Rebels and Realms: A Limited Edition Urban Fantasy Collection

by Heather Marie Adkins

  Watching her light up with pleasure was a new experience for him. She held onto his hand as they walked back to the restaurant’s parking lot and her car. Her sunny disposition kept her talking, and his unease at bay.

  “Daddy’s retired. I’m the youngest of the kids, and the only one at home now. He and Mom are sweethearts, I’m sure they’ll love you.”

  “I’ve never met a girl’s parents before.” Elliott folded himself into the passenger side of her compact car.

  Tammy laughed. “You’re kidding. I’d have thought you’d gone on a million dates and met tons of parents. Which high school did you go to?”

  “Granada Hills. Until I was sixteen. Then I was…homeschooled.” Memory tugged, but remained stubborn, showing him only bits and pieces.

  “Ah. Good school, from what I hear.”

  “What school did you go to?”

  “Burbank High. I had such a great time in high school – so many wonderful memories. Cheer squad, drama, band. I did it all whenever I could. I always felt like I needed to cram as much life into my life as possible, you know?”

  Elliott watched her as she drove, her chatter light and inconsequential and so unlike what he was used to that it felt like a rare treat, a woman’s stream of consciousness pouring all over him with joyful abandon.

  She pulled into the driveway of a well kept home in an older section of Burbank. “Here we are. Sorry I talked so much, but you’re such a good listener.” She unbuckled her belt and opened her car door. “Come on. I’m so excited to have them meet you.”

  The hair on the back of his neck stood on end, and his guard went up. He got out of the car and took a couple steps back toward the street. Death seemed to beckon him from every blank window. The house stank of it, and another memory tugged at him. A memory of nightmares and underground places.

  Tammy’s smile as she came toward him didn’t look so innocent any more. “What’s wrong?”

  Elliott took to his heels, running as fast as he could. As he passed a light pole, he sent a thought winging toward it. With a pop and a few sparks, the transformer blew and the streetlights, as well as all the lights on the block, went dark.

  Elliott melted into the darkness and waited for what would come next.

  She came with fury and a gun. He could smell it, the metal of it, the deadliness. She’d killed before. How had he not seen that earlier? How had he been so drawn in? He felt his own gun, but decided not to pull it out. Evade, rather than kill. The stain of death was already on his soul. He didn’t need to make it worse.

  She came on foot. Not as fast as he was, but somehow more deadly.

  “Come out, Elliott. I know you’re around here somewhere.”

  He didn’t reply, only moved silently away, down the block.

  “I recognized the stink of Borgati on you.”

  The shock held him still. Who? What the hell?

  “You’re dead out here unless you let me help you.”

  He sent a thought toward her. You are deadly.

  She laughed, that pretty laugh that he’d thought so charmingly young. “Yes, I am. And so are you. We’re a naughty pair, aren’t we? Now come to me, and let’s get under cover.”

  A dog barked, someone hissed, and Elliott jumped a retaining wall separating the neighborhood from the freeway.

  I don’t think so.

  “Don’t go yet. Things are just starting to get interesting,” she called out. But her voice was moving away from him and he stilled to listen just for another moment. “I’ve got information for you. Information you need in order to survive away from the Compound.”

  He ran along the lower banks of the freeway, away from Tammy and her deadly perkiness.

  Who the hell was Borgati? Why did that name ring so strongly inside him? What kind of a person was he, anyway, for someone like her to come after him with a gun? What kind of person was he, to be carrying a gun in the first place?

  He ran and his confusion and a great rage ran before him, a living thing that spread its influence widely. Horns honked on the freeway above him; there was the sound of a crash. As he ran, he heard two more crashes, thought nothing of it until a fourth crash, followed by angry bellows, brought him back to himself.

  Pull it in, brother. Your anger is causing all sorts of problems for the humans. Dial it back or there’ll be open chaos on the 170 Freeway.

  Aghast, Elliott yanked his emotions back, put a clamp down on them, and kept running. Immediately the noise from the freeway went back to somewhat normal; the shouting became murmurs.

  He reached out. At least this person didn’t sound like the deadly perky Sandy. Who the hell are you, and why do you know more about what I can do than I know? A wall loomed up. Elliott scaled it and dropped easily down to the other side. The freeway soared above him now; the best way to follow was to run on the shoulder. But he’d be seen, and he’d really rather limit his contact with humans at this point.

  I’m a…friend. Name’s Malachi.

  Elliott caught the surprise in his new friend’s mental voice, and wondered. He looked around, lost. I don’t know where I am.

  His friend sent an impatient swirl of thoughts before they coalesced into words. Turn to your left. Laurel Canyon should be in front of you; take that south. As for the rest, I’ve been exploring you for the last couple decades. Why shouldn’t I know more about you than you do? I’ve had nothing to do for twenty years but study you.

  Confusion roiling his mind, Elliott had no answer. He slowed to a walk when he got to Laurel Canyon, and noted the steady stream of cars. Just like on TV. He shook his head. Where was everyone going?

  The voice in his head went on. You are going to need shelter tonight. There are several places along Laurel, but you’ve got quite a walk in front of you.

  It felt good to be in the open air, with the wind in his face and cement beneath his feet. I can handle the walk.

  A woman with a ponytail came jogging toward him, wearing tiny shorts and a bright yellow hoodie. She nodded to him as she passed, the interest clear in her eyes, but she kept going.

  Elliott scowled. The further south he went, the more joggers passed him, going both ways. He could see why; the night wasn’t hot nor cold, just the perfect temperature to get outside and get moving, if a little more windy than he liked.

  He thought back to his encounter with the perky waitress. Why didn’t you talk to me around Tammy?

  I wasn’t sure how sensitive she was. She could have picked up on you mentally talking to someone, if not exactly aware of whom you were talking to. Why give her more information than necessary?

  Elliott let that thought tumble around in his brain as he walked.

  The miles passed beneath his feet and as he moved further into Laurel Canyon, he understood why Malachi had sent him here. It was a fascinating juxtaposition of rich and poor, with abandoned and falling-apart houses right next to timeless mansions.

  He followed Malachi’s directions and took some turns off Laurel, went further into the canyon until he came to one of those abandoned houses on a dead-end street. Here? He shook his head. I’m sure it’s already taken.

  Go around to the back. There’s a tunnel of sorts that ends in the side of the mountain. It should be safe enough.

  Elliott walked around the side of the shell of a house. There was no roof, and several walls were missing. The inside was unfinished.

  He walked the back yard until the side of the mountain rose up, and swiped through the curtain of ivy that fell to the ground until he found an opening.

  Parting the ivy wide, he surveyed the narrow opening before stepping inside.

  It was barely twenty feet deep and, once he was inside, it opened to maybe ten feet wide. More reassuring to Elliott was the fact that there wasn’t concrete anywhere; the earth surrounded him. At one side stood a makeshift camp stove, and a small pile of firewood. Other than that, there was no sign of occupancy.

  Elliott moved to the very back of the tunnel, turned to face t
he curtain of ivy, and with his back pressed against the tunnel wall he sank down to sit on the cool earth.

  “How in hell did you know this was here?”

  I followed a memory.

  2

  He woke with his cheek pressed to the dirt and his hands curling into fists. He woke to the memory of a woman’s scent, and her plush lips against his. “Find me,” she’d said, and he didn’t know if that part was memory or a dream.

  Where to now? He straightened and sat against the wall, watched as the darkness lifted in the world outside. Bands of light streamed through the wall of ivy, turning the inside of the tunnel a watery grey-green.

  Awake, are you? So what’s the plan?

  Elliott sighed. I don’t have one. Nothing but the clothes on my back and the money in my pocket.

  I need to feed.

  Elliott stiffened. What does that have to do with me?

  You might want to look at your chest.

  What?

  Movement rippled across Elliott’s skin. “What the fuck?” He pulled the leather jacket off, ripped off the t-shirt he wore, and stared down at his torso.

  Gleaming in vibrant colors, the snake’s body coiled and uncoiled across the fresh, healing whip marks on his chest, while the head of the snake made its way down his left arm, eyes outward. Ah, now I can see better.

  “I repeat, what the fuck?” Elliott stared at the thing on his body with a sense memory that combined the familiar and remembered pain. He touched his ripped and healing skin with hesitation. Noted that these fresh marks were on top of older, deeper, marks that had scarred him. “What the hell happened to me?”

  He felt rather than heard the snake sigh.

  Like I told you, my name is Malachi. I’m your Companion. A demon that feeds off your blood.

  Elliott jerked. “What? You’re a fucking what?”

  A demon. Think of me as a living tattoo. I just need a snack now and then.

  “A snack? Like what, a body part?” Even as a part of him reeled from the knowledge, another part of him recognized the demon. Knew him on his body. Slowly, his brain started to relax and with it, his muscles.

  I’ve been a part of you for over two decades. Are you missing any body parts?

  Elliott ignored the snark. “This is fucked. And I can’t stay here forever.” He searched his memory, but couldn’t drag out an address, or any sense of home. “Where the hell am I supposed to go now?”

  You were given money, yes? Count it. Then go out and live, as you haven’t been able to in years. You need to be a part of the world. Go out there, get a cell phone, find a place to live. But now…

  The demon’s snakehead slithered back up Elliott’s arm, to his torso, then finally down to his inner thigh. He bit down hard.

  Immediately the welts from a thousand healed lashes on his body opened up and blood seeped. The snake’s coils slithered against the wounds, soaking up the blood, and pain glazed Elliott’s eyes. He slumped backward.

  Elliott woke lying on his side, his arms stretched out as if he had been holding onto someone.

  Molly. He jerked to a sitting position, his heart pounding out a quick rhythm, his body yearning for her. Her name was Molly, that woman he’d dreamed of earlier. He ached for the safety she promised, for the sensual delight she exuded. Malachi was dozy on his back, gutted with blood, and unresponsive to his thoughts.

  Elliott lay there for a moment. He needed food. He needed a place to stay. He needed to find Molly. A foggy memory of love. It was enough, for now.

  Remembering the money in the leather coat, he dug into the pocket and pulled out the wad of cash thicker than his wrist. An envelope had been rubber banded to the cash.

  The demon was right; he needed to count the money. Then hide some of it away somewhere. Not that he was afraid he’d get robbed. He was fairly confident he’d be able to handle all potential muggers and gang bangers, with or without the gun he carried.

  But it was prudent to not carry his entire estate around with him.

  He counted, amazed as it added up. Four thousand dollars, mostly in hundreds and twenties, plus a cashier’s check for…what the fuck? Fifty thousand. It was enough to start with, as he didn’t have a job and wasn’t exactly retail sales material.

  An envelope held a key, the address of a bank, plus an account number and a box number. It also held a driver’s license with a current picture. The stash left him even more bewildered. Who would have given him a driver’s license? With a current picture?

  He closed the envelope, stuck it into the back pocket of his jeans, and shifted the money to his other hand. A slip of paper slid out and fluttered to the ground. He picked it up; there was an address on it. Alexandria’s, in Studio City.

  He’d take the walk, get some breakfast, maybe wash his hands and face before checking out this Alexandria.

  He stood, wincing. His legs ached from the previous day’s walking, and he became aware, once again, of the itch of healing wounds scattered across his body. He dressed, then went to look through the ivy curtain. Scanning the overgrown back yard thoroughly, he didn’t see anyone so he stepped through into the bright sunlight. His eyes teared up at the sun and he blinked as he went to a corner of the house. Around the house was an unkempt flowerbed, built up with bricks that had loosened over the years. He stuck a thousand dollars between two loose bricks, settled them back where they were before, and walked back through the property to the street and retraced his steps of the night before.

  Which brought Tammy to mind. Who was she? She spoke of Borgati, and the name sent alarms clanging in his head. Danger. Danger that he’d walked away from. Did she work for him? Whatever she was, he knew if he’d gone into that house with her, he wouldn’t have walked out again. Whether she had someone working with her or not, the house had reeked of danger and death.

  How had she targeted him? Why? How were they connected? Whatever it was, it pissed him off. She was good at projecting innocence. What worried him was what else she was capable of, and whether she damaged or destroyed people who had no reason to be wary of her.

  A riddle for another day.

  Turning back onto Laurel Canyon, he walked north along the narrow road as the traffic thickened going both ways. It was too bad he’d never had a chance to learn the city by car. He’d only had his drivers’ license a few months when the cancer had struck, and once that happened his mother hadn’t let him get behind the wheel again, too worried he’d have an accident and die.

  They had died, instead.

  He stopped, shocked, as that piece of his past clicked into place. Cancer. He’d had cancer, and they brought him to Borgati’s clinic. He’d never left. Well, except to go to college, which had been paid by Borgati. How many years had he lost?

  His fury built and caught him by surprise.

  A horn blared. Startled, he instinctively edged closer to the parked car as a lumbering SUV made its way up and over the hill. Elliott walked on and did his best to shake the past from his mind. Getting pissed off over something he had no control over and couldn’t change was indulgent and reckless.

  He grabbed a couple breakfast burritos and a cup of coffee from a gas station market, and headed on to the address on the paper. Alexandria’s. He couldn’t tell if that was someone’s name, or the name of a business.

  Half an hour later, he had his answer. Elliott stood across the street from Alexandria’s. The building sat alone, with a gas station on one side and houses on the other. It was non-descript, a greyish-blue, two-story building, but it had a good feel to it. He closed his eyes and breathed in, and nodded to himself.

  It drew his senses. Made him curious. Power lived there.

  Which made him cautious, and anxious. The last thing he needed was to be walking into a witch’s lair.

  Still uncertain, he watched as the door opened and a woman came out. She was short, and round, buxom and not young. Her gray hair had been pulled back into a barrette at the nape of her neck, and she shaded her eyes as she
looked at him across the street.

  Then she smiled, and somehow he knew everything would be fine. Which made him cautious all over again.

  She stomped to the edge of the sidewalk and put her hands on her ample hips. “I’m not gonna hurt you. Get your ass inside, now, so I can help. Men,” she muttered, and shook her head. “Well?”

  Elliott lifted a hand and looked both ways before crossing the street. She’d already begun to retreat to the store.

  “Wait.” Elliott wanted to get this out of the way before he went inside.

  She turned around and came back to him, and her expression gentled. She held out a hand to him, gnarled and worn with age and arthritis. “Now then. My name is Alexandria, and I own this shop. You are a friend of Griffin’s, or you wouldn’t be out here this early, and I wouldn’t have seen you coming. We’d better get inside where unfriendly eyes don’t have a chance to spy.” She cocked her head, her blue eyes twinkling. “Well?”

  He shook his head. “I found myself leaning against the side of a building, with most of my memory gone. I’ve gotten some of it back, but I don’t know. I don’t know if I’m safe for you. I don’t know Griffin.”

  A look of sharp concern came into her eyes, and she seemed to stand taller. “Elliott Jones. You are safe here. You need food, and rest, and a shower. The rest can wait, for now. Come, take my hand.”

  Her hand felt warm and soft and somehow precious. “Okay then.”

  “It’ll be fine, dearie. You’ll see. We’ll get you set up and then you’ll figure out what to do next. What you’re best at.” She led him across the small parking lot and into the store, locking the door behind them.

  He looked around, astonished. “It’s a bookstore. But more than that,” he added as he saw the candles, Tarot decks, and all sorts of magickal doodads lying around.

  “Oh my yes, it’s a bookstore, and so much more. Can I get you a cuppa tea?”

  “Coffee, if you have it?”

  Her face fell in disappointment. “Well now and I do, but I did so hope you liked tea. Come on back. The store doesn’t open for hours, not on a weekday. We’re going upstairs, we are,” she added. “Come along.”