Whiskey Ginger

by Shayne Silvers

  My thoughts reeled as I tried to keep track of Gladstone’s ravings. “I don’t know. Pray?” I suggested.

  Gladstone snapped his fingers and mimed shooting a gun at me. “But say you wanted to have a proper chat, right? Sit down as equals over a cup of tea. And say you didn’t want to wait for someone to come round and open the door…You ever heard of Mount Olympus? Camelot? Valhalla?” Gladstone held his hands out wide. “I’ve been thinking about it,” Gladstone admitted. “and I’d say we’re somewhere between our world and one of those places. Judging by that altar and all the hanzi, I’d guess somewhere near Diyu.”

  “Diyu?” I asked, the name completely unfamiliar.

  “Chinese hell,” Gladstone clarified.

  “Seriously?” I asked. Not only was that hard to believe, but it challenged most of what I knew about the laws of time and space. I’d always thought of Heaven and Hell as abstract concepts—states of being like euphoria and agony. The idea that Hell could be ethnocentric, not to mention real, seemed ridiculously farfetched.

  “Well,” a new voice said, “close, but not exactly.”

  Chapter 46

  Gladstone propped himself using the pillar and faced the newcomer—a monstrously tall woman lounging on the altar, her legs drawn neatly to the side, swirling the blood in the bowl with her index finger. She was a study in contrasts: porcelain skin beneath a white shift, her hair and eyes darker than the gloom that surrounded us. She was beautiful, but hauntingly so, like a dense, smothering fog.

  “Did you think you could tempt one of us with this?” she asked, dubiously studying the bowl and its contents.

  Gladstone shrugged. “I hoped it would get your attention.”

  “Oh? And what am I, mortal?”

  Gladstone shrugged again.

  “You hope to lure my kind? With rancid bait such as this? You are very stupid. And so very far from home. Leave this bowl, and leave this place, and I will not kill you.”

  “Oy, lady, does that deal extend to me, too?” I called out. I didn’t necessarily want to draw attention to myself, but I liked the idea of being left behind to die in an alternate dimension even less.

  The woman’s eyes flicked towards me, then widened. “You have bound this woman?”

  “She’s my second offering,” Gladstone clarified. “The blood of a dead man and the life of a maiden. Probably not a virgin, though. You ain’t a virgin, is you, love?”

  “Go fuck yourself,” I spat.

  “Right. Not a virgin, but still, she’s prized goods.”

  The woman unfolded and rose, towering above us both. I hadn’t realized how alien she was—her proportions were ideal, but distorted somehow, like an image that had been stretched vertically. She approached me, sniffing. Something—and not only the fact that I’m sure I smelled awful after my bloody fight with Jacob—made me cringe and shy away. That’s when I noticed her pale shift was torn; tendrils of it fluttered out behind her...except there was no wind. She stopped only a few feet away and settled back on her haunches. “She is not pure enough,” she said, finally.

  “Well, right, not a virgin, as I said—”

  “That is not what I mean. She would not satisfy me. She is not a believer. She has no faith in anything but herself.”

  I winced, but didn’t deny it. I’d been raised Catholic, of course, but that hardly meant anything these days. I enjoyed Mass—the cultish pageantry of it had always entertained me—but I’d balked long before my Confirmation, opting to enroll in public school and attend services only at my aunt’s request. It wasn’t so much that I didn’t believe in God…

  I simply believed in myself more.

  Gladstone studied the woman. “That would make you a demon then, eh?”

  The woman leaned forward until she was on all fours. Her claws pierced the dirt as white fur erupted up her arms. The drifting tendrils of her dress became tails, bushy and white.

  Nine of them, by my count.

  She began to stalk Gladstone. “I am a fox spirit. A man-eater. In fact, the more you talk, you odious little man, the more appetizing you become.”

  “I don’t know about that. I summoned me a demon, not too long ago. A proper one, with horns and everyfin. We had us a chat, and you know what he told me? He says that demons, they like causing mischief, but they can only do so much, right? Somefin about balance. Can’t rock the boat or it’ll all go to shit. But I don’t give a shit about the boat. So, I come looking for trouble, and now I’ve found you, Foxy.”

  The nine-tailed fox demon, or Foxy according to Gladstone, lunged at the wizard, but Gladstone danced backwards out of reach and held up his hands. “Hold on now. I’ve got a little proposition for you that you may want to hear, first. See, I want someone dead, and I think you and I can make us a deal.”

  “You know nothing, mortal,” Foxy growled.

  “I know you prefer the flesh of holy men. Unless the scholars got that wrong. Wouldn’t be the first time.”

  Foxy hesitated.

  “Ah. So they didn’t it wrong. Well then, let me ask you a question,” Gladstone continued, a gleam in his eye, “Do you know how many churches there are in Boston?”

  “What’s a church?” she asked, finally.

  As you can imagine, the conversation didn’t go well from there.

  Chapter 47

  I stopped listening soon after Gladstone began describing the world we’d left behind—specifically the abundance of religious people in it. Fortunately, in that span of time I’d had a chance to recover and felt like I could make a break for it, especially if I could get this damn rope off me. Once I managed that, I’d figure out how to close the portal before Gladstone released a fox spirit on Boston’s unsuspecting religious population.

  Something flickered at the edge of my vision as I studied the knot Gladstone had tied, trying to figure out how to unravel it. I glanced up to see a rope swaying above my head. The wind, maybe? Except I’d already figured out there wasn’t any wind. Meanwhile, Gladstone and Foxy were too engrossed in their conversation to notice.

  Another rope twitched, high above us. Something was up there. A moment later, I saw it: a brown huddled mass so dark it was almost indistinguishable from the backdrop of foliage and branches. It moved gracefully, swinging among the ropes above our heads without making a sound. The creature paused, hanging from one of these, upside down, and stared at me with large, owlish eyes that glinted in the dark.

  What’s up?

  The voice spoke inside my mind.

  The voice spoke. Inside. My. Mind.

  You get used to it.

  A quick glance confirmed that Gladstone and his companion were still busy talking, so they obviously hadn’t heard anything. Which meant the thing hanging above us was able to communicate with me directly.

  Thing, huh? Well that’s rude.

  I ground my teeth. I was tied up in an alternate dimension listening to a throat-slitting wizard describe my fellow Bostonians like a waiter at a fine dining restaurant—absolutely scrumptious, plenty of fat despite strides to resolve the obesity epidemic, lightly scented according to the composition of various bath bombs—to a woman who could dunk without jumping and pop a basketball with her razor-sharp claws, and this thing was worried about semantics.

  Really?

  The creature drew closer, dangling thirty feet above our heads until I could make out the fur-covered features of its face. It bared its teeth in a garish smile, pink tongue lolling about in its mouth, eyes twinkling in a visage that was almost human. He—and there was no mistaking his gender now that I could see his densely muscular upper body, visible even beneath a coarse brown coat of hair—was the missing link. Somewhere between homo sapien and monkey, he’d have looked perfect smack dab in the middle of one of those shirts detailing the Evolution of Man.

  Except he wore pants and had a staff strapped to his back.

  Call me the Monkey King. Or Sun Wukong. Whichever works.

  Whichever works? What the hell was t
hat supposed to mean? And what the hell kind of name was the Monkey King?

  It means you don’t speak Chinese, and your brain is filling in the gaps. And it’s a god’s name.

  I blinked. A what?

  A god. Little g.

  So, to recap, I was chatting with a telepathic monkey hanging out in an alternate dimension…who claimed he was a god. Little g. I wasn’t sure how to respond to that. I mean, I’d met some crazy powerful, otherworldly creatures over the years, but never anything as daunting or implausible as a god. Shouldn’t my retinas be burning, or my mind melting?

  Please. Quit being so dramatic.

  A flood of questions came to mind, but I didn’t have time to voice any of them; while I’d been busy chatting with the Monkey King, Gladstone and Foxy had reached a consensus. The wizard held her hand in his as though he were about to propose, which was almost comical given how much taller she was than him.

  “Very well. I will join you in your world and feast on the righteous,” Foxy was saying, “but what is it you wish in return?”

  “There’s a bloke I want you to kill,” Gladstone replied, matter-of-factly. “Problem is, he’s protected. People like me can’t get near him; he’s got too many friends and he’s too cautious, besides. I’ve asked around, tried to make a few deals, but—even though plenty of people want to see him dead—ain’t none of ‘em willing to risk it.” The wizard shrugged and splayed his hands.

  “Word is he’s pissed off his own people recently, though. Which means he’s vulnerable. And I heard he can’t help himself when there’s a pretty bird in trouble. Once you’ve got a full stomach, even he won’t be able to stop you. You kill him, and we’re square.”

  Well, that is a very dishonorable way to kill someone.

  That was his issue with Gladstone’s plan? I scowled up at the Monkey King. Unfortunately, I’d met guys like Gladstone before—men who sought revenge at any price. More often than not they turned out to be sad, impotent creatures, but Gladstone was a wizard with decades, maybe even centuries, of experience and power to fall back on.

  Which meant he’d do whatever it took to see his plan succeed.

  A wizard, huh? Excellent. I haven’t fought a wizard in quite some time.

  “Once I am satisfied,” Foxy said, the sound of her voice overlapping the Monkey King’s voice in my head, “I will do as you wish.” She drew a nail down Gladstone’s forearm in the blink of an eye and a razor-thin line of blood began to bubble up along the wound. Gladstone winced, but didn’t move as Foxy hunched over and lapped at the blood.

  Distract them.

  I rolled my eyes, but did as he asked. Anything was better than waiting to find out which one of the two demented sociopaths would come after me, first. “So, is that how ye seal a contract around here?” I yelled, drawing their attention. “Because where I’m from, that’s how ye get diseases.”

  Foxy didn’t even bother looking at me. “No, I simply wanted to remember how his kind tastes. It has been centuries since I have swallowed a man whole.”

  “Oh, nice. D’ye hear that, Gladstone? You’re an appetizer.”

  Gladstone yanked his arm back, clearly irritated to find out her sampling of his blood hadn’t been some elaborate ritual like he’d thought. “We have a deal, then?” he asked, tersely.

  Foxy grinned, her lips and teeth stained with his blood—because apparently having elongated canines wasn’t creepy enough. “We have a deal, mortal.”

  That’s when Sun Wukong, the Monkey King, struck.

  And that scrappy bastard could fight.

  Chapter 48

  The Monkey King leapt from the rafters and used Gladstone as a springboard to dropkick Foxy in the face. In a high-pitched wail that reminded me of the chimp exhibit in the Franklin Park Zoo, he screamed something in Chinese which seamlessly translated in my mind.

  Get out of my temple!

  Suddenly, the ropes made a lot more sense.

  Gladstone lay stunned, groaning. Foxy, on the other hand, took the strike gracefully—well, as gracefully as anyone can after getting dropkicked in the face—and came up swinging.

  She fought ruthlessly.

  Each strike was meant to maim or kill, without hesitation or remorse. Wanting to hurt someone that badly usually made you sloppy, but Foxy’s combat style reminded me of those special forces training videos you see floating around the internet—the ultra-violent ones that make regular people cringe.

  And yet, Sun was completely unfazed. The Monkey King barely moved at all by comparison; he dipped and ducked and dodged, clouting Foxy again and again with either edge of his staff. She couldn’t get anywhere near him, no matter how fast she struck or from which direction. And, with every blow he landed on her arms and legs, I could see her frustration grow.

  White fur spread across her arms and shoulders as she lashed out in anger, her stunningly smooth, mask-like face sprouting whiskers. Her strikes inched closer, claws barely missing Sun’s eyes as she went for a gouge. Sun pulled back with a moment to spare, then hopped up and headbutted her right between the eyes.

  Foxy stumbled back, clutching at her face. By the time she recovered, her gaze had become feral, almost feverish. She dove forward with a teeth-gnashing snarl, snatched Sun’s staff, and tried to jerk it out of his hands. He let her. As soon as she’d taken it from him, he flipped over her, turned, and grabbed the staff from behind in a movement so smooth it looked choreographed—like a scene from Crouching Tiger, Hidden Dragon…featuring a monkey.

  Sun drew the staff tight against her throat.

  Surrender.

  I wasn’t sure how she was supposed to respond while being choked from behind, but—judging by the expression on her face—she wasn’t interested in throwing in the towel, anyway. She struggled to free herself, stomping at his feet while clawing at his face, but Sun simply leaned back and increased the pressure against her windpipe. After having been recently strangled myself, I found myself cringing; it was like watching someone get punched in the stomach, or poked in the eye. In fact, I almost felt bad for her.

  Almost.

  At least until Gladstone stepped in.

  Chapter 49

  The Monkey King released Foxy and dove for a nearby rope as Gladstone’s fireball erupted in the space where he’d been standing, but—because my eyes had adjusted to the dark—the sudden burst of light seared my retinas, and I couldn’t tell if Sun had gotten away clean. I blinked away tears.

  More sounds of fighting echoed around me, and I could feel the heat of numerous fires burning nearby. By the time my eyes adjusted, I saw that Sun had chosen the high ground and was swinging between pillars while Gladstone sent blasts of flame toward the ceiling. Sparks drifted down as ropes and greenery caught. Fortunately, stone didn’t burn, or the whole place might have gone up in smoke.

  Of course, that didn’t mean I was safe; as the ropes burned, the smoke rose, filling the air with an acrid stench. I hunkered down next to the pillar, hoping the air was clearer the closer I was to the ground. I kept an eye on the fighting, but also on the portal—did it have a time limit? I squirmed, giving myself rope burns in the process; I desperately wanted to be on the other side of that thing when it closed—dying of smoke inhalation in Hell, or wherever Sun’s temple was located, didn’t sound optimal to me.

  “The wizard is powerful,” Foxy remarked, startling me. I glanced up and saw her towering over me, her obscenely long claws hovering beside my face. “Soon, the Monkey King will tire. And then I will kill him. My father will be pleased.”

  I frowned, but said nothing. I wasn’t sure what kind of triggers a fox spirit—or demon, or whatever she was—might have, and I sure as hell didn’t want to get torn to shreds because I’d inadvertently insulted her ancestors. Frankly, I’d never met a demon of any kind before and felt a little out of my depth. As far as I knew, demons were Biblical reprobates who went around corrupting and defiling, opposed by archangels and exorcists.

  Guess I needed to expand my
horizons.

  Foxy strode forward into the fray, content to let Gladstone continue hounding the Monkey King, waiting for her chance to strike, ignoring the drifting sparks which nestled in her hair like fireflies. I had to admit it was a solid strategy; divide and conquer. I only wished I could break free and help, somehow. Or, you know, dive back through the portal, close it, and pretend like this had never happened.

  The three combatants disappeared behind the pillars on the far side of the temple, though I was able to track them through the occasional flashes of light.

  “Well,” a voice said, “this place isn’t creepy. Nope, not one bit.”

  Jimmy stepped through the Gateway. He was easy to make out now that Gladstone had lit most of the temple on fire. Everything about him read off-duty cop: black leather jacket over a grey hoodie, dark denim jeans, a dark t-shirt, and boots. His badge hung on a chain around his neck.

  Of course, none of that explained what he was doing here. I eyed the distant fighting and, confident they wouldn’t overhear, called out to him. “Jimmy!” I hissed.

  “Jesus,” Jimmy said, spotting me tied up to a pillar like some virgin sacrifice. He rushed over, leaning in close so I could hear him over the din of Gladstone’s shouts and Sun’s fierce battle cries. “Where the hell are we?” Jimmy asked.

  “How about ye start with what the fuck you’re doin’ here?” I asked. “Why aren’t ye with Dez?”

  “Dez is fine,” he replied, tersely. “She called me like you asked, but I was already here, so I told her to go home and I’d send an officer her way.”

  I could tell he was pissed; his jaw was bunched, and he wouldn’t meet my eyes. Of course, that could have been for any number of reasons. The fact that I’d skipped out on him the morning after, the fact that I’d taken the briefcase, the fact that he’d had to step through a portal to an alternate dimension to rescue me…take your pick.