Ink and Shadows (43 page)

A rattling iron-gated elevator grumbled up to the fourth floor of the warehouse’s top level, shuddering as it passed between second and third. Outside, downtown San Diego shuffled on its way, pausing only to scream or piss into the gutters, the Veil clouded with wraiths feeding on the raucous clusters of people, dark seagulls picking fodder from the air.

“We can find you someplace better,” Mal countered. “Someplace safer.”

“Don’t push, Mal,” Kismet replied, squatting to dig through the box at the Horseman’s feet. They’d raided a thrift store, picking through the battered pots and pans. He’d wondered at Mal’s insistence on including a baking sheet, perhaps driven by dreams of hot cookies coming from a nonexistent oven, but Kismet shrugged, adding it to the pile. The artist thought twice about giving in to Mal’s quirks, as he struggled to dislodge the more necessary dish drainer from the tangled mess wedged inside a box.

A shape danced alone in a corner of the loft, formless except for askew arms and legs flying about, its head a blank appendage missing telltale features. Kismet blissfully ignored the specter, leaving it to its solitary celebration. He’d wanted to put a lamp in that corner, a tall halogen torch they’d rescued from a trash pile, but it would have to sit a few feet away, leaving the ghost in peace. Finally triumphant over the drainer, Kismet nearly tumbled back on his rear, caught in Mal’s steady hands.

The Horseman helped the smaller man to his feet, taking the drainer from Kismet. Sniffing at the moldy smell clinging to the rubber mat, Mal turned on the hot water at the sink, waiting for the faucet to run clear after spurting a rusty stream into the basin. A tint of red remained, then disappeared, the drain coughing as it struggled to swallow the rush of water.

A child’s voice echoed in the spacious area, bouncing gleefully off the walls. Unseen, Chase’s laughter ran along the edges of the main room before dashing into the bathroom, folding into the tiled walls. Kismet followed the sound, his eyes unreadable and clouded. Intent on Kismet’s pretty face, Mal’s soul saddened at the pain living there, simmering just below the surface.

“At least let us make this place a sanctuary. I might be able to if Death teaches me. He says it’s just a matter of leaving a part of myself here. It’ll keep the shadows and ghosts away,” Mal offered. “Although I wish you’d reconsider living with us.”

“Mal, come on, man. Leave off.” Kismet waved away his friend’s protests. “We’ve already had this conversation. I can’t do that to Chase. Even if he’s not really here. What’s left of him is all the family I’ve got.”

“We’re your family.” Mal saw the disbelieving glance Kismet gave him. “Okay, I’ll be your family. Death too. He’s good. Ari just needs some time, and Min cares. In a Min kind of way.”

“Ari needs to get laid.” Another set of mixing bowls lay at the bottom of one box, and Kismet wondered just how many bowls someone really needed. He set the smaller ones aside, thinking of using them for mixing paints. “You’d think that old Mustang Death got him would have done the trick.”

“It did, a little bit.” Leaning on the counter, the immortal grinned.

Ari nearly wept with joy when Death led him downstairs and showed him the vintage Grande Coupe he’d bought for him. He’d been offered the first ride, an honor that touched Mal deeply. Since then, he’d almost forgiven Ari for the scare he’d been given when the older immortal opened the engine up on the freeway and nearly sent them into next week.

“Yeah, now he’s down in the garage waxing the car and thinking lewd thoughts about Death. Porn’s much cheaper.” Holding up a whisk, Kismet grimaced at Mal. “What the hell were you on when we were shopping? It looks like you were possessed by a magpie or something.”

“I think I was distracted,” Mal admitted slowly. He’d spent more time watching Kismet pick through the shelves than actually shopping, and he’d guiltily thrown things into the basket to look busy. He’d already discovered two sets of salt and pepper shakers, and who knew what was still lurking in the boxes they had left.

“I’m not taking you with me anymore. It’s like you see something that looks halfway domestic and you toss it in.” Laughing, Kismet grabbed an apron, its frilled laces dangling over the edge of the cardboard. “You’ve got some issues. Dude, there’s more bowls in here! What the hell?”

“I like bowls.” He shrugged, taking the bright Fiesta ware and placing it in the cabinet. “I liked the colors. They’re kind of happy.”

“Mal, bowls can’t make you happy.” Kismet nearly jerked his hand up, unsure if the dark, skittering shape he just saw was a wraith or a cockroach. “Okay, maybe they can make you happy, but they don’t do it for me.”

“I want to make things work for you.” Mal opened the lid of a packing box, then pulled out unfolded clothes and an odd shoe. His hands closed over a rolled-up towel, its edge unraveling as he placed it on the battered Formica table they’d dragged up from his SUV. “Maybe if I try hard enough, I can fix everything that’s gone wrong. I just don’t know where to start.”

A piece of tubing and syringes scattered out of the bundle, small foil packets folded into tight squares gleaming on the washed-out terry cloth. The kit lay where it fell, inert and poisonous in Mal’s eyes. Kismet stood silent, watching the other as he gathered up the items, rolling them carefully into their towel coffin, and handed it to Kismet. His fingers closed over Mal’s hand, holding on tightly.

“I’m trying, Mal. I haven’t used in a while, but it’s not going to go away overnight,” Kismet whispered. “You can’t fix me. I have to do it myself.”

“But you know you’re not broken.” Mal bowed his head, resting his forehead on Kismet’s temple, and sighed, exasperation heavy in his breath. He fisted his hands in Kismet’s shirt, wanting to either push the young man away or hold him closer. The loneliness in his life eased when Kismet was around, his husky laugh a memory Mal brushed over gently before he fell asleep. He wanted that sense of peace for Kismet. “Everything you see is real. You don’t need this shit to help you run away anymore.”

“I’m a bad influence on you. I’m pretty sure you didn’t swear before you met me,” the young man said, rubbing his cheek on Mal’s before pulling away. “Death must be so proud.”

“I’m serious,” Mal said. The immortal watched as Kismet placed the kit back into the box, burying it beneath old clothing he’d bought for rags. “I want to help you deal with this.”

“I’m doing the best I can,” Kismet assured him, dragging another box for the kitchen closer to one of the cabinets. “I’m not going to promise you that I’m going to be clean tomorrow or even the day after. It’s going to take time, and there’s going to be some days that I just am not going to be able to go through without it. You’re either going to have to deal with that or walk away.”

“I told you I’m not going anywhere, Kiz,” Mal said. “Hell, we’ve been shot together, sort of. That’s not something Death and Ari can claim.”

They continued to unpack, quietly companionable, at times pulling items from the thrift-store boxes and wondering at the other’s taste. Kismet dug around at the bottom of one of the boxes, finding a small velvet pouch tucked into its corner. Curious, he tugged open the ties, then shook out a leather thong strung with five dark green jade beads. Pursing his lips at the immortal, Kismet held the beads up to Mal’s face, a quirk of a smile as he waited for an explanation.

“Somehow I don’t think we got this at the Rags in a Box.” Kismet’s fingers worked over the carved jade. He traced over the kanji, then rubbed at the leather knotted to keep the beads centered on the thong. “What’s this?”

“I got it for you. Well, I had it made.” Mal took the leather from Kismet’s hands, sliding the threaded beads around the artist’s neck. The Horseman tied the thong around Kismet’s throat, then took a step back. “Those are our names, the Four and you. That’s Kismet in the middle. Death and War are to the left, and Pestilence and Famine are to the right.”

“Tell me that Death and you are next to me and not Ari or Min.” Kismet touched the beads, the jade cool against his skin. “Okay, I don’t mind Min. Ari, he’s just an ass.”

“Yeah, we are.” Mal grinned, a sense of satisfaction filling his chest at the sight of his name hanging around Kismet’s throat. “I wanted to give you something so you knew that you were never alone. The Four’s here for you. I’m here for you.”

“Ari wanted to kill me. More than once,” Kismet reminded him. “He said it was the best thing you all could do.”

“I think that’s Ari’s way of showing affection,” Mal responded. “He’s been wanting to kill me for years. Death says it means he likes you.”

“Then he must think I’m God or something.” Running his fingers over the kanji, he blinked at the moisture in his eyes. Stretching, he brought himself up to the immortal’s height. “Thanks, Mal. I like it a lot.”

It was a simple kiss, the touch of a soft tongue against Mal’s bottom lip and then a sigh of a breath into the warmth of his mouth. It was enough to send shivers through the immortal’s soul, and he stilled, letting Kismet explore him. Too quickly, it was done, and cold air rushed into Mal’s lungs when the young man pulled away.

“You’re welcome.” Finally able to breathe, Mal leaned in, bumping shoulders with his friend. “I’m just glad you’re here.”

“I’m glad you’re here too,” Kismet said.

A bowl leaped from the counter, spinning in midair before crashing against the far wall. Another followed, larger shards scattering on the painted floor, a chunk flying as far as the mattresses positioned around the potbellied stove set in a near corner. Chase peered out of the wall, eyes wide and shocked at the commotion. Sliding back into the shadows, he left behind a gray mist on the gypsum board, its edges creeping out like mold. Amid the busy street noises coming from the half-open windows, a woman’s voice lifted into a giggle, then fell away, leaving Mal and Kismet alone once again.

“Well, lucky for me, you’ve got this bowl fetish.” Kismet shrugged, shaking out a dish towel. “Or I might have had to reconsider that sanctuary thing.”

“You should reconsider it anyway.”

Kismet gave Mal a long steady look, sincere and open. Resting his elbows on the counter, he put his chin on his clenched hands and said with a smile, “Only if you could reassure me that it could keep Ari out. And maybe you in.”

R
HYS
F
ORD
admits to sharing the house with three cats of varying degrees of black fur and a ginger cairn terrorist. Rhys is also enslaved to the upkeep of a 1979 Pontiac Firebird, a Toshiba laptop, and an overworked red coffee maker.

Rhys can be found at the following locations:

Blog: www.rhysford.com

Facebook: https://www.facebook.com/rhys.ford.author

Twitter: @Rhys_Ford

Black Dog Blues

By Rhys Ford

Ever since being part of the pot in a high-stakes poker game, elfin outcast Kai Gracen figures he used up his good karma when Dempsey, a human Stalker, won the hand and took him in. Following the violent merge of Earth and Underhill, the human and elfin races are left with a messy, monster-ridden world, and Stalkers are the only cavalry willing to ride to someone’s rescue when something shadowy appears.

It’s a hard life but one Kai likes—filled with bounty, a few friends, and most importantly, no other elfin around to remind him of his past. And killing monsters is easy. Especially since he’s one himself.

But when a sidhe lord named Ryder arrives in San Diego, Kai is conscripted to do a job for Ryder’s fledgling Dawn Court. It’s supposed to be a simple run up the coast during dragon-mating season to retrieve a pregnant human woman seeking sanctuary. Easy, quick, and best of all, profitable. But Kai ends up in the middle of a deadly bloodline feud he has no hope of escaping.

No one ever got rich being a Stalker. But then few of them got old either and it doesn’t look like Kai will be the exception.

http://www.dsppublications.com