Contents
Title
High Fashion Hell
Copyright
About the Author
Also by John G. Hartness
Falstaff Books
Changeling's Fall
Of Lips and Tongue
This Giant Leap
High Fashion Hell
A Quincy Harker, Demon Hunter
Short Story
John G. Hartness
Falstaff Books
Charlotte, NC
2016
High Fashion Hell
A Quincy Harker, Demon Hunter Short Story
“Hose,” I said, pulling at the thin covering on my legs and grimacing. “If I have been pleased with one thing in my exceptionally long life, it is that I managed to avoid every era in which men were expected to wear hose. And yet here I am, walking through a dung-infested collection of anachronisms wearing what else but hose. It must truly be the End Times.”
“One, it can’t be the End Times, jackass. You killed most of the Four Horsemen of the Apocalypse,” said my partner in fashion tragedy, Detective Rebecca Gail Flynn of the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department. “And two, you’re bitching about hose? Why don’t you walk a mile in my corset, Harker? Until then, why don’t you walk your hose-covered ass over to the concession stand and buy yourself a steaming mug of shut the fuck up.”
I chuckled at Flynn, but she did have a point. I was at least able to move, and thus fight, in my costume, which consisted of a dark green doublet with a rampant lion in red on the chest, a pair of dark brown hose, brown boots, and a sword on a sword belt that wasn’t nearly as “prop” as the re-enactors all around us would probably prefer. Flynn was stuck in a corset, a chemise under the corset, then a skirt, with an overskirt, and finally a bum roll to give her the appropriate amount of Dark Ages junk in her trunk.
I did walk over to the concession stand, but I bought a turkey leg and two beers. I brought the food and alcohol over to a picnic table under a cluster of trees where Flynn had taken refuge from walking in her dress. I passed her a beer and sat down.
“Sorry, shut the fuck up is a seasonal brew. They won’t have any ’til spring.” I grinned at Flynn and took a huge bite out of my turkey leg. The skin was crisp, the meat was tender, and the juices ran down my chin and spattered all over the front of my doublet.
“Good lord, Harker, use a napkin,” Flynn said, rolling her eyes at what passed for my table manners.
“Nah, napkins don’t taste as good as turkey.” I gave her a grin.
Just then a small dark-haired man with an oiled beard and a mustache waxed to fine points appeared beside me. I mean he walked up suddenly, not that he teleported.
“Are you Harker?” the slight man asked. He was dressed for the Faire, in pumpkin pants and hose.
“That depends entirely on what you want with Mr. Harker,” I replied, taking another gigantic bite out of my turkey leg.
“I’m Jacob Strunin, I’m the Faire’s Director of Public Relations. I called you about our problem.” He stuck out his hand, looked at the state of my greasy mitt, and shook with Flynn instead. He took a seat at our picnic table and looked around. We were surrounded by attendees in varying degrees of costume, from suburban dads in Panthers sweatshirts and jeans to a family of five all decked out in steampunk garb from top hat to boot-clad toes. They milled around the juggler in the open space between tables or sat at their own tables getting a break from the walking and scarfing down chili in a bread bowl, but largely ignored us.
Strunin went on, speaking low so I had to lean in close to make out what he said. “We’ve had reports from some of our Faire folk that there’s a mysterious figure walking the grounds at night. It seems to come out around midnight in back of the Starfire swords booth, wander down past the petting zoo to the jousting field, then it circles all the way up to the Tartuffe Brothers stage near the main entrance and vanishes somewhere around the Royal Pavilion.” He pulled out a map of the festival grounds and traced the “ghost’s” route along the paper.
“Who’s seen the ghost so far?” Flynn asked.
“And how much had they been drinking or smoking before they saw it?” I asked the natural follow-up question.
“Zilch the Torysteller was the first to see it. He doesn’t stay on property at nights; he has a place in Charlotte. He was leaving a party with the cobbler when he saw a glowing white thing floating through the trees. He tried to follow the thing, but lost it by the knife throw. Since then it’s been seen by several of the vendors, Mike that runs the knife throwing booth, and Charles, the chandler.”
“What did the thing look like? Any chance we’re dealing with one of the real Fair Folk?” I asked.
“I wouldn’t think so. I mean, I had a couple of local Wiccan priestesses come check the property out before we built here in the first place, so unless they’ve come through since then, we should be clear of that. As far as what it looks like, nobody seems able to really remember what it looks like. They describe a white floating object that gets closer and closer, then they wake up the next morning lying in the grass where they first saw it. That doesn’t sound like any of the legends I’ve heard about fairies.”
“Yeah,” I agreed. “That behavior doesn’t line up with any of the pranks the light Fae are known for, and if it were the unseelie, our victims would probably be missing or dead. Anyway, it’s pretty rare for the Fae to latch onto a new place after it’s inhabited. They don’t care to be around too many humans, for obvious reasons. But so far no one’s been hurt?”
“Not obviously, no. The people that have seen it complain of being tired all the time, but after a few days they seem to be back to normal.”
“That might be a problem,” I said.
“What are you thinking?” Flynn asked.
“I’m not sure, but it could be a vampire partially draining its victims and leaving them to sleep it off in the grass. They’d be tired for a day or two, then snap back. It could be a succubus, draining their life force. Same symptoms, only without the actual blood loss. Or it could be a lethifold.” I looked between the two of them but saw no recognition in their faces.
“Come on, you guys have to remember the lethifold, right? Cloak-like monster in the Harry Potter books? No? Oh well, they aren’t real. Not yet, anyway.”
“What does that mean?” Flynn asked.
“As something seeps into popular culture, people begin to believe in its existence. In some cases, the belief is so strong and the emotions tied to it so powerful that the actual thing will manifest. For example, house elves.”
“House elves are real?” Strunin twirled one end of his waxed handlebar mustache and raised an eyebrow at me.
“They are now. So are patronus, so something good came out of those books.”
“Well, do vampires sparkle now?” Flynn asked, knowing full well the answer was no. “Because everybody read those books. You even read one.”
“I read one,” I emphasized. “And no, vampires still can’t go out in the sun. Everybody who read the books knows the sparkling thing was stupid.”
“So we’ve got a vampire or a succubus,” Flynn said. “I know how to deal with vampires. What do we do with a succubus?”
“Well, first we have to find it,” I said. “It won’t be active during the day, but maybe I can pick up some residual magic from where it’s been. Let’s try talking to the witnesses, and when it gets dark, we’ll stake out the center of the Faire and see what we can see.”
“Sounds good,” Strunin said. “These badges will tell security you’re authorized to be on the grounds after closing.” He handed us a couple of tooled leather medallions on long rawhide thongs. We hung the badges around our necks, and I tossed my tur
key leg bone into a nearby garbage can. I stood up, drained the last of my beer, and let out a resounding belch.
“You’re disgusting,” Flynn said.
“True, but it felt great,” I said. “And I was able to use my Sight while no one was looking. There’s nothing here. Let’s try the knife throw.”
We walked down the dirt-and-hay-strewn path to the colorful booth where hapless modern Romeos could impress their Juliets with their martial abilities. Since any time I’ve ever been in a knife fight, the prospect of throwing away my weapon seemed like a terrible idea, I never spent any time learning to throw axes or knives. Still, I figured with my enhanced reflexes and strength, it shouldn’t be too bad.
I stepped up to the low-slung barricade between me and the targets and plunked down five dollars. The game operator scooped up my fiver and deposited three knives on the shelf in front of me. I picked up the knives and tried to sight down one. It was warped, but not so badly that I thought it would affect my throw, so I flipped the blade over in my hand a couple of times, then reared back and threw. The knife flew end-over-end in a mostly straight path, headed for a big blue balloon, which would result in Flynn having to carry around a six-foot panda bear as we continued our investigation. The knife flew true, but at the last minute, it seemed to slip aside, burying itself into the wood beside the balloon.
“That’s odd,” I remarked.
“What, that you missed?” Flynn said from beside me. “Not really. You should see yourself at the pistol range sometime.”
“That’s not it,” I said. “There’s something strange…” I opened my Sight and it all made sense. Around each of the balloons, all save two, were glowing spheres of force, deflecting the knives and keeping the operator from paying out too much.
I closed my eyes for a moment, whispered “Discuture,” and sent my will cascading out toward the wall of balloons. I opened my eyes and watched the bubbles of magic disappear, then released my Sight. I flicked another knife at the wall and was rewarded with a resounding POP as a huge blue balloon exploded. Another knife followed seconds later with another POP in its wake as a red balloon popped, a knife quivering right in its heart. The operator spun to me, an accusation dying on his lips as he saw the flicker of power I let dance across my eyes for a second.
“Two knives out of three wins a large prize, m’lord,” the disappointed carny said in a thick (and terrible) accent. He handed me a purple stuffed panda at least three feet in height. I passed the animal along to Flynn, then waved the operator in close.
“You can have the bear back if you do two things for me. One, play the game square. No more magic. And two, tell me about the apparition you saw in the midway a few nights ago.”
“You got it, but not here. Meet me behind the tent in five minutes. My assistant is on lunch, and once he gets here, I can get away. But about the no magic thing…”
“If you enchant those balloons or any other part of this game again, I’ll come back. And if I have to come back, I’ll do more than take some of your prizes. Have you ever had fleas?”
“I sleep in a tent nine months out of the year, of course I’ve had fleas. Not a big deal.” He gave me a cocky grin.
“You haven’t had fleas like this. Literally, fleas from hell. I summon them from a demon merchant I know in the third circle. They like to dig into warm soft surfaces, like human muscle tissue…” I didn’t have to finish. I could tell from the look of horror on his face that the game would be square for a couple of days, at least. “I’ll meet you out back in five.”
Flynn and I walked off, pretending to be interested in the jewelry at the next tent. Well, I was pretending. The way her eyes got huge at the sight of a crystal and silver butterfly, I think Flynn actually wanted to buy the gaudy thing.
“Get hold of yourself, Detective, we’re working.”
“Pretty sure you’re working, Harker. I don’t see any crimes around here, except the ones being committed against my budget by this lovely bracelet. Isn’t it gorgeous?” She held up a thick woven metal bracelet with blue stones set into it at regular intervals. I made the appropriate noises at it, and the shopkeeper came over. She was a pretty woman, a little shorter than Flynn and a little heavier, but lovely blonde hair, sparkling blue eyes, and the kind of perfect skin that kept dermatologists in business. She was dressed in pale greens and gold, with a gold-trimmed white corset showing off the benefits of a woman who loves a potato now and then. When she smiled, the shabby little tent lit up, and I could immediately understand how she made a living slinging jewelry in a glorified cow field. I almost wanted to buy a bracelet, and I’m as far from a jewelry guy as you can get.
“Now, are ye likin’ that one, milady?” Another shop, another horrific accent. Why does everyone at a Renaissance Faire have to have a bad Cockney accent? I’ve lived in London, and I swear to God nobody sounds like that. Ever.
“It’s beautiful,” Flynn cooed.
“And it’s got a wee bit of magic to it, as well, milady. Those stones be fairy jewels, and they guarantee the wearer to be lucky in love,” the plump woman said with a wink. I opened my Sight and confirmed my suspicions—those stones were as magical as my boots, which was to say not at all. Flynn gave me a glance and relaxed a bit when I gave her a tiny shake of my head. She wanted the bracelet, but her eyes told me she didn’t want anything to do with anything enchanted.
Flynn pulled several bills from her pocket and paid the lady, opting to wear the bracelet instead of putting it into a bag. It was a nice piece, good silver and pretty stones, but priced a little dear for my tastes. By the time we were finished in the jewelry shop, our carny next door had been replaced by what I could only assume was his assistant, basically a pockmarked, scrawny, younger version of himself with greasier hair and maybe ten hairs sprouting from his chin in all directions.
Flynn and I stepped between the stalls and our rigged game operator was standing behind his stand, smoking and ignoring the thunk of knives burying themselves in the wooden wall inches behind his head.
“Aren’t you worried one will poke through? Or fly over the backstop?” I asked, giving the wall a wide berth.
“Nah,” he drawled, sounding now more like a North Florida redneck than a Cockney hustler. “I pay a witch to enchant the stall when we set up each year. She makes sure all the blades stay in the stall and nothing comes all the way through the back.”
“And casts shields around most of the balloons at the same time?” I asked, disapproval heavy in my voice.
“Hey look, man, people expect their carnival games to be rigged. I’m just giving them what they came for—the real carnival experience. Besides, I gotta get her back out here. The spells were wearing thin before you got here. Usually they last the whole season, but they started to fail a week or so ago. Hard to find good help these days, you know?”
“Keep telling yourself that, jackoff,” I grumbled. “Now what’s the deal with this ghost? Strunin said you were one of the first to see it.”
His face took on a shifty look, and his eyes narrowed. “You’re working for Jake the Snake, huh? I guess he doesn’t want word of this getting out. What do you think that’s worth to him, me keeping my mouth shut?” He grinned, showing off a mouth that not even a dentist could love. He was definitely adhering to some fourteenth-century dental care, with gaps in his grin big enough to drive a truck through.
I muttered “Lumios” under my breath and reached out a glowing hand to the carny’s throat. “I think I don’t give a shit about your pitiful attempts to blackmail Strunin. I think I was hired to do a job, and if you get in the way of that, I’m going to reach down your throat and feed you your own spleen. Now tell me what I want to know and keep all your organs where they belong, or keep wasting my time and find out what your kidneys taste like.”
The grin fell off the man’s face, and he went vampire-pale. “I was just playing, man. Don’t hurt me. It was late at night. I’d been partying in the Tartuffe Brothers’ trailer since the
show closed, and I was feeling pretty righteous. I was just passing the elephant walk and was about to turn back here and get some sleep when I saw something glowing off behind the cobbler’s shop. I like that dude, and his boots are the best on the circuit, so I wanted to make sure it wasn’t a fire or nothing. I walked around his stall a couple of times but couldn’t find whatever was making the light. Then I saw it again, down the hill, turning like it was going over to the Sherwood stage, so I followed it. I saw it go into the woods behind the stage, so I headed that way.”
“The last thing I remember was passing the open space out front of the Sherwood stage where the washer-women set up, then everything else is a blank. I woke up just before the gates opened the next morning, leaning against the base of the High Striker game, freezing my ass off from being outside all night and feeling like a hundred years older. My knees haven’t felt right since; I guess I tweaked something sleeping on the ground or something.”
“And you don’t remember any details about the thing you saw?” Flynn asked.
“Nothing. It was like a glowing ball of light, but it never let me get close enough to really see it, you know?”
“Okay, thanks. You can go back to fleecing the civilians now,” I said. He scurried away, and Flynn and I made our way back to the main thoroughfare. “What do you think?” I asked her.
“I’m not the expert in this stuff, as you’re all too quick to point out,” she said. “But he definitely believes what he’s saying. I couldn’t see any of the typical tells that nervous bastards like that give off when they’re lying.”
“Yeah, I think you’re right. Whatever is here, he definitely believes that it’s supernatural.”
“Let’s go talk to the candle maker. His booth is a little further down on the left, according to this map.” We stepped back out into the thoroughfare, immediately surrounded by laughing children and gawking civilians staring and playing along with all the “m’lords” and “m’lady’s” being thrown around.
High Fashion Hell Page 1
