Whiskey Ginger

by Shayne Silvers

  “Alley, now, or I shoot and walk away.”

  Oh, good. More threats. I decided I’d had enough of this nonsense; I couldn’t risk telling the Englishman to go fuck himself, but I wasn’t about to let this guy tell me what to do. “Alright, fine,” I said, calling his bluff. “Go ahead and shoot.”

  “What?”

  “I told ye to shoot me,” I repeated. “You shoot an unarmed woman in the middle of the street and see how far ye get, even with your spell. Go on, then.”

  The pressure on my spine eased, then disappeared. “Why are you following me?”

  “Can I turn around?” I asked.

  “No. Answer the question.”

  I sighed, but decided to go with the truth. I didn’t have a ready lie available, and, frankly, I was too emotionally fried to bother. “I was sent to steal your briefcase,” I admitted.

  Silence, then something truly horrific happened: he chortled. I know it may not seem as terrifying as I make it out to be, but have you ever heard an Eastern European laugh maniacally? It ranks right up there with a cackle of hyenas surrounding you in total darkness and, well, cackling.

  “If you can get briefcase off,” the man said, after his laughter died away, “it is yours.”

  Chapter 17

  His name was Serge Milanovich.

  “I am from Belgrade,” he’d explained in broken English after we’d left the alley. “The people who put briefcase on my arm say they will pay me a lot of money to deliver briefcase to New York City. They fly me from Berlin in private plane, but there was snow, and we land here, in dangerous city where no one goes. And now I take train to St. Louis, but already there is someone following me.”

  Now Serge sat at a picnic table across from me, cradling his face with his hands, the briefcase perched in his lap. Children too young to be at school chased each other in the playground to our right, bundled in winter gear. Somewhere, I hoped, Ryan stood watch; I hadn’t heard anything from him since I’d left the street.

  “They did not tell me this would be dangerous. But then people I work for give me this gun and say be careful. And last night a man breaking in my room.” Serge looked up at me, his eyes desperate. “I cannot get briefcase off. I have tried.” Serge held up his wrist to me, displaying what I had mistaken for a handcuff, but which was actually a manacle made out of silver.

  Seriously, silver.

  “Won’t ye be in trouble with your employers if ye lose the briefcase?” I asked icily, still unhappy that he’d gotten the drop on me, not to mention the jab to the lower back with the loaded gun. Honestly, I’d hoped he’d be a little less willing to talk and a lot less pitiful; if he hadn’t reminded me of a flea-ridden puppy from a Sarah McLaughlin commercial, I’d have gladly taken my frustrations out on his face.

  Serge shook his head. “I do not care. They cannot expect me to give my life, even for the money they have promised.” He reached out and clasped his hairy hand over my arm. I frowned down at the offending meathook until he let go.

  Something about this situation, about Serge, nagged at me. I frowned, studying the man. Frankly, I couldn’t imagine anyone less conspicuous than he was; Serge wore a black track suit, had more hair on his face and chest than on his head, and was three shades swarthier than anyone I’d ever met. Why use him as your mule? Or was it simply because he came from an impoverished area and needed the money?

  “Let me see,” I said, finally, holding out my hand. Serge’s eyes widened, but then he—very carefully—placed his manacled wrist in my hand. When nothing happened, he let out a gasp of surprise, but tried to cover it with a cough.

  “What happened to the last person to touch this, Serge?” I asked. When he wouldn’t look at me, I tugged on his wrist.

  Hard.

  “They fell and did not get up,” he admitted, wincing. “But,” he stammered, “I did not know if it would happen to you—”

  “Shut it, ye liar,” I hissed, ignoring the man’s guilty expression. I studied the manacle. It had no seam that I could see. No clasp. No keyhole. “How did they even get this on ye?”

  Serge shook his head. “I was asleep.”

  “Well, I’m not sure if I can get it off ye without some proper tools. Maybe a blowtorch—”

  “No!” Serge hissed, pulling his hand back and cradling it.

  “It’s a binding,” Ryan said, leaning over my shoulder.

  I whirled to face him, but he was too busy staring down Serge to react to my glare. “A what?” I asked heatedly, once I realized he wasn’t planning on elaborating further.

  “They bound it to his body,” Ryan explained. “It’s a spell. A pretty simple one, but effective, and hard to counteract. A wizard could undo it.” He flicked his eyes at me, and I could tell he thought that little tidbit of information meant something, but I had no idea what. Instead, I spun my wheels, trying to think if I knew any wizards who owed me a favor.

  “Fortunately,” Ryan said, interrupting my thoughts, “you won’t need one. You just have to break the seal.”

  “Oh? And how do I do that?” I asked. I held up my hands. “Ye know I don’t have any magic of me own.”

  Serge tracked our exchange with his eyes. He didn’t seem quite sure what to make of Ryan, but smiled eagerly at the sound of being freed. I couldn’t blame him, I realized; the thought alone of being chained to anything made my blood boil.

  “In this case,” Ryan continued, “all it means is that you’ll have to make sure the metal isn’t touching any part of his skin. Once you do that, it should fall right off. Like I said, simple. Well, simple for you, anyway.”

  Serge shifted in his seat to regard me, his face thoughtful. He held out his wrist once more. “Please,” he begged. “I want to go home.”

  I sighed. “Fine,” I said, taking hold of his wrist. I wrapped my hands around the metal and adjusted it until none of Serge’s skin touched the cylinder. A light flashed—like the strobe of a massive camera—and the manacle expanded to the size of a dinner plate. Serge withdrew his arm, leaving me with a thin silver disk attached to a briefcase.

  “Oh, that is good,” Serge said, rubbing his wrists. He rolled his neck, his eyes twinkling with what I thought was excitement, but soon realized was a faint flickering light, like green flames broiling behind the sclera. “It has been so long…”

  And that’s when I learned why you shouldn’t take briefcases from strangers.

  Chapter 18

  Serge leapt away from the picnic table and tore at the jacket of his tracksuit, ripping it off. Beneath, wrapped around the hairy skin of his stomach, was a belt made from the skin of some animal, strong and knotted over his belly button.

  “Son of a bitch,” Ryan swore. “Quinn, get behind me!”

  I rose as Serge began to howl.

  Seriously. Howl.

  “And why I am gettin’ behind ye?” I asked, hesitantly.

  “He’s a skinwalker. I’m such an idiot!” Ryan cursed. “I thought the silver was protecting him from Freaks, not protecting Freaks from him.”

  “And what the hell is a skinwalker?” I asked.

  But, before Ryan could answer, Serge Milanovich transformed into a monstrous, bipedal creature that looked like a werewolf’s demented cousin—something I only knew because I’d freed a few werewolves last year from an underground wolf-fighting ring to get even with a backstabbing client.

  From what I’d seen while watching them tear into their former handlers, I’d learned werewolves were generally similar to their canine counterparts, only significantly bigger, and scarier. I’d even heard rumors that a few could land somewhere in between—part man, part wolf, only on steroids. But this was something else.

  I watched in horror as Serge tore at his own skin, peeling it off in swathes to reveal a furred creature beneath that was neither man nor animal. There was no blood, which made the whole process seem rather like an orange haphazardly peeling itself—an image that would have made me laugh, only it was hard to find humor in anythin
g with so many screaming kids nearby.

  “Ryan, get everyone away from here!” I yelled, realizing that if things progressed any further, everyone would be in danger; just because I didn’t much care for rugrats didn’t mean I wanted to end up on the evening news for siccing a wild animal on a park full of kids.

  He grunted. “Not a chance.”

  “Ryan O’Rye,” I said, snatching his shirt collar and drawing him close, “I’ll be havin’ that favor, now.”

  “Oh, for fuck’s sake—”

  “You’ll get everyone away from here, and you’ll make sure no one gets hurt. And ye won’t come back until you’re absolutely certain everyone is safe. That’s me favor. Now go!”

  Ryan grimaced, then shook me off and ran around the Skinwalker-Formerly-Known-as-Serge in a wide arc, booking it over to the playground, shouting as he went, herding the horde of screaming children and panicked guardians towards the other end of the park.

  I turned to face the nightmare Serge had become.

  Just in time to see the hideous creature launch itself at me.

  Chapter 19

  I ducked a shoulder and rolled to my right, barely dodging the claws of the monster I’d helped create, though I still wasn’t sure exactly how I’d managed that or why it was attacking me. A foul, musky scent permeated the air, like the inside of a hoarder’s house—nothing but mold and cat piss.

  “Jesus Christ,” I said as I got back to my feet, dusting myself off in the process, “is that ye, ye filthy animal?”

  The skinwalker snarled at me, spittle dangling from its gaping mouth. I noticed its teeth were cracked and popcorn yellow, and that more than a few looked sharp enough to do real damage. But what really bothered me was the creature’s eyes.

  They glowed a pupil-less, neon green.

  “Now that’s just ridiculous, Serge,” I muttered.

  “That is not our name.” The voice floated freely in the air, almost like a ventriloquist’s, hovering somewhere above our heads. The skinwalker’s tongue lolled to one side as the disembodied voice spoke again, “He and I are one and we have no name. We are Us.”

  “D’ye borrow that from Hallmark?” I asked, poking fun at the beast, trying to buy time for Ryan to get everyone to safety. “Because I’m pretty sure that’s Hallmark.”

  The voice hesitated before responding, “Who is this Hallmark? Tell us. We do not borrow. We steal. We will kill this Hallmark and steal from him and what is his will become ours.”

  “Ah,” I said, “because if ye take it, it becomes yours?”

  “Yes.”

  “Ye know, Barney the Dinosaur would be very disappointed in ye.”

  “Then he too shall die. We shall eat him and we shall take—”

  “Oh, shut up. T’was a joke, ye idgit.”

  The creature growled and gnashed its teeth, falling to all fours, the ridges of its spine visible beneath a thin sheet of mottled, matted fur. With remarkable speed, it galloped towards me, claws tearing divots in the grass.

  I felt bad for whoever was in charge of landscaping.

  Fortunately, all the time we’d spent talking had given Ryan ample opportunity to get everyone clear. Which meant it was safe to do things I wouldn’t ordinarily do in a crowded park full of innocent bystanders.

  Like draw a gun.

  Chapter 20

  I retrieved my Kahr CM9 from the compression holster at the small of my back, flicked the safety off, and fired three rounds as I threw myself backwards into the dirt. Luckily, the skinwalker went for my throat with its teeth instead of using its claws, which gave me more time than I expected to fire at its midsection—easily the biggest target.

  The bullets disappeared, swallowed in its fur without a trace.

  The skinwalker landed on top of me, growling. Its teeth looked even sharper up close, but what really killed me was the smell of its rancid breath. “Your mortal weapons cannot harm us. You cannot wound what is already dead,” the voice said.

  Well, shit.

  “Plan B, then,” I said. I shoved one hand over my ear, raised the other, and fired into the air, the barrel inches from the skinwalker’s ear. It howled in pain and rolled away. I did the same, scrambling to my feet as the skinwalker whirled towards me. I kept my gun out and trained on the creature; I felt more secure with it in hand, no matter what the voice said.

  “So,” I asked, circling, “what exactly are ye?”

  I wondered, idly, if there was some sort of etiquette primer out there somewhere that gave tips on how to handle monsters who planned to kill you. In my experience, the only trick that worked was to put them down quick, or to keep them talking. More often than not all I ended up with was a name and agenda to go with all the new scars, but occasionally—if I was lucky—they’d slip up and reveal a weakness.

  Or, if I was unlucky, they’d try to bore me to death.

  “We are the first of our kind,” the voice said.

  “Very helpful.”

  “We are legion. We are the hunted who became hunters. We are the formless ones. The nightwalkers. The—”

  “Does this list ever end?” I asked. “Or d’ye keep goin’ until I die of old age?”

  “We are the first,” the voice repeated.

  “The first what?”

  The voice didn’t seem to understand the distinction. Honestly, I wasn’t sure it understood anything I was saying. The creature’s body language wasn’t exactly easy to read. In fact, I was beginning to think the voice and the creature were separate somehow; the skinwalker had begun chewing at its shoulder in search of fleas in the middle of our conversation.

  Suddenly, its ears perked up. A moment later I, too, heard sirens in the distance. “Looks like the police are on their way,” I said.

  “We will gnaw on their bones and take their badges and piss on their tires—”

  I fired, twice, aiming for its eyes. It snarled and leapt at me, clearly unfazed, but this time I was able to anticipate its speed. I dropped my gun and stepped to the side, nimbly dodging its gaping jaws as it spun to snap at my leg. I reached out and, with a shout of triumph, took hold of its tail, yanking as hard as I could. The skinwalker yelped and tried to flee, but I held on, my forearms straining with the tension.

  I watched with satisfaction as my unique ability began to take effect: Serge’s features began to emerge as the magic that surrounded his body fled from our contact, his eyes returning to their unassuming shade of brown, clearly terrified. His teeth, square and uneven, looked comical in the skinwalker’s elongated snout.

  “What are you?” Serge asked, his voice breathy and labored.

  A shout in the distance stole my attention. I turned, slightly, and Serge took the opportunity to shake me loose. I fell back on my ass as he took off, his gait somewhere between an out-of-shape middle-aged man in track pants and a furry, bipedal monster out of a Tim Burton movie.

  He looked absolutely ridiculous.

  “Boston PD! Hands up on your head, and get on your knees!”

  I did as I was told, glad I’d already dropped my gun in the grass, or I’d probably be in a lot more trouble than I already was.

  “What the hell was that thing?” I heard one of the officers ask.

  “No idea,” another responded.

  “Well, why is she laughing?”

  “She’s probably in shock,” was the reply.

  For some reason, that made me laugh even harder.

  Chapter 21

  The interrogation room looked nothing like they did on TV. I’d expected a bare steel table and stone cellar walls to block out the sound of people screaming their confessions, but Boston PD seemed to have splurged for threadbare carpet and ergonomic swivel chairs. It was practically cozy. Inviting, even.

  Probably a trap.

  “Hello, Miss MacKenna,” Jimmy said as he entered.

  “Jimmy!” I said, beginning to rise, only to plop back down once I saw who he’d brought along.

  “Miss MacKenna,” Detective Maria
Machado said as she entered behind her partner. Maria was a dainty Hispanic woman in her early thirties who prided herself on her immaculate make-up and even more immaculate case record; sadly, the only case she’d been unable to close had featured me as its primary consultant, which meant we weren’t on the best of terms.

  Frankly, I thought she was a bitch.

  “Maria,” I replied, frostily.

  “Please call me Detective Machado, Miss MacKenna. Now, let’s see what we have here…” Maria took a seat across from me, opened a folder on the table, and peered down at its contents for a full minute, frowning. “It seems you were found at the park with a registered handgun in your possession after several witnesses reported seeing a wild animal loose on the grounds. Why don’t you tell me about that?”

  Jimmy’s eyes gave me nothing, so I shrugged and played on the drama of the moment, embracing the role of a woman who’d been attacked by a vicious, wild animal and had been very lucky to survive with only a few scrapes and bruises—that’s what my official statement said, at any rate. Ironically, I could honestly say the truth would have seemed significantly more farfetched than my lie.

  I mean, which story would you believe?

  “Oh, you’re right about that,” I said, my voice a pitch higher than normal, my accent even more pronounced. “I was so scared! There I was, just mindin’ me own business, when that creature came right up to me table, foamin’ at the mouth. Ye should’ve seen the mongrel! As big as a horse!”

  Maria’s lips pursed, but she nodded. “This business you’re referring to, did it have anything to do with the young man who escorted the rest of the bystanders to the other side of the park? Or the briefcase we found at the scene that you claim is yours?”

  I fought to keep a smug expression off my face. I’d used my one phone call to get ahold of Ryan and warn him to steer clear, only to find out he’d used his Faerie glamour to alter his features over and over again while rescuing the bystanders. About now I figured the police were trying to weed through pointless sketches of men who looked nothing alike—fat, tall, skinny, short, etc.