Ruby Callaway: The Complete Collection

by D. N. Erikson

  Meanwhile, Harcourt let out what could best be described as a shrill battle cry. My gaze snapped to ten feet away, where he held a casino stool above his head, ready to smash it upon his adversary.

  Ruby Callaway might’ve been a lot of things. To be honest, if you talked with my fellow supernatural denizens—the ones who’d crossed paths with me, or heard whispers of my exploits—they probably wouldn’t have many warm anecdotes ready to share.

  But I didn’t murder random people at their shitty jobs. That was the province of psychos like Harcourt. The people I hunted did things like that. I didn’t. That’s what made us different. A thin line, but an important one.

  That was what I told myself, anyway.

  Ignoring the second guard, who was making a stunning recovery and closing in behind me, I darted toward Harcourt. The metal footrests of the stool glinted in the grungy casino lights as the Fae brought it downward.

  I hit him square in the shoulder, the stool slamming against my spine. A racking cough, the kind that comes out involuntarily when the wind gets knocked out of you, spasmed from my throat as I bounced off Harcourt. Rolling to a nearby blackjack table, I groaned and tried to coerce my muscles into moving.

  No such luck. I tried to close my fingers, see if the switchblade was still in my hands.

  Strike two.

  And then, eyes fluttering open, I saw that chubby face looming down. I managed to attempt a weak hook, but even the cheapo guard at the Golden Tiger was nonplussed. He batted it down like one would a toddler’s hand, and then he slipped the zip tie cuffs around my wrists.

  Blood dripped down from his wounded hand. He breathed heavily, but there was no anger in his eyes.

  “The police have been called, ma’am. You’re gonna have to wait with us.”

  Bastard was even polite.

  So, naturally, my response?

  “Fuck you.”

  19

  The Golden Tiger experience was nothing if not consistent—consistently rundown, that is. The fetid basement of the crumbling casino didn’t disappoint. I envisioned big winners getting shaken down, reminded who was the boss with a few broken bones.

  The basement smelled antiseptic, which I colorfully assumed was because of all the piss and blood they had to hose down following the frequent beatdowns. Although it could’ve just been from the dust and mold encroaching from the corner. Truth was, this room was as much of a relic of a bygone era as the Golden Tiger’s less-than-nimble clientele.

  Still, the square, concrete room was a jail cell by any other name, aside from the plain folding table by the door. The same guard who had arrested me—the original fellow who Harcourt had so helpfully confessed to—stared at me from behind the scuffed wood.

  We’d been having an unspoken contest for the past five minutes. I’d have figured Chubbs would have broken by now, but he was stronger than he looked.

  Finally, I said, “You really gotta let me go.”

  “That’s what they all say, ma’am.”

  “You kiss your mother with that mouth?” I asked, turning my lips into a sour pucker.

  “My mother’s dead and gone.”

  “Something we have in common,” I said, not honoring the awkward silence that was supposed to ensue after a conversation took that type of turn. Chubbs remained unperturbed, his gaze still meeting mine. He had soft blue eyes, a bit on the small side for his round face.

  “The police will be here in ten minutes, ma’am.”

  “Can I have some water?”

  “Ten minutes, ma’am.”

  “Jesus, a real hardass,” I said. “You know I am the police, right?”

  “Ma’am,” Chubbs said, with world-weary seriousness, “I understand you think I’m stupid.”

  “What—never.” I wriggled against the plastic cuffs, mentally counting down the minutes. And reflecting on the irony of my current location. He’d led us downstairs, deep into what had to be a sub-basement. Which meant that we were likely close to the vault—and, subsequently, the Realm Rift.

  “It’s okay.” Chubbs blinked once, still holding my gaze. “I’m not very smart.”

  “Don’t say that,” I said. “I bet you’ll pass the police exam when you take it again.”

  “Never wanted to be a cop.”

  “So this was the dream,” I said, my mind screaming goddamnit, you’re going to spend your last minutes on this Earth making small talk with a Vegas security guard?

  “I collect the reward on TV, I can buy a bike for my kid. Pay off the mortgage this month.” Chubbs rubbed his stubble, which made a pleasant scratchy sound. “Do a little good for the world, I guess.”

  Goddamn. He was making it really hard for me to hate him.

  A sharp pain knifed through my temple. The Blood Oath, reminding me of the unfulfilled pact—and the corresponding clock. Harcourt sending me a little psychic pain through our shared bond.

  See what being a humanitarian gets you?

  I grimaced like I’d bitten into something foul. The thought of being bonded to him, even for less than a day, made my skin crawl. Choices were limited, had to save the hostages, blah, blah. Sitting in the grimy concrete room, shooting daggers at Chubbs, I regretted ever walking into Murphy’s office.

  Murphy.

  I said, “Hey, I get a phone call.”

  Chubbs replied, “Not a cop. Remember, ma’am?”

  “So you’re just going to kidnap me?” I wriggled in my seat, banging the rusty metal legs against the ground. “That’s unlawful imprisonment, dude.”

  “The police will give you your phone call, ma’am.”

  “Just let me talk to my lawyer. He’ll clear all this up.” I gave Chubbs my best, most innocent smile, knocking decades of rust and grime off the old girl. From his ensuing expression, he was less than impressed by my doe-eyed about-face.

  “Ten minutes, ma’am.”

  “Ten minutes, ma’am,” I said, mocking his words in a high voice. “Do you know how to do anything else?”

  “I can make a mean steak, ma’am. Grilled, with onions.”

  “Is that supposed to be funny?”

  “Take it how you will.”

  I screamed. Not my finest moment, admittedly, but I figured Chubbs wouldn’t tell anyone about my breakdown. Today had started poorly and was ending worse. It’d be plenty theatrical when I devolved into a bucket of ash and blood in Las Vegas County Jail.

  Vocal cords raw, I let out a harsh rasp. “Just let me talk to my goddamn lawyer. Please.”

  Chubbs was about to repeat his mantra when there was a knock at the steel door. He gave me a nonplussed shrug before rising. His heavy footsteps filled the empty room as he tramped to the door.

  It was open no more than a crack when I heard, “Goddamn, what is that noise Ravinsky?”

  “It’s the woman, sir. From the casino floor.”

  “Sounds like you’re torturing her with a rusty fork. You into that type of shit, Ravinsky?”

  “Uh, no, sir. Just watching her.”

  “Well, you’re doing a shit job of that,” the unseen guy said. “The customers think we’re running Guantanamo Bay down here.”

  “I thought the room was soundproof, sir.”

  “You seen this shithole, Ravinsky? Too many holes to qualify as Swiss cheese. It’s not even a shithole, it’s a goddamn shit abyss. I can hear you taking a piss from three blocks away.”

  “I see, sir.”

  “If she’ll stop screaming, you give her whatever she wants.”

  “But it’ll only be eight minutes, sir,” Chubbs said.

  “And by then, everyone will be back on their busses to the fucking retirement home. Get it done.” The door slammed shut with absolute finality before Chubbs could protest any longer. With the world-weary sigh of a man used to finding himself beneath another’s boot heel, he turned to me, scratching that stubble.

  “You wanted a phone call.” His small blue eyes scanned over me, assessing whether my desires had shifted.
/>   “A glass of water would be good, too.”

  Chubbs nodded. “Just stop screaming, all right?”

  “No promises.”

  Another sigh. I don’t know whose day had been worse—Chubbs’s or mine. All things considered, if I got out of this mess, I had blue skies ahead. He could only look forward to the same damn thing again tomorrow.

  “Water and a phone call,” Chubbs said. “I’ll have to go to the vending machine.”

  “You do what you gotta do, buddy,” I said, voice raw, but feeling chipper. As chipper as I could, given the dire nature of the situation. Murphy wasn’t exactly a sure bet to do anything for me. After all, he’d put me on his “shit list” a few hours back, and told me to wear my running shoes.

  Still, even former allies were in short supply right now.

  Chubbs waddled over and handed me his personal cell phone. “I’ll get that water, ma’am.”

  I wiggled my arms, which were still bound behind me. “A little help.”

  “I’ll dial.”

  I considered protesting, but I’d already pushed my luck as far as it could go. I figured I had about five minutes to escape from this mess, otherwise I was gonna be dead. Even if I could beat the charges, I’d never make it to my hearing tomorrow. The Blood Oath would expire long before the wheels of justice could turn.

  And Harcourt, through his magical charm, would probably find a way to escape.

  So I told Chubbs to call the directory and ask to be connected to Murphy, Benedict and Associates. He raised an eyebrow, but he got them on the line and put the cell on speaker.

  Murphy’s secretary answered.

  “Murphy, Benedict—”

  “Get Abe Murphy on the fucking phone right now,” I said, watching Chubbs exit the room. “We got a problem.”

  “Excuse me? Language.”

  “You’re gonna have bigger problems if you don’t fucking connect me.” My already hoarse voice just about gave out.

  Whatever. Desperate times, desperate measures.

  The line clicked, and Murphy’s voice came on the phone. “Hello? You can’t speak to my secretary like that—”

  “It’s me,” I said.

  “Goddamnit, Callaway, I told you—”

  “Unless you want this to be the day where our little secret becomes public knowledge, you’re going to do exactly what I say.” I looked up at Chubbs and gave him a wink.

  He didn’t seem to care about secrets.

  “And what secret would that be?”

  “Magic and all that.”

  “You wouldn’t.”

  “But my corpse will,” I said. Spontaneous magical combustion would be difficult for science to explain. Once the mortals started taking a closer look at things, there’d be a lot of phenomena that just didn’t add up. And that bell, once rung, wouldn’t stop ringing for a long damn time. “And I can still fulfill our contract.”

  “I’ll consider it.”

  I looked around the moldy concrete chamber, feeling the drafts in the wall, tasting the dust on my tongue. “If I’m not out of here in five minutes, then you’ve got a full-blown situation on your hands. And your business is gone.”

  Murphy cursed on the other end of the line. “I shouldn’t have outsourced this job.”

  “That’s where you’re wrong, Murph,” I said, sneering into the silver device. “Because if you hadn’t, you’d already be dead.”

  “Where are you?” Murphy asked. “Caller ID says—”

  “The Golden Tiger. Vegas.”

  There was a long pause before he said, “I’ll see what I can do.”

  The words, and his tone, didn’t pump me full of confidence. If anything, they were slightly ominous. Threatening.

  The call ended, and I gave Chubbs a weak thumbs up. The wisps around his head didn’t change colors. They were permanently stuck in a sort of blue haze. Live and let live—be calm and let things slide off your back.

  “You’re an interesting person, ma’am,” Chubbs said, heading toward the door.

  “And where are you going?”

  “Your water. But it’s going to be mighty hard to drink the bottle in two minutes.”

  The door slammed shut, leaving me alone in the flickering chamber.

  Hopefully, Murphy weighed the options in those two minutes.

  Otherwise, the world was going to get a lot more chaos than even Harcourt probably bargained for.

  20

  Help, it turned out, wouldn’t arrive in time. Not that I expected it in two minutes, or even ten. But as the invisible minutes ticked by, I settled on the inevitable truth.

  Murphy wouldn’t be coming to free me.

  “Bastard,” I said, wriggling against my bonds. It dawned on me that Murphy was now in clean-up mode. Not only had I failed to fulfill the contract, but I was now a loose end.

  I knew too much.

  If he had friends in Las Vegas, I was a dead woman. But that didn’t really change anything.

  Chubbs finally returned, the door’s squeaking hinges causing me to startle.

  “Your water.” I watched him unscrew the plastic cap, which looked comically undersized in his thick hands. “The cops are running late, ma’am. Sorry.”

  “Lucky me.”

  “Tilt your head back.” Chubbs held the bottle up to indicate that he’d help me drink. I obliged with a glare, opening my mouth. He made sure I didn’t choke. It would’ve been touching if he wasn’t about to send me to jail.

  Kind-hearted, calm Chubbs might as well have been ordering me to walk the plank.

  I swallowed and nodded, indicating I was good.

  “Where’d you put the other guy?” I asked.

  “Cops took him straight away.”

  I shivered. “I thought you said ten minutes.”

  Chubbs scratched his bristly beard. “That’s what the officer I spoke to told me.” He returned to the table and unfolded a bent paperback from his pocket.

  A long silence ensued before I said, “What are you reading?”

  “Think and Grow Rich.”

  “How’s that working for you?”

  “Look around you, ma’am.”

  I didn’t ask any more questions.

  Just hoped, against the odds, that someone was out there, waiting to help.

  “Time to go, Ruby.”

  I woke with a start at my whispered name. My muscles tensed, fingers curling on instinct. I found myself still bound to the chair in the dim and dreary concrete room. The table where Chubbs had kept watch was empty.

  Blinking away the sleep, I turned as much as my stiff shoulders would allow.

  Captain Kennett’s lean face stared back. Before I could ask a question, he said, “I’ve only been here for two minutes.”

  “Goddamn telepaths,” I said. I waited a moment. “Well, you gonna untie me, or what?”

  “Only if you ask nicely, Ruby.”

  “What time is it?”

  “Three in the morning or so.”

  “That’s a lot longer than ten minutes,” I said, blinking the sleep from my eyes. “Murphy send you?”

  Kennett shook his head. “A favor from the Mayor of Vegas.”

  “You work here once?”

  “I know him,” Kennett said, taking out a sharp pocketknife. It cut through the plastic bonds effortlessly. Feeling flooded back to my numb fingers as I rubbed my hands together. “He owed me.”

  “What, you win him a stack in poker by reading everyone’s mind?”

  Kennett grinned, the years piling up at the edges of his eyes for a moment. He only looked about thirty-five, but creatures of essence could be deceiving that way. You saw me, you might think I was twenty-five years old, three years removed from Jaeger bombs and hooking up with guys who thought backward baseball caps were a reasonable fashion statement.

  I still did one of those things.

  Best to leave it up to imagination which one.

  Finally, Kennett said, “I took care of someone who was go
ing to expose him.”

  “What is he, a vampire?”

  “Shifter. Extortion.”

  From the tone, I understood that took care of meant the kind of favor that required a large patch of empty desert and a heavy shovel. But that didn’t answer the question at hand.

  Kennett helped me up from the seat, my legs a little unsteady from sitting in the same awkward position for the better part of eight hours.

  “Why’d you trade your favor for me?”

  Kennett pursed his lips together and opened the door for me. I wrinkled my nose and batted his hand away. Screw chivalry. I could take care of myself.

  Except for when I got myself caught in a Vegas casino.

  I looked right and left in the hallway. The Realm Rift’s pulse called gently to me in the darkness, through the winding corridors. So close, but infinitely far, given that Harcourt had been hauled away by the Las Vegas Police.

  Because today definitely needed to get more complicated.

  “You really pissed Murphy off, you know that?”

  “Good. Fuck him,” I said, giving one last woeful look at the darkness leading to the vault. Suddenly, the clock was at the forefront of my mind. Harcourt was in jail, probably under heavy surveillance. The country didn’t take too kindly to domestic terrorism these days. If he wasn’t already being plunged deep into a bath of cold water, I’m sure someone was on the horn trying to make it happen.

  The instant he got into the Feds’ hands, he would become untouchable. And I’d be a massless ball of sizzling goo.

  Kennett took lead, jamming one hand in his suit jacket. He strode with a smooth, quiet confidence. Not cocky, nor something you’d notice if he wasn’t right in front of you.

  “Quit looking at my ass, Ruby,” he said with a dry charm.

  “Very flat,” I said as we climbed up the stairs. The early morning crowd at the Golden Tiger managed to be more depressing than the scene last night. This place was like the Olympics of sadness. We passed a guy in a wheelchair, clothes in tatters, putting what had to be his last dime into a video poker machine.

  “I looked into you a little bit, Ruby. What I could gather, through the network.”