Liminal: A Pulp Men's Fantasy Adventure (A Company of Monsters) Read online

  LIMINAL

  Zack Archer

  Contents

  Book Blurb

  Chapter 1

  Chapter 2

  Chapter 3

  Chapter 4

  Chapter 5

  Chapter 6

  Chapter 7

  Chapter 8

  Chapter 9

  Chapter 10

  Chapter 11

  Chapter 12

  Chapter 13

  Chapter 14

  Chapter 15

  Chapter 16

  Chapter 17

  Chapter 18

  Chapter 19

  Chapter 20

  Chapter 21

  Chapter 22

  Chapter 23

  Chapter 24

  Chapter 25

  Chapter 26

  Chapter 27

  Chapter 28

  Chapter 29

  Chapter 30

  Chapter 31

  Chapter 32

  The End Of Book One

  Also by Zack Archer

  Author Notes

  POX AMERICANA CHAPTER 1 PREVIEW

  POX AMERICANA CHAPTER 2 PREVIEW

  Book Blurb

  Trapped in a magical 25th hour, an elite cop joins a team of beautiful, mystical creatures to save the world from the lord of darkness.

  Overview

  What would you do if you found out there was a 25th hour?

  A time when all the rules of the physical world you’ve always known slip away, allowing the things that live in the shadows to come out and play?

  Kai Laughlin, an elite law enforcement diver, discovers the truth about the liminal hour after rescuing a beautiful, enigmatic woman named Celine from a harbor. Saving her life is only the beginning, however, as Kai discovers that Celine is being hunted by a race of mythological creatures that want what she has: parts of a machine called the Numinous that regulates the delicate balance between light and dark; this world and the next.

  Going on the run, Kai is forced to discover powers he never knew he had, develop a harem of sexy women, and team up with mythological creatures, and a potty-mouthed mage in the body of a cat in order to help Celine and her friends defeat the lord of darkness and save the world.

  Questions you might have:

  Will there be a cool story with lots of fantastical beasts like elves, selkies, sexy kitsune, hundred-handed Hecatoncheires, and all kinds of crazy action? Check!

  Will there be hot mythological women and monster girls? Check, check!

  Will there be spicy times involving our hero and said women? Damn straight!

  If you’re a harem junkie or a fan of movies like BRIGHT and NATIONAL TREASURE, reimagined by Cinemax of course, then this is for you! Pick it up today!

  WARNING: I’m not a huge fan of fades to black, so would it surprise you to learn that this book’s intended for those over the age of 18 who like over-the-top action, hot warrior women and monster girls, cool snarky characters, and lots of haremy (yes, that’s a real word) adult situations? Probably not, so if you like those things, and I’m guessing you do, get ready for Liminal (A Company of Monsters - Book 1).

  Copyright stuff: This is a work of fiction (shame on you if you didn’t already know that) and all rights are reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in or introduced into a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form, or by any means (electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording or otherwise) without the prior written permission of the copyright owner.

  Copyright 2019 by the House of Archer

  Created with Vellum

  1

  Ever wondered how long it takes a human body to fall from a ten-story building into a river? Of course you haven't, because you're not insane.

  Two point five seconds, by the way.

  That’s how long it takes an average 160-pound male to drop a hundred feet, which meant that the guy next to me on the side of the building—a rotund, middle-aged businessman I’d nicknamed Pasty Dude—would probably be splashing down in two point three seconds, maybe a hair less.

  My name’s Kai Laughlin and you’re probably wondering how the hell I found myself teetering on a window ledge, peering down the façade of the venerable Alex Haversham Building.

  I’m a diver by trade, one of forty members of an elite dive team called Havoc 1, a sub-unit of the city’s Harbor Patrol. The desk jockeys call us Slurpers, mainly because we spend our time underwater or out on boats, patrolling two hundred miles of navigable waterways and another fifty miles of sewers and conduit. It’s a rough trade, but I wouldn’t have it any other way.

  Most of my days are spent dredging bodies up out of the muck on the bottom of the city’s main river, but occasionally I get a chance to save somebody before they become chum.

  Enter Pasty Dude.

  On the morning in question, the day I first glimpsed Celine, I was heading down to the Candy Store, the windowless warehouse near the docks that Havoc 1 calls home, when I got the call.

  Seems there was a hedge fund honcho eager to take a short walk off a tall building.

  Being only two blocks away, yours truly was asked to talk him down.

  Lucky me.

  I say that because the Haversham Building is a rickety, spire-like structure built at the tail end of the nineteenth century, and looks down over a portion of the river that varies between twenty and seven feet in depth depending on the tide. Moreover, due to its age, its roof leaks, its windows stick, and the ledges outside of said windows are only eighteen inches wide, which was an issue since Pasty Dude had an ample midsection.

  “Here’s the dealio, friend,” I said, easing out onto the ledge, the window slamming shut behind me. A gush of wind bounced off the river, tickling the thick stubble on my face, whipping my unruly golden locks back and forth.

  Pasty Dude clutched a black attaché case tight to his chest like a life preserver. He wiped a few pearls of sweat from his forehead. “W-who are y-you?”

  “A cop.”

  “My name’s—”

  I waved a hand. “I don’t want to know your name.”

  He flung a look at me. “Isn’t that…you don’t?”

  I shook my head. "When you give a name, you create a bond, and I don't want to create any of those since the odds are neither one of us is going to live through this."

  A baffled look splashed his face. “But you…is this the proper protocol?”

  “The moment you stepped out of that window the protocol went away, amigo. It’s just you and me now. We’re kinda in uncharted territory.”

  “Who are you, really?”

  “A guy who usually pulls people like you out of that,” I replied, pointing to the river.

  “You’re really a cop?”

  “Think of me as Aquaman with a badge.”

  His lip quivered. “I don’t care because I’m jumping.”

  I wagged a finger, noticing that the ledge was slicked with algae or pigeon shit—I couldn't tell which—giving it the texture of polished ice. "Don't let me get in your way. Of course, I should mention that in my experience, the people who say they're jumping rarely do the deed."

  “Well, I am. Don’t try and stop me.”

  "Oh, believe me, I won't."

  His expressed hardened. “What kind of police are you?”

  “The kind that needs you to make sure you aim for the river when you jump. Taxpayers

  shouldn’t have to mop up what’s left of you if you miss that target.”

  “You’re an asshole,” Pasty Dude hissed.

  “I get that a lot. Now. Are you ready?”

 
“Ready for what?”

  “Well, given the wind currents, our weight, and the coefficient of friction on our little ledge here, it's pretty much a given that we're both gonna fall. It's just science."

  Pasty Dude’s eyes widened. “You’re insane.”

  “Now you sound like my psychiatrist.”

  “I want out of here—”

  “Exactly!” I replied, pointing down.

  “I don’t mean that!” Pasty Dude said, stabbing a finger at me. “I mean I want off this ledge and away from you!”

  I grinned because the first step in talking someone down from a building is breaking through, snapping them back into reality. The specter of death often calls attention to the beauty of life, at least in my experience, so it was a very good sign that Pasty Dude was aware of his surroundings and eager to get the hell off the ledge. Of course, that’s when he took a step and I noticed he was wearing a pair of spiffy wingtips.

  His expensive shoes slid across the ledge and his bulk carried him sideways. Before I knew what was happening, he’d latched onto my wrist and we were falling off the building, our bodies tangled up like lovers. Luckily, I was able to grab his cannonball gut and pull him toward me.

  Two seconds, if you were wondering. That’s all it took for us to touch the water. We barely missed a pier and splashed into the river, feet-first.

  I'm used to cold. I grew up swimming in Lake Michigan just outside Glen Arbor, but the icy water sucker-punched me, causing every neuron in my body to figuratively flip me the bird all at once.

  Pasty Dude instantly went into shock.

  He sank like a lead weight in a three-piece suit.

  Luckily, I can hold my breath like nobody’s business so I kicked my feet and shot down after him. Visibility was down to four or five feet, but I saw a shadowy outline and reached out, grabbing the big man’s wrist as he burbled, mouth open, sucking down water. My feet hit a rock and I pushed us up, and that’s when I saw it.

  Saw her.

  A woman, crouching on the bottom of the river.

  I’d call her beautiful, but that’s a lazy word and just doesn’t do her justice. She was mesmerizing, ethereal, like some river goddess plucked out of a fairy tale book, her long mane of black hair spilling out behind her head as she sat there watching us.

  There was a flash of silver as something slipped from the woman’s hand. She mouthed something and kicked her legs.

  I blinked, and when I looked back she was gone.

  Realizing there were only a few seconds left, I scissored my legs and propelled us up toward the light.

  We breached the surface and Pasty Dude upchucked a mouthful of water, clutching me like an infant as I swam us back to shore while onlookers waved their arms and cheered.

  My older dive buddy and long-suffering partner Briggs was the first one to greet us, wading into the water in his wet suit. “You’re not even on the goddamn clock yet and you’re saving lives.”

  We both helped Pasty Dude up out of the water. “That’s called dedication,” I said.

  “That’s called making the rest of us look bad, ya bastard,” Briggs answered with a sly smile.

  A group of EMTs rushed over and bundled Pasty Dude in a blanket. His teeth were chattering, but I could tell he’d had a full change of heart. Falling out of a twenty-story building tends to do that to you. “T-thank you,” he muttered.

  “You’ve been given a rare gift,” I replied. “Make it count.”

  “Bill Ryker, that’s my name.”

  “Kai Laughlin,” I said.

  I was surprised when he gave me a hug, whispering in my ear, “Did you see her? The woman in the water?”

  Thrown by this, I hesitated, then shook my head and lied. “I didn’t see anything, Bill.”

  Truth is, I didn’t want to see anything down there because I’ve been seeing weird shit most of my life. Shadows that seem alive, disembodied faces, inanimate objects that appear to move.

  I’ve seen two people about my “condition:” a fortune teller and a shrink. The fortune teller told me I had a thin boundary and one foot on the other side, whatever the hell that means, and the shrink said I suffered from a kind of delayed PTSD on account of pulling so many jumpers out of the river. I don’t know who’s right, but the fortune teller’s cheaper and has a nice smile, so I try and see her at least once a month.

  Either way, I’d convinced myself I hadn’t really seen a woman down in the water. Bill Ryker nodded and headed toward an ambulance as the onlookers wished us well and dispersed.

  Briggs draped a blanket over my shoulders. “Next time you decide to go for a swim, remember to bring your gear, tough guy.”

  “There’s a special kind of feeling you get free-diving, Briggs.”

  Briggs nodded. “It’s called hypothermia.”

  We shared a laugh and trudged back up to a waiting tactical van, but I couldn’t shake the image of that woman. I turned and looked back at the river a final time, but nothing stirred.

  2

  Later that day, I joined the rest of our team for a debrief at the Candy Store. Since there are only forty Slurpers out of a citywide police force of thirty thousand, we're a pretty tight unit, basically like one big, dysfunctional family with shit-tons of scuba gear.

  Half of us patrol the water for jumpers and search for materials related to crimes, while the other half protects the city from the bad guys, constantly checking bridges and landmarks, working to thwart potential terrorist attacks and whatnot.

  I’m one of the heads of our river jumper team which means I’ve got to lug around ninety pounds of equipment, including a really cool heads-up display on my mask that’s synched to a sonar device, which is an absolute necessity since visibility in the river is usually down to only a few feet depending on conditions.

  The debrief over, Briggs and I headed out on one of the unit’s eight boats, a forty-foot fast craft we often used for afternoon sweeps. The boat bobbed in the middle of the river as we unfurled a length of mesh tethered to metal straps that we dropped into the river behind the boat.

  “Is this absolutely necessary?” I asked.

  Briggs nodded. “We’ve been asked to drag the river with extreme prejudice on account of another robbery last night.”

  “Jesus,” I replied, wondering if we might dredge up the girl I thought I saw. “There was another one?”

  “Don’t you read the paper, Locks?” Briggs asked, using the nickname he’d created for me.

  “Nope.”

  “Why not?”

  “Cause I’m not a hundred like you,” I replied, grinning. “Everything I need to know I get on my phone.”

  “Fucking millennials,” Briggs grumbled, dropping the mesh into the water. “Anyway, the perps hit another museum—”

  “Which one?”

  “One owned by that billionaire.”

  “Haven Barlow?”

  Briggs nodded.

  “The noted philanthropist.”

  “Philanthropist is just a fancy word for douchebag,” Briggs said.

  “The dude could buy and sell both of us…”

  “Doesn’t make him any less of a prick.”

  I smiled. He continued, "It was the museum that's got all the crap Barlow donated, those Pre-Meso-American exhibits or whatever they're called. The weirdest part is that they only stole one item but got spooked during the getaway and may or may not have discarded it in the river."

  I glanced at the mesh lowering into the soupy water. “Hence us.”

  Briggs sighed. “Hence us.”

  We dragged the river for an hour but didn't find the stolen item or the girl. After we docked, Briggs gave me the rest of the day off so I grabbed my backpack and headed home, strolling back to my third-floor walk-up in a formerly wounded part of the city that was now under siege by hipsters and people who enjoy paying ten bucks for a cup of fucking coffee.

  There was a nice breeze blowing in from the water and the sun dropped like a blood orange over the hor
izon, casting everything in an amber-colored light.

  Cutting down a side street, I shuffled past the city's largest library. Peripheral movement caught my eye.

  Stopping, I looked sideways and caught a glimpse of movement from one of the two lion statues standing watch near the library's front steps. The thing seemed to be licking its lips.

  My head dipped and when I looked back up it wasn’t moving. Spooked, I hustled on, threading across a plaza bounded by a small park and an immense sweep of apartment buildings.

  I kept my head down but couldn't help noticing the statue of the Greek Titan on the other side of the plaza. The bronze figure of Prometheus clutched a bolt of lightning and stood amidst a smattering of other historical soldiers and mythological figures: two Greek hoplites carrying a spear called a dory, a Roman legionary with a short sword, a cyclops, a minotaur, and two harpies.

  They were part of a display called Warriors and Monsters: Terrors and Wonders, and had been provided by several world-famous sculptors and financially supported by Haven Barlow, the city’s wealthiest person. Even though Briggs was probably right about Barlow being a supreme asshole, the guy helped prop up much of the city’s artist community. I figured that had to count for something.

  Whether it was a play of light or my imagination, Prometheus winked at me.

  Did I mention before that I see things?

  Yep, it was one of those days. I dashed across the plaza, slaloming between tourists and commuters, only hazarding just enough looks to make sure I didn’t collide with anyone.