Ruby Callaway: The Complete Collection

by D. N. Erikson

  “The Cathedral of St. Peter was built as a façade. The largest mana wellspring known to the mortal world resides beneath those walls.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  “The reason it’s so damn big is because Pan’s fossil is down there.”

  “He died and formed a mana wellspring,” I said in a hushed tone. “What the fuck is the power for?”

  “That’s what we were studying all those years ago,” Janssen said. “If he could be cloned. Revived. Reborn. With enough energy…”

  “Jesus Christ.” I leveled the shotgun at her head. “If you’d told us on Monday, we could’ve stopped this.”

  “You still can.” A racking cough. “But you had to figure it out on your own, Ruby.”

  “Why?”

  Janssen stared wistfully out the window. “Because even when you’re old, you still want to live.”

  “So why now?”

  “Because I’ve already helped you and Colton enough to sign my death warrant.”

  I’d feel bad for her, but I didn’t. Everyone made their choices.

  Then they had to live—or die—with them.

  “Tell me how I get inside the cathedral,” I said, gripping the shotgun tight.

  “There’s a side entrance.”

  “Don’t tell me it goes through the sewers.”

  “It comes through the courtyard.” Janssen reached into her jacket and handed me an old wrought iron key. But that was probably just for appearance’s sake, since the actual key was less than twenty years old.

  I rolled the heavy metal in my fingers. “So how’d you become Supervisor Janssen?”

  The old woman flashed a bitter smile. “Sometimes ambition has no bounds.”

  “Like MagiTekk?”

  “The war will continue forever if you don’t put a stop to their extracurricular bullshit with the FBI. Release it into the light.”

  “But how?” I asked.

  “I’m sure you’ll figure something out,” Janssen said.

  I opened my mouth to ask another question, but Janssen drew a nickel-plated pistol from her coat in a smooth motion. Somewhere along the line, the archaeologist had become a hardened FBI agent. As much as I wanted to hear more of the history, I was more concerned with her reaction.

  I cocked my head, listening in the house. “I don’t hear anything.”

  Janssen reached into her ear, digging out a small receiver. “They’re coming.”

  “You were talking to them?”

  “Don’t be ridiculous,” Janssen said. “MagiTekk’s been watching me for years. I know where all the bodies are buried. That was my assistant calling to let me know the other shoe has finally dropped.”

  “I don’t follow.”

  Janssen smiled. In the darkness, it was hard to tell whether or not it was sinister. “Malcolm finally has enough to call in the Ghosts.”

  “He wants to give Roark your job.”

  Janssen coughed and lit another cigarette. “You learn quick, Realmfarer.”

  Outside the crumbling building, tires screeched. At least three cars, by the sound of it. I racked the slide.

  “I need to know if Donovan Martin is down there already.”

  Janssen’s expression told me he’d been down there for quite some time.

  “You need to make sure Malcolm’s men don’t see you here,” Janssen said, drawing the other pistol. The nickel-plating shone in the dingy light. “You and Colton are the future. I’m the past.”

  Loud footsteps.

  Janssen reached into her pocket, pulling out something else. A worn keycard.

  “This will get you into the sub-basement of the cathedral. From there, it’s up to you.”

  There was a loud crack as the front door splintered.

  The wisps coalesced around the back door, blinking in the night as they flashed around the only chance of escape. I rushed forward, Janssen grabbing my arm.

  “I believe in you, Realmfarer.”

  “Cutting it awful close with the stories.”

  She put the cigarette between her teeth and said, “I just needed for someone to remember me when I’m gone.”

  With a grim smile, I nodded. Everyone wanted their little taste of immortality.

  Then I burst out the back and vaulted the wall as the derelict house exploded in a hail of gunfire.

  42

  Ears still ringing, skin hot and sweaty, I trekked toward what used to be Chase Field. According to the countdown, I had less than an hour before MagiTekk’s trucks left the warehouse. All my hopes rested here, in this half-collapsed baseball field.

  The corporate sponsor’s logo had faded from its former blue brilliance, retaining just a tinge of color. Promotional pictures of players who hadn’t batted in twenty years lined the stadium’s exterior, still standing larger than life in their forgotten glory.

  I needn’t have worried about security. Even the rats had abandoned this place. I walked through the admissions turnstiles and circled the concourse of the eerily empty structure. Dormant concession stands and barren merchandise racks ringed the cracked seats. Anything of value had long since been stripped away. Even the soda machines were gone.

  I took the stairs down to the scorched field two at a time, eager to get on with the dragon lure. Magic had never been my strong suit, even the prepackaged variety. A Realmfarer didn’t possess any spellcasting abilities, and no amount of training would ever change that.

  As I bounded down the concrete steps, I hoped that Maximo’s recipe required no such skills. I mean, if a mortal like Declan had pulled it off, how hard could it be?

  I vaulted the wall on the third baseline, landing in what could best be described as a dust bowl. Calling what remained a field would be generous. What had once been home to a lush, perfectly green stretch of grass was now nothing but pale red dirt. You couldn’t even see the outline of the diamond.

  One hand on my shotgun’s grip, I trotted into the outfield, scanning the stands for movement. The massive videoboard in center field hung askew. Someone had likely tried to steal it, but then found the job too challenging. Most of the high-powered lights surrounding the field were blown out.

  The dome was half-retracted, like it had tried to close and then simply decided it wasn’t worth the effort.

  Worked for me. I’d be pretty fucked if it had been shut.

  I took that as a good sign.

  I stopped in the middle of what had once been the outfield, which looked like as good a spot as any for a dragon lure. Using the shotgun’s barrel, I carved a wide square in the dirt. This would be the landing zone. After, I sprinkled a pinch of cinnamon around the exterior to create a wall.

  I had no idea why, but dragons hated cinnamon.

  After a second pass to make sure there were no weak links in my cinnamon fence, I set to work on the actual lure. Maximo’s recipe explained that this was to catch a standard dragon. I could only hope that the same rules applied to their smaller, more pointy-eared brethren.

  And that a bigger one wasn’t lurking in the sky somewhere, awaiting my call.

  But hey, if that happened, maybe Tinyr would get his mate after all.

  Although with his luck, it’d probably be a dude.

  I knelt in the dirt, pouring water into the dust to create mud. Into this, I mixed the pre-enchanted ingredients from Declan’s apartment: a ground troll tusk. Lamb’s blood. Cinders of a long-dead creature. I kneaded the mixture together, trying to channel my essence through it.

  This was futile. All I had was a lumpy mass of disgusting clay. Tension flowed through my fingertips as I worked, the muscles stiffening as I tried harder and harder to imbue the mixture with the essence necessary to activate the lure.

  Instead, I found myself wondering what these ingredients had in common. I suppose the cinders represented the dragon’s power. They were comfortable around the remnants of smoke and fire. The lamb’s blood—well, that was self-explanatory. Many carnivorous creatures were attracted
to the scent of blood. Dragons were pretty famous for eating people.

  Although that might’ve been against the elf dragon code of ethics.

  But the troll’s tusk had me stumped. I continued mixing the ingredients, wondering where it came into play. No one liked trolls. They were large, strong and stupid. Hideous and foul smelling. Pretty much nothing redeeming about them, unless you were an evil overlord. In which case they made good cannon fodder, since they were easy to trick or possess.

  I stifled the urge to scratch my neck. That would be gross. The twin scents of jasmine and vanilla still lingered, though Roark’s flirtation was a distant memory. I shoved the rueful thought from my mind.

  If he had thought he was incorruptible as MagiTekk’s liaison, there was no way that would continue when he became Supervisor of the Phoenix Field Office. Answering directly to the taxpayers—but also his father.

  Whatever. I’d survived the better part of 250 years. I didn’t need his help.

  It dawned on me, then, that trolls were the first dragon riders. Or so it was writ in myth. Two barbaric, brutal beasts finding a strange sort of symbiosis. I wasn’t sure what the trolls offered in the deal, but apparently it was enough for the dragons not to light them on fire.

  That was probably the only world worse than this one: one where you had to worry about a troll raiding party swooping down from the sky. MagiTekk seemed tame in comparison.

  Despite my revelation, the mixture didn’t come abuzz.

  Frustrated, I got up. Time was running out.

  Although I did have one pre-charged stock of essence on hand.

  Grabbing the shotgun from the nearby dirt, I took a step back and aimed at the pile. The lightning bolt burst shot out from the barrel, scattering the mud. For a moment, nothing happened—then, much to my surprise, I saw thin strands of blue light course through the wet dirt, magic coursing through the blend.

  I held my breath and backed away, not wanting to ruin the moment. But the essence continued infusing the ingredients with a magical spark. Without my input, the mixture spread itself over the square like a tipped over can of paint.

  Hopping out of the square, I watched as the marked area darkened, the handful of mud somehow coating it.

  “Well, I’ll be—”

  My celebration was cut off by a thunderous roar. Reflexively, I racked the shotgun. Through the half-closed roof, I saw the shadow of a flying creature dart through, pointed like an arrow toward the ground.

  My finger drifted toward the trigger.

  The dragon suddenly spread its wings a few feet from the ground, doubling its breadth as it closed in on terra firma. Its claws scraped in the mud, and it let out an annoyed screech.

  “Damnit.” The elf dragon huffed, smoke streaming from its nostrils.

  “Hello, Tinyr.”

  Blinking in the darkness, I peered back at the two slitted amber eyes. They looked a little loopy, presumably from the lure’s intoxicating effects. Tinyr stumbled to and fro, searching for the edges of the lure.

  A beam of light shot up from the line in the dust when he pushed his snout against it. Almost like a forcefield had materialized from nowhere.

  Tinyr let out a small yip and flopped on his ass, ears down.

  “You’re a hard little dragon to find,” I said, watching him warily.

  “I could burn you up.” He pawed the dirt like a bull about to rush.

  “But we’re such good friends.” Outside, I was all bravado. Inside, I didn’t know what the fuck to expect. It was a minor miracle I had managed to cast the lure spell at all—even with the largest of training wheels. How well it would withstand a steady stream of dragon napalm was anyone’s guess.

  “We’re even.”

  “So you told me in the apartment,” I said. “And yet, here you are.”

  “Lures.” Tinyr muttered curses to himself, sharp ears flicking irritably. He paced around the small square, which—while positively mansion-like compared to his cage at Burrows’s apartment—was still hardly fit for a nomadic beast.

  It almost pulled at my heartstrings.

  Almost being the operative word.

  “Done wallowing?”

  “I’m not helping you,” Tinyr said.

  “That’s where you’re wrong.”

  “Unless you have a mind control spell inside your shirt, I doubt it.” Thin tendrils of smoke trailed from his snout. The dry, still summer air was hot and numbing, like a comfortable blanket.

  But I wasn’t drowsy.

  No.

  I was on full alert.

  “Don’t you miss your kin?” I asked.

  “No.”

  “You sure?”

  “Did I stutter?”

  “Look, I need your help,” I said, desperation creeping in.

  “We’ve established that.”

  “You could get revenge on the guys who imprisoned you.” Dubious, in a six degrees kind of way. But I wasn’t above lying to get what I needed.

  Which was for him to burn down MagiTekk’s warehouse.

  “Vengeance is a good way to get killed.”

  Smart one, this dragon.

  “Don’t make me beg.”

  “It wouldn’t help.” Tinyr sat down in the center of the square, like he was content to ride things out.

  A thought sprang to mind. “I could tell you where Serenity Cole is.”

  His eyes widened in recognition. “So you’re the one they sent after her.”

  “Indeed.”

  “They hate you in the Elven Cliffs, Realmfarer.”

  “Tell me something I don’t know.”

  Tinyr got up and came to the very edge of the square. That left about ten feet between us—close enough that I could taste the smoke on my tongue. He cocked his head slightly.

  “You’re the reason I left.”

  I scratched my head, hair tangled about my ears. “Glad I could be an inspiration.”

  “I mean, if they never found you, or the princess, then that meant I could escape, too.”

  “So you owe me.”

  “Nope.”

  “Goddamnit,” I screamed as Tinyr looked on in amusement. The thin pastiche of a dragon smile spread across his scaly mouth, then vanished. Shaking my fist at him, I couldn’t find the words to explain my annoyance.

  So, instead, like a child, I kicked dust into his face.

  Tinyr sneezed and said, “Now you’re definitely not getting my help.”

  I reached for the shotgun, but stopped myself from threatening one of the only allies I had left. Oh, what a time to be alive for Ruby Callaway. Bringing my hand slowly back to my side, I stepped forward, right to the edge of the lure.

  “What do you want, Tinyr?”

  The elf dragon stopped pawing at his eyes and looked up at me, blinking. “See?”

  “See what?”

  “Now we’re speaking the same language, Realmfarer.”

  “Ruby.”

  “Well, then, Ruby,” Tinyr said, “I want money.”

  “The fuck is a dragon going to do with money?” I asked, before I could help myself and just thank the goddamn dead gods we were getting somewhere.

  “Maybe I’ll buy a yacht.” He let out a puff of smoke. “What’s it to you?”

  “Yachts cost a lot of money.”

  “That’s how much it’ll cost,” Tinyr said. “Ten million.”

  “What about an old friend discount?”

  “Fifteen.”

  “Fine,” I said, and then explained that I needed him to torch the warehouse and snag me a sample.

  Tinyr nodded and said, “Not a problem. For fifteen million.”

  “Then we have a deal.” I sighed and turned my back.

  “Not yet we don’t.”

  “I’ll release you,” I said, digging into my pocket for the instructions.

  “Not good enough.” I stopped and looked back. Tinyr wore a skeptical look. “You need to make a blood pact.”

  “My word is gold.”

/>   “Then a blood pact won’t be any problem at all.”

  I checked my arm.

  Twenty-nine minutes until showtime. No time for negotiations.

  I ripped the blade from its sheath. Without a second thought, I cut it through my palm. When I got to the edge, I looked at Tinyr, blood dripping down my arm.

  “Your paw.”

  Reading my expression, he offered up his front leg. I made the small cut, then pressed our open wounds together. The essence flowed forth as we both agreed—out loud—to honor the agreed upon terms.

  This was getting to be one expensive warehouse.

  As I walked away, I muttered the words to disenchant the ring.

  Roark had been right, back in the time loop.

  Nothing in this world came free.

  Especially not a dragon’s loyalty.

  43

  Of course, the matter of acquiring fifteen million dollars when I didn’t even have a bank account was no small problem. But not for long. As it wore off, the exhaustion displacement potion gave me one final brilliant idea.

  One that would probably cost me in the long run.

  But sometimes you just needed to make it through the goddamn day.

  Looking out the window of my apartment at the skyscape, I saw the clock tick down toward zero. Hopefully, somewhere, Tinyr was torching that damn warehouse.

  Meanwhile, I needed to pay him.

  Roark’s data cube was slotted into the glass table, the FBI login screen hovering in the air.

  It only took half a ring for him to pick up. And man did he sound pissed.

  “I gave you your own fucking cube, Ruby.” I could practically feel the heat of his anger coming through the phone’s circuitry. “You could’ve just asked.”

  “I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

  “That’s the line you’re going with?” In the background, I heard chatter. “You really want to head down this road?”

  “You sound busy.”

  “Janssen’s dead.” More voices, sounding frantic and in crisis mode. “Well, you gonna say anything?”

  “I know.”

  “Fantastic.” His fist slammed against the table. “I need allies now more than ever.”

  “I’m on your side.”