Grit & Shadows Boxed Set: Urban Fantasy and Horror Collection: Volumes 1 - 3

by J. D. Brink

  “Ridiculous,” he admits.

  “Yes.”

  “So why would anyone come up with something so absurd?”

  “Exactly.”

  “Then it must be true,” he states plainly.

  “No. It’s implausible from every angle, even if I concede the possibility of… magic.”

  “Don’t you believe in magic, Jack?”

  My answer is unconvincing, even to me: “No.”

  He smiles.

  “So you and Alma have been working together all along? Impossible.”

  “Ingenious,” he says. “It’s so much more effective to have you all choose sides and pit you against one of us. Doing so binds you more closely to the other. You came back for her, didn’t you, Jack? A lonely, solitary leopard like yourself is easy prey for a raptor like her.”

  “Bullshit. I don’t believe it.”

  “Exactly.”

  Something bursts above us and suddenly it’s raining: the sprinklers have kicked on. We stare at each other for a long moment, waiting—daring—the other to make a move. My finger vibrates on Lavern’s trigger.

  “My element,” he says at last, giant droplets running down his face and dripping from his chin.

  The metal doors clang open. A female silhouette backs into the room, casting long shadows from an unseen light source.

  Maria?

  She looks over her shoulder to see where she’s going.

  It’s Alma, brandishing a long torch in both hands, a heavy-headed mop set ablaze.

  She calls my name and hurries backward, swinging her torch around. The fire gives a soft roar through the air.

  The doors open again. Two men in red jackets inch inside, the taller one leading with his gun in hand. The second is short and bald.

  “St-stop, bitch!” the stutterer barks. “I mean it!”

  I swing Lavern in his direction. “Drop it, shit head!” Even I’m surprised at the commanding power in my voice. “I mean it.”

  Baldy doesn’t have a gun, just his radio. A voice on it says the pool area is still clear. There must not be anyone else down here; they’re all out searching.

  “You push the button on that radio,” I warn, “and I’ll pull this trigger.”

  The other man points his gun at me, back to Alma, back to me.

  The sprinkler rain water hisses and sizzles against Alma’s torch, even as tiny bits of fire drip off and float along the wet concrete floor. Her firebrand is flickering, weakening. She backs up beside me.

  Baldy slowly brings the radio up by his face.

  I’ve never shot anyone before, says the voice in my head.

  “What are you going to do, Jack?” Nagashi’s voice is calm and condescending.

  I lose patience with Baldy, stabbing my weapon toward him again. “I mean it!”

  Alma pivots, adjusts her grip, and smashes the flaming head of the mop as hard as she can right into Nagashi’s left side. His jacket lights up as he falls backward into the shelves and drops behind the desk. She shoves the fiery spear past him now, into the shelves. Boxes of napkins and tablecloths flare with orange light.

  My anger flares with them and I pull the trigger. The stutterer falls to the ground with a bullet just above his knee, his pistol crashing against the floor. Baldy freezes and his radio slips away.

  Nagashi appears again, frantically trying to tear his jacket off while flames lick his face.

  I’m frozen now, shocked at the horrible spectacle.

  Luckily, Alma saves me. “Let’s go, Jack!” she yells, tugging on my arm.

  We splash through the puddles and flee through the rear exit, the flames growing behind us despite the rain. My focus is on Alma as she leads me up the concrete stairwell and into a dark parking lot. Behind us are screams of pain and the fiery roar.

  Twenty-Two

  “Stop dragging your feet, damn it!”

  Alma leads me into the rows of random cars with a destination in mind. We break apart at a faded ochre Toyota and I notice that the tailpipe is already breathing smoke. She runs to the passenger side and commands me to drive. My window has been smashed in, the car hot-wired. I jump in on glittering bits of safety glass, throw it into drive, and take off the instant her door’s closed.

  Alma points the way to the narrow, broken road and I stomp on the gas, trying to push all distractions out of my mind. I have to focus on the task at hand. There is nothing before me but the yellow lines flashing under the car and the green glow of the dashboard. Even Edgar must be forgotten for now. I simply can’t help him.

  Nagashi’s crazy story is another distraction to be pushed away, especially the thought of them working together. Alma just set him on fire, for Christ’s sake!

  With her directions and my skill, we make the ferry landing in four minutes. There’s a crowd built up, knots of people sitting or standing around in the gravel parking lot.

  The murmurs as we approach indicate that the boat’s not running. One of three crewmen in tropical orange shirts rests against a pole with his arms crossed. He’s the boat captain, I gather, as his presence far outweighs his short stature. According to him, the police have ordered them to stay docked; they’re not to take anyone off the island. “Something crazy at the casino,” he explains.

  “I think these people are getting restless,” I tell him. “Maybe you better get us out of here before something crazy happens right here in this lot.”

  “Sorry, sir,” he shrugs, his accent thick, “not my decision. I’d like to get home, too, but I don’t have that kind of authority.”

  I open my coat and show him the pistol grip. “I’m giving you the authority.”

  With a little preparation, the crewman announces that the ferry will be departing after all. The crowd is relieved and quickly boards. Mooring lines cast off, we float out onto the black sea.

  I unplug the helmsman’s radio, wrap the cord around it in a nice, neat little package, and keep it on my lap. Alma and I claim front row seats right outside the pilot house, where we can keep an eye on things.

  “We need that radio,” the captain complains, “to tell the dock we’re coming.”

  “Bullshit,” I grumble back. “You need it to warn someone that we’re coming. Just get us there.”

  “Look,” Alma says calmly, “we just want to get to the other side, like everybody else. As long as that happens, no one gets hurt and everyone goes home to their beds tonight.”

  Good crook, bad crook. We work well together.

  Our fellow passengers are soon rocked to sleep, and the soothing waves try to drag me down into their dreamy depths, too. The adrenaline fades and my lids get heavy, but I fight it. One of the crew notices my sleepiness but I perk up with a threatening look. He turns back to the sea.

  Save the lights on the boat and the stars in the sky, there’s nothing but black all around us.

  Alma leans against me, getting comfortable. “We made it,” she whispers.

  “Not yet,” I whisper back.

  “Where are the tiles?” she asks.

  “Safe,” I snap, louder than I intended.

  “Okay, Jack. I trust you.” She shifts in her seat, her eyes closed. “Tell me about my new hometown,” she says. “What’s it called?”

  New hometown seems more optimistic than I’m ready to accept at this point, but I tell her.

  She smiles. “Rails End. Sounds like a good place to stop running. What’s it like?”

  I describe for Alma the richness of our Chinatown. I tell her about Swan and his wife. About Skunk and his tattoo parlor, and some of the kids that hang out there. About the Speakeasy and the almost gothic atmosphere there—though I leave out the bit about bullying an old man and getting beaten up by the bartender. I describe the shitty neighborhood I live in, but how the locals are generally friendly and cheerful anyway, and Felix and Rummy and some of the guys at the factory.

  “And you were thinking about leaving?” she asks. “Why?”

  “I’m not sure. I jus
t keep moving till I find it, I guess.”

  “Find what?”

  “I’m not sure,” I say again. “Mystery? Secrets? Something profound? I want to see who’s behind the curtain, find the truth behind the illusions. There’s got to be more to this world than what we see day in and day out.”

  “Everything’s an illusion.” She says it like it’s an obvious truth, something we knew as kids but chose to forget. Her eyes are closed and she’s on the edge of falling asleep. “And everything has truth. You could look everywhere and never find what you’re looking for. Or you could stop and just look down, and right there it is.”

  “You sound like Swan. But I like it, I like what you’re saying.” I swallow involuntarily, nervously. “That’s something else I’ve been looking for. Someone who understands. Someone else like me.”

  Her eyes open again. She slides one hand over mine and laces our fingers together. “Sounds to me like you already have. Couldn’t you hear yourself? You have a lot of friends there in Rails End. And as for mystery, there’s plenty of that around.”

  The captain appears to tell me we’re halfway there. I just nod to him.

  Alma sits up and looks around for the other crewmen to make sure no one’s getting any bad ideas. “We’d better not get too comfortable,” she says, and I agree. We finish the trip alert, our hands resting together between us, but without the pleasant conversation.

  Twenty-Three

  I plug the radio back in once the lights of Saipan are near enough for my poor eyes to make out shapes on the shore. We instruct the captain to call the cab companies, tell them they have business out here. When we land, Alma and I are the first ones off, following a hundred-dollar payoff to each boatman for the inconvenience. I hope it’s enough to keep their mouths shut.

  “That was about the last of the petty cash,” I tell Alma as we make our way to the waiting taxis.

  “That’s okay,” she says. “I still have my winnings.”

  The cabs are lined up, exhaust clouds highlighted by the headlights of the car behind them. As we approach, I spy a lone figure standing off to the side, standing with his fists clenched under the moonlight. He’s tall with thick grey hair. Even in silhouette, I swear I can see his eyes.

  I grab Alma’s hand. “Run.”

  We charge for the lead cab and the other man’s stance breaks like glass, charging to cut us off. The cabbie sees us coming, stamps out his cigarette, and jumps into the driver’s seat just seconds before we throw ourselves into the back.

  “Where—”

  “The Seaside Hotel, now!”

  The tires spit gravel and Poh pounds his fist onto the trunk as we pull away. He runs after us into the darkened country road, but finally shrinks away from the red glow of the taillights.

  “How the hell did he beat us here?”

  Alma shakes her head. Her whole body is shaking.

  Nagashi’s fantasy comes back to me. What a load of bullshit.

  “Who the fuck was that?” the cabbie wants to know.

  “Jealous husband,” I say, pulling Alma closer.

  “Why are we going to a hotel?” she whispers. “Why not the airport?”

  “I need my bag,” I tell her ear. “Eight dominoes in a bag aren’t suspicious, but if security finds them in the lining of my coat, they may wonder why.”

  She pats my flank, feels the tiles inside my jacket, and kisses my cheek.

  Alma promises the driver a twenty-dollar bonus if he waits for us.

  It’s not that late and there’s still activity in the hotel’s open-air lobby. I lead her up the side stairs, pausing at the second floor landing, wondering if I should check room 213 again. If Nagashi was the suit on the beach last night, that’d make it his room.

  “What are we stopping for?” she asks.

  “Nothing.”

  We creep onto the fourth floor. There’s a room service cart heading in the other direction. I assume it’s legit.

  My key opens the lock, but as I start pushing, the door falls in—pulled by someone else. A huge hand grabs my shirt collar and yanks me inside, the Samoan’s round face snarling at me. I’m slammed against the wall. A ham-like fist hits me in the stomach, then across the jaw.

  I go down.

  I feel cold metal on my wrist and hear the familiar ratcheting of handcuffs. I’ve just been cuffed to the leg of the dresser.

  Alma yelps.

  The door closes and the lights come on.

  The skinny Filipino in the alligator jacket has Alma’s arms pinned behind her, her face pressed to the bed. The Samoan is standing over me.

  “You still have that fat guy’s cigar cutter?” Skinny asks. His partner grunts in the negative. I remember seeing it in the sand, along with Petey’s fingers. “Then we’ll have to do this the old fashioned way.”

  In those few precious seconds of thug banter, I’ve slipped the cuffs; elementary for a magician’s apprentice. I spin on the floor and bring my foot up between the Samoan’s legs. Something gives there. He bends over clutching his balls and sucks air like a whale. I pull myself up by his big head, drive a knee into his face, and dive on Skinny. I may not be stronger than the average, but I am stronger than this guy. We wrestle, me on top, his pockmarked face hissing at me. Then a hand takes Lavern from the back of my pants. The muzzle levels beside my ear.

  “Grab your bag,” Alma tells me, holding the gun on him.

  I kick the Samoan again and snatch my luggage from the closet. Alma cracks Skinny in the forehead with the butt of the gun, dropping him out with his eyes rolled back.

  I expect to come face to face with Nagashi on our way back to the cab, face burned and angry, but there’s no sign of him.

  The cabbie drops us at the airport. I leave the gun tucked under his seat.

  There aren’t many people here, and most of those who are wear a uniform of one kind or another, airline or security. Alma tells me which counter to get the tickets from, and that they’re under Eddie’s name. “I’m going to the bathroom,” she says. “I’ll catch up in a minute.”

  I watch her go, not sure if I trust fate to deliver her back to me.

  I look around.

  No one’s taking any notice of me, everyone sleepily going about their business. The security guys look bored. News of the casino incident apparently hasn’t reached here yet. The dumpy island police probably think they still have it contained there.

  An announcement echoes overhead: our flight is boarding.

  My grip tightens on the handle of my bag.

  “Alma!” I bark toward the bathrooms. Everyone hears me, everyone looks, but the ladies’ room door doesn’t stir.

  I move toward the restrooms, but pause outside. Can’t risk getting picked up now for something as stupid as being a pervert.

  The second hand on a wall clock completes a full circuit.

  “Fuck it.” I push open the door and startle an old woman on her way out. She stands in shock, eyes wide, blue eye shadow deepening her look of dread.

  “Excuse me, ma’am, but my girlfriend and I are about to miss our flight. Can you tell her to hurry for me?”

  The woman lets out the breath she was holding and adjusts her blouse nervously, like I came in here hoping for a peak at that. “There’s no one else in here,” she says in a huff, then reads the sincerity on my face. “I’m sorry.”

  I stand in her way a moment more, confused, before stepping aside. As soon as the woman’s clear and I’m sure no one’s looking, I go in.

  The bathroom’s empty. The floor is white tile, clean except for the brown paper towels overflowing from the wastebasket. The only noise is a dripping sink.

  I bend down to confirm there are no feet in the stalls, then push in each door to make sure.

  There’s no one here.

  But there is something else on the floor of the last stall. Face down between the wall and the toilet. A playing card. I pick it up.

  The queen of hearts. And in her hand is a single feather.


  “Damn it.” I kick the wastebasket on my way out. It bangs against the wall and vomits wadded brown paper all over the floor.

  Back at the check-in counter, a young woman is shoving papers into a manila folder, probably putting them away for the night. I give her Edgar’s name and she consults her computer.

  “I know there’s three tickets,” I growl impatiently, “but it’s just me.”

  She gives me a nervous grin and my boarding pass. “You better run, though,” she says. “That flight’s about to leave. I’ll call the pilot, but you better run.”

  There’s no line at the security checkpoint. They x-ray my bag and send me through.

  Another overhead reminder, specifically for me.

  I charge down the tunnel. The flight attendant on the plane frowns at me for being late, then seals the door behind me.

  From my seat I can see the windows of the terminal, empty couches inside, someone running a vacuum cleaner. There’s no sign of anyone else.

  I look at the misprinted playing card, knowing that the queens all carry flowers; it’s one of the knaves that has a feather. I rotate the card, eyeing the second lady printed upside-down, and wonder who she is.

  Just before California, our path crosses that of the sun on its way west. The dawn light glints off the wing, shining for an instant like a flaming bird flying just outside my window.

  Part Four

  Proceeding Humbly

  Twenty-Four

  Swan and I have a philosophical conversation over a plate of twice-cooked pork.

  It’s only been a few days since I was here last. For him, nothing new has happened. There’s usually a few days between my visits.

  For me… Let’s just say, my vision of what’s real and what isn’t… It’s foggier than it used to be.

  I’m a little more receptive this time around, chewing my spicy cabbage and rice, drinking nothing but hot tea and ice water. And carefully eyeballing the doorway every time that damn little bell jingles. I’m not sure who I’m watching for: Alma, Nagashi, Poh, or anyone else with powerful eyes and a suspicious disposition. Who says they can’t be someone else now, here in this foreign land, under a different moon? Who says that my mysterious allies and adversaries haven’t changed shape to get the drop on me?