Contents
Cover
RICK THE BRAVE
HOME
CLOSE TO YOU
KEEPING IT CLOSE
PLAYING WITH FIRE
Copyright
“Rick the Brave” is the first Downside short I wrote, which is why it’s placed first here even though it was the second published. I’d wanted to do a story from the point of view of a Downside outsider pretty much from the beginning, and it was a lot of fun to write Chess, Terrible, and their world from that viewpoint.
By the time this was published--in the HOME IMPROVEMENT: UNDEAD EDITION anthology--CITY OF GHOSTS had already been released, so my attempts to keep Chess and Terrible’s relationship at least a little bit under wraps for spoiler-avoidance purposes didn’t matter so much, but writing it with that in mind was a nifty little challenge anyway. I was and am really proud of this story and that I was invited to contribute to the anthology.
1.
HIS WALLET WAS EMPTY, SO Rick took the job.
It wasn’t a job anybody else wanted—well, hell, if it had been, somebody else would have taken it already, specifically his sister’s husband, who’d told him about it. Apprentice electricians didn’t often get handed five grand off the books for what would amount to only a couple of days’ worth of work. So much for Shelley telling him he’d never make any decent money. And calling him a wimp. And dumping him for that sleazy car salesman.
Would a wimp take a job in Downside? Ha, no. No way. Like anybody else in Triumph City with half a brain and without a particular death wish, Rick had never gotten closer to the area than the stretch of Highway 300 that ran past it—over it—and he’d never wanted to. It was the kind of place where even the police didn’t go, the kind of place where you could find yourself a hooker or find yourself in mortal danger any hour of the day or night.
But here he was, with his toolbag slung over his shoulder in what he hoped was a nonchalant fashion, standing with two other guys in the dusty, empty main room of a ramshackle house, while outside the streets rang with laughter and screams and loud music.
A sort of grunting noise—it took him a second to realize it was someone speaking on the next floor—and they trooped up the creaky stairs toward it, past shreds of old wallpaper which fluttered as they passed like ghostly fingers.
Now that was something he didn’t even want to think about.
Looked like the other guys didn’t feel the same.
“Any spooks up here, I throwing you at em,” the guy in front—he called himself Delman, of all things—told the one behind him, who was apparently known as “Barreltop.”
Barreltop laughed. Rick did too, the sort of too-hearty laughter that always made him feel like an ass.
The others didn’t seem to notice, though, or maybe they already thought he was an ass so they didn’t care. It was quickly becoming obvious that he didn’t belong here. The others seemed to know each other and probably lived in the area, although why they’d live in Downside if they were making this kind of money often, he had no idea.
It couldn’t be because they liked the ambience. The house stood only a few blocks away from the slaughterhouse, and while the breeze was luckily going in the other direction, the smell was still there when it stopped. It tingled his sinuses like a sneeze he couldn’t get out.
A few oil lamps sat on the floor of the room at the left of the stairs, casting wide U-shaped shadows against the dingy walls with their broken plaster and loose wires. Before Haunted Week and the utter destruction caused by the rampaging ghosts, before the Church of Real Truth had taken power and banished them below the earth, this had been a grand home. Now it was a corpse waiting for cremation. Or renovation, which was why they were here: wiring it for power, reinforcing the floors with steel.
Thick sheets of that steel rested against the far wall, between two high empty windows. A few shreds of fabric danced in front of one of them, the remains of curtains still trying to do their job.
Which was what he should be doing. He looked away from them, back at the other two, and found them staring at him, arms crossed, eyebrows lifted.
That pose was mirrored by the hulking man leaning against one of the walls in black jeans and a black bowling shirt. Shit, he was big. Rick took an involuntary step back, then regretted it when the big guy smirked. Mean-looking, too; the expression wasn’t pleasant on his scarred, broken face, shadowed by the black fifties-style greaser haircut. For the first time Rick began to seriously doubt he would make it out of the building alive, or at least with all his limbs intact. He could see that guy ripping out an arm and snacking on it, just for fun.
“You ready now?” the big guy said, and Rick realized they were still all looking at him, that he’d been openly staring.
He nodded. “Yeah. Um, sorry.”
The guy’s chin dipped. “You got the knowledge what needs doin, aye? Choose you a room, get them floorboards up. Half the floor, dig, then we get the steel in.”
He pulled a cigarette out of his pocket, snapped open a black steel lighter. The room brightened for a second with the six-inch flame of the lighter, dimmed again when he snapped it shut and re-folded his tattooed arms. Barreltop and Delman walked past the stairs, into the room opposite, leaving Rick alone with the big guy. Why were they both leaving? Weren’t they going to take up the floorboards?
“Gotta problem?”
“I’m just wondering what you want me to do. Where you want me to start.”
The big guy stared at him. “Over yon corner be good. Crowbar’s there.”
“But I’m an electrician, I don’t—”
“You wanting payment, aye?”
“Well, yeah, but—”
“Crowbar’s there.”
Five thousand dollars, he reminded himself, crossing the floor and picking up the crowbar; he felt the big guy’s eyes on him but didn’t turn around to look. Instead he put the flat end of the bar under the edge of a floorboard, and pushed down.
For five minutes or so the only sound in the house was the tearing and clattering of floorboards as they were wrenched from their places, and the chatter of the guys in the next room as they worked. Even this late—it was close to eleven—Rick’s shirt was damp with sweat, his throat dry from rotten dust. Dead mice and insect skeletons littered the layer of wood beneath the floor.
He needed the money. He needed the money. His car payments were killing him—that fucking car Shelley wanted him to buy—and five grand would pay it off and give him a bit left over. Left over to buy presents for another girl, once he found one. A girl who would appreciate a more…cerebral man.
There were girls like that out there, right?
Of course. So a few nights of misery were worth it, because he could picture the boards were Shelley’s new boyfriend’s face as he tore them to hell. And once the boards were up he’d get to do some wiring.
But good as the image of what’s-his-name’s terrified expression made him feel, he wasn’t going to kill himself for imaginary revenge, either, so he headed for the cooler by the doorway and grabbed a bottle of water. Vicious brutes like himself got thirsty some—
A scream from the other room. A horrible scream, a terrified one, made even worse by the fact that it was a deep voice, a man’s voice.
The big guy knocked Rick down as he ran past, sending him spinning to the floor. What the hell was going on?
Dust filled his nose and throat, stung his eyes and made it impossible to see. For one confused minute as he struggled to his feet he was only aware of thundering footsteps and the big guy cursing.
Then the others yelled, more yelling. Panic. Rick finally used his head and dumped water over his face, and saw them all backing into the hall, away from the ghost as it crossed the floor.
A ghost.
A ghost. Holy shit.
He knew hauntings happened, of course. Ten years ago a family on his street had one, and the resulting payout from the Church had moved them into a newer, bigger house somewhere else. Like any child growing up after Haunted Week he’d heard the half-serious laments of his parents, wishing they had a ghost themselves, just a small harmless one but one that would earn them a settlement too, to pay for college for Rick and his sister.
But they’d never really wanted that—who in their right mind would?—and Rick had never seen one.
And now he did, and he was in an unfamiliar part of town where he doubted he’d survive ten minutes on the streets by himself, and he was about to get up close and personal with that ghost because he’d bought a too-expensive car to get into some gold-digger’s pants.
Life sucked.
But he still wanted to hold on to it.
Barreltop and Delman didn’t seem to think this was the moment to get philosophical. They raced down the stairs so fast Rick wouldn’t have thought their feet touched the wood if he hadn’t heard the noise of it.
The big guy backed away from the ghost, his hands raised, and Rick jumped to his feet, realizing even as he did that it was too late. The ghost had almost reached the stairs. It would be blocking his way in another second, and he didn’t particularly rate his chances on getting past it. It would attack him, kill him, try to steal his life for itself… Every hair on his body stood on end. It was like he could feel each individual air molecule hitting them.
“Ain’t can hurt you lessin it gots a weapon,” the big guy muttered as he kept backing up.
The ghost’s hands were thankfully empty, but the chances of them staying that way were pretty impossible. Shards of wood littered the floor, and the ghost would probably spot them—and lunge for them—in about two seconds.
Funny how something so ephemeral, something that looked like nothing more than a person-shaped blob of light, could be so full of hate. So terrifying. Especially when it was so clearly female, tall and slender in a long gown, hair piled high upon its head. It had been a lovely woman once, he thought—he guessed, because the expression on her translucent face was so angry and contemptuous it made him shiver.
She stood there, looking back and forth between Rick and the big guy. Probably trying to decide which of them to kill first. And with Rick’s luck, it would probably be him.
Sure enough, she lunged for him. Rick stumbled in his haste to jump back, fell to the floor with a teeth-rattling thud.
She advanced toward him; he crawled back, an awkward crab-like movement over the slippery pile of rotted floorboards. He didn’t want to die like this, didn’t want this dilapidated husk of a house to be the last place he saw—
Something black swung through the ghost. She shrieked—she didn’t shriek, no sound came out, but her mouth opened and her entire form wavered and expanded.
The big guy stood with a bar in his hands like a baseball bat. Not just a bar. It was the curtain-rod from the window, and it must have been made of iron, because when he swung it again the ghost stepped back.
He glanced at Rick again. “Get up. Take this. Gotta make me a call.”
A call? Like on the phone? Was he crazy? “Shouldn’t we just get out of here, I mean—”
“Think it ain’t gonna chase us? Take this. Now.”
The sweat on his skin didn’t help him grip the thing. Nor did the growing idea that if he slipped up the ghost wasn’t the only one in the room who might kill him.
“Don’t quit on the swingin, dig? You quit swingin, we both of us die.”
“No pressure,” Rick muttered, but he did as he was told, ignoring the frantic pounding of his heart.
Behind him the big guy started talking. “Hey. Naw, gots us a problem. Naw, naw, I’m right, but us got a ghost here. Guessing—aye. Aye, no worryin. Got an iron bar, keeping it back. Aye.”
Rick’s shoulders had already started to ache by the time he heard the phone click shut. The ghost, infuriated now, grew bigger and looser, in some horrible way that he couldn’t let himself think about, every time the bar sliced through it. The bar itself started to burn his hands, heating further with each pass through the ghost.
“Got somebody coming help us out, dig. You need a rest-up?”
“What?” Swing. Swing. “No. I’m fine.”
“You sure? Them arms lookin shaky.”
“I’m sure.”
If he were honest, his shoulders were killing him, and the burning iron bar threatened to slip out of his grasp entirely. But nothing in the world could have induced him to admit it. Not yet, at least.
He didn’t know how long he kept at it. Ten minutes, fifteen? Long enough for the loud, clattery music from the street outside to change a few times. He found a rhythm; swipe at the ghost, wait until it almost reformed, swipe again. But he couldn’t deny his arms felt as if they were about to fall off, and finally when the big guy asked again if he wanted a break he nodded.
Of course, the girl arrived about thirty seconds after that, just as Rick was letting cold water splash over his face and down the front of his shirt to rinse off the dust and sweat. Great. Who didn’t want to look like a drool-covered baby in front of women?
She was slim—almost too slim, as if she didn’t eat much—and pale, with thick black hair cut like a pin-up model and thick black eyeliner to match. Despite the heat she wore skinny black jeans over a pair of battered Chucks, and the red of her t-shirt peeked through little holes in the gray cardigan covering her arms. A canvas bag, faded green like an antique army bag, hung off her shoulder. In her hand was a canister of some kind.
What was a girl doing here?
He stumbled to his feet. “Hey, um, miss, you shouldn’t be—there’s a ghost here, you should—”
She cocked an eyebrow. What was it with people looking at him like that? “I can see that.”
“That’s Chess,” the big guy said. “She get rid of the ghost, aye?”
“How hot’s that bar?” She walked toward the ghost, inspecting it; her thumb flipped open the top of the canister.
“Ain’t cold.”
She smiled. “No, I guess it wouldn’t be.”
“Is that normal, for the bar to get hot?” Yes, it was dorky. But so? He, Rick, had done most of the ghost-swatting, and now Mr. Greaser was getting all the credit. In front of a girl who, okay, maybe she wasn’t the most gorgeous thing he’d ever seen, but she was pretty.
And despite the holes in the sweater and the ratty shoes and make-up, he didn’t think she—no. She didn’t talk like them, that weird patois, so she must not live in Downside. So who knew, right? Why not talk to her? “Because it wasn’t when I started using it, but by the time I handed it over to him, it was.”
“Yeah, that’s normal. It’s the energies mixing.” Her bag sank to the floor with a sort of crunchy thud.
“Your name is Chess?”
She nodded.
“I’m Rick.” He started to get up and extend his hand, but she was already moving away. She whispered something under her breath and upended the canister, dumping something white onto the floor. Salt, he realized, when she started creating a circle around the ghost.
“Little faster, Terrible,” she murmured. “I don’t want it to notice.”
Oh, wait. The guy’s name was Terrible? Really? Didn’t anyone in Downside have a normal name? An adjective and a board game. Sure. Why not?
Terrible kept swinging at slightly shorter intervals, checking his backswing while Chess walked around behind him. Her head was down, watching the line as it poured into place; when she was finished Terrible and the ghost stood within a circle five feet or so around.
She whispered something else, then looked up. “Okay, get out whenever you’re ready. Just don’t—well, you know.”
Terrible nodded, glanced down and started backing up. Oh, right. The salt line would—wait. Normal people couldn’t do that, right?
Sure, just about every house had a jar of C
hurch-salt in the cabinets; like a copy of the Book of Truth, it was practically given to people at birth. Well, no practically about it, really. Copies of the Book of Truth and Church-salt were standard gifts for baby Naming ceremonies. Rick had one of each himself. And supposedly if you ever saw a ghost coming for you, you could throw the stuff at it and it would give you a few seconds to make a getaway if you could.
But normal people could not create binding circles like the ones Terrible was now stepping carefully out of.
Who the hell was that girl?
“Okay.” She knelt and started marking the floor with what looked like a piece of black crayon or something, scrawling an intricate little symbol just outside the salt circle. The ghost reformed inside it, its outlines clearing and defining again. When the girl leaned over and started drawing the same symbol inside the circle, the ghost swiped at her head with one long-nailed hand.
Rick gasped, then immediately regretted it when she just kept working. “Doesn’t that hurt?”
“Not really. It doesn’t have the energy to make itself solid, and nothing like a weapon or anything to solidify around, so it’s just cold.”
Okay, something was definitely weird here. How did she know so much? And this kind of magic, the kind of magic she was apparently doing, wasn’t legal. Not for regular people.
“Hey,” he said, aware that his voice sounded a little too loud, his joking tone a little too forced. “You don’t work for the Church, do you?”
It was the wrong thing to say. Terrible looked at him. The iron rod still dangled from his fist. Shit.
But Chess replied, glaring at the ghost as it renewed its efforts to hit her. “Why? Does it matter?”
“No, no, I just…you seem to be really good at this, is all.”
“Do I?” She finished the marking and started sorting through her bag. “What do you think, Terrible? Think I’m good at this?”
“Seen better. Knew a dame once controlled a whole flock of birds, just with she magic.”
Chess grinned, a quick flash before she pulled a lump of fabric out of her bag. “That must have been seriously impressive.”