Harlem's Deck (collated edition)

By Paul Smith

The city of Neppon drifts through the shallows where the walls encircling the mortal realm are paper thin, as they once were on Earth. Here the daemons gather out of the surrounding night, drawn by the candle flame promise of warm flesh.

As the election for the city's mayoral office approaches, one man stands head and shoulders above the other candidates. His reputation? A bastion for everything that is good and honest, in a world beset from all sides by horrors. But Jaret Roscan carries a secret. A secret that could bring ruin to his political career, and return his beloved city to the chaos of the Insurgency Wars.

One person has the key to his salvation. The question is, will they come forward in his hour of need?

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This edition features all twenty one chapters of Harlem's Deck.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Paul Smith
• Release date: Jul 17, 2015
• ISBN: 9781311465924

Paul Smith

PAUL SMITH is a dedicated father of two and an expert trainer in leadership and storytelling techniques. As the author of the popular Lead with a Story, he has seen his work featured in The Wall Street Journal, Time, Forbes, The Washington Post, Success, and Investor's Business Daily, among others.

Book preview

Harlem's Deck.

By Paul Smith.

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Harlem's Deck.

Paul Smith

Copyright 2015 Paul Smith

Smashwords Edition.

This is a work of fiction. Any similarity to people, places or events is purely coincidental, and bears no malicious intent.

ISBN: 9781311465924

For more information on my work, and to keep up to date with new releases please follow me on Twitter @tattooloverboi or check out one of my galleries:

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Blog: http://paulsmithauthor.wordpress.com/

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'For your inner Goth.'

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Table of Contents

Beginning

Copyright information

First Hand

1 Fairground Attraction

2 Coat Drama

3 Enter Stole

4 Drag Therapy

5 Good Cop Bad Cop

6 Smoking Gun

7 A Night at the Opera

8 Poolside Stand Off

9 A Question of Faith

10 Blood Work

11 First Hand

12 Devil Walking

Place Your Bets

13 All Over Coffee

14 A Studied Lack of Circumspection

15 Card Sharks

16 Handbags before Dawn

17 Unexpected Quarters

18 Trying to Forget

19 Elevator Dance

20 Angel Walking

21 Wake

A Few Words from the Author

First Hand.

1: Fairground Attraction.

The police officer eyed the youth in front of her dubiously. He didn't look like much, your typical disaffected teen passing through that awkward phase where his body's growth needs were far outstripping his diet, leaving him looking more like a scarecrow than a real live boy.

The impression wasn't helped by the mass of hair sprouting from his head; he was sporting one of those lank Mohawks that were in vogue at the moment, the fringe forming a curtain that fell down across the left side of his face, leaving that eye in shadow.

Only the signet ring on his left pinkie, and the small gaggle of nervous looking rich kids at his back, implied he was anything more than the nihilistic punk he looked like.

For his part, the young man had given up long ago being bothered by what other people thought of him. A lesson most people learnt much later in life, he'd had it force fed down his throat at the hands of the older boys at the orphanage.

In the cold hours around dawn, when he couldn't sleep, he liked to think of their faces and thank them for the beatings and the rape. It all leant perspective.

Of course, his sensei had had a few choice words to say on the matter, but then the old man had an adage for everything. Elliot was convinced he sat up of an evening memorising the damn things from some weighty tome he kept at his bedside.

Can you do it?

The woman's voice dragged him back to the present, the sounds of the fairground around them bleeding in again.

He'd come with Jay and the others, at his adoptive brother's insistence.

It'll be fun! A lad's night on the town. Mum and Dad are away, nobody need know...

Neppon's drinking laws were pedestrian but strict. The hand of Mother Church was, after all, ever present here. There were a few places, however, where a blind eye was turned. The Yew Tree. Most of Carnaby Street. One or two of the clubs along the Topiary, depending on who was on the doors. And of course the fairground.

Who, after all, could expect gypsies to abide by the law?

So here they were, three sheets to the wind. The dodgems crashed and blared at his back, whilst overhead the Ferris wheel cast glittering fairy light over all.

To her credit, when they'd answered the tanoy request (at Deek's laughing insistence - it's got to be a fucking joke, let's call them on it. Come on El!) Officer Emery had not laughed in his face. Nor had she immediately arrested them for under age drinking, as some might have done.

Elliot was starting to suspect her choice of actions were intended to make a point. Wasn't so sure he liked being at the sharp end.

Well?

He sighed, pushing his hair out of his eyes and removing his hands from the pockets of his skinny black jeans. They were the ones with the rips in the knees – Jay liked him to be the rebel to his square. It was a dichotomy that quietly infuriated his father almost as much as it amused his bespectacled PA.

Yes, he replied, eyeing Officer Emery and her army of colleagues. Quite a number had amassed, pulling up in three squad cars, given that there was absolutely fuck all they could do about the situation. Yes, I can help you. But I will need a weapon. Not your gun, he added quickly, seeing the censure seething to the surface in her eyes. A blade. Preferably a sword, though anything above six inches will do.

He rolled his eyes at the quiet snicker from behind, met Officer Emery's eyes and was surprised to receive a small nod of acknowledgement.

Deep inside his chest, a tiny chink opened in his usual armour at this unlooked for moment of empathy.

Where the fuck are we going to find a sword? one of her co-workers enquired sardonically.

This do?

They all looked round to find one of the fair hands stood at the edge of their huddle. The blade he held was more of a machete than a sword. Had clearly seen a lot of use to judge from the nicks along the spine and handle. But the edge itself flashed wickedly in the light off the bumper cars.

Where the fuck did you get that?

Can it Malloy, Emery snapped, scowling at the man who'd spoke.

Yes, thank you. Elliot accepted it gratefully, sharing a small smile with the guy at the stupidity of the bureaucratic male ego.

Hefting it, he did a couple of flips (again, to the barely contained excitement of Deek) before nodding. Turning back to Officer Emery, he reversed it unconsciously in his grasp before gesturing her on. Please lead the way.

The situation was as old as their race, for all this iteration was something not seen since the dark ages on Earth.

A little girl needed rescuing from a monster.

The details were, of course, a little more complicated than that.

Basically the current situation was the result of civil vigilantism: some prick, or possibly group of pricks, from the nearby estates had decided he was fed up of the gypo scum loitering on their doorstep. Or perhaps he'd been slighted in some other, more personal fashion. The man was currently in custody, and the police were being cagey about his motivations, possibly in light of the spectacle he'd made whilst being bundled into the riot van that had been the first vehicle on the scene.

Whatever, the upshot of his attempt at revenge/civil justice was a lesser atrocity loose in the house of mirrors, with a little girl unaccounted for amongst the park's visitors.

Nobody even wanted to think about what was being done to that poor child's soul at this very moment. That much was clear from the abject silence of the adults present.

As they neared the fun house, he could feel it, like a storm waiting to burst.

How did he pull it across?

Emery glanced at him. Blood, on the mirrors. According to the witnesses. There were three families in there at the time. Perp's a complete nut case. This last was delivered with the quiet resignation of the career officer. Law enforcement was hard here, requiring a special strength of character.

Elliot nodded. Reflective surfaces were one of the most potent conduits to the otherside. And everybody knew the power of blood. Okay. You might want to wait here. He glanced at the officer. Has anyone called for a priest?

Pastor's on his way now, from the local church.

Our safety, in the hands of fat old men. But he didn't say the words. He and the church had never seen eye to eye. But then, the church had never quite reconciled itself to the existence of his kind, so the feeling might be said to be mutual.

Whatever happens, please don't follow me in.

With that, he left the woman standing in the shifting shadows of the fairground lights, climbing the stairs into the funhouse past the abandoned pay kiosk.

Someone had had the forethought to close down the engine running the various moving parts of the antique attraction, and Elliot found himself incredibly grateful as he picked his way carefully through the debris left behind by the fleeing fair goers. Bits of wood and scraps of cloth hung at odd angles in the space, their garish colours at odds with the eerie quiet. In the distance he kept catching strains of the RenBop track blasting out of the waltzers, mingling with scraps of some old crooner melody coming from one of the café vans.

A fizz of sparks made him jump, but it was only a broken light fixture, half hanging down from the ceiling. Ahead, the entrance to the hall of mirrors beckoned.

Well, here goes nothing. Hefting the machete, he strode forwards, crossing the threshold.

As he'd expected, the surrounding atmosphere shifted almost imperceptibly as he stepped over, sending a shiver up his spine and standing the hairs up his arms on end.

Elliot smiled grimly at the confirmation.

With the infernal, it was all about boundaries. Territorial to a fault, they were therefore constrained when they entered the physical realm. The scope of said territory did not necessarily follow any sort of geographic logic. Instead it was all about perceptions and psychic space.

This one had found itself tethered to the funhouse. A blessing in that it confined it to a specific physical location.

Walking down the initial corridor, Elliot stepped out into a broad hall, not unlike a dance studio. Like such, it was lined down both sides with mirrors, though in this case each was designed to distort in a different fashion. One or two had been smashed, as had parts of the mirrored floor that spanned the central section of the room, leaving shards of glass strewn across the space. Silently, he thanked his lucky stars he'd worn his boots this evening rather than the canvas pumps he'd originally been going for.

(Jesus Elliot, I said 'scruffy', not 'hobo'. - Jaret, on seeing the offending footwear.)

Looking up, he found the daemon was crouched on the far side of the room, patches of skin shining wetly in the flickering red and blue light.

Elliot had heard tell of daemons manifesting in all sorts of forms. From the purely pedestrian (threatening figures in a suit still seemed to be an old favourite amongst the Inferno's gentry) to the outright bizarre (clouds of bloody jawed locus swarming as a many tentacled horror).

This one was definitely of the later category. When pressed by his sensei (and later by a still drunk Jaret) he'd tentatively described it as 'a sea of dead cats'. It was the first thing that sprung to mind as he gazed with rising bile at the weeping mass of flesh and ragged fur that stared at him with its many yellow eyes slit in frustrated anger.

The girl was a quivering shadow near its centre, trapped as various parts of it nipped at her, whilst others pushed wet extrusions at her.

On the floor, a slightly grubby teddy bear lay abandoned in the dust.

Right. Swallowing, Elliot crossed smartly to recover the bear, stuffing it into a pocket without looking, his eyes and the pointy end of the machete trained on the abomination before him the entire time.

...HUU H-WILL NOT..'ACK -ER...

The voice did not emit from a distinct orifice (of which there were many, dribbling or otherwise), but rather wheezed out of the thing like air from a set of abandoned bagpipes.

Honestly Cats Cradle, you need to work on your diction. He stepped forward, to much hissing and mewling, though the thing didn't retreat.

Is that because it doesn't know what I am? Or am I not old enough to be perceived as a threat?

Time to disavow it of that idea.

Darting forwards, he stabbed at a lolling extremity, spearing it straight through the centre of the dinner plate-sized paw that formed its terminus. The thing squealed, lashing out with surprising agility given the apparently haphazard way it was strung together. Mass gathered into a crouch and sprang. He only just had time to vault to the side as five paws of differing sizes missed him by a whisker, a pair of jaws closing on the space his head had occupied just moments before.

The girl had been pulled with it. He could see smoky tendrils of the thing cradling her head and trailing from the skin at her wrists and neck. It would be attempting to penetrate her chakra, trying to use that energy to break beyond its territorial walls.

Can't kill it with her like that, might take her with it.

Killing was of course a relative term in these circumstances. There were a number of options available when dealing with a manifestation that ranged from planar banishment (back with ye, to the pits that spawned you!) all the way up to total dissolution (permanent death). The former was, obviously, easier and quicker to perform but left you at risk of revenge action, should the fiend in question ever gain access to the mortal realm again. The later was always preferable but was far more difficult, especially without a singing blade, and ran the risk of killing anybody psychically entangled with the beast at time of death.

Hence the current predicament.

There were a number of ways to disengage a victim in these circumstances. Karl even had dolls, to demonstrate.

Elliot decided to get up front and personal: shock and awe.

Here now, no point in half measures and all that...

With a scream that would have done any silver screen starlet proud he charged into the writhing mass of flesh, swinging left and right in powerful pin wheel strokes as he did. Flesh tore and bone crunched beneath his weapon, and he found himself silently thanking the gypsy as he barrelled through the swamp of flesh towards the trapped minor at its heart. Clambering across a section of contorted spine, he finally reached her, laying about with the sharp edge of the weapon to fend off various prising sets of jaws before grabbing the girl by the shoulders and pulling.

She came away with a damp sucking sound that almost saw him loose his burger all over again. He hacked at the tendrils applied to her tender places, finally resorting to switching hands and grabbing fistfuls of the stuff, tugging it loose as he backed up, blade arm round her waist as he pulled her to freedom. It felt like spider's web or candy floss against his skin, and smelt as sickly sweet, but left little bloody welts where it came loose.

Backing through the mass of heaving flesh, he made it to a wall, gratified to find the girl supporting her own weight. Light had returned to her eyes, for all they were wide with nightmare terror.

Here, hold this, he offered, thrusting the bear gruffly at her before turning back to their advancing adversary, and if you know any good prayers, now is the time.

Bottom lip trembling she crushed the bear against her chest as he stalked off towards the insanity scratching their way across the floor, blade a ridged line at the end of his arm.

It jumped, and this time he wasn't fast enough to feint as it tore into his shoulder, teeth biting deep before he got the sword up to swipe beneath the jaw, pushing it back. It went for a bear hug and he dodged back stabbing forward himself. But it was wary now, darting away to vanish through a mirror, emerging at the room's far end in a flurry of coruscated distortions.

So, you want to play hard to get?

The thing snarled, stalking forwards, but he ignored it. Pulled the sword up before him to run the cutting edge down the palm of his left hand. Hot flash of pain, but he breathed through it, smearing his life down its length.

Consecrate your blade.

The smell did something to the creature opposite, throwing it into lustful frenzy. Elliot watched it sprint towards him, judging the moment. At the last minute, his fist snapped up, grabbing the largest of its heads by the throat and driving the sword point up through quivering flesh.

Light flared from the entry wound, followed moments later by a rain of sopping gore. Teeth gnashed to either side, but he held his ground, knowing instinctively that he'd scored his mark. All else was desperate pageantry, an unsubtle attempt to distract him from his purpose and potentially earn his victim a reprieve of sorts.

Oh no you don't, kitty going down.

With a last shuddering exhalation, the thing gave up its struggle, limbs and other extremities sagging to the blood stained floor. Sighing, he released his hold, pulling the blade free. Stepping back, he wiped the worst of the gore streaking its length on his trouser leg, wrinkling his nose at the stench. House keeping would have a few choice words about that, no doubt.

Letting out a long pent up breath of his own, he turned to regard his prize.

Huge eyes starred back at him over the top of the teddy bear's slightly worn head.

Well, it's nothing therapy won't fix I'm sure. He spread his arms wide. I turned out alright, after all.

No response.

Not really surprising. Come on El, what she just witnessed easily puts most of your demons to shame.

He acknowledged this with a rueful smile. Took a step towards her. She took one back.

Careful, he held the blade out to one side. Dropped it with a sharp clatter that made her jump. Lowered that hand to hold out the other.

Shall we? Jerking his head towards the exit.

She seemed to come to a decision, stepping forward to take the proffered palm in her own grubby mitt.

You'll do alright, he decided, as they left the abattoir scene behind them for the lights and music without.

2: Coat Drama.

What about this one?

Samara looked up from her magazine. Seriously, El? You're worse than a woman!

He pulled a face, disappearing back into the changing room. Reappeared a few moments later in an old naval style jacket cut short at the hips. He'd pulled the collar up so it sat level with his cheek bones, had his hands stuffed into its pockets.

He raised an eyebrow, head thrust forward slightly like a petulant youth. It was an aspect he wore well, despite his rapidly approaching thirtieth.

It's an improvement, she conceded, laying the magazine to one side and uncrossing her legs. But we can do better, I think. It's an odd length.

He nodded, removing his hands to tug at the garment's hem. I know what you mean. Always thought if I was going to have a coat like this I'd want it a bit longer.

Sam nodded. Yes. More drama.

Exactly.

She stood. Next?

He sighed, shooting the pretty girl at the entrance to the fits a guilty look. Sorry...

She waved them off. Just leave them in there. Isn't like I've got a whole lot else to do with the parade on.

Sam smiled her thanks, shouldering into her own coat and putting an arm round Elliot's broad shoulders as she guided him out into the relative quiet of the hall beyond. She counted five, maybe six other people browsing as they crossed towards the stairs (Elliot had a thing about lifts). And they all looked like they were out browsing on their lunch.

Have I mentioned you look like Red Riding Hood in that thing? he asked as they ascended.

She glanced up at him, rolling her eyes. Every time you're drunk.

He pulled a face, miming suitably chastened. What does Beth think?

Actually she rather likes it.

El shook his head. Yes I suppose she would.

They reached the revolving doors that let out onto the street. Cagney's main entrance fronted onto Second Avenue, which would normally be heaving with shoppers at this time, but today the lure of the carnival provided the stronger pull. At one time the Midsummer's Day parade had come up here on its way to Central Park. But several of the businesses, including the owners of Cagney's, had protested over the mess and the need for extra security prompting the route to be moved. Now it passed the southern end of Second and turned up Third, crossing the entrance to the Laines. A glance down the street revealed a steady march of stragglers trailing the parade proper, which could be heard faintly in the distance.

Elliot lowered his sunglasses, turning to her. Where to next?

Sam grinned. The ace up my sleeve.

Why young lady, I'm intrigued... He offered her his arm, and she guided them down the department store's impressive glass front towards the cut through at its southern end. In the distance, a fresh bout of whistle blowing announced the start of the parade had reached the outskirts of the park.

Annalise quietly swallowed her ennui and stood to applaud the latest float. It wasn't that she found the spectacle inherently boring. Far from it: the Midsummer's Day parade was always a riot of colour, especially this year with the theme being 'Garden Paradise'. Each boat-like barge that floated past was festooned with blooms, the majority of which she knew had been grown by local school children as part of a campaign of awareness she and a couple of the other wives were spearheading.

Jaret did so like her to be seen to be involved.

To be honest she didn't mind either. It was an aspect of their relationship that she cherished: the chance to get stuck in, to make a difference. True, her own career in medical research offered plenty of that, but still it was nice to get out there, to see people. And the kids! With their little smiling faces...

Darling?

Sorry love. Sniffing, she reassembled her smile, banishing such sentimentality for later as she focused on the latest float sailing past the podium. This one put together by the steelworkers, with help from St Helen's, their nearby school. A wolf whistle broke the air, but she kept her calm, something she'd never have managed five or six years ago. Even raised an arm in salute, to a fresh round of whooping from the guys on the float. Out of the corner of her eye she saw Jaret's face stiffen slightly, knew there'd be some small accounting later. He was a good man, but he was a man.

He would never let it show however, not in public.

That was her husband. Ever the consummate politician. It was a gift that had allowed him to walk away so successfully with the last election, and put him in such a strong position for a second term. All they needed to do was make it through to the end of the summer, when parliament reconvened. A final spate of intensive campaigning, an appearance on Deacon Tonight and the race would be all but won. The clock would be reset for another four years, and all those plans he had carefully put into play could be realised, without having to surrender them to that idiot Jones, or worse the liberals...

And then? Well, people were already whispering the word.

President.

The very thought made her knees go a little weak, even now. Hurriedly, she schooled her thoughts, glancing guiltily at her husband. But he was looking elsewhere, his expression still carrying that fixed glaze that only those who knew him well enough would recognise as displeasure.

Lise sighed inwardly. Nobody ever warned you marriage could be such a trial.

Elliot stood in the middle of the shop (Boutique would be a better word, but she was always leery of offending his masculinity. He had the oddest blind spots in that area), twirling this way and that so that the coat's tails danced about his calves.

Really...?!? she asked finally, unable to contain herself any longer as he spun once more in front of the mirror. She had to admit though, he did look good. She was reasonably confident his brother would approve. It was incredibly important, after all, that a family's Nu Shakya give the right impression. Present the right image, if you will. Given their current political position the Roscan's definitely needed that to be 'bad ass', with a healthy dose of 'no nonsense' for all those goodie two-shoes voters out there who needed reassuring their candidate was suitably protected from corruption by the otherside.

Elliot turned to face her, hands outstretched so she could see the fading Horus eye he'd had tattooed on his left palm. The coat followed at a suitable delay, folds of black cloth settling about him with casual grace. The rich red lining caught the light at the cuffs and hood, dark as split wine. What?

She shook her head. You and that coat clearly need to get a room.

Hey, it was your idea to come here.

I know. She cast an apologetic glance at the sales assistant, who was stood at a discreet distance, trying desperately not to smirk. Sam offered him a lopsided smile and a wink, careful to keep her face averted from the man in front of the mirror. We'll take it, I think?

Oh most definitely. Can I wear it out?

Absolutely not, your brother would kill me.

He cast his eyes heavenward, but relinquished the garment, albeit with the poor grace of a child denied ice cream. Sam followed the bemused queen to the till, producing the gold card Jaret had leant her for the occasion from her purse and authorising payment, trying not to think about the amount of money that had just changed hands.

Typical of Jaret, to ask her indulgence in this without considering the potential for personal insult. It would require a good month's wages for her to even think about stepping into a place like this, and that was if she had the luxury of suspending all her other out goings.