Lightspeed Magazine - September 2016

by John Joseph Adams [Ed. ]

  “Pretty hair,” he said, then there was nothing but the gate and house lights and the slow chirp of the crickets reasserting themselves in the sudden silence.

  • • • •

  I went over the gate, feet searching for purchase on the iron bars, blunt spikes bruising my stomach muscles as I swung over the top. I watched as the lights in the villa went out, one by one, an obvious precaution given the sound of gunfire. The darkness didn’t bother me. I kept off the path, coming up to the house through the yard, using the trees for cover. I could feel Drabble’s presence upstairs, the weight of it dragging on me like I was a fish caught on a line. I gave the front door a wide berth, picking the lock on a side window and rolling into a powder-pink bathroom.

  Drabble’s house smelt like baby powder. The rooms were bare, scattered with the shadowy silhouettes of a few random pieces of furniture. My sneakers squeaked on the hardwood, the sound echoing against the walls. I moved through the murky darkness, gun out, ears straining. I started working my way from room to room, letting instinct take over. The furniture was all cheap and easy to clean, the rooms always arranged so there were beds and broad couches squashed against the far wall. Cheap video cameras sat dormant on flimsy tripods, pointing towards the furniture. Apart from that, the lower floor was empty. There was only one main staircase leading to the upper level. I was expecting a small barrage of gunfire when I tried it, but there was only a single muzzle-flash as I scoped out the upper landing.

  Hobb’s voice came out of the darkness. “I told him it wouldn’t be enough to kill you, Aster.” He giggled a crazy laugh. “You and Her Majesty, you’ve still got a thing going, even if you don’t want to admit it.” He was perched on the railing, curled up with one long arm wrapped around his knees, his mismatched eyes watching me as I peered around the corner. Drabble was lurking further back in the shadows, gun in hand. I could see the moonlight playing off the barrel.

  I dropped back behind the cover of a candy cane-coloured wall. “Hey, Hobb,” I said. “Just so you know, I’m not letting you off for this one.”

  Hobb’s laughter spiralled out of control, his small frame rocking on the banister. It was a brazen position, arrogant, but he knew that Drabble had my revolver and there wasn’t much I could do to hurt him with the peashooter in my hand. “I don’t get ‘let off,’ Aster,” he said. “I get forgiven for the unfortunate things I do in the name of duty. Poor little Miriam, you still don’t get it, even after all these years.”

  “It’s just you and me and a sleazebag with a thing for little girls,” I said. “Who, exactly, is going to forgive you, Hobb? You should have been holed up here with an army of thugs, but you aren’t. Drabble’s still small time, really. Still doesn’t think anyone’s coming for him unless they’re the law, hasn’t prepared for the possibility of someone coming in here all crazy and—”

  “Shut up.” Drabble took a step forward, the gun steady in his hand. “You should come out, love, or things are going to get messy.”

  “Fuck you,” I said. I leaned out, just a little, and let off a quick shot. Drabble shot first, soon as he saw the movement, and a chunk of plaster disappeared just beside my head. “We saw the tape, Drabble. The cops are raiding everything you own, freezing your accounts. You’re fucked, and you know it.”

  Drabble fired another round. I heard it thump into the wood-panel wall just a few feet from my hiding space. “The cops aren’t here, love,” he whispered. “You think we didn’t hear about the raid? This place is off the books. Safe. Just the way the crew likes it. Just the way the clients like it. There’s just you and the two of us. Hobb figures if we kill you again, you’ll stay dead for good this time.”

  I heard Hobb snickering. “It’s true, Aster. Dead for good, this time. Her Majesty hasn’t got the juice for another stunt like that, not on the scraps of affection you’ve been feeding her.”

  “It’s not about affection anymore, Hobb,” I said. “This time I’m here to exact Anya’s vengeances. It seems she’s pissed about what you’ve been up to and she needed someone to relay her displeasure.” The implications were lost on Drabble, but Hobb’s laughter cut short. I heard him slip off the banister, feet scuffing against the floor.

  “Bullshit,” he said. “You doing her bidding again? After all this time?” I stuck an arm around the corner and fired blind. I heard wood splintering, heard Hobb swearing under his breath.

  “No bullshit, Hobb,” I said. I fired another shot. Drabble fired back. “She wants both of you punished, wants you living a fate worse than death. I’m just here for the mercy killing of the sucker you lured into this.”

  They whispered, falling back. I listened to their footsteps work their way across the upper floor. I took the stairs slow, slapped a fresh magazine into the gun. Hobb was chanting in the darkness, doing his best to counter the effects of Anya’s magic. I felt the link to Drabble wane, dribbling away until his presence was like an unscratched itch. There was blood in the upstairs hall; I’d winged one of them. Not dripping fast enough to leave a trail, but I swung right and trusted my luck to hold, worked my way past the doorways one by one, going right door to left and scanning. Long shadows filled the rooms, the hall lit up by the full moon filtering through the skylight.

  I found Hobb first, cowering in a bathroom. Everything was cold moonlight through the window and soft shadows on the tile. His shoulder was bleeding, but he didn’t seem to notice. He launched himself at me with his hands spread, going for my neck. I slammed the gun into the bridge of his nose and watched him flail backwards, falling against the sink. His breathing was wet and blood smeared the lower half of his face. Hobb whimpered, letting loose a stream of muffled “fucks.” I put a bullet in his stomach and another in his leg. Lead shot, not iron; he’d heal fast enough, but he wasn’t going to be running anywhere for a day or two. I felt Drabble come up behind me a split second too late, heard the soft click of his gun echoing against the tile walls. “Drop the gun,” he whined. “Get your hands up, love.”

  I put the gun on the side of the sink and turned, hands kept out in the open. Drabble flicked the light in the bathroom and I blinked, blinded, as he reached out and snagged the automatic. “It was never meant to happen,” Drabble said. “That girl and the horse, it was never meant to happen. Hobb said it was safe.”

  “Hobb lies,” I said. “It’s his one great talent in life. A unicorn in heat has the self-control of a two-year–old.”

  Drabble tucked my gun into his waistband, next to a length of white horn and my revolver. He backed out of the room and motioned me forward. The other gun stayed locked on my stomach, his hand steady as he adjusted the .38. His smile was unpleasant as I stepped into the hall. “You should have left it, love,” he said. “We cleaned up after ourselves, we got rid of the horse when it got out of control.” He patted the horn at his belt. “Alive or dead, the damn thing was still going to make us a profit. Nobody got hurt except that girl, and who the fuck cares about another teenage runaway?”

  He stepped forward, covering me with the gun, getting ready to shove me towards the stairs. I couldn’t sense him like before, but I could feel the burning need of Anya’s vengeance running through me. I watched him, anger rising up in my eyes. Drabble met my gaze, stumbled, and his gun hand wavered a few inches. I clenched a fist and swung, catching the side of his head. I followed up with a knee to the crotch. Drabble went sideways, face twisting in pain, gun skittering down the hall. I dashed for it, diving and rolling aside. He was upright, drawing my revolver from his waistband. I threw my weight sideways and pulled the trigger. The house echoed with the sound of gunshots. Drabble bled from the gut, folding over as he dropped forward. My arm was stinging, slick with blood. I pushed myself up using the wall and walked over, covering him the whole way. My head pounded, pushing me forward. I put the barrel of the gun to his head.

  “You pissed off the wrong woman,” I said, and I could feel Anya’s cool fingers over mine, urging me to pull the trigger. “The vengeance
of a fey is a powerful thing.” There was still enough of Drabble not yet in pain that he wet himself at the prospect of what could come next.

  “Here’s how it’s going to go,” I said and I hammered a knee into his jaw and felt something break beneath the impact. Drabble went face first into the carpet, bleeding and broken, but he was still breathing through the mess I’d made of his face. “You’re going to be tried, you’re going to be convicted, and you’re going to spend the rest of your life wishing I’d damn well killed you.”

  Hobb was gone, slipped out the window while Drabble and I were busy shooting holes in one another. I thought about going after him, decided against it. I slipped the horn out of Drabble’s belt and tucked it into my jacket. Then I fished my phone out and called Kesey to come clean up the mess.

  Ten

  I hadn’t killed him and Anya’s magic made sure that hurt every moment I sat there watching him bleed over the floor. Drabble sucked in wet breaths for a half-hour before Kesey and his boys arrived. He bled a lot, but he survived long enough for an ambulance crew to handcuff him to a gurney and drag him off under an armed escort. He’d spend a couple of weeks in hospital, but he’d heal up fine for the court dates and Kesey had found enough hard evidence that even Drabble’s team of legal pit bulls wasn’t going to be able to do shit for him. I sat on the front step of the house, letting a paramedic bandage up my arm, ignoring his suggestions that I go to a hospital to have it checked out. I patted down my jacket with my free hand, looking for cigarettes. Kesey offered me one of his instead. I took it, lit up, and watched the ambulance cart Drabble away.

  “We would have got him,” Kesey said. He sat down beside me, cigarette dangling from his thick fingers. I winced as the bandage went on. I’d taken two shots to the same shoulder in as many days. It was starting to get old, but at least this time around the bullet had missed anything vital. “You weren’t even advising on this one, Aster. I should take away your fucking license.”

  I shrugged and watched the ambulance disappear through the gates, past the white sheets covering Slick and Vin and the team snapping photographs and taking sketches of the bodies. “So you had this place covered then,” I said. “Your crack team was lying in wait, ready to rescue my arse if things got hairy?”

  “We would have got him,” Kesey repeated.

  “As long as you got a case against him,” I said. “One that doesn’t involve that footage.”

  Kesey didn’t say anything, he just sat there and finished his cigarette. When he was done, he patted my good shoulder and stood up, heading inside to supervise the team working the scene upstairs. It was the closest thing to approval I was going to get out of him. I waited until he disappeared through the front door before I called after him.

  “Hey, Kesey,” I said, and he reappeared. “Say hello to your sister for me, next time you see her.” The smile vanished and he disappeared again. I got one of the blue-and-whites to drive me home, took a handful of painkillers to dull the pain before I went to sleep.

  • • • •

  I found Hobb in a Chinese restaurant three weeks later using his charm to impress the waitresses as he consumed vast amounts of food and imported Chinese beer. He was eating alone, so I slipped into the booth on the opposite side of his table and slipped the revolver out of my pocket before he recognised me through the alcoholic haze. Rumour had it he’d been drinking hard since Drabble went down, so it took him a moment to process. Even drunk, I figured I wouldn’t have found him if he hadn’t wanted to be found.

  “Miriam Aster,” he said. He belched and I could smell sweet and sour sauce on his breath. “About fucking time.”

  “Hey, Hobb,” I said. I picked up a fork with my free hand and speared some honey chicken off his plate. His ugly face twisted up as he squinted at me, swaying in place. “You here to kill me, Aster?”

  “If I wanted you dead, I’d have let you finish your meal. The food here is terrible.”

  He rolled his eyes. “The waitresses are cute. What more do you want?”

  “I’ve been thinking,” I said. “Ten years back, when I was involved with Anya, you used to work for her, right?” Hobb nodded, and I leaned in to make sure I had his attention. “I want to know when you stopped.”

  Hobb belched again, and this time it smelled so foul the smell sent me backwards. It stank like mulch, like something rotting in his gut. He patted his belly in the aftermath, grinning like a jack o’lantern. “Officially? I never stopped. A queen of the fey in exile is still, after all, a queen. I may have pushed things a little … further than expected … this time around, but she’ll forgive me. Eventually. It’s what she does.” He took a long slug of beer and winced, covered it up by squinting at me. “How’s your work, at present, after all this unpleasantness?”

  “Good,” I said, and it was only partly a lie. Kesey pulled my license for review, just like he’d threatened to. He wasn’t happy about it, but he wasn’t unhappy either. There was a second cheque waiting for me for the consultancy on Drabble’s capture, paying me for the time put in after the unicorn was found. It was enough to last me a month or two, and I wasn’t worried about work. Even if they took the license away for my shootout with Drabble, they’d reinstate me as soon as they needed someone to consult on the next bout of weird shit that rolled through Heath’s morgue. “I’m taking a short sabbatical. Letting the injuries heal.”

  A waitress with chopsticks in her hair bustled past, asking if I’d like to order. I gave her a few bucks and asked for a pot of tea, hoping like hell it wasn’t as bad as the food. Hobb blinked at me a few times, as though trying to fix on my face. I’d never seen him truly drunk before, despite his copious drinking. He sweated badly. “Listen,” he said, “just ask.”

  “Ask what?”

  “Did she know about the unicorn? Why did she agree to help? Whatever question about Her Majesty that’s got you showing up here, being polite, when we both know you want to break all my toes and fingers. We aren’t friends, Aster, and I’m running out of time and patience; be rude. Ask.”

  “Why’d she help you?” I asked. “After all the trouble the last one caused, why’d she help you bring another unicorn in?”

  Hobb’s smile showed off a wide half-moon of yellowing teeth. “Because she knows you, Miriam Aster. If there was a unicorn, you’d get involved. You may have bundled yourself up in guilt and denial, but you can’t help yourself when the trouble starts. Eventually you’d investigate, and eventually you’d go see her, and in her heart of hearts, Her Majesty still wants you back.”

  It was a smart-arse answer, or maybe it wasn’t, but either way I hauled myself across the table and slugged him for it. It didn’t do much beyond making him laugh, but it made me feel better to have done it all the same.

  They found Hobb dead a few days later, facedown in his beer at a bar along the strip. No bullet wounds, no evidence of foul play, just dead and a little bloated from three straight days of drinking. I’m guessing he rotted away, from the inside out. Anya was pissed at him, and I wasn’t much for believing her when she claimed she didn’t have the power to take care of one of her own. Kesey asked me to answer some questions when they found the corpse, but I begged off on that one. All I had were some lucky guesses and they were probably wrong.

  • • • •

  Anya left messages on my answering machine for weeks, twice a day while the trial went public. I didn’t call her back. I got a phone call from Heath about a month after they put Drabble away, asking me to meet him for a coffee. Part of me wanted to say no, but Heath was the golden goose to my fucked up little business. It didn’t pay to piss him off.

  It felt weird going out for coffee; Heath and I weren’t coffee kind of people and the place he picked was tragic. A murky, behind-closed-doors kind of attitude with carefully crafted ambiance straight out of a spy movie. He was waiting for me when I arrived, habitually late and pissed off. “Miriam,” he said, waving me over from the door. “How’s the shoulder holding up?�
�

  It hurt, still, but it was okay. The wounds were scars now, my arm just a little stiff after the injuries it’d sustained. I had a second crease on my chest, one running either side of my belly button. I punched him in the shoulder to prove I was in working condition and ordered an espresso. “What do you want, Heath?”

  “She’s been calling the morgue,” Heath said. He blushed as he said it, knowing I’d be pissed. I’d never seen Heath blush; I’d prefer to avoid a repeat of the experience. “Not often, but checking up. She asked me to ditch some files, the autopsy on that Hobb guy, and she asked me how you were doing. Asked if I knew what happened to the horn they cut off the white horse before they killed it.”

  “And?” I said. “What, you’re looking for advice?” Heath shook his head.

  “I told her I didn’t know,” he said. “And that you were on holidays, just like you said. She sounded worried, Aster. I just figured you should know.”

  Our coffees came, hot and steaming. I drank mine without saying anything, and Heath squirmed as he tried to fill the silence with inane chatter and gossip. I watched his eyes, one a little greener than the other. He looked different outside the confines of the morgue, a little less sallow around the edges. “She’s disappointed I didn’t kill him,” I said. “She wanted the fucker dead, just like she took care of Hobb.”

  Heath stopped talking, mouth left open. He shrugged and looked into his coffee. “I don’t know,” he said. “Me, I just figure, if she wanted him dead, he’d be dead, you know? She doesn’t seem like the kind of woman who fucks around when she wants something.”

  I grunted and dropped a couple of bucks on the table. Then I pulled a brown paper package about twelve inches long out of my pocket and dropped it next to the change. “I’m going home,” I said. “Next time they need a troubleshooter, tell Anya to find someone else.”