The Counterfeit City

by Jenna Lyn Wright

  There is a far-off rumbling as the train approaches. The high-pitched squeak of brakes as it slows to approach the station.

  I’m about to approach the edge of the platform when I get the sensation that someone is watching me.

  I glance to my right to find that the couple is staring at me. They have disentangled themselves from each other, and stand motionless and silent. Simply watching.

  That’s not the only thing making my instincts scream. Something else is wrong. The briefcase the businessman set down sits at the edge of the platform, but it is unattended. He is gone.

  I spin to find him inches away.

  His jaw opens wide.

  Too wide.

  It unhinges, revealing two glistening rows of teeth filed to sharp points. His forked tongue flicks out and he hisses at me.

  His skin has an unnatural sheen, and I see now that he is covered in tiny, iridescent scales.

  Startled by his appearance, I am caught off guard when he lunges at me. I duck. His claw-tipped fingers slash the air a fraction of an inch above my head, and I sweep around with my leg, taking him out at the knees as I turn.

  The couple is racing toward us.

  Whatever Leather Jacket and Sundress are, it is not human. They are like the businessman, and as they approach, their teeth gnash and grind as they snap their too-wide jaws.

  Sundress launches herself at me, closing the distance between us in half. Before she can hit the ground, I pull one of my daggers free and fling it at her.

  Her body goes limp mid-air as the blade lodges into her windpipe, slicing the shiny skin as if it were tissue paper. I drop to my back, kicking my legs up to flip her up and over me.

  A spray of black blood spatters the dirty subway tile as she hits the ground behind me and her body slides into the base of the transit booth with a dull thud.

  Somersaulting backward, I land on my feet in a defensive position. Business Man is pulling himself to his feet. Leather Jacket has stopped next to him. He bounces on the balls of his feet as if contemplating whether to continue his advance or flee in the opposite direction.

  Hot, dry air pushes into the station. Light slices through the tunnel. The train is nearly here.

  The echo of another intercom announcement mixes with the clank of wheels against rails and the screams of the Business Man and Leather Jacket as they launch another attack.

  Rather than retreat, I race directly toward them. A collision course.

  A breath away from them, I drop to my knees, sliding on the tile. I pull a dagger from my pockets with each hand and drive the weapons up and into their torsos. Using the leverage, I pop up to my feet and force them both backward.

  Momentum on my side, I swing around, letting the weapons go as I twist toward the tracks. They both fly backward, toppling off of the platform and landing with a bone-crunching thud on the rails.

  Face down in three inches of stagnant water and trash, Leather Jacket lies motionless. I managed to get him where a human’s heart would be, and the point of the knife pokes up and out of the back of his coat.

  I am not so lucky with Business Man. The blade lodged where his stomach should be. He pulls himself to his feet and looks down at his wound in confusion and disbelief. It is more of an irritation than a lethal blow, and he pulls the blade out, the metal making a sick sucking sound as it dislodges from his flesh. He raises it in his clenched fist and lets out a glass-shattering shriek.

  The blast of a horn drowns him out as the oncoming train smashes into him, smearing him across its windshield and sending bits of him splattering across the platform.

  The hand holding the knife spins up into the air and drops onto the platform, sliding to a stop at my boots.

  Excellent. I thought I was going to be out three knives tonight. I snatch the dismembered fist up from the ground, pry its fingers from the hilt, wipe the black blood on the thigh of my pants and slip the dagger back into its pocket.

  The train slows to a stop and the doors open with a bing bong tone. An automated voice announces the destination, and a few revelers pour from the car. Judging by their attire and their state of inebriation, it’s late night and the party is over.

  There is no screaming. The train’s conductor does not burst from his compartment in fear and revulsion at the creature now coating his windshield.

  The party animals laugh and stumble toward the stairs, seemingly unaware that their shoes are now coated with black, sticky blood and that Sundress’s quickly-rotting corpse lies mere feet from them.

  That is when I realize that in all this time, the lanky student commuter has not moved. She has not looked up from her book. If it weren’t for the sporadic flip of pages, she could’ve easily passed for a living statue, upturned hat at her feet, waiting for tips from pedestrians.

  Nico’s words come back to me. People do not register Counterfeits unless they’re forced to through some unfortunate circumstance. This world is outside of normal human comprehension.

  I pull my dagger from Sundress’s body, which is smoking and deflating, the skin peeling off in flakes. Whatever this creature is, its death is messy and its decomposition is rapid.

  I follow the student into the nearly empty subway car.

  She finds a seat and flips another page. Her eyes are heavy, and I doubt she will make it to her stop without dozing.

  The doors close behind me, and rather than sit, I turn to face them. My reflection peers back at me, and I realize that there is a splotch of black blood on my cheek. I hastily wipe it away. The last thing I need is to show up at Mina’s with Counterfeit blood on my face.

  Out on the platform, the body is nothing but a pile of ash now.

  As we pull away, the blast of hot air lifts and sifts it, leaving nothing on the subway tiles but dirt and a discarded sundress.

  11

  There’s nowhere to hide as I cut across the central meadow of the city park. A nearly full moon bathes the grass in an icy light, and in the distance, the water on the park’s pond shimmers.

  According to Nico, Mina’s should be at the far end of the lawn, just behind an oak tree that was split by lightning in the worst storm of the last three centuries.

  Since I woke up in my bed and into this nightmare, every time I’ve stepped outside I’ve been chased or attacked. Now, I move quickly down the moonlit path and keep alert for any sound or movement. I’m not sure why I seem to be number one on some sort of supernatural hit list, but I’m not about to get sent back to Lucifer with my mission unfinished.

  The path twists up and off to the left, but I step off the stone, into the grass, and head toward the woods. The oak I’m looking for should be a dozen feet back from the tree line.

  I stop short as I reach the edge of the lawn. The leaves just ahead are dense enough that the moonlight can’t get through. Total darkness awaits me.

  With one last glance behind me to be sure that I’m not being followed, I step into the woods.

  Leaves swish as I part branches and skirt shrubbery and sure enough, just ahead, a massive, gnarled tree splits into a nearly perfect V. I spot shining metal through the gap. A door inlaid with an intricate pattern from top to bottom, aside from a flat square in the center.

  The thing is, there’s no building behind it. I circle the tree once. Twice. It’s simply a door in a tree that opens to nowhere.

  I suppose this is my new normal.

  Following Nico’s instructions, I place my palm on the flat square. Underneath my hand, the metal is cool and smooth and unremarkable.

  Shhhk.

  Something pricks my index finger, and I yank my hand away from the door as if I’ve been stung.

  Blood beads on my fingertip, and there’s a small smear of red on the metal where my hand rested just a moment before.

  The metal appears to absorb the liquid, and the crimson disappears, leaving an unblemished surface.

  Hinges creak, and the door swings open.

  There should be forest beyond, as there is no
structure on the other side of this tree.

  Instead, the open door reveals a deep darkness across its threshold, cut only by bare bulbs that dangle from a ceiling that I can’t see. They throw light on brick walls and a set of stairs that disappears into the earth.

  There is a distant thumping from below; a dirty bass beat.

  I have no choice.

  I descend.

  ***

  The moment I reach the bottom of the stairs the entrance above me shuts, leaving me with nothing but the bare bulbs for illumination. I peer into the darkness ahead of me to see the faintest blue light leaking from the far end of a hallway.

  As I approach, the music grows louder and the light shifts to pink, yellow, green. The picture snaps into place, and I realize the glowing light is coming from a crystalline doorknob.

  I reach out.

  Twist.

  And enter a world of Counterfeit debauchery.

  A large dance floor at the far end of the room is packed with gyrating bodies. To my right, pole dancers entertain those looking to forget themselves. To my left, what must be some sort of gambling space is set up, with patrons surrounding tables and placing wagers. And dominating the center of the room, the bar is packed three deep with those waiting for drinks.

  Nobody has noticed me yet, and I take the time to go beyond my first impressions and really see this place.

  Those gamblers? They’re sipping from goblets filled with thick, crimson liquid. The bodies crowding the dance floor? Their eyes glow yellow and they growl as they grow more frenzied. The pole dancers, men and women alike, have pointed ears, and some of the patrons watching them flicker to translucency as they watch the inhumanly beautiful creatures bend and twist.

  I cannot begin to comprehend the species at the bar, as it seems each and every patron has an aspect to them that would be inhuman. Eyes of every shade. Skin, scales, and fur. Fangs. Forked tongues. Wings.

  If you want information, you speak to the bartenders. I weave through the throngs of people and approach the bar.

  In an effort to avoid the worst of the crowd, I circle around until I find a single empty stool. The last seat before a corner. The patron occupying the next stool over nurses a drink and keeps their head down. They wear a black coat with its hood pulled up, and I get the feeling we both wish to remain unnoticed, so I do them that courtesy and turn my attention toward one of the bartenders.

  I get a one-second gesture from the nearest server. Despite doing my best to keep my profile low, I get the distinct feeling that I am being studied by everyone in my vicinity. They don’t stare at me, but I can tell that they sense me, and I catch a few surreptitious glances and conversations whispered into ears.

  “What’s your poison?” The bartender stands before me, and whatever she is, she’s haunting. Ashen skin. Crimson lips. Thick black liner around her eyes, and long black hair that floats and swirls around her head as if she’s underwater. If I had to guess, I’d say ghost.

  “I need to speak with Mina,” I say, and I feel an almost imperceptible shift in the energy of the room around me. The patrons move a fraction closer to us. Tilt their heads to listen just a bit harder.

  She shrugs. “I haven’t seen her in a minute, but she’s around here somewhere. How about a whiskey while you wait? No offense, but you look like you could use a drink.”

  Without waiting for my answer, she pulls a glass out from behind the bar and begins looking through the bottles of liquor. “It’s important,” I insist.

  The only response I get is a freshly poured drink in front of me. The liquid is brown. One ice cube. There’s even a cherry skewed on a plastic sword. But smoke wafts up and over the rim of the glass, and I am fairly certain this is not whiskey.

  “On the house.” She winks at me and begins to turn away.

  “Nico sent me.”

  The bartender pauses, and I lift the glass to take a drink.

  It is inches from my lips when the hooded patron reaches over and covers the rim of my glass. Their hand is tipped with glossy black claws, and they gently force the drink back down onto the bar.

  I turn to find myself looking at one of the most stunning creatures I’ve ever seen. She has midnight skin and starry eyes, and a devilish smile pulls at the corners of her full lips. “Always lead with Nico,” she says, and her voice, though quiet, is liquid honey that coats and dampens the music and chatter around us. “And don’t drink this unless you want to wake up three days from now on a beach in Portugal missing your wallet, your jewelry, and possibly a finger.”

  The ghostly bartender smiles sheepishly and shrugs. “Like she says, lead with Nico. When a fresh one like you shows up, we can’t be too careful. You said you were looking for Mina, yeah?” She nods to the woman next to me. “You found her. But only because she wants to be found.”

  Mina studies me, and I school my features into cool indifference. Nico should have warned me. This woman has a presence and a power that could knock a human off their feet, and being that I was one of those humans less than twenty-four hours ago I feel like I’m not quite equipped to handle someone of her magnitude yet.

  “If Nico’s sending you to me, it must be something of some importance,” she purrs.

  “Nico, yes,” I say, “and beyond that, Lucifer.” I’m not certain I should reveal this much yet, but there’s something about this woman that makes me want to tell her things I shouldn’t. Her gaze bores into me and makes me feel vulnerable in a way I’m not comfortable with, but I can’t look away from her. Not yet. I need to see how she reacts to His name.

  She is up and moving before I can blink. My hand is in hers, and her skin is smooth and warm and she tugs me off of the bar stool and leads me toward the crowded dance floor.

  We wind through the twisting, gyrating, grinding bodies, and I hear low growls over the thumping bass. A man catches my eye, and his flash yellow, the pupils sliding to vertical slits. He smiles, and his canines are elongated and viciously sharp.

  Mina leads me back past the DJ booth and around the sound equipment and then we are standing in front of a plain black door in the back corner of the building.

  She pulls me close, and I drown in those constellation eyes. “Before we enter my office, you should know that if you lie to me I’ll send you right back to your friend Lucifer.”

  I simply stare. The more she speaks, the more used to her voice I become, but if I’m going to have any kind of conversation with this woman I’m going to need to get my shit together immediately.

  “Minus your tongue,” she adds, and I believe her.

  12

  I’ve been staring at the maps on Mina’s walls for a solid five minutes, and I still can’t determine exactly what I’m looking at. The shapes of the land and water are familiar to me, but the jagged boundary lines don’t make sense.

  “They’re Counterfeit borders,” she says as she takes a seat behind a small desk stacked with leather-bound books and piles of what looks to be parchment paper. “You could stand there for a week and you still wouldn’t understand it. So why don’t you come over here.” She gestures for me to take the overstuffed chair across from her. “If Nico has sent you to me, it must be bad.”

  I sit. “What did the bartender mean, ‘we can’t be too careful’?”

  “She meant The Enemy has a habit of finding rookie Counterfeits and using them for nefarious purposes.”

  “The Enemy…?”

  “Is far beyond anything you need to worry about right now. Nico sent you, so you’re clean. That’s all that matters.” She frowns at me. “Do I know you? I’ve had the oddest feeling since you sat down next to me at the bar that we’ve met before.”

  I’ve never understood that question. How would I know if someone else knows me? So I say, “All I can tell you is that I don’t know you.”

  Mina studies me for a long, silent moment. Long enough that I’m afraid that I’ve irritated her in some way, but then her eyes go wide with what can only be recognition because
she says, “You’re one of Lilah’s thieves. I knew you looked familiar. Except different now, because you’re dead, obviously.”

  The way she says it is so nonchalant that I nearly laugh.

  “So, it’s very bad, then,” she says.

  “I need to know where to find the Dagger of the Fallen.”

  Mina goes still. “Very, very bad.”

  “I’m beginning to get that feeling, yes.”

  “I’m going to need to know everything,” she says.

  Her eyes flash with excitement at the prospect, and I get the feeling that knowledge is precious to her. After years of keeping secrets the idea of giving everything over to someone I’ve never met before sets my nerves on edge, but there’s no point in lying or being coy. Nico said she can help me, and I’d like to keep my tongue. I’ll just have to hope that Mina is one of the few in Counterfeit City who doesn’t want to actively kill me.

  And if she does, well, I have my blades.

  “I deal in information, little demon,” she says. “You give, I give.”

  “I don’t have much. Lucifer only gave me that instruction and left me to my own devices.”

  “He is such a prick,” she murmurs, and while I’m not sure that I’ve found a friend, we might be on the same side of the Lucifer thing. That’s something, at least.

  “Lilah wants the Dagger,” I continue. “My orders are to get it before she can, and return it, and her, to Him.”

  Mina snorts. “What in Pandemonium would Lilah even want the Dagger for? Stealing from the Devil is bad enough, but why risk His wrath for something she can’t even use?”

  When I’d worked for her, Lilah had sent me on many missions where her end game was clear. There were a few, however, that made no sense to me. I’d taken objects that not only weren’t valuable, but that were incredibly easy to steal. I had realized that sometimes it wasn’t about a sale. Sometimes it was about showing your reach and your power to the people that you stole from. She did it not because she had to, but because she could.