Ruby Callaway: The Complete Collection

by D. N. Erikson

  After rolling up the sleeves of my oxford and adjusting my jeans comfortably around my hips, I laid my supplies out on the table. I’d woken up without a clear plan. Harcourt’s note hadn’t changed that.

  In fact, his had only added to the heap of problems. They were scattered about the table, the items telling stories of all the threats lurking in the shadows of my life.

  There were plenty to choose from: Malcolm Roark had some of my blood. The attached note had been less than subtle: I kept the rest for safekeeping. And to see who bends first. He’d be gunning for me hard after the Crusaders of Paradisum fiasco. He could do more than make me bend; if Malcolm chose, he could break my back and tear my soul asunder.

  But something told me MagiTekk still needed me alive. I still had utility to them. Two decades ago, I’d been caught, captured, and set up for a reason. Malcolm had admitted that some of MagiTekk and the FBI’s higher-ups had known who I was, and what I could do.

  The ruse otherwise—all those sessions in the dark room, trying to break my will and get me to talk—had simply been to discover the extent of my abilities.

  Which led to a more chilling question: to what end did Malcolm Roark want me to bend toward? What dominoes had MagiTekk laid out more than two decades ago?

  And when did they plan on knocking them down?

  I had no answers, so I moved on to the next item.

  He’d also given me the addresses of the final three names on my revenge list. Before last night, I’d been uninterested in pursuing that angle further. A changed woman, one might argue. But with Roark’s rejection whispering in my ear, the urge was returning.

  Of course, that wasn’t even the biggest development of all. My mentor, Pearl, had penned me a note over twenty years ago that Malcolm had retrieved from the FBI’s evidence lockup. It suggested that she had known we would be ambushed in that suburban house all along.

  Had allowed it to happen, sacrificing herself for a greater purpose.

  One involving me.

  What purpose that was remained unclear. But one thing was certain: the game was intensifying around me, heading toward some sort of inevitably fiery conclusion.

  Right now, I needed to choose the path that would help me find Harcourt. Nothing spoke to me, and my intuition—that blend of cold-reading and Tarot Card-esque fortune telling that had saved my ass so many times in the past—wasn’t helping. The wisps floated lazily by the window, like they’d absorbed the brunt of my hangover.

  I surveyed my wares, waiting for a sign or flash of inspiration.

  The shotgun sat next to multiple boxes of MagiTekk ammunition. Diamond-studded, silver-cored rounds designed to tear through any creature of essence with alarming ease. I’d seen them used against creatures in the Tempe Internment Camp during my long stint behind the gates.

  It had never ended well.

  Since then, I’d discovered—through my own unscientific field studies—that MagiTekk’s ammo had more stopping power than its essence-laced counterpart, which I’d used for decades. A few such shells lay upon the table. A faint magical aura trailed off their blue-rimmed casings. But the supernatural was no match for the omnipresent march of progress and MagiTekk’s army of lab coats.

  The lightning blade sat nearby. The inventory was rounded out by the notes—Pearl’s, Malcolm’s thinly veiled threat, and Harcourt’s recent, unwelcome addition—the leather jacket Roark had given me, the hacked cube which gave me access to the FBI database, and my Realmpiece.

  I picked it up, hoping for a sign.

  But the pewter, compass-like instrument was also of little help. Occasionally, it charted a course where the trail of clues or my own intuition had failed. Right now, however, its dial just spun rapidly over the myriad of ancient symbols cluttering its face. Kalos Aeon, the half-demon, had given it to me many years ago—a final gift from Galleron. My first love, down in the Weald of Centurions. That Realm of bones, where I had escaped, and Galleron had died.

  People that crossed paths with me tended to wind up dead, one way or another.

  It briefly dawned on me that Roark could share the same fate. That got my heart racing, despite his behavior the night before. But it didn’t spark any new insights.

  “Goddamnit.” I slammed my fists against the table, the modest collection of items rattling. Still unmoored without a clear objective, I stuffed the supplies back into my pockets.

  When I got to Harcourt’s note, I felt a strange buzz coursing through the paper. The wisps danced in manic, kaleidoscopic fervor around the edges of the thick stationery. But it could’ve been one of Harcourt’s many tricks. His trademark was an unquenchable thirst for chaos. He liked seeing people confused, chasing their tails.

  But no, this was real: after holding the note up to the fuzzy gray light, I confirmed what my fingers had felt. The note was enchanted. There was more information hidden within.

  The next step crystallized: I needed someone to break the enchantment. Then I’d find out more about where Roark had gone—and whether Harcourt was telling the truth about the Tributary.

  Scrounging through the bottoms of the drawers, I found an old watch left behind by the previous tenant. I strapped the cracked leather band around my wrist and set the alarm to go off in twelve hours—with reminders on the hour.

  Just in case Harcourt wasn’t totally full of shit.

  4

  Giving one last glance around, I coughed into my wrist. Light blood droplets stained my skin.

  “Goddamn Fallout Zone.” I peered at them, feeling slightly lightheaded.

  I’d defied doctor’s orders, damn near killing myself with an adrenaline overdrive potion in my efforts to sabotage MagiTekk a couple days ago. Due to stress and lack of bedrest, the radiation sickness was returning. I needed meds—or a booster shot.

  I grimaced, lungs burning. Looked like I had a brand new first checkmark on the old to-do list: see Serenity Cole for a booster shot. That should keep me going until I could find a more permanent solution.

  Before I left the apartment for good, I fired off an email to Alice Conway—Roark’s former vampire CI who was now our resident tech expert and hacker. I briefly summarized my findings deep within the catacombs of the Cathedral of St. Peter.

  That MagiTekk had partnered with the FBI and kept the presence of the powerful mana wellsprings hidden public. Had traded their location to a dangerous cult in exchange for the Crusaders’ essence suppression tech, which was worth billions. Even agreed to help the Crusaders extract the mana from the long-dead god Pan, and make the cult members immortal—and quite powerful.

  All in the pursuit of the almighty dollar. Capitalism at its most cutthroat—and elegant.

  Alice knew most of this already. But I was looking for something more. I asked—more like begged—her to find some concrete evidence of the dealings. Proof of the unholy alliance between the Crusaders, FBI, and MagiTekk. It had to be lurking on some server, somewhere in that mess. The Cathedral of St. Peter had been quarantined off in the interest of “national security.” The guilty parties were closing ranks. But they were still reeling in disarray. There had to be a way to sneak through the cracks.

  Even a straw could break the dying camel’s back at this point. At the very least, it would slow the corporate machine down further. If Malcolm planned to test the flexibility of my spine, perhaps a new scandal would keep him preoccupied. MagiTekk’s stock would continue to plummet, distracting the higher-ups from seemingly lesser problems.

  Like me.

  I capped the email with a manageable request: I needed someone to break the enchantment on the note. That wouldn’t be hard, given Alice’s network of contacts.

  Then I rushed out of the apartment. It had been my recent home, but it had always felt more like a hotel than a place that had roots. There were no tearful goodbyes or nostalgic waves as I pressed out the glass doors, into the bustling street.

  Carrying everything I owned upon my back, I hailed down an autocab and charted a cours
e for Old Phoenix. Then I settled into the worn leather seat and looked out the window. My phone glowed in my hand, inviting me to make bad decisions. I flipped through the contact list, finding Roark’s name. Against my better judgment, I tapped the glowing number and pressed the thin handset to my ear.

  “Come on, Roark, pick up.” The lonely ringing sputtered and stopped, going straight to voicemail. This is Special Agent Colton Roark. Leave a message and I’ll return your call as soon as possible.

  Ding.

  With an annoyed sigh, I hung up. Off the grid and out of range. Maybe he had actually found the Tributary. He hadn’t even gotten the chance to change the message to reflect his promotion to Supervisor. A big career win for someone who wasn’t even thirty-five. Head honcho of the Phoenix Field Office—MagiTekk’s corporate backyard and one of the Four Points of the Southwest District. A magical hotbed, rife with energy and turmoil. Important to humans and creatures of essence alike.

  A critical post—perhaps the most important in the entire United States.

  Whatever information Harcourt had dangled about Roark’s dead brother, it had to be big. Because going AWOL with MagiTekk on the verge of collapse wasn’t a solid career move. And he’d burned his bridge with me, too.

  Still, the thought nagged at me: what if that crazed Fae had found a way to the Tributary? Surely we’d be looking at the end of days if Harcourt Leblanc was suddenly a beacon of truth.

  My gaze returned to the window. Lost in thought, I watched the uniform skyscrapers segue into more architecturally diverse Midtown high rises. The autocab sped past Kendrick’s bar without slowing down, the wooden door disappearing in the early morning haze.

  Nerves firing like jumping beans, I fished out Pearl’s cryptic note to distract me. Maybe I could crack it with a clear mind. Reading it after two bottles of wine hadn’t been a fruitful endeavor.

  Or maybe there was nothing to crack.

  Maybe I just didn’t want to believe it.

  Ruby,

  If you’re reading this, then I’m dead. And everything is as it should be. Because now your training is finally complete. And you can set out to do what I always meant for you.

  As this may come as a shock to you, allow me to start from the beginning.

  I have watched the Callaways for many years, through the sands of eternal time. Our meeting in that Pennsylvania forest two centuries ago was no accident. Everything you henceforth believed about me is thus at least partially untrue.

  I am not a Seer. I have always been something more. I have foreseen many paths, many conclusions to this tale. Before you came along, however, your line was unwilling to partner with me. Your mother, for one, was a difficult woman.

  The same could be said of you, Ruby: difficult at times, temperamental at others. Yet I persisted, for your bloodline would be needed one day. And you have followed my lead through hellfire and darkness and light and emerged with minimal scars.

  Your ascension has arrived at a fortuitous juncture. For graver threats face the world than they did centuries ago. The worst of the ends I have foreseen, it seems, could come true.

  If my reading of the fates is correct, then August 4, 2018, will be our final day together. And if you are reading this, many years have passed since then, during which you have grown far beyond a hunter—or a killer.

  You have transformed into a truthseeker—and from that, there is no return. Find and know thy true self, Ruby. For a journey to the source is where your story ends.

  You are not a chosen one nor a hero, Ruby Callaway. There is no such thing as permanent salvation. Only the ability to ease the world’s suffering—and your own—for a distant, fleeting moment.

  When the time comes, Ruby, you will have to kill the father. Even if it means risking the hatred of the son.

  – The Oracle of Delphi (Pearl)

  “Could’ve at least given me some lotto numbers.” I folded the weathered note before slipping it back into my jacket pocket. Reflecting on what it might mean, I watched the scenery turn a dust-swept, southwestern orange. The buildings here barely clawed their way past the five-story mark. Scattered government vehicles lined the streets, responding to the mess at the Cathedral of St. Peter. Fortunately, Serenity’s clinic sat outside their dragnet.

  Memories flashed past as the autocab raced through the pothole laced streets.

  Being reborn in the Weald of Centurions—and, upon my escape, Pearl waiting for me at the train station in 1879. Training in the forest. Breaking branches, only to be forced to run the course again, until I was silent.

  Years of training channeled toward an unspoken destiny that would end at an unknown source.

  The decades rolled by like a flipbook, until they hit that day in the Phoenix suburbs, in the housing development surrounded by blue sky and endless auburn desert. Pinned down, outgunned, set up by the “client.” And Pearl—the Oracle of Delphi—had known the outcome, willingly sentencing herself to death.

  And me to the internment camp. I’d chosen to stay and fight, knowing the odds were futile. Even with the wisps showing me an exit.

  Had I been privy to the full picture, I might have left.

  My fingers coiled into a tight, angry fist. Truthseeker my ass. If Pearl was still around, we’d have a long talk at the end of my shotgun. Then we’d see what truths tumbled out.

  Here were my current truths.

  Roark was missing, courtesy of Harcourt’s antics.

  Pearl wanted me to travel to the source and temporarily end the world’s suffering. And to do that, I’d have to kill Malcolm Roark—even if his son protested.

  I reflected on how the pieces fit together as the autocab cut a sharp turn around a faded mailbox.

  A journey to the source is where your story ends.

  In the legends, the Tributary was the origin of all magical life—the Realm from which all the others had flowed. Maybe the myth was true, and that was the source I needed to find. It was just too much of a coincidence to believe otherwise.

  In any event, it gave me more incentive to crack Harcourt’s enchantment and track him down. That bastard would have a lot of explaining to do, once I found him.

  The autocab stopped abruptly and cheerily announced that payment was due. I swiped the phone over the credit reader. Instead of opening, the doors locked.

  “Sorry, Ruby Callaway,” the digital voice said. “You are wanted for questioning by the FBI. Please wait for the authorities to arrive. Have a nice day.”

  “That’s impossible.” I swiped the phone again, receiving an angry series of red blinking lights for my troubles. “I’m on the damn payroll as their consultant.”

  “Records indicate your working relationship with the FBI has been terminated as of 8:46 AM Mountain Standard Time today. Grounds for termination include improperly accessing an agent’s terminal, illegal release of classified financial records, and falsifying credentials. Please wait for the—”

  I racked the shotgun and fired it at the display at the front of the cab. A shower of sparks erupted, the voice drifting into digital death. The autocab’s locks groaned open, freeing me from my would-be prison.

  “I could’ve just paid,” I said, shaking my head as I exited the ruined vehicle. With a shrug to no one, I walked toward Serenity’s clinic, the all-glass exterior reflecting the gray morning light. “But you just had to see if I would bend.”

  Malcolm would find that I wouldn’t bend easily.

  But that didn’t mean I couldn’t break.

  5

  Hour 1

  “You really shouldn’t be running around for a couple weeks, minimum.” Serenity Cole shook her head in disbelief, revealing her sharp elven ears amidst her cascading waves of black hair ever-so-briefly. She gnawed at her bottom lip as her brown eyes scanned my chart. “But I told you that when I saw you the other day. Did you listen?”

  The question was rhetorical, but I said, “I’ve never been the best listener.”

  “The biggest surprise of
my day,” Serenity said in a deadpan monotone.

  The results of the preliminary blood tests, suffice to say, weren’t encouraging. Even to a former elven princess who disliked me very much. Which was funny: even though she harbored an intense dislike for me, she couldn’t refuse me treatment. Although we were becoming kind of frenemies. She’d helped me reverse-engineer the essence suppression vaccine.

  Then again, that was part of her nature. Goodness literally emanated from her.

  Made me wonder what people felt when they crossed paths with me. Whatever it was, I doubted it was warm or fuzzy.

  “Can’t you find someone else to help you?” Serenity asked. I even sensed concern.

  “This isn’t really a job I can outsource,” I said, kicking my heels against the worn exam table. Serenity rolled her eyes and I stopped.

  “And what job would that be?”

  “You going to help?” I gave her a wolfish smile. “The field’s a little rough for a princess.”

  Her eyes narrowed, the wisps around her head turning slightly pink. That was about as frazzled as she got. Instead of responding with an insult, she took my hand and touched her fingers against my wrist. My pulse could sense the powerful healing magic that flowed through her veins.

  Too bad she couldn’t just channel that white magic right into my weary bones. But I’d about worn out all the stopgap measures at my disposal. Only true rest—the kind I couldn’t afford, what with the clock ticking down—would fully restore my health.

  The wristwatch beeped, indicating that I had eleven hours left to pursue Harcourt’s note.

  “Have somewhere to be, Ruby?”

  “That’s why I’m here.” I gave her a grim smile. “To get me running at full speed again.”

  “You know that’s not possible.” Her light brown skin bunched up at the nose. Actual worry. Elves. They weren’t like the rest of us. “You’re really not going to listen to me, are you?”

  “I could insult your intelligence and say yes.”