by Jason Winn
But what if he doesn’t drink? Don’t be stupid, everyone drinks. Don’t they? If they say they don’t then they’re just liars. You’d know, if you ever sacked up and actually had a proper date with him.
As the electronic door chime went off, the cheerful clerk with the thick gray hair looked over at her and nodded. He was probably cheerful because he was about to go home to his family and get away from the stupid sorority girls, closet alcoholics, and noisy bros he had to deal with on a daily basis.
Virginia Alcoholic Control Board stores, or “ABC stores” as they were known, had a certain Soviet Union feel to them. All of them looked alike, with drab gray walls and no advertisements. Madison had been to liquor stores in other states, which were flush with exotic selections and full color posters, showing how much fun you’ll have if you get drunk with this or that libation. She, like all blue-blooded Virginians, wondered why the crooked, phony-puritan-value-driven state politicians would condemn the hard-working Virginians to these Orwellian shops.
Nonetheless, she saw her liquid quarry under the counter in its LED-lit glass prison.
Fuck it.
“I’ll take a case of that,” she said, pointing to the tall bottle. The other ten bottles would make a nice “thank you for helping me kill some rivals” gift to Dwayne and the Black Fangs.
The smile faded from the clerk’s wrinkled face and eyebrows rose to his hair line. “That’s twelve bottles at two hundred and forty-nine dollars,” he paused for effect, “each.”
Madison relished these moments. The scrawny, brown-haired girl who was clearly stoned out of her mind asking for things she couldn’t possibly afford. At least he hadn’t asked her to leave. She’d flashed her bank roll at more than one of those assholes.
“Don’t worry,” she checked his nametag, “Edgar. I’ve got you covered.” With that, she fished out a roll of hundred-dollar bills and counted off thirty of them, making three neat stacks of ten bills each.
Unimpressed, Edgar sighed, and punched in the sale on the cash register. “3,122.46, with tax.”
Madison threw down two more hundreds.
Edgar scooped up the bills and put them in the register. He counted out her change before motioning that he had to go into the stockroom to get her case. He shuffled to the back, past a bucket that was catching water dripping from the ceiling, leaving Madison to drum her fingers on the counter and stare out at the empty parking lot.
While it was late on a Saturday, she expected to see some kids running for the door like an archaeologist running for the sea plane. But nope. Madison pulled out her phone to check her texts; nothing. She really wanted to hear back from Wrench, but what incentive was she giving him to ask her out again? None. If he was interested in her, he’d call her or text her, or show up at her house with chocolate and kung fu movies in his arms.
Yeah, that would rock. And I would rock his...
“Here you go,” said Edgar as he yanked Madison out of her near-pornographic thoughts. He grunted and set the box down.
As he did the door chimed, and he looked up at the giant clock above him. It was an older, fit woman, with short brown hair, in jeans and a red silk top, trailed by four chunky middle-aged men.
“Just in time,” said Edgar.
Madison recognized her, but before she could say something, the woman produced a small pistol.
Madison ducked and the pistol popped three times.
The woman turned to Madison. Without thinking, Madison slapped the pistol from the woman’s hand, shock and rage powering every muscle in her arm. The pistol flew and slammed into a vodka display. The gun went off as it hit the bottle, the discharge causing Madison to jump again.
The name came to Madison in an instant. She blurted it out, “Molly Flynn.”
Molly reached behind her and locked the door. She was one of the few customers Madison had come to know personally.
“Where is my order?” Molly bellowed.
Every muscle in Madison’s body rattled. Fear washed the color from her face as she managed to blurt out, “How did you know I was here?”
Molly lifted her hand and Madison felt an itching on her scalp. As she reached up to scratch it, something stung her finger.
“Ouch,” she screamed.
The sting burned and Madison jerked her hand away. Instinctively, her other hand went up to swat whatever had just stung her. A large wasp shot from her hair and landed on Molly’s outstretched hand.
It was then that Madison saw the milky film over Molly’s normally brilliant green eyes.
Molly took a step closer, causing Madison to want to bolt for the pistol, but it was covered in broken glass and finding it would probably shred her hand. Plus, there was the unappealing prospect of vodka burning her fresh cuts. She was defenseless. Her own pistol was in the trunk of her car—who needed to pack heat on a quick ABC run?.
“I don’t understand, we didn’t deliver it? Veronica told me she handed it to you this morning.”
“No, she didn’t.”
“No, wait a minute.” Madison made the mistake of looking to her left, only to see Edgar lying still in a pool of blood. Shit. “I got a text from her this morning, letting me know she’d dropped it off.”
“Then someone clearly has her phone, you idiot. She probably got caught up in this little war you’ve started.”
Jesus, if Veronica’s dead, who else has died tonight? For the briefest moment, Madison felt like a blind woman walking through a minefield.
“Hold on, what war?” shouted Madison. “I didn’t start a war.”
“I’ve got friends. We aren’t all hermits hiding in the dark. Friends who tell me that the Russians have stopped selling up north. Now I don’t get my delivery. So that means one of two things: either you’ve been hit too and can’t make Moonmilk, or your courier is dead. These things don’t happen when everything is A-Okay.”
“So how do I know you didn’t take the shit and kill her?”
“Because for the last few months I’ve let you roam around the streets, watching you, watching your people conduct a reputable business. I could have taken anything I wanted from them. You don’t even know who you’re selling to. You just send them to meet sorcerers and pray they walk away with your money. And if I wanted to kill any one of your people, including you, I could just do it.” She snapped her fingers, which produced a loud pop, accompanied by a spark and a plume of smoke.
Madison found herself backing away, down an aisle lined with liquor bottles on both sides. She considered picking one up and throwing it at Molly. But instead, she did the only thing she could. She threw a punch aimed at the side of Molly’s head. It would buy her a second to run.
Molly’s hand lashed out and stopped Madison’s fist. Instant regret shot through Madison as her hand felt as though it was caught in a vice. She could feel bones strained and muscles compress.
“Juvenile,” said Molly.
Madison’s fist was thrown back at her. Without letting go, Molly lunged forward. Madison flew backwards into the wall.
“Strong, aren’t I?” Molly said, grinning. “Vulcan’s Fist is my favorite little spell. Let me show you something else.”
The same hand that had thrown Madison now became bright red. So bright, Madison had to squint. There was a whooshing sound a flame makes when air rushes over it as Molly swept her hand across a row of bottles, leaving a ruination of melted glass and brown liquor. The glass sizzled and the tops of the bottles cascaded to the floor, shattering as they smashed into one another.
Terror stricken, Madison felt glued to the wall. She thought she might piss herself at the sight of this soccer mom cutting though liquor bottles with a hand that was part lightsaber.
“I’ll...” Tears started welling in her eyes.
“What was that?” asked Molly, her non-lightsaber hand cupped around her ear.
“I’ll get you your Moonmilk. Just don’t burn me.”
Molly stood a foot away from Madison, the heat from her han
d causing sweat to bead on Madison’s forehead.
“Goodie, gumdrops.” Molly gave Madison two quick slaps on the cheek.
Madison braced for the sensation of her skin falling off in strips, like bacon, but all she felt was bare skin against hers.
“Next time,” said Molly, “you come to deliver it. And I want it tomorrow. Because, I’ll be honest, I’d hate to have to buy from someone else. Who knows, maybe they’d give me a freebie for telling them about you.”
“Okay. Okay, I can do that.” Madison’s vision narrowed to a circle around Molly’s head and she felt strong fingers pinch her chin.
“Nine p.m. on the dot.”
Madison wiped her eyes and gulped. “Nine. Nine, on the dot.”
Molly released her grip on Madison’s chin, turned and walked out, pulling a handle of cheap tequila from a bottom shelf. “I like the cheap stuff,” she said over her shoulder. “Reminds me of college,” The chunky men followed her.
Saying a little prayer for poor Edgar, Madison looked up and saw smoke rising from the security camera. Reasoning that Molly had disabled the cameras somehow and relieved she probably hadn’t been filmed, she grabbed her case of booze. Accessory to murder or not, three grand worth of twenty-one-year-old cognac wasn’t getting left behind.
Chapter 64
Shelby slammed her brakes as the winding road ended at a rampart of weeds, covering a crumbling fence. She got out and the cool mountain air immediately chilled the fresh sweat on her skin. The GPS lied to her, indicating the road kept on for another half mile.
“Shoulda brought a machete,” she grumbled.
On closer inspection, the overgrowth covered a double iron gate. With a little shoving and blocking out the idea of killer spiders hiding in the branches, she pushed the gates open. They squealed in protest, but parted enough to get her car through.
Tall grass sprang up from potholes in the road. As she drove toward the King Mountain Spa, Shelby wondered why someone gave a shit about an abandoned resort from the 1950s. But two people, two dead people, had made notes about this place. She felt that whatever lay up here was the key to finding out why her and her sisters’ names were on those documents from the Camp Peterson explosion, and would give her a clue to Connolly’s assignment of finding out what Colonel Trask was up to.
She’d come across places like this in the past, where meth cookers or weed farmers had invaded old remote spots, absent caretakers, thinking that no one would find them, until someone snitched. Someone always snitched.
The notion of meth cookers conjured a twinge of fear. If someone was up here, they’d kill her, no questions asked. Her body would be found by a hunter in a few decades. The thought crossed her mind to call Connolly and let him know where she was. She thought of her kids growing up without a mother. That was enough to get her to reach into her purse and check her phone. One bar.
Fuck it.
She settled for a text to Connolly, which was met with a thumbs-up emoji.
Shelby reached for her pistol, which was nestled in a leather holster, checked that there was a round in the chamber, clicked on the safety, and clipped it to her waistband.
She pulled up to an ivy-covered, two-story clubhouse, looked around and stepped out of her car. The stillness of the place injected a calm into Shelby’s muscles. Mountains rolled across the horizon to the west. The cool air was a refreshing change from the humid heat of DC, and the only sounds came from sparrows overhead and the rusting of tall oak and elm trees. She took a deep breath and relaxed, not smelling weed or the chemical stench of a meth lab. She might as well have been out camping with her father and sisters.
She popped the trunk of her car and pulled out a flashlight and a gas mask. It was eight a.m., so she had plenty of time to find whatever Trask and his group were hiding up here.
Some Googling last night of “searching old buildings” had revealed the hobby of Urb-Ex or urban exploration, where people broke into old, abandoned buildings to “explore.” The takeaway was that old buildings were loaded with unpleasant materials like asbestos. So, no taking chances. She donned the mask and made for the front door.
Inside was a decayed snapshot of 1950s luxury, covered in mold and spray paint tags. A grand double staircase dominated the center of the room, with thick banisters and wood paneling featuring carvings of deer and hunters with dogs. Saggy leather chairs and overturned couches filled the lobby, opposite a guest counter. An old chrome cash register lay on its side, broken with buttons missing. The floor felt earthy from the moss and small ferns growing up from the parquet floors.
She walked through the lobby, careful with each step on the creaky wooden tiles. Her legs shook, as she fretted over falling through one of them. God knew what was below her.
After making her way through the offices, passing several rooms full of overturned filing cabinets and ceilings that sagged low enough to brush her head, she emerged into an overgrown courtyard. To the south was a tall building, maybe fifteen stories, which she guessed was the hotel, and to the north was a huge glass pavilion. The hotel’s exterior walls had so many cracks and broken windows it looked like a strong wind would bring it down. Not wanting to die in a building collapse, Shelby decided to search that thing last, or maybe not at all.
She made for the pavilion, with its curved top and deco ironwork between all the windows. It reminded her of the greenhouse at her grandmother’s mansion.
Inside, she found an empty lap pool with a tree growing up out of the center, towards the broken skylights. A pair of diving boards hung over the deep end. Patio furniture ringed the pool, and it was easy to imagine the jet-set crowd of the post-war era lounging around the heated pool, gossiping and sipping cocktails.
She took a few steps toward the pool and something grabbed her eye off to her left. Was it a computer screen in an office? That didn’t belong. According to Wikipedia, the place had been shut down in the eighties. A flat screen like that wouldn’t be commonplace for another twenty years. She drew her pistol and crept toward the room. She expected to hear footsteps running off. Someone seeing her and going to get a gun. But there was nothing.
Now we’re getting somewhere.
Excitement replaced anxiety as Shelby stood in the middle of a modern office. Ignoring the creaking floor, Shelby noted dusty computers, flat screens and printers sitting on folding tables. Construction lights sat atop tripods. Everything in the room looked at the most, two years old. She waited another moment, listening for anything, and finally holstered her pistol.
She tried one of the computers. No power. Not the end of the world—she could pop out the hard drives and get one of her people in the computer forensics lab to pull the data off. Cables crisscrossed the floor and ran outside. Was there a generator outside, perhaps?
One step out the back door and Shelby gasped. A Gulfstream jet sat at the end of a dirt runway. A pair of black Suburbans was parked next to it. Her pistol was back out in a flash as fear shot through her. Private jets didn’t just sit around unguarded. But her instincts told her that there was no one around. She stepped toward the jet, checking the SUVs for people. There was no one. The jet was empty as well.
Pretty certain Connolly didn’t give a shit about warrants or the Fourth Amendment, Shelby smashed the driver side window of one of the SUVs and unlocked it. Inside, she found a packet of papers—manifest lists. She thumbed through them. Her heart began to race.
Moonmilk - five gallons
Stone bender crystals - thirteen
Artifacts: Banshee knife, The Czar’s Gold Pendant, Watchman’s Cloak, Hadrian’s Gauntlet
There were eight lists in all, and all of them listed a single destination for the cargo: Switzerland.
Jesus.
It was apparent now this place was being used as a smuggling point to get magical items out of the country and into Switzerland. But, why? And for whom?
She couldn’t go to Switzerland. Driving a few hours from home was one thing but jetting off to Europe
was another level she wasn’t prepared to do, yet. The kids and Jacob needed her.
What the hell was she supposed to do now? Did Connolly have contacts overseas? He’d better, because Shelby resolved right then and there to stay in the country.
The dates on the papers were from almost a year ago. Where were these things? Shelby wanted to see them. With all this talk of magic and spells, she wanted to hold something magical. But the plane had been empty. She scrambled over to the other SUV, breaking its window and found nothing. She walked around the back of the thing and opened the trunk. Inside was a pair of manacles. Blood crusted the metal edges.
Shelby wrenched the gas mask from her face, certain she was about to puke. She fell to her knees and fought the churning in her stomach. After a few deep breaths, a cold sweat can down her back and she no longer felt as though she was going to lose her breakfast. She wobbled to her feet.
There wasn’t any more she could do, other than take everything she’d found back to Connolly and figure out who in her department could look at the computer hard drives. She went back into the office, and heaved one of the PCs onto the table.
At that same moment, the floor let out a huge creak and gave way. Shelby got out a “Shit!” and plummeted ten feet onto concrete. The computer she was holding fell after her. The case shattered right next to her.
Dust filled the room, stirred up by the impacts. Shelby managed to somehow land on her feet and not lose her balance. The dust forced a coughing fit, and she felt her gas mask hit her shoulder. She threw it on and cleared it. She’d never wanted a drink of water so badly, but she’d left that in her car. Her flashlight had followed her into this basement, or whatever it was. And as she looked around, she was greeted with a jarring scene.
To her right was a corpse, lying on the floor, with one hand in a large safe. It wore ragged jeans and a flannel shirt. It was probably a male, but it was hard to tell with the long stringy hair and rotting flesh where a face had once been. Across the room, next to a door that hopefully led out of this place, was another corpse. Only this one was half inside of what looked like a dead crocodile. The person had one hand reaching toward the door and a pistol in the other hand.
