by Rhys Ford
Dim Sum Asylum
By Rhys Ford
Welcome to Dim Sum Asylum: a San Francisco where it’s a ho-hum kind of case when a cop has to chase down an enchanted two-foot-tall shrine god statue with an impressive Fu Manchu mustache that’s running around Chinatown, trolling sex magic and chaos in its wake.
Senior Inspector Roku MacCormick of the Chinatown Arcane Crimes Division faces a pile of challenges far beyond his human-faerie heritage, snarling dragons guarding C-Town’s multiple gates, and exploding noodle factories. After a case goes sideways, Roku is saddled with Trent Leonard, a new partner he can’t trust, to add to the crime syndicate family he doesn’t want and a spell-casting serial killer he desperately needs to find.
While Roku would rather stay home with Bob the Cat and whiskey himself to sleep, he puts on his badge and gun every day, determined to serve and protect the city he loves. When Chinatown’s dark mystical underworld makes his life Hell and the case turns deadly, Trent guards Roku’s back and, if Trent can be believed, his heart… even if from what Roku can see, Trent is as dangerous as the monsters and criminals they’re sworn to bring down.
Table of Contents
Blurb
Dedication
Acknowledgments
One
Two
Three
Four
Five
Six
Seven
Eight
Nine
Ten
Eleven
Twelve
Thirteen
Fourteen
Fifteen
Sixteen
Seventeen
Eighteen
Nineteen
Twenty
Epilogue
More from Rhys Ford
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About the Author
By Rhys Ford
Visit Dreamspinner Press
Copyright
This book is dedicated to Lynn West, the Queen of the Flying Monkeys and Fantastical Things. You wanted faeries and dragons. Here you go, babe.
Acknowledgments
MUCH LOVE to the Five, the sisters of my soul: Tamm, Lea, Jenn, and Penn. Also to my other sisters, Mary, Ren, Ree, and Lisa.
A huge heartfelt thank-you to Elizabeth, Lynn, Grace, Naomi, lyric, and everyone at Dreamspinner Press for all of their hard work and faith. And Anne Cain for the rocking covers.
One
I HATED running first thing in the morning. Even in a fog-drenched San Francisco when the temperatures were on the colder side, it was too early and too damned hot to be pounding through the narrow sidewalks of Chinatown as merchants set up for a packed farmer’s market. I wasn’t made for long hauls at full speed, which was funny considering my faerie half pretty much should have handed me every stamina advantage. But evolution happened, so there wasn’t any need for a faerie’s wings to carry their body over long distances anymore, and since I didn’t inherit actual wings, I probably hadn’t stood in the genetics line for a fae’s stamina either.
For one of the few times in my life, I wished I’d inherited more of my mother’s fae hollow-bone structure than my father’s build. I could have run faster if I wasn’t built so human. I wouldn’t have said no to a pair of dragonfly wings either, even if they didn’t work. I’d gotten some ancestor’s long legs, and they came in handy to leap over a pile of decaying durian left on the sidewalk. My boot toe brushed one of the fruits, and I briefly wondered if I’d ever get the smell out of the leather as it exploded under the pressure of its rotted meat.
High above me, the gōngyù bridges spanning the streets cast long, hard shadows onto the pavement, the network of tangled arches burdened with the poor’s makeshift villages, resting a disjointed minicity above San Francisco’s tall buildings. Someone in a gōngyù nearby was smoking ducks, the crisp, spicy smell of curing meat settling down to the street below. If my mouth wasn’t already thick with saliva from the overexertion, the smell of roasting fowl would have done me in. I hadn’t eaten anything since a stale donut nearly twelve hours ago, such a typical cop trope, and I’d lived on high-octane coffee ever since I’d swallowed its last crumb.
Thank the Gods for the coffee or I’d have been flat on my face after the first few steps. Although my rage probably would have taken care of me because right at that moment the adrenaline pumping through my blood could have fueled a fleet of ferries across the Bay. I was that angry.
Dodging a stall of dried fish, I rolled over the counter of the next booth, narrowly avoiding a line of bins filled with cuttlefish and rock cod on ice. The stream of Cantonese that followed me wasn’t as hot and angry as the skein of Korean-crested dragons flying in my wake. While the lizards were only the length of a dachshund, there were at least ten of them with mouths filled with long pointy teeth, and they were extremely angry. No matter how small something was, if it had teeth and it was angry, it was something to be reckoned with.
Luckily, I wasn’t the one who’d pissed them off.
The man I was chasing was fat, wearing a badly fitted suit, and smelling of bean burritos. I’d have given up chasing after him if it wasn’t for one thing—eight things: he’d stashed an entire clutch from the crested dragons’ nest in his jacket’s deep pockets.
Above me, the crimson-and-green crested dragons dove past my head. They rode the air in undulating waves, their heads weaving side to side as they gave chase. Most draconian beings, big or small, flew using their wings. But Asiatic lizards’ flight was powered by the pearls in their foreheads, so I didn’t have to worry about being slapped in the head as they flew. I wasn’t even sure if I registered in their tiny little brains.
The odds of the dragons getting to him first were good, but having them actually do something to him was slim. Crested dragons were scavengers down to the bone. I’d seen one run from a live rat one-third its size but then savage a plucked turkey to ribbons after it had been left out for only moments while the cook heated up oil in the deep fryer.
Of course, I’d also never seen them after someone plundered their nests, so I could have it all wrong. For all I knew, they were going to carve him up into tiny jellied slices once they caught up with the egg thief, and I was going to have to fight them off just to make an ID. Whatever happened, Arnett was going to get what was coming to him, and hopefully it wasn’t going to be me pounding his face in because he’d screwed me over.
The early-morning chill made it difficult for the crested dragons to gain speed and altitude. Steady afternoon heat from the city’s streets gave them thermals to ride, and if they’d been a more aggressive species, I’d be looking at Arnett’s picked-over carcass draped with full-bellied, contented frill-headed lizards. Still, they were motivated to get their eggs back, and they buzzed around me, diving up and down above the heads of the morning foot traffic.
After the last wave of Asian immigrants a few years ago, the Chinatown district grew, extending down to Davis. The closed-in sprawl of the historic district migrated. Buildings were packed with entire generations of single families, and the area was difficult to maneuver in, walls moving as more or less space was needed by the inhabitants. I grew up in its sprawl. Arnett had not, and now he was running blind.
“Arnett!” I yelled at his retreating back. Unsurprisingly, he didn’t slow down.
Assholes never slowed down when they were running from the cops. Even if they knew they weren’t going to get away, they still had to try… and Arnett knew better. There wasn’t going to be any end to this scenario that didn’t include him being caught. One way or another, I wasn’t going to let this go. I’d run him into the ground.
The stream of people closed in behind him, moving uphill toward the business centers past Washington. One of the district’s newer gates
loomed over me, the large golden dragon on its crossbeam watching the skein carefully as it zipped by. It paid no attention to me. The draconian sentry sat purely for its own reasons, a bargain struck with the Triad Consortium long before the Golden Gate Bridge was built. Its tail swung and wrapped around the thick stone column supporting its perch. The rippling membrane at its end flowered, snapping out, nearly knocking me over. Despite, or perhaps because of, its criminal activity, the Triad knew what it was doing to keep its territories protected. The dragon was massive, a fierce reptilian watchdog mostly satisfied to remain on its post in exchange for a substantial amount of food every week.
So I couldn’t count on its help with Arnett.
For a big man, Arnett could run—which was amazing, because for as long as I’d known him, he barely stirred himself to refill his coffee cup. He’d wait for a uniform, preferably one with round hips and pert breasts, and he’d beg her for a new pour. It hardly ever worked, but he tried.
“Too damned early for this shit,” I grumbled. “God, I hope they get him first. I hope those fuckers burrow under his skin and suck out all his nerves like spaghetti. One by one. That’s what I want.”
Leaping to the side, I avoided running into a bicycle rack. The lizards moved faster, their legs tucked in tight against their undulating bodies until they were brilliant streamers with bared white teeth. Closer to the pier, the air was cooler. Downhill, the streets opened up, and the wind off the Bay whipped quickly through the tall buildings. The chill was nearly arctic, and the dragons hit the cold front, slowing their flight.
Arnett was heading down to the pier, probably hoping to get lost in the crowds of tourists. The dragons jogged to the right, and I skidded after them. They were following instinct, driven to protect their young, while I was chasing Myron because he’d pissed on our assignment. Once I caught up with him, I was going to kick his ass.
I spotted Arnett crossing over the BART tracks. His pockets swayed back and forth, heavy with eggs, and he kept his pace up, looking back every once in a while. He saw the skein before they honed in on him, and he bolted, crossing against traffic. Horns blared, and a truck’s tires smoked as the driver slammed on his brakes. The burning rubber cloud filling the street dissipated as the dragons punched holes through it in their pursuit. I followed, a little bit warier of the traffic than Myron but no less determined than my serpentine rivals.
Morning commuters heading into the financial district were climbing out of the railcars, their minds on the day and not on the sweaty-faced man stumbling toward them. Lines of office workers and suits were forming around the scattered bao carts on the main causeway, vendors doing brisk business in char siu or lotus paste steamed in white bread balls.
Arnett stumbled through the commuters, jostling them from their orderly queues. Shoving began, and it threatened to escalate when the dragons dove into the mix, their frilled manes puffed up around their triangular heads. Arnett nearly fell, and fear closed my throat. The eggs weren’t fragile—they had to survive the jostle of their clutch mates and the skein—but the shells wouldn’t hold up to Myron’s weight. Grabbing the handle of a turnip cake cart, he kept to his feet, but the lizards were honed in on him, turning in as a tight swarm. I closed the distance between us, crossing the pavement with a few strides. Turning the cart, Arnett shoved it at me, knocking over customers. Hot oil splashed from the frying element, scalding people nearby.
“Arnett, think about this.” I bounced out of the way and put my hands up, still hoping to de-escalate the situation. “You can still walk from this. Gaines would section you—”
“Fuck you, MacCormick. Goddamned faerie,” he spat and tossed the vendor’s kitchen utensils at my face. One of the smaller knives hit my cheek, the tip digging into my skin, nearly hitting my eye. Blinking, my vision refused to clear, and rubbing only seemed to blur things more.
One of the smaller dragons wove in, its talons bared and spread. Apparently no one told it that it was supposed to be fearful and docile, so it attacked, its mane spread about its face. Arnett screamed and jerked away, his face scored with deep grooves. His foot hit the steaming oil, and he went down. The rest were on him, and Arnett rolled onto his knees, a black steel service revolver in his hand. They scattered when he turned, frightened by the sudden movement.
He was up and off again before I could get a bead on him.
Front Street was closed to vehicle traffic in preparation for the Moon Festival that weekend. Workers stood on spackling stilts, hanging banners and stringing fae lights along temporary canopies. Arnett twisted as he ran, shooting at me. His arm hit a support leg, pulling a man down onto the pavement. Something in the worker’s body snapped when he hit the cobblestones, and my teeth ached in sympathy pain. A string of paper lanterns fell, rolling around underfoot as people scattered away from the concourse.
Wary, the lizards hovered above the heads of the fleeing crowd, their fierce draconian cries lost in the chaos and screams. Arnett took off, tucking his gun against his body and holding the flaps of his jacket down. Shaking my head, I ran after him with the dragons floating behind me.
“Sure, now you hide behind me, you damned scaly chickens.” I panted, rounding the corner and almost falling into the heavy morning traffic near the Embarcadero. Arnett was only a few yards away but still too far for me to tackle him to the ground. A transport ferry from the other side of the Bay was pulling up, announcing its arrival with a blare of its horn. “Son of a bitch. Don’t get on the ferry. Please. Shit.”
A pod of uisge bobbed up and down in the water, their merman handlers herding a smaller transport boat into its moorings. The ocean fae nudged their mounts around, smacking at the uisges’ flanks with their tails to keep the creatures from approaching the pier. One of the larger water horses pulled up sharp, its attention drawn by the commotion on the pier. Its rider wrapped his hand in its seaweed-entangled mane, forcing it to move into the rolling tide. The growing panic on the dock made each uisge nervous, and they rankled, drawing their front legs out of the Bay and slapping their algae-encrusted hooves against the water.
A crested caught up with me, snagging a warm current from an exhaust vent in the sidewalk. From its aggressive crooning, I guessed it was the deranged mutant who’d attacked Arnett. Buoyed by the hot air, it shot forward and snatched a mouthful of Arnett’s balding scalp.
Startled, Arnett let a shot off, but the lizard refused to scatter. He grabbed at the lizard, reaching behind him with his free hand, but the creature’s sleek body was too slippery for him to get a stranglehold on, and it slipped out between his fingers. Riding behind its prey’s wake, the dragon plunged in again, snapping at anything it could grab before Arnett was out of reach. It hounded him, leaving bites and raw pockmarks where its teeth hit.
“Get out of my way.” He fired into the air, sending the crested to flight, and the crowd panicked, becoming a tidal wave of rushing bodies. “Move!”
The ferry’s horn sounded again, followed by the high shriek of its warning klaxon, sounding its imminent departure. Angling across the wooden planks, he ran straight for the boarding deck, the back of his suit dark with sweat and a thin streak of glistening scales chasing him. Arnett was using everything he learned being a cop to drive the crowd into a stampede, but there was nothing I could do to stop him short of shooting him, and I did not want to shoot my partner.
I ran through the sea of frightened people, confusion reigning as they stumbled out of Arnett’s path. Many were workers heading to their buildings, but a few were tourists, up early for a tour of the fog-drenched Bay. The skein mostly kept pace with me, only falling behind when they hit a cold pocket, but they were the least of my worries. If Arnett made the gate, he’d be on the ferry when it pulled out, and there was no way I could make it on. I’d lose him, and with what he had in his pockets, he could make himself disappear for good….
From out of the corner of my eye, I saw a pair of fae women walking by Arnett, their nearly human faces sparkling with comp
ound, pupilless irises, mascara-blackened eyelashes, and gloss-painted lips. The one on the right was a set of curves in a red suit and pretty features, while the other wore a velvet jacket cut to accommodate her slender wings. Red suit’s waifish body and pert triangular face were typical of an Emerald Isle fae, but her bicolored white and purple hair, cut into a messy bob, was rare. She was the type of woman most men would stop to talk to if there was time. As it was, I momentarily glanced into her widened eyes right before Arnett blew a hole through her head.
Oh Gods, her beautiful, ruined head.
Arnett’s shot left a gaping black hole where her nose and mouth had been, and her chin crumbled as her skull collapsed. Her blood splattered my face, and I tasted her death on my tongue. Her slender butterfly-patterned wings fluttered, catching the wind coming up from the water. Their connective spines lost their rigidity as she died, and they framed her delicate body, blowing out as she fell forward.
I couldn’t catch her. I had to let her fall. Her body kept moving, kept breathing, but her eyes were already dimming—then she was gone.
A scream pierced the air. The woman walking with her broke down and keened, a haunting sound that ended in tears. Her sobs were heart-wrenching, and her hands trembled as they covered her mouth. The round puff of a half-eaten bao tumbled from one of her hands, the bright char siu filling dull against the sharp red of the dead woman’s blood.
People scrambled to get away from Arnett, but in the confusion the crowd thickened, then thinned, making it nearly impossible for him to push through. I saw him turn, his eyes wild, and he reached for the screaming fae. He grabbed a handful of her long blue hair, jerked the woman against him, and placed the gun’s muzzle on her temple.
“Back off, MacCormick. I’ll kill this bitch too.”
Pulling out my gun, I came to a stop, panting hard. A cloud of fury and scales flew past me; then the skein retreated, hovering in the air. They dodged in and out, assessing the situation. At a standstill, Myron’s heft and size finally triggered their danger sense, but the drive to rescue their eggs would soon push them on, and I’d be stuck fighting off one of the largest skeins of crested dragons in the California Upper Regions.
