“This is my third call, Ruby,” Roark said.
“Because you’re such a stickler for protocol.”
“Are you still drunk?”
“Don’t take a girl out drinking if you don’t want to deal with the consequences.”
“Am I gonna have to come get you? We have work.”
There was an unfamiliar word.
“No, Mom.”
Roark sighed. “Look, about last night.”
“Hold on.” I groaned and stumbled toward the bathroom, bringing the phone along. A holographic display on the mirror displayed my vital signs, recommending hydration. My stomach disagreed, turning over at the mere suggestion of water.
“You sure you’re okay?” Roark asked.
“Let’s not talk about it.”
Roark took a deep breath, and I imagined his handsome jaw set in stern disapproval. That was quickly overtaken by the need to vomit. After a few bleary-eyed and unpleasant minutes, the sickness mercifully passed.
I vowed never to drink again. Although in this world, that would be a problem. MagiTekk’s constant nonsense could lead anyone to the bottle.
Ever patient, Roark said, “All done?”
“I’ll let you know in an hour.”
“Didn’t take you for such a lightweight.”
“It’s only been three weeks. Give me time.” The burn in my throat screamed at me for that time to be forever. After spending almost twenty-one years confined in the luxurious Tempe Supernatural Internment Camp—complete with free torture and experiments—I was getting reacquainted with normal life.
Once upon a time, I could drink with the best. It was a necessary skill in a bounty hunter’s world.
I reflected on last night’s events.
We were off the MagiTekk case. They got to keep performing modern alchemy.
Turning blood into gold.
And, to make matters worse, I was Malcolm Roark’s new pet project.
“So, I met your father,” I said.
A long pause on the other end of the line.
“Hello?” I asked.
“That’s what we’re up against, Ruby.”
“Didn’t take you for such a pussy.”
“I needed your eyes to be wide open.”
“Don’t worry, motherfucker. I got the full experience.”
“So you’ll drop it?”
“No,” I said.
There was what sounded like a small laugh. “Good.”
That caught me by surprise. “What?”
“I wanted you to understand the risks,” Roark said. “You said something interesting last night.”
“Oh yeah?” I had my doubts about that. “Can’t wait to hear this.” I splashed cold water on my face, rubbing the dark bags beneath my eyes. The health assessment had nothing to say about that, but it looked like I’d slept in a damn bush.
“You still there?” Roark asked.
“Unfortunately,” I said, blinking cold droplets from my eyelids.
“You asked me what we would do after the world burned.” Roark cleared his throat. “But what about MagiTekk?”
“I don’t follow.”
“Hard to sell people guns when they’re all dead.”
“So dystopian apocalypse isn’t their endgame.”
“Exactly,” Roark said, like Drunk Ruby was some sort of sage. “You need two sides for a war.”
“Well, the supernatural is getting steamrolled.”
“Not for long.”
I patted my cheeks, color returning. Creatures of essence were getting short shrift in this new world. Calling us third class citizens was being generous.
Most lived in the Mud Belt, a shantytown ghetto outside Phoenix. The remainder were kept inside internment camps—troublemakers and such. A few, like me, skirted detection and lived amongst the mortals.
But that was a pain in the ass with the random checks and essence detectors popping up like weeds around the city. I hadn’t seen other cities, but I doubted they were more hospitable.
“You know something I don’t?” I asked.
“MagiTekk’s gonna even the odds from the shadows.”
“I don’t know how that’s gonna fly, PR-wise.”
“No one will ever know, Ruby. Shadows, remember?”
I exited the bathroom, finally feeling somewhat alive. “This why you woke me up at five in the morning?”
“No.” Roark cleared his throat like he had an announcement. “Big day.”
Right. Work.
I didn’t stifle my groan. “Don’t say that.”
“Time to get you out in the field.”
“Can I take a sick day?”
“That apartment’s not free, Ruby.”
“If I lived with you, would I get sick days?”
A tense silence on the other end. I felt my heart rise too, even though I was too old for such nonsense. When you’re over two hundred years old, a little flirting shouldn’t move the needle.
Roark coughed and finally said, “I don’t think that would be appropriate.”
“Then it’s settled,” I said. “Sick day.”
“Meet me near the Fallout Zone in half an hour.”
Damnit. I swallowed my protest, realizing I’d have to work for the FBI sooner or later. Although just waltzing out into the open didn’t seem wise.
“You sure that’s a good idea?”
“No choice.” Roark didn’t sound all that happy about it, either. “Boss wants to see you in action.”
I looked at the thin piece of glass that was my phone. “I need a coffee or something, man.”
“Might wanna keep your stomach empty,” Roark said.
“Why’s that?”
“You’ll see.” Someone called his name in the background. The FBI was already on the scene, Roark up and about. And here I was, still a little drunk. “Thirty minutes, Ruby.”
“What about that coffee—”
But I was talking to myself.
I gave one last glance at the wild-eyed woman in the bedroom mirror and shook my head.
“Get it together, bitch.”
It was my first day of work in twenty-one years.
I needed to make a good first impression.
5
Edge of the Fallout Zone
16 hours ago
So much for good first impressions.
I was not only late—Pearl’s admonishing instructions never be late for a contract echoing in my ears as I stepped out of the taxi—but apparently toting around an ancient single-barreled shotgun on your back raises a lot of eyebrows. Particularly when you were dressed in a leather jacket, jeans and an oxford shirt with a few buttons undone.
At one point, long in the past, I’d gotten shamans and wizards—all types of spellcasters, really—to cast various wards on the firearm. But you usually had to break the damn ward before firing. Which slowed my draw time and caused problems.
That had almost gotten me sliced up once or twice, so now I just dealt with the stares.
Roark pulled me aside as I approached the towering steel gate separating Downtown Phoenix from the nuclear supernatural wasteland that was the Fallout Zone. Even on this side of the fence, the air had an acrid and bitter taste.
“You couldn’t wear something—I don’t know.” His blue eyes gave me a quick once-over, like a cop assessing a perp. “Subtle?”
“You’re the one who invited me.” I gave him a funny look, and he kind of shrugged. We’d been reviewing the fundamentals of keeping off the radar for the past three weeks. How to evade essence detectors, avoid random searches—that type of thing. Good information for any supernatural creature, but especially critical for me, since a supernatural creature working for law enforcement was highly illegal.
“Not me.” Roark swallowed hard. Normally cool and collected, he looked anxious. “My boss.”
“It’ll be fine. I brought this.” I reached into my pocket and took out the scannable lanyard that identified me as an FBI ex
pert consultant. Hopefully, the cover would hold—his CI Alice Conway had wiped my records from the system. After all, the FBI had once internally called me the Crimson Angel.
A little overstated for my tastes. Luckily, Roark had been the Bureau’s preeminent expert on unidentified creatures, so he’d spent far more time with my file than most.
Which meant maybe I could hide in plain sight.
We’d find out today, bright and early.
“Just wait here.” Roark’s already straight posture stiffened like a board as an older woman dressed in a long navy blue trench coat broke toward us. Her shimmering silver hair struck a stunning contrast against the dark fabric. With swift, smooth strides, Roark met her halfway, clearly eager to keep the two of us from interacting.
The woman brushed him off and headed straight toward me.
“Pretty,” she said in a gravelly voice reserved only for chain smokers and the experienced. “So you’re the expert Colton’s been going on and on about?”
She sounded less than impressed.
“Depends on what he’s been saying,” I finally answered, meeting her no BS gaze. Black eyes like polished jet searched the depths of my soul. Or so it seemed. She was definitely mortal.
Still plenty intimidating, though.
“If Colton’s impressed, then I’ll give you a shot.” A weathered hand rose, awaiting my grip. I shook it. “But opportunities are like wraiths.”
“How so?”
“They disappear as quickly as they come, Ruby.”
“A woman after my own heart,” I said, still slightly annoyed that Roark had insisted on using my real name. A preliminary test of our cover. It hadn’t come back with any hits or outstanding warrants. “Agent…?”
“Supervisor Emma Janssen.” She wrinkled her nose, uninterested in establishing rapport. After releasing my hand, she nodded at the gate. The Fallout Zone’s sole entrance was abuzz with activity. At least fifty people hovered around the solid steel monolith, with media personnel waiting by the concrete guard towers.
“Quite the party.” An unusual sensation of nervousness rumbled through my chest. Could’ve been the hangover, but my money was on the prospect of heading back to the internment camp. I’d rather die. Venturing into a sea of agents this large was a big risk.
But Janssen wasn’t the type of woman you refused. It seemed this was a sink or swim moment.
“This case should be a good test of your abilities,” Janssen said, confirming as such.
“Oh yeah?” Hopefully the ruse of “supernatural behavioral psychologist” would mask the actual abilities doing the heavy lifting behind the curtain.
“There are more on the other side of the gate.”
“More what, exactly?”
“More bodies.” Janssen scratched her cheek, coat opening just enough to display a nickel-plated pair of .50 caliber pistols strapped inside a black leather shoulder harness. They disappeared into the folds when she put her hand down.
“How many bodies?” I asked.
“What was the final count, Colton?”
“Twenty-three.” Roark shuffled over, having spent the last couple minutes a safe distance away. His demeanor was oddly submissive. Hierarchy got to everyone. It’d been just me and him against the necromancer. Battling Solomon Marshall repeatedly through the time loop’s permutations, with minimal outside interference or oversight.
Now he was driven by the demands of protocol, rather than rules-be-damned revenge. Guess I’d have to get used to doing things by the book.
Or bookish.
I thought I’d gotten to know the real Colton Roark.
But maybe I didn’t know him at all.
“Twenty-three.” I took a minute to process the number. “All one guy?”
“We’re not sure.” Janssen gestured for me to follow. As I walked toward the gate, which stood open to allow the agents and forensics teams easy passage, I felt the air quality shift. “Let’s see what you think.”
“Can’t wait,” I said.
My lungs itched from the radioactive fallout as we crossed the threshold. I didn’t need a rebreather since the immediate area had been scrubbed. But it was an unpleasant reminder of the anarchy lying on this side of the wall.
Janssen snapped her fingers, and a team of investigators dispersed to allow us through. A row of bodies lay beneath a clean, hospital blue sheet about twenty feet from the gate.
Without introduction or context, Janssen said, “What are your instincts saying?”
“Excuse me?” I almost choked on my own saliva. If Roark had told her about me being a Realmfarer, I would shove my boot straight up his ass.
Provided I got the opportunity before the FBI hauled me off to jail.
“Your training,” Janssen said, rolling her eyes. “Or is that PhD in supernatural behavioral psychology one you downloaded from the internet?”
“It was not.” Somehow, I made it not sound like a question. Me and Roark would have plenty to discuss if I made it through this first day with my skin intact.
Preferably a discussion that involved less drinking.
“Your assessment, Ruby.” Janssen tapped her wrist. “Press conferences to give.”
I blinked twice, staring at the pitted asphalt as the sheet rustled in the slight breeze. The only supernatural ability I possessed was my intuition. Call it a blend of lie detection, cold reading, and fortune telling—like tarot cards that weren’t complete bullshit. Wisps of light flitted through the air in various colors and configurations, telling a tale.
Well, they did normally.
But the entrance to the Fallout Zone was not a normal place. Those who crossed over were generally not invited to return—and security measures made certain that doing so was difficult. The gate was a clear line in the sand, meant to contain a supernatural scourge.
One wondered why the powers-that-be didn’t simply finish the job. But, like all things, I’m sure they had their reasons for allowing the Fallout Zone to exist. Nonetheless, those purposes couldn’t cause problems in downtown Phoenix.
As such, the gate boasted impressive defenses, including essence suppression technology so powerful that any inkling of my abilities vanished. In effect, I was mortal near the gate, unable to intuit much of anything.
Luckily, I was a good bullshitter.
“How many bodies on each side?” I asked, staring at the sheets. Blood was seeping through.
“Twelve and eleven,” Janssen said.
“Ritual killing. Sacrifice to a long dormant god.” I rubbed my nose and sniffed the bitter air. “All still warm, I’m guessing?”
“Dormant?”
“Well, dead,” I said with a small smile. “But your killer thinks Pan is only sleeping. The god of the hunt. And Arcadia.”
“A book could’ve told you that.”
“A rib was removed from each body as well.” I stared at the growing blood spots on the sheet, then turned to Janssen. She wasn’t the kind of person to show surprise, but her expression told me that was unexpected. “Or were you expecting me to say heart?”
Her lips pursed in a satisfied smile. “You picked a good one, Colton.” With a magician’s flair for suspense, Janssen grabbed the sheet’s corner. Pausing for a moment, she met my eye. “I just hope you’re good enough to catch whoever did this.”
She flicked the sheet away, the blue cloth fluttering gently over the macabre scene.
My stomach turned again, but not from the hangover or anxiety.
So much for bullshit. I’d been spot-on in my assessment of the crime.
Unfortunately for us all, I recognized the work—the symbol tattooed neatly on the center body claiming responsibility. Even with the heavy suppressive dampeners, the glow of essence emanated softly from the fresh ink. The curse pulsated with a foul, corrupted energy plainly visible to even the mortal eye.
“Well?” Janssen tapped her wrist.
I stared at the split cross. It resembled a normal Christian one—only half go
ne, cut vertically and arranged upside down. To symbolize their substantial disagreements with the regular church. Not that you’d ever mistake them for monotheistic. For one, they believed in the dead gods—plural. I wasn’t sure how that worked, but it made sense in their addled minds.
My mother was a true believer, but she looked positively sane by way of comparison. But had her church gotten its hands on magic like this, they might’ve gone a little insane trying to spread the good word, too.
“This isn’t possible,” I said, at a loss for words. Which was rare.
“And yet, here we stand,” Janssen said.
“They’ve been gone for over a century.” Until now, I’d assumed that someone was playing a sick joke—a twisted tribute to a cult best left buried.
But once I’d seen the glowing magic, I’d realized that this was the original.
New and, unfortunately, much improved.
“You seem surprised, Ruby.”
Throat dry, I said, “You should let this sleeping dog lie.”
“I didn’t take you for a coward, Ruby Callaway.”
“Not a coward.” I stared at the glowing symbol. It could be the work of only one man. Their Crusading Prophet, Donovan Martin. Which was alarming, considering I’d killed him in 1923. “A pragmatist.”
“I’ll be sure to mention that to the media,” Janssen said. “The FBI has declined to investigate these murders because our new consultant considers it unpragmatic. Thank you all for coming. No further questions.”
“If you do that conference, you’ll be a target.” I leveled my gaze at the supervisor. “They’ll come do this to you. Your family.”
“What’s the symbol mean?”
“It’s the brand of the non-believer. The sinners keeping them from Paradisum.” Or Eden—call it what you wanted. The human body had twenty-four ribs. The bodies laid out in the pattern were a callback to the story of original sin.
One missing rib was the first domino keeping us all out of paradise.
And they were letting us all know about our sinful shortcomings.
“Guess they found me out,” Janssen said. “I’ll take my chances.”
Ruby Callaway: The Complete Collection Page 23
