Naked City: Tales of Urban Fantasy

“I wanna make a collect call,” he says, fishing the slip of paper Davis gave him out of his pocket and reciting the number.

He waits for the automated tone and announces himself. “It’s Henry. It’s your dad.”

A machine says, “Please hold while we connect your call.”

Leaning over the small concrete barrier, he can see the shape of himself in the water. His reflection is broken up by the water’s movement. Small pieces of himself clash and separate. He thinks that if he waits here long enough the water will calm, and his face will resolve into something familiar.

A voice speaks into the silence, filling it.

Guns for the Dead A GRAVEMINDER STORY BY MELISSA MARR

Melissa Marr is the author of the New York Times bestselling Wicked Lovely series (a film of which is in development by Universal Pictures) and the forthcoming adult novel Graveminder. Currently, she lives in the Washington, D.C., area with one spouse, two children, two Rott-Labs, and one Rottweiler. You can find her online at www.melissa-marr.com.

* * *

At the sound of boots on the plank walkway outside her shop, Alicia closed the cash box and lifted the sawed-off shotgun from a modified undercounter rack. She’d hoped that the boys would be back by now, but they weren’t daft enough to be walking in the front door of General Supplies without calling out.

She swung the shotgun up as the door opened.

The owner of the boots stopped just inside the shop. He was new enough that she didn’t recognize him. To his credit, though, he didn’t flinch at the sight of her particular brand of customer service. His gaze slipped briefly over the shop with curiosity. The interior of the frontier-town general goods store seemed a little out of time to new arrivals. Over there, more than a century had passed. She thought about updating the look, but the comforting familiarity of the dry-goods shop outweighed her discomfort over revealing her age. Screw ’em. With its tins and barrels, glass cases, and the wood floorboards, it was home, but clearly not what his home looked like.

The newcomer put his arms out to the sides, demonstrating that he was either trustworthy or idiotic. “Ma’am.”

She took in his frayed jeans, faded black T-shirt, combat boots, and a relatively new revolver in a belt holster. Most of those items were commonplace here now; she’d even acquired shirts and boots much like his in recent years. The holster he wore could be purchased in a dozen spots around the city, but post-1880 weapons came from one shop only—hers. She pursed her lips. Since she didn’t recognize him, he’d either taken it from a customer or bought it at significant upsale.

“Boyd sent me,” he said.

“And?” She didn’t lower her weapon. There was something decidedly awkward about aiming a shotgun one- armed for any time at all, but a businesswoman didn’t greet strangers unarmed. She stepped back and—using her free hand for leverage—hopped up on the counter.

The newcomer raised his brows, but his posture remained unchanged. “He said to tell you that ‘the old bastard started trouble’ and that ‘he’ll be out for a day.’”

“Huh.” Alicia lowered the shotgun so it was aimed at the floor in front of her. “And where is Boyd, that you’re delivering this message?”

“Got shot.”

She tensed. “By?”

“See, that’s the thing—”

“No,” she interrupted. She slid off the counter and stepped forward. “Simple question, shug. Shot by whom?”

“Me, but there were circumst—” The rest of his words were lost under the shotgun blast.

She threw herself to the side as she fired, hoping to dodge a return shot that didn’t come. When she realized that he hadn’t even reached for his piece, Alicia rolled to her feet.

Definitely a newcomer.

She stood and looked down at him. His blood was leaking all over her floorboards. And that’s why we don’t have carpet. She sighed. Sometimes, she had misplaced urges for finery that had no place in the shop. Maybe if it was a dark carpet. She walked around the counter but not close enough that he could pull her to the ground. Injured or not, he had a size advantage.

He looked up at her. “Least it was a slug, not scattershot.”

“You want to see what’s in the second barrel?” She extended her arm and took aim, but didn’t fire. “Why’d you shoot Boyd?”

“Had to,” the man said.

“Why?” She motioned with the gun.

The bleeder on her floor had his hands pressed over his leg wound. If he was still alive, he’d be in a sorry state, but being dead tended to change things in unpredictable ways. From the way he pressed his hands down, he was even newer than she thought: Getting used to living in the land of the dead took a little time.

“I came looking for him to ask about you, and things took a turn,” he said slowly.

Alicia sighed. “I think you’re going to need to start at the beginning … after”—she looked pointedly at his belt—“you slide that over here.”

“If I didn’t reach for it when you shot me, I’m not going to now,” he muttered, but he still pulled the pistol out of the holster and held it out toward her butt-first.

* * *

Francis Lee Lemons stared at the woman who, according to everyone he’d met since he died, ran the guns for the land of the dead.

And shot me.

He wanted a job. Straight up, plain and simple, he wanted to work for her. He’d never been on what one might call the “right” side of the law, and he didn’t see any need to change that now that he was in this odd afterlife. Getting along over here was a mite more brutal than in the living world, but he figured that a familiarity with a less-than-upstanding lifestyle would be an asset.

“Ma’am?”

Alicia glanced at him, but she didn’t say anything.

“Would it offend you overmuch if I either took off my shirt to staunch this or asked for a bandage of some sort?” he asked as respectfully as he could.

“You got any funds?”

“No, ma’am.”

“Job?”

“Not yet.” He looked directly at her. “I’m in the middle of what I hope to be a promising interview though.”

She snorted. “You’re bleeding on my floorboards. That’s promising?” She walked over to a basket of rags that sat alongside the front counter and pulled out an obviously stained one. She tossed it to him. “It’s not the cleanest, but we don’t get infections over here.”

“Yes, ma’am.” He tied it around his thigh, arranging it so as to cover both the entrance and exit wounds.

“Alicia,” she said.

He looked up, mid-knot.

“If you know enough to apply for a job, you already know my name.” She walked over and slid a bolt on the door and then proceeded to do the same at the shutters that covered the inside of the windows.