by A. J. Vrana
Kai narrowed his eyes at the sign. “A little too perfect.”
Lambchop tugged him inside. Red paint chipped off the door decorated with playing cards. They were trapped against the wood under clear resin, the king of spades greeting him with a dark-eyed stare as they passed.
The interior was dimly lit. Grungy leather armchairs and tattered sofas that looked like they’d been picked out of a garbage dump framed the dilapidated tables scattered around the space. Burgundy velvet stools lined the bar up front, the underlit wall behind it covered in shelves of booze. A burlesque chandelier hung from the ceiling, though it barely gave off light, most of the amber glow spilling from lanterns mounted on the walls and smudgy candle jars peppering the tables. Muffled rock music from the ’90s and aughts droned from speakers strung up near the ceiling. Wincing at the gritty tones of an indistinguishable vocalist, Kai turned his attention to a mini grandfather clock tucked between two bottles of Jack. It was just shy of eight o’clock.
Besides one guy eating soggy nachos and drinking beer at the bar, the establishment was empty.
The Mangy Spade was a fucking dream come true.
“What’s your poison?” the bartender asked as they strolled up to the counter. She was wearing a navy-blue tank top, her shoulder inked with a tattoo of Batman punching Hitler. Kai glimpsed a giant praying mantis on the inside of her forearm, the word MANEATER stamped underneath. The top of her undercut was dyed bright pink while the buzz remained bleached. There was something off about her—a tenor in her aura that quivered, slow and listless—like she was barely hanging on.
“Whisky,” said Kai, eyeing the purple lipstick stain on her glass, the smell of gin and citrus wafting out of it.
“And for the lady?”
“I’m good with just Pepsi.” Miya smiled sheepishly as she settled into the stool. “Isn’t it usually Captain America punching Hitler?”
“Smart girl,” the bartender guffawed. “Captain America’s overrated. I like me some dark justice, you know?” She threw back the rest of her gin, then tossed Kai a wink. “Brains and beauty. Aren’t you a lucky one?”
The man sitting a few stools away pushed his empty stein towards her. “You sure like the girls, don’t you?”
“Gay as a fuckin’ unicorn. Now go home, Clint. You’re drunk.”
The asshole belched and slapped his bloated belly. “You just need a good dickin’.”
The bartender grimaced like she was biting back a vicious retort.
“Who’d want to touch your dirty dick?” Kai turned with a searing glare, a smirk crawling up the side of his face. He relished watching the blood flood Clint’s blotchy face.
“Hey, screw you, man!” Clint shot to his feet, his eyes a cocktail of rage and humiliation.
“Nah.” Kai grinned, canting his head towards Miya. “I’m spoken for.” He rose slowly and loomed over his prey. “Don’t think anyone here wants you.”
Kai was ready for the swing. His fingertips tingled, begging to curl into a fist as Clint’s elbow pulled back—but the strike never came. Miya dashed between them and grabbed the drunkard’s arm, pushing it down against the counter.
“Hey!” she snapped at Clint. “Cool it!”
Clint yanked himself free, wringing his wrist like she’d splashed boiling water on him. His teeth clamped shut as he all but frothed at the mouth. Silent with indignation, he slapped a twenty onto the bar top and tore his jacket from the hook underneath. “Cunt.” He spat at Miya’s shoe, then stormed out of The Spade.
“Goddamn,” the bartender muttered, shaking her head. She shot Kai a pointed look. “Unnecessary, dude. But I think we could all use a drink after that—except Clint, that is.” She reached for the bottles. “First one’s on the house.”
Kai hardly cared about what was necessary, especially when it came to fun. He would have enjoyed a good brawl with the blame easily pinned on the other guy. He already felt cooped up with too many unanswered questions bouncing around his brain. His fist breaking a few teeth might’ve settled his nerves. Shrugging in non-apology, he plunked down on the stool and pulled Miya onto his thigh. He nuzzled her hair and whispered against her ear, “Should’ve let me eat his heart out, Lambchop.”
Miya scoffed and prodded him in the ribs. “And get the bartender into shit?” She asked more loudly, “Any reason you don’t ban him?”
“Can’t afford to. Business is tough nowadays, and Clint’s a regular. He only gets this way sometimes, and by then, he can barely stand.” Their host pushed the drinks forward. “Name’s Crowbar.”
Kai reluctantly accepted the gesture, swirling the tawny liquid around the ice cube. “Crowbar, huh? That your weapon of choice?”
She laughed, the sound light and airy—a strange juxtaposition to her cutting demeanour. She flicked her thumb over her shoulder at an iron lever mounted on the wall above the register. It looked like a trophy. “Few years back, some dumbass came in looking to hold me up for some easy cash. Thought a little girl behind the counter would be an easy target.”
Miya sniffed the drink she’d been offered, though Kai caught a whiff of gin and lime from a foot away. Lambchop wasn’t getting any Pepsi here; soda was for the weak. “What happened?”
Crowbar ran her tongue over her teeth, pouring herself more gin. “Sucker thought wrong.”
“Guess you don’t need me to kick a man’s ass.” Kai raised his glass in a toast. “Hope you broke a few bones with that thing.”
“Oh, at least a few.” Crowbar clinked glasses with him, then downed her shot. That one was followed by another, and then several more.
The last specs of sunset had disappeared, leaving the rat-sized windows of The Mangy Spade entirely dark. With time catching up to him, Kai’s stomach cramped with hunger.
“What’s good to eat around here?” he asked, flipping through a menu on the bar top. He peered over the laminate with a raised eyebrow. “Taco beef mac and cheese?”
Crowbar shrugged. “Whatever meat’s leftover from the nachos, we throw into the mac and cheese.” She winked at Miya. “Waste not.”
Kai slapped the menu shut. “I’ll take it.”
Crowbar refilled on an umpteenth shot and shouted the order into the kitchen. By the looks of it, she was planning on getting sloshed at work.
Miya sipped her gin and smacked her lips in appraisal, then had a little more. “So, what’s got Clint drinking at the bar regularly?”
Crowbar passed her a glass of water. “Wife left him a few months ago.”
“Well, he doesn’t have to be a jerk about it.” Miya glanced at Kai as he threw back his whisky.
Crowbar poured him another, continuing to help herself to the gin. “People can be far worse,” she muttered, her voice suddenly soft, shaky even.
“You okay?” Miya asked.
Kai was always amazed at how readily Miya pried out people’s crap. He didn’t have her emotional intelligence, but he had his animal instincts. Crowbar’s heart rate came hard and fast when she spoke, almost like the beating mass in her chest was trying to hurt her. She’d been so steady when Clint was hassling her, but now the smell of her sweat had changed—stress hormones running amok. She swallowed more often, probably because there was a lump in her throat.
Crowbar was about to cry.
“Ah, it’s nothing.” She smiled at Miya, her eyes a little glazed. Her voice was tight, the slight wobble giving her away. The booze had done its job to loosen her up, but instead of helping her forget whatever was eating her, it was stirring it up to the surface.
Miya took a large gulp of gin, her face scrunching and her cheeks turning ruddy. She grabbed the water to clear away the bite, then blew out a hefty breath. “Hey, I’m sure you listen to a lot of people vent. No shame in having them return the favour.”
Crowbar laughed hoarsely and wiped a stray teardrop from her cheek. She picked up the gin, then set it back down, seeming unsure if it was worth drowning her sorrows any further. “It’s just…I lost my sister re
cently. Though I guess it’s more accurate to say she was taken from me.”
Kai held the rim of the glass against his bottom lip, the whisky burning through the dry cracks. He clacked it down on the counter. “By whom?”
Miya rapped him on the leg—a gentle admonition. “You don’t have to tell us anything if you don’t want to,” she quickly swept over his blunder.
“Nah, it’s all right.” Crowbar picked at her nail polish until it flaked off. “It was her husband. Kind of grim for bar-talk, but it’s not exactly news around here. Small town and all.”
Kai felt his ears prickle with unease. He’d known there was something off-kilter when he’d first walked in. Something had latched onto this woman, something putrid like death ignored for too long. It was gnawing its way through her heart.
A hulking, broad-shouldered man with bleached dreadlocks and dark skin burst through the kitchen doors, his entrance breaking their stony stares. “One taco mac and cheese!” he announced, the plate diving in front of Kai’s nose. The chef wiped his hands on his greasy apron, speckled with dancing pink elephants, then gave Crowbar a hearty slap on the back.
The smell of sharp cheddar, chili powder, and cumin drew Kai’s attention. He barely remembered to unwrap the fork from the napkin as he scooped the goopy pasta and shovelled it into his mouth. He nodded towards the big dude and said, “Good shit.”
The chef offered a satisfied grin, leaned against the doors, and glided back into his kingdom.
Once the squeak of the hinges halted, Kai’s gaze shifted back to Crowbar. She was drawing circles into the bar top with condensation from her glass.
“I’m sorry for your loss,” Miya whispered, the air thick like vapour.
“It’s ok,” Crowbar shrugged. “I’m just glad the piece of shit’s getting locked up for life.”
Kai tilted the dish, watching the yellowed oil pool into one corner. “Why’d he do it?”
Miya’s head snapped towards him, her lips pursed as she cut him with a glower.
Crowbar chuckled and shook her head. “It’s all right, girl.” She patted Miya on the arm, then topped up Kai’s whisky with a sloppy tilt of the bottle. “To help with digestion,” she told him before resting against one of the shelves.
Kai lifted the drink in thanks before helping himself to the social lubricant.
“Honestly, I’m not sure why he did it,” Crowbar began. She was slurring a bit now, but the words kept coming. “They were happy. As far as anyone could tell, Vince adored Syd, but a few weeks ago, Syd said he started to change. He got cold, distant, snappy. Started avoiding her and everyone else—guy just wouldn’t talk to anyone.” She paused, her hand trembling before she locked down the grief with her nth drink. She’d been slamming back shots with Kai for over an hour now, the count long gone with the daylight. It seemed she hadn’t spoken to anyone about her sister, or maybe it was just easier talking to strangers in a town where there were no secrets. With strangers, the stakes were low; it was a purge without commitments. That was how Kai kept afloat before Miya cracked him open like an expired egg.
Crowbar squeezed her eyes shut as she swallowed too fast, the liquor probably burning in her throat. “First, we thought he was having an affair—that maybe he’d killed her because he couldn’t deal with the guilt.”
Kai scraped the last of the cheese from his plate. “Doesn’t sound like something you’d do to someone you love.”
Crowbar nodded, pointing a finger at him while she still clutched the glass. “Right! It just didn’t add up. Police went through his stuff and didn’t find anything—no phone numbers, emails, dating site accounts, bank withdrawals. Nothing!”
Miya grew fidgety, furrowing her brows as she stared at the table. “I don’t know. Men kill women they love pretty frequently.” Her voice was low, her posture stiff—tell-tale signs she wasn’t speaking her mind.
A sour taste rose in Kai’s mouth. Miya’s father had nearly killed her. Could he really say it wasn’t about a twisted kind of love? Just like in Black Hollow, there was probably something sinister exploiting that warped affection. Kai knew in his bones it was the thing Gavran had warned them about—the monster from Miya’s nightmares. The one that’d pulled him underwater.
The Grey Gnarl was her gate.
A shiver wormed up his spine. The demon left pieces of herself wherever she went, and her stench clung to Crowbar. It’d found him too, and for one chilling moment, Kai swore he felt her decaying breath caress his neck. A soft, sickly-sweet giggle danced through the air, and his heart seized.
Crowbar pressed her forearms to the counter. “Police didn’t give a shit. Just said it happens all the time. Tried to make it sound like he was ill, but I don’t buy it. After it happened, Vince was heartbroken. He just kept saying he had no choice—not that it made it any better.” She shook her head and cussed under breath. “Don’t know what’s worse—having someone you love get murdered for a deranged reason or having them murdered for no reason at all.”
“The second one,” said Kai, unable to shake the monstress’ putrid scent. He raised his head and caught Crowbar’s gaze, though his words were intended for a second audience. “If someone’s going to end me, they better do it with some fucking purpose. Anything less and I’ll haunt them ’til they find their grave.”
Miya choked on her drink, beating a fist against her chest. “You sound like your dearly departed brother,” she said between hacks.
Kai smirked and clinked his glass against hers. “Guess it’s in the blood.”
The unnerving presence was finally gone.
“So, what’re you two doing here?” Crowbar interrupted their exchange. “Orme’s Rest isn’t exactly a tourist grab.”
Miya and Kai traded glances.
“Looking for our employer,” Miya answered.
Crowbar’s mouth twisted into a frown. “Not sure I follow you, girly.”
Miya smiled, her muddy green eyes softening. “I got called here for work. Nothing exciting, I promise.”
If she’d said that horse shit smelled like roses and tasted like red velvet cupcakes, Kai would’ve believed her.
Crowbar’s interest appeared to wane as she washed out her tumbler. “Yeah, man, the gig economy’s tough. Takes people everywhere.” When she hit the pump, dish soap erupted from the dispenser and splattered over her jeans. Swearing, she pulled some plastic cards from her pocket and slapped them down on the bar top.
Kai let his eyes drag past the glassware and settle on her driver’s license. Dahlia Rose Baron. So that was her real name.
“We should go,” he said, digging out his worn leather wallet. He leafed past his scrap of lilac birthday card—all he had left of Alice—and fished out a few bills. “Keep the change,” he nodded as he folded the crumpled notes under his plate.
Miya washed down the rest of her drink with water and slid off her stool, smiling at Crowbar. “It was great to meet you.”
Crowbar beamed in return. “Hope to see you again while you’re in town. Really, I mean it.”
“I’d like that too,” Miya replied, tucking the stool in.
Kai didn’t bother with the platitudes. Before Miya could stop him, he was already out the door. His fingertips brushed over the king of spades, a quiet nostalgia stinging like wooden splinters burrowed in his hand.
6
Mason
Mason stared at the giant map of North America stretched over his corkboard. He’d wedged thumbtacks into various locations across the continent—all potential candidates for the Dreamwalker’s interest.
How was she travelling? Her passport had been left in Black Hollow. She couldn’t cross national borders without legal documents, and there was no record of her license being re-issued by British Columbia, at least according to the PI Raymond hired. As far as the file opened on Miya detailed, there had been no bank account or credit card activity, much less any indication of a government-issued ID matching Miya’s age and description.
Mason c
onsidered that she didn’t need earthly transportation, but that wasn’t a theory he could indulge. Not because he didn’t think it was possible, but because Raymond and Andrea Delathorne were unlikely to accept it.
It was ironic how readily they believed in the Dreamwalker’s malevolent schemes while remaining intolerant to the possibility that their daughter was skipping across the world through alternate planes.
Mason scratched through his wiry, blond curls, his jaw clenching and releasing as he tried to puzzle out where to begin. This was an after-hours project, an extracurricular activity. He hadn’t really agreed to anything, but he had to remind himself that he had a job and people to look after.
Yet the desire to drop everything and fly to New York simmered like a hot pot about to boil over. Miya had been spotted in NYC by a childhood friend, Hannah Cleary, who’d landed a highly coveted job there as a make-up artist. Despite her busy schedule, she’d agreed to a phone call after Miya’s parents passed on her contact info in an unsolicited email.
Mason plunked down in his armchair and dialled the number. After several rings, a woman answered.
“Hello?”
“Ms. Cleary, this is Mason Evans. I hope I’m not calling too late?”
“Not at all! Thanks for getting in touch…Dr. Evans, is it?”
“Just Mason is fine.” After leaving Black Hollow, he’d retired the title outside of his practice.
“You can call me Hannah, then,” she said, the sound of crinkling grocery bags in the background.
“Of course. Hannah it is.”
“So,” she ventured, “I guess you want to know about Miya?”
“Yes…” Mason trailed off, unsure of where to begin. “Not to be facetious, but I just want to confirm—you’re absolutely sure you saw Emiliya Delathorne?”
Hannah laughed, and Mason felt the tension melt from his shoulders. She had a sense of humour. “I understand why you’d doubt me,” she said, “but I’d bet my own life on it. I’ve known Miya since we were kids. She’s always been different.”
