Your mind just goes haywire.
There was also the small matter of it being sensitive to my aura. Of course, while I couldn’t be made flame-proof, the fire—in the hands of a skilled and expensive poultice maker—could be encouraged to burn away from me.
So after the flames died down a minute later, I did mop-up duty. For those trying to fire a shotgun with one arm, don’t do it without practice. And, even then, expect a heavily bruised sternum to go with your already snapped right arm.
Serenity freed me from the shackles, which was a poor move on her part. I’d had enough of elves and their non-disclosure bullshit, and even with one broken arm, I’d practically dragged her out by the hair. After doing my good deed for the year and freeing the half-naked, involuntary blood donors in the fridge, of course.
Before you think I was getting too warm and fuzzy, know this: a couple of those girls were the rich, yuppie types. Big rewards. Which meant less working for double-booking elves and more time on the beach, where psychotic vampires weren’t digging into your neck.
I rubbed the closing bite wound and heard Pearl say from the back of the car, “Goddamnit, don’t touch that.”
“It itches.”
“Well, then don’t get yourself bitten.”
“It’s not like I’ll turn into one of them,” I said. “That’s a myth.”
“Are germs a myth, then? Bacteria? Have you seen where those grimy bastards put those things?” Pearl snorted. I watched her toss her mussed black hair to emphasize her displeasure. “This one wasn’t your cleanest work, Ruby.”
“But I got it done,” I said, glancing sternly at Serenity in the passenger seat.
Her arms were crossed, a morose look of mourning on her pretty face. I could understand why—whatever charms Aland had first cast on her, it had become real over time. This was true love, one which I’d shredded with a single shotgun blast.
Further, there was some self-loathing. I’m not a psychiatrist, but when you consider yourself a fundamentally good person, and then join a kidnapping and murder ring, it tends to fuck with your self-image.
Even if you didn’t suck down any blood yourself.
I pulled in behind the airport shuttle and cut the engine. Another few hundred yards and we’d be through the Realm rift, heading toward the Elven Cliffs. Ready to deliver their beloved princess and collect our reward.
“I hate you,” Serenity said in that teenage way. I couldn’t tell how old she was. The Elven King hadn’t exactly been forthcoming with the pertinent details. Then again, I could see why: most likely, he knew his daughter had tasted the darkness.
That wouldn’t be good princess PR.
I glanced in the rearview, where Pearl had a strange look on her face.
She was reading me, as Seers are wont to do.
Trying to figure out what was coming next.
I reached around Serenity’s neck and yanked the gold chain, from which dangled a diamond pendant. She let out a gasp, like I was nothing more than a common thief.
Guilty as charged, in many respects.
Without looking back, I offered the necklace to Pearl. “That’s gotta be worth more than the contract, right?”
“You’re not thinking about doing—”
“It’s already done,” I said. “Fuck those elves.”
Apparently I was wrong about essence-based creatures.
All of them were assholes. There were no exceptions.
I reached over and unlocked Serenity’s door.
She gave me a dubious look.
“You can go back home,” I said. “Or you can live out here, in the light.”
“But what will I do now?”
“Start a soup kitchen or some shit,” I said. “I don’t care.”
She stared at me silently, searching for answers. As she reached for the door, I grabbed her arm. Her body shook like I’d pressed a gun up to her spine.
I knew the feeling.
“But if I ever find you doing this again,” I said, “you’ll have to answer for it.”
I tapped the shotgun’s barrel twice with my free hand. Pearl, to drive the point home, said, “You don’t want to answer to Ruby Callaway.”
Serenity swallowed and said in a small voice, “You promise you won’t come after me?”
“As long as you promise not to be an asshole.”
“Swear.”
“What, you don’t trust me?” I glared at her. I hadn’t been the one consorting with psychotic vampires. “Fine. I swear I’ll leave you alone. Just behave yourself.”
I leaned on the word behave, driving the core underlying point home: vampire lovers were off the menu. Forever.
With a quick nod, her raven hair sliding forward to reveal her pointy ears, Serenity got out of the car.
“That’s not good for business,” Pearl said.
“You know how many hunters the elves hired?” I asked, watching Serenity disappear onto the nearest shuttle. “Three. Triple-booked.”
There was a long pause from Pearl. I heard the chain rattle. “Well, then fuck them indeed.”
“My thoughts exactly.” I pulled out ahead of the shuttle and headed toward I-5. “You think she’ll be okay?”
“I wouldn’t want you looking over my shoulder.”
“You say that like I’m scary.”
“You’re a killer, Ruby.” Pearl’s eyes stared back at me in the rearview, seeing all. “But sometimes that’s just what the world needs.”
We rode in silence, the Space Needle and Seattle disappearing behind us as a road of possibilities stretched on through the windshield. Leading us to a million more places in need of someone bad to find those who were worse.
Someone bad like me.
THE END
Kentucky Clear (1959)
A Ruby Callaway Story
1
The glyph map crumbled to glowing dust as I crossed the silent backcountry road. The warlock’s enchanted directions had tracked the missing shipment of wolfblood clear to the Roadside Lodge. But, as with most back alley black magic, the casting had been unstable.
I’d paid $200 to be led straight to Shiv’s stolen merchandise. But now, unless I needed a room for the night, I was up shit creek without any leads, the trail growing colder than the crisp Kentucky air. Not that complications were unusual for a bounty hunter. If this job were easy, Shiv wouldn’t have hired me to retrieve his bootlegged liquor and eliminate the thief responsible.
The old vampire would’ve just taken care of business himself.
A faded billboard for Lexington stood fifty yards past the motel’s flickering vacancy sign. But I wasn’t looking for a night in the city.
A lone hardtop Chevy Bel Air sat in the motel’s lot, covered in a winter’s worth of slushy grime. It’d be spring soon, but frost still ruled for the next few weeks. Faint wisps rolled over the cherry paint, lackadaisically winding their way past the tail fins. They stopped in front of the manager’s office, inviting further investigation.
Maybe the warlock’s map hadn’t been a total bust.
Hopefully the wolfblood clear was packed up safe and sound inside. My intuition—and years of experience—suggested otherwise, but a girl could dream. The warded shotgun, hidden from mortal eyes, rattled on my back as I walked.
The unlit office looked abandoned by time itself. I rapped on the streaked glass, causing peeling paint to flutter from the faded door. No response. Wonderful customer service. No wonder the Roadside Lodge had ample vacancies.
Throwing a glance back at the idle roadway, I decided on Option B.
The broken glass crinkled beneath my boots as I stepped inside. The dueling scents of must and old perfume permeated the faded interior. The decor hadn’t been updated since the Depression. After lighting a candle, I began working my way through the visitor’s register.
I paid little heed to the footsteps coming from the windy parking lot.
“You know I can shoot ya for trespassing,” a gruff voice calle
d. “Even if you’re a lady.”
“Some ladies deserve it.” My Realmfarer intuition pointed toward an illegible name at the bottom of the page, the wisps dancing red around the smudged ink.
“I phoned the authorities, now, so it’s best you git, you hear?”
“Only phone is in the office,” I said, not looking up from the crinkled page. Was that an M? My intuition couldn’t answer such questions—only give me faint hints. That wouldn’t be good enough for my employer. To get paid, I needed a better lead.
The manager leaned in from the edge of the door, unafraid. Then again, what reason would he have to be? To him, I was just an unarmed lady. I was about as dangerous as a stray raccoon.
Someone should have told him that raccoons have claws.
“I ain’t gonna ask you twice, miss.”
“I’m not leaving.” Yeah, that was definitely an M. I squinted, but couldn’t make out the rest.
“Even an old man is a hell of a shot from this range.”
“What can you tell me about this guest?” I asked, lifting the visitor’s logbook off the counter. When I turned around, I saw a thin man with hair the color of shoe polish. His face had been prematurely aged from years of drinking.
Not that I blamed him. Probably the only way you could stay half-sane working a job like this.
His craggy hands clutched a hunting rifle aimed straight at me.
“Hey, now, I told you to get the hell on out of here.”
“There’s ten bucks in it for you.” I waved the book and smiled.
He eyed me suspiciously. “You gotta pay for the window, too.”
“Sure,” I said, reaching into my pocket slowly. His aim wasn’t shaky. Nerves of steel, thanks to the whiskey. I took out three twenties. Big money. “All yours, you tell me what I need to know.”
He put the rifle against his shoulder and walked over. “You’re a strange broad.”
“So the rumors say.” I tapped the smudged name. “That’s who I’m looking for.”
“I remember that son of a bitch. Could barely read or write.”
“That unusual?” I asked.
“All you goddamned Yankees think we can’t read,” the manager said. But he didn’t seem too angry about the perceived insult. “Hell no, it ain’t usual.”
I didn’t bother to correct him about being a Yankee. Technically it was true—in the same way that technically whiskey contained water. But there was a hell of a lot more to that story, enough to dilute whatever I’d once been. Or where I’d been born.
Coming back from the Underworld—or worse, the Weald of Centurions—will change a girl.
For good.
I said, “What else can you tell me about him?”
“Haulin’ a big crate. Like a treasure chest. I asked if he needed help, but the bastard just lifted it like goddamn Superman.” The manager ran a hand through his jet black hair, keeping the other on his rifle.
That sounded like my thief.
“Any idea where he headed off to?”
The manager stared at the visitor’s log for a second before giving me a gap-toothed smile.
“Now that’s a real interestin’ matter,” he said. “The kinda information that might cost extra. Otherwise an old man might forget it.”
I stifled the urge to shove my shotgun in his mouth. Keeping to the shadows was how I survived. Although I had a little reputation for not always keeping so quiet.
I unclenched my fist and sighed. “How much does information like that run in these parts?”
“A cool hundred ought to get my memory working again.”
I reached into my pocket. Good thing Shiv had paid half upfront. I was getting reimbursed for expenses on this job, though.
The old vamp could count on that.
The manager nodded, the rifle dropping to his side. He headed around the counter to shuffle papers. A glass clinked. Finally, he took out a Mason jar and unscrewed the top. It smelled like moonshine, all right, but the contents were blood red.
“I took myself a sample of his wares,” he said. “When the big guy was sleeping.”
Bold move. If only this idiot knew what he’d stepped into.
“Smells like shine,” I said, turning away from the gasoline aroma.
“And that means bootleggers.” That gap-toothed grin again. “But I ain’t ever seen this fella. Not that I can recall, anyway.”
The wisps turned fuzzy, indicating he was full of shit. My intuition wasn’t infallible—more like cold reading or Tarot cards that weren’t horseshit—but I could see the lie clear enough on the manager’s craggy face.
“How much is it gonna cost to jog your memory again?” I said, swallowing my annoyance—which was proving increasingly difficult.
He took a sip of the wolfblood shine. “How much you got in those pockets?”
I took out another hundred bucks and put it on the countertop, next to the flickering candle. “That’s all you’re getting.”
“They always say memory is the first thing to go.” Just as I was about to reach back and break the invisibility wards cloaking the shotgun, he cleared his throat. “But I do ’member those bootleggers like to live far up in the hills. Near the old mines.”
Interesting. We had something more than a run-of-the-mill thief. Shiv had a little competition edging in on his bootlegging turf.
Hostile takeovers were always fun.
“You got an address?”
“You gonna give me the cash? He’s one of my best customers. Comes down every couple weeks.”
Extortion. What a beautiful dance.
I pushed the cash over toward his grubby mitts. In exchange, the manager handed me a shred of paper with directions about ten miles east. Scrawled in his drunken hand, the name said Maximo. That would do just fine. Giving him a curt nod, I headed into the icy lot. I considered taking the stolen jar of clear with me, but he could find out for himself what it did.
Let’s just say something like that had a little more kick than your typical shine. Taken from a wolf during the full moon, the added wolfblood made mortals delirious and euphoric.
And sure, more than a little dangerous.
But I wasn’t the FBI here to keep the streets safe.
A stiff wind rustled through my hair, causing me to shiver. I looked at the Bel Air. It wasn’t up on blocks.
And it was ten miles.
Fuck it.
When the engine roared to life, the manager sprinted out. I caught a glimpse of his rifle in the rearview.
“You goddamn bitch!”
I waved, and he fired, shattering the rear taillight.
Whatever. For two hundred sixty bucks, I deserved a ride.
I was a lady, after all.
2
The winding backwoods roads were unmarked, but I followed the night manager’s instructions to Maximo’s moonshine distillery just fine. I ditched the Bel Air half a mile out, lest the growling V8 alerted my quarry.
All I had to do was bring back Shiv’s lost shipment and take care of this purported muscleman. Then I got the other half of a thousand bucks. And my expenses, which had risen considerably in the past half-hour.
Not bad for a semi-honest day’s work.
I crept through the thickly wooded Kentucky hills, shotgun ready. I’d dispensed with the invisibility wards as soon as I’d left civilization. They were a pain in the ass during a firefight. And if this rival bootlegger was as strong and stupid as the manager had suggested, then I needed to be ready.
There was a crack in the moonlit trees. I spun around, ready to fire.
But it was just a deer, munching away in the moonlit night. Still, I felt uneasy. Like I was being watched—or things just couldn’t be this easy.
An owl hooted in the crisp air, and a chill ran up my half-frozen spine.
I’d always been more of a city girl. That must’ve been it.
Pulse slowing, I rubbed the magically augmented shotgun’s stock for reassurance. I knew the inscripti
on by heart, but it still provided comfort.
Carry this weapon well, Realmfarer. Escape and live in the light, with the mortals. Love, Galleron
Well, it wasn’t exactly bright and sunny out here in the lonesome woods. But I was trained for this. By Pearl. By Galleron. Through almost a century of bounty hunting.
I was just about to pat myself on the back when I heard a massive crack.
This time, it wasn’t a deer. And when I looked up, I saw that I hadn’t been paranoid.
Because a fifty-foot tall oak tree was hurtling straight for my head.
My elbows scraped against the uneven ground as I rolled away from the deadly projectile. The entire forest shuddered as the oak slammed to rest not three yards from my head. The wisps swarmed angrily around the trunk, indicating that this had been no natural accident.
Clothes slightly tattered, but otherwise no worse for wear, I brushed myself off and picked up the shotgun.
It was easy to confirm my intuition’s initial assessment. As I crept toward the stump, I could clearly see that the tree had been ripped from the ground.
Perhaps by someone strong enough to lift a crate of wolfblood clear into their truck unassisted.
Someone named Maximo.
I wasn’t sure what creature was powerful enough to uproot full-grown oaks.
But I knew one thing for damn sure: this job was getting more difficult by the second.
My adversary didn’t grant me time to reflect on my battle strategy or near-death experience. A revolver round smacked against a nearby branch, splintering the bark above my head. I immediately dropped into a dead sprint, my silent footfalls padding through the frigid forest.
Another booming shot rocketed through the darkness, but it was too far away to be dangerous. Whatever advantage this asshole had in power, I had in speed and stealth. And self-preservation, because confronting an unseen gunman on his home turf was a fool’s errand.
Breathing heavily, the freezing air burning my lungs, I decided that I needed to regroup.
Ruby Callaway: The Complete Collection Page 67
