Heart of stone, p.1
Heart of Stone, page 1
HEART
OF
STONE
David W. Burns
Woodhall Press | Norwalk, CT
Woodhall Press, 81 Old Saugatuck Road, Norwalk, CT 06855
WoodhallPress.com
Copyright © 2023 David W. Burns
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the publisher, except by a reviewer who may quote passages for review.
Cover design: Germancreative
Layout artist: LJ Mucci
Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data available
ISBN 978-1-954907-82-9 (paper: alk paper)
ISBN 978-1-954907-83-6 (electronic)
First Edition
Distributed by Independent Publishers Group
(800) 888-4741
Printed in the United States of America
This is a work of fiction. Names, characters, business, events and incidents are the products of the author’s imagination. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
To my amazing wife, Kate, who makes the dream real.
CHAPTER 1
Killing Marco Delgado should have been easy.
When he came into the bar, I was waiting in a formfitting red dress that was slit up to my hip on one side—the side I made sure was showing toward the front door. Marco glanced around, surveying his kingdom, then made a beeline for the stool next to mine. I’d kept it empty for the last two hours with a rather inspired string of insults and put-downs.
No bodyguards, no entourage. Marco was on the prowl tonight. Like I said: easy.
I adjusted my hair ever so carefully as he settled in next to me. Every golden curl was in place. No worries there. For now, at least.
“Knob Creek,” he told the barkeep. “And one for the lady.”
I gave him an appraising glance, then let a slow smile play across my glossy lips.
“You might want to spare yourself,” I said, which was probably going to be the last honest thing I said to this man. “I don’t think I’m very good company right now.” Marco always looked for the damaged ones, the birds with one broken wing. He liked playing the gallant. It was all part of his ritual.
“Misery loves company,” Marco grinned. He raised his tumbler. “To starting over.”
“I’ll drink to that,” I said, and knocked the bourbon whiskey all the way back. Why the hell not? We all have our impossible dreams, right? Mine was being able to look myself in the mirror without wanting to smash it. Marco’s—though he didn’t know it yet—was being able to live through the night.
“So what’s your name, sweetheart?”
“Kyra,” I said, extending a hand.
“Marco Delgado,” he said, taking it. Then he slipped his fingers under my palm and raised my hand to his lips, kissing it gently. I felt a ripple of agitation over my scalp, like ants crawling across my skin. I drew my hand back, a little too quickly, and his black eyes narrowed for a moment.
“So,” I said, to get back on script, “what do you do, Marco?” When you’re not out breaking people’s legs and cutting off their fingers for your boss, I could’ve added. But that would have been rude.
“Oh, you know, this and that,” he grinned. He liked that grin. You could tell.
“A man of mystery,” I teased. “My mother warned me about men like you. How do I know you’re not going to try to take me off somewhere and do bad things to me?”
His gaze dropped to my cleavage, and his wide nostrils flared like a racehorse. Yeah, he’d sized me up pretty fast: young girl, probably just getting over a bad breakup, wanting to feel some connection with somebody, even if it was the wrong guy. Two drinks. Three, max.
Except Marco had arrived an hour later than his routine. And I had a long-distance call to make tonight. I wanted to keep the chitchat short.
Marco leaned forward, dropping his voice to a husky whisper. “You looking for someone to do bad things to you?”
He really should’ve brought a wingman. But enforcers are used to being their own muscle.
“Buy me another drink,” I smirked, “and maybe we’ll see how bad you can be.” Which was, if the local Vietnamese business community was any indicator, pretty bad. Otherwise, they’d never have become desperate enough to pool their money and hire my agency.
The drinks came and vanished. I laughed at all the right jokes and put my hand on his arm at the right time. In less than fifteen minutes, we were stumbling out together into the frigid Chicago night.
“You got a car?” he asked. The next line would be some variation of “mine’s in the shop.” “Mine’s at the shop.”
Not much for originality, this Marco.
“Over here.” I led him to the parking lot around the corner and the red Ferrari I’d rented for the occasion.
“Sweet ride,” he said, and the next thing I knew, he had me pinned against the side of the car and was clumsily planting his mouth over mine. This is never my favorite moment on a job—I generally prefer to keep people at cattle-prod distance—but a girl’s got to make a living, you know. So I pushed back with my lips just enough to keep his motor revving.
I was about to break contact when Marco jerked his head back, his eyes narrowing, and scanned the cars around us with a suddenly alert gaze.
“Did you hear that?” he said. “Sounded like . . . hissing, or something.”
I blinked confusion at him. “That, maybe?” I pointed to a nearby subway grate from which clouds of vapor were gushing.
Marco’s brow furrowed in doubt or confusion. He had the instinctive sense of danger that every natural predator possesses. When he turned back to me, I could see his lust had been dampened somewhat by unease.
“C’mon,” I said, bouncing up and down helpfully. I hadn’t bothered to button up my jacket in case I needed to call in the reserves. “I’m freezing out here.”
Marco’s breath steamed out of his nose. Good boy. Then his hands were on me, roaming around inside my coat. I gave him a minute, then pushed him back with breathless effort.
“Not here,” I panted. “Too many people. Let’s go somewhere we can be really bad.”
Marco scowled, but the fish was on the hook by now, and when I scampered around the car, he got in the passenger seat quick enough.
“Don’t forget your seatbelt,” I giggled, and then we were heading downtown along Lake Shore Drive. The industrial park just outside Gary/Chicago Airport would be best, I’d decided. Isolated, with easy access to Lake Michigan. Adding in disposal time, I should be home by ten at the latest.
Then Marco’s cell phone rang. I stiffened, but he didn’t notice. Just checked the caller, then grunted.
“’Scuse me, sweetheart. Gotta take this.” He tapped the phone. “Hey, Celeste. How’s it going, beautiful?”
Seriously? He was hitting on some other chick while I was supposedly driving him back to my place? I felt vaguely insulted.
“What? Nah, don’t worry. I got it all taken care of. I’m tellin’ you, don’t worry. I know a guy, okay? You can tell Little A I’ll pick him up at noon.” He hung up, then went back to tracing his fingers up and down my arm as though nothing had happened.
Something had, though. I had pretty finely tuned antennae for when things were off, myself.
“Who’s Little A?” I asked, keeping my tone light. “Your boy?” I already knew the weasel had no children, nieces, or nephews. Maybe this was part of his act, coming across as the wrongfully separated dad.
“Hm? Nah. My godson, Antonio. I’m takin’ him to the White Sox home opener tomorrow.”
“His dad’s not a South Siders fan?”
Marco’s gaze drifted out the passenger side window. “Ain’t got no dad. He had a, uh, accident at work.”
I could guess what kind of accident that had been. The kind where you fell backward onto a lot of knives.
“So . . . you guys close?”
Marco’s tone conveyed a shrug. “I take him to the games sometimes. He likes those black caps. Always brings his mitt, thinks he’s gonna catch a fly ball.” He chuckled. “Eight-year-olds.”
I ground my capped teeth together. Goddamn it to hell. I had a strict policy against marks with close ties to kids. Somebody at the Agency had slipped up, big time. I was going to have to chew that somebody a new one in the morning.
Not to mention what a pain it was going to be refunding my portion of the fee. Literally. It didn’t help that I was already behind on my rent and that a few items in my fridge were beginning to acquire sentience; there was no way I could finish this job now. Damn, damn, damn.
“Hey, Marco,” I said, easing my foot off the accelerator. We’d just gotten onto South Shore Drive and were racing past Calumet Park. “Why don’t you and I do this some other time? I think I’m developing one of those headaches we girls get.”
“Now, don’t be getting cold feet, sweetheart,” said Marco, resuming his attentions to my arm. “You don’t have to worry about where I’ll be spending tomorrow. Like the lady says, all we’ve got is tonight, right?”
He reached for my hair. I couldn’t help it; I flinched.
“Hey . . .” There was nothing playful in his tone now. He squeezed my arm, hard. “Let’s remember w
“Marco, please listen—”
“No, you listen,” he said, dropping his hand to my leg. “You’re gonna—” He stopped, his probing fingers snagging on something.
Oh, shit.
“Is that a gun?” His voice had become a guttural snarl. He fumbled for a moment with the thigh holster, then ripped the weapon out. “You bitch! Are you setting me up?”
“It’s just for protection,” I yelled. “It’s not even loaded—”
“Pull over,” he snapped.
We were on the Skyway, which ran south along the city, carrying interstate traffic to and from the industrial parks and the airport. Not where I’d have chosen to make a pit stop, but the grip on my arm was insistent.
Marco directed me into an empty lot and steered us around the lone brick building away from the freeway’s lights. He tossed the gun into the back seat, then yanked the keys from the ignition, clenching them in his fist.
“Marco, don’t be this way,” I said, trying to salvage the mess things had become. I needed to get him out of the car, fast. “We can still—” A backhanded blow to my face brought stars to my eyes. I tasted blood in the back of my throat. Then I sensed more than saw the knife coming out of his jacket.
Okay, enough. The situation had become unmanageable. I fumbled for the door handle and tried to shove hard enough against it to tumble out. Only Marco was too quick. His hand snagged my hair, yanking my head back, exposing my throat. But only for an instant. Then the stays ripped loose and the lovely mass of blonde curls that had cost me three hundred bucks came off all at once.
“What the—?” Marco had time to say, and then the car filled with angry hisses.
All my serpents, fully roused, reared up from my head, snapping at the air. Marco shrieked and jerked back, out of their reach. Before he could do anything else, I turned and fixed him with the power of my Gaze.
As his eyes met mine, they went from terror and surprise to something else, some deeper mixture of revulsion and incomprehension that he probably wasn’t consciously aware of: the reaction of a man used to dealing death who couldn’t believe what it was that was killing him.
I’d let the snakes grow out nearly a week, and tonight my Gaze was potent. The transformation caused his limbs to stiffen first, turning them from flesh and blood to inanimate rock in seconds. Marco gave out a choking gasp as his heart became stone in his chest. The pallor of his skin stole from white to gray.
“What . . . are . . . you . . .” He gurgled, the words coming out like gravel. Then the Change reached his lips and his eyes went dead.
My hands were shaking from the adrenalin surge. I swung my legs out onto the tarmac and sucked in fresh air. The serpents shuddered and twisted around one another, recoiling from the cold. When I’d gotten my breathing under control, I tapped out a cigarette and lit it. They hissed and bit at the curling smoke, disapproving. Screw them; they’d be dead by morning anyway.
I waited there, shivering, until I felt it, the familiar sensation of a brittle shell—like invisible ice—cracking and falling off me soundlessly, all at once. Ektos plasma, the fury and pain and despair of Marco’s victims, molded into a compulsion by an Agency spellcaster. Gone now. As compulsions go, this one had been pretty weak; if I’d bailed on the contract, I’d probably only have spent a week in bed, throwing up every other hour. To do worse, the geas needed more power behind it, and these clients hadn’t had the bucks for that.
So . . . contract fulfilled. Good for me.
Marco’s dying question echoed in my head. I supposed he deserved an answer. But I didn’t turn around. I never liked to look at them afterward. I didn’t need to see that horrified expression frozen for eternity on their faces. Like I didn’t already know what I was.
“I thought you’d figured that out, Marco,” I said over my shoulder, looking up at the frozen stars, each one flawlessly, eternally beautiful. Those same stars had shone down on the land of my ancestors, had watched over the Parthenon and the Temple of Apollo in their grandeur. They never changed, never suffered, never had to get their dainty white light dirty making a living in a land not meant for them. I drew blessed nicotine into my lungs then blew a cloud up at the distant twinkling lights, erasing their damn perfection from my sight. The serpents were making my head feel too heavy for my neck. I dropped my gaze to the detritus of the parking lot, to the casual debris of mortal lives. Would that I could just let my head sink between my knees, into the ground itself, and be swallowed up by the earth.
“I’m just a good girl gone bad.”
Or a Mythic, if you want to use the popular term for folk like me, people who—for whatever twisted reason—look like, or actually are, the beasts and monsters from the world’s legendary past. If you haven’t read about us in a travel guide, don’t feel bad. We inhabit the dark and abandoned pockets of cities like Chicago, skulking in the shadows, for the most part making our meager living picking over the refuse of what ordinary humans take for granted. Some of us—those lucky enough to be able to hide their deformities—work among regular people every day, or so I hear. But most Mythic stick to the fringes of society, doing the jobs nobody else wants to do, to lessen the risk of exposure. We take out the trash, clean the industrial tanks and machinery, dig the graves so that the human world gets to keep humming along, content and oblivious.
And speaking of trash . . .
I couldn’t stick around here, not with a life-size statue of a local goodfella in the passenger seat. I ground out the cig with real regret and fitted my wig back in place. The serpents were already sluggish after expending their power; I only got nipped twice as I shoved them back under cover.
I hunted around the front seat for the car keys, then realized they were still in Marco Delgado’s fist. His stone fist.
Son of a bitch. This night just kept getting better and better.
After spending a futile three minutes trying to fish them out, I gave up and popped the trunk with the manual lever. From my duffel bag I took out goggles, smock, and gloves then selected one of my ball-peen hammers. I opened the passenger side door and wriggled in next to the statue. Ferraris are not designed for multiple front-seat passengers. I had to wedge myself against the dash to get the angle right, but one swing was all it took to split the stone at the knuckles and get the keys free. In one respect, I’d been lucky: The keys were technically only mine by virtue of the loaner, so they could have just as easily been petrified along with all the other inorganic parts attached to Delgado’s body. But evidently a rental contract was enough of a bond for the magic to consider the keys as belonging to me.
The ten-minute drive to Indiana Harbor felt longer, partly because I was running late and partly because every flashing or blinking light in my rearview mirror made me think I was about to be pulled over by the cops. I hadn’t meant to take care of business with Delgado until I’d gotten him to one of my usual disposal sites, and I definitely hadn’t wanted him to be in the car when I converted him into more than 250 pounds of deadweight. I wasn’t used to advertising my abilities to anybody who happened to pass me on the freeway, and it made me sweat until I pulled into the steel mill’s parking lot and parked under the shadow of the access ramp.
I needed another cigarette pretty bad by now, but it would have to wait. Nighttime security was usually lax this far from the harbor’s vital points, but it still wouldn’t do to get caught here. The air was still and quiet except for the gentle sound of Lake Michigan slapping against the breakwater fifty feet to my left. Over to my right, great mountains of iron ore and limestone rose up into the night sky, the bounty of quarries in south and central Indiana, all bound for processing and use in construction sites around the Great Lakes. Ordinarily, I’d have been happy to give a worthless piece of trash like Delgado a chance to give something back to the community.
But he’d really done a number on my arm; I could feel it starting to bruise. And it was nearly ten o’clock already. I still had a long night ahead of me.
