Whiskey Ginger

by Shayne Silvers

  Awesome.

  Chapter 34

  Cassandra’s horse shuffled uneasily. “Right,” Cassandra said, “someone will be coming out here in a few minutes, according to Black Beauty. We better get going.”

  “Ye named your horse after a children’s book?” I asked, incredulous, still reeling from the Cassandra’s proclamation of impending doom.

  “Of course not,” she replied. “Anna named her book after my horse. She was a sickly young woman when I met her, but what she could do with her...well, you wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  Ryan, who looked like he’d been hit by a metaphorical bus, didn’t so much as crack a smile. I realized the circumstances of his exile had gotten significantly more complicated, and that—if he hadn’t seemed eager to return before—he appeared even less enthused now. I wished I could throw him a lifeline, even a few words of encouragement, but after everything I’d heard, I couldn’t think of anything uplifting.

  “Alright,” he said, finally, “let’s go.”

  Cassandra thrust with her hips, and Black Beauty took a few plodding steps forward until both horse and rider were silhouetted by a brick wall. Cassandra drew out a piece of chalk and began drawing sigils on the wall with one hand—the other held her head and tracked the writing. “I hate this part,” she muttered.

  “Because it’s hard to see what you’re writing?” I asked, curious.

  “Because I’m dyslexic,” she droned.

  “Oh.”

  Ryan turned to me. “Don’t let what Cassandra said worry you. It’s felt like this before, and turned out to be nothing. Well, nothing compared to the Apocalypse. But remember to keep your head down, alright?”

  “That’s what she said,” Cassandra quipped, still scribbling.

  “And who’s gonna watch your back?” I asked. “Her?”

  Cassandra scoffed. “Please, I’m just the gatekeeper. Once he crosses to the other side, he’s on his own.”

  “Cassandra will follow me through, then we’ll go our own way,” Ryan admitted. “But don’t worry, I’ll be meeting someone on the other side. At least I hope so.”

  “And who’s that?” I asked.

  “Time to go, Riann!” Cassandra called. The sigils on the wall formed a series of lines that folded in on themselves, over and over again in eerily familiar patterns, sending shivers up my spine. Light began to pore along their seams, emerging golden and fierce, like the sun moments before it dips behind the horizon. I covered my eyes.

  “Goodbye, Quinn,” Ryan said, before following Cassandra, who marched through the portal she’d created with little fanfare. I could see the silhouette of a man on the other side of the gateway Cassandra had created, waving as Ryan approached. Ryan turned back and smiled, then disappeared in a surge of light.

  I fought with myself as the portal began shrinking, seriously considering taking my chances and bolting through the gateway. But thoughts of Dez—of how I’d never forgive myself for leaving her behind—kept me rooted in place.

  A moment later, the portal snapped shut, taking the light and my answers with it.

  Chapter 35

  A hand I couldn’t see clasped my own.

  “He found me wandering and gave me a place to stay,” Dobby said, the silken purr of his voice so soft and deep I almost couldn’t make it out. “I’d been lost for a long time.”

  “I’ll miss him, too,” I said. I squeezed Dobby’s hand and had begun escorting him back to the warehouse when Hank came outside with two full trash bags in his hands. He saw me, froze in surprise, then ambled by to toss them in the nearby dumpster.

  Dobby was nowhere to be seen.

  “Where’s Ryan?” Hank asked.

  “Oh, shit!” I cursed.

  “What?” Hank’s eyes went wide.

  “Christoff is definitely goin’ to t’ink I killed him.” I groaned.

  “Wait,” Hank said, realization dawning on his face, “Ryan left already?”

  “Aye,” I said, nodding.

  “When did he leave? Why?” Hank sputtered. He balled up his fists. “What did you say to him?”

  “Goodbye, mostly.”

  “Don’t give me that shit. Ryan was supposed to be watching the door tonight.”

  “Of course, you’re right,” I said, realizing that—no matter how crazy Ryan’s departure had been—the real world still demanded attention. “I should go tell Christoff. He’ll have to call someone in.”

  “He’ll call me in!” Hank exclaimed. “He’ll want me to cover, since I’m here, and I won’t have a choice because I’m the new guy. I can’t believe this shit!” Hank kicked the dumpster in frustration, “I was supposed to have a date tonight, damnit!” A vein in his neck pulsed.

  “I told ye, I didn’t—”

  “I don’t want to hear it, you—”

  Fortunately for Hank, whatever he’d been about to say was abruptly cut off when an invisible something plucked him off the ground by his leg and dangled him upside down in mid-air. He started to scream, but then another invisible something clamped over his mouth, flattening the skin of Hank’s face a bit, though his eyes kept right on bulging out of his skull.

  So, that’s where Dobby went.

  “Dobby,” I said, adopting the calm tone Ryan had used on the giant shadow monster, “Ye need to put him down. Gently,” I added, hurriedly.

  “He was angry with you, my lady,” Dobby replied, his voice coming from at least twenty feet above my head. “I will not allow anyone to hurt you.”

  I winced as I saw the black trousers Hank wore get a little blacker. Yellow liquid dribbled down his shirt to the pavement. “Well, I’m pretty sure he won’t do it again, Dobby. Now please, put him down, nice and easy.”

  Hank floated towards the ground and settled on his back. Whatever part of Dobby’s body had pinned his mouth shut had disappeared, but Hank didn’t seem inclined to scream anymore; he was likely beyond that point.

  “Um, Hank,” I said, stepping forward.

  “Yeah?” Hank croaked.

  “Do ye mind if I help ye up?”

  “I think I’ll just lay here a minute, if that’s alright.”

  “Sure,” I said, just as the lights in the alley turned themselves on for the night. Dobby’s tiny hand took my own again, although he remained invisible. I led him to the warehouse door and gently urged him through it, patting the spot where I thought his back should have been.

  “My lady,” Dobby said, as I turned to leave.

  “What is it, Dobby?”

  “Can you shut the door? It’s hard for me to turn the handle.”

  “Um, sure,” I said, feeling a little ridiculous about having to do anything for the spriggan who’d held a man ten feet off the ground not a couple minutes before. But hey, this was what I’d signed up for, right?

  “Night, my lady,” Dobby called.

  “Night, Dobby,” I replied, shutting the door.

  Then I helped Hank up, and together we walked inside.

  Chapter 36

  Christoff headed us off and herded us towards the kitchen. A few chefs had already arrived, but they were too busy prepping their stations to take note of us. “What happened?” he asked, looking Hank up and down.

  “Ryan’s gone,” I told him.

  “I meant what happened to Hank—wait, Ryan has gone?”

  I nodded.

  Christoff gave me a long, considering look.

  “And no, I didn’t kill him.”

  “I did not say anything,” Christoff insisted, though he looked visibly relieved.

  I rolled my eyes. “Anyway, Ryan left, and Hank here slipped and fell in some homeless guy’s mess while he was outside. He was helping me put something away in the warehouse,” I lied.

  “Oh? That explains smell.”

  “I t’ink ye should give Hank the night off. He hit his head pretty hard when he fell,” I said, signaling Christoff with my eyes.

  “I see,” Christoff said. He tapped his chin thoughtful
ly. “I will call friend of family. He runs liquor store across town. He will send someone over to help, and I will watch door. Hank, you can go. Get some rest. I will get new schedule out tomorrow.”

  Hank, who hadn’t said a word since we’d left the alley, nodded and shot a look of guarded surprise my way, as if waiting for the other shoe to drop—or for an invisible hand to come out of the sky and carry him off.

  I gave him a nudge. “Ye heard the man. Go get cleaned up.”

  “Thanks,” Hank said. He started to turn towards the back exit, but then thought better of it. “My car’s out front,” he muttered, as if he needed an excuse to avoid the alley.

  I waited until he was out of earshot to fill Christoff in on what had really happened. I left out a few details, like Ryan’s story and the lesbian overtures of the headless horsewoman; if Ryan wanted Christoff to know about his past he’d have already told him, and I still wasn’t sure how I felt about being hit on by a woman with detachable parts. I finished by describing what Dobby had done to Hank.

  “He grabbed him? Held him upside down?” Christoff mimed the motion with his hands, as if suddenly unsure if his grasp of English was as firm as he’d thought.

  “Aye. But don’t ye worry, Dobby’s back in the warehouse, and he knows to keep out of sight. He was protectin’ me, that’s all.”

  “Protecting you from Hank?” he asked. Christoff’s stare held more weight than I was used to—a subtle reminder that this was a man with two kids.

  Christoff gave a mean dad look.

  “He wasn’t goin’ to hurt me,” I explained. “I’d have broken him in two if he’d tried. He was upset Ryan left without sayin’ anythin’, which is understandable, and he lashed out—that’s all. Dobby overreacted.”

  “And Hank? How did he handle it?”

  I hesitated. What Christoff was really asking—whether or not he could trust his newest employee to keep his mouth shut—was a tougher question to answer. I wasn’t the best judge of character; I disliked most people on principle and tolerated the rest.

  “Well,” I said, opting for the truth, “the truth is he could have freaked out back there, but he didn’t.” I shrugged. “It’s hard to know for sure. He might be able to handle it. Not all Regulars are morons, after all.” I didn’t bother mentioning the odds of that happening; Christoff knew better them better than most.

  Christoff smiled, his fangs glinting, catching the light from the kitchen, the feral gleam of his werebear form peeking out from beneath his chocolate brown eyes. “No,” he agreed, his voice a low rumble, “Not all.”

  Chapter 37

  My phone rang on my way out. I recognized the number and hurried up the stairs to Christoff’s office, ducking inside and slamming the door closed before answering; I didn’t want any of Christoff’s staff overhearing this conversation.

  “What the bloody hell do you think you were doing letting that thing go free?” The Englishman yelled, the moment I picked up.

  “What are ye on about?” I asked, completely taken aback.

  “The skinwalker!”

  I frowned. Apparently, the kidnapper had his own source of information—I hadn’t mentioned anything about the showdown in the park in the voicemail I’d left. “I’m sorry,” I replied, tersely, “d’ye mean the shapeshifter ye conveniently forgot to mention when ye told me where to go and who to follow?”

  “Shapeshifter? Skinwalkers aren’t shapeshifters, you git. They’re closer to demons—witches who sacrificed their familiars for power.”

  “Serge was a witch?” I asked, baffled. Not to be sexist, but until now I wasn’t even sure men could be witches.

  “He must’ve been. A witch, probably several hundred years old. I can’t believe they stuck a leash on one of those things,” he said, talking more to himself now than me. “Skinwalkers haven’t been seen in over a century. There were rumors about a Siberian prison set up by Rasputin in a plot to overthrow the Tsar a couple centuries back…but no proof…” he drifted off, probably realizing he was babbling.

  At least now I knew how Othello had come by a skinwalker as her bagman; she must have recruited him, quite possibly from that Siberian prison—yet another reason not to get on her bad side. Still, it was hard to wrap my mind around the idea that the pathetic, mild-mannered Serge might have been a witch.

  But, the longer I thought about it, the more sense it made. I’d assumed the cool, dispassionate way he’d held me at gunpoint outside the alley when he’d perceived me as a threat was a front he’d put on, hoping to scare me. But what if it wasn’t? What if that was the real Serge, not the hand-wringing foreigner who’d practically begged me for help?

  I cursed, inwardly.

  The Serbian bastard had played me.

  “So what are ye goin’ to do about him?” I asked, secretly hoping the two would go after each other, write a suicide pact, and burn in Hell for all eternity.

  But of course I wasn’t that lucky.

  “We?” The Englishman scoffed. “You’re taking the piss. I’m not going anywhere near that thing. It’s their problem, now.”

  “They?”

  “Yeah, they. The Justices. From the Academy. Them wizards steer clear of your city for the most part, what with the Fae infestation, but this one’s too big to ignore. It’ll look bad if they let it get out of hand.”

  “Who are the Justices?” I asked. I’d heard of the Academy—that was the name of the school that wizards attended—but not the Justices. Although, if I was being honest, they sounded a bit pretentious.

  “Are you drunk? The Justices. Wizard police. You telling me you’ve never heard of the Academy Justices? What do you people do when some monster gets loose and runs around killing people? Or when a wizard goes rogue?”

  I wasn’t sure what he was talking about. Freaks living in Boston avoided causing mayhem, as a rule. Turf wars had been a thing in the 1800s—both the fire in 1872 and the blizzard 16 years later could be attributed to Freak activity—but these days it paid to stay off the radar. Thanks to Ryan, I knew the Chancery had a direct hand in the suppression, but even without their involvement—incidents were rare.

  In fact, that was primarily how I made my living; even Freaks can appreciate deterrents, and nothing says, “get off my lawn” like a flaming sword that sings a haunting acapella rendition of “Light My Fire” by the Doors as you wield it.

  “We wait,” I said, finally.

  “What?” he replied, incredulously.

  “If someone makes a splash in this town, they don’t last long. There’s always a bigger, meaner fish waitin’ around the bend,” I replied, hoping the bastard would read between the lines and realize what a huge pile of shit he’d stepped in by coming here.

  “You Yanks and your wild west bullshit,” the kidnapper said, clearly exasperated. “No wonder no one comes out here. Anyway, nevermind that bollocks. Listen, ain’t nothing changed between you and me. All your little stunt did was guarantee that time is no longer on your side. I want my briefcase, and I want it tonight.”

  I cringed. I’d hoped to have a little more time to wait for Othello’s reinforcements, but it looked like I wasn’t going to have that luxury. “Well, I want to know Dez is alright,” I replied. “Let me talk to her, or ye won’t be gettin’ anythin’ from me.”

  The kidnapper grunted, barked something away from the phone, and I heard a fierce series of curses I recognized. If I weren’t already angry, my blood pounding in my ears, they’d definitely be burning from the choice things Dez had to say about Englishmen.

  But at least she was alive and, apparently, in high spirits.

  “There you are,” the kidnapper said, “alive and well. Now, bring me the briefcase. I’ll text you the address. Come alone, or she dies. If the briefcase isn’t genuine, or you try anything funny, she dies. If you’re even a minute late, she dies.”

  “If ye touch her—”

  “I had hoped we were past that, love,” the Englishman interjected, then hung up before I
could respond.

  “Motherfucker,” I hissed, resisting the urge to chuck my phone at the wall; I couldn’t risk breaking it before I knew where our handoff was going down. Christoff poked his head in a moment later, finding me curled up on his couch, clutching a pillow for comfort.

  “I’m fine,” I said, even though I didn’t feel it.

  “You look like you could use drink,” Christoff offered.

  “Aye. Somethin’ strong,” I said, rousing myself.

  One drink.

  Then I’d start calling in favors.

  Chapter 38

  The address was in Mission Hill, a few blocks from Roxbury Crossing. I decided to take the orange line rather than calling a car; most Uber drivers avoided that neighborhood at night, and I wanted plenty of witnesses to see me on the train without the briefcase—if everything went according to plan, I could use that as an alibi, later.

  As if things ever went according to plan.

  Still, I’d done my level best to anticipate the Englishman’s next move and plan accordingly. Of course, it didn’t take a genius to surmise he’d try to kill me the second he got the case. Dez, too. He’d let way too much slip, for one thing—like the fact that he didn’t want to go toe to toe with a skinwalker, or face the Academy’s Justices. No one with that many enemies could risk someone selling him out.

  And sell him out I would, in an instant.

  Unfortunately, it wouldn’t be to Othello; I’d tried calling her to check on the status of her reinforcements, but all I got was that irritating modem sound a fax machine makes. Christoff had probed a little after I hung up, my frustration clear, but I’d declined his help. Having a monstrous Kamchatka werebear to watch my back would definitely improve my odds of making it out alive, but would probably hurt Dez’s.

  I’d executed too many handoffs to ignore the “come alone” directive—no matter how the movies made it look. In real life, showing up with a posse when you were explicitly told otherwise was a great way to get yourself killed.