Lightspeed Magazine - September 2016

by John Joseph Adams [Ed. ]

  “If you’re lying,” I said.

  “I’m not,” Hobb said. “I swear, Aster. I swear.” I leaned over and opened the car door. Hobb scrambled into the rain, leaving his date behind as he disappeared into the downpour.

  I gave him a twenty count and went after him. You spend enough time around fey, even exiles like Hobb and Anya, and you get used to hearing half-truths and outright lies every time they open their mouths. You don’t question a guy like Hobb to get answers, you question him to get him panicking and hope he leads you somewhere useful. Years on the Force had taught me that much, and working with Hobb had proved its value more than once. I watched him scurry down the street, fleeing into the wet dawn like a frightened deer. I abandoned the car and followed him on foot. Hobb was short and fast, graceful in a way that didn’t fit his twisted frame. I lumbered along behind him, wincing every time I heard the wet slap of my sneakers on the pavement.

  Tailing someone properly takes two people and it works better if the guy you’re following doesn’t know you. I was alone and Hobb could ID me on sight; in theory, it should’ve been difficult to tail him, but whether you’re a fairy or not, a drunk is still a drunk. If you scare them, they drink to cope. Hobb was half-gone when we started, kept drinking as we walked. I stayed a few blocks back, kept him in sight as he stumbled his way towards a strip club on the river.

  It was one of those hole-in-the-wall places, access via a cramped alley with loose bricks in the wall and bad lighting. He knocked for maybe a minute before the door swung open and a solid lump of bouncer emerged. I wasn’t close enough to hear the conversation, but the buzz of Hobb’s quick sentences echoed for a moment before he disappeared inside.

  I retreated to a bus stop across the street, watched the flashing neon sign bolted into the brickwork. It lost impact in the daylight, but it still had a dim glow in the shadows of the alleyway. I snapped a shot of the sign with the camera in my phone: The Hot House. I knew the place. It was bad news, but it wasn’t usually a hangout for guys like Hobb. I contemplated calling Kesey in, doing it by the book, but suspicion didn’t make for a search warrant and Hobb didn’t exactly exist in city records anyway. I was still in the process of deciding my next move when someone stepped behind me and pressed a gun into my back.

  “Waiting for a bus, miss?” It was a soft, slithering kind of voice, deadly as a sniper-shot.

  “Waiting for a friend, actually.”

  A hand clamped down on my shoulder, pulling me upwards. The gun barrel in my back didn’t move. “Maybe he’s inside,” the voice said. The hand on my shoulder drifted down to my jacket pocket, removing the revolver. “You and me, we should take a look.”

  He pushed, urging me forward. I went; it seemed safer than arguing.

  Five

  It was a short walk down the alleyway and the gun never wavered. If the bouncers noticed me coming up to the entrance at gunpoint they didn’t make a show of it. We were waved through, quick and easy, the quiet menace of the gunman always behind my right shoulder.

  The Hot House had a morning shift, but it wasn’t the kind of place that drew a large crowd, just a small group of dedicated perverts. The club smelt of desperation, a sick reek of stale sweat and whisky that seemed perverse given the early hour. There was a teenage girl on stage, throwing herself about to a disco beat and staring down the audience with a bored expression that seemed to dare the patrons to watch her. I spotted a handful of dockworkers: fresh, big men looking for a place to have a stiff drink and wind down after work before heading home to crash. The rest of the patrons were the same fringe-dwelling nightmares you find lingering in any bar that’s open after sunrise. The gun at my back disappeared, but the hand clamped down on my shoulder clawed me hard enough to leave a bruise.

  “Sit,” the voice said, and pushed me down onto a bar stool next to a black plastic table. “Hands where we can see them, okay?” I put both hands on the tabletop. It was sticky and unpleasant. The soft voice sat down next to me, one hand disappearing into a menacingly full pocket. He was thin and sharp, like a whip crack given form. “Call me Slick,” he said, raising his voice just loud enough to compete with the thump of the music. “I’ll be your babysitter til Mister Drabble is done talking to your friend.”

  He nodded to the far side of the room where Hobb sat talking to a man in a black suit, a cadaverous rake with oversized eyes that threatened to pop out of his face as he stared at the stage show. Hobb sat next to him, drink in hand, talking fast as Mister Drabble watched the show. Drabble was flanked by a bodyguard, a slab of meat built for some serious looming. Hobb kept throwing nervous glances at the meat-slab, flinching whenever he tossed a glare in my direction. Drabble looked bored. I stared at him, hoping for some sign that he was fey, but Drabble and his boys seemed dangerously mundane.

  “Shouldn’t stare,” Slick hissed. “It makes Mister Drabble nervous.” His eyes flicked over me, lingering on my chest. They narrowed to dangerous slits and he smiled. “You have pretty hair. You should grow it out. It’d make you look like a lady instead of a dyke.”

  I didn’t dignify that with a response, and Slick let loose a tinny laugh. The music changed, picking up pace. The girl onstage finished her dance and another one came out, dressed up like a schoolgirl with braces on her teeth. Mister Drabble held up a hand to stop Hobb’s rambling and nodded to his bodyguard. The slab of meat lumbered over. He moved like a boxer that’d taken a couple of shots too many, his right lip busted open and already starting to crust. “Boss’ll see you,” he slurred, and helped Slick get me to my feet. Together they hustled me towards Drabble’s table, sat me down, and held me in place while Drabble ignored my presence. Hobb gave me a smug smile, leaned across and whispered in my ear. “Fuck you, Aster. You shoulda known better than to try following me.”

  Drabble hissed, soft and sharp, and Hobb drew back, cowed into submission. That wasn’t a good sign. Slick turned his attention to Hobb, giving him the evil eye. Drabble’s attention was locked on the schoolgirl, ignoring all of us. It wasn’t until the music thumped to a halt and she skipped offstage that he turned to face me, his leer drooping.

  “Well, what are we doing with you?” He had a high voice, a whiner’s voice. “You’re too old to work here, love, and too plain to do well in any of my other places. That doesn’t leave us with too many options.” He smiled, showing off a mouth full of teeth straight out of a soap opera, white and perfect. His breath stank of peppermint.

  “I already have a job,” I said. “I’m looking for a unicorn.”

  Drabble laughed. “Well, you won’t find one here, love,” he said. “But maybe we could find you a horn or two, if you’re willing to give the boys a show.” He grinned a little, rallying behind the joke as he looked me over. “Then again, maybe not.”

  “Not interested in horn,” I told him. “Not unless it’s attached to the horse.”

  Drabble’s eyes narrowed, dangerous and angry. “So what’s your name, love?”

  “Aster,” I said. “Freelance detective.”

  “Not what Hobb here says. He says you’re a cop. Told us all about you.”

  “Used to be, when Hobb and I first met,” I shrugged. “But that was then. Freelance investigation pays better.”

  Hobb snickered, leaning forward to whisper in Mister Drabble’s ear. Drabble’s smile was all thick teeth and minty menace. “Freelance is dangerous work, isn’t it? No backup, no checkins, no law to protect you if things go wrong. Perhaps you should just fuck off, used-to-be-a-cop Aster, and forget all this bullshit they got you looking into. Not worth it, yeah? You’re better off taking another job.”

  I looked around the empty club, the small crowd and the skeleton staff, a new girl doing a half-hearted bump and grind on stage. “’Fraid I can’t,” I said. “There’s a unicorn in heat out there. Hobb knows what that means, but I’m guessing he hasn’t told you. It isn’t pretty, Drabble. Fuck it, it’s more trouble than you can handle.”

  I was pressing buttons, trying
to get him riled up. Drabble didn’t take the bait. “I said fuck off, love. I can get Vin and Slick to kick you out, if that makes it easier. Look elsewhere for your white horse, and leave Mister Hobb out of your investigation. Do you understand me, Miss Aster?”

  I stood up, keeping my hands visible. Hobb grinned at me, smug. “Obviously we had a misunderstanding,” I said. “Sorry for the inconvenience.” I started towards the door. Vin and Slick dropped into position beside me, hands on my shoulders. It was smart positioning, professional; get behind someone and they can bolt for freedom, but they closed down my angles and left me nowhere to go except the way they wanted me too.

  They didn’t want me going out the front door, and I knew right then that there was going to be trouble.

  • • • •

  They pressed me against the door of a black Ford Falcon while Vin patted me down, his busted lip twisting into a smirk whenever he started pushing his hands somewhere private. He had a boxer’s hands for sure, great paws with malformed knuckles, large enough to squish my head like a grape. He wasn’t built to do anything gently; by the time he hustled me into the back seat I was covered in bruises.

  I didn’t recognise the driver, but Slick sat in the passenger seat, a pomaded madman in a cheap suit who grinned as Vin manhandled me. Slick held a Beretta in a loose grip, the steel black and oily against the pale pink of his manicured hands. He had my revolver in his other hand, flipped it open and emptied a bullet into his palm. He gave it a quick sniff, grinning. I sat still, hands on my lap, waiting for them to give me a move I could make without ending up dead. Vin handed my ID over and Slick read the details as the Ford started and drifted along the dock roads, cruising like we weren’t really going anywhere important.

  “Interesting ammo,” he said, eyes flicking over my license. “Wouldn’t have thought of that, me.”

  “I like to be prepared,” I said. A smile tugged at the edges of his mouth. He folded my ID back into the wallet and tossed it into my lap.

  “Just like a fucking boy scout,” he said. “Would have cost you a bundle, getting them done up like that, making sure they work. Custom job. Very pretty. D’ya mind if I keep them?”

  “I’d prefer to have them back,” I said. “As you said, they cost a bundle. I’d hate to fork out that much cash again.” Vin coughed, choking on his laughter. Slick gave me a dirty grin, spun the chamber on my revolver and flicked his wrist a second later, clicking it into place. “Mister Drabble wants you dead,” he said. “The runt says killing you is a mistake. That you’ve got friends who can make life miserable.”

  “Maybe,” I said. “I used to be a cop and all. Someone on the Force still likes me.”

  “The runt ain’t talking about friends on the Force,” Slick said. “The runt is talkin’ about special friends, friends like him. Says they’ll raise your ghost and send it after us if we kill you, all death curses and vengeance.”

  “He could have a point, there,” I said. “I’ve been dead once before, after all.”

  Slick pushed at the collar of my t-shirt with the barrel of his gun, stretched it far enough to see the scar. “So the runt said.”

  The car took a tight corner, wheels hissing on the wet road. The sharp turn tipped Slick off-balance and he dropped the gun down as he steadied himself. I let the momentum carry me sidewise, the point of my elbow caught Vin in the ribs. He grunted, sprawling against the door as my weight crashed into him. As moves go, it was pretty weak, but I wasn’t going to have any other opportunities.

  I pushed upright, one hand reaching for the door, and came eye-to-barrel with Slick’s gun. I blinked and forced myself to look past the gun, to stare Slick down. He had brown eyes, both of them the same shade.

  “I like to be prepared too,” Slick said. “Remember that.”

  Vin’s chest was heaving as he tried to breath again, his big body shaking against the door. Slick stared me down, the gun never wavering. “Kill you or don’t kill you,” he said. “I don’t much care either way, Miriam Aster, but I’m a pragmatist at heart. The boss gives me the job and I do it, no questions, no complaints. If you come back, well, I guess that just means we have to keep on killing you, again and again, until it takes.” He pulled back on the pistol, chambering a round. The Ford pulled up on the riverbank, a deserted car park surrounded by warehouses. Slick weighed my revolver in his off hand, as though trying to make up his mind which to use. “Iron bullets,” he said, shaking his head. “Really, it’s like you think you’re hunting werewolves.”

  “Silver,” I said. Slick cocked his head. “It’s silver for werewolves.”

  Slicks eyes reduced to slits. “Funny thing, you having bullets like this. The runt said you used to work with him, playing nice with the fairies. Said that you used to bump uglies with some kind of queen.”

  “Used to. Past tense,” I said. “She wasn’t a queen then, either.”

  That earned me a smile that gave me chills. “Runt said I should check that, if I was gonna kill you,” Slick said. He shook his head, adopting a rueful expression with all the sincerity of a bad actor. “You could have been a nice looking woman. Pity.”

  Vin pushed me out of the car and lined me up on the riverbank. It was a short drop to the rocky shore and the dark water. In the end Slick went with his Berretta. I heard the sharp crack, the sting of something hitting me right under the collar. I was still conscious enough to hear the second shot, but I was gone before the pain registered, disappearing into the white light and the soothing calm.

  I fell back, twisting. I don’t remember hitting the ground.

  Six

  I know what it’s like to be dead, and I’m not a fan of the experience. The saving grace is that you don’t remember all of it afterwards, just little bits and pieces that come back to you in flashes. You’re dead, you know you’re dead, but it feels like a dream. There’s a bullet hole in your chest and nothing hurts, which is how you can tell it’s for real. You’re dead, kind of; maybe not quite dead enough to go wherever you’re supposed to, but it’s close enough for horseshoes. Close enough for the morgue and a scalpel and the bag-and-tag of your organs.

  The bits that I remember go something like this:

  I’m back at the club where we first met, a hole-in-the-wall that smells of cigarette smoke and beer. I smell her before I see her, sweet and tender as honeysuckle. She’s tall and proud. Her eyes don’t match. She’s a femme. Not my type, not really, but it’s enough to get me interested. She wasn’t Anya-fucking-Titan then, not yet. She walks towards me and sits down. She asks me for my name. I tell her. She buys me a drink. I buy one for her. I’m still a uniform, just starting to angle for detective. She seems interested in my job. A few hours later she lets me take her home.

  I’m walking down Carmody Street with my arm around Anya; six months since our first date and everything’s going good. We’re celebrating my promotion, talking and laughing, our bellies full of korma and beer, my fingers slowly inching their way towards the nape of her neck. Anya plays with my hair, boy-short and spiked, a little too extreme for my colleagues on the Force. “I love you,” she whispers. I shake my head. “No, you don’t,” I tell her. “Loving me is a very bad idea.” And I’m right, we both know I’m right, but sometimes the brain doesn’t pass those messages on and my body is young and stupid and too in love to care. When Anya kisses me, I kiss back. She hooks an arm around the small of my back. I purr. She pulls my hand to hers, holding it against the curve of my belly. She holds tight, possessive, like I’m going to run away. We cut down the alleyway behind the Indian restaurant. “You shouldn’t be a cop,” Anya says. “It’s dangerous; there are dangerous people out there, and worse things besides.” We’re in the alley. We find the corpse of Sally Crown, facedown in the dumpster, her blue-white body covered with fairy dust and her broken tiara shattered against the concrete. “I can keep you safe,” Anya says. “If you say you love me, I can keep you safe from harm.”

  That last time we saw each other, on the
steps of her apartment. I’ve shot a man, killed him, on Anya’s say-so, her anger ringing in my ears as I pulled the trigger. She tells me she loves me. It’s the last time I let her do that. I’m burned out and afraid. My career is over. I don’t want to do favours for her anymore.

  “I don’t want to love you,” I tell her. I’m lying through my teeth.

  “That doesn’t mean you don’t,” Anya says.

  “It doesn’t mean that I do either.”

  Anya smiles. Her eyes sparkle. “That’s close enough.”

  She kisses me again. She tastes like lavender. “I can help,” she tells me. “Let me help, okay?”

  There’s blood spilling out of my shoulder wound. Even more spilling out of the hole in my chest.

  • • • •

  I woke up in the morgue, lying flat on Heath’s autopsy table. My chest ached, the kind of pain that comes with broken ribs and displaced organs. My shoulder ached, a purple mess, flesh battered like a heavyweight’s punching bag and a fresh bullet scar just below the collarbone. Heath hovered beside the table, reading a magazine, long hair dangling over his eyes. I moaned and he raised an eyebrow. “You went to see her again, didn’t you?” The sticky sensation of drying blood and river water clung to me despite the pre-autopsy clean up. I breathed in, my first real breath in a few hours, and I caught Anya’s scent in the air. It felt good to breathe, normal. Heath let out a short sigh of relief. “Fuck, Aster. Kesey’s going to be pissed.”

  “Time?” My voice was an urgent mouse-squeak, still weak and raw. “How long?”

  “About a day.” Heath’s face appeared in my field of vision, a little blurry around the edges. “You were the only job tonight, if that’s what you’re wondering. No need for the furnace. Not yet.”