by James Hunter
The Mudman looked different again. He no longer looked like the dumpy, balding guy with the thin mustache, nor did he resemble the police officer from the hospital. Now he was an unremarkable bald man with a doleful, basset hound face, wearing a plaid button-up shirt tucked into a pair of khakis. Looked like a middle-aged construction worker—but a site foreman instead of a new hand. His muddy eyes were the same, though: sad and somehow introspective.
“Blemmy,” he replied tersely, then turned away from her, his gaze once more fixed on the passing sights.
Ryder patiently waited for some explanation, but no more seemed to be forthcoming. She cleared her throat and pushed on. “And that would be what? Again, let’s just pretend I know all of jack-shit about this place.”
He sighed deeply, annoyed—always annoyed, this guy—and turned back to her. “From Africa. Live in jungle communes. They eat people. That’s pretty much all they like to do. Hunt. Kill. Eat. Stay away from them.”
She gulped and ran sweaty palms over her jeans, suppressing another shudder. Every new piece of information the Mudman revealed only served to terrify her further. Who knew there were so many fuckin’ monsters walking around in the world? As if dealing with the drug-dealers and shiesty gangsters wasn’t scary enough.
Still, she refused to be intimidated into silence. She pointed at the guy walking on his hands. “And him?”
“Halfie. Offspring of a human and something else. Usually come out looking like a little bit of each. Half this, half that. Halfies.”
She pointed at spiral building of pitted black stone, jabbing straight up in the sky like the horn of a unicorn. She briefly wondered whether unicorns were real, then dismissed the thought as silly—even in a world as wacky as this, there had to be a few things, at least, which were still myth. “What about that building, there? The spire.”
“Road spire,” he said after a moment. “Kinda like a traffic light. You’ll see ’em all over the city.” He waved a hand vaguely about. “No proper stoplights here, so those things, they help keep the roads orderly,” he said, as though explaining something so elementary it couldn’t possibly need any explanation at all. “At least as orderly as traffic in the Hub ever is. Now, if you don’t mind, I need to think.” He tapped at his temple and looked away.
She turned back to the window, splashes of red dotting her cheeks. Guy is such a colossal dick, she thought. Authoritarian, follow-the-rules, tool-bag conformist. The rest of the ride passed by in uncomfortable silence—silence that didn’t seem to bother Levi at all, but annoyed the piss out of Ryder. The asshole could at least have the good grace to realize she was mad at him.
The horse sidled to a stop after a few more minutes and Levi slipped out, grabbing Ryder’s arm in a too-hard grip and dragging her along.
Once safely on the sidewalk, Levi let her free and moved over to the front of the cab, reaching for his wallet as the gaunt driver peered over the edge at him with hollow, deeply recessed eyes of gray.
“Forty-seven Quwar,” the skeletal man said, extending a spidery hand.
“Dollars?” Levi asked. The driver regarded Levi through squinted eyes, lips peeled back from needle-sharp teeth in hate. The creeper acted as though exchanging dollars was an intolerable hassle worthy of death. Ryder watched Levi, waiting for the Mudman to smash the driver into paste, but as usual he appeared unfazed. As placid and unruffled as a mountain buffeted by a light breeze.
“Fine,” the driver finally conceded, “seven fifty.”
Levi dug out a ten. The driver pocketed it without even the pretense of making change before clucking at his deathly mount and pulling the carriage back into traffic.
Levi wheeled around and ushered Ryder toward the building behind them.
Their apparent destination was something out of a fantasy novel, part hulking cave, part Arthurian castle. A monstrous structure sporting high, craggy stone walls of gray. Jagged merlons ran along the top parapet, narrow windows bled orange light, and otherworldly moans and groans drifted to her ears. She’d been to enough shitty bars to spot a whorehouse when she saw one. She wasn’t sure where she’d expected Levi to take her, but a pub that doubled as a whorehouse sure as hell wasn’t it. He was too puritanical and uptight for it.
Levi brushed past her without a word, walked through the open portcullis—a retractable, drop down gate—and pushed open the bar’s front door. Yep, she hadn’t seen that coming, not from a mile off with a good set of binoculars. Since she didn’t want to stand around gawking like a tourist, she followed.
“The Lonely Mountain,” she said, reading the sign stenciled on the door. “Neutral Zone, Violators will be Incinerated…” She snorted. “Pretty funny—”
“Not a joke,” Levi replied, glancing over one shoulder. “The owner’s a dragon—greedy, fire-breathing, treasure-hoarding murderer. The real deal. Name’s Firroth the Red. He’ll incinerate anyone who puts a toe wrong. I’ve seen it myself, so be on your best behavior.”
The smirk melted from Ryder’s face, ice under a dragon’s flame, and she nodded her understanding. This fuckin’ place. If there were dragons, maybe unicorns weren’t unrealistic after all.
“Hotel California” flooded out of the open doors, the twang of guitars and the reedy cry of Don Henley filling the air. Dim red light illuminated the cavernous interior. Hanging stalactites and jutting stalagmites littered the space, each filled with the ever-shifting light of enslaved, winged creatures. Ryder didn’t know what the tiny creatures were, but if she had to guess, she’d say pixies, based mostly on the tiny butterfly wings decorating their backs. That and their vague resemblance to Tinker Bell. Sluttier, though.
Smoke hung thick in the air, the perfume of sharp cigars, the sweet scent of hookah, and the stink of something pungent and sulfurous. It was actually sort of enjoyable.
“Stay close,” Levi whispered into her ear. “Say nothing. Touch no one. Make no agreements. Be invisible. This isn’t fun and games, and the Lonely Mountain is no place for Rubes.”
She followed in the wake of her guide, who cautiously carved a way through the crowd, his eyes skipping about, clearly searching for someone. She had no idea who since Levi was as forthcoming as a bank vault. The Sprawl, they were going to the Sprawl. That was the sum of her insight.
Eventually, Levi made his way over to the bar, still scanning the building’s patrons—a splattering of men and women, most of which could never pass for human. One chick, sporting a white cocktail dress, preened garish feathers of red and gold and blue with an oversized beak: a giant parrot-woman. A man—so fat the stool hardly supported his ass—wore a stained wife-beater and snorted through a pig snout. Apparently, though, none of the bar goers was the man Levi was looking for, since he kept right on moving.
After a few more minutes of useless searching, Levi elbowed his way to the bar proper, pushing between the parrot-feathered woman and the pig-faced man. He held out a hand, signaling to the guy behind the bar. Well, he was shaped like a guy.
Ryder assumed the bartender was probably also the bar owner, Firroth the Red, based solely on his dragonesque appearance. He was eight feet of ripped, hard-edged muscle on top of more muscle. Dude was a roid-head for sure. Scrolling tribal tattoos in blues and blacks, like scales, snaked around his arms, neck, and face in swirls of artistry. He had bright red hair, the envy of any punker—shifting gold then orange and back again—and a fat cigar, hanging from the corner of his scowling mouth, which seemed to be the source of the sulfurous stink filling the bar.
Freaky son of a bitch, no doubt, but some part of her also wanted to slip the guy her number. Kind of her type.
Ryder glanced at Levi, noting that his usually neutral mask had slipped away completely. An unbridled look of murder was plain as the nose on his face, even if he was trying damn hard to hide it. She didn’t know much about the guy behind the bar, but one thing was abundantly clear: Levi wanted him dead. Buried. Like yesterday. But, perhaps even more importantly, Levi didn’t do anything. Ryder
had seen firsthand what the Mudman was capable of, so if he was holding his bloodlust in check, it could only mean the bartender was in a league far outside of Levi’s.
Back in the bad days, Ryder had seen twitchy-head tweakers look at big-time dealers the same way. Hungry but impotent.
Levi smiled at the cigar-wielding man, the look of hate slipping away, buried behind his carefully cultivated human façade.
“I see you, Golem—Mudman,” the bartender said, his voice deep and rich. “I see you and the human girl, both.” He emphasized the word girl as if to mock their pitiful attempts at concealment. “And I see your hunger.” He smirked, unconcerned about Levi’s murderous desire. The dragon-man dropped his voice to a raspy whisper.
“You’re a dangerous guest to have around, Mudman. Might be, I had some folks stop by earlier, Thursrs, looking for you and a certain young lady.” He glanced at Ryder with eyes like molten gold, slit down the middle with thin slices of black. “You’re wanted by the Kobock Nation—mayhap even a mage. Could be they’re offering a hefty reward for information leading to your capture.”
“I’m not looking for trouble,” Levi replied, laying both hands flat on the bar top. “We’re just here to meet a contact. I won’t break the peace of your roof.”
“I expect not,” the barkeep said with a shrug. “I’d have incinerated you already had I thought otherwise. Consider this a simple reminder to leave your problems outside—otherwise, they become my problems. You won’t like the way I handle problems.” He picked up a large beer stein and exhaled a plume of dark smoke from his nostrils. “Now, what’ll you take?”
“I just want to know where Chuck MacLeti is.”
“You think I don’t know what goes on under my roof?” The question was a grunt, one with a sharp, threatening edge. “I know damn well what you’re after—and I know where you can find your man. But this is a bar, not a library or social hall. My kin and I aren’t known for our great charity. So, I’ll ask again, what’ll you take? Something expensive I hope.”
“Three pints of Guinness, extra stout—”
“And something to eat,” Ryder interjected. Her middle growled, unsettled and uneasy. She’d eaten a solid meal before crashing back at Levi’s pad, but her stomach argued—even if erroneously—that it’d been days since her last meal. “Sorry,” she said with an apologetic shrug. “Girl’s gotta eat when a girl’s gotta eat. Trust me, Muds, you’ll like me even less when I’m hungry.”
“Fine.” Levi said. “And never call me Muds again,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Three pints of Guinness, extra stout, and a platter of—” He paused and drummed his fingers on the counter as if searching for something suitable for human consumption.
“Nachos?” Ryder supplied, fingers crossed.
Firroth nodded, pulled out another two mugs, filled all three with beer so dark it looked black, and set them on the counter. He strutted down the length of the bar—back straight and a swagger to his gait—dipped into a back room, and came out a second later with a plate heaped high with chips, cheese, and meat of questionable origin.
She’d eaten worse.
He set the platter of chips on the counter next to the mugs. “Hundred bucks, even.” He held out a monstrous hand tipped with dark claws.
“Steep price for a few pints and some chips,” Levi mumbled.
“Hazard pay”—he smirked, an unpleasant half-grin—“plus an information tax.”
Another flash of annoyance sprinted across Levi’s face, but he shook his head, brow furrowed in resignation—such is the cost of doing business in the Hub, the look said. He fished out two fifties and laid them on the beer-stained wood.
The inhuman bartender swiped the money without a second glance and shoved it into a loose pocket on the leather apron tied around his waist. “Your guy’s in the far corner,” he said, hooking a clawed thumb toward the back of the club. “Last booth. Has a privacy curtain, provided free of charge.”
Levi nodded, collected the drinks, and headed off to meet their contact, Chuck.
Ryder carefully scooped up the formidable platter of chips and burst into a quick trot, anxious to keep near the Mudman. She didn’t like him exactly, but he seemed to be genuinely trying to help her, and she knew from a long and difficult life how rare finding a stranger like that was. Not to mention the thought of being stranded in this place by herself was enough to send her into hysterics. Best to stick close to Levi, at least for now.
Chuck MacLeti, their contact, reclined in the far booth like the King of the world: long arms sprawled over the padded booth back, blue-jean-clad legs up on the seat, white-and-red Air Jordan’s crossed at the ankles. He was black and lanky—six and a half feet—and wore a puffy winter coat with a fur-lined hood. Around his neck hung a thick gold chain with a tacky diamond-studded shamrock dangling on its end.
This supernatural craziness might’ve been new to Ryder, but she knew plenty of guys like Chuck. Even at a glance she could spot a hustler looking to work an angle. Maybe this place wasn’t so different after all—the same old world, just dressed up in gaudy Halloween costumes.
Levi slid into the opposite seat. Ryder followed suit, not sure what else to do. That thought was sort of reassuring.
“Levi Adams, my man. Been a hot minute,” Chuck said, offering a hand, which Levi took and pumped twice. “And who’s this sweet little piece you got with you?”
“She’s not your concern, let’s just keep this—”
“Hey asshole,” Ryder said, scowling. “I’m not some sweet little piece. You better watch who you’re talking to.”
“Damn, Levi, you know how to pick ’em—feisty, sassy. That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout.” He held out a fist, just waiting to be bumped. Levi regarded the fist for a moment, then cleared his throat, his hands never even twitching.
Ryder eyed the lanky man, then slid back out of the booth, abandoning both the Mudman and the nachos. The loss of the nachos was far more distressing. “Look, I don’t need to put up with this,” she said, hip cocked out, arms crossed. “I’m sick and tired of being treated like a child. I’m not a child. I’m not a sweet piece. I’m not taking any more shit. If you want my cooperation, I intend to be treated with respect. Period. Everyone clear on that?” She quirked an eyebrow, turning up her attitude to max level.
Levi looked skyward, lips moving as though uttering a silent prayer. “Sit back down, Ryder,” he said after a second. “Now.”
No invitation, no apology, not even an acknowledgement that her complaint was valid. Jerk. She backed up a step, preparing to turn tail and leave, the consequences be damned. Not that she actually wanted to do that, of course, but she wasn’t going to be a doormat, even if Levi was the only thing standing between her and the Kobock Nation.
“Fine,” Levi said. “Chuck, if you want to earn your pay, I expect you to keep this professional. I’ve got enough to worry about without adding a couple of squabbling kids—excuse me, adults—to the equation.”
“Yeah, cool, cool, whatevs,” Chuck offered, flashing a grin and a just-between-you-and-me wink. “You the boss man, you cuttin’ the check, whatevs. Though, Skip did tell you what my going rate is, right?”
The Mudman reached into a pocket and pulled out a wad of banknotes bound by a red rubber band. Ryder’s eyes bulged and she choked a little. There had to be ten grand there, easy.
Ryder wasn’t poor precisely, but she could never be accused of being rich. For the first time in a long time, she had a respectable job working at a used bookstore over in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, near Lehigh University, just off of 4th and Vine. Fireside Books and Coffee. The joint stayed open twenty-four hours and boasted free wifi, which made it popular as hell with the college crowd. A nice study spot.
Ryder worked nights, Monday through Thursday, ten-hour shifts a shot. Not a dream job, but not half bad either and the owner, Jim, had done her a solid by hiring her on. Especially considering her less-than-stellar record.
Still,
what Levi had laid, so nonchalantly, on the table was damn near half a year’s salary.
“Money’s not a problem,” Levi said flatly, uninterested even. “But I’m not just paying for a guide—I’m paying for a professional. Understood?”
“All good, man.” Chuck smiled wide, a glint of gold flashing from his mouth.
“Ryder?” Levi asked, holding her in his muddy gaze.
She eyed the money, eyed the nachos, and finally plopped back into the seat.
“Sorry ’bout that.” Chuck extended a hand across the table, which Ryder ignored. “If we’re gonna work together, best to start things out right. I’m Chuck, Chuck MacLeti.”
“Sally Ryder,” she replied. “And, before we go any further, what are you? I don’t wanna get backed into a corner and find out you’re some kind of freaky Sasquatch or some kinda demon spawn or evil clown. I hate clowns. So tell me now, what are you?”
“That’s rude, you know?” Chuck said. He swiped the wad of bills from the table, then pulled over a pint and swallowed a long pull instead of answering. After a few seconds, he set the glass back down and belched. “Obviously you’re new here, so let me fill you in on the rules, baby-girl—”
“Call me baby-girl again,” she said, glaring at him, “and I’ll castrate you.”
Chuck hastily cleared his throat. “Whatevs. As I was sayin’ it’s impolite to ask what people are.”
“He’s a leprechaun,” Levi said matter-of-factly, apparently not caring about politeness. “He’s also going to be our guide, so let’s all play nice. Now, back to business.”
Ryder snickered, unable to help herself, then scooped up a chip loaded with gooey cheese—well, imitation cheese at least—and meat-substitute and shoved it into her mouth. “Leprechaun,” she mumbled around a mouthful of flavorful awesomeness.
“Oh, I’m sorry, is there something funny ’bout that?” Chuck asked, swinging his feet off the bench and sitting up straight, the posture of the morally offended.
She swallowed her chip in a gulp and picked up another. “Yeah. He called you a leprechaun, but you’re like NBA-sized and black.”
