by James R Tuck
He laid the gun down. Dust from the desk coated the saliva drying into a sticky film. Reaching in his pocket brought out two small cans of potted meat product. Those went beside the gun, carefully placed on top of each other like he'd found them on the grocery shelf, high and away from prying eyes. The canteen, half full of metallic tasting water, refused to sit up properly. Somewhere along the way he'd dented the bottom, making it topple to its side. Next came the battered box of matches, the striker strip worn and streaked clean to the cardboard in many places. Matches being the right word, there were only two left, but with the candle, it could mean the difference between life and death for two nights.
For someone.
Else.
Blowing out the candle to save as much of it as possible, he turned and opened the door, cool air whooshing over his face.
* * *
It was night now.
The temperature had dropped considerably with the loss of the sun, but he didn't notice. The dead still milled in front of the store like workers on strike. There was a pattern to their shuffles and twice he'd seen the same zombies pass with no sign of her.
Just as he was ready to go back to his gun she stepped in front of the door frame. Moonlight silhouetted her still ripe body in the red sheath dress. She'd been prepared for burial in that dress. It made her look amazing and had been her one request. It was the dress she'd worn on dancing dates with him. Always the slow songs, always at country bars or honkytonks.
Saltwater blurred his vision. She stood in the moonlight, in the doorway, waiting on him to dance with her one last time.
His feet crunched the glass on the tile floor, making her stop. His hand grabbed hers, pulling her over the threshold. The skin he touched was hard, slick and rubbery. She stumbled a little on the frame, clumsy in death, falling into his arms. An old George Jones tune flashed in his mind. He would always request it when they were out and the place was country enough to have it on hand. Matted hair rubbed his face. Eyes closed, he softly crooned in her ear.
One step left, one step back, one step right he pulled her along in the tiny area inside the doorway. Her arm went around his back the way it used to, staying for a moment, sweetly embracing him.
Her arm tightened, unnaturally strong in death, rupturing his kidneys and a disc in his spine. The floating ribs folded in, lacerating his diaphragm.
Pulling breath through a filter of straight razor pain, he nuzzled her, and kept singing.
". . .He stopped loving her today. . ."
He never felt her teeth in his neck.
AUTHOR'S WORD
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Now turn the page for a sneak peek of the next installment of the pulse-pounding
Deacon Chalk: Occult Bounty Hunter
series by James R. Tuck.
SILK AND SCALE
Deacon Chalk: Book Four
(winter 2013)
1
I sat on the edge of the stage, a tumbler full of bourbon in my left hand and a loaded Colt .45 in my right. Both the bourbon and the gun were there to ease my nerves.
Why was I nervous?
If your phone rang ten minutes ago with the call mine did you'd go for the bottle and the bullets too.
I took a swallow of the whiskey, letting the burn sit on the back of my throat as my thumb rubbed back and forth, back and forth, back and forth on the safety. Alone, I could still smell the sawdust and new paint in the air from construction finished just last night. The bar had already been stocked even though three days separated us from Opening Night.
Priorities.
Would I shoot him as soon as he came in the door?
I might. It'd probably be the wisest course of action.
It wouldn't be much longer so I needed to make up my mind.
Another swallow finished the glass. High quality bourbon, the best Kentucky had to offer, it left the glass clean and clear. Warmth lay heavy in my belly and everything was cool man, all sharp edges smoothed out by the 80 proof and everything on an even keel. Bottle in hand, I was ready to pour another when he spoke.
“Two glasses and loaded gun. Which of those for me?”
The voice was stilted, weighed down with a heavy accent. After 1500 years you'd think he'd of lost that but he never had. English was his third language.
After Russian.
After human.
I froze, eyes scanning the shadows around the room. I didn't see him and I hadn't heard him come in, but I hadn't expected to. Hell, I'd left the door unlocked. A locked door wouldn't have stopped him anymore than it would've stopped me.
“I'll give you whichever one you came here for.”
“I came for your gun but I never turn down drink. Would be insult to do so.”
My finger slid into the trigger guard. “Come on down and I'll gladly pour for the both of us.”
Tension clenched my shoulders.
C'mon out and let's do this.
Movement made me look as he stepped from a shadow by the bar. He stood for a long second, hands out to the side, before walking toward me. He swivel-hipped through the tables at the end of the room, expensive three-piece suit wrapping his lithe frame. Solid, damn near stocky, he still moved with the predator grace of a tiger.
As he drew near I stopped watching his hands and started watching his eyes. They were dark lights in deep caves on either side of a craggy nose. His face looked half-sculpted, like the artist started then decided 'fuck this' because the stone was too damned hard. He wasn't ugly or handsome but he had a damn interesting face.
He stopped a few feet from where I sat, to the left just far enough that I could watch him with one eye and still pour. He didn't move as I filled both glasses and held one out. As he took it I glimpsed the black tattoo that spilled from under his sleeve and onto the back of his hand. For a second, it looked like the tattoo moved under his skin.
It wasn't a trick of the light.
Lifting the tumbler to his nose he sniffed. “Black Dragon?” His mouth quirked. “Is irony.”
I shrugged. “Not really. It's just the best.”
“You are true Southern gentleman my friend.”
I raised my glass in my left hand.
He did the same with a small nod. “Zadorovya.”
We tossed back together, the whiskey smooth and delicious, all caramel and woodsmoke and a hint of chocolate, not as hot now that my tongue had been exposed. I lowered my glass. “Now Ivan, why don't you tell me what the hell it is you want.”
He didn't blink. “Perhaps I come to see your new business.” He looked around. “Is nice place.”
“Thanks. We worked real hard on it.” I raised my gun, pointing it at his face. The laser sight painted his cheek red. He didn't blink. “Now cut the shit. I know when you call someone and tell them you're coming it's your way of giving them time to prepare and meet their Maker.”
“Da, is true. You think is why I called you?”
“Is it?”
“Have you done something that would bring me to your door in this manner?”
“Ah hell, I don't know. Maybe I killed something or somebody that somebody else thought didn't deserve it. Maybe they reached out to you, you took their money, and now we find ourselves here in this prickly situation.”
“You have killed someone who fits that description?”
“It's been a busy year.” The gun was getting heavy in my hand. .45's ain't light, you can't hold them up forever. I slid off the stage to stand, tightening my grip. I wasn't in the shaky zone yet, but heat was building in the muscles under my arm and I could feel it coming like a steady moving train. “Now, tell me why you're here or I pull this trigger and we do this dance.”
; “You would not give me chance to draw? Make a fair fight?”
“Fuck you. This ain't the OK Corral. This is my house. You came here knowing what I am and what I do.” I shrugged. “Not my fault if you're a piss-poor planner.”
“And you would shoot a friend just like that?”
I laughed. “We're two sides of the same coin, Ivan. A monster hunting evil humans and a human hunting evil monsters. I'm not sure that's enough to put us in the 'friend' zone.”
A look passed over his face like an eclipse. His voice came quiet to my ears. “Is more than I have with any other human in this world.” Near-black eyes stared at me.
Aw, hell.
I lowered my gun. “Tell me what kind of trouble you're in.”
He blinked. “Just like that?”
“Just like that.”
“You are good man, Deacon Chalk.”
I shook my head. “If I were a good man I wouldn't be the kind of help you're about to ask for.”
He looked sad. "Is true. Truer than you know."
A voice spoke from the darkness behind me.
“Stand with the dragon and you'll be the next to die.”
Want more?
Look for
SILK AND SCALE
Deacon Chalk: Book Four
coming Winter 2013
Want even more?
Then check out:
Hired Gun
Crime fiction the way it is meant to be written
Like a knuckle sammich
right across the kisser!
also from
James R. Tuck
and the fine folks at
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