Ruby Callaway: The Complete Collection

by D. N. Erikson

No, I didn’t know.

  But I was curious.

  I squinted and shielded my eyes from the bright morning sun, trying to catch a glimpse of the speaker. With a shrug, I decided that this person wasn’t looking for me. Leaning back against the wooden bench to stretch my legs, I rubbed my jaw and began to close my eyes.

  It might have been well before noon, but it was never too early for a nap. Especially since no one was beating down my door with new work.

  A shadow cut into my sunlight.

  “I’m looking for a private investigator,” the same voice said again, this time with a little more conviction. “Someone gave me an address, and I think this is it, but this town…”

  I played it cool and didn’t look up. She smelled lightly of citrus.

  “Who’re you looking for?” I said, knowing damn well already that it was probably me.

  “A Mr. Kalos Aeon.”

  “I’m a recovery specialist,” I said with a practiced sigh. People usually got it wrong. Although, when it really came down to it, I was just an investigator with a cooler angle.

  “I see.” Feet shuffled on the cracking pavement as she backed away. “Do you have somewhere we can converse in private?”

  I scratched my chin sagely, like I was contemplating whether it was worth my time. To be honest, the summer heat made me feel drowsy and comfortable.

  But I was a professional, so I shook off the cobwebs.

  “Sure.” I got up and opened the door without looking back. I tried to imagine what she looked like, just from the voice. If I had to be honest, the timid, uptight woman act seemed a little off. Holding the door open so that my new client could follow me inside, I added, “So who sent you my way?”

  There was an uncomfortable silence, punctuated only by our footsteps up to the second floor. I headed inside my office, the door swinging almost shut behind me.

  “I’d rather not say,” the voice told me, back in the empty hallway.

  “Let me guess,” I said, walking to my desk. After I settled in, I leveled my gaze at the shadow hidden behind the door frame. “They told you I know a couple things about the unseen.”

  “I was hoping you could help me with an unusual situation, yes.”

  It was a good enough guess. The other ones I usually got were do you really believe in magic? A lot of, make me immortal. Or, my favorite, demons will burn in hell.

  Although all of those were better than when I got a psychopath wanting to apprentice in the dark arts. As if I spent my days forming crop circles and mumbling incantations to my legions of undead minions.

  I much preferred the company of a good woman and a little whiskey to any magic, but then again, the Crimson Conclave always had regarded me as a sort of a black sheep. An embarrassment to dark magic.

  Whatever.

  Fuck supernatural politics.

  I downed a half cup of lukewarm coffee and swung my feet off the unstable desk. I should’ve been in more of a hurry, considering I wasn’t flush with cash. But in the morning, I tend to take my sweet time.

  And this morning wasn’t going to be any different. At least in that regard.

  The tentative, secretive nature of the implied request was familiar enough. My clientele generally heard about me from a friend, or a guy who knew a girl who knew a drifter down in—well, you get the picture. After all, I can’t exactly advertise a magical salvage and recovery service on Google AdWords.

  Which meant the first order of business in securing a new customer was assuring them that I was, indeed, for real. This had taken more decades to perfect than I liked to admit.

  I cleared my throat and said, “So you’re looking for something you lost?”

  “I’m sorry. I shouldn’t have come.” The woman’s clipped response came as she began to hurry down the hall. Soon she would disappear back into the searing Texas sun, hop in her Range Rover or Prius and decide better of it.

  I knew the type well enough.

  Dabblers.

  But I had nothing against mortals, unlike other creatures of magic. A fool’s money spent just as well as a witch’s, and usually with fewer complications.

  “Whatever it is you’re looking for, I can damn well find it, miss.”

  She stopped walking away. I smirked as I considered the thoughts running through her mind. Surely she had to be wondering about the extent of my abilities—or whether I was just some kook holed up above a dispensary, getting high off the second-hand supply.

  Still no answer, though.

  In a flat, disinterested tone I said, “What do you need?” I was focused and invested now. Best not to get excited. I really needed this one, after all.

  The door creaked as the woman turned the brass knob. I saw pale skin, smelled her conditioner—organic lemon-scented, from an expensive boutique—filling the small space before I got the full picture. But first impressions were enough to understand that she didn’t belong.

  The stale air rushed out of the office as she stepped inside and shut the door. I kept it cracked in the summer, because otherwise the Texas heat was unbearable. Air conditioning was a modern convenience I couldn’t currently afford.

  “You are Mr. Kalos Aeon, right?”

  “No, I’m his secretary.”

  Her lips turned up in a grimace.

  “Most people call me Kal,” I said, trying to recover. “But yeah, that’s my given name.”

  She was a little over five feet, pretty, with brown hair and a round face. A sensible summer skirt, solid purple, one that didn’t show too much leg, clung to her freshly showered skin. She clutched a large canvas bag, the type you’d take to the beach or pack the kids’ toys in. Maybe a housewife, wondering if I could contact her dead husband via a Ouija board. I’d gotten that shit enough times to know the type. Done it enough times to know that waving my hands around was good for a quick hundred bucks.

  “I’m not sure you can help me, Mr. Aeon.”

  “First things first,” I said with an easy smile. “How ’bout you introduce yourself? I like to know who I’m working with.”

  The woman shifted uncomfortably in her flats. I sensed a slight disturbance in the room, but I couldn’t place my finger on its source. An unsettling feeling pricked at the back of my neck.

  This woman was trying very hard to play a part.

  Too hard.

  “I don’t think that’s necessary,” she said.

  “But you know so much about me, and I know nothing about you.”

  In a whisper, she said, “I heard you were a demon.” Her eyes darted around the cramped office, over the stacks of cardboard boxes and rusted filing cabinets, searching for confirmation.

  That little detail tended to make business more difficult than necessary.

  I ran my hand through my short, black hair and said, “You heard correctly, ma’am.”

  We could both play pretend.

  And hell, a little good old Texas hospitality usually went a long way. Her shoulders relaxed. We weren’t about to knock back shots of bourbon at the local gin joint, but it was a start.

  “So,” I said. “Let’s cut the shit.”

  “I don’t know what you mean.”

  “I think you do.”

  After all, most people ran screaming out of the room when they reached that part of the fine print. Demon was generally a deal breaker, even amongst the secular. To her credit, all we were enduring together was a super-awkward silence.

  Which was an unusual enough reaction to confirm my suspicions. This lady came here with an agenda. She wasn’t nearly frightened or shocked enough to have rolled in off the freeway.

  Demons get a bad rap, just like any other creature with dark essence coursing through its blood. Sure, more than a few of us are pricks—okay, damn near close to a hundred percent of us are. But it means I’m unfairly stigmatized. As someone who’s tried to run game on a cloaked Fae on more than one occasion, I have the wounded pride—and light burns—to prove that much.

  You see, I’m diff
erent.

  I have a strict code, developed over thousands of years. It was simple, really. Only three things to remember.

  Don’t screw anyone over who doesn’t deserve it.

  Always complete the job I was paid to do.

  And never make a promise I couldn’t keep.

  But try telling people that. Then again, I don’t blame ’em. Talk is cheaper than bogus diamonds and worth even less.

  Finally, the woman broke the silence and said, “Diana. My name’s Diana.” She looked me straight in the eye when she told me. We held the pose for a moment, as if she was waiting for my soul to reveal itself. “And I won’t reveal who referred me.”

  “Bold,” I said. “Never did like snitches, anyway.”

  “I find your professional demeanor concerning, Mr. Aeon.” Her voice was quiet, but accusatory.

  “It’s a demon thing.”

  There was another one of those uncomfortable silences. I gave the lady credit, though. Even on my C- game, she was hanging in. Normally this would have been a non-starter.

  Then again, I was pressing her buttons a little more than I would usually. Because I wanted to know what she was hiding.

  Moment of truth, Kal. Time to figure out why she came.

  Prepared for imminent disappointment, I flashed an easy smile, and said, “I presume whoever referred you explained my terms?”

  “50% of the magical item’s essence,” she said. “And a per diem of $250, regardless of outcome.”

  “Recovery isn’t guaranteed.”

  “It’s a tough job, Mr. Aeon,” she said, all traces of meekness vanishing. Not a bad act. “I would expect nothing less.”

  I nodded. What can I say? When you’re as old as I am, you read a lot of novels. I got the whole payment structure from an old airport paperback in the sixties. I’d been running this magical salvage gig just fine for centuries. No one told me the guy in those books winds up broke most of the time. I just focused on the houseboat and the babes.

  I should’ve learned more in my lifetime. But I’ve got good reasons why I’m not well-rounded.

  “Payment for the first week comes upfront,” I said. “Refundable if it takes less time.” My brow furrowed as I watched her reach into the bag. I was hoping for an envelope thick with cash, but instead she held out a single 4 x 6 photograph.

  “I want you to locate this, Mr. Aeon,” she said. “But it’d be irresponsible to hire you without warning.”

  The image remained turned from me, as if she was trying to maintain an aura of suspense. After you get this old, I could claim that such techniques didn’t work. But I was still half man, and I was wondering just how this pretend soccer mom and her luxury SUV wandered into my little office in Inonda.

  So I said, casual as I could, “What could you possibly need to warn me about?”

  “It’s graphic.” Her shoulders straightened, brown hair brushing against the straps of her dress. “Especially for a creature such as yourself.”

  “Nothing I haven’t seen in this world,” I said.

  Diana raised an eyebrow and stepped closer. I felt my own essence buzzing through my veins. Her pale, beautiful exterior hid a few secrets.

  My breath caught as I took the glossy print. Part of the problem with having an unlisted business advertising your ability to locate impossible to find things is the tendency for big problems to eventually show up on your doorstep.

  “Perhaps this isn’t covered by your terms, Mr. Aeon,” Diana said. “But I was hoping you could help my friend.” The clean swirl of her lemon-scented hair didn’t mix well with the brutality of the scene. The dissonance made me want to vomit. I kept it down—it would be unbefitting of even a half-demon to be visibly bothered by such matters—and scratched my nose.

  “It’s covered.” Arrogance will get you every time in this life. The minute you think you’ve seen it all, you get popped in the face by something ten degrees away from the normal.

  Yeah, this qualified as magical item salvage.

  But not quite what I was used to.

  “Perhaps you should look closer,” Diana said. “There might be clues.”

  “Give me a minute.”

  “Surely you’re up to the task, Mr. Aeon? I thought a demon would not be bothered by such matters.”

  Through gritted teeth, I said, “Who are you?”

  The lemon conditioner seemed to envelop me as she said, “The woman with the cash.”

  I closed my eyes and ran the scenarios. What Diana had just handed me wasn’t good for business. Or for me. For any of us, really.

  I eventually looked back at the picture. The crimson tint of the blood was unmistakable amidst the clumps of fur and severed paws.

  “Your friend is probably dead,” I said, stating the obvious. Someone had carved this creature, limb from limb, dismantling it for its magical essence. I’d seen a lot of things over the years. But nothing quite as savage as this.

  A magical creature chop-chop. That was a new one.

  “Dead or alive, my friend must be recovered,” Diana said. “It should be clear, Mr. Aeon, why this is a large problem.”

  It was clear all right.

  Someone was trying to suck up a lot of essence and get damn powerful. And they were kidnapping and killing supernatural creatures to literally harvest magical energy. And now, faux-mild-mannered Diana from God-knows-where wanted me to bring the jumbled biological pieces back. Before whoever was taking all this energy became too powerful to stop.

  Large problem didn’t begin to cover it.

  “You have any idea who’s doing this?” I asked, pushing the print beneath a rusty stapler.

  “This might help,” she replied. “I found it at the scene.”

  Which is when Diana brought out the river card, turned what I thought was a straight of shit into a royal flush of get the hell out now.

  The talisman clinked as Diana dropped it on the desk. Even stained in blood, I would’ve recognized the design anywhere.

  Because it had been haunting me since before Athens was built.

  “Marrack,” I said in a half-hiss, half-whisper. “You’re back, you son of a bitch.”

  END OF CHAPTER 1

  Want more Kalos and Argos?

  Get the Complete Half-Demon Rogue Trilogy in a single volume at dnerikson.com/demon.