, trying to open, bound closed by the blindfold tight across them as it wrapped her head. Sharp jolts of pain radiated at the back of her skull as Deacon's blunt fingers tied a knot, getting some of her hair mixed into it.
She felt him step away.
Everything was muffled under the cloth that circled her head. Her breath sounded weird through the baffling as she took a deep one and centered herself.
Calm.
In through the nose.
Out through the mouth.
Let the calm sink into your lungs.
.
The pain in her arms faded as her mind spread within itself, smoothing out to a nice, peaceful, hollowness.
.
She had a sense of shrinking away inside herself.
.
The darkness became more than the darkness, not what she could see but what she became.
.
Everything became nothing.
.
.
.
Oh sugar.
She went still, every micro-muscle frozen mid-twitch when the voice spoke.
Inside her head.
Her own thoughts ran, a scattered warren of rabbits when the wolf steps in the field, running down burrows, scurrying into holes, pulling the earth over them to stay quiet, to stay safe.
Closing her eyes under the blindfold she fell.
* * *
She opened her eyes and was somewhere else.
Mindspace lay before her, a still lake bordered by the blackest night she'd ever seen. A memory from childhood, her first time under the night sky away from the ambient glow of the city, the impenetrable ebon of the universe spread above her reflected perfectly in the glass of the country lake.