lower section of Nexus, so I made my way to the smooth curve of black stone. The stone was polished to a high shine and reflected the backlit bottles and jars that lined the shelves behind the barkeeper. I surveyed the path to the bar and recognized the scarred face and tattered ears of Torn leaning against a tall round table.
Torn was chatting up a scantily clad sylph. As Jinx and I made our way to the bar, Torn lifted his eyes from the sylph’s chest and winked. I narrowed my eyes and checked my weapons. I wasn’t feeling overly loquacious toward the cat sidhe at the moment. I had questions that needed answers, namely where I could find the mysterious Inari, but I was still annoyed with my new ally. I jerked my head in a curt nod and kept moving.
As we passed, other fae smiled, nodded, bowed, or raised their glass in salute. I forced a smile and nodded to each in turn. Out on the street it was easy to forget I was royalty, but here at Nexus my status as princess was both known and acknowledged.
“Dude, you’re like a total celebrity,” Jinx said.
Yeah, too bad that attention could get me killed. So far the fae we encountered were polite, but I knew better than to let my guard down. I kept my eyes open, shoulders loose, and gloved hands ready.
I wasn’t naive enough to believe my status as wisp princess didn’t come without its dangers. Fae, especially those of the Unseelie court to which I owed allegiance, never tired of political power plays. There could be hundreds in this very crowd who wished to usurp my throne. I took a steadying breath against the tightness in my chest, eyes flicking from face to face. Any one of these people could be a potential assassin.
“I think I need a drink,” I said.
I guided Jinx to a cluster of empty stools at the end of the bar and put my back to the wall. I caught the bartender’s eye and waved him over to take our orders. I wanted to make sure that the bartender was clear that my human vassal was not to receive any faerie wine. I let the bartender see my weapons and slipped him a fifty to guarantee he got the message.
The bartender returned with our drinks and I smiled at the pints of ale. No faerie wine in sight. Maybe this could be a fun night after all. We’d closed a difficult case, earning the respect and gratitude of dozens of faerie parents. I’d also made a breakthrough with my mother and got a lead that may help me locate my father. We did have a lot to celebrate.
For the first time since we’d entered Club Nexus, I allowed myself to relax. I was good at multitasking, and in our current location by the bar, the music wasn’t even that loud. It was a nice, quiet place to kick back with a drink and people watch. I could keep an eye out for Jinx and have a bit of fun. What could possibly go wrong?
I shouldn’t have asked. I only looked away from the room long enough to place my order with the bartender, but that was all the time it took for the demon to slide in beside Jinx.
I smelled sulphur and reached for my blades.
“Hello, sweetheart,” Forneus said. He smiled and slid his arm around Jinx. “Buy you a drink?”
So much for a nice, relaxing evening.
Coming in 2014
I’ve been seeing ghosts for as long as I can remember. Most ghosts are simply annoying; just clueless dead people who don’t realize that they’ve died. The weakest of these manifest as flimsy apparitions, without the ability for speech or higher thought. They’re like a recording of someone’s life projected not onto a screen, but onto the place where they died. Most people can walk through one of these ghosts without so much as a goosebump.
Poltergeists are more powerful, but just as single-minded. These pesky spirits are like angry toddlers. They stomp around, shaking their proverbial chains, moaning and wailing about how something (the accident, their murder, or the murder they committed) was someone else’s fault and how everyone must pay for their misfortune. Poltergeists are a nuisance; they’re noisy and can throw around objects for short periods of time, but it’s only the strong ones that are dangerous.
Thankfully, there aren’t many ghosts out there strong enough to do more than knock a pen off your desk or cause a cold spot. From what I’ve discovered while training with the Hunters’ Guild, ghosts get their power from two things—how long they’ve been haunting and strength of purpose. If someone as obsessed with killing as Jack the Ripper manifests beside you on a London street, I recommend you run. If someone as old and unhinged as Vlad the Impaler appears beside you in Targovi?te Romania, you better hope you have a Hunter at your side, or a guardian angel.
The dead get a bad rap, and for good reason, but some ghosts can be helpful. There was a woman with a kind face who used to appear when I was in foster care. Linda wasn’t just a loop of psychic recording stuck on repeat; this ghost had free will and independent thought—and thankfully, she wasn’t a sociopath consumed with bloodshed. Linda manifested in faded jeans and dark turtleneck and smelled like home, which was the other thing that was unusual about her. Most ghosts are tied to one spot, the place where they lived or died. But Linda’s familiar face followed me from one foster home to another. And it was a good thing that she did. Linda the ghost saved my life more than once.
Foster care was an excellent training ground for self defense, which is probably why the Hunters’ Guild uses it as a place for recruitment. Being cast adrift in the child welfare system gave me plenty of opportunities to hone my survival instincts. By the time the Hunters came along, I was a force to be reckoned with, or so I thought.
The Hunters’ Guild provides exceptional training and I soon learned that attempts at both offense and defense were child’s play when compared to our senior members. I didn’t berate myself over that fact; I was only thirteen when the Hunters swooped in and welcomed me into their fold. But learning my limitations did make me painfully aware of one thing. If it hadn’t been for Linda the ghost, I probably wouldn’t have survived my childhood.
The worst case of honing of my survival skills had been at my last foster home, just before the Hunters’ Guild intervened. I don’t remember the house mother. She wasn’t around much. She was just a small figure in a cheap, polyester fast food uniform with a stooped posture and downcast eyes. But I remember her husband Frank.
Frank was a bully who wore white, ketchup and mustard stained, wife-beater t-shirts. He had perpetual French fry breath and a nasty grin. It took me a few weeks to realize that Frank’s grin was more of leer. I’d caught his gaze in the bathroom mirror when I was changing and his eyes said it all; Frank was a perv. Linda slammed the door in his face, but that didn’t stop Frank. Frank would brush up against me in the kitchen and Linda would set the faucet spraying across the tiles…and slide a knife into my hand. My time in that house ended when Frank ended up in the hospital.
I’d been creeping back to the bedroom I shared with three other kids, when I saw Frank waiting for me in the shadows. I pulled the steak knife I kept hidden in the pocket of my robe, but I never got a chance to use it. Now that I know a thing or two about fighting with a blade, I’m aware that Frank probably would have won that fight. I tried to run toward the stairs, but Frank met me at the top landing. Frank reached for me while his bulk effectively blocked my escape. That was when Linda the ghost pushed him down the stairs. I remember him tumbling in slow motion, his eyes going wide and the leering grin sliding from his face.
Linda the ghost had once again saved me, but it seemed that this visit was her last. I don’t know if she used up her quota of psychic power, or if she just felt like her job here was finally done. It wasn’t until years later that I realized she was my mother.
I guess I should have realized sooner that I was related to the ghost who followed me around. We both have hair the same shade of shocking red. But where mine is straight and cropped into a short bob, Linda’s was wavy and curled down around her shoulders. We also share a dimple in our left cheek and a propensity for protecting the weak and innocent from evil.
Linda the ghost disappeared, a wailing ambulance drove Frank to the hospital, police arrived at my foster house, and the Hunters swooped in and cleaned up the aftermath. It was from my first Guild master that I learned of my parents’ fate and put two and two together about my ghostly protector.
As a kid I often wondered why Linda the ghost always wore a dark turtleneck; now I knew. Young, rogue vamps had torn out her neck and proceeded to rip my father to pieces like meat confetti. My parents were on
