Ruby Callaway: The Complete Collection

by D. N. Erikson

  With that same corner quarter-grin, where just the edge of his mouth smiled, Harcourt took his hand from his pocket. He clutched a cell phone, the display indicating that a call had connected.

  Harcourt held it up for my benefit.

  “Murphy,” I said.

  “Don’t bother collecting your bounty, Miss Callaway,” my former client replied. “You’re on our list.”

  “And what list would that be?” I asked.

  “You’ll find out, soon enough. I hope you brought your running shoes.”

  “Why would I need those?”

  “Because you’re going to be running for the rest of your short goddamn life.”

  Then the line went dead.

  It was hard, given the circumstances, not to take it as a sign.

  13

  The first order of business, before we could even begin our glorious Vegas road trip, was simply escaping Le Petit Bleu. Given that the hostages had no doubt regaled the officers outside with tales of Harcourt’s forced combat, waltzing out the front door was even less of an option than it had been an hour ago.

  Simply put, this was the kind of asshole that the cops needed to catch. Not for the accolades, or the commendations. Just because he made your skin crawl in all the wrong places.

  I knew the feeling.

  It was gonna be my life for the next twenty-four hours.

  A quick poke out the back door revealed a substantial increase in security. The LAPD was unamused by my previous infiltration tactics. A couple glancing shots off the brickwork, and I was back inside.

  “I only knocked him out because I had no choice,” I yelled at the closed door. Outside, the chorus of gunshots ceased as the commanding officer instructed his men to hold their fire. Maybe relaying an order from higher up the chain—Captain Kennett, perhaps.

  But it wasn’t like I could run out there and explain matters. No, no, you see, I have to take this crazy Fae out. And I only came in to help Captain Kennett. Really. I swear. What, this big gun that I don’t have a license for? No, it definitely hasn’t been used in any other unsolved homicides.

  Yeah.

  That conversation wasn’t happening.

  Sitting on the stainless steel island, legs swinging back and forth like he was enjoying a fine day at the beach, Harcourt shot me a grin. He was about three feet from where the poor waitress had immolated.

  “They appear less than amenable to our escape plans, love.”

  “I told you not to call me that,” I said, shaking my bloodied fist at him.

  “It’s a term of endearment.”

  “I’m fine with being your mortal enemy,” I said, racking my brain for ideas. “So long as you shut the hell up.”

  Harcourt didn’t respond, although that crooked grin stayed frozen in place. What a gentleman. The silence was almost worse. It allowed the conflict in my mind to magnify without distraction.

  I was actively helping an unhinged anarchist escape police custody. I’d just have to hope the Fae Prince held a grudge. Because his trashy Realm would have to deal with the monster they’d created.

  “There’s no way to break a Blood Oath,” Harcourt said, sliding off the island. He looked down at the ash and gave his leather shoe a disdainful shake. “Surely that is not where your thoughts lie.”

  “I don’t have to share my plans with you.”

  “Like a little rat in a cage. Searching along the glass for cracks. Never finding any.”

  “I’m sorry, but do you have a fucking suggestion?” I asked. “Maybe we should turn ourselves into Shades and go—”

  I stopped myself, eyes going wide. Harcourt looked on in detached amusement, as if, really, he was okay with Le Petit Bleu being his burial ground. So long as the journey there wasn’t boring. Which, it would seem, I was in direct danger of doing to him.

  “That’s it,” I said.

  “Do tell, since our fates are contractually linked.”

  I wrinkled my nose at the thought of being connected to this jackass. First chance I got, he was going to take a dirt nap.

  “We go through the wall.” I tapped on the gray plaster. “The buildings are all connected.”

  “Not at that particular point.”

  I took a step toward him, menace filling my eyes. “I didn’t take you for pedantic, you slimy piece of shit.”

  Harcourt shrugged, looking at a loss for words in his three-piece suit. And here I thought I’d never see the day, even though I’d known him for only thirty minutes.

  Even that was too long.

  The ride to Vegas was going to be brutal. If we got that far.

  Finally, the crazy Fae said, “It’s a good plan, dear Ruby.”

  “Glad it gets your stamp of approval,” I said. “We just need dynamite.”

  A protracted pause lingered over the room, the hum of the industrial fridge growing into a massive crescendo. Outside, just beyond the walls, I imagined SWAT closing upon us, shoot to kill orders in hand.

  With the way things were going, they’d get me with a headshot, but let this clown escape.

  That wasn’t an option.

  If things were going bad, I was going to put the bullet right in Harcourt’s brainpan myself.

  And things were going to get bad, because Harcourt said, “I didn’t bring dynamite.”

  “Explosives, then.”

  “The best theater lasts.” He shook his head, like I had so much to learn about the art of torture. “An explosion robs a production of its tension.”

  “Of course,” I said. “What the fuck was I thinking?”

  “You weren’t,” he said, like he didn’t understand sarcasm. He took his insanity quite seriously.

  The anger boiled up for a second, but I pushed it down. I’d already traveled down that road without much success. No need for a repeat. I avoided Harcourt’s energetic face, scanning the kitchen.

  My gaze fell on the stove. More specifically, the metal snaking up and away along the wall.

  “The gas line,” I said.

  “Need I remind you that suicide does not fulfill our contract,” Harcourt said, almost worried, which was an odd look for him. His business in the Fae Plains must’ve been important. Maybe even sane: like he had to get revenge against a certain Fae Prince for exiling him.

  “The contract is null and void if we both die.”

  “A Blood Oath passes on to your heirs. To be fulfilled when I return.”

  “Heirs? That’s a good one.” I rolled my eyes. “When you arrive in the Underworld, they’re turning you to mulch. No one’s giving you an afterlife.” I gave him a mirthless smile. “That means either I’m getting you there, or no one is.”

  Harcourt reached for his pocket square and mopped his brow. “Do your job, dear Ruby.”

  “Then find something to cut the line with. And some duct tape.”

  Harcourt reached for the largest knife hanging from a magnetic strip next to the sink.

  “Will this do?”

  I turned around just in time to catch the shimmering blade out of mid-air. Good thing Pearl had insisted on all that training.

  That crooked quarter-grin returned as I did my best to remain as expressionless as possible. Theater. A second ago, the maniac had been worried about contracts going unfulfilled. A good way of ensuring non-fulfillment was to off your Sherpa to the Fae Plains with a knife in the back.

  “Duct tape?”

  A second later, Harcourt placed it on the range before me with a dramatic flourish. He was close enough that I could smell the aftershave.

  “You could’ve just thrown it,” I said dryly.

  “Where would the fun be in that?”

  “I have so much to learn,” I said. “Find the biggest container you can.”

  “I’m tired of chores.”

  “And I’m the one with the knife,” I said.

  “And a gun, dear Ruby. Neither of which scares me.”

  He dabbed his bloodied lip with the crimson pocket square. A taunt.
What more could I do than shove a gun down his throat and pull the trigger? With a sigh, I went to the fridge, finding a two-gallon plastic water container.

  Three of them, which I emptied into the sink.

  Then I returned to the gas line.

  “Hope this works,” I said.

  “Either way it will be delightful,” Harcourt said, watching me from the edge of the kitchen.

  Delightful.

  Or deadly.

  14

  Here’s what you need to know about trying to capture gas in plastic jugs: most of it goes in the air. And duct tape, even crammed into the broken gas line, doesn’t cut the tap off completely.

  I sniffed the air in the bar area gingerly, trying to ascertain whether we would torch ourselves. It smelled faintly like rotten eggs cooking on a summer blacktop.

  Needless to say, that was less than encouraging. With a tepid breath, I brought the shotgun up.

  Harcourt, for his part, was giddy. “Well, dear Ruby, it is time to leave.”

  “Aren’t you a little young to die?”

  “A life well lived is not measured in years.” His tarnished copper eyes glinted with the thrill of chaos. “Pull the trigger.”

  I looked at the three jugs on the bar’s ruined liquor shelf. I’d doused the wood in what remained in the bottles, for added accelerant. Now, aiming down the shotgun’s sights, I just needed to pull the trigger.

  Even on the other side of the room, it seemed like a dubious proposition.

  “The longer you wait, the probability of our demise increases.”

  “So you’re a fucking mathematician, now?”

  “Life is like a game of cards, love. And the odds will never be in our favor here.”

  I closed my eyes and pulled the trigger, hearing an enormous roar erupt. Flung backward, I slammed against the opposite wall. My vision flickered in and out like a radio station on the edge of its range. A faint crackling played over the ringing.

  Then, much to my chagrin, I heard Harcourt say, “Well, the time to run is now.”

  A true partner—or non-psychopath—would’ve helped me up, even only out of self-interest. But instead, I heard the bastard’s leather shoes squeak and disappear, presumably into the adjacent building.

  Groaning, I pushed myself up. Unsteady on my feet, I saw the shotgun about to be devoured by flame. The amount of gas that had escaped from the gas line had been too faint to make the rest of Le Petit Bleu blow up. Given the floor space, what had drifted into the air had been heavily diluted.

  Lucky us.

  But the concentrated amount in the jugs, combined with the liquor, had packed more firepower than I’d thought.

  I snatched the shotgun, rolling away just as a burning chunk of plaster slammed against the hardwood. Rubbing soot from the familiar inscription, I took one last look at the ruined dining room. Outside, the cops clamored in reaction to the explosion.

  Feeling pious—perhaps because I was temporarily helping a murdering torturer—I ran to the front of the restaurant. I vaulted over the hostess’s lectern and swung the shotgun through the front window.

  Through the broken glass, I yelled, “Gas leak! Stay back!”

  My only thanks was a hail of gunfire. I dove to the ground and crawled back to the flaming bar. After scrambling upright, I ran like hell through the smoking hole in the wall. Emerging in the adjacent organic health food store, I saw no sign of Harcourt.

  “Where are you, you son of a bitch?”

  The smell of torched protein powder and pre-workout formula somehow smelled more toxic than the smoke filtering in from Le Petit Bleu. Weaving through the aisles, I caught a glimpse of the police perimeter through the large windows. Less dense, since they didn’t expect an escape through the granola munching aisles of the neighborhood supplement slingers. But they’d catch on soon enough, recalibrating their net to include this place.

  I spotted Harcourt near the register, in plain view of the outside world.

  “Get down, you dumb shit!”

  “Theater, dear Ruby. What fun is living without it?”

  Craning my neck over the aisle, I saw what he was holding in his hand.

  A grenade. The bastard had lied to me.

  And the pin was already out.

  The glass shattered as it hurtled out the window, into the street.

  “There is no life without chaos,” Harcourt said. “It is how we all came into existence.”

  “It’s how we’re both going to go out of exi—”

  But my witty retort was swallowed by the nearest cruiser erupting in a pillar of towering flame.

  And there was Harcourt, walking right into the maelstrom.

  15

  I braced myself against the dashboard’s worn vinyl as the bullet-battered cruiser squealed through the intersection.

  “Slow down!” I yelled, voice shakier than I would have liked.

  Harcourt just flashed that crooked quarter-grin and accelerated. We narrowly missed an elderly woman pulling a cart of groceries. The car tore through the wire cart with a thump-thump, cabbage and tomatoes flying off the windshield.

  It’d been an eventful couple minutes. Harcourt had used the cover of the explosion to steal a police cruiser. The cops hadn’t taken kindly to that, peppering us with gunfire in response. And, now, half the LAPD was in hot pursuit.

  How long the chase would last was anyone’s guess. Harcourt drove like he was trying to qualify for the Indy 500. Downtown Los Angeles wasn’t built for that. Neither was the gridlocked freeway.

  He whipped the wheel hard to the left, bringing us and the contingent of flashing lights behind us onto a broad, four-lane road. The buildings and street signs blurred past. It might’ve been my imagination, but I swore I smelled burning rubber.

  The cruiser’s radio hummed with activity, everyone talking frantically over each other.

  “Foolish little worker bees,” Harcourt said, grabbing the transceiver. He unfurled the curly cord with a flourish before speaking. “Those pursuing our vehicle should take note.”

  The police chatter stopped, almost as if he’d cast a spell. But there was no trick. They were all raptly attentive for two reasons: one, they wanted a clue to what he might do next. That was wishful thinking. They might as well have tried predicting the trajectory of a hurricane five years in the future.

  Two was more human: basic curiosity. What made this deranged man tick?

  Here, too, the answers would be scarce. After an hour spent in his ignominious company, I was none the wiser on what spurred Harcourt onward. He cared about getting back to the Fae Plains, though. I knew that much.

  Now that his audience was paying full attention, Harcourt cleared his throat.

  “Such an ugly gray town you have created near the ocean.” His head tilted toward the window, ignoring the road. I reached over and yanked the wheel to avoid hitting a telephone pole. Harcourt didn’t even notice. “Astoundingly ugly.”

  The transceiver crackled. “This is Captain Kennett. Lethal force has been authorized. Stand down and turn yourself in.”

  “I thought I saw you out there.” Harcourt continued looking out the window. At the billboards, skyline, trees—I had no idea what. Maybe it was just to add a little chaos to our own lives. But doing ninety in a thirty-five zone, weaving in and out of traffic, I felt we kind of had that covered. “What is it like to be a pet, Captain?”

  “Listen here, you bastard, you don’t know who you’re messing with.”

  “Give Murphy my regards, Captain.” Harcourt’s grin widened as he yelled into the microphone. “But tell the Prince I shall return anyway.”

  With a smooth laugh, Harcourt smashed the transceiver against the console. Shards of black plastic clinked into the cup holders as static filtered through the ruined speaker. His eyes returned to the road, and he nudged my arm off the wheel.

  Reluctantly, I let it slip away. The red and blues still danced in the rearview, threatening to catch up. They didn’t quite have th
e same fearlessness—that total ignorance of the abyss. Or maybe it wasn’t ignorance that kept Harcourt on the razor’s edge.

  Maybe it was more an embrace. Where all the joy in his life came from dangling over the cliff without a rope.

  Head spinning and dizzy from the speed, I couldn’t claim to share Harcourt’s enthusiasm for chaos. My neck snapped up as the car righted itself. A phalanx of squad cars, two deep and blocking the four-lane road, greeted me.

  Harcourt didn’t slow down. Instead, the speedometer climbed above three figures, to the point where the needle wobbled because the reading was no longer accurate. Our cruiser ate up ground—five hundred yards, then four hundred. These streets were clear, word apparently spreading amongst the citizenry that a lunatic was loose. I caught sight of police barricades out of my peripherals as we launched forward.

  The cruiser darted underneath a forest green highway sign, and I caught an L and a V before it vanished into the past.

  Pulse slamming against my eardrums, I screamed over the roaring engine, “You have to slow down!”

  “I thought you were a risk taker, Ruby.”

  Three seconds, maybe two, separated us from the abyss. I could see its jaws glistening, blood dripping from its yellowed teeth. A Realmfarer’s life expectancy might’ve been twenty times that of a human’s, but it didn’t cover high speed impact.

  I was still bound by the laws of physics. As was Harcourt, last I checked.

  “We’re going to die!”

  “Then we die free,” Harcourt said, the grin consuming his face. Sheer ecstasy. It sent a shiver up my spine. Or would have, had I not been sweating and ready to hyperventilate.

  The blurring lights were upon us. The ones in the rearview blinked in the distance—the stragglers who would be cleaning us off the pavement.

  I closed my eyes and waited for impact.

  But I felt nothing but the stiff breeze and a tink as we clipped a side mirror and barreled onto the freeway.

  16

  You know those idiots who play chicken with trains, somehow expecting a positive outcome? Spoiler: the train always wins. But I’d gotten the roles reversed. I’d thought we were the chicken and the cops were the train, ready to crush us.