Ruby Callaway: The Complete Collection

by D. N. Erikson

  “He died, didn’t he?”

  “You see why I require a replacement, then.”

  “But that was many years ago.”

  “Yes, and business has suffered as a solo act.”

  The train groaned, as if exhausted from its journey. I heard a hiss, like steam escaping from a pot lid, then a thrum of activity around the other side. People coming, going, the building springing alive with activity.

  I thought of the possibilities. Anyone I might’ve known was long dead. The world I knew had been replaced with this strange future I did not understand. And all that I had to my name was a strange gun and the itchy clothes on my back.

  “Fifty-fifty split,” I said.

  “I made no mention of money.”

  “You didn’t have to.”

  She nodded with satisfaction. “My, Ruby Callaway. I was wrong about you.”

  “Wrong?”

  “You have more than potential.” She disappeared around the corner. “You will make us both rich.”

  I limped after her, clinging to the gun as I headed into the throng of people. The heat suddenly slapped me in the face, and I realized that this place was unlike any I had known. As I waited in line behind Pearl, some man punching tickets before the massive black beast that ate up the strange road, I ran my hand along the gun’s stock.

  An inscription caught my attention.

  I looked down, squinting in the light to read the small text.

  Carry this weapon well, Realmfarer. Escape and live in the light, with the mortals. Love, Galleron

  “You could hurt yourself with that, little lady,” the ticket taker said. “You sure you need that, where you’re headed?”

  “I’m going wherever the sun does,” I said without thinking about it.

  “Don’t think that’ll be a problem in California.”

  I staggered past him and stepped up into the metal carriage, shotgun by my side.

  I didn’t know what to expect.

  But I knew that, whatever it was, Ruby Callaway would figure it out.

  I would figure it out.

  Epilogue

  Kalos

  “Holy shit,” Argos said, almost falling off his stool in the empty bar. I looked up from behind the counter, temporarily distracted from raiding the register. The dying man beneath my boot burbled something incoherent.

  Probably a prayer.

  The wicked were a big fan of those as they went gracelessly into the light.

  “You should’ve paid,” I said. “Or at least you shouldn’t have shot me.”

  “Who…whore.” He mumbled something else, then his jaw went slack.

  Save his wife from a local vampire, and he flips out at me because, as it turns out, she was knocking boots with the undead son of a bitch voluntarily. Two people dead, and a woman in tears, all because this bastard couldn’t handle change.

  Sometimes the girl doesn’t love you any more. And you gotta move on.

  I would’ve made it a rule to stop dealing with bar owners—or get out of the west altogether—but then a good quarter of my clientele would have vanished.

  I missed the old days of revenge, hunting down Isabella’s associates. There was a certain vengeful honor to that, at least. Like I was helping the world.

  I emptied the register into my hands, cursing at the tiny haul. It wasn’t like I could take his bar as collateral.

  “Kal.” Argos sounded serious.

  I looked past him, at the saloon’s double-doors. Moonlight crept in through the vented slits. “We’re fine.”

  “It’s not that.” He pushed the newspaper across the whiskey-stained wood with his nose.

  “I don’t have time to read.”

  “You might want to read this.”

  “Just read it to me,” I said, looking beneath the counter for other valuables. Unless chipped mugs and cracked glasses had suddenly appreciated in value, this retrieval effort had been a total bust. I felt like I was living my own little version of the Gold Rush—expecting great things, only to find lots of dirt, hard work and blood instead.

  “Just look at the damn picture.”

  “All right, all right.” I stood up, glaring at him to note my displeasure. Then I turned my attention to the wrinkled paper. Its date read September 29, 1882, indicating that, at least by the standards of boondock California mining camps, it was recent.

  Only three weeks out of date.

  A grainy sketch filled half the page. Not unusual to see wanted posters, but this one got my attention.

  I smiled. “I knew she survived.”

  “You think it’s really her?” Argos cocked his head, running arithmetic in his head. “She’d be about ninety…”

  I looked at the name, which simply said unknown. But somehow, even in passing, the sketch artist had captured the look of the print shop girl’s eyes from long ago. There was no longer any fear within them. No hesitation or confusion.

  And there was no doubt in my mind that this woman was, indeed, the same one who had helped me rid the Earth of Albin. Who, as she lay dying, had—when I’d gone out to get supplies—simply disappeared.

  No trail, no trace.

  Gone.

  “Not too many wolves to kill out here, Ruby Callaway,” I said to the picture. “But now I know why business is so hard to come by.”

  “Should we find her, Kal?”

  I crumpled up the paper, ink smudging on to my fingers from the whiskey as I tossed it behind the counter. “I don’t think Ruby wants to be found, buddy.”

  Argos’ ears slumped slightly. “Oh.”

  I scratched his ears and he leapt off the stool. “But we got four bucks and a dime to go anywhere in the world.” He bounded ahead, and I whistled. “Just no get-rich-quick schemes this time, all right?”

  “We could head south for the winter.” He wagged his tail, undeterred by past failures.

  “As long as they have beer down there.”

  “And no vampires.” The dog nudged open the double doors, slipping out through the crack. Then he hedged and said, “I would suspect.”

  Then I followed him into the night, the memory of Ruby ceding to tales of beaches, palm trees and tropical forests. But, before she drifted into the archives of time, I could have sworn I felt the strangest sensation—as if the paper had been open to that very page for a reason, pulled by invisible strings from afar. A light winked out in the lodge across the street, at the very top floor, and I shook the idea from my mind.

  Purely chance.

  But as I walked with the dog down the dusty main street, I couldn’t help but wonder one thing.

  Whether my path would ever cross with Ruby Callaway’s again—by chance, destiny or any other name.

  THE END

  Silver Tempest (1993)

  A Ruby Callaway Story

  1

  I stepped out of the Realm rift, into the storeroom of a coffee shop in the SeaTac International Airport. Brushing soot and chalk from the Elven Cliffs off my jeans, I wound my way through the throng of flannel-shirted patrons toward the concourse. The strains of Kurt Cobain’s fuzzed out grunge guitar faded into the background as I joined the thrum of passengers pushing outside.

  Cyril the Elven King’s mandate echoed in my ears. I played with the ends of my hair, reflecting on how best to retrieve his little princess. The situation could hardly be considered optimal. Mixing a vampire nest and elves was like letting a pack of dogs loose in a butcher shop.

  Thunder cracked overhead, the perpetually gray sky opening up into a downpour. With the change jingling in my pocket, I bought a copy of The Seattle Times from a weather-beaten corner stand at the airport’s edge. Just before I turned the newspaper into an umbrella, a small story on the front page caught my attention.

  More to the point, the newsprint caught my intuition’s attention—a Realmfarer’s sole power of note, a blend of lie detection, cold reading and fortune telling. The lights, as gray as the crackling sky above, drifted down from the Marc
h 5, 1993 date to the paper’s bottom corner.

  I skimmed the details and nodded.

  I wouldn’t have to think very hard on how to retrieve the princess after all.

  Two bodies with the marks of Satanic rituals had been found on the shores of Lake Union. But that was just a weak confabulation for events the mortals couldn’t hope to understand. For these murders weren’t the work of Satanists.

  Staring at the pale skin in the tiny thumbnail, I could clearly see that this was the work of vampires.

  I trotted back to the corner stand, paper tucked beneath my arm. The proprietor was beginning to drag the metal shield down, closing early for the day. I rapped against the side, and he gave me a grouchy look.

  “You tryin’ to put me outta business?” A stubby finger pointed skyward. “Rain’s gonna ruin all my stock.”

  I reached into my back pocket and pulled out two twenties. Their corners furled slightly in the gusts. His eyes filled with curiosity—at least enough to temporarily halt his closing preparations.

  “I just need to know if there’s been any other stories like this.” I shoved the damp paper toward him, pointing at the text.

  “Generation X.” His lips curled and he shook his head in disgust. “I blame it on the music.”

  “Interesting theory.” I took the paper back. “So there were others?”

  “Been about five of them since January,” the stand operator said. “Seven, now, I guess.”

  I glanced at the stand, noticing a rack of Seattle tourist maps billowing in the rain. After grabbing one and a pen, I shoved them both toward him.

  “Mark it,” I said.

  “The hell I look like, an encyclopedia?”

  Money still clutched in my other hand, I said, “I’ll double it.”

  “You gotta pay for the map.” He grabbed the pen. “And this, too.”

  “Yeah, sure,” I said, reaching into my back pocket for more bills. Nonetheless, the man who claimed not to be an encyclopedia marked down precise locations. But I knew that from experience: guys like him were sponges for information. It was their business, after all.

  I connected the array of dots once he was done and nodded.

  “You some sort of cultist?”

  I glanced up from the map. “Not quite.”

  “It’s raining, Miss.”

  “Right,” I said, getting the memo and handing him the bills. A bolt of lightning flashed past the downtown on the horizon, illuminating it like a spell. No longer bothered by the rain, I allowed the water to stream down my neck, into the crevices of my oxford shirt.

  This time, I smiled when I remembered the Elven King’s words.

  Serenity is consorting with low creatures. You are to ensure that no longer happens by bringing her home.

  With any luck, I’d be done before lunch.

  Maybe I’d even have time to catch some of that devil’s music the newspaperman was so concerned about.

  I heard Soundgarden was good.

  And after the Elven Cliffs, I could use a vacation. If I never returned, it’d be too soon. Spend too long in that court, and you’d grow a stick up your ass.

  Maybe that was why Serenity had left.

  Guess I’d find out.

  I just hoped it wouldn’t be at the end of my gun.

  Because runaways usually didn’t come home quietly.

  2

  Hunting vampires is a simple business, once you know the signs. There was a reason why so many stories revolved around vamps and wolves: not only were both species common, they were, let’s say, less concerned about remaining incognito than most other creatures of essence.

  This had pluses and minuses. It made my job easier, but this inherent brashness also made capture or containment tricky. As a bounty hunter, you wanted to avoid gunfights—even if the contract called for an execution. Trading lead was the surest path to a brief career.

  Unfortunately, violent confrontations were common with such creatures of darkness.

  The magical shotgun rattled on my back as I rode the train into King Street Station. No one else could see it because of the wards cast upon the holster and firearm. I might not have been known for subtlety, but I sure as hell wasn’t dumb enough to walk through the airport open-carrying a single-barreled magical shotgun. That was a good way to end up in prison.

  And stay there.

  The train jerked to a stop, the passengers streaming out like they had fires to put out at home. After most of them had left, I rose and followed, boots echoing against the almost empty platform. The rain had picked up into a downpour by the time I was back outside. The dark morning felt foreboding, a harbinger of what was to come. Although I’d seen enough horrible things in the light of day to know that ambiance could be plenty deceiving.

  The wisps, for their part, didn’t change color. Just gray, filled with indecision and uncertainty. Hardly reassuring, but not code red, either. Since my intuition didn’t think chasing after this vampire nest was a problem, I decided not to worry about it.

  I glanced at the map, the red pen bleeding through the cheap paper turning to pulp in my hands. After checking the cross streets, I found that I was close to the scene of the first murder. It stood to reason that the nest was located somewhere around the center of these seven killings. The locations of the body dumps clearly marked the edges of the nest’s comfort zone.

  Nested vampires didn’t venture far outside their territory unless necessary. But they also weren’t complete morons, putting the bodies right next door. Thus, the dots and connecting pen lines represented the very boundaries of their territory—as far away from the center of operations as possible. Without too much discomfort.

  I slicked my hair back into a soggy ponytail, wringing the water out as I entered the boutique. Even here, grunge had overtaken the speakers and high-end, classic aesthetic. The revolution was real.

  A well-heeled young woman hurried over to greet me. “Welcome to the Little Black Dress.”

  She wasn’t wearing a little black dress, instead going with a short skirt and blouse. Knee-high boots. Her straight, prim hair had the hints of a punk rock vibe at the fringes. Not enough to bother her employer, but enough to make people at clubs know that she got it.

  Her aura identified her as human. No bite marks, from what I could tell. Didn’t have any of the signs of a blood groupie.

  I held out the map. “I’m investigating the recent murders in the area.”

  “And you are?” Her voice was chirpy and a little confrontational.

  I gave her a hard glare, like I didn’t appreciate the question. “Seattle PD. Detective Rebecca Pearl.” I used a portmanteau of my given, Christian name, and my mentor’s name.

  The saleswoman stepped back, her blouse crinkling as she folded her arms. “Your partner’s already in the back.”

  “Partner?” I glanced back through the spare floor space, the white walls and light birch floors devoid of other patrons.

  “You guys really need to communicate better. Maybe you’d actually catch these sick people.”

  “Maybe.”

  “It’s killing business, you know,” the woman said. “No pun intended.”

  “We’ll do our best, ma’am,” I said, turning to leave. Interacting with the actual police was an unnecessary risk that would only complicate matters. Best case scenario, they’d piss all over any lead, approaching a supernatural case with a mortal’s bumbling naiveté.

  Worst case scenario, the cops would be up my ass. Impersonating law enforcement was a crime—or so I’d heard.

  A classic lose-lose situation.

  There was nothing within the existing forensic science to explain a troll’s savagery. It’d been mistaken in textbooks as everything from cannibalism to manic psychotic breaks. None of which got close to the heart of the matter.

  The bell on the boutique’s door jingled as I hurried out into the wind. The rainy cold had a sort of bone-gnawing chill that didn’t hit you all at once so much as seep in
to your soul. Shoulders huddled, I was about to turn the corner when I heard a man call after me.

  “Detective!”

  I stiffened and picked up the pace, pretending like I hadn’t heard. My eyes darted about the quiet downtown neighborhood. Mostly commercial shops, but the streets were empty because of the storm. Rain pitter-pattered against parked cars in a rhythmic thump.

  Breath fogging as I exhaled in and out, I passed a row of restaurants. Footsteps thudded behind me, and I broke into a dead run. Bastard was persistent.

  I cut down a nearby alley, the kind that’s filled with cute curio shops and cheap apartments, when I heard, too close for comfort, “Goddamnit, just wait.”

  Turning slowly, hand gravitating toward my warded shotgun, I saw a man in a plain jacket and department store slacks, rain wicking off the few hairs on his bald head. He wasn’t much older than thirty, and had a wispy kind of stubble that indicated he hadn’t shaved for a couple days.

  “You better pull fast,” he said, eyes shaded with a lupine amber glow. “If that’s gonna be the play.”

  I gauged the distance between us—ten feet, maybe less. The rain would slow him down, but I’d have to cast off the wards, which would be problematic. Letting my hand fall toward my side, I stared him down.

  Water burbled past our boots, forming a little stream on its journey toward the rusted gutter.

  “I have no business with you,” I said.

  “But we’re partners,” the man said with a sarcastic grin as he reached into his pocket. I tensed, wondering if I should draw down before it was too late. But all he came back with was a badge, glinting dimly in the gray afternoon. “Although someone forgot to give me the memo.”

  “Government bureaucracy,” I said drily, watching his body for sudden movements.

  “You’re not human.”

  “That makes two of us.”

  “If the vamp sent you…” His eyes flashed hot.

  “I work alone.” Without anything better to do, I stepped toward him. Soon we were face-to-face, separated only by the deluge of morning Seattle rain. This close, I could smell the wolf on him. Sense it coursing through the air. Unlike most, he had it completely under control. Locked down, like a Zen monk might wrangle their consciousness.