Days Gone Bad
DAYS GONE BAD
ERIC R. ASHER
Copyright © 2013 by Eric R. Asher
All rights reserved. This book or any portion thereof may not be reproduced or used in any manner whatsoever without the express written permission of the publisher except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Printed in the United States of America
First Printing, 2013
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, businesses, places, events and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
Produced by ReAnimus Press
Edited by Laura Matheson
Copy edited by Ashley’s Freelance Editing
http://freelance.mcconnell05.com/
Cover design Copyright to Kate Cowan (K.C.Designs)
http://kcbookcoverdesigns.wix.com/portfolio
Stock Photo of man Copyright to Jason Baca
Stock Photo of desert Copyright to night-fate-stock.deviantart.com
Stock Photo of church Copyright to DailyAthiest.Deviantart.com
~~~
For my eighth grade self, who thought about writing a book, but never did.
~~~
Table of Contents
Acknowledgements
A special thanks to all who inspire a love of fantasy in those around you.
An enthusiastic thank you goes to my beta readers, Amy Cameron, Jason Cameron, Angela Shafer, Ron Asher, and Matt Fischer.
Thanks to the Critters.org workshop and their superb critiques.
Thank you to Travel Channel and the Toy Hunter crew:
Chris Wood
Tara Boneillo
Michael Covino
Shiloh Crawford III
Sidharta Pascual
Candace Corey
Adrian Moran
Z Jadwick
and
Jordan Hembrough
Happy Hunting!
DAYS GONE BAD
Eric R. Asher
CHAPTER ONE
You are cordially invited to the wedding of
Elizabeth Berry
and
Michael William Wagner
On the twenty third of April, two o’clock
The Jewel Box in Forest Park
RSVP …
“Blah, blah, blah …” I groaned and set the invitation down. “Sam’s going to have an aneurysm over this one.”
I walked to my old green fridge, popped the cap off a bottle of ale, and started scrounging for some food. I pressed a few buttons on my personal chef, a.k.a. microwave, and turned on the television. It was depressing. Every station was running the latest Amber Alert, flashing the picture of a missing girl with huge blue eyes and the devil’s smile. Hopefully this girl gets a happy ending. The last two sure as hell didn’t. I turned the set off and waited for my gourmet dinner to finish cooking. My phone rang about ten minutes later, interrupting a freshly microwaved chimichanga.
“Damn, that was fast.” I let the phone ring a few times while I shoveled in a forkful of chimichanga and leaned back on my battered leather couch. My eyes passed over the outdated wood paneling on my ceiling and walls, taking in the meager light from two small lamps while I swallowed my dinner.
“Hello?” I said with the phone a good four inches from my ear.
“That, that, that …
bitch!”
I stabbed the fork into my chimichanga and set the plate on my oversized oak coffee table. “Hey, Sam. You got Beth’s invite.”
She snarled something I couldn’t quite make out.
I put the phone between my shoulder and ear, and slowly persuaded the coffee table to come closer. “Can I get the English translation on that?”
Sam puffed into the phone and said, “Don’t start.”
It was impossible to stifle a chuckle. I could just see her lips curling back and her black hair framing the rage on her face as she yelled into the phone.
“Thanks, Damian. Some brother you are.”
“I’m getting the guilt loud and clear. Where’s the spite?”
“Ah ha … ha … ha. Ass. I just can’t believe it. She was my best friend! She sent the invite less than a week before the wedding! I can’t
believe
that bitch is marrying my old boyfriend.”
“You did die, you know.”
“Not. Helping.”
“Sorry, sorry. Look, I never had any real issues with Beth, she was always nice and–“
“Shut. Up. Damian. You’re just saying that because she slept with you.”
My jaw slackened in mock offense. “Oh, come on sis, it was only one time and-”
“I repeat, she slept with you.”
I took another oversized bite of chimichanga before I said, “Comf omf Samf.” I swallowed. “I was a teenager, what was I supposed to do?” Beth was, well, she was a valley goth girl when we were kids. Total wannabe; and the instant my sister told her I could see the occasional phantasm and sometimes hear the dead talk, Beth was all over me.
Sam’s exasperation came over the phone in a puff of static.
“I take it you won’t be giving a toast?”
Sam’s breathing evened out. “Maybe, maybe I’ll tell the guests about the time Beth accidentally slept with Mister Brown-”
“The math teacher?”
“-right before I turn the whole
effing
wedding party into vamps, or, or, give me a minute, I’ll come up with something good. I’ll do something horrible to her wedding. I’ll make it the worst wedding day anyone could imagine. I want it to rain frogs while zombies rise up behind the wedding party and, hell, you just better buy the tux insurance.”
I choked on a mouthful of ale and blinked at the phone a few times through watering eyes. “You want to know something, sis?”
“What?”
“Ale burns like a bitch when you shoot it through your nose.”
She burst into laughter.
“Glad I could help.” I rubbed my cheek while my brain scrambled for a way to defuse my sister, the vampiric time bomb. I knew she wasn’t going to let it go and I couldn’t even nudge her mind in a different direction over the phone.
“So, Demon, are you in? You could bring some zombies. It’ll be a whole new spin on wedding crashers.”
My eyes glanced down at the invitation as I wiped the ale off my nose. Forest Park, eh? There were a few interesting things I could do there. Art Museum, Zoo, pigeons, all kinds of trouble. I grinned, and I’m sure it was an evil grin. “Tell you what, leave everything to me. I’m not going to kill her husband to be, much to your disappointment, I’m sure, but I’ll make it memorable. Consider it an early birthday present.”
Silence.
“How about it, Sam?”
She sighed. “Alright, but if you don’t make it good, I’ll wrap that bitch up as a present for my new brothers to eat.”
I stared at the receiver and wondered for a second if my sister was joking. I laughed nervously as my chimichanga curdled in my stomach.
CHAPTER TWO
My eyes focused on the red smear of the clock face, reading 10:10 AM. I was sure it was a barefaced lie, but the clock stared back in intractable silence. I muttered a curse at the traitorous thing. It looked like the shop was going to be opening a little late … again.
I jumped out of bed, pulled on my jeans from the day before, and a shirt from—well, best not to think about that. I was impressed with myself. It was only five minutes from ‘oh crap, I’m late’ to running out the door armed with keys and a healthy breakfast of beef jerky and Frappuccino.
Traffic was light. Of course, it was after ten in the morning, so you’d kind of expect it to be light. My knees kept the car from running over any unsuspecting tourists while I quaffed the Frappuccino and chased it with half a bag of beef jerky. In retrospect, breakfast may have worked out better in reverse.
My shop is Death’s Door on Main Street in Saint Charles. My master, at some point in time, had the wisdom to change the name and the sign to a gothic looking DD, or the Double D, as the regulars call it.
Main Street is a time capsule; it’s an old world, small town that hasn’t changed much since a modern city sprang up around it. Rows of historical brick buildings are still framed by cobblestone streets. My shop wasn’t in the main strip; it was on the far northern end of Main Street. The location put it within walking distance of the Missouri River, Oh Fudge (to keep me in my tenants’ good graces), and the local hospital. My master gave me the shop as a graduation present of sorts when she disappeared on a mission of her own in years past. She didn’t tell me a damn thing about what she was doing or where she was going. I often wonder what she’s up to, or if it will be her ghost I see next. Zola left me with an inventory made for sorcerers, wiccans, and even a smattering of tourists. Everything from texts and spell-craft supplies to crystals and antiquated artifacts lined the aisles.
I pulled in behind the shop about ten thirty, rattling across the cobblestones. The back door’s lower deadbolt grumbled at me as I approached. I unlocked the upper deadbolt, and then delivered a swift kick to the gargoyle-like face of the lower deadbolt to unlock it. He’d been a particularly nasty Fae at odds with one of my tenants, who’d transformed him into a rather effective lock. I pushed my way through the door and walked onto the small landing just inside. The old staircase to my right led to the second floor, but I hopped down a shorter set of stairs into the back room, and made my way to the front of the store.
We were on the corner of Main Street, with the door stuck at a forty-five degree angle in front of the u-shaped counter of display cases. The old glass in the front windows distorted the view slightly, but I loved the history of the glass more than a clear view. While admiring the ripply view of the street, I tripped over a blur of green barking fur. I debated on cursing Foster for his pets or playing with the cu sith puppies as I laid there with my nose on the not-so-clean, but vintage, wood floors.
From what I understood, which wasn’t much, cu siths were bred to drag fertile human women into fairy mounds to provide milk for the fairy children. That would make a fantastic infomercial: Tired of hunting down sources of milk for the kids? Call in the next half hour and we’ll give you two, that’s
two
cu siths for the price of one. Don’t want to drag those screaming women home all by yourself? Call now!
Of course my boarders just keep saying cu siths make the best guard dogs. I was still convinced my neighbor’s two-year-old made a more terrifying guard dog.
I felt a tug on my shoelaces and said, “Oh no you don’t!” His fur was soft, but still bristly as I turned over, dove forward, and grabbed him. He ran suspended in mid-air by my grip, furiously pumping his green legs and black paws for a good minute with a tongue lolling about that was entirely too long for his body. His head looked more like a wolf than any domestic dog, with a black nose and yellow eyes. I yelped and dropped the first dog as the second “playfully” sunk her teeth into my shin, wagging a furry braided tail. I growled and both dogs hauled ass to the back room in a clatter of toenails. Smart dogs.
There was a light breeze as a small fairy landed on the wooden shelves behind me. He had a sharp nose and incredibly fine eyebrows with a slight slant to both of his crystal blue eyes. “Greetings, Damian.”