Ruby Callaway: The Complete Collection

by D. N. Erikson

  “I guess your daughter got her looks, then.” I removed the magazine and loaded the spare. “That why you let her die?”

  “This is bigger than you. Bigger than me.”

  “Big enough to turn on your own kin?”

  “Goddamnit, we can open a dialogue.” I heard a bullet rattle into the revolver’s chamber. “You’d be perfect for the team. There are openings.”

  “We just had a hell of a dialogue,” I said, glancing briefly over my shoulder at the smoke and fire-filled horizon. With all the snow, the blaze would be largely contained. Whoever came out to investigate would find a lot of bodies. But they’d all be men—none of them turned.

  A bootlegging operation gone awry. Outlaws fighting with law enforcement, a brave group of government agents dying against the evils of crime.

  Nothing to see here.

  No dialogue necessary.

  “I am talking about bringing us all into the light. No more hiding.”

  “That what your little paranormal task force is about?”

  “It’s the first step. If we prove useful, Hoover will reward us.”

  “I’ve heard it before,” I said. “Usually from the witches about to hang.”

  “This time will be different.” There was the snap of a revolver, which sent my heart pounding into overdrive. Squinting into the snowy darkness, I saw a shadow. I squeezed off a shot, and saw Robert wheel out from the opposite side of the tree, barrel glinting.

  Boom.

  A bullet sailed over my head. I wasn’t as big a target as a half-titan, and farther away to boot.

  I returned fire, but he rolled nimbly through the slush. With the injured shoulder distracting me, I couldn’t draw a good bead. He ducked behind another tree, willing to continue playing hide ’n seek until one of us either got lucky or ran out of ammo.

  “You can’t explain this to your boss, Robert,” I said. “It’s over. He’ll leave you just like your wife. Just like your daughter.”

  “They didn’t leave me.” A growling scratch drifted into his voice. He had control problems, Evelyn had said. “I chose this life.”

  “They couldn’t wait to get away from you. Think the director will be any different after he sees this shitstorm?”

  “When I bring him this creature of the gods lying dead, he will have no proof. It’ll make my career.”

  “They’ll just prepare a slab for you next to him.” I spit in the snow. “And then they’ll bury you next to your daughter. Here lies a traitor and a deadbeat, the worst kind of man who failed his country and his family in pursuit of a futile—”

  “I did not fail!” Robert burst out from his hiding spot, racing straight at me with the revolver ready.

  I aimed and fired, hitting him square in the head. His neck snapped back, blood slashing across the ruined ground.

  “You didn’t succeed,” I said, watching the body for movement.

  “I…a favor.”

  I shot the wolf’s body again. Goddamn .30-caliber bullets.

  But the voice was insistent. “Just one favor…Ruby.”

  Which was when I realized the half-titan was the one who was still alive.

  16

  If you’ve ever tried to haul a half-titan back to civilization with a busted shoulder, allow me to give you a free piece of advice.

  Don’t.

  That I even tried—and promptly gave up—should give you an indication of my mental state. Totally fried from the fire, ensuing gun battle and gunshot wound.

  But Pearl knew an apothecary in the area. After staggering back to the fleet of FBI cruisers and taking one back to civilization, we took the healer out to Maximo. By that point, the half-titan was almost frozen and basically dead.

  I’d have left him that way, too, but he’d promised me two things.

  The location of Shiv’s favorite bar.

  And a favor, to be redeemed at any point in the future.

  And hell, who knew when I’d need a favor? Could be ten days, or eighty years.

  Never a bad thing to have in your back pocket.

  Pearl glared at me from the backseat, her fingers working through her mussed hair. Neither young nor old, she still looked like a stern parent.

  “There is no money in revenge, Ruby.”

  “But there’s plenty of satisfaction,” I said, racking the shotgun. After a trip to the gunsmith, everything was as good as new.

  Pearl said, “One day you will learn.” The wisps collided cryptically around her head.

  I shrugged and didn’t respond as I slid out of the front seat. The Lonely Heart’s sign flickered in the darkness. The twin scents of garbage and stale beer drifted from the nearby alley.

  But I didn’t care. Three days I’d waited to see the look on this asshole’s face.

  If it hadn’t been for the shoulder, that would’ve been three hours.

  I pushed through the faded red door, shotgun rattling on my back.

  No wards necessary.

  The patrons barely looked up from the pool tables. Elvis played on a crackly juke. Just past a couple doing shots and getting to know each other, I saw Shiv and his long, greasy hair. Chatting with someone in a corner booth.

  A new partner, perhaps.

  Sticking to the shadows—which wasn’t hard in a place like this—I made my way to his side, drawing the shotgun.

  He didn’t notice me until I racked it and said, “I’m here for the other half of that thousand bucks. Plus expenses.”

  The vampire’s fangs popped out as he snarled. Surprise washed over his human associate’s face.

  “I don’t have it, Ruby, but there’s someone who does.”

  “Who’s that?” I asked, purely for my own amusement.

  “Robert Ford. He’s got a huge stash. All you have to do is find it.”

  “Like the outlaw?” I raised my eyebrow. “Funny, I heard different.”

  “What’d you hear?”

  “I heard you didn’t pay him,” I said. “And that he’s frozen stone dead, with a bullet in his head.”

  Shiv let out a creaky laugh. “You want the truth?”

  “That’d be refreshing.”

  “You’re not getting anything, bitch, so you better get the hell—”

  I pulled the trigger, redecorating the booth. “That’s what I was hoping you’d say.”

  The vinyl sizzled as his blood seeped into the cracked material. Ignoring his shaking companion, I reached into Shiv’s pocket and found a nickel and a canceled check.

  Figured.

  The entire bar stared at me, no one moving.

  I shrugged and walked toward the door.

  On the way, I dropped the nickel into the juke, “Not Fade Away” drifting through the air as I headed into the cold Lexington night.

  THE END

  Going Home (2006)

  A Ruby Callaway Novella

  1

  It all started like any other bounty I’d ever booked in Los Angeles: too much traffic, too many people, and a smog of desperation that hung over the city like a storm cloud. All the waiters and bartenders angling for their big break were packed around me on the 405 like fish left out too long in the sun. Well past their expiration date, eyes rotted out by the blinding lights of stardom hovering just out of reach on the horizon.

  Or maybe it was lawyers and accountants and janitors and other regular people clogging the freeway. Either way, the City of Angels had never held a special place in my heart. Today wasn’t endearing it further. The stretch of road behind me erupted in a symphony of blaring honks—as if that could do anything besides make the situation worse. Humans had a startling natural talent for shooting themselves in the foot—then chopping it off and boiling the damn thing.

  I’d claim to be more enlightened, but I could feel my Realmfaring blood pressure rising. My fingers traced along the shotgun on the passenger’s seat, feeling the inscription on the stock.

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

  If I’d have been told 120 years ago that this was what living in the light entailed, I might’ve declined the offer. Stayed down in the Weald of Centurions, amidst the bone and ash.

  Next to the ancient, single-barreled slide action shotgun sat an envelope. I’d been told by my client not to open the contents until I reached Le Petit Bleu. But that had been an hour and a half ago on a fifteen minute drive. Being over two centuries old didn’t mean I had infinite patience.

  I worked my index finger beneath the seal and extracted a handwritten note.

  Harcourt Leblanc is wild and unpredictable. Prevent collateral damage. Make a scene, and we will have problems.

  It wasn’t signed, but the letterhead indicated it had originated from the Desk of Abe Murphy. I could see why they’d omitted this little veiled threat from our hiring conversation. Murphy and his associates had probably been worried I’d jam my shotgun straight down their throats.

  As if I needed extra incentive to do my job. You didn’t get a reputation like mine by being a fool. But I’d dealt with bigger idiots. I crumpled the note and tossed it out the window. As long as Murphy’s law firm paid, we’d have no problems.

  If I ever got out of this damn traffic jam.

  A deep, rumbling honk roared directly behind my rental sedan. I glanced in the rearview, seeing a tattooed man with spiked hair banging on the steering wheel like he was auditioning for a second-rate punk band.

  I grabbed the shotgun and rolled down the window.

  A blissful, funereal silence swept across the freeway as the shotgun glinted in the afternoon light. The horn maestro held up his inked hands in frightened acquiescence, shrinking back into his seat.

  I racked the shotgun. You could’ve heard a pin drop.

  After holding the pose for a few more seconds, I slid the shotgun back into the car. The gridlocked traffic hadn’t moved, but my heart felt lighter. Maybe Galleron had been right after all. Living with the mortals wasn’t so bad.

  Enjoying the newfound quiet, I fiddled with the radio. Static blurred past as I pressed Seek, bad pop songs and vapid talk shows flitting in and out of the speakers. Finally landing on a clear station, I settled back into the rough upholstery.

  “At the top of the hour, we have two breaking stories,” a smooth voiced man announced. “A hostage situation at Le Petit Bleu, one of the city’s top-rated restaurants, has left significant portions of the city shut down as law enforcement works to contain the situation. And next, the grisly murder of attorney James Benedict at the offices of Murphy, Benedict and Associates has left a community stunned. For the first story, we go to our correspondent—”

  I punched the radio dial, shutting the volume off. Ninety minutes I’d been stuck in traffic.

  And Harcourt Leblanc had already killed one of my clients and taken a restaurant hostage. His favorite restaurant. The one where he had eaten a late lunch for the past few weeks.

  I wondered if all this counted as collateral damage.

  My burner rang, and I answered it.

  “Hello, Murphy,” I said, glancing out at the immovable sea of Detroit and foreign steel. “Condolences.”

  “How’d you know? Are you in on it? You get a goddamn better offer, you backstabbing, two-faced—”

  “I checked out one of those fancy radios all the kids have been talking about,” I said. “Amazing what you can learn.”

  “Glad you’re chipper,” Murphy said. “The psycho bastard’s coming for me next.”

  “When you go after a rabid dog, sometimes you get bit.” I glanced in the rearview. No movement, anywhere. “But I think our dog has been cornered by the cops.”

  “That’s why we’re paying the dogcatcher the big fucking bucks,” Murphy said. The call had a slight echo. Probably hiding in his bathtub with the shower curtain drawn. Big bad Fae attorney, cowering in the shadows.

  “We could call the whole thing off,” I said. “We all walk—”

  “This asshole needs to go down.” His tone indicated there were unseen forces demanding it. Whatever. As long as his check cleared. “There’s a dead drop around the corner. We need you inside that damn restaurant.”

  “That’s a bit more complicated than what—”

  “I don’t give a shit about complicated!”

  “It’ll cost extra.”

  “Fine. Check under the garbage cans and fix this.”

  “Anything else I need to know, Murphy? Other than that collateral damage is unacceptable?”

  A long sigh told me the sarcasm wasn’t appreciated. “I knew you wouldn’t listen to instructions.”

  “You can tell me,” I said, drumming my fingers on the wheel. “Now’s the time.”

  “What are you, my priest? Just do your damn job.” He tried to keep his voice tough and steady, but it was a losing battle. Harcourt was already in his head. If I didn’t put the psychotic Fae down, Murphy would have a long, sleepless existence in his future.

  “I’ll do that,” I said. I wasn’t in the business of needing motives or a backstory. A name and a target would suffice. “Keep your doors locked.”

  “That didn’t help Benedict,” Murphy said, the paranoia already setting in.

  “Nothing keeps the dogs out for long,” I said, and hung up. After checking myself in the mirror—brown hair over one shoulder, tank top adjusted—I grabbed the shotgun and stepped onto the freeway.

  I heard the punk rock guy behind me release his parking brake.

  With a smug grin, I waved, then headed the other way.

  It was time to go to work.

  2

  The radio hadn’t been kidding about the city being totally shut down. When one part of an organism malfunctions, the disease spreads. Soon, it’s full-blown contagion. Civilization always hangs on the precipice. With the right chain of dominos, everything could come crumbling down.

  From what Abe Murphy and the recently deceased James Benedict had explained at their posh downtown offices, Harcourt Leblanc’s whole MO was tipping over that first domino. To what end? Just to watch things burn, for the most part. Which made him a more dangerous target than the usual bounty.

  A murderer, a grifter, a warlord—they all had a certain rationality. Things to lose, skin in the game. But a man who reveled in randomness and chaos? The usual rules of the game didn’t apply.

  Lucky me.

  Whatever—the firm had tripled my fee. I’d get old Murphy out of the bathtub in no time.

  I found the dead drop between a couple dumpsters in an oil-stained alley. Say what you will about lawyers, but they were efficient. Probably because of the whole billable hours thing.

  I tore open the packet as I jogged back toward the street. A thin sweat from the late summer heat coated my brow. I wiped it on my arm as I shook out the contents. There was a press credential, attributed to Jade Conroy, for some tiny blog that I’d never heard of.

  And a brief set of new instructions: at the scene, ask for Detective Gordie Jones.

  The first plan had been elegant and simple: pop Harcourt in the head while he was enjoying a nice red and an afternoon steak. Collect my money and be out of LA before the next rush hour.

  But that was before the son of a bitch had upped the ante.

  Familiar wisps floated around the handwritten note, circling about the Murphy, Benedict and Associates letterhead. They flashed yellow, indicating caution and ulterior motives. But I didn’t need my Realmfarer intuition—a blend of cold-reading and fortune-telling—to clue me in to Murphy’s caginess.

  I could see, clear as day, that there were plenty of background details Murphy hadn’t disclosed. Harcourt was a Fae; Murphy was, too. This contract had personal or political motivations. Not that this was unusual. But this particular lack of disclosure stunk worse than the dead dreams of millions of Angelenos. It didn’t matter. Murphy had ponied up the scrip, which meant Harcourt was the enemy.

  For now.

  I reached into my jeans and took out a lip
stick-like tube. After a few vigorous shakes, I held it up to my ear. The cloaking ward inside bubbled like an over-carbonated beverage. Satisfied, I removed the ancient shotgun from my back and leaned against the darkened window of an office supply store.

  I uncapped the tube and poured the fizzing contents over the shotgun, watching as the firearm vanished. The cloaking effect would differ by person. One might see nothing at all, another an umbrella or walking stick. Only if they touched the gun would they realize the truth.

  Wards were a pain in the ass when you had to draw fast because breaking them took precious seconds. But I wouldn’t get within two hundred yards of the crime scene if I waltzed up locked and loaded, even with the press credential hanging around my neck.

  Jail wasn’t my speed. Even the thought made me restless. A Realmfarer was a traveling, nomadic creature. Sitting in one place too long invited a natural wanderlust.

  I returned the shotgun to my back holster and took a final glimpse at the scenic street. Upscale. It was a wide road, halfway between suburban and urban. Trees with actual leaves lined the cracked sidewalks. But the whole place was a ghost town due to the nearby hostage situation.

  This was the kind of street where things like this just didn’t happen.

  Until someone decided to tip the first domino. Only I stood between Harcourt and total anarchy.

  Or Murphy and his murky past.

  One of the two.

  I got paid either way.

  3

  The street outside Le Petit Bleu was crawling with cops, all of whom were giving the restaurant a wide berth. Men in bomb-defusal suits swept the entrance, which had all its shades drawn tightly. They looked like they were searching for coins on the beach, but I knew better.

  Guess Harcourt was playing to win today.

  Squeezing through the thick throng of reporters, I managed to reach the front of the crime scene tape. Two police officers with blank expressions stood at attention, making sure no unauthorized personnel slipped past.