Blood Ghast Blues

by Jake Bible

  “Nice,” I said as she left my room.

  The dream of the ghost kids lingered briefly in my mind, but I shook it off and got up.

  I grabbed my phone and double-checked that the voicemails from Iris weren’t remnants of my dream. Whew. They were real. I hoped the talk with Travis was too. I’d have to call him from the road to confirm. Or call Sharon and see if he was at the office. I highly doubted ghosts had phones.

  Which made me think of the ghost kids again. That shit was goddamn messed up. I rubbed at my temples as I made my way to the kitchen. Eat first, think about weird-ass dreams and weirder ghosts later.

  12.

  “CHASE! COME ON!” Harper called. “Ghoul’s here!”

  “Yeah. On the way,” I said as I grabbed my backpack from off my bed.

  I paused in my doorway, images of ghost kids like phantoms in the hallway. I shoved that crap from my mind and hurried to the front door where Harper was waiting. No idea why the ghost kids bugged me so much, but they did. There was something in that dream . . .

  “You cool?” she asked. “Because you don’t look cool.”

  “I’m cool. Shitty night’s sleep.”

  “Well, suck it up and get your head on straight, Chase. Gonna need you to focus today. Twelve-hour drive ahead of us.”

  “Goddamn backroads adding four hours to an eight-hour trip,” I muttered as I stepped up next to her.

  “You smart. You do math,” Harper mocked as she moved outside, Magnum in hand and down at her side.

  She scanned the area, her head swiveling quickly back and forth then nodding, and walked towards the curb where two very large trolls waited by a Toyota Tercel. The trolls were scanning the area as much as Harper was, but neither of them was armed. Being a troll was weaponry enough.

  “Come on,” Harper said.

  I followed her out and we walked quickly to the car. Without a word, one of the trolls opened the back door and Harper ushered me in then jumped in behind me. The troll shut the door and the car was off, leaving the two huge beings behind.

  “No escort?” I asked.

  “Nah,” Harper said. “Car’s hexed up to the eyeballs.” Harper patted the driver’s seat headrest. “Right?”

  “Yes, mum,” the ghoul driver replied. “Heavy hexes covering every inch, mum.”

  Ghouls. They were a short, hunched-over race. Gray skin, ropy muscles. Stank of carrion. Hard workers, though. You could pay them almost nothing and they didn’t care. They literally worked for rotten meat. The meat had to be at least two weeks old, so paying them was a bit stinky. They handled everything from bussing tables to driving tourists around town. Landscaping, hanging drywall, they’d do it all for a moldy shank of goat.

  Which meant backlash. Ghoul labor activists. Local politicians with anti-immigrant axes to grind. Human workers displaced. A centuries-old problem with an extradimensional twist.

  “Where are we headed?” I asked.

  “Warehouse down in the River Arts District,” Harper said as she checked her phone then leaned forward and showed the map to the ghoul. “Here’s the address.”

  “Yes, mum, I know the building,” the ghoul replied.

  With every word, the car stank worse. I reached to roll down the window, but Harper stayed my hand.

  “Glass is darkened on the outside,” she said. “Roll that down and you’re a sitting duck.”

  “Your gut saying we’re gonna get hit on the way to the truck?”

  “Someone sent the blood ghast after us yesterday. We’re dealing with the One Guy. We’re also dealing with the DEX and the US government. My gut says not to press our luck.”

  “True,” I agreed. “No window down.”

  “No window down.”

  The ghoul drove us through downtown then along Haywood Road. We twisted our way to an area of Asheville that had once been industrial buildings situated along railroad tracks and the French Broad River. Times changed and the industrial buildings were either torn down to make way for condos and riverside hotels, or they were refurbished into art galleries, pottery collectives, breweries, and high-priced taquerias.

  But, despite the accelerated gentrification, there still stood a couple of warehouses that actually warehoused shit. Like the one the ghoul turned towards as we bumped along a rutted gravel drive that led us back behind a huge concrete building covered in graffiti.

  Bales and bales of bound cardboard were stacked twenty feet high on each side of the drive, walling us in like a corrugated canyon. A hard shove and the Tercel would be buried instantly. Good thing I could see Lassa standing at the end of the drive waiting for us or I’d have started to get claustrophobic.

  Lassa held up a hand and the ghoul driver stopped about fifteen yards away from where one ugly-ass panel truck sat idling, puffs of exhaust coming from its tailpipe, condensing in the crisp, morning air.

  Harper pulled a gallon baggie filled with rancid meat from her backpack and handed it to the ghoul.

  “Thank you, mum,” the ghoul said. “Pleasure serving you today.”

  “Thanks,” she said and handed him a second gallon baggie.

  “Mum?”

  “You didn’t see us, you didn’t drive us to this place. We were never in your car. Got it?”

  “Of course, mum. I must have gotten turned around. Ghouls and GPS, am I right, mum?”

  “Exactly.”

  We hopped out and walked to Lassa. He gave a nod to the ghoul driver and we waited until the car was long gone before we relaxed slightly and Lassa walked us over to the truck.

  Harper eyed it then turned her attention on Lassa.

  “The mages do their thing?” she asked.

  “They did,” Lassa replied with some hesitation.

  “What?” I asked. “Was there a problem with the hillbillies?”

  “They wouldn’t take cash,” Lassa said, looking at Harper. “They wanted trade.”

  “Shit,” Harper said and turned her face to the sky, her eyes closed. “What did they want?”

  “Six black boxes,” Lassa said, his attention on me now. “Sorry, Chase. I even added twenty percent to their fee and they refused. They wanted boxes only.”

  “Six?” I said. “How big are we talking?”

  Lassa shrugged and scrunched up his handsome face in the corniest look of apology ever. “Container size.”

  “You aren’t talking Tupperware containers, are you?”

  “Nope. Container truck size.” He pointed at the panel truck behind him. “Bigger than that.”

  “Six?”

  “Six.”

  “Shit. That’s a lot of Dim,” I said and looked at Harper. “They worth this price?”

  “Yeah,” Harper said, her eyes opening as she turned to me. “They are. Best protection hexes money can buy.”

  “Or trade.”

  “Or trade,” Harper agreed. “And keeping them happy will mean using them again down the road.”

  “Then we keep them happy and pay with six boxes,” I said. “Great.”

  “They did say that blood ghast handlers are a tricky bunch, so not to get too comfortable,” Lassa said. “Even with the best hexes, practitioners with that much mojo will find cracks in the magic.”

  “Better not be cracks when we’re paying in six container-sized black boxes,” I snapped.

  “The cracks would be bigger if we went with anyone else,” Harper said.

  “They pointed that out too,” Lassa said.

  “We can handle the cracks.” Harper nodded then patted the goblin sickle on her belt with one hand and the magnum with the other. “I’m always down with riding rough and ready if the hexes fail. You driving?”

  “No,” Lassa said. “I’ve got shotgun.”

 
“That wasn’t the plan,” I said. “Outside parties mean outside influence. Can we trust someone else to drive?”

  “Chill. A better plan presented itself, dude,” Lassa said, a shit-eating yeti grin on his face. “Troy!”

  “Whassup?” a deep, bass rumble replied.

  Quite possibly the shortest troll I’d ever seen in my life came lumbering around from the other side of the truck. Trolls usually run a good seven feet tall, with exceptions due to specific species, but even the exceptions were huge. This one was maybe five feet tall. Maybe. But, holy shit, he was cut. Like his muscles were chiseled straight from the mountains we lived in. And his skin was obsidian black. Literally.

  Lassa knows everyone in the transportation business. If we can’t handle a gig alone, we subcontract with the Teamsters. Faeries may have invented lawyers, but trolls invented the Teamsters. And I don’t mean that in a derogatory way.

  There are over two thousand species of trolls. Some are dumb as rocks while others make Stephen Hawking look like George W. Bush. Depends on the species and the individual troll.

  Regardless of variations in troll intelligence, if you need something moved across dimensions, you call a Teamster troll. We weren’t moving across dimensions, but Lassa knew his stuff, so if he thought we needed a troll driver then we needed a troll driver.

  “Troy’s a glass troll,” Lassa said. “He used to run ski shuttles back in my dimension. Known him all my life.”

  “All your life? You’re centuries old, pal,” I said.

  “Troy is older,” Lassa replied. “Right, Troy? How old are you?”

  “Older than your pappy’s spunk, you little shit,” Troy replied.

  “I like him,” Harper said as she stepped forward and offered her hand.

  Troy’s massive paw enveloped Harper’s hand and he gave it a quick shake.

  “Care to show me the back?” Harper asked.

  “You bet,” Troy said.

  “A friend from home?” I asked Lassa as we followed Troy and Harper to the rear of the truck.

  The vehicle was an ancient U-Haul truck. Not the largest, but the second largest. It still had the logo on it, but faded to an almost illegible pink, instead of the bright orange. If we wanted to blend in on the backroads from Asheville to DC, that was the truck that would make it easy to do.

  “If we’re going up against blood ghasts, the DEX, and whatever crap the One Guy has on his ass, then I need the best behind the wheel,” Lassa said. “No better driver in all the dimensions.”

  “No better driver? Better than you?”

  “He taught me how to drive. You’ve been to my dimension. Thirty thousand foot passes and nothing but snow and ice. He could fall asleep at the wheel here and still be a better driver than ninety percent of the humans on the road.”

  “Not gonna argue that. But why call in a driver at all? Even without the hexes, we can handle this. We’ve handled worse. You were going to drive and Harper ride shotgun. What really changed?”

  “Yeah, well . . .”

  Harper laughed as she hopped down from the back of the truck. Troy was telling her some joke about a gryphon and unicorn. Or a gryphon in a unicorn. It was hard to hear the details.

  Lassa looked from Harper then back to me.

  “She might stand out along the way. Last thing we need is some rural yahoo with a badge to pull us over simply because he wants to hassle a woman of color.”

  “Goddammit,” I muttered.

  He was right. Harper didn’t exactly have the skin color to keep us out of trouble. We’d get stopped and some bigot with a badge and gun would make a backhanded comment about her skin color. Then she’d open that cracker’s belly with one of her many blades. We’d be royally fucked.

  “Uh, Troy isn’t exactly the color of choice for the rural South, either,” I countered.

  “Ain’t no one gonna even glance at me,” Troy said. “We trolls have a way of making folks avert their eyes. Some redneck might get his boxers in a twist for half a second, but he’ll get over it just as fast and turn his hate on his wife or kids like any other day.”

  “Yay for humans,” I said.

  “Been living in the South my whole life,” Harper said. “Minus my time in the faerie dimension. I can take care of myself. I know how to handle good ol’ boys.”

  “Do you?” Lassa asked. “That handling with or without blades?”

  “Everything is with blades,” Harper replied.

  “Point made,” Lassa said to me.

  “Point made,” I replied.

  “You two want to keep talking about me like I’m not here and don’t get a say in this?” Harper snapped. “Yeah, keep doing that. Let’s get this road trip started on that foot, you assholes.”

  She patted her goblin sickle again.

  “Harp? I love you like family, because you are basically family, but sometimes we have to be brutally honest with family.” I took a deep breath. “We can’t afford the risk of you killing some racist piece of shit and bringing holy hell down on us when we have too much heat as it is to deal with. You gotta know we’re right here.”

  Harper growled.

  “So, we’re good?” I asked.

  Her growl petered out. Then she nodded and walked off to join Troy who was busy inspecting the truck’s tires.

  “We’re good,” I said to Lassa.

  “Cool. So back to logistics. Hexes are in place. Troy drives. I sit shotgun. Harper rides in back with you and the Dim box holding the One Guy,” Lassa said.

  He winced. He tried to hide it, but failed miserably.

  “Time out. Back up.” I glared. Hard. “What was that about the Dim box? It’s gonna be in back with me and Harp? Still in this dimension, not banished to the Dim?”

  “Dude, I’m sorry, but he insisted,” Lassa replied, glancing towards the wide open bay doors of the warehouse we were standing next to. “You know him better than I do, but I doubt you’re gonna change his mind.”

  “Change his mind about what?” I asked.

  Harper came back, chuckling from another of Troy’s jokes. She’d moved on, apparently. She hooked a thumb over her shoulder. “Lassa? How have you never introduced us to Troy before? Guy’s a fucking riot.”

  She instantly sensed the mood and the chuckle died away.

  “What’s wrong now? I decided not to cut you bitches. This better not put me back in that mood.”

  “I’ll show you,” Lassa said and led the way inside the warehouse.

  Sitting on a folding chair was the One Guy. He was dressed in white slacks and a white polo shirt with a black belt and black shoes. His face was still clouded, but it wasn’t hard to see the smirk on his lips.

  Standing directly behind him were four dopplers. Dressed in shorts and printed t-shirts, the idiots looked like they were trying very hard to capture Disney World chic. If their shirts matched and they had lanyards hanging around their necks while holding a gaggle of leashed toddlers then the image would have been perfect.

  “You can’t help yourself, can you?” I said.

  “Whatever do you mean, Chase?” the One Guy said with so much bullshit falling out of his mouth I expected the folding chair to be knee deep in a stinking pile. “You didn’t think I’d trust my wellbeing in the hands of a homicidal ex-assassin trained by the Fae, did you? No offense, Harper.”

  “Suck my dick,” Harper replied.

  “No, thank you,” the One Guy said. “These gentlemen are four of my most loyal employees. They’re coming with us to make sure that at the end of the ride, you open up the black box you intend on sticking me inside.”

  “What? You don’t trust me?” My turn for a heaping pile of BS. “I’d never leave a client in a box.”

  “We both know you are thinking of doing exactly
that,” the One Guy replied. “It’s your entire motivation for making the deal with me. Do you deny it?”

  “Would you believe me if I did?”

  “Not at all,” the One Guy said.

  “Suit yourself.” I glared at the dopplers, but received only semi-lifeless stares back. I grimaced and turned to Lassa. “We ready to get this nightmare on the road?”

  “I certainly am,” the One Guy said and stood up, clasping his hands in front of him. “Boys? Bring my luggage.”

  Two of the dopplers moved off into the shadows and came back with a rolling cart loaded to the top with suitcases.

  “Yeah. We’re ready,” Lassa said. “Harper’s seen the truck. I’ll show you so you know what you’re in for.”

  “Yay,” I said with absolutely zero enthusiasm.

  13.

  LASSA DID A GREAT job with the truck. I will give him that.

  While the outside of the truck looked like it hadn’t been serviced in decades, the inside of the cargo area was outfitted with all kinds of creature comforts. Recliners bolted to the floor. Several large coolers filled with drinks and food. Crates of salty snacks. Duffel bags of sugary snacks.

  And a crate against the far wall that Harper stood next to, beaming with as much glee as she ever showed. I could tell she was happy as hell, but the glee made the many, many scars on her face stand out more than usual. The effect was closer to terrifying. Even the dopplers hesitated before they lifted the luggage cart up into the cargo area.

  “Harper? Is that crate filled with weapons?” I asked.

  She nodded and toed the lid open with her foot.

  Inside was a carefully organized assortment of pistols, blades of all sizes, and three assault rifles. Not to mention several items that I didn’t recognize, but had to assume went boom.

  “I see two recliners, which is lovely, but what will I be seated upon?” the One Guy asked as he climbed into the truck. “My employees will stand, of course, but you can’t expect me to do the same the entire trip.”