The Counterfeit City

by Jenna Lyn Wright

  There is nothing there but a bookshelf stuffed to bursting, a decade-old coffee maker half full with tonight’s brew, and a fuse box. It is the fuse box he moves to, opening the door and flipping various switches.

  A combination.

  A dull thunk emanates from somewhere in the back wall and the bookshelf pushes out and slides to the side, revealing a hidden room.

  “No time for sadness,” he says, turning to me. The pity he felt for me is gone. His shoulders are back, his chin is up, and his voice is steel. “Now is the time for action. For protection. I’ve always helped keep you safe, and that’s just what I’m going to do.”

  There might even be a twinkle in his eye as he says, “What do you know about the Counterfeit City?”

  ***

  Whatever I was expecting to find when I stepped over the threshold and into the hidden room, it wasn’t this.

  In stark contrast to his quaint bookshop, this room is stone and inlaid with steel and glass. It belongs in another building. It belongs in another era. It’s as if he’s been hiding a castle turret in a secret compartment behind his copies of Shakespeare and Shelley.

  There are no books here, though.

  There are guns.

  Lots of guns.

  And swords. Daggers. Crossbows. Spears.

  Display cases line the walls. Runes are etched into their glass, and the surface shimmers like the heat waves over sun-baked asphalt. They house weapons from what must be every century and every continent. Guns on the left. Pocket-sized blades and accessories on the right.

  The larger weapons hang from hooks and sit on shelves above the cases.

  In awe, I move toward a sword that seems to sing to me. The edges of my vision blur and static fills my ears. The weapon is mesmerizing, with symbols emblazoned into its blade and an emerald embedded in the end of its hilt. I reach out to touch it…

  The feeling of pins and needles shoots through my fingertips, and I yank my hand back as if I’ve accidentally shoved my finger into an electrical socket. Startled, I look down to check for injury and the moment I break my gaze from the weapon my vision clears and the singing stops.

  “She plays tricks on everyone,” he says as if the sword is a living thing. “But if she didn’t let you touch her, she’s not the one for you.”

  I glance back at the weapon. She does not sing for me again.

  “What is this place, Nico?” I move to the center of the room, where a massive wooden worktable dominates the space. Metal and leather are strewn on its surface. “What chased me here?” I catch his gaze and don’t let go. “I know you as the man who’s given me the tools to do my job for almost a decade. A kind man. A generous man. And a dangerous man, in your own way. But all of this?” I gesture to the room around us. “Who are you?”

  Nico moves to an apothecary table at the back of the room and begins pulling vials and packets of what looks like dried herbs from the small drawers. “There is a city that runs parallel to the one you used to inhabit. Not just a city, a whole world.”

  He gathers up his choices and sets them on the worktable. “It is populated by the wicked and the lost. Feeders. Lunatics. Phantoms.” He lifts his eyes to mine and looks at me pointedly. “Demons.”

  “And you could tell that just by looking at me?” After I was unceremoniously dumped back into the brownstone where I was murdered, I took a long look at myself, trying to get my bearings. To make sense of what had happened. What had struck me hardest was that I didn’t look any different.

  “I can tell by the brand on your wrist and the fact that you had a Lunatic chase you in here tonight. They’re not very fond of your type.”

  My confusion must be evident in the way I look at him because he continues, “Werewolf. The moon drives them…” He circles a finger around his temple to indicate crazy.

  “A werewolf,” I say, and my words drip with disbelief.

  Nico begins to open various packets and dump them into small black bowls. “All of those fantastical stories about beasties that go bump in the night? Those stories came from somewhere. Just because most think of them as myths now… Truths get twisted over time.” He picks up a pestle and begins to grind the herbs into a fine powder.

  “And… I can see all of them now?”

  He stops what he’s doing, lifts his gaze to me, and his eyes burn through me as he says, “You are them. The quicker you understand that, the better chance you have of surviving.”

  Turning back to his mixing and grinding. “Humans don’t register Counterfeits until they’re forced to. And even then…” he shrugs. “People have an infinite capacity for lying to themselves.”

  His words strike a chord deep within, and something begins to stir. Not so much a memory, but a feeling of deep dread that spreads through me like a drop of ink in a glass of water, and I’m certain that it has something to do with my life before Lilah and her missions.

  “What do you know about me?” I ask.

  “I’m not sure I understand.”

  “About my life before Lilah. The night I first met you, you seemed to know so much about me. What weapons I would take to best. The things I’d need to stay safe. I’m sure she gave you background on all of her… employees.”

  “Ah, well, that’s my job, knowing what you’d need,” he says, “but that’s not because of anything she told me. All I knew was that she had a new recruit and that you had the potential to be her second in command. Her right hand. There’s a reason Lilah chose you that night, Gray. Whether you remembered your past or not, you were useful to her.”

  That’s not good enough, but that’s not his fault. It’s mine. The space before the night I came to Lilah’s is a vast, empty void in my mind, but the inky dread keeps spreading, and I feel like it’s slowly unlocking something within me.

  “What are you?” I ask.

  There is the slightest shrug of his shoulders. “I was born into this. The last of a family of alchemists and blacksmiths.”

  I cannot hide my awe. “Are you telling me you made all of these?” There are dozens, maybe hundreds, of intricately and impeccably-crafted weapons in this room. If Nico is responsible for all of them, he is a master the likes of which I have never seen.

  “Some, not all. Many I have picked up on my travels, or had gifted to me, or sent as payment for a service that I provided. Over the years I have gotten very good at creating things that are meant to destroy.”

  He sets the pestle down and produces a key from his pocket. “Unlucky for me. Very lucky for you.”

  As he shuffles past me to a display case along the wall he says, “Empty your pockets.”

  “What? How will I defend myself…?”

  He ignores me, inserting the key into a case. The metal around the lock glows a faint green, and the top of the case pops open. “Mundane weapons will only get you killed in the Counterfeit City.”

  Nico waits for me to set every single blade and gun on the worktable, which I do, aside from one. I will not give up my first dagger.

  He waves me over to the case. “Which one is yours?”

  “I’m not sure what you mean.”

  “Look at them, Gray, and tell me which one is yours.”

  Despite my confusion, I do what he says, and peer down into the case. The daggers are like nothing I’ve ever seen before. Each about as long as my forearm, but they all have distinct etchings and colorings, with translucent blades in every color of the rainbow.

  I cannot take my eyes from one that has a clear blade, seemingly made of diamond, and a black hilt embedded with a small ruby. “That one,” I say, pointing.

  He pulls the dagger from the case. Turns it over in his hands, and nods with approval. “Now, let’s get you ready.”

  9

  By the time Nico is finished outfitting me, I am a walking arsenal.

  The zippered pockets of my pants contain blades made of cold iron, with an ice core in the hilt and poison on the tips. Two guns that shine like copper pennies are tucked a
t the small of my back, one loaded with wooden bullets made from a wooden cross in a far-flung graveyard and one loaded with silver bullets that have soaked up the light of every full moon for the last century. The weapons are altered versions of the daggers and guns I’m used to, and I already feel at home with them.

  “I do believe I’ve done all I can with you, Gray. I don’t know where we’d fit another weapon.” He voice is quiet and tired, and he leans against the wooden table for support.

  “I have one more favor to ask you, Nico,” I say. Reaching into my pocket, I wrap my hand around the hilt of the blade I kept back when he asked me to surrender my weapons earlier tonight. “A modification, if it’s possible.”

  The weapons in Nico’s workroom are terrifyingly impressive, but what caught my attention as he worked tonight were the packets of herbs and vials of liquid on the apothecary table against the back wall. Poisons to enhance his creations from deadly to catastrophic.

  As I draw out the dagger, his eyes shift from curious to guarded.

  “Tonight, when I was attacked, I was injected with something I’ve never seen before. A syringe filled with silver liquid that burned like fire and froze me from the inside out. Did Kira come here for that?”

  “I… “ His eyes lose focus as he dives into his memory, and when he surfaces and looks at me again, it is with shattered remorse. “You’re here because of me?”

  “No, I’m here because of me.” The things I’ve done. The life I’ve lead. The lives I’ve taken. Where I have ended up is no one’s fault but mine. Perhaps people like me do not get redemption. It doesn’t mean I won’t fight like hell to try to achieve it anyway.

  “And I want you to poison this blade with the same liquid she injected me with. Can you do that?”

  Nico nods. “But it won’t do any good, I’m afraid. The syringe that killed you would only slow her down. You’re making the mistake of thinking that she’s human.”

  “Kira… she’s a demon?”

  “Most of Lilah’s minions are.”

  The revelation sets my mind spinning. As the seconds pass, my confusion melts into anger, which in turn sparks to rage. “Then why bother with me when she had supernatural creatures she could send out to do what she needed? I could never match them as a human, could I?”

  Nico puts a comforting hand on my arm. “Do you remember anything from the night you met Lilah?”

  “I remember fire. And screaming. Chaos, then cool air as someone dragged me outside.” Images flicker through my brain like flipping stations on a television, and for a brief moment I see the faces of three young women in quick succession, the images faded and blurred by time and trauma. It’s only a fraction of a second, and they’re gone.

  “There must be more to that story. To that night. There must be. Lilah wouldn’t have taken you in if there weren’t. She doesn’t waste her time on ordinary people.”

  More to that story. Over the years, whenever I had pressed Lilah for details about how she found me, why she saved me, why me, my inquiries were always met with a quiet chuckle and a murmur that I called to her. Whatever that meant. I had always let it go. Let her keep her secrets.

  The next time I see her, I will have my answers, one way or another.

  “So what do you have that will kill a demon,” I say. His eyebrows shoot up, and he studies me for a long moment before he shuffles to the apothecary table. Pulling on a pair of black gloves, he slides open a drawer and pulls out a vial of shimmering purple liquid.

  As he approaches, holding the bottle gingerly between his gloved fingers, the swirling liquid mesmerizes me. It is the twilight sky captured in glass.

  “We can dip your blade in this,” he says. I gesture for him to uncap the bottle, but he hesitates. “You’ve always been careful, Gray, and I know you know how to handle danger, but believe me when I say that if you so much as nick yourself with the blade once it’s been coated in this, you will suffer as you never have before.”

  The chance to take revenge on Kira is worth more than the possibility of this agony.

  “Consider me warned.”

  ***

  I swear I see Kira in the storefront window as I push aside the curtain and emerge from the back room.

  Without thinking, I race down the shelves and weave through the stacks, pressing myself against the glass and peering out into the night. The street is deserted, the damp pavement void of pedestrians, vehicles, and scar-faced assassins.

  “Gray? What is it?” Nico has emerged from the back, having once again locked away his poisons. “What do you see?”

  “Nothing. There’s nothing there.” It’s a lie on my tongue. I’m certain I saw her. Her face, all sharp angles and anger, is seared into my memory. The satisfaction in her eyes as she injected me. The cruel twist of her lips as she’d told me she’d murdered David.

  I’m looking forward to wiping her from existence, both earthly and otherwise.

  Tearing my gaze away from the window, I turn back to Nico. “I need to find the Dagger of the Fallen.”

  At the mention of the artifact, Nico goes pale. In the years I’ve known him, I’ve never seen Nico truly afraid, but this isn’t run of the mill business. This is an errand for the Devil himself.

  “I trade in weapons, not information,” he says, and there is a tremor in his voice. “For that, you will need to see Mina.”

  He moves to the counter with the vintage cash register and stacks of receipts, pulls out a small pad of paper, and scribbles something down. Folding it twice, he takes my hand and presses the paper into my palm. “If you need help, look for the White Skulls.”

  His words trigger my memory. Earlier tonight, the odd neon sign on the otherwise blank-walled brick building. “I’ve seen them, I think.”

  Nico nods, as if that’s something, at least. A small measure of comfort. “Yes, I imagine you have. An entirely new world is opening up for you now, Gray.”

  He takes my hand, and the small, gentle gesture sends a shiver of fear through me. “I used to hope that I would never see you again,” he says, and though that’s not something you’d normally say to a friend, he smiles. “That meant you were out. Away from Lilah. Away from all of this dirty business. When you came to see me earlier tonight, Gray, and told me it was for the last time, I nearly wept with joy.” He pats my hand. “I have become quite fond of you.”

  I squeeze his hand, my words robbed from me by the lump in my throat.

  His smile falters. “Now that you are part of the Counterfeit City, I know you are not safe, but I promise you, I’ve done everything I can tonight to help you survive.”

  Fear for what lies ahead and affection for this kind man crash through me. His last words register, and confusion trickles in. “Nico, I don’t understand. If I’m dead, which I am, right…?”

  “Your earthly life is over. You and your soul are the property of Lucifer, now, I’m afraid.”

  “Then how much danger can I truly be in? You talk to me about survival and tell me that I’m not safe, but…?”

  He nods. “Of course he wouldn’t have explained anything to you. Lucifer is a bit of an ass.”

  I bark out a nervous laugh. That word out of sweet Nico’s mouth is ludicrous. “Feeders can be staked,” he continues, “and Phantoms can be cast out. Lunatics can be eaten from the inside out by the tiniest sliver of silver.”

  His gaze burns into me. “Demons can be banished back to Pandemonium. And if you return there without having completed your task for Him…” He trails off as if the thought is too horrible. “But that won’t happen. I’m certain of it. You will do what he’s sent you to do, and Lucifer will follow through on whatever he’s promised you.”

  It is a valiant effort, but Nico does not believe a word of his last sentence. He lets go of my hand. “So I say to you, Gray, that I hope I never see you again.”

  10

  I don’t know what I’m expecting when I head down into the subway. Slithering snakes in the tunnels? Goblins hiding
in trash cans? Above ground the sky is purple and monsters give chase. Who knows what awaits me underground?

  With my guard up, I descend from the cool air aboveground into the stuffy heat of the station. My hand is on one of my expendable daggers. The one I’m saving for Ruby is tucked away safely in a zippered pocket on the thigh of my pants.

  The platform is nearly empty. I’d say that’s strange for this time of night, but in the perpetual twilight of the Counterfeit City, I have no idea of the actual hour.

  Off to my right, a man in a leather jacket embraces a woman in a sundress. Oblivious to the world around them, she nuzzles into his shoulder as he wraps his arms around her. A sharp longing slices through me, and I allow myself one second to watch them before I tear my eyes away.

  Now is not the time for sadness.

  To my left, a businessman in a three-piece suit sets his briefcase down, checks his watch, and leans out over the tracks to see if he can catch a glimpse of an oncoming train.

  Keeping my distance from the others, I move toward the nearest trash can, where a half-smoked cigarette smolders in a sand-filled divot above the opening. I pull out the paper that Nicodemus gave to me and unfold it.

  I read it once. Twice. The third time through, I’m even more confused than the first. He’s sending me to the park. A vast swath of green carved into the center of a sprawling concrete metropolis, there’s nothing in the park but nature.

  He also has a list of instructions for when I arrive. I memorize them and then pull the cigarette from the sand. I touch the cherry to the paper and it incinerates in seconds, disappearing into ash and smoke in my fingertips.

  The intercom crackles and an automated voice cuts through the silence.

  Train approaching the station. Please step back from the platform edge.

  Another commuter descends the stairs. A lanky woman with a backpack and ripped jeans. She has dark circles under her tired eyes and her nose in a book that nobody would read for pleasure. A student, then.