Urban Allies: Ten Brand-New Collaborative Stories

by Joseph Nassise

  Octavian stepped over the guards to open the door of the room with a little flick of his hands, stepped inside, and resealed it with a spell that might keep the room tight until kingdom come. He couldn’t remember ever feeling so confident, so determined, in his use of magic. He wasn’t at all surprised to see Dahlia holding a knife to the throat of a burly man in his twenties. Octavian didn’t know where the knife had come from, but that was not what surprised him.

  “Ripley?” he said.

  “Uh. Yeah,” said the burly man.

  “I confess, I’m disappointed,” Dahlia said.

  “Everyone is,” said Ripley. He sounded as philosophical as a man can with a knife to his throat.

  The tumult outside the room was growing louder, and Octavian said, “We have to move.” He found himself trying to estimate how many liters of blood a big man like Ripley might contain, and was not proud of himself. But when he thought of his dead friends, and those who were dying, he knew he needed Ripley’s blood, all of it. Dahlia’s needs were frivolous compared with his.

  “Here, I’ll carry him,” Octavian said.

  “Are you serious?” Dahlia snorted, a strange sound to come from her haughty little nose. “I could carry a rhinoceros.”

  Octavian realized that was true, and he also realized they had to leave two minutes ago. “Out the window, then,” he said. “I’m tethered to my magic and I’m sure my portal is still open. It’s closer than yours in the woods.”

  “That’s no guarantee. Even if it’s open, your portal in the courtyard is undoubtedly surrounded by a million Fae,” she said, and he could tell she was barely holding on to her temper. To stop the argument, she leaped through the window with Ripley over her shoulder and took off running like a deer. It was a ridiculous sight, but Octavian, hard-pressed to keep up with her, did not feel like laughing.

  Ripley was bouncing in great discomfort on Dahlia’s little shoulder, and he bellowed in protest. At the sound of his cry, Octavian felt a hush fall over Faery momentarily, and then he heard the pursuit.

  Ripley, who did not seem to want to be rescued from Faery, bellowed louder. Octavian used some of his free-flowing power to knock the demon-Fae out, and he saw a mad grin spread over Dahlia’s face when Ripley fell silent.

  “Throw something behind us,” she yelled, and Octavian, thinking quickly, cast a spell that turned the leaves of all of the low-lying brush on the path behind them into razored metal.

  He felt he’d been running a marathon by that time, but the screams he heard as the foremost Fae hit the spikes encouraged him and he managed to muster the speed to run abreast of Dahlia and her burden. “How much farther?” he gasped.

  She seemed to be calculating. “Probably another mile. Or two,” she added without pity. “I am so glad I got to drink the blood of more Fae.” She shot him a wicked smile. And she accelerated. “Otherwise the smell of the bleeding ones behind us would have rendered me useless with hunger.”

  Eyes wild with the scent of Fae blood, she put on another burst of speed. Octavian ran even faster. He would keep her in sight or die.

  He quickly began to believe he would die.

  But the thick mist she’d warned him about came into view and that gave him the strength to keep up with the little vampire for one more spurt of speed. The sounds of pursuit had not abated. In fact, he was sure he could hear voices calling closely. He was right behind Dahlia and her bouncing burden when they went into the mist, which was the thickest fog he’d ever encountered.

  It was obviously magical in origin, and he opened himself to it. Dahlia had the strength that came with being what she was, and that had been amped up immensely by the Fae blood. But he had the magic that powered the existence of the Fae, and for the moment he could tap into that. He listened to the magic, and it told him where to go.

  The portal created and maintained by the king of the Fae was ahead and to his left, and he was just in time to see the faint oval in the air outlining a landscape view into a yard—without the sunlight or roses Dahlia had described. It was raining and it was night. Of course, Octavian thought, and dove through after her.

  He turned and threw the magical equivalent of gray paint over the portal, confident that would conceal the shape of it and render the portal opaque to the pursuers . . . at least for a while.

  He sat down abruptly, his legs having simply given way. Yes, it was raining, and luckily for Dahlia, it was night. They were sitting in a backyard, as best he could tell by the one security light that shone over the screen door on the back porch. The house was old, but not dilapidated. From what he could see, it was a farmhouse that had been added onto, but not significantly remodeled. No vinyl siding or hot tubs here. Just rain, and roses. Dahlia had been right about that.

  Dahlia was sitting on the ground a yard away, even her strength temporarily exhausted. Ripley sprawled beside her, struggling to sit up.

  “Listen,” the demon-Fae hybrid said. “I appreciate you all helping me, but you didn’t ask me what I wanted to do.”

  “We don’t care,” Dahlia said. Her voice was so cold that a shiver went up Octavian’s spine. Absurd, because the rain was warm. Evidently, it was summer here, and summer in Louisiana meant the same thing as it did in Octavian’s world.

  “It’s not fair,” Ripley said, with a surprising amount of passion and in too loud a voice. “Dammit, I liked being with the Fae!”

  “Too many people were counting on you getting out of there,” Octavian said. “People are dying, and you can help.”

  “I don’t have a clue what you’re talking about,” Ripley said angrily. “Even if that’s true, why should I sacrifice what I want for a bunch of people I’ve never met?”

  Octavian felt an old, savage anger rising in the back of him, the vampire he’d been once upon a time. The vampire who’d lived for eons in Hell.

  “We need you, Ripley,” he said. “But we only need parts of you. Think about that before you speak again.”

  “What?” Ripley’s eyes went wide and his round, stubbled face grew alarmed.

  “He means your blood, idiot,” Dahlia said, sounding almost bored. “The doctor should be here at any moment.”

  “We’re going to do this here in the rain?” Octavian asked.

  “There are people asleep in that house,” Dahlia told him. “They’re not all completely human. Let’s keep our voices down . . . if we don’t want to imperil them. And we don’t, do we?”

  “No,” Octavian agreed, though he was tired of Dahlia having the last word. She was an infuriating woman.

  A small figure limped past the house and into the backyard. As it drew nearer, Octavian was able to see it was a tiny (even tinier than Dahlia, who was normal-small) hunchbacked woman who was at least in her sixties. The years had been harsh for her, and she was not happy. Nodding toward Ripley, she said, “Is this lump the one I take the blood from?” She put down the heavy case she’d been carrying. “And fuck all of you for getting me out on a night like this.”

  Even Dahlia seemed taken aback. “Dr. Ludwig? I thought I would have to call you,” she said.

  “I knew when you came through,” a voice said, and another vampire followed the little doctor into the security light. He looked like a contemporary of Dahlia’s, and to Octavian he had the same feel of age. He was Asian and slender and obviously quite fond of Dahlia.

  “Fujimara,” Dahlia said, with every evidence of pleasure, “you are such a welcome sight.”

  “As are you,” he said, and bowed.

  “If you can get this lovefest over with, hold his arm,” Dr. Ludwig said.

  Octavian moved behind Ripley’s shoulders and gripped them. Fujimara took his right arm and held it out for the doctor’s examination. Dahlia held a flashlight to help Dr. Ludwig find the right spot to put the needle.

  Ripley struggled, but he gave up after a moment or two. “What are you going to do with my blood?” he asked fearfully.

  “There’s a disease that’s killing witches
and sorcerers in my world,” Octavian said. “Your blood can be used as a cure, as soon as I get home.” Now that he had a moment to think, he began to figure out how he’d do that in time for the blood to still be viable. He’d created a portal into the land of the Fae and he should be able to create another leading from Dahlia’s world into his own. Since he could visualize his own home exactly, the weaving of the appropriate spells would take much less time.

  “Curing a disease, that’s good,” Ripley said weakly. It was evident he didn’t want to look at his own blood flowing out. “What about you, pretty vampire?”

  “I will take this to doctors who work for my sheriff,” she said. “We hope to become immune to the weakness we have for the Fae.”

  Ripley shuddered as the fourth Vacutainer was sealed. Dr. Ludwig, who was muttering to herself, had two waterproof pouches. So far, she’d put two Vacutainers into each one. The rain pattered down around them, and Octavian was glad of the continuous sound of it. He hoped the people in the house would not wake up. In fact, he cast another spell to keep them deep in sleep, for their own protection.

  By then each pouch contained three vials of Ripley’s blood, and the big man looked close to passing out. Surely the loss of the blood could not be that serious? Was he just queasy because he didn’t like to see his own blood leave his body?

  “He’s going to faint,” Dahlia said, and her companion let go of Ripley’s arm. But Octavian could feel the new tension in Ripley’s shoulders, and he said, “No!”

  It was too late. Octavian lost his grip on the wet man and Ripley tore himself away and leaped through the place where the portal had been. None of them had anticipated how easy it was to see the portal in the human world, since it was still gray and opaque. Dahlia and Octavian had been too preoccupied with moving their agenda forward.

  “You let him go,” Dahlia hissed at Octavian, and then she was on him, her hands seeking his throat. Octavian reared back and punched her in the head, then got a hand up and hit her with a concussive burst of magic that knocked her backward. He was wet and hard to hold on to, and she went flying.

  He crouched and braced himself, but her vampire companion simply said, “I don’t think he let Ripley go, Dahlia. I think Ripley fooled us.”

  “Since the patient has left, so will I,” Dr. Ludwig snarled. “Tell your sheriff to expect a very high bill in the mail, and he’d better pay it on the nose.” She trudged off, her case clutched in her hand.

  Dahlia retrieved one of the pouches so swiftly that Octavian could only see a blur. She reached for the second one, but Octavian snatched it up first. “Mine,” he said. “This is an even and fair divide, Dahlia.”

  Her companion looked at Dahlia, one black eyebrow raised.

  Dahlia looked angry for one moment, and then her face smoothed out into what Octavian thought of as vampire mode. Cool impassivity.

  “It would be better if I took all of it,” she said. “But we did help each other get out of the Fae dungeon, and we did find Ripley, though that was mostly me.”

  “We did elude the Fae pursuit, though that was mostly me,” Octavian countered.

  The Asian vampire seemed to be quite good at letting Dahlia solve her own problems. “You appear to be even,” he remarked calmly.

  “Yes, you’re right,” Dahlia said, giving him a genuine smile. For the first time, Octavian realized she was beautiful, though he thought he would just as soon have a wolverine as a buddy.

  “Then we can go home? Joaquin is waiting.”

  “Can I have one of your vials?” Octavian said. He didn’t want to think of it as begging, but he would have felt wrong if he hadn’t even asked. “I am trying to save lives.”

  “Don’t push it, magician,” Dahlia said. “We are not doing something as noble as you think you are, but great things may happen if we don’t feel the impulse to slaughter every fairy we come across.”

  “Fae blood. Mmmm,” Fujimara said, his eyes closing in delight.

  “So we’ll go,” Dahlia said. “Goodbye, Octavian. I hope you don’t die.”

  “Goodbye, Dahlia. Try not to kill anyone who hasn’t earned it.”

  He could hear her laugh as she and her companion vanished from sight.

  Octavian felt he could hardly get any more sodden, so he sat in the garden for a few more moments gathering his strength. Any place would do, though he’d rather be dry and he’d rather gather a few supplies. He got up, and stuffed the waterproof pouch inside his shirt.

  He began walking, identifying the driveway mostly by feel, and he could tell it would be a long time until he got to the road. But when he did, he saw headlights. Hesitantly, he went to the driver’s side. The window rolled down. The dome light came on.

  “Hey, you Peter?” the driver said. He was old and grizzled and had a thick Cajun accent.

  “Yes,” Octavian said cautiously.

  “Then hop in, I’m taking you to New Orleans,” the man said.

  “I’m glad,” Octavian said. “But who asked you to? And I don’t have money on me.”

  “Don’t worry about it,” the man said. “I got hired by the vampire sheriff in Shreveport. He got a call a few minutes ago, some vamp business. He’s doing a favor for some sheriff somewhere else. All I know is, I was supposed to show up here and wait for you and take you to the Big Easy. Oh, and give you this.” The grizzled man handed Octavian a wad of bills.

  Surprised, Octavian climbed into the vehicle, which was a clean pickup truck, and said, “I didn’t expect this.”

  “I heard them arguing about it,” the man said. “But the Asian dude, he spoke up for you.”

  Octavian smiled. “Then let’s be on our way,” he said.

  I have lives to save.

  Spite House

  C. E. MURPHY AND KAT RICHARDSON

  The ad had said Do you believe in the SUPERNATURAL!?! in a woo-woo font that would make anybody credible roll their eyes and turn the page. A few years ago that’s exactly what I would have done. But being reborn as a shaman—a calling that included exciting benefits like healing and shape-shifting—had somewhat changed my perspective on what was and wasn’t possible, so despite the cheesy font, I was intrigued by the fine print’s proposal of visiting a genuine haunted house.

  The even finer print mentioned a reward of ten thousand dollars for “plumbing the mystery,” and as I’d been unemployed a fair stretch of time now, that was even more intriguing. I was not ashamed to admit that my anemic bank account was why I marched right through the front door of a tiny late-Victorian house on Queen Anne Hill without even knocking. A couple of seconds later I was moderately ashamed to admit that I hadn’t kicked on my Sight—the thing that let me judge the spiritual aspect of a situation—before I did so. On the other hand, it wasn’t like whatever I had seen would have stopped me, so at least I looked confident before I swept in.

  There was an uncomfortable shift as I passed through the door, like I’d stepped into a place I didn’t quite belong. The Sight slipped on, giving me a double-layer of world to see. The regular world showed me a strangely narrow but beautifully constructed house: dust and cobwebs and century-old furniture suggested it hadn’t been lived in for decades, but neither was it ramshackle beneath the grime. Ordinarily I would expect a building like this one to glow green, showing pride in its ability to safely house its occupants.

  Instead it shone so black that it had weight, as if the color itself was trying to drag the house into the very earth below me. Spikes of deep crimson rage held it in place, keeping it from sinking, and I didn’t think I imagined a moan of agony reverberating through the floorboards. The warring colors swam into my skull and spun around there, trying to pull me into the fight. I put a hand on the wall to steady myself, breathed, “Whoo,” and the door opened behind me.

  Harper hadn’t realized she missed Seattle’s rain, but after staking out the house on Queen Anne for a few days, she still reveled in the pattering hush of it and the scents of wet cement and wetter grass. It h
adn’t blinded her to the comings and goings—mostly at high speed—of people willing to brave the rain to get inside the old place. Most hadn’t made it past the front door and the few who had ran back out as if they’d narrowly avoided being shot and weren’t sticking around for more. What some people will do for money . . . Whatever lurked inside the house was apparently not worth ten grand to most of them after all.

  Harper wouldn’t turn up her nose at the money, but that wasn’t what had brought her up the hill—this was work she needed to get back to. Rather not have the Guardian come down like a hail of bones and fury just to get my butt back in gear. So she’d checked out the ad—a legacy paid for by an estate law firm that had refused to give any further information. Then she’d waited. There was something distinctly odd in the mix. The house looked a bit weird, with a psychic brilliance like it existed in several planes at once, but not solidly in any one. Then a woman in a long white coat had waltzed in with no problems, and, while she looked like a live person, moved like a live person, she wasn’t quite there. She almost seemed like a repeater—the ghostly recording of an event that had happened long ago and continued to play over and over. Yet the woman had an aura and a presence in the Grey that no ghost had. There’s a first. Harper buttoned her black wool overcoat closed and eased out of the car. Let’s see if “the most haunted house in the Pacific Northwest” is going to let me in without a fight.

  Once out of the car, she saw a picket of true ghosts lining the path to the porch. Her injured leg was stiff and she leaned harder on her cane than she liked. The shaft with its winding silver patterns passed through the phantoms, stirring and disrupting them as she approached the front door of the narrow house wedged defiantly between the larger houses on each side. The dead stared in silence or stuttered through endless loops of their truncated lives. Most ignored her, but their presence sent a chill right through her vintage coat. The front door with the brass knocker opened to her touch and she limped through to the candlelit foyer. The house hadn’t the size to carry off a grand entryway, but it had gracious lines—under the grime and cobwebs. A bunch of objects had been laid out on the small hall table and the woman in the white coat stood leaning with one hand against the wall nearby.