Boom Time

by Michelle E Lowe

  She’d concluded that once she was through The Gate, she might never be able to return to her own time, which did not concern Kayden. Wild elves usually lived their life alone, mating sometimes for pleasure but doing it mainly to procreate. Parents raised their young until the child grew old enough and became skilled enough to fend for itself. Then the family separated. Sometimes wild elves only mated with one elf for life. Kayden had never mated for reasons of procreation, and she had no lifelong mating partner. She wasn’t attached to anyone, nor did she have any real family. No one would miss her, and she’d miss nobody in return.

  The Sleipnir had carried her over the vast ocean area. The mist never stayed in a single location, or so she had been told. At last, she spotted bright flashes of violet and white within a patch of fog ahead. Only, it wasn’t just fog.

  “Go!” she commanded the steed.

  She couldn’t back down now even if the mare’s story wasn’t true. The hunt was too exciting for her to resist. Kayden had found a challenge she could not pass up—killing a mortal with djinn blood who was under the protection of the Fates. That alone was a prize! She would most certainly carve off a keepsake from the boy after she had slain him.

  The eight-legged beast increased its pace, and the flashing mist rushed up even quicker to meet them. The energy in the air was heightened, raising her level of awareness in a way she had never experienced before.

  As they closed in on the mist, she got into a crouching position upon the Sleipnir’s back, readying herself for the precise moment to jump. She had only one chance at this. Anticipation made her tremble. It was truly the most exhilarating moment of her life.

  Wisps of grey surrounded her. The pull was instantaneous.

  Kayden leaped off the horse.

  The exhilaration-turned-to-fear was greater than anything she ever felt before. The force of the winds knocking her in every direction, and the bashing of thunder and the flashes of blinding lights caused her to scream in pure terror. She wanted to thrash and fight against the brutality of it, yet she remembered the warnings. To keep from being shredded, Kayden let her body fall limp. She closed her eyes tightly. A jagged surge of pain sprang from her eyelids and seemingly cracked her head as her nerves were inflamed. Kayden needed to relax those small muscles, too.

  The mist continued tormenting her. Everything moved so fast, and nothing was in focus. An agonizing wail sounded in horrifying echoes all around her. The Sleipnir. He must be fighting against the winds. Along with the painful howling was the loud cracking of bones breaking and the tearing of skin and muscles.

  Kayden did not ignore these cries of torture. Instead, she used them to remind herself of what would happen if she did not remain passive. Eventually, the wailing ceased and all that remained was the deafening sound of the persecuting winds.

  A final push shoved her into stillness. For many long moments, she stayed motionless, working to catch her breath and to slow the panicked beats inside her chest. Every part of her felt beaten. The torture had stolen her sanity for a bit and she needed a little while to recuperate her mind.

  When she had recovered enough, she explored the large orb within which she found herself in. There was no gravity here. Splashes of paint-like blood drifted around the pieces of what used to be the Sleipnir. It’s mangled, disfigured corpse floated precariously.

  In the distance were three women. They were busy doing something. So much so that they never gave the newly arrived visitor any notice. They were grouped together, pointing to this and that, and checking a long sheet of paper that one of them was holding. The group appeared lost. Or, perhaps they were studying The Gate.

  There were hundreds of floating objects within the orb. Bodies—but, more importantly, their possessions. Kayden drifted around, touching every object she came across, reading what might have occurred here. At last, she saw Pierce Landcross through a timepiece. He was unconscious, the chain of the watch lightly threaded about his fingers. A man came for him. No, not a man. The Trickster god dressed in a white suit jacket and slacks. He took hold of the boy and brought him to the portal.

  Kayden followed the echo with her eyes. When she saw them vanish, she floated over to the portal. She had no idea where it went, but there was only one way to find out. Without a second thought, the elf dove in.

  Twenty-Five

  Starting from Scratch

  After George drove the women home, he and Pierce found an all-night diner on Ninth Avenue. While Pierce drank his tea at the counter, George spoke to Kelly on the diner’s coin-operated telephone in the back. He was wearing Pierce’s coat now since both girls had returned his garments.

  What a bloody night. Although it hadn’t been the first time that Pierce needed to run his arse off from the law, it still didn’t keep the shakes away. He decided to stop his bellyaching about boredom.

  George hung up the telephone and stood by it a moment. His slumped shoulders told Pierce something was amiss. When George turned, his grave expression forced Pierce to wonder if he ought to take the train out of the city. He expected George to tell him that Kelly needed to have a “meeting” or “special sit-down,” as it were, with them both, in which case Pierce would sure as hell pass.

  “Brody’s been whacked,” George reported, taking a seat at the counter next to Pierce. “So was William and Devin.”

  Pierce put his teacup down and gawked. “You’re bloody joking. What happened?”

  His friend looked down at the coffee Pierce had ordered for him while he was on the phone. For a moment, George only tapped at the mug with his mechanical finger.

  “There was an ambush at the warehouse. Thieves gunned them down and stole Mr. Quinn’s shipment.”

  Not many things could keep Pierce from speaking, but this news most certainly had done the trick.

  “It happened about two hours ago,” George went on. “Mr. Quinn got the call from that Jamie mook that drives the sub. When Mr. Quinn, Chester, and Frank showed up, the bull did, too.”

  “The bobbies arrived shortly after they did? That’s bloody coincidental, eh?”

  “Boss thinks so, too. He reckons the thieves were trying to set him up. He weaseled himself out of it, though.”

  Yep. Pierce had wanted more excitement, and what he got was a bundle.

  Sergeant Hawk Geo lowered his headphones and clicked off the recorder. Kelly Quinn hadn’t mentioned any names about who might have raided his warehouse and killed his men, but there was a conversation about a police raid on Quinn’s business. Geo could only assume it had happened at The Village Antique store.

  Days before Christmas, a man had come into the station and filed a missing person’s report for his brother, Raymond Reilly. He claimed his brother had worked for Kelly Quinn. The name sounded familiar to Geo, and when he discovered Quinn had once owned a brewery company, he decided to investigate even deeper. He had Quinn’s telephone conversations wiretapped and monitored. Nothing incriminating had ever been discussed, but that didn’t mean Quinn wasn’t dirty.

  Geo had had officers stake out The Village Antique shop, and they had spotted people arriving in droves when the sun went down. After an undercover cop confirmed that there was a speakeasy inside, Geo green-lit the raid. It just so happened, however, that Quinn’s warehouse was also raided by him and his men.

  “The man is ruined,” Detective Anderson stated beside him. “Should we go ahead and bring him in?”

  “No. Like you said, he’s a goner. But I think he’s connected to other organizations much bigger than he is. I want to wait before making a move on Quinn and see if he’ll lead us to them.”

  “Ah,” the detective mused. “Aiming to reel in a pot full at once, huh? Smart.”

  Geo agreed, and if he played his cards right, he could land a very hefty collar and perhaps put a dent into the criminal activity plaguing his city.

  Pierce stood in Kelly Quinn’s sitting room, listening to the wanker rant and rave about how ruined he was. He wanted to go after Violetta
Romano, who apparently was his main suspect where the warehouse raid was concerned—and possibly the snitch who had tipped the cops off about The Attic. Yet, even with his surviving men, he hadn’t the muscle to do so. Pierce thought Kelly should count himself lucky he was alive and not sitting in a jail cell. With The Attic burnt down, there was no evidence linking the speakeasy to him—hopefully. Quinn could claim ignorance about anything happening after the antique shop closed for the night, for he had made a deal with the landlord not to add his name to the floors upstairs even though he paid for them. Regardless, Kelly’s world had collapsed on him, and for Pierce, he saw it as a new challenge.

  “Do you want to rebuild?” he asked Kelly.

  “What?” he demanded sharply.

  In truth, it would be best to let a sod like Kelly Quinn falter. He didn’t particularly care for the bloke, and Pierce figured he would probably live longer if he cut all ties with him. However, the project he had in mind was one he wanted to try.

  “Do you want to rebuild?” Pierce repeated. “You have the means to do so. More than you know. You still have the sub-marine, and you’re still able to accumulate alcohol.”

  “Beer, yes. I can’t afford too many spirits now after the hit I took tonight. Not the well-brewed spirits, anyway.”

  “We can brew our own,” Pierce threw in. “Just until we’re on our feet again.”

  Frank snorted. “Youze means bathtub gin?”

  Pierce shook his head. “No, better, and safer than that poisonous shite amateurs produce.” He eyed George. “We have ourselves a well-qualified brewer right here. All we need is some pot stills and a location for crafting.”

  Honestly, Pierce didn’t think the man would go for any of it, yet he appeared intrigued.

  “Okay, but where am I going to sell all this alcohol?”

  Pierce had a place in mind, although he dreaded returning to it.

  “When I first arrived in the city, I, er, stumbled across a closed down pub. Below it is a sectioned off subway tunnel.”

  “Subway tunnel?” Chester asked a tad tersely.

  “We can turn the pub into another antique shop, convert the tunnel into the speakeasy,” Pierce suggested. “There’s even a basement to store things, including our own small brewery.”

  The more he talked about it, the more plausible it became. Kelly seemed to think so, as well.

  “Where?”

  Pierce’s stomach twisted into a knot so tight it cramped. The memories of that day the Trickster dumped him in the blasted building only to be nearly taken in a bad way by a band of horny hobos still caused him to shake. He kept his emotions in check as they parked at the curb on the busy street.

  “What’s with the sour mug?” Frank asked, putting the car into park behind Chester’s automobile ahead.

  Pierce’s sick feeling must have surfaced on his face. “Erm, nothing. C’mon, let me show you all how to get in, eh?”

  Pierce led the group through the alleyway. The side door was near the cluster of trashcans near the dead end. It was unlocked.

  “Who are you guys?” one of the homeless men demanded as they entered.

  Pierce had warned Kelly there might be squatters inside. The filthy pricks approached them. Frank and Chester, who had pistols, took aim.

  “This is our place now, boys,” Kelly announced earnestly. “Scram, and don’t come back.”

  There wasn’t any argument from them. They gathered what little they owned and started trailing out the door. On their way out, the older man eyed Pierce. A look of recollection flashed on his scruffy face.

  “Get out,” Pierce demanded harshly, glaring at the geezer from under the brim of his hat.

  He did so without a peep.

  “This used to be Kile Givins Tavern and Restaurant,” Kelly recalled, walking in. “Like many joints that sold booze, it went under after Prohibition.” He ran his finger over the dusty bar counter and rubbed dust between his thumb and index finger. “This might actually work.”

  Pierce led them down into the basement and then down into the tunnel. The lamps that had burned on their own were off, of course, but each man had his own torch. Beams of light shone every which way.

  “Hey, dars a ladder over ’ere, boss,” Frank announced from the other end of the tunnel close to a wall with the words END OF THE LINE painted on it. “It must lead up to the alleyway or somethin’.”

  Pierce wished he’d seen the blasted ladder before he had gone up to the bar above. It would have saved him the nightmare.

  “Boss, we could actually get a band down ’ere!” Frank added excitably.

  Kelly and Chester were nearing the other side. The tunnel stretched four street buses in length.

  “This must be one of the first tunnels ever built in the city,” Kelly surmised. “Dating back to the 1800s.” He stopped and so did Chester beside him. “There’s a body down here.”

  Pierce could only assume it was the chipped-toothed peckerwood he’d shot in the stomach. When he reached them, he discovered he was right. It appeared that after dying, the other wretched sods had decided to stash him away instead of informing the police. The corpse was horribly rotted, with parts gnawed off.

  “Christ,” Chester said, shining his light over the body. “The rats have been eating him.”

  The decomposing corpse did nothing to deter Kelly. “We’ll get rid of it.” To Chester, he ordered, “Call Ryan Jackson.”

  “The owner of the McCarthy Construction Company?”

  “Yeah. He owes me a few favors. Tell ’im I have a huge job for him and that I want us to meet here tomorrow morning. Give him the address.”

  “Are we gonna do dis, boss?” Frank asked. “Turn this into our new speakeasy?”

  “We are, Mr. Garcia. We’ll need supplies quickly. I’ll accompany Mr. Walsh out on the submarine to Canada. I can also arrange to obtain liquor to start us off with.”

  Pierce wondered how he was going to do that.

  “We’ll also brew our own spirits, as you suggested, Mr. Chaplin. But not here. It’s too risky while construction is underway.”

  “Where then, Mr. Quinn?” George inquired.

  “I have a family cabin on the outskirts of the city. The cellar would make the perfect makeshift distillery. Mr. Baxter, Mr. Chaplin, you’ll both come with me up there tomorrow. In the morning, you two stop in at my old brewery. Take the truck and load up on everything required for the distillery. Meet me here no later than twelve in the afternoon, understand?”

  Pierce had to admit the man had an organized way of thinking.

  The following day, Pierce rode with George to Kelly’s brewery company and stocked the truck full of all the brewing material they needed to assemble pot stills. By the time they reached the Kile Givins Tavern, Kelly had finished his meeting with Ryan Jackson. Apparently, Kelly had negotiated a good deal, for Ryan agreed to start construction immediately. Kelly had also contacted the building’s owner and settled on a price for leasing it out. Kelly’s drive was remarkable. Pierce could respect that.

  On the drive up to the cabin, Kelly claimed the passenger seat and George was at the wheel, which left Pierce sitting in the middle, feeling awkward. Fortunately, the trip took less than an hour. The three men spoke little, mainly because Kelly wanted to listen to the football game on the radio, which constantly cut in and out the farther they got from the city.

  Kelly eventually told George to take an exit, and shortly thereafter, they turned off on a small dirt road. The drive took several minutes, and George needed to drive with care over the icy road. After a while, a structure appeared. It looked to be something built in a quaint little village in England or Ireland, only without the thatching rooftop. It was a two-story cabin partly constructed out of stone. Its paint was greatly chipped and faded. A wooden porch stretched clear across the front of the house. Old wooden steps, capped in thick layers of snow, led to the door. A few trees loomed over the cottage, their powder-capped branches hanging over the snowy roof.


  “I haven’t been up here in years,” Kelly admitted with a touch of nostalgia in his voice.

  George halted the truck near the front and everyone got out.

  “There’s a generator in the cellar,” Kelly explained while unlocking the door. “I brought a new battery for it, and when it’s powered on and warmed up it’ll turn the interior lights on.”

  They entered.

  The sun was out and its light filtered through the windows. The downstairs was a large open room. A staircase was located on the left-hand side running up the wall. Directly ahead, against the rear wall, was an armchair and couch. Between the furniture was a table in the corner with a Tiffany lamp on top. A large stone hearth was over on the right-hand side, with a long oak table stretched out in front of it with benches on both sides. The inner walls were made of logs. The logs were pasted with chinks that may have been white at some point but had gone brown with age. A kitchen was located on the same side near the front door, separated by a long half wall where a few stools lined the outer area. Edison bulbs hung from above. The kitchen appeared fairly modern. The flooring was dark, perhaps maple wood.

  Kelly went into the kitchen and turned the sink knobs. The faucet squeaked and gurgled before water poured out.

  “Good. The pipes haven’t frozen.” He turned it off and let it drip. “Once you clear out the dust and arrange it to your liking, Mr. Baxter, the place will feel like home. The cabin is well insulated, so staying warm shouldn’t be an issue once you get a fire going.”

  George paled. “While I’m here? You mean by myself?”

  Kelly took a kettle from the stove and rinsed it out in the sink. “Are you afraid of the dark, Mr. Baxter? It’s only temporary. Once the speakeasy is complete, we can brew in the basement there.”