Ruby Callaway: The Complete Collection

by D. N. Erikson

  Right on cue, strains of gunfight burst along the wind. It was over before it began, really. There were a few more rifles on the FBI’s side, after all.

  Maximo didn’t move. “I guess they didn’t make it.”

  I thought about plugging him right then and there, but the chances of me and the wolf with daddy issues escaping the Feds’ forest dragnet were approximately zero.

  Wrinkling my nose, I said, “It looks like my contract with Shiv is up for renegotiation, then.”

  “I’m not paying you. My partner can do that.”

  “And who would that be?”

  “Shiv.” Maximo smirked, but given his size, it looked more like a threatening leer.

  My expression soured—if that was at all possible, given my level of anger. My vampire employer had left out some rather pertinent details. Like the fact that this was a hostile takeover, rather than dealing with the competition—or a thief. Not that I cared about their partners’ quarrel, but I hated being lied to.

  Especially when it resulted in complications.

  Shiv and I were going to have a brief conversation about this.

  If I managed to get out alive.

  “Fine,” I said. “We don’t shoot each other, and if we survive, I leave you alone with your moonshine empire.”

  “Works for me.” The entire building seemed to shake as Max walked over. His huge hand threatened to swallow mine and crush it to dust.

  “Max.”

  “I know,” I said. “Ruby.”

  He scratched his head with his revolver, the lights flickering above. “So, what’s the plan, Ruby?”

  “Shoot a lot. And don’t miss.”

  6

  It’d have been a damn fine plan, too, if not for one minuscule sticking point. When I headed to the windows I found that, other than cutting down Maximo’s associates, the agents outside had no interest in a firefight. Instead, the FBI was digging in at the bottom of the short hill for a siege. Whatever intel they’d gathered, they knew better than to storm the Alamo.

  After ten minutes of reconnaissance by the warded and barred windows, I huffed.

  “How long until the wards wear off?”

  “Guy I bought them from said a couple days. Maybe a week.”

  “They’re gonna wait us out,” I said. “That’s not gonna fly.”

  “Then we’ll give them a nudge off the cliff.” Max stomped over to the broken windows and peered beyond the bars. A vein in his broad neck pulsed, threatening to burst open at any moment. It stood to reason that his concept of “nudge” was more along the lines of “hurl into the sea.”

  Confirming this, he fired a few shots into the winter night. A smattering of half-hearted service weapons came back. But it was hardly an assault. We didn’t have the ammunition to mount a spirited defense, and the FBI knew it.

  Sooner or later, we’d have to walk right out the door.

  Winding a path away from the windows, I found Evelyn shaking in the middle of the distillery. Safely tucked away from all the gunfire that wasn’t going to come.

  “Daddy’s not gonna come shooting with his little girl inside, is he?” I asked, studying her eyes.

  “I hope not.” She adjusted the rags covering her shoulders.

  “What’s someone like you doing messing around with mountain wolves?”

  Her arm hair bristled, and a small growl rumbled in her chest. But the wisps told the story, swirling around her head in radiant pink hues.

  Forbidden love.

  “Well, aren’t you a little cliché?” I ran my fingers along the shotgun’s barrel. “Your little boyfriend still down in the cages?”

  Her pained expression indicated that the answer was no.

  “You don’t know anything about me,” Evelyn said.

  “I know you were playing with fire.” I tapped the shotgun’s stock against one of the stills. It rang like a waterlogged bell. “Mountain wolves eat pretty little things like you.”

  “He was nice,” Evelyn said. “And cleaned up, he looked like Buddy Holly. You know, with the glasses and all?”

  “Oh, well, in that case.” The young were dumber than I remembered.

  “Everything was fine until he came along and took us.” Evelyn’s finger rose, pointing over my shoulder. I didn’t have to turn. Max’s quake-like footsteps announced his presence just fine.

  “I hear something,” Max said. “Probably coming in downstairs.”

  “The wards are up,” I said. “They can’t come in.”

  “Maybe they slipped in before.”

  “Sneaky,” I said, a plan forming in my mind. “I’ve got an idea.”

  “I’m gettin’ bored, so it better involve more shooting.”

  It must’ve been nice to know exactly what you wanted. Smash, kill, make money. Reading at a preschool level had to be a downer, though.

  But then, life was all about tradeoffs.

  I nodded toward Evelyn. “We hand her over, they go away.”

  “What? No way—”

  I elbowed the young woman in the chest, cutting off her protest. She slumped to the ground, whining quietly. I would’ve felt bad, but this wasn’t a democracy. Daddy forcing her to marry some US Senator—or whatever non-punishment was in store—wasn’t really my problem.

  Max grunted, but didn’t say anything.

  “You have a better idea?” I asked.

  “There’s no shooting.”

  “Maybe you’ll get your wish anyway, big guy,” I said, slapping him on the shoulder. It was like hitting a boulder. My palm actually stung. “You’re running a big ol’ moonshine distillery. Plenty around here for Hoover’s boys to get pissed about.”

  His expression didn’t change. “I’m going downstairs.”

  “All right, partner.” He trundled out of the row. I swore I could hear the whiskey sloshing back and forth in the stills.

  I looked down, where Evelyn was still huddled. Her nose twitched.

  “Come on. I didn’t hit you that hard,” I said.

  In a small voice, she said, “I don’t think Daddy’s coming to save me.”

  “That’s news to me.” What kind of werewolf didn’t save its own family?

  “No, Ruby,” she said, her eyes wild with fear as she looked into mine. “It’s true.”

  “And how do you know?”

  Evelyn swallowed hard.

  “Because I smell smoke.”

  7

  It wasn’t long before I smelled the smoke, too. Guess I needn’t have worried about being trapped in here for a week. With all the wolfblood clear brewing, this log cabin would be char within the hour.

  And us with it, if we didn’t find the source of the blaze.

  “Maybe Daddy doesn’t know you’re here,” I said, nudging the whimpering wreck with my boot. “Get over to the window and tell him you’re coming out.”

  “I can smell him, Ruby,” Evelyn said, wild hair tousled over her eyes.

  Which meant he could smell her, too. Right. Wolves. Daddy knew she was in here.

  He just didn’t give a shit.

  And here I thought Max was a remorseless savage. Burning your daughter alive was a new form of unchecked aggression. Either Daddy’s nose was broken—and he didn’t know about his little princess being inside—or he believed in Old Testament style punishment.

  There was an option three lurking around, but it was shrouded in shadow.

  Max clomped around down in the cellar, roaring and smashing metal together. No idea what he was up to. Hopefully looking for a can of ward-be-gone.

  A girl could dream.

  Otherwise, we were gonna cook.

  A megaphone cut through my thoughts.

  “Give us the damn money, Maximo.”

  I rushed to the window, staring into the winter night. The crisp breeze brushed through the open panes, stirring up the hot air. I studied the cars at the bottom of the hill—black, government issue sedans that you’d expect from the FBI. At some point recently, they’d
cut off the lights. They were too far away to glean much of an intuitive read.

  But my gut told me something was off.

  This wasn’t a raid, or a siege.

  This was a scorched-earth, leave-no-witnesses operation.

  The question, then, was why they wanted money. Other than the obvious reasons, of course.

  I saw an arm sticking out from behind a pine tree, holding the megaphone. Time to start knocking down metaphorical doors to get some answers. Resting the shotgun on the sill, I squeezed one eye shut and aimed down the crosshairs. The barrel snaked out between the bars, into the moonlit night.

  The wards might have stopped living creatures from coming in—or out—but they sure as hell didn’t stop bullets from finding their mark.

  I fired, a bolt of blue lightning relieving the man of his limb.

  A brutal scream cut through the night as a cascade of bullets slammed against the exterior. I hit the deck, slamming against the floor’s wooden slats.

  Finally an unamplified voice screamed, “Goddamnit you morons, quit shooting!”

  A few isolated pistols barked in defiance, but soon the chilly night drifted into silence. Eye level with Evelyn’s shivering form, I could see her hairs pricked up and neck cocked even thirty yards away.

  Like a dog listening to its owner.

  Or a wolf pup to its father.

  The stern voice, now coming through the megaphone, yelled, “That was a hell of a stupid thing to do, Max. Murder of a federal agent is a capital offense.”

  Evelyn’s reaction was unmistakable. She let out a small yip, followed by a stifled howl.

  “And what’s the penalty for killing your own daughter?” I yelled back, not rising from the floor. My elbows were raw from all the diving I was doing. I’d have to bill Shiv extra for pain and suffering.

  He wouldn’t have any use for his money once my shotgun was down his throat.

  “Get us the money and the files and my daughter can do whatever she wants.”

  The files. My brain turned over.

  That sounded more like something worth burning your daughter alive for.

  “I don’t think her mother would like that very much,” I called back.

  “If she was still alive, probably not.” Daddy Regional Director coughed. “But I got other problems of greater concern.”

  “Government just doesn’t pay like it used to,” I said, gauging Evelyn’s reaction to the conversation. She shook slightly, but it was hard to tell whether it was from the frost or anger. Running away from your family was one thing; being kicked aside was another.

  I wouldn’t wish the latter on anyone.

  A strangled scream came from downstairs that made my blood curdle. I brought the shotgun up, ready to fire. The building shook as Max returned to the first floor. The moonshine stills quaked, his thunderous footsteps announcing his presence long before I saw him.

  When he rounded the corner, emerging from behind one of the gleaming stills, I saw who had screamed.

  A Fed. His neck was almost cracked off.

  Max tossed the body down near one of the broken windows. Glass crinkled.

  “Jesus, man,” I said, looking into the vacant eyes. “A little aggressive, don’t you think?”

  “He lit the fire.”

  “Did you put it out?” I sniffed the air, smelling smoke and accelerant.

  “No.”

  “Why?”

  “Complications.”

  I scratched my head. “You hear the guy outside?”

  “Director Robert Ford? He just wants the file.”

  “So give it to him,” I said, finally turning away from the ruined body to look at the half-titan.

  A dim expression of total determination spread across his face. “I earned that money. It’s mine.”

  “What kind of deal did you cut with him?” I asked as I imagined being immolated for a thousand bucks. Aging slowly didn’t grant me any special immunity against life-threatening things like fire. And it had seemed like such an easy job.

  “The past is the past.” Maximo shrugged. “It’s never bad to have wolves in your pocket.”

  “You need to pick better fucking business partners,” I said.

  I peeked out from behind the barred windows. None of the other agents were brave enough to show their faces, since their companion was still whining in low, dying strains. But now that Max mentioned it, I could smell it clear as day.

  They were all wolves. A pack, hiding in plain sight as an FBI unit.

  Bold indeed.

  8

  I sprang up from the floor and slid across the shattered glass. The shotgun was at Maximo’s muscular half-titan throat before he could even grunt.

  “Listen up, asshole. I’m not dying for your money stash.” I racked the slide to drive the point home. “So you’re gonna give your buddy Robert what he wants.”

  “It’s done. We have made our bed.”

  “Like hell we have,” I said, pushing the barrel deeper into the sinewy flesh.

  The wisps circling the brute’s head didn’t change. Normally, at this point, even the bravest soul would’ve admitted defeat. Or at least offered a lame retort, all while being consumed by fear.

  But this guy was like a sentient rock.

  Although rocks might’ve been smarter.

  “There is another downstairs.”

  I scanned his eyes for the meaning and finally said, “Explain.”

  “Two men came and set the fires.” A massive hand rose, holding two fingers. Just in case I couldn’t count. “Only one is here.”

  The fingers dropped, pointing to the almost headless corpse by the window.

  “And the other?”

  “You had better be quick.”

  “Why’s that?”

  “I threw him to the wolves.”

  A dim light flickered in his eyes. That joke must’ve passed for high comedy to him, but it was about all I could do to resist redecorating the floor.

  Nonetheless, circumstances screamed that I needed to keep it together. Worst case scenario, Max made for a big damn target during an escape.

  “Why the hell would you do that?” I said through clenched teeth.

  “Because the fire he set cannot be extinguished.”

  That must’ve been those complications he had referenced earlier. Magic was such a bitch sometimes.

  With an exasperated huff, I pulled the shotgun away and rushed down to the basement. I didn’t hear any sounds of feasting, which gave rise to hope.

  Until I reached the cellar and lit a torch.

  Senses are a funny thing. Sometimes one doesn’t kick in until the others help it along. It wasn’t until my eyes came to rest on the grisly scene that the aroma flooded my nostrils. When it did, the stench was unavoidable: entrails and sour blood.

  The unshifted werewolf bristled as I brought the torch closer, his human lips glistening with blood.

  Nothing like a little cannibalism to turn your stomach.

  Luckily for me, the victor was wearing a suit. It’d need serious dry cleaning to be office-ready, but that could only mean one thing.

  The naked, dirty wretch on the ground was a feral wolf.

  And our little would-be arsonist was the one left standing.

  “A little gauche, don’t you think?” I stopped outside the flaking rusty bars. The other caged mountain wolves groaned and growled in mild protest around me. But in their weakened, starving state, none of them were keen on rocking the boat.

  The FBI agent wiped his pale lips, his eyes burning amber slivers. “It was either him or me. I chose the latter.”

  “Darwin strikes again,” I said. Thin tendrils of smoke swirled in the cellar, lurking just outside the narrow cone of torchlight. They hinted at the inferno to come, like the rumbles of thunder before a hurricane.

  Nothing like getting cooked alive.

  I sized up the wolf-man within the cage. Just your average government worker or nine-to-five company lackey—oth
er than the fangs.

  I took a few steps to the right of the cage and set the torch into a rickety sconce. I could feel the wolf’s eyes tracking me, the bloodlust on his hot breath. That was one problem with even the most civilized wolves.

  Once they tasted violence, it was like a boulder rolling down a mountain. Anything in the way was liable to get crushed.

  “You aren’t human,” the imprisoned FBI agent said.

  “Ruby Callaway,” I said, gauging his reaction to my name. He remained straight, but his hands trembled with fear. He shoved them into his suit pockets.

  “I’ve heard stories.”

  I rested the shotgun against the bars and looked into his amber eyes. “And yet you were still dumb enough to come inside.”

  Then again, he’d have had no way of knowing it was me in here. Max and I weren’t exactly willing allies.

  A low growl formed in his throat. “If I were afraid to die, I would not have stepped foot within this building.”

  Not eager to continue with the small talk, I aimed the shotgun at his foot and blew his shined Oxford straight off. A rippling howl took over the dusty cellar, drowning out all other noises.

  After it had subsided, I heard Max’s rumbling voice call from upstairs, “Is everything okay?”

  “For one of us,” I said, looking at the wretched, writhing creature on the ground. His aura was tinged with electric, primal fear. Everyone was brazen about death until they were brought to its door.

  Then most people tended to get a lot more talkative.

  I racked the shotgun, ejecting the spent shell. It came to rest near his bloody leg.

  “There are many ways to die,” I said, leveling the gun at his other foot. “Some are better than others.”

  “You know what they call you?” His eyes still burned with an orange violence, despite his footless predicament. The other wolves, courage instincts prodded by the pungent strains of blood, began to pant in their shadowy cages. “In our division?”

  “I’ve never been concerned about my reputation.”

  “The Crimson…”

  I jabbed the shotgun through the bars, and the agent swallowed hard, a feverish sweat running down his brow. The blood from his wound and the dead werewolf’s still-warm corpse mingled in a brackish, foul mixture.