Gypsy Blood

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NOVELS:

Devil Tree

NOVELLAS:

Long Horn, Big Shaggy

COLLECTIONS:

Nothing to Lose (Volume 1 of the Adventures of Captain Nothing)

Nothing Down (Volume 2 of the Adventures of Captain Nothing)

Roadside Ghosts

The Weird Ones

Two Fisted Nasty

UNABRIDGED AUDIOBOOKS:

Nothing to Lose (Volume 1 of the Adventures of Captain Nothing)

Nothing Down (Volume 2 of the Adventures of Captain Nothing)

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Gypsy Blood

A Preview of
Devil Tree

A Preview of
Long Horn, Big Shaggy

Climbing Broken Ladders

C
arnival closed his eyes but it was darker inside than out. He settled for an Eastwood squint. The squint would have worked if he’d had a cigarillo to bite down on. Too bad he didn’t smoke.

Hurry up, boy. Time has never learned how to crawl.

What the hell was he thinking? Standing here in the doorway of the
Second
Chance
Church
and Wedding Chapel, leaning on an eight foot wooden stepladder, with wads of candle wax stuffed in his ears. There were worse ways to commit suicide but at the moment he couldn’t think of one. At least it was a good stepladder. He’d hunted seven city blocks to find it. There was magic in sevens, wasn’t there? He counted ladder rungs, searching for a sign.

“This has got to be one of the stupidest stunts I’ve ever tried.”

Are you made of broken clocks? Hurry up.

That was Poppa, grumbling. Poppa’s grumbling sounded like slow wet rocks churning in the darkness deep inside Carnival’s chest where Poppa lived.

“Don’t rush me, Poppa. I’m thinking”

Think faster. There are three roofers sitting up on the roof of the house from where you stole this ladder. By now, they’re wondering how they’ll get down.

“Poppa, I looked. There was nobody on the roof.”

I counted three roofers. Maybe you didn’t see them. Open your eyes.

Carnival decided that Poppa was lying about the roofers. Lying was Poppa’s favorite hobby. What did lies ever hurt? Every man needed a hobby, even a dead man and Poppa was as dead as they got.

“Three’s good luck, isn’t it?”

Poppa shrugged. It was a funny feeling; someone shrugging their shoulders inside your chest - like a small wet belch with bony shoulders, waiting to be born.

Ask Shemp.

“Who’s Shemp?”

Poppa said nothing. Carnival went back to his counting. There was magic in numbers. Accountants never saw that. You had to ask a Bingo player if you wanted to get to the truths of life.

Because he was being ignored rather than doing the ignoring, Poppa chose to speak.

Shemp was the third stooge. There were five stooges in all, but because you never saw more than three at any time you thought of them as one. A sacred trinity of comedy. Larry, Moe and the other one.

“Shemp?”

Could be Shemp. Could be Curly Joe, or even the one they just called Curly. One in three, three in one. Good things come wrapped in triangles – like a slice of gooseberry pie.

It was hard to ignore Poppa. Even the candle wax in Carnival’s ears didn’t help. Poppa could be more intrusive than a wet willie of cold finger bone and pure sulphuric acid.

Shemp died. A heart attack. Remember that boy - you cannot trust your heart. Three on a match burns your fingers, every time.

It was hard to ignore anyone who lived in a little cage of meat and bone just east of your beating heart. Like a ticking clock, placed in a dead dog’s bed, all you could do was listen.

Ticking clocks usually go boom. Hurry up, you’re wasting time.

Carnival ignored Poppa. Nuisances went away if you ignored them long enough.

And where would I go? This cage is stronger than a sour garlic milkshake.

It ought to be strong. Carnival built it himself with magic, prayers and sacrifice. It took three nights of bargains and counter spells. He still tasted the memory of the magic he’d put into building the cage and the taste made him want to spit.

Hurry up. You’re so slow. Have you been drinking molasses with your tea?

Carnival pretended deafness. Poppa didn’t like that. The old man’s distemper burned like old coal. Soul heartburn, nothing hurt worse. Carnival grinned. Pissing off Poppa was endless pleasure that made it easier to face the hell-on-two-legs he was here to confront. He stared at the silver painted spikes he’d driven into each end of the ladder.

Painted nails? What kind of magic do you think you’ll make with painted nails? Some shuvano you are.

Shuvano
was the Rom word for witch or wise man - which was what Carnival was supposed to be. Of course, Poppa had a point but Carnival would be damned if he’d let him know. Of course real silver would be better than painted nails, but how could a simple back street fortune teller afford spikes of silver?

You could steal them. A real Gypsy would. Oh, wait, what am I saying?

Carnival bit his lip, pretending Poppa’s last shot hadn’t hurt. His teeth drew blood. There was a thin crack running straight up the left side of the ladder. He kissed the crack, smearing his blood upon the wood. That was a bit more magic, even stronger than numbers. Blood was strong and Gypsy blood was strongest of all.

You’re no Gypsy. Stop lying to yourself.

Carnival stared at the crack.

He concentrated on it.

Poshrat!

Poshrat
. It meant half breed and the word hurt Carnival worse than the bit lip. He ignored the insult and stared all the harder. The crack in the ladder seemed to widen just a little, the harder he stared.

“Come on now baby. Your daddy is ready for some loving.”

The ladder began to tremble.

Halfblood!

“I see you,” Carnival said. “In the shadows, in the back.”

Nothing. Was the church empty? Had he imagined her evil presence?

No way.

“Lilith spawn,” he shouted. “Sucker of skivvy-scum. Dampener of good bad dreams. Come out. I see you.”

You see nothing, Val my boy. There’s nobody here but echoes
.

And then she stepped out of the shadows from the back of the church. One of the deadliest females Carnival had ever seen.

She’s not female. She’s just painted herself that way.

She looked female enough to Carnival - all streak and line and curve and shadow. Flesh and flash running in the ways that made a man scream of angels and hellfire.

“You’re done here,” Carnival whispered. “I’m here to end you.”

She didn’t look impressed. He didn’t blame her. He and his silver-painted two-spike stepladder didn’t look all that dangerous.

 
“I’m here to finish you.”

Tell her a joke. Women love to laugh. A giggle and a wiggle go hand in hand
.

Carnival stared hard at the boot polished rungs, trying to conjure up John Wayne fantasies as he circled the wagons of his courage. The best he could manage was a daydream of a pissed off Chill Wills.

Tell her how much you earned last year. She’ll laugh her head off.

Carnival grinned. Poppa was funny when he wanted to. The grin took the edge off of his fears.

And you could thank me for that.

For the thousandth time since he’d caged Poppa, Carnival wondered why he hadn’t installed a mute button.

“Thank you Poppa.”

He stepped closer to the woman in the shadows, trying hard not to listen to his Poppa, trying harder to avoid her awful stare. Her eyes flashed and he felt it like sparks flung from an angry fire. He risked a glance. She caught the glance like a back fielder snagging an easy line drive. She held the glance hard, a cold frozen gaze. Carnival couldn’t move. Not forward, not back.

Good.

He liked it this way.

Having no options kept things simple.

He smiled and whispered her true name, stepping closer into the shadows.

“Succubus.”

The succubus was the kind of woman that wanted to be stared at. She demanded it by her very existence. She was the kind of woman that made a man want to burn the Mona Lisa for daring to think itself a work of art. It wasn’t so much her looks. It was the thoughts she poked into your skull. The dreams she stirred and the images she conjured. A wave of cool heat rolled off of her.

Carnival shivered.

He reminded himself to be brave.

He could take her.

You and what army of silver painted tongue depressors? You’re under gunned boy, doomed to die.

“Shut up Poppa. I’m trying to fight.”

You’re trying to get yourself killed. Why piss on a dragon in her lair?

Carnival tried to suck up enough saliva to spit but his mouth forgot what courage tasted like. The succubus smiled as implacable and silent as a carved Buddha grin.