MudMan (The Golem Chronicles Book 1)

by James Hunter

  “And you can’t tell me anything about it,” Levi said. It wasn’t a question. The tree loved to blather on, so if he knew anything of use, he’d have spilled it ages ago.

  He sighed, his mossy mustache fluttering out. “I’m a scholar of Summerlands—despite a limited knowledge, Kobocks don’t fall into my field of specialty. I can check the library, but the Faire Folk of Summer care little for dark things of deep earth.”

  “Earlier, you said you could point me in the right direction. Even if you don’t know yourself, I’m sure you know who would know.”

  “You flatter me.” The tree shed a huge grin. “And, as it turns out, you’re quite correct. One of the High Fae of the Winterlands could tell you, I suspect. It’ll mean a trek into Thurak-Tir, though.”

  “You have any shortcuts to Winter?” Levi asked. “I’m not keen on having to drag some Rube girl through the Endless Wood. Don’t want to be away from earth that long, either.”

  “Sadly no.” Skip paused as if choosing his words very carefully. “Relations are strained between courts just now. Some kind of goings-on with traitors and conspiracies. Business involving the Guild of the Staff and Lady Fate herself. Affairs far outside the paygrade of our likes. And I’ve never exactly been the sociable sort to begin with … Come to think of it, though, I have a friend of sorts who could help I think. A mage. I know how you feel about their like—a sentiment felt by many, I can assure you—but this bloke’s a different sort.”

  Levi had little experience with the magi and their Guild of the Staff, and that was the way he intended to keep things. The magi, self-appointed protectors of humanity, were well known for their thuggery, and even the slightest infraction could leave you facing their heavy-handed justice. Though Levi killed only murderers, he suspected if the Guild ever discovered his existence and occupation it wouldn’t be long before he had unwelcome visitors gracing his doorstep. Still, if the other option was a trek through the Endless Wood, it’d almost be worth it.

  “Tell me about this mage friend of yours,” Levi finally said after mulling it over for a bit.

  “An academic, more concerned with knowledge and wisdom than enforcing arbitrary laws. He’s a historian, archeologist, and a cultural anthropologist. Deals mostly with mythology and non-human religion. If anyone is likely to know what this altar is, it’d be him. Professor Owen Wilkie is his name, and last I heard he was working on a dig site out in the Sprawl.”

  “The Sprawl,” Levi replied, voice dry and unamused. “The Sprawl isn’t any less dangerous than the Endless Wood.”

  “Aye, but the walk is a damned bit shorter.” He chuckled. “A damned bit shorter, indeed. And I think you’ll find old Professor Wilkie a fair bit more affable than anyone in Winter.”

  Levi pondered. A bird chirped nearby. A chattering squirrel answered in kind.

  No good options, and other leads to run down. Levi wasn’t well connected in the supernatural community, and he would never be described as a sleuth. For a second, he considered dropping the whole business—turning the girl back over to the cops and putting her and the altar out of mind for good. Seemed like more trouble than it was worth. Much easier to go back to life as usual: work, church, hunting expeditions every few months. Nice, boring, simple, safe.

  If he turned Ryder over to the cops, though, it’d be as good as a death sentence. She’s only going to Red House. It’s standard procedure. She’ll be bathed and disinfected. A death sentence. Unacceptable. He had to see this thing through, and if Skip said this Professor Wilkie held the way forward, then that was the end of it.

  “Okay,” Levi said finally. “We’ll make the journey.”

  “Good, good,” Skip replied. “I feel I owe you something more—our gifts, they were not equal I fear. I know a guide in the Hub, he can take you where you need to go. A reliable fellow.”

  “Better not be Chuck,” Levi said.

  “Come again, now?”

  “I said”—Levi leaned forward on one hand, bicep flexing, his true form bubbling beneath—“it’d better not be Chuck. Chuck MacLeti.”

  “And what’s wrong with Chuck MacLeti?”

  “He’s annoying, for one. Two, he’s irresponsible and selfish. Three, he uses foul language, and four, he would sell out his mother for a pack of cigarettes. I can keep going if you need me to.”

  “Nonsense, Muddy—”

  “Stop calling me that.”

  “—Chuck’s really quite reliable. Besides, he can get you where you need to go and he owes me a favor.”

  The Mudman had used Chuck as a tour guide, fence, and information broker a handful of times before. The man could be useful, and, if properly motivated—which meant money, lots of money—he could even be reliable. At least as reliable as any mercenary could be. With that said, there were few people Levi liked less. Not necessarily a bad person, Chuck, but absolutely terrible company. Still, Skip was right. Chuck could likely get them where they needed to go, and what Levi knew about the Sprawl came only from dusty old tomes.

  “Fine,” Levi conceded.

  They talked for another ten minutes, the Leshy providing names, details, and directions.

  Then, Levi dozed lightly—drifting in and out of sleep—while the warm light of late afternoon bathed his skin and the bloodstone beneath him absorbed his pain and hurts, lending him renewed and implacable strength. When Levi finally opened his eyes again, it was to the waning light of late afternoon, and his body felt good as new.

  TEN:

  Ryder

  Ryder watched from the couch as the man who called himself Levi stomped off through the dining room and into the kitchen. The squeak—thud of an opening, then closing door told her he’d gone outside. He looked normal enough right now, except for the missing arm, which he carried in his free hand. Disgusting. Oddly though, she felt numb about the whole thing. The Mudman. The Kobocks. Her uncertain fate. All of it.

  The green sofa was nice and soft, and the cushions, enormous, fluffy things, invited her toward sleep. She stifled a yawn with a fist, a fist with blood on it. Dried purple stuff like no blood on Earth.

  She regarded her hand with unblinking eyes. She should clean that shit off. What if those freaks had AIDS or some other kind of weird … Kobo virus or something? Her mind gibbered at her, nattering on about how she should wash off the blood and then run. Run to the cops, find a gun, go to the fuckin’ army. She should do something. Anything other than sitting on the green sofa, waiting for Levi to change his mind and waste her ass. Chop her up and bury her body in his backyard like he’d buried those creatures from the Caddy.

  On and on the thoughts rolled, cartwheeling through her mind like tumbleweeds in a ghost town.

  Instead, she stared at her hand covered in Kobo gore and did nothing. Huh, the stuff was on her T-shirt too. That was no good. Might leave a stain.

  After a few minutes her stomach let out a rumble of protest—she’d been hungry lately, ravenous. Ever since she woke up with that pink, puckered scar running down her middle. She absently ran a hand over her belly, thinking about the wound. It didn’t hurt anymore, and it looked a helluva lot better than it should have—old and faint, like something that might’ve happened when she was a kid. She vaguely recalled the night Levi rescued her; in her mind she could see the gray goon standing over her, forcing golden blood into her open mouth.

  Gross.

  But then her belly grumbled again, banishing the memory. Food, her body demanded.

  She slid off the couch, clumsily gaining her feet, and stalked off the way Levi had gone a few minutes before. The kitchen was nice, but small. Wraparound cupboards of some cheap lightwood, a small island in the middle, a French-door fridge in the corner. And clean. Every surface almost gleaming, the counters so neat they looked unused.

  Did he even need to eat?

  She didn’t know, but he’d said there was food around. She pulled open the fridge and found it filled to capacity: cartons of milk and juice, an unopened container of pick
les, sour cream, and jelly. Some uncooked chicken—each individually packaged—a roll of beef, bread, cheese, and lunchmeat. All unopened. No leftovers.

  She was hungry, but also mildly curious.

  She swung the door shut and moved over to a food pantry near the stove. The contents mimicked the fridge. Chips, cookies, canned soup, popcorn—everything a typical adult male might eat. None of it had been opened either. All the plastic packaging remained intact, as were the product safety seals.

  Guess he doesn’t eat.

  Maybe he kept all the food around for show? Her mind tried to force her to engage, but she rudely shoved all those inquiring thoughts away. Whatever. She didn’t care, not about any of this. Probably a dream, anyway. Some twisted nightmare. Was it possible she’d relapsed, fallen off the wagon and onto the tip of a needle? Could this be a bad trip? That thought, at least, held a certain comfort. Falling off the wagon would be terrible, but not as bad as the shit she was currently wrestling with.

  Finally, she decided on a package of beef Ramen noodles. Something hot to fill her center. She scrounged around until she found cookware, then put a pot of water on to boil. She cooked. She ate. And she watched. Watched Levi, her savior and captor, from the kitchen window, which looked onto the backyard.

  He was perched on a massive rock, looking for all the world like a man, though one of his arms was the rocky club she’d seen earlier. He was talking to a tree—a tree with an honest-to-goodness face sticking right out of an old, gnarled nob. Big eyes, wispy moss beard. Looked for all the world like the pair of ’em were just yacking it up; a couple of good ol’ boys having a fine afternoon. What the hell?

  Nothing made a lick of sense anymore.

  Yep. Bad trip. Had to be.

  She washed her bowl and her hands, finally scrubbing the purple stain away, then wandered over to the bathroom on sore legs. Now that her stomach wasn’t protesting, a shower might do her some good. Clear her head a bit, maybe.

  She stripped, letting her ruined clothes fall in a pile, then turned the knob on full-tilt.

  Once steam rose in sheets, filling the air with its mist, she hopped in and let heat and water sluice over her in waves. Burning hot, turning her pale skin lobster red. The purple blood had seeped through her shirt and onto her belly. She scrubbed at the spot with a rag until the skin was raw. Eventually, she just sat down, knees pulled into her chest in a tight ball. Then she cried, racking sobs that shook her body—tears invisible, blended with the steamy water. She sat that way, crying, scar on her belly aching, until the water turned first cool then cold.

  At last, she stood, killed the water, toweled dry, and wrapped the fabric around her torso. She rubbed a spot clear in the foggy mirror. Her face was haggard and red from the heat, not to mention splotchy from crying. Some women looked good when they cried—soft and vulnerable. She wasn’t one of those women. She always looked like a drowned kitten. She wiped at her cheeks, removing the few remaining tears with the back of her hand.

  Good to get all that shit out of her system. She was done crying. Sally Ryder was a survivor, not some boo-hoo, poor me, chicken-shit little girl. At twenty-six, she’d survived a great good deal.

  Her parents were alcoholics, occasional cokeheads, and drug dealers. Never holding a steady job, dodging cops, always on the move. She’d survived them and her shitty, cockroach-infested childhood. A childhood filled to the brim with gangbangers, more drugs, more cops, and rundown foster homes. She’d survived them all. She’d even survived the shit-storm in California—gotten out alive when those assholes murdered her whole family, save her and Jamie.

  She would survive this too, dammit. Freaky fucking monsters, talking trees, a crazy-ass clay man? Okay. That was reality now. Whatever.

  Survive.

  That was the important thing.

  She pulled her sweats and bra back on—the shirt was a lost cause—and crossed the hall into a guest room with beige walls, a full bed topped by a handmade quilt, an elaborately carved wooden cross above the headboard, and a little nightstand with a clock. She shut the door and fished the phone out of her pocket, toying with it for a moment.

  Her eyes were so heavy, but first she would call. That was the responsible thing to do. She flipped open the cheap prepaid and punched in the number.

  Berrr, berrr, berrr, click.

  “Hello?”

  For a second Ryder couldn’t say anything. Her throat felt tight, too tight, and she feared she would break her vow and start weeping again.

  “Hello? Hello? Who is this?” a woman said. “Listen—I’m gonna hang up.”

  “No, no, Jamie, don’t hang up,” Ryder finally said “It’s …” she stuttered, “it’s me.”

  “Sally? Oh my God, where are you? I’ve been worried out of my mind. It’s been two weeks, Sally. Two. Weeks.”

  “Yeah.” Ryder rubbed at the back of her neck. “Look, I’m sorry you were worried. I just wanted to call and let you know I’m okay. I can’t really tell you anything else. It’s … well, complicated I guess. I can’t go into any details, but I’m fine. That’s the important thing.”

  “You’ve been gone for weeks. What do you mean you can’t go into any of the details? I swear to God if you’re using again, I’m going to lose my mind. That’s what it is, isn’t it? Coke? Speed? What is it this time? You’re always doing this.” She bulldozed onward without giving Ryder a chance to respond. “Self-destructive. Irresponsible. You’re the older sister, but I always have to take care of you because you can’t keep your head on straight—”

  “This is why I don’t call anymore,” Ryder interrupted. “Seriously, you can’t go half a fucking minute without yelling at me or telling me what a worthless piece of shit I am. Shit.”

  “There’s no need for profanity.”

  “Whatever, Jamie. I gotta go.”

  “Wait, no, don’t go.” She faltered. “Look, I’m sorry, Sally. I wasn’t trying to guilt trip you or anything. I just love you …” She sighed. “I worry is all. I just wish you were more—” She bit off whatever else she was going to say. “It doesn’t matter. I’m glad you’re alright … where are you? I’ll get you help—money, bus ticket, a hotel room. Anything, just say the word.”

  “I don’t need your help,” Ryder said, fighting to restrain the bitterness in her voice. “I’m done with your help. I’m a big girl now. Can take care of myself just fine, thanks. I’m out in Colorado with a friend. Handling some business. Might be a while before you hear from me, but don’t worry, I’ll be fine.”

  “Don’t be that way. You know I’m just trying to do what’s best for us. You’re sure you’re okay?”

  “Shit, Jamie, if I say I’m alright, then I’m alright. Alright? And, though I shouldn’t have to say it, I will anyway: no, I’m not using. Still clean as a fuckin’ whistle.” She hoped that was true, but she couldn’t completely shake the thought that this might be a drug-induced hallucination.

  “Watch the language, please.”

  “Yeah, ’cause what could possibly be more important than a clean mouth?” Ryder muttered under her breath.

  “Promise you’ll call again?” her sister asked, ignoring Ryder’s comments. “When you can give me a few more details?”

  “Yeah, okay. I’ll call once I figure some of this shit out.”

  “Promise me.”

  “Jeez. Fine. I promise, I promise—I’ll call later.”

  “Love you, sis.”

  “Yeah. Love you too.” Ryder hung up the phone. Calling had been a mistake. She loved Jamie, the only family she had left, but holy shit could she be a real self-righteous bitch. Always the moral high road with her, always with the “be responsible,” and the “grow up” shtick. Jamie had finished high school, sure, went off to college and on to a good job, but she never seemed to remember how much Ryder had given up so she could do those things.

  Shit, Ryder had given up her future so Jamie could do those things. They’d bounced around from foster home to foster h
ome for a while, but as soon as Ryder could, she’d dropped out of school and got a job so she could make a home for Jamie, even if it’d been a crappy one. The least Jamie could do was remember that. Remember what Jamie had given up for her.

  She plunked the phone down on the nightstand and crawled beneath the quilt. The bed was surprisingly soft, the sheets smooth against her skin and smelling of lilac. Her body melted into the mattress. How long had it been since she slept in a comfy bed like this? Too long. At first she thought she wouldn’t be able to sleep despite her sheer exhaustion and the bed’s seductive allure—it’d been a strange, nerve-wrecking day—but she drifted off without a hitch.

  Then the dream came. The same dream she’d been having for thirteen years.

  She’s in a closet, one arm encircling Jamie’s slight shoulders. She clamps her free hand over her little sister’s mouth.

  “Shhhh,” Ryder whispers into her ear. Then she presses her eyes up to the slanted slits in the closet door.

  Mom’s on the bed, hands pinned behind her back with lengths of flexible white zip-tie. An old sock is stuffed in her mouth and duct-taped in place. Jackson, her older brother, lies unconscious on the floor, a red gash running down the back of his scalp from where the first gunman had pistol-whipped him with a Beretta—a chrome piece with a flashy, hardwood grip.

  Dad—tall and rail-thin, with tattoos running up his arms and across his chest—sits in a padded chair, hands secured in place with strips of gray. She can only see his back, but she can clearly see the face of the second gunman: young and suave, Mexican probably, with slick black hair and a stream of teardrop tattoos descending from the corners of his eyes. He sets his gun—a gunmetal thing with a long black suppressor attached to the front—on the room desk. His other hand holds a machete.