Last Call at the Nightshade Lounge

To the bartenders, baristas, and waiters who pour the world a stiff drink and keep ’em comin’

It was another Friday night, not that it mattered to Officer Jim Regan of the Chicago PD. There were fifty-two Fridays in a year, and he’d been around for fifty-two years. That meant the number of Fridays he’d lived through was … was … The hell with it. He wasn’t gonna do the math.

After all, it was Friday.

His usual routine was to get off his beat, squeeze back into his civvies, then head down to the Loose Cannon with the rest of the Twentieth Precinct and drink the night away. But tonight he’d gone solo and wandered south into Ravenswood, to the Nightshade Lounge. It was a neighborhood joint his partner mentioned once upon a time, a place where no one would give a shit that he’d flunked his sergeant’s exam for the fifth time.

Jim slurped down the last of his boilermaker and slammed the entire thing on the counter, the empty shot glass rattling inside the equally empty beer glass. “Good stuff,” he boomed to everybody within thirty feet, which was pretty much nobody. It was past one a.m. and the bar had mostly emptied. He clapped a meaty hand on the counter. “I’ll take one for the road.”

The bartender studied him from behind a pair of square eyeglasses. “I think you’re good, man,” he said.

Jim studied him back. He was young—practically a kid—and wore a white dress shirt with rolled-up sleeves and a tucked-in tie
like an old-timey barkeep. Little punk.

“Come on,” Jim said, pulling out his wallet. “It’s for the road. Give me a break, huh?”

The bartender shook his head. “Our drinks aren’t going anywhere. How about you come back tomorrow night, and your first one’s on me? I’ll call you a cab.” The kid whipped out his phone before he was even done speaking. Jim waved him off.

“S’all right,” he said. “Don’t hafta worry about getting busted. I’m a cop.”

The kid grinned. “Knowing what the city pays you, I’ll make it two rounds then. But for now, let’s get you that cab.”

Jim waved him off again. “Keep the damn cab,” he said, scowling. “I can walk.” He lurched to his feet, then looked back. Maybe because he’d been pickling his brain in bourbon and beer since getting off work, but he only just noticed that Mr. Shirt-and-Tie was alone behind the bar. “Hey,” he said, “what happened to the girl?” The friendly-looking redhead with a pretty face and not too terrible figure had been happy to serve him.

The kid mimed smoking an invisible cigarette.

Jim grimaced. Now that was a bad habit he’d never picked up. Walking the beat was risky enough. He dropped a fiver on the bar but couldn’t focus well enough to give the kid the dirty look he deserved. “Well, tell her thanks for doing
her
job.”

“Get home safe, Officer.”

And so Jim Regan staggered out, muttering darkly with each step.

Officer
. It wasn’t like he was gunning to be the next commissioner, for chrissake; he just wanted the stripes on his sleeve. But these days everything was run by up-jumped little shits like that punk bartender.

Summertime Chicago was sweltering. Jim got only three blocks before blotches of sweat darkened his shirt. He stopped and
reevaluated. New plan: screw walking and take the bus. The nearest stop was just over the Montrose Street Bridge in Horner Park, a quick trip even for him.

As he heaved across the two-lane bridge, Jim eyed the rusted pedestrian railings.
What a goddamn surprise
, he thought; something around town needed fixing up. He’d seen six mayors come and go since he first put on the uniform, and if there was one thing each generation of paper pushers downtown was good at, it was coming up with new ways to fuck up something that was already pretty thoroughly fucked.

The streetlights flickered overhead. Something was rustling behind him—not a car; didn’t sound like wheels. More like footfalls.

Jim turned and froze.

God, no. Jesus, Mary, Joseph, no
.

Not the DTs. Not now. Jim might be a drunk—an
alcoholic
, he was supposed to say—but he knew when to stop. Stopping was all that kept him from turning out like his old man, a real drunk’s drunk: the thrashing, then trembling, sweating through his undershirts. Moaning and clawing at the air, at things that weren’t there. Things like this.

Jim blinked, but the thing didn’t go away.

It wasn’t huge—the size of a big dog, maybe—but it was a horrible skinless pink color, as if made of flayed muscle. And it was crawling forward.

Jim glanced around wildly. “Stop,” he said as the thing took one ponderous step closer. “Police!” But the thing just blinked a yellow eye and took another step. He tried again: “Stop! Police!”

The ugly bastard didn’t even falter. Sped up even, scuttling toward him like a fleshy crab as the streetlights flicked faster. Its head was barely a stub, with lit-up catlike eyes and a horrible, tooth-ringed, flesh-flapped mouth. Jesus, the thing had
fangs
.

Jim ran.

Gym membership
, he thought between puffs,
first goddamn thing tomorrow. Show those
—puff, puff—
shaved-chest pretty-boy rookies what a real man can do
.

The thing was still coming.
Zigzag
, he thought.
That’s what you’re supposed to do to get away from bears or crocs or whatever, right?
He threw his left foot over his right …

… and fell face-first. He dug his fingers into the ground. The world was spinning at an unmerciful tilt and a sickening groan was tearing through the night air: metal dragging on asphalt, like a loose car muffler. But there were no cars. Just the streetlamps of Montrose Avenue and the scrabbling sounds of the thing behind him and distant sparks—

Sparks
. Jim shoved himself to his feet. Something was barreling toward him, grating out sparks in its wake.

“Police!” he yelled with what little breath he had left. “Clear the street! Police!” He might’ve been in his fifties and still not making sergeant, but if he was going to die, at least he would die a cop.

It was a person—black female, tall, dreadlocks—and she was dragging a stop sign, a chunk of concrete still attached to the bottom. She hefted it as she sprinted, even though there was no way her skinny arms could’ve lifted it, and the sparks and the noise stopped.

“Pol—” Jim couldn’t even get the word out before she jumped—
right over his head
—and sliced the stop sign through the thing’s neck like an executioner’s ax.

The head bounced into the darkness as the girl landed with a soft thump. The thing’s body swayed, collapsed onto its haunches, and then exploded in a burst of thick, ugly smoke.

Jim fell to his knees and puked.

Five boilermakers and a half-digested piece of pizza splattered like acid onto the side of the road. He flinched as something grazed his shoulder, but it was just the girl. The stop sign clanged to the ground next to him.

“On your feet.” Her tone was sharp enough to shave with.

“How’d you—” He shook his throbbing head, tried to keep his voice from squeaking. “—the fuck is that thing?”

The girl—woman, Jim supposed—glanced impassively at the burned spot in the road. “Tremens.”

Jim shook his head. “No way, lady. That ain’t no pink elephant.”

“Not exactly, no.”

“That was—it was real.” Jim said it tentatively, testing, but the woman didn’t disagree. The thing was not a hallucination. Not something his sauced-up brain had invented. “That’s—that’s
dangerous
.” He looked around wildly. The scorched spot where the tremens had disappeared still sizzled. “Could be more of ’em. Gotta call my captain—”

“There
are
more of them,” she said. “But don’t worry.”

“But—”

“Officer,” she said, “where were you drinking just now? At the Nightshade?”

“How’d you—”

“I’m a bartender,” she said. “I know things.” She held out a hand. “Come with me. Let me pour you a drink and I’ll explain everything.”

Officer—not Sergeant—Jim Regan swallowed. He had priorities. This thing had to be identified, and Captain Harding at the Twentieth needed to know about it. Animal control would have to be dispatched. They might even need to cordon off the bridge.

But for the first time that day one of these kids was treating him with a little respect, and that was too much for him to ignore.

THE
DEVIL’S WATER
DICTIONARY

AN ARCHIVE ABOUT
ALCOHOLIC ARCANA
AND
ALCHEMY.

 

 

T
he knowledge contained herein has two applications. The first is to arm humanity against the forces of darkness, which manifest in the shadows and conspire to undo all that we have built and cherish. If the few brave souls who learn the mixological arts stand like a wall between the happy whole of humanity and its complete ruination, the wisdom of these pages is the mortar that holds its bricks together.

The second application is to provide humanity with some rather tasty inebriates to make the whole thing more enjoyable.

The recipes that follow will yield cocktails that, while transcendent in flavor, are nonetheless ordinary in their conjuring. Yet under specific circumstances, when made with precisely the right ingredients, these drinks can become something far more extraordinary. And they may transform their drinker into the same.

Those who read on will learn how to do the impossible: To fade from sight. To exert control over distant objects with only one’s mind. To justify the existence of the olive, which is the most loathsome of all fruits. It is the position of
The Devil’s Water Dictionary
that almost all which humanity deems impossible can be achieved—with the liberal application of alcohol.

If you seek to defend the people of the world in the name of the Cupbearers Court, then you will find no greater ally than this book. And if you are merely a curious bystander who now finds him- or herself a little thirsty, then by all means enjoy this book anyway. In all likelihood, an operative of the Court has already been dispatched to modify your memory (see:
OBLIVINUM
), so you may as well enjoy a stiff drink while you await your absolution.

To your continued good health—
BIBO ERGO SUM