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

  I breezed toward my apartment building and spotted Mrs. Krishack, a kind but nosy older lady who ran the bodega downstairs and was forever trying to set me up with one of her daughter’s friends. She offered me a huge smile and tucked a cigar in my pocket along with a small orange, something she said was done back in the old country as a sign of good luck.

  “You need to find yourself a nice girl to settle down with, Kai,” Mrs. Krishack said.

  “I settle down with a nice girl almost every night,” I replied with a sly smile.

  She blushed and wagged a finger at me like I was a naughty boy. Heading upstairs, I entered my efficiency which was just the way I liked it: deserted. The place was modest and unadorned and most importantly, there were no ghosts, no jumpers, and no statues coming to life. Just me and a few cold ones and "Da-sickest," my Fortnite alter ego slash gamertag. I leaned back, peering up at the flatscreen as I landed at Tilted Towers, looking to snag some loot and kick some ass.

  I snoozed for several hours but woke well after midnight, which happens when you’ve got a job like mine. The ebb and flow of adrenaline and the constant hypervigilance, not to mention the challenging conditions, often make it difficult to sleep through the night. I’ve always found swimming and running to be a tonic for insomnia, and when I’m unable to catch enough rack-time, I like to go for a run.

  The streets were deserted that night, just a few stragglers emerging from a row of after-hours watering holes down by the river as I galloped past. I was dressed in shorts and one of those pricey shirts that’s supposed to magically wick sweat away.

  Shooting down an alley, I blitzed across an intersection, straying from the shadows, darting between pockets of moonlight, sending my Fitbit into overdrive.

  I’d spent so much of the last three years as a Slurper exploring every nook and cranny of the city, both aboveground and below, that I had a sixth sense about which path to take. Somehow, deep in the backwaters of my mind, I knew which alley might be blocked this time of night, which street might be heavy with garbage cans, which sewer might be overflowing after a strong rain.

  I hooked a right near the All Hallows Church—the oldest house of worship in the city, a sprawling gothic structure of stained glass and stone—jogging down a sidestreet and making excellent time, getting close to setting a new personal record.

  Heart hammering in my chest, I accelerated, dropping into what Briggs said was my alpha zone: the moment where my mental and physical state merged to optimize my performance.

  Time and sound seemed to slow, and I’d blocked out all extraneous sounds.

  The only thing I was focused on was the endpoint.

  A pier that was visible up ahead.

  I was going to bound to the end of that pier and check my time and then I’d—

  A muffled scream suddenly ripped the night.

  Shadowy forms shambled out of a doorway, carrying something that was flailing, fighting for its life.

  I was twenty yards away, but I could see that the shadowy forms were three men roughly hauling a figure out of a building.

  I had to be seeing things because one of the men appeared to have several sinuous tentacles sprouting from his back.

  Partially concealed in the darkness, the trio dropped an immense crate of some kind on the ground, opened it and shoved the figure inside. Then they rolled it down to the pier and flung it into the water.

  Instinct took over as I dashed down a side artery I knew well, circumventing the goons and making for a ramp on the backside of a structure that housed a seafood canning company.

  Realizing I didn’t have much time, I flew down the narrow strip of blacktop, hit the edge of the ramp and went airborne, diving into the river.

  The water was frigid, briny, and black as pitch.

  My gaze swung to the left. I didn’t see the three men, but I did see what they’d tossed into the water.

  An egg-shaped container that was quickly taking on water.

  I swam forward as the container turned over one time, the woman inside letting out a gasp before it disappeared under the waves.

  I went under, diving like a submarine, angling my body to intercept the container.

  Under normal circumstances, I’d use a jackstay, a fifty-foot long line weighted down with blocks to help me pick my way along the bottom of the river, but I didn’t have one so I’d have to free-dive.

  Visibility was nil, so I had to rely on my instincts, realizing that whoever was inside the container had eight or ten seconds to live, maybe less.

  Frog-kicking, I sliced down while throwing out my hands, but couldn’t feel anything.

  One of the old principles of diving is, “when in doubt follow the bubbles,” and that’s what I did.

  I spotted some bubbles and dove toward them, and there it was.

  The container.

  Bringing my hands together, I kicked my feet again and cut through the water, slapping my hands against the outside of the container.

  It was smooth, but I found something, a joint, the section where the two halves of the container snapped together.

  Jamming my fingers into the joint, I grunted, tasting the river water, and tugged the container back up toward the surface.

  In seconds I was able to manhandle the thing back up and breach the surface, swimming behind the container as I pushed it back to shore.

  Stumbling onto a sweep of rocks, I pulled the container onto dry land, worried that whoever had chucked the thing into the water might still be around.

  All was quiet as I slid my hand down through the joint and popped the container open to reveal a figure.

  A woman.

  The very same woman I saw earlier on the bottom of the river.

  3

  Her dark hair was soaked, concealing her face, but it was her just the same.

  An ordinary person would’ve freaked because it didn’t look like she was breathing. Then I brushed back a lock of hair from her long, swanlike neck and she reacted, spitting out water, trembling, but never opening her eyes. She just lay there curled up in a fetal ball, a tiny thing, barely five feet tall.

  I didn’t have my phone on me, but luckily we were close to the Candy Shop so I hoisted her up and stagger-ran, eying the road ahead warily for any sign of the thugs who’d tossed her into the river.

  Upon entering the Candy Shop, I upped the thermostat and moved past the secure steel lockers where we kept our weapons and gear, searching for a blanket.

  I grabbed one out of a back bin, fetched a glass and filled it with warm water from the sink.

  The first thing you do to combat hypothermia is take a person’s clothes off. I hesitated, worrying that it might come back to bite me in the ass, but it was my job so I peeled off her shirt and pants to reveal a kind of waterproof membrane underneath.

  The membrane was black, skintight, and ran from the base of her neck to her ankles. It resembled a wet suit, only it was paper thin and seemingly made of a material that mimicked fur. It also seemed to wick water away, so I left it on and shrouded her body with the blanket.

  Her breathing was normal so I didn’t do anything else for treatment. I clicked on a faraway light and sat on a chair next to her. Like I said, her joints were tiny and her frame slight, but the bellies of her arm and leg muscles were vascular and full like a gymnast’s, and her breasts were surprisingly large, barely contained by the membrane.

  I hadn’t noticed it while we were outside because of the moonlight, but her ears were strangely shaped and angled at the end. Not quite something an elf would have, but pretty damn close. And below them were a series of slash marks, what almost looked like tiny gills. I assumed they were tribal tattoos and that maybe she was part of some transgressive group, a clique that went around getting inked to look like mythological creatures. I reached a finger down to touch the gills when—

  WHAM!

  Her hand snapped out and wrapped around my wrist, then released it.

  I flinched and fell from the chair
.

  She didn’t move, but her eyes slid open.

  Her yellowish green eyes.

  “What the fark are you doing?” she asked in a soft, vaguely-accented voice.

  I was startled. “What? You just said ‘fark.’”

  “Did you not hear the full question?”

  “Sure, yeah, I was saving your life.”

  Her eyes rotated slowly. “Where am I?”

  “The Candy Shop.”

  “Who are you?”

  “Kai Laughlin. I’m a cop, a member of the Harbor Patrol. Who are you?”

  “Celine,” she whispered.

  “Last name.”

  “Whatever you want it to be.”

  “Okay…so, who were those men back there?”

  She was silent. I stood and looked down at her. “Did you hear me?”

  She nodded. “They work for the Yarrow.”

  “Who’s that?”

  “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”

  I chalked her response up to the after-effects of the water. She was likely still dizzy, still in shock. I knew what I needed to do. “Once you’re warmed up I’m gonna take you to the hospital,” I said.

  “What time is it?” she asked.

  I glanced at the clock on a nearby microwave. “Three in the morning.”

  “What time precisely,” she asked, some heat in her voice.

  “Three forty-eight.”

  “Then we have but twelve minutes of time left.”

  “Until what?”

  She fixed a strange look on me. “The liminal hour.”

  In any other situation, I would've laughed, but it was no laughing matter for two reasons: a crime had been committed, and the victim of said crime was in bad shape. Hypothermia has a way of playing tricks on a body and can cause confusion, memory loss, and slurred speech.

  “Look, Celine, I don’t know what you’re involved with, but I’ve got protocol and procedure to follow, so I absolutely have to get you to a—”

  She rocked herself into a standing position and silenced me with a wave of her hand. “I need to go back to the river.”

  “Are you crazy? You’re not in any condition to go anywhere.”

  She made a move toward the front door. My hand found her shoulder, but she brushed me aside. I outweighed her by nearly a hundred pounds, but the girl moved me with three of her fingers like I was a child.

  “You want me to arrest you?!” I shouted, even as I wondered whether that would be physically possible.

  She turned and pinned me with a look. “What does that mean?”

  “Take you into custody for observation.”

  “I don’t have time for any of that. I have to go into the water.”

  “What? Why?”

  “Because I need the moisture and…I was looking for something.”

  It suddenly dawned on me. A mysterious “gone girl” of sorts who’s tossed into a river by a group of strange goons, yet still searching for something the night after the museum was robbed. Silent alarm bells suddenly started going off.

  “You’re part of the team that robbed the museum aren’t you?” I asked, glancing around for a set of handcuffs.

  Her face fell. “You don’t understand.”

  At that moment, I fell back on some of my police training. I’d gone to an elective class on examining witnesses taught by some shady defense lawyer my first year on the force, and learned that you have to always follow what he called the QTIP Corollary. When questioning someone, Quit. Taking. It. Personally. QTIP.

  You’ve got to master that at a Zen level because not only does it put you at ease, it helps to smoke out whether the other person is defensive. After all, if you feel defensive you’ll appear defensive, and what kind of people are defensive? Guilty people.

  “Can you please answer the question, Celine,” I said in my best calm, clear voice.

  “I don’t have to answer any of your questions.”

  “Better to answer them here than downtown.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “I’m trying to help you out, here.”

  “That’s not responsive to my question,” she said.

  My face flushed and I kept repeating QTIP, QTIP, QTIP, as she spun and reached for the door. I lurched toward her, grabbing her shoulder.

  She didn’t even turn, she just pulled out of my grip and the force of her movement flung me back on my ass.

  Before I could torque myself up, she was out the front door, vanishing into the night. “Hey! What about your clothes?”

  Grabbing her clothes, I took off outside, listening to the pitter-patter of her footfalls. She was making for the water and I was hellbent on making sure she never reached it.

  I threw myself forward, trying to keep pace with her as she zigged and zagged down the alleys that lay between the buildings near the water’s edge.

  Moving briskly, I ducked down a side street, anticipating where she might try to reach the river. Galloping to the end of the street, I juked across a partially hidden cut-through and skidded to a stop at an alley.

  My back was to the water and Celine was in front of me, standing in the middle of the alley, her breath visible in the cold night air.

  “You’re under arrest,” I said, even though I wasn’t sure how I was going to take her into custody.

  She didn’t respond for several seconds. Then a bell rang, some far-off note from a church that signaled it was four in the morning.

  Celine smiled and began moving toward me.

  Her grin slipped away as she stopped ten feet from me.

  “How are you doing it?” she asked.

  “What?”

  “How are you hearing the words I’m speaking?”

  “Enough, okay? It’s time to come down off the drugs and come with me. I can get you help.”

  “I can’t. You and the other man interrupted me yesterday. You made me drop what I came for and now I have to find it in the river.”

  “You’re nuts,” I said, squaring my shoulders, preparing to tackle her if need be. I didn’t have to wait long. She dropped low and ran directly at me, knocking me to the ground as—

  WHOOSH!

  An immense shadow blasted past the spot where I’d been standing. We hit the ground together and I caught sight of something flapping off into the sky.

  “What the hell was that?” I asked.

  She ran to the edge of the river and looked into it, shaking her head. Then she returned, grasped my arm, and pulled me up and in close. “Would you like to survive the night?”

  I nodded. “Then keep your head down,” she said firmly. “Follow me, fast, and try not to ask any questions. Is that clear?”

  Another nod from me and then Celine darted back down the alley as I followed, emerging out onto a street corner. That’s when I saw it.

  Passing like an eclipse in front of me.

  My very first actual monster.

  4

  The creature shambling down the street was the size of a large SUV.

  Its head was barely larger than a softball, located in the middle of a torso which was kept aloft by eight segmented legs that ticked and clicked as it maneuvered by.

  I opened my mouth to scream and she covered it with her hand. I forced my eyes shut, thinking the whole thing must be a hallucination. Maybe the shrink I’d seen had been right, perhaps I was suffering the effects of some horrible mental illness and had finally cracked. It was either that or maybe Celine had slipped me whatever drugs she was on.

  “Do not freak out when you open your eyes,” she whispered to me. “Most of them are no different than your people. The majority are good, some are bad, but most just want to mind their own business. Don’t assume they’re evil just because of the way they look.”

  “What’s going on?” I asked.

  “Did you hear me?”

  “Yes.”

  My eyes opened. It only got worse because there were tentacles emerging from a nearby sewe
r, beady-eyed squid-like things pulling themselves out of gutters and pipes, and beasts with screwed-up faces that beat the air with thin, leathery wings before roosting on the edges of buildings. The air filled with guttural moans and clucking noises.

  “Are you really seeing this?” she asked, removing her hand from my mouth.

  “Unfortunately,” I answered.

  Her face was ashen under the moonlight. “Shart.”

  “Did you just say ‘shart’?”

  She nodded. “Profanity is the last vestige of the inarticulate, so I’ve trained myself never to curse. And you shouldn’t be seeing any of this. Your kind is almost always incapable of experiencing the liminal hour.”

  “You’re still under arrest,” I replied.

  Her eyes flared like the tips on a pair of knives. “Put your arms around me.”

  “Why?”

  “Because you stink.”

  “Speak for yourself.”

  “You have an odor, Kai. A fragrance associated with mortals that the Good Folk can smell.”

  “And you don’t?”

  She raised her eyes to me, an enigmatic look stamped on her face. “Haven’t you guessed it already? I’m not like you.”

  “What are you?”

  Her eyes widened. “Mouth closed, arms around me. Now.”

  “I thought you said most of them are good.”

  “Most are. But I need to protect you from the ones that aren’t.”

  I did as told, wrapping my arms around her tight, muscular frame. She told me her musk would conceal mine. When I asked why that was important, she said the situation was complicated.

  Understatement of the fucking century.

  I held my tongue and followed her, basically retracing the path I’d taken earlier in the day.

  We sidestepped several nightmarish creatures that were busy pulling themselves up the side of a building while a pair of fawn-like women were holding a conversation I couldn’t make out.

  Several paces later I heard the roar of a mighty animal and flinched as the two lions from outside the library bounded past, chasing each other. The big one that I’d imagined looking at me earlier stopped and turned his head in my direction. His nose lifted and he scented the air. Celine pulled me forward, telling me to double-time it.