Ruby Callaway: The Complete Collection

by D. N. Erikson

  I gave her a mirthless smile. “Your funeral.”

  “Then we’ll die together.” Janssen loosened her shoulders, gray hair flitting in the light breeze. “But at least we’ll catch these bastards on our way to the gallows.” She cocked her head. “If you’re not still caught up on being pragmatic, of course.”

  I glanced over my shoulder at Roark. A look somewhere between indignation and curiosity spread across his clean-shaven face. That’s the thanks you got for telling people to save their own asses.

  Guess I had a little to learn about law enforcement.

  With every bone in my body screaming to shut up, I said, “The Crusaders of Paradisum. They’re the cult who did this.”

  “Anything these Crusaders want in particular?”

  “Paradise on Earth. As ruled by Pan.”

  “Sounds scary, doesn’t it Colton?” Janssen said.

  And I said, “You have no fucking idea.”

  6

  Downtown Phoenix

  10 hours ago

  Heading to FBI HQ was out of the question, what with all the state of the art essence detectors on site. I’d be made in under five seconds, leaving Roark and his idiot colleagues alone against Donovan Martin’s ancient cult. After briefing Janssen and her team on the Crusaders—what I could remember off the top of my head, anyway—I went home and burned a few hours until Roark got off for lunch.

  I left out the part where I’d hunted Donovan in 1923. That seemed like a good way to get my ass thrown back into supernatural lockup.

  Then I took a cab to a coffee shop in Midtown, where the skyscrapers weren’t quite as tall and a tinge of architectural humanity remained. I had the vague sensation of being watched, so I changed our meeting place and texted Roark about the new plan. After ordering a black coffee, I commandeered a table and stared out at the high-rise’s lobby, reflecting on the Crusaders of Paradisum.

  No spies popped out at me, but that didn’t assuage my concerns.

  Imagine a group of brilliant minds, united in a single, cohesive vision. Loyal disciples—all with brains, which they outright refuse to use for logical, rational thought. Then add the utter lunacy of a belief in Paradisum.

  Paradise, for the uninitiated. Heaven. Whatever the hell you wanted to call it—their little organization had been founded in a time when Latin was the lingua franca. Didn’t matter. It was a fairytale. A pleasant one, sure. But fanciful nonetheless.

  As a Realmfarer, I could travel freely between the nine worlds. And I could say with utmost confidence that one of those Realms was not Paradise. It wasn’t hiding on Earth, either, where the Crusaders wished to recreate it. And they’d had plenty of time to do that.

  They’d been around since 33 A.D. and hadn’t found Paradisum yet. But they were stepping up their efforts. The public nature of the 23 sacrificial murders was unprecedented. But then, I’d heard rumors that Donovan Martin was a new breed of Crusading Prophet when he assumed the mantle back in 1923.

  I just hadn’t known how true that was, considering he’d taken a fistful of essence-laced buckshot straight to the chest and somehow survived.

  For a century.

  Grumbling to myself, I nursed the cup of coffee. I used the downtime to search the internet for MagiTekk news. Buried in a bland press release, I found a few lines referring to the release of “a suppression and sterilization serum” on Friday.

  If MagiTekk was changing the world as Malcolm Roark had said, they were doing so quietly. Probably because this serum—which had turned Aaron Daniels from a full-blooded alpha wolf into a shantytown crook with a limp—would be met with severe resistance from the supernatural community.

  Protecting MagiTekk’s interests was going to be a bitch if anyone decided to cause problems.

  Lucky me.

  But I had no intention of being Malcolm Roark’s lapdog.

  I spotted the younger Roark gliding across the foyer, unwelcome intel or leads no doubt in tow. His biceps flexed with each stride, a smooth, synchronous machine.

  He could do to lose the short-sleeved polo tucked into his pants. Homage to his late brother or not, it wasn’t doing him any favors. Then again, I’d never met a more charming man less interested in getting laid.

  One had to wonder why he’d cultivated that charm at all.

  I sipped the coffee as he sat down, refusing to acknowledge his presence.

  “Good to see you’re finally recovered.” Roark smiled, but I maintained my sour frown.

  “If you’d told me we had a gig today, then I wouldn’t have agreed to drink last night.”

  “Still mad about meeting the old man?”

  “I just wish you trusted me more,” I said.

  “I trust you. I just wanted you to know.”

  “He could stop us right now.”

  “He’d rather bend us than break us,” Roark said. “Never waste a good soldier.”

  I shivered, recalling his father’s cool ease. How certain he was that we would simply give up and trot over to the dark side.

  “You have a plan for MagiTekk?”

  Roark winced slightly. “Early stages, Ruby.”

  “They’re less dangerous than the Crusaders,” I said.

  “You’re paranoid,” Roark said with an eye roll. “You get me a coffee?”

  “Right here.” I gave him the finger. The lobby hummed with lunch break shoppers.

  “Funny.” Roark scratched his neck and sighed. “Look, this is the job.”

  “You don’t want to fuck with Donovan Martin, Roark.”

  “We don’t get to pick and choose.” He put his elbows on the small table, causing it to tilt slightly. “Protect and serve. That’s what we do.”

  “I’d prefer to protect my own ass,” I said, batting the half-empty cup between my fingers. “Look, I left something out with Janssen.”

  Roark’s blue eyes sparkled with curiosity, but he kept silent.

  I scratched my ear. “Back in 1923, I was hired for a job. Around here, in fact.”

  “And?”

  “There were concerns from certain supernatural parties—”

  “Who?”

  “The Sol Council. They don’t exist anymore.” A casualty of the supernatural’s coming out party back in 2017. “Anyway, they hired me to take Donovan Martin out.”

  “And you failed.”

  “I shot him right in the chest and watched him die.” I finished the last of the lukewarm coffee. “Which is why it’s very confusing that he’s back.”

  “You’re sure he died?”

  “I didn’t take a fucking EKG,” I said, realizing now that I should have pulled the trigger again.

  “Cheer up. I have a lead.”

  “I can’t wait.”

  “Kind of odd that the symbols were glowing next to the gate, right?”

  “Pretty much impossible,” I said. “My powers vanish from all the dampeners.”

  “What’s that like?”

  “What’s what like?” I stopped playing with the coffee.

  “Losing your powers.”

  “Disconcerting,” I said flatly.

  “Anyway, the lab analyzed a sample of that ink—or whatever you want to call it.”

  “That was quick.”

  Roark moved a little shiftily in his seat. “Yeah, well, this is a high priority case.”

  “Okay.” The wisps circling his head told a different story, but I wasn’t going to grill him on bureaucratic minutiae. “What’d you find out?”

  “Mana.”

  “That’s the same thing as essence. Just the ancients’ word for it.”

  “I know,” Roark said. “But the stuff in that tattoo was concentrated. Pure. Right from the ground.”

  “All the wellsprings dried up a long time ago.”

  “Yeah, well, we ran the test twice.”

  “You’re telling me the Crusaders found a wellspring.”

  “Looks that way.”

  “That’s how he came back from death’s door.
” More of a musing than a thought, but once the words were in the air, a shiver ran up my spine.

  I’d almost killed Donovan Martin. Probably an inch away from crossing over into whatever Hell awaited assholes like him.

  But, really, I’d given the Crusaders an excuse to create a monster.

  One they’d nurtured in the shadows for a hundred years.

  A commotion on the other side of the lobby broke my train of thought. Yelling—the sounds of a feverish argument. Roark swiveled around, sensing a threat. All the overhead lights shattered at once, accompanied by a high-pitched scream.

  You’re not paranoid if someone’s out to get you.

  Roark got up like someone was calling him.

  Shit.

  Sirens.

  7

  I kicked the table out of the way and tackled Roark. He squirmed beneath me on the slippery ground, fighting to get loose. With fifty pounds on me, I couldn’t hold him for long. So, thinking fast, I sunk my teeth into the fabric of his shirt and tore like a rabid dog. Strips of frayed cotton came out in my mouth.

  He bucked, flinging me to the cold ground as the high-pitched whines continued. I felt myself being pulled toward their evil and empty promises. Spitting the fabric into my hand, I grabbed his leg, tripping him.

  “Goddamnit, let me go,” Roark said. “I need to…I need to…”

  “You need to stand still,” I said.

  I watched as a little sporting goods store at the edge of the lobby began to overflow with people. That must’ve been the source of the scream. It was an awful noise, but it contained something hypnotic and alluring, like the twelfth shot of whiskey at the end of the night. Promising only heartbreak, but you did it anyway.

  I rolled the fabric into little balls as best I could and clawed my way toward Roark. Through a minor miracle—his attention focused on the seductive allure of the death trap across the lobby—I got him in a choke hold.

  “It’s…I have to.”

  “Heard it before.” I jammed the little balls of fabric into his ears as deep as they would go, then pushed him over. My own head swam with mixed emotions and the temptation to rush across the lobby and join the happy throng.

  Share in the riches.

  This clashed with the larger urge to head over and burn the siren honeypot to the ground.

  Prudence won out, however, as I monitored Roark. He stumbled to his feet and looked back, brow wrinkled in supreme confusion.

  “Sirens.” I mouthed the word in exaggerated fashion.

  He nodded, even though he couldn’t hear. After a rueful glance at his ruined shirt, however, he started walking toward the shop anyway.

  By now, at least a hundred people milled around the store’s entrance, with more streaming from all over the far-flung corners of the vast lobby. Everyone bore that slightly zombified expression that they did when checking email.

  But this was far more deadly.

  For the sirens were recruiting.

  Or executing—the Crusaders flexing their muscles for the world to see. Sirens didn’t exclusively work for the Crusaders—not even close. Like bounty hunters, they shilled their services to the highest bidders. But sirens were a favorite of those sick fucks as a sort of litmus test.

  Those who succumbed to temptation were proven unworthy of paradise. And they would sacrifice for the righteous.

  I had qualms regarding this screening technique, since I was semi-immune to the sirens’ calls, but was no one’s idea of an ideal candidate for the pearly gates.

  If such a place existed, which it did not.

  Roark drew his pistol as we walked across the lobby. The crowd stood in rapture, pressing against one another without crushing anyone. We pushed through the blissful throng, the sirens’ urges washing over the corners of my mind.

  Give yourself over to a better life. To something bigger than yourselves.

  They could’ve been shilling breakfast cereal—and plenty of morally bankrupt ad-men had enlisted them to do just that. But the script they’d been handed by their employers today was lethal.

  Come on in.

  My fingers relaxed, a calm spreading over my body. These were my people. Everything would be all right inside the store.

  “Get on the ground.” Roark’s stern voice knifed through my thoughts, breaking the sirens’ temporary hold. I glanced at the counter, where two attractive women stood like stripper preachers holding an impromptu sermon. Even without their silver tongues, the ample cleavage and leather shorts were plenty persuasive.

  The left one, with shimmering brown hair down to her hips, snapped her fingers. Immediately, the throng of loyal disciples turned on us, leering like we were fresh meat.

  “You must be the one they call Colton Roark.” She gave her hip-length hair a sultry toss. “He’s rather adorable, is he not?”

  Her long-legged associate slid off the counter, movements slinky and seductive. The crowd parted for their siren master as she walked toward Roark. I heard the hammer on the pistol cock backward.

  “You shouldn’t do that,” she said. “That face is too handsome for the graveyard.”

  I reached for the shotgun on my back, and the siren standing on the counter shook her head, majestic tresses rippling over her chest. “And you, Ruby Callaway.”

  I fought against the urge to obey their unspoken call. We should’ve taken a hard left right out of this damn building. But even if Roark had originally joined the FBI to get revenge for his brother, he was still too much of a boy scout to let a bunch of innocent people die.

  Me, well, you don’t live this long by being a humanitarian.

  My fingers gripped the stock as I grimaced. “I don’t think we’ve met.”

  “You’re a legend.” The long-haired woman on the counter shrugged as her partner slunk around me, flicking my jacket’s zippers with suggestive fingers. “Is she not?”

  I caught Roark’s eye. He couldn’t hear—but he also wasn’t pulling the trigger. Following his gaze, I saw a small object in the counter siren’s hand.

  Dead man’s switch.

  Just what I needed.

  I slid the shotgun out carefully and pointed it at the long-legged one’s head.

  “Looks like we have ourselves a standoff,” I said.

  “Oh, she’s serious,” the siren responded, touching the shotgun’s barrel.

  “Too serious,” her associate said.

  “You should relax a little.” Long legs pushed her head against the barrel of the gun, daring me to shoot. Between the rapt mob ready to tear Roark and I asunder and the bomb, I wasn’t eager to call her bluff. “I could help with that, you know.”

  “We’ll double whatever the Crusaders are paying you,” I said.

  “I don’t think that’d be a good idea,” the counter siren said, wagging the switch at me. “Donovan Martin doesn’t forget those who cross him.”

  “Some say he has even risen from the ashes of the dead,” the other one said. “But we didn’t come to tell stories.”

  And here I thought the legends that swirled about my exploits were overblown. The Crusaders were pushing the supernatural PR into overdrive.

  Guess you got cocky when you were sitting on your very own wellspring.

  “That’s right,” the counter siren said. “We came here to make you an offer.”

  “This ought to be good,” I said.

  “It is.” The counter siren, who was clearly the leader, nodded. “Isn’t that right, Helena?”

  “It is so, Capri.”

  “You can trust us, Ruby.” Capri smiled from the countertop. “We’re trying to save you, Ruby.”

  “You’d like that, right?” Helena said, the crowd buzzing in bland agreement.

  “Just tell us what the FBI discovered this morning and you’ll live,” Capri said.

  “And Colton’s handsome face can kiss yours,” Helena said with a wicked smile.

  “Generous offer,” I said, trying to keep my mind focused on the situation. Sirens
could throw off anyone, any creature. Didn’t matter the gender. Iron-clad discipline dissolved in their wake. Bounty hunters avoided them entirely, since they tended to make situations complicated.

  But today was a day for rule-breaking.

  I racked the shotgun, and Helena popped away from the barrel, startled by the aggression. The mob—still growing, despite the sirens’ focus on Roark and me—tensed, perturbed by the threat to their glorious new leaders. Deep in the back of their minds, terror and confusion probably reigned, but rational thought was overtaken by illusory promises of glory and pleasure.

  As for the wisps, well, what few remained were black. Even my intuition knew to stay the hell away from sirens. They could corrupt a dead nun.

  I slammed the shotgun against Helena’s torso, sending her stumbling back into the crowd. Then I quickly moved forward and grabbed Roark’s arm, indicating we needed to move back.

  There would be no heroic antics here today.

  Capri, however, was having none of this. She held the dead man’s switch high, the threat hovering over us all.

  “We set this party up just for you.” She gave a pouty face. “And you’re just going to leave, refusing our offer?”

  “That’s the plan,” I said, desperately fighting the desire to stay. Pearl would’ve slapped me in the face for that mental weakness.

  But you stay in jail for twenty-one years and then walk around in a techno-utopia hiding dark secrets and see where that leaves you. Out of practice—in the best-case scenario—would be my bet.

  “That’s why you should always have a contingency.” Capri’s finger slipped off the trigger.

  I braced myself, awaiting a bath of white light and the songs of angels. Or permanent darkness. But instead, a guttural roar overtook my ears, shaking the aluminum baseball bats off the racks in the back of the store.

  Before I could react, the mob was upon us, Capri and Helena’s fleeting laughter dancing above the melee as Roark and I were torn apart from each other.

  8

  My arm almost popped out of its socket as I hit the store’s rough carpeting. The rabid sounds of the feverish mob thrummed with the power of a hundred gunshots. Say what you will about sirens—and I had plenty of thoughts on the subject—but they know how to rile up a crowd.