Downside Rain: Downside book one (2 page)

Another
kid says, “You forgot your change,” as a hand grasps my arm.

I
intuitively lose flesh if someone grabs me. His fingers sink into my arm before
I regain control.

The
kid barely suppresses an
ugh!
and releases me. Watching expectantly, his
friends huddle over their table.

Little
bastard. With a sneer, I make a production of slowly turning my head. He’s
young, probably thirteen, and wears a pale-green Henley and tan cargo pants. Brown
hair gelled into a thick wave rises three inches from his scalp. Expression a mixture
of triumph and disgust, he’s showing his four buddies what big
huevos
he
has.

I
give him the baleful eye before bending to scoop up my change. Already back
with his friends, he tells them my arm feels like a sponge. One of them says,
“I told you she’s a wraith.”

I
should let it go, but these mannerless brats chafe my ire. So I walk the few
paces to his table. Fixing his gaze with mine, I study him seriously till he can
no longer pretend he’s not nervous, then lift my arm and sniff where he touched
me, a long, leisurely inhalation through my nose. “I have your scent.”

Eyes
still locked to his, I slowly lick my skin. “Your taste is in my mouth.”

His
eyes get
big
.

I
step in. With one hand on the back of his chair, I lean down, mouth near his
ear. “I can find you, wherever you are. I’ll see you in your dreams.”

His
face, and that of his friends, wears the identical pale shade as they gawp at me.

He
swallows heavily and whispers, “Please, don’t.”

I
straighten up, smack him on the head and say briskly, “Gods no. What would I
want with a little shit like you?”

I
leave the café wearing a grin. Contrary to common lore, I can’t sneak into
dreams and steal the dreamer’s soul. If I drift in his nightmares tonight, his
imagination will put me there.

A
dryad squats on the street corner. Silver birch skin, hair like a crow’s nest
of brown twigs, eyes of golden autumn leaves. Spindly arms drape over her knees,
long gray toes curve, trying to dig through the asphalt to whatever soil may be
beneath.

Dryads
are a fucking nuisance, too. Dryads of the forests, naiads of rivers and
springs, oreads of the mountains, limoniads of the meadows, limniads of the
swamps, napaea of the glens - sometimes nymphs decide to explore urban life.
Because Gettaholt’s east boundary lies close to what is left of the Auld Wood, the
city tends to get dryads. They have to root after a few days so try to wherever
they can. City workers pry them loose. If they are fortunate, dryads are handed
over to relocation specialists who return them to their natural habitat.
If
they are fortunate. They are women and pretty much helpless in the city.
Helpless women don’t last long in Gettaholt.

My
bedstead is red, the sheets cream. Posters in bright primary colors dot the
walls. A yellow plastic chair like a giant ice-cream scoop hangs from the
ceiling by a sturdy iron link chain. Red plastic cartons stacked four-wide and
three-deep hold everything I need from clothes to dishes to weapons. The
refrigerator, stove and sink are blue. Castle squints as if dazzled or fumbles
for his shades when he visits. Ha ha.

I
gear up before leaving for Castle’s place at ten forty-five. The hilt bound
with sisal cord, a long obsidian dagger rides a waist sheath. Obsidian slices
through the toughest skin, even a wyvern’s. Two smaller obsidian blades rest in
forearm sheaths and a pouch on my belt holds three tiny triangular steel blades
designed to fit between my knuckles.

Castle
gave me the dagger as a kind of
‘welcome to the club’
gift. He meant to
find me work and inexpensive lodging, then we both discovered I can fight and
have a strong stomach for gruesome. Small, agile and fast, I quickly adjusted
to the lifestyle and how to use body mass to my advantage. He asked me to
partner with him and I didn’t think twice. I learned to capture or kill
monsters.

I
wear my shin-length leather coat. Leather is no substitution for body armor but
does provide some protection from claws and teeth.

The
sky is red streaked with black. Half-fleshed, I cling to the deeper shadows.
The main streets are almost silent, few pedestrians negotiate the uneven sidewalks.
Stores have closed, though bars and nightclubs on side streets and alleys are
in full swing. I pass the House of the Seven-Handed God. Pink plaster crumbles
off the walls and two of the great glass windows are cracked. Few people
believe in the gods nowadays. Congregations are tiny, as are donations, and
religious bodies have difficulty recruiting young people to replace elderly
priests.

Were
gods here ages ago, but left when people stopped believing in them? Does belief
bring gods into existence and now they’re dead. I know evil entities emerge
from
somewhere
to create havoc and we say they come from below, but we
are supposed to take the gods’ existence on faith alone. For some inexplicable
reason, these old temples for deities no longer loved or wanted make me sad.

Gliding
up stone steps to Castle’s door, I call up more flesh to rap the wood.
Footsteps tap the hall’s wooden floor, the door opens and Castle stands there
with a bloody great sword in his hand.

“Come
in.” He steps to the side and swishes the sword through the space I occupied a
second ago.

The
house is lit up inside. We don’t need light by which to see, but lamplight adds
normality to the building and discourages thieves.

Castle
follows me along the wood-paneled hall, through his living room to a space next
to the kitchen. The right wall is all closet, a wall lamp hangs on the left.
Castle presses a rivet on the lamp’s mount and a panel slides aside to reveal
an arsenal stacked on shelves and hanging on pegs.

“Ghouls,
huh.” I glance at his sword, the blade four feet of honed, tempered steel, his
hand protected by a heavy steel buckler; a good weapon to use on ghouls because
we can strike from a couple of feet away. We don’t want to get in range of
their long arms.

I
select a similar sword from its peg, lighter than Castle’s but as long, with a
narrower, slimmer blade.

Castle
chooses an obsidian hatchet with a long wooden haft and two obsidian throwing
knives. He tosses me a leather baldric and harness and snags one for himself.

We
leave through the backdoor and cross the street to where his car waits under
the residents’ carport. The old jalopy needs the shelter, any more rust and the
body will fall apart. It already lacks the left rear passenger door.

He
grabs the handle on the driver’s side door and yanks, but the damn thing is
stuck again. A well-aimed kick with his heel and it grudgingly grinds open. I perk
an eyebrow. He gives me a sour look. He will never admit driving the heap
embarrasses him and he thinks it’s bad for his image.

We
settle the swords and harness on the torn vinyl backseat and climb in front.
Castle starts the engine, twists to look out the rear window and backs out. At
least the rain has stopped, a good thing, as the windshield wipers need new
rubber blades.

The
car plows through puddles in the rain-slicked streets, spraying water over the
sidewalks. I pick at my fingernails as Castle whistles through his teeth.

My
peripheral vision catches movement, white streaks, and I look up sharply. A
whirlwind of lights dance and swoop in an alley. Will-o’-the-wisp, a half-dozen
wind elementals and they are excited.

“Stop.”

The
old car screeches to a halt, but the alley is empty. The noise scared off the
elementals.

I
hop from the car.

Castle
sounds disgruntled. “Rain, whatever’s there is dead.”

“I
know.”

Castle’s
lips clamp together, his fingers impatiently tap the steering wheel as I start
for the alley. He doesn’t lack compassion, but doesn’t see the point of
investigating a lost cause. Wind elementals scour dead flesh off the bones but
won’t attack the living. But I don’t want to think of a family learning their
loved-one has been found as a pile of clean-picked bones. I wouldn’t wish that
on anyone.

The
alley stinks of rancid meat and rotting vegetation. My boots crunch on broken
glass and squelch through a disgusting pulp. The inky darkness is no problem
for a wraith. Night or day, our vision is perfect.

Bite
marks cover a big, dead, seriously torn up cat. I don’t want to speculate what
made those marks. The elementals can have it.

I
walk backward a few paces, turn and trudge to the car.

“Do
we need to call anyone?” Castle asks.

“Nope.
Just a dead cat.”

He
puts the car in gear. “Happy?”

I
slump in the passenger seat. “I’m always happy. See my big smile?”

He
huffs out a noncommittal noise. And off we go again.

We
drive through an upscale neighborhood of high-rise apartments with tiny areas
of colored rock in front and neat paths. Buildings get farther apart, single-family
dwellings replace the apartments. Our destination is a semi-rural suburb five
miles yonder.

The
Blayne estate house towers east of Bermstead. Sounds grand, but calling it an
estate is a stretch; Gettaholt doesn’t have space to spare for huge houses and
acreage. Still, the house is impressive, big and very old with turrets and
towers and pale weathered stone.

Calla
Blayne is a sylph and one of the Triad, Gettaholt’s ruling body, although
strictly speaking a duad until the open position is filled. Sylphs are female,
and rare. The poet Alexander Pope called sylphs airy, invisible beings, but he
was wrong. He was, however, right about spleen and vanity. She’s a tough
cookie. Blayne has balls and they are made of steel. She took over as
Chairperson when her predecessor Hyde stepped down. He quit the position when
his wife contracted a life-threatening illness and he took her Upside to find a
cure. The decision didn’t go down well. The hoi polloi are not allowed Upside
when they get sick. Maybe that’s why he didn’t return.

Blayne
was already a formidable businesswoman. Now, as the Triad’s Chair, she is the
most influential person in Gettaholt, if you don’t figure Alain Sauvageau and a
host of underworld bosses into the equation.

Word
on the street said she was unhappy the city built a cemetery near her home. Had
the plans been submitted later, after she joined the Triad, I doubt they’d have
been approved. Ghouls in her neighborhood must be a double whammy.

Castle
parks the car outside the cemetery and we climb out. As expected, the gates are
locked for the night. Grunting, Castle bends, picks up a pebble and tosses it
at the high mesh fence. It bounces off the mesh to land in long grass.

I
put hands to hips. “Brilliant.” The electricity has failed, making the fence and
gates ineffective barriers. “No wonder they got inside.”

And
they’re in deep. Ghouls don’t waste time when ripe bodies abound for the
plucking.

The
cemetery is big but we can narrow down their cubbyhole. Mausoleums are built to
last centuries and include below ground crypts to accommodate future generations.
Ghouls take over these crypts and add crude rooms and tunnels as they breed.
New as this place is, there are but five big family mausoleums.

Castle
returns to the car and finds the green folder. Opening it, he plonks his index
finger on the page, then waves it in an easterly direction. “Thataway.”

Getting
into the baldrics takes a moment but makes drawing the swords from where they rest
on our backs much easier than from a conventional sword belt, and keeps the
weapons out of our way till we need them.

He
scales the fence hand over hand on the metal mesh and lets himself down the far
side. Following, I straddle the top bar which supports the mesh and take a
second to look out over the cemetery. It stretches seemingly forever, but
plenty of space remains between grave markers. It will fill up in the next
decade. Lamps line the paths like bloody teardrops but shed little light. The
city doesn’t waste light on the dead. Markers are gray or white blotches on a
flat landscape broken by a few trees clustered near the mausoleums and some low
shrubbery. The air is dead and heavy.

I
swing my leg over, twist, and climb down the mesh, dropping the last few feet. Our
boots scrabble on a path of chipped stone as we head east toward the place
where ghouls feasted, so we step on the grass. Ghouls are nocturnal, they see
in the dark. Any above-ground will spot us coming. We don’t want to make it
easier for them by making noise.

I
suppose there are advantages to living Upside, their cities are never this
dark, there are fewer places for evil to hide. But of those who receive
permission to go Upside, most return here. Upside is too big, too bright, wide open.
Not enough shadows. They are more comfortable in the darkness and damp, the
smut and excrement. They don’t fit in the Upside world.

We
practically bounce over grass spongy from the day’s rain and navigate grave
markers, heading for the nearest mausoleum where the signature marks of ghouls
were seen. Gobbets of torn flesh, rotting entrails. A ghoul stopped for a snack
and didn’t sweep up the crumbs.

Movement
displaces the air. I draw my sword, but Castle is already spinning, sweeping,
and a ghoul’s head parts from its body.

I
crouch, arm stiff, sword angled in front. Castle is still as . . . well, still
as a corpse. He sucks in a breath a moment later and relaxes his arm. I join
him and we look down at the body parts. The torso sprawls, the head is face
down on a newer grave; it has crushed a handful of sad flowers someone left in
memory of their dearly departed. I use my sword’s tip to roll it.

Ghouls
are little more than tough, dirty-yellow hide stretched over sinew and bone.
Long torso, concave chest; long, spindly, oddly jointed arms and legs, big
hands and flat feet tipped with curved yellow nails. Skulls are bald and flat-topped.
Small, muddy-brown piggy eyes and pug noses, lipless slitty mouths. How their
bodies process food is a mystery to me. They stuff, and stuff, and never a
suggestion of a pot belly.

I
move back. “Why did it attack?” Ghouls eat more than decomposing bodies. They
pick off anything weaker including small, elderly or feeble humans. But two healthy,
armed people?

Castle
smacks his forehead. “They’re breeding and we’re near the nursery.”

Of
course. Why didn’t I think of that?

I
sheath the sword. Castle wipes his on the grass before doing the same.

Feet
whispering through dryer grass beneath trees, we continue to a large family
mausoleum of gothic style. Ornate carvings seem to writhe across its face in
the gloom. Iron struts already corroded by the damp atmosphere reinforce the
wood door beneath a deep arch. Castle walks left, I go right. Sliding through
shadow, I don’t spot any breach in the wall or holes near the foundation, nor
any ghoul leftovers. The custodian must have cleaned them up.

We
meet up again at the door. Castle fishes a skeleton key from his pocket but
pushes the door before he tries the lock. The door moves, the lock is broken.

Another
push and the door screeches open with a noise I feel in my teeth. Castle
winces. Great, the door is better than an alarm bell. I hope the ghouls are dug
in so deep they heard nothing.

We
creep through the doorway. Below, the room is gray, with deeper shadows thrown
by four sarcophagi which march down the middle. The lids are intact, the old bones
inside don’t tempt ghouls. Castle ducks to clear the lintel as we continue down
the steps and the ceiling hangs a few inches higher than his head.

An
iron railing surrounds a square hole in the floor on three sides. Steps descend
into darkness. Castle leads. We end up in an empty crypt lined with flint slabs.
No caskets, no ghouls.

He
cants his chin and speaks in a hushed voice. “There.”

Ghouls
have broken through the wall. They are not using this room, so the hole goes to
a tunnel and this is their bolt-hole, the backdoor to their nest. They may have
carved out a room beyond, but more likely a tunnel because the smell of a
ghoul’s larder doesn’t taint the stale air.

We
circle the chamber first to make sure we don’t miss anything before crouching
to look through the hole. I pull air in through my nose but still don’t smell
anything.

No,
wait, faint but there, essence of ghoul.

I
scramble over dirt and broken rock with sword drawn and pointing ahead. Dirt
sifts on my hair and a thin fibrous root dangling from above tickles my cheek. I
stand up in the tunnel, sword in both hands, straining my senses.

I’m
more or less ghoul-height; Castle is twelve inches taller and considerably
bulkier. He snarls under his breath as he comes through the hole and brushes
the sides, not at all happy when he can’t stand upright in the tunnel.

“Damn
ghouls.” He shakes his head to dislodge tiny clods of dirt in his hair.

“Yeah,”
I agree in an undertone.

We
ease along single file, conscious of the tons of un-shored dirt above our
heads. The tunnel is long and could lead to the next decent-sized mausoleum.
The stink becomes marginally stronger, the reek of spoiled meat.

“Are
we there yet, mommie?” Castle whispers.

“Almost,
sweetie.”

“Good,
‘cause my back’s killing me.”

A
noise makes me stop walking and I hold up a hand so Castle’s big mouth and
bigger feet don’t forewarn whatever heads in our direction. My body hair
bristles, I take tiny shallow breaths.

The
ghoul spots us the same time we spot him. He about-faces and runs back the way
he came. I pound after him, sword gripped in both hands, legs pumping, hair
flying back from my face, leaving Castle to follow at a fast shuffle.

I
burst into a slightly larger space. The ghoul veers right and I arrive as he
slips sideways through a crack. I move so fast, I can’t stop and don’t try. I
sail through the wall with Castle’s yell ringing in my ears.

Having
done this so often, I barely register the brief tug in my guts. But the problem
with dropping flesh and turning insubstantial is I lose everything. As if the
wall rips them away, my weapons, clothes and boots come off as I pass through.

I
reform and land in a sticky glop, skid on my spine and end up in a delightful
consommé of blood, bone, slimy guts and skin. This is no recently interred
body. The poor thing was breathing not long ago. Ghouls are chowing down and I
landed in dinner.

The
ghouls have hollowed out a small, roughly rectangular space. No glimmer lifts
the unrelieved darkness and I would be blind were I human. The walls are packed
dirt, the ceiling low. Propped up on my elbows, I return the gazes of five
ghouls, choice tidbits halfway to their mouths, who squat on their haunches in
a half-circle with me dead center. I want to pinch my nostrils. Damn, this
place stinks.

The
element of surprise is mine. Now is the time to spring into action. Instead,
trying to get on my feet, I flounder, flopping and slithering like a beached whale.
The ghouls toss aside their dinner and stand.

My
hand falls on a chewed femur dripping strings of flesh and sinew. I manage to
sit up and whack the nearest ghoul on her ear. Her head jogs over and springs
back. Hells.

A
ghoul whines and shows his teeth in a parody of a smile. My lily-white flesh
must look enticing. Another ghoul grunts.

They
are so delighted, they let me roll sideways out of the goop, although I take most
of it along for the ride on my skin, in my hair, drizzling in my eyes.
Clutching the femur, I leave a noisome trail backing to the wall, which is not
far enough. Ghouls surround me. I try to swallow but my throat is closed.

The
first moves in. I bring my foot up; sole and heel impact ghoul flesh with a
satisfying crunch as a couple of ribs crack. He flies across the small space,
but cracked ribs don’t keep a ghoul down. He gets back on his feet spitting.
His buddy ghouls watch as if to say,
aren’t you an idiot, kicked way over
there by a girl.

A
faint voice yells, “Incoming!”

He’s
not!
A grenade sails in and bounces over the floor.
The idiot, he did!
I hunch
against the wall and drop flesh as dirt and rock blast through the room, taking
the ghouls off their feet.

I
open my eyes to an obscuring haze and frantically try to blink tiny grains from
my eyes. Castle bursts in as the dust settles. The whole place shudders. Dirt
sifts from above, becomes a trickle, then a stream and the ceiling comes down
on the ghouls as they regain their feet. My eyes meet Castle’s before we drop
flesh.

We
come together again and look up. The explosion undermined the mausoleum’s
flagstone floor, which fell into the room and flattened the ghouls. Legs and
arms stick out of the heap. Viscous brown blood trickles in tiny rivulets from dirt
clods and chunks of masonry.

“Uh
oh,” Castle winces.

The
city will be less than happy with the damage done to the mausoleum. I doubt the
mausoleum’s owners will appreciate it.

“You
brought grenades?”

He
picks up his coat and shakes it so the pocket rattles. “Just a couple.”

“A
grenade?” I spit dirt from my mouth. “Underground?”

Castle
smirks. “A small one.”

“You’ve
wanted to try them out since you got them,” I accuse.

A
stone slab is inches from the hole and a dark wood casket teeters precariously
on the edge. One more teeter and over it goes. We press to the dirt walls as it
succumbs to gravity and slides end first onto the rock-and-ghoul pile. Something
pale mingles with the dirt. Flowers. Someone recently left yellow tulips for
the deceased. More dirt, dust and small pieces of masonry shower down. The
casket rests aslant on the mound, the lid half off. I’m grateful it didn’t open
and tip out the occupant.

“Oops,”
says Castle.

I
brush hands over hips, glad I lost the gunk when I disappeared because Castle
would laugh his ass off seeing me all grungy. Not that I look much better with
dirt caked to my skin. “Want to bet they deduct repair costs from our fee?”