by Russ Linton
“You mean like a vampire?”
Her hand dropped, eyes squinted painfully. She searched the pouches on her belt and removed a stoppered vial. She flicked the cork to the floorboard with her thumb and drank. When she finished, she sighed and stuffed the empty vial into a pouch.
“So now you want the Alchemy lessons?”
“We got a ways to drive. If you’re up for it.”
Araceli sighed. She seemed put off by the idea. Her thoughts came out forced, choppy.
“Rabisu are the original vampires. Their poison paralyzes you. Slowly liquefies your insides. They drain you into an empty sack of bones. Can take days.”
I watched her as long as I could, ignoring the road. She’d been knocking back medicine or whatever, but how the hell would she know if her insides were rotting?
“You going to be okay?”
She nodded and slumped in the seat, head back. “Think I got the antidote in time. I guess we’ll see. Thirsty?”
I let out a low whistle and turned a loose focus back on the road. She’d gotten pretty comfortable with the idea of melting in my passenger seat. I wasn’t. Rest might be good for her, but I didn’t feel right letting her sleep until I knew this poison was out of her system. One of us had to care.
“I thought vampires were an actual myth,” I said, trying to keep her talking.
“Vampires like you’re thinking of died with Vlad the Impaler.”
“All this other crazy magical shit exists, why not vampires?”
She shrugged, her head still tilted and eyes closed. “Rooted out like a disease, thank God. They’re a product of necromancy.” Her lip curled on the last word and she almost spat it out. “The rabisu inspired their creation but they haven’t been seen for centuries. Used to be some terrible monsters roaming around in the old days.”
“You mean Scorpion back there, he’d come back from the dead?”
Something I said had gotten to her. She opened her eyes and studied the dash, deep in thought, withdrawn, sinking back into those secrets of hers.
“Hello?” I said.
She let her head flop to face me. Through her tired gaze, I caught a glimpse of the ferocious warrior. “We’re in the End Times, Ace. Nothing gone will stay gone. Your responsibility is to raise up that sword against them and never, EVER, put it down.”
I pursed my lips and nodded, watching the partly crumpled front end of the hearse devour blacktop. “Even if it means letting you get liquefied?”
She closed her eyes again and rolled her head to face the roof. “Even if.”
Damn, I knew Araceli was hard but that was some next level shit. Her’s wasn’t a credo I was used to. Fraternal order and codes had you putting your partner’s safety first. Bystanders and civilians too, sure, but in an active situation, losing a partner also meant halving your ability to protect and serve. Sacrifice only came to the unprepared. Or later, when you could no longer take the nightmares about the innocents you couldn’t save.
Hard times. The pavement continued to grind past.
ARACELI INSISTED I drop her at the Fountain of Youth Park. I was tempted to go in and pay Atofo a visit, see if he’d backed off his beef with me. But I was tired. I wanted to drop in on my loft above Kitterling’s garage, my home in exile.
I didn’t bother with the main house. Sheila hadn’t seen Kitterling since he gave her a blank check for my legal expenses. I’d have to track him down. Tomorrow.
A dried ear of corn waited on the doorstep. Those friendly spirits had stopped by. Was it Nico’s flock? I’d never prove that theory unless I caught him on the stoop again.
The familiar swirl of odors emanating from the display cabinet hit as I stepped inside. Never thought I’d ever find that a welcome sensation. Kitterling’s early attempts at finding real magic had led him to faith healers and snake oil salesmen all over the South. Some were even close to true root magic and hoodoo. Mostly they just sold powders with an awful stink.
I slipped out of my shoulder holster and hung it on Mutombo’s stiff arms. The to-scale Bigfoot replica stared impassively.
“Long time, no ball.”
I shuffled toward the corner where the servant bell used to hang. A smile crept across my face as I touched the frayed rope, remembering cutting it down and shoving it into Kitterling’s trembling hands. Why I hadn’t done that first day here, I didn’t know. Sure, the former boss had contacts, but I was building up plenty on my own. And his contacts, man, had his been cruddy.
I came up short at the writing desk near the window. Antique Italian wood scarred by use, I studied the surface and placed a hand on the chair back. Another letter to Izaak? Another attempt to make excuses? I let it go and took a seat on my bed.
I scrubbed the harsh growth on my cheeks. A shave and a shower without watching my back would be damn nice. I grabbed a fresh change from my trunk and headed back outside.
When Kitterling got home from wherever we’d continue that partner talk. About time he slept above the garage and slipped in through the back, out of sight. In fact, if he wasn’t here, it was time to see how the other half lived.
Passing through the kitchen, I grabbed one of Kitterling’s beers from the fridge. I braced myself to dip through the formal living room. Mojo from the morbid fetishes displayed around the empty coffin felt muted this time. Hell, after my whole walking up out of the SHU like Jesus (forgive me, Pops, for taking the Lord’s name in vain) my connections beyond This World were furred. Was that a bad thing?
All these years I hadn’t ever set foot upstairs. During and after business hours Kitterling kept the stairs roped off with a fancy cursive sign that read “Private Residence.” But I needed some clues about where he’d snuck off to and to use a bathroom not crammed into a former pantry off the kitchen.
“Kitterling?” I shouted. “You up there?”
I waited at the bottom of the stairs, eyeing the glass counter in the foyer where Kitterling’s Curiosities conducted business. Credit card reader, handwritten receipts on top, and the mix of valuable and not-so-valuable magical artifacts. None had been touched. If he’d been snatched, they’d not bothered with an easy smash and grab.
The bell sat on the counter. The one I’d cut down and shoved at him. Last I saw, he’d been clutching it as I was dragged off by the police. How hard did I really want to look for him?
Slinging the rope to the floor, I took the stairs. They wrapped around a landing before disappearing into the floor above. Pictures hung on the staircase walls, old maps of the Saint Augustine port and city. They started from the very early Spanish settlement and stopped, at the top of the stairs, with the English occupation. Those two decades where Kitterling lived and breathed.
“Yo?” I shouted. The house stayed eerily quiet.
I’d left my gun in my room. The sword, I’d locked inside Bubonic inside the garage. Smart? Probably not. But the worst I thought I’d find upstairs were mothballs and dust bunnies.
And damn was I wrong.
Downstairs, Kitterling kept a carefully cultivated swag meant to capture his customer’s imaginations. Upstairs, my man cut loose with his obsession over the finer things.
Even the plasterwork got intense. Intricate designs ran along the molding, continuing across the ceiling. Colonial white there and around doors, a slate blue coated the walls. Where there wasn’t paint and plaster, slick mahogany was everywhere else — the stair rail, the doors, the floor.
Period sideboards lined the hall, the feet balled claws, their tops sporting delicately arranged china. Tapestries hung here and there, a royal palace collection. Whatever profit Edward’s hustle had generated had all gone up here, probably since his mortician days when he was practically robbing graves.
I could see him counseling the dead’s family inside their homes and shopping the coming estate sale with a roving eye. I reached for what must’ve been the bedroom door and tried the brass handle. Locked.
“For real?”
I scanned the hall and
went to the sideboard. I started to search the drawers, but took a stand from one of the plates instead. The wireframe would work just fine. A few probing twists and the lock popped. I swung the door open and a draft of sweet pipe smoke tickled my nostrils. My feet carried me inside as I gawked.
“Damn. Livin’ large while I sleep in the attic like Harry fucking Potter.”
Paneled wood covered the walls except for a tall bank of windows spilling the Florida sun across the room. The floor to ceiling marble mantle could’ve been an altar in a cathedral. Alcoves housed praying figures on either side of the deep, open hearth. A woolly, light-colored fur rug stretched in front, boxed in by perfectly arranged armchairs and a couch.
The right opened up into his bedroom. An extended pass through with alcoves housing priceless vases and statues came first. He had a giant four-posted bed, gilded and curtained in maroon and gold. One of the servant bell ropes hung within easy reach. No wonder this clown pretended to be royalty.
“That rope’ll do you no damn good now,” I muttered. I crossed to a pair of doors to peek into the bathroom. An antique clawed tub with brass fixtures but no shower. “So that’s how it is,” I grumbled, and set my clothes and razor on the edge of the pedestal sink.
I splashed some water on my face, taking stock of the stubble in the mirror. Any more growth and I would look just like my father. Razor ready, I froze.
A light in the mirror caught my eye from the bedroom. Red. Blinking. I made a slow turn.
I let go my breath when I saw the answering machine and not a damn camera. The machine was on the nightstand beside his bed, the only out of place thing in this historical reproduction.
Kitterling kept the phone downstairs on the counter where he conducted business face to face and on his laptop. I’d always assumed he had an answering service on the phone line. Naw, he’d gone old school. Probably no passwords or security. Maybe I’d caught a break.
I went to the nightstand and checked the machine. The blinking red LED reported six messages. I hit play.
A robo-voice rattled off a date. Sometime before I got locked up. Sounded like a legit customer call. Next one, the same. Another followed, this one a hang-up. Same day I’d been sent to county. Old tech, the answering machine was one with a tape. No caller ID.
The next message gave a date right around the time of my transfer. A gruff voice with a wheezy squeak came through.
“Hello? You ready?”
Click.
Yeah, nothing shady about that.
I examined the bedroom closer. If he’d packed, he hadn’t been in a hurry. No clothes strewn around, no mess on the bathroom shelves where he might’ve swiped the contents into a bag. I went out to the sitting room, letting the machine play. Another message from a client started. Something about an antique picture frame. Sounded legit. The only thing out of place in the sitting was a smoking jacket left draped over one of the armchairs. His pipe had been left off its stand on the round side table.
Beside the discarded pipe was a rolled piece of paper burnt to a short nub. Empty, I picked the blunt up and spread it open. Nothing inside, but I saw the last three digits of a number trailing from the burnt edge.
Address, combination, phone number, whatever, he’d made a lazy attempt to hide the evidence.
Another beep from the answering machine and the robo-voice rattled off a new date. I couldn’t be sure, but I think it matched up with my time at Natchez.
“Uh, hello?” I knew her voice. So out of place though, I couldn’t identify her at first. “I’m calling to speak to Ace. He’s a customer of mine. A friend.” She paused and I caught a muttered prayer to the Almighty. “Tell him it’s urgent. Tell him Tish called.”
Tish Adelaide, my supplier of Atofo’s offerings and Saint Augustine’s patron saint of fried food. Why would she call here?
When we rolled through Saint Augustine last time, it’d been too late for a stop at her truck to get Atofo’s first fruits. I’d opted for a forty-ounce can and a stick of jerky from a convenience store — the only thing open that time of night. Atofo had sneered and asked if we’d forgotten the brown bag.
But Tish had the sight. If she’d looked me up, tracked down my employer, she probably had a damn good reason. She’d sounded plenty upset.
Rest could wait. The bath and shave? Naw, I needed that. I don’t normally do baths. But I would in this motherfucker’s tub. I strode back into the bathroom and kicked the double doors open wider. Hoped I left a cruddy ring.
CHAPTER SIX
I’d have preferred to just bop my ass over to Tish’s food truck on foot, but I didn’t have any good way to carry a sword around town. So I hopped in Bubonic for a cruise.
Going armed with a concealed firearm was one thing. A scabbard on my hip? I mean, I’d have to see if that shit was even legal. And too often, what was legal for others, might get me collared.
Windows down, I could hear the beat of a drum somewhere. Busker probably, making his money. Clear and sunny, it should’ve been like any normal, lazy Florida day. But as I cruised San Marco Avenue, I couldn’t relax.
Closer to summer and tourists had started to show up in clusters, standing in lines gaping or half-listening as they stumbled along behind a tour guide. The usual crowds hung around the massive Castillo de San Marcos grounds, always the popular spot for locals and visitors. The broad green space and dry moat surrounding the ancient fortified walls made the National Park into a favorite for picnics, wedding photos, and troupes of reenactors.
Quite a few of those out today.
Riding low, hand slung over the wheel, I reached behind the seat and touched the blade. Tish’s message had put me on edge, for real. But this unsettled feeling I had was deeper.
Not minding the time, I’d left Kitterling’s during the afternoon rush. Always San Marco Avenue slowed to a crawl. Tour buses and trolleys shouted historical facts to entertain their captive audiences and annoy the locals trapped alongside. Eyes wandered toward Bubonic, like always.
Could’ve been the close quarters had me on edge. Checking nearby cars, I found drivers lost in the trance of predictability. They drove on autopilot, lost in a different zone, a different world maybe?
It was all so...normal.
The whole world though, not just me, felt subdued. The normally crouchy open-air bar on the corner hadn’t attracted their Happy Hour crowd. Customers sat outside, glazed faces peering out toward the traffic. Tired, I felt that same commuter lull creeping into my bones.
Behind me, somebody honked. Not a friendly little beep, but a choppy assault. I’d zoned out. A five-foot gap had formed ahead of me.
Who kind of clown honks at a hearse? I could have bodies up in here. I could want bodies in here. I checked the side mirror. I shook my head and slowly, painfully, casually, applied some gas.
Before long though, we slid to a stop. Eyes half on the side mirror muggin’ the crazed accountant in his Volvo, I caught a shape off the sidewalk behind the low iron fence of the old Huguenot Cemetery.
Standing like an Angel of Death among the eroded tombstones was a Gallu.
I sat motionless and stared, wondering if it would go away. Wondering if I’d just seen a monument in the wrong light. Or if one of those damn costumed reenactors had been going for a Grim Reaper look.
Hooded, robed, the Gallu hovered black and ominous, head hung low so only the massive snout caught the light of day. Dark hide covered muscular forearms and hands. In a fist the size of a hubcap, it clutched a gnarled staff, hooked at the tip with a razor-sharp crescent of steel.
My gun was in my hand before I could think. I hadn’t slipped realms, I knew. But out here? The middle of the street? This World?
The guy behind me blared his horn and I ignored him. Was anyone else seeing this? Drivers stayed lost in their trances. Visitors to the cemetery wandered the rows, trying to read the faded words, paying no attention to the giant bull-headed demon.
What the hell?
A singular focu
s, I popped open the door. The wide concrete median prevented oncoming traffic from sheering it off. Behind me, the Volvo driver revved the engine. His horn had become a steady, unending screech. I reached behind the back seat and drew the Demon Slayer. As the sun’s rays glinted off the blade, he got quiet real quick.
Three oncoming lanes of traffic, a fence, and another thirty yards separated me from the Gallu. I stared it down. Waiting. Traffic like this, if the beast had my number trying to run made no sense. Maybe it didn’t like magic demon slaying swords either?
Sword low, I reached inside my jacket and adjusted the straps of the Timucuan breastplate. I shook out the stiffness building in my arms, sliced the air with a practice swipe.
“Let’s do this,” I muttered.
Tires screeched and I looked away for a split second. Seeing a crazy black man with a three-foot blade had cured the accountant’s road rage. He whipped around Bubonic, narrowly missing a car in the next lane over. When I looked back, the Gallu was gone.
I stood on the median, traffic flowing around me like a stone in a river. Drivers made their way by, nobody jamming up the wheel to issue a challenge to this insane, hearse-driving motherfucker and his arsenal. But I waited, searching, reaching out with my senses, long enough to make sure the Gallu had gone.
Shaken, I gritted my teeth and slid the sword behind the seat as I dropped behind the wheel. I took a minute to think, palms pressed on the wheel, fingers twitching with nervous energy. That wasn’t supposed to happen. Couldn’t happen. I’d just seen Death roaming the streets of This World in broad fucking daylight.
I slowly closed the door and rejoined the flow of traffic. Whatever Tish had for me, I’m not sure it would top this here.
“OH LORD!” TISH SMOTHERED me again. Awkward. She hadn’t made it all the way down the steps from her catering truck and my face got buried in her breasts, a pillowy dreamland perfumed with fried goodness.