Naked City: Tales of Urban Fantasy

abandoned to old gods.

Her lurid yellow shopping bags lay scattered around the cabin like votive offerings of giant sweets. A stray cat emerged from one of them and yowled.

She looked up at the swirling sky. Something had changed. The air was alive with small insects. She thought she could hear the roots of trees crackling like scalded ice as they meandered beneath the softening tarmac of the road.

Helen Abbott breathed deeply. With each passing second she felt darker than the night and brighter than the stars. Something was kindling and catching within her. She could smell it in her nostrils, a freshness stronger and sharper than Clarins Sheer Citrus Moisturizing Mist or Coco De Mer Bitter Chocolate Body Butter.

In fact, when she tried to think of all those spot-lit branded jars and bottles lined up on the store shelves, she could only conjure images of exploding glass and splattering ointments. Rack after rack of skimpy garments, bursting into flame, shriveling and browning in the heat. Packets of tights spitting droplets of molten plastic. A Plexiglas bathroom shelf unit held up by plastic mermaids, shattering into a million blunt shards. A Devonshire buffalo-grain boudoir chair blasted into scraps and springs and stuffing. A thousand sizzling pairs of nearly identical trainers, a million rugs and glasses, vases and table lamps and coffee machines and computer keyboards all catching alight and melting, lifting and rolling and blowing away.

Each department store flared up in turn with a sudden whump like indoor lightning, followed by the popping of lightbulbs and the gentle bubbling of gilt paintwork. They glowed fiercely and soon burned themselves out into blackened shells.

The city was now dark and dead and windy, washed with the stinging baptism of rainfall, the streets split apart by emerald offshoots springing from the sap of rapidly rising trees.

Helen shook the visions from her head. Her cheeks, breasts, buttocks, legs were burning. She dug into her bag, checked that the gun was loaded, aimed it high and fired a single bullet into the sky. Then she hurled the Derringer as hard as she could in the direction of the river and headed home.

Her high heels were starting to pinch her, so she took them off and walked barefoot across the concrete toward the station. In the warmth left by her departing soles, grass sprouted up through the cracks in the pavement.

Fairy Gifts BY PATRICIA BRIGGS

Patricia Briggs is the number-one New York Times bestselling author of the Mercy Thompson and the Alpha and Omega series as well as a number of traditional fantasy novels. She was born and raised in Butte, Montana, a city steeped in stories and storytellers—and the odd hobgoblin or two. She currently lives in eastern Washington State with her husband, children, and various and numerous animals.

* * *

Butte, Montana, present day, mid-December

Cold didn’t bother him anymore, but he remembered how it felt: the sharp bite of winter on toes, fingers, nose, and ears. Even with modern adaptations, ten degrees below zero wouldn’t be pleasant. Neither the temperature nor falling snow kept people out of the streets for the Christmas stroll, however. Hot apple cider, freshly made sausages, and abundant cookies under the streetlights strove to make up for the nasty weather—none of which were useful sustenance for him. He passed them by with scarcely a glance.

Well, then, he thought, impatient with himself, what are you doing here? He had no more answer now than he’d had two nights ago when he’d arrived.

The people who lived in the old mining town had always known how to party. In a hundred years that hadn’t changed. Brutal climate, hard and dangerous work brought a certain clarity to the need for pleasure.

His Chinese face garnered a few looks—curiosity, no more. A century ago, Butte had had a large Chinese population. Then, the looks he’d garnered had been dismissive up on the street level but full of eagerness or fear down in his father’s opium den in the mining tunnels where Thomas had been both guide and enforcer.

It was not just the looks that had changed. The streets were not cobbled, there were no trolleys, no horses. Steep streets had been somewhat tamed, and the town—once a bustling place—had a desolate air, despite the festive decorations. Buildings he remembered were abandoned or gone altogether, replaced by parking lots or parks. The few restored or well-kept buildings only made the rest look worse.

Some of the changes were vast improvements. The smelters and ore-processing plants now long closed meant that the sulfurous fog that had made it difficult to see across the street was gone. The air was immensely more pleasant to breath. The night was free of the constant noise of the machinery that churned day and night.

The crowd that moved beside him on the sidewalks was a respectable size, though much smaller than those that had filled the streets of his memories. He hadn’t decided to count that on the good side or the bad side of the changes.

He put his hands in front of his mouth and blew, a gesture to blend in, no more. Even had his hands been frozen, his breath wouldn’t warm them.

He didn’t know why he’d come back here. Just in time for the Christmas stroll, no less. He wasn’t a Christian, despite the nuns who had ensured he could read and write: an education for her children was the only thing his quiet, obedient mother had ever stood up to his father for.

If … if he did believe, he’d have to believe he was damned, and had been since his father had brought him to the old man.

Butte, Montana, 1892, April

“Here is the son,” his father said, his voice less clear than usual. It was hard to talk with a mouth that had been hit so many times.

Last night his father had been set upon by a group of miners who wanted opium and had not wanted to pay for it. They had beaten Father and tied him up. It had been Thomas’s day to protect the shop; his older brother, Tao, was away on other business. Thomas had been shot in the arm, and while he tried to stanch the blood, one of the miners had cracked his skull with a beer bottle.

When Thomas awoke, his mother had bandaged his hurts and was crying silently as she sometimes did. From Tao, because his father would not look at him nor talk to him, he learned that his father had given the men what they wanted and more: Arsenic in the opium would ensure that they thieved from no one again. But despite the ultimate victory in the fight, his father felt that his honor and that of his family had been impinged. He made it clear that he blamed Thomas for the shame.

The next morning his father had left Tao in charge of the laundry and gone out to speak with friends. He’d been gone most of the day, and Thomas had worked hard despite his aching arm, seeking to assuage his disgrace with diligence. His uncles, his father’s brothers, had stopped in with gifts of herbs, whiskey, and his grandmother’s ginger cookies. They spoke to his mother in hushed whispers.

His father returned after the sun was down and the laundry storefront was closed. He hadn’t said anything to the rest of the family gathered there. He’d only looked at Thomas.

“You,” he’d said in English, which was the language he used when he was displeased with Thomas, because, to his father’s horror, Thomas, born in America, was as fluent in English as in Cantonese. “You come.”

According to his brother Tao, when Thomas was born a few weeks after his family had come to the New World, his father had given him an American name in a fit of optimism. It must have been true, but Thomas could never imagine his father being optimistic or excited about anything American.

Obediently, Thomas followed his father up the steep streets to a single-story house nestled between two new apartment buildings. There was a dead tree in the yard. Maybe it had been planted in a fit of optimism.

His father entered the unpainted door without knocking and left it to Thomas to close it behind them. The incense burning on a small table didn’t quite cover a sour, charnel-house smell. Thomas followed his father through a partially furnished front room and down the narrow and uneven stairs to the basement, where the odor of dead things was replaced by the scent of the dynamite that had been used to blast the basement into the granite that