Sword for Hire

By Andrew Dudek

The dead are walking in New York City.

Admittedly, that isn’t all that unusual in the life of Dave Carver. But this time the dead who are walking are a little more...aggressive.

Dave is a Knight of the Round Table, a clandestine organization of monster hunters whose job it is to defend humanity from the creepy-crawlies of the world, and even he hasn’t seen anything exactly like this.

When tragedy strikes in the suburbs, Dave—alongside his friends, a beautiful prospective knight and a grizzled occult bounty hunter—is called into investigate. Dave will uncover a secret conspiracy—one that involves an oddly familiar strain of evil black magic—that’s already claimed the lives of three innocent people, and may kill some more. Along the way, Dave will find himself face to face with a bitter goblin warrior, an angry homicide detective, and one of the most powerful necromancers of all time.

Zombies are coming to New York. All part of a day’s work for Dave Carver, but this day at the office...well, you could almost say it’s a killer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Andrew Dudek
• Release date: Oct 24, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370377756

Andrew Dudek

Andrew Dudek is the author of the Dave Carver series of urban fantasy novels. Currently he lives with his family in that most terrifying of places: New Jersey. He’s also really not as mentally disturbed as he may seem. Promise.

Book preview

Chapter 1

Blake Atley hated Halloween. He didn’t used to. Like virtually all children, he'd loved it in grade school. In high school and college and law school, he‘d appreciated the amount of skin revealed by the girls’ costumes. He wasn’t some fuddy-duddy from birth who hated fun. But as an Assistant District Attorney, he hated Halloween. The night brought out the crazies—the crime rate skyrocketed at the end of October—and made more work for Blake and his coworkers. True, virtually all of the suspects would be released after a night in the drunk tank, but somebody had to review the cases. And this year had seemed even worse than normal. Over the last two months, the crime rate had been doubled. Arrests were no higher, but unsolved crimes? Man, oh man, had there been a lot of unsolved crimes. Scores of assaults, and not a single assailant had been found. It was like they were hanging around, knocking unsuspecting joggers or dog-walkers or even cops on their asses, and then disappearing into the ether. Some of Blake’s colleagues had taken to calling them the ghost-thugs, which Blake had to admit had a nice ring to it.

But he was looking forward to seeing his kids in costumes. His smile got wider as he remembered the first Halloween party he and and Jane had attended together. That had been their…fourth date. Fifth, maybe. Certainly single digits. Jane’s costume had been something she'd called a sexy black cat, and it was, still, one of Blake’s favorite mental images. Yeah, Halloween wasn’t all bad.

Traffic was bad—no worse than normal, but normal was bad—on the way out of New York. By the time he got to Grove Street in Whitecliff, he was exhausted and bleary-eyed. He had to slam the brakes every thirty feet, or so it seemed, to avoid running down some brat in a rubber mask who was too stupid to not run out into the middle of the street, brandishing a bright orange bag of candy.

Blake knew it was unbecoming for a prosecutor to fantasize about beating parental skills and common sense into the morons who’d brought these little costumed geniuses into the world, but he couldn’t help it. Hey, it was a holiday. He was allowed a few moments in his own mind to not be a lawyer.

It was well past dark by the time he parked behind Jane’s Hyundai in the driveway. His father had told him that he and Jane ought to buy the worst house in the nicest neighborhood they could afford, and that was just what they’d done. Most of the time, Blake wished he hadn’t listened to Dad. Holden Atley may have been a good cop, but sometimes Blake thought he wasn’t a keen real-estate mind. Their house was fine—it was certainly nicer than the apartment in which he’d grown up—but it was far smaller than its neighbors. The surrounding houses were all exponentially nicer. Bigger and better maintained, too. Perfectly manicured lawns, oil-stain-free driveways, expensive siding, and classy solar panels on the roofs. The Atley house wasn’t a pit, but compared to the neighbors, it might as well have been the place where Jed Clampett had lived before he found the black gold.

The kitchen lights were on. Blake frowned. Jane and the kids should have been out trick-or-treating by now. It was a little after seven: prime candy-gettin’ time.

Blake set the emergency brake and got out of the car, lugging his briefcase with him.

Hey, mister! Blake turned to see a boy of about ten, dressed in rags and wearing gray makeup on his face. A zombie. Zombies were all the rage these days, at least according to Peggy at the office, who had a fifteen-year-old daughter. What gives?

Blake smiled dully, not sure what was supposed to be given.

The lights are on, but nobody’s home, the zombie said. He raised his faded pillowcase. No candy.

Oh. Blake smiled more earnestly. Sorry ‘bout that. My wife must’a left the lights on. There should be a bowl on the porch.

There ain’t. Without waiting further reply, the zombie ran off down the street to join a gaggle of waist-high aliens and rubber-masked werewolves.

Odd. Unlike her husband, Jane Atley loved Halloween. When she wasn’t going to be home—when she was taking the kids out trick-or-treating, say—she’d leave a bowl of candy out. Most of the time, obviously, the lucky first kid would empty the bowl, but the bowl itself should have still been there.

Blake looked at his house, at the lights in the kitchen, and he felt a pit in his gut. For a long moment, he stood in the driveway, staring at the house, afraid of what he might find in there. Finally, he shook his head. He was being ridiculous, letting himself get caught up in the spooky atmosphere of a stupid kids’ holiday. Jane had forgotten to turn the lights off—it wasn’t really a surprise: Caity and Terrence were little cyclones of energy when the prospect of candy was raised in front of them, and Jane would have been distracted—and whatever punk had taken all of the chocolate had knocked the bowl behind the bushes in front of the porch. That was all.

He let himself through the front door after checking for the empty bowl on the lawn (he didn’t find it), chuckling at himself for being a superstitious child. Hey, he called into the house. Anybody here?

A chair scraped across the floor in the kitchen. Blake winced, despite himself. Jane was pretty easy-going by nature, but she could raise hell when the kids pulled the chairs out from the table like that. It could damage the tile, she said. Blake had never seen a scratch, but it avoided an argument to do it her way, so he did.

What are you guys doing home? he called as he bent to untie his shoes. Shouldn’t you be out, begging the neighbors for sugar?

In sock feet he headed towards the kitchen, feeling good in the way that can only come from getting beyond a moment of real terror. He was just a few seconds from seeing the love of his life and his kids. Even if it was Halloween, that made it a pretty good day.

When he stepped into the kitchen, he stepped into a pool of blood.

He jerked his foot back from the sticky liquid, cursing. What the hell is this? Some kind of prank, he decided, the trick in trick-or-treat and the kids had filled the kitchen with fake blood from some party store. Though, it looked real: it had the weird lumpiness that Blake had seen in countless crime-scene photos.

Bits of broken dishes littered the kitchen table. Shattered glass lay among the thick red liquid on the floor. One of the chairs was on its back. Blake’s heart sped up, and he was aware of a jackhammer in his throat. This isn’t funny, he said.

He shot a look around the kitchen, focusing on the sliding-glass door that led to the patio where he’d barbecue steaks in the summer, expecting to see his kids’ little feet poking out beneath the long curtains. He listened for the giggling they’d be trying—and failing—to conceal. His eyes landed on something on the counter, near the sink. It took a moment for his fried brain to acknowledge it, but he recognized it.

A hand. A little hand.

No.

Ignoring the blood on the floor, Blake plowed into the kitchen, towards the hand. No, no, no. The one word repeated over and over. No.

He picked up the hand, desperately hoping that it would be rubber, a prop, however real it looked. It felt real, and Blake knew that it was skin. Soft skin, a child’s skin. It was familiar, too, of course it was. This was a hand that he had held many times, only those times it had been attached to an arm. The hand had been pulled from the wrist: there jagged bits of skin hanging off and a broken bone poking out. Only then did he notice the nail polish: sky blue, Caity’s favorite color.

NOOOOOO! he howled and fell to his knees. The blood was still warm, but it was cooling quickly. The blood of his six-year-old daughter.

Later, he wouldn’t be able to say how long he stayed there, kneeling before the kitchen sink, staring at the hand. It him him like a lightning strike, all of a sudden: Caity wasn’t very big. There was a lot of blood on the floor here, and he didn’t think all of it could have come from his daughter. Blake climbed to his feet and staggered out of the pitch, tears falling down his face to land in the blood.

Terrence was on the landing between the first and second floors. His eight-year-old son had been torn open from navel to collarbone and left on the floor to wait forever. Viscera, thick tendrils of gray, ropy organs were piled on the carpet next to the body. Blake retched, then vomited, only just managing to turn in time to avoid puking on his dead son.

The second floor looked untouched. No sign of Jane, but he didn’t feel hopeful. Really, he didn’t feel anything. His kids were dead. There was no emotion that could touch that knowledge.

Giving up on the second floor (he didn’t look in the kids’ rooms—not on purpose, but his subconscious wouldn’t let him: it didn’t think he could handle it), he stumbled downstairs, passing Terrence without much comprehension.

Jane was in the garage. At least, most of her was. She’d been pulled apart, but her head, torso, and most of her limbs were there. Blake didn’t see the left leg, but he supposed that didn’t matter much.

Blake stepped over the collapsed remains of his wife’s chest and went to the little locker in the corner of the garage. He took out his keyring and selected the smallest one, the one he hadn’t used since he first bought the safe, after his dad had given him the item that was inside.

The revolver was still in the safe. He had the only key and the lock hadn’t been broken, so of course it was still in there. He tucked the gun into the pocket of his suit coat, noticing as he did that his pants were stained with blood. He headed towards the house, pausing just long enough to kneel next to Jane and kiss her forehead. I’ll see you soon, honey, okay?

The gun was a Smith and Wesson thirty-eight, and Blake had never actually fired it. His father had given it to him when Blake had bought the house. The old man had winked and said, You never know, right? Can’t be too careful with those precious grandkids of mine. That had been five years ago, now, before the cancer had ravaged Holden Atley’s insides, and Blake doubted his father had ever anticipated something like this.

He headed into the kitchen. Seemed as good a place as any to die. This way, at least, his blood could join with his family’s. Blake sat at the kitchen table and took out the gun. Caity’s body was under the table. Except for the jagged stump at the end of her little right wrist (and the fact that her neck had been snapped hard enough that her head faced the wrong way) she looked peaceful. That was a small mercy, at least. There were no tears in Blake’s eyes, which surprised even himself. He was in shock, he supposed, and the tears would come, in time.

Not that he intended to find out.

He put the gun to his chin, clicked back the hammer, and put his finger on the trigger.

It was pure chance that he took one last look around the kitchen. Pure coincidence that he saw the overturned chair. There had been someone in here when he’d come home, right? He’d heard the chair scrape on the floor. Which meant…

Whoever had killed his family was still here.

Now Blake Atley felt something. Rage boiled his blood and he rose, knocking over his own chair.

As if on cue, the pantry door burst open and a man stumbled out. Blake spun waving the gun wildly, and pulled the trigger. The shot punched a hole in the wall next to the pantry door, completely missing his target.

Blake found himself face-to-face with the man who’d destroyed his world. The killer was big, tall and bulky like a linebacker. His black suit was drenched with blood, as were his hands. But there was something…wrong with him, Blake realized. His skin was gray, like a piece of old beef. Bits of flesh were peeling from his face and his hands. His eyes, milky, blind, and unclear, didn’t blink.

Why? Blake shouted.

The man didn’t answer.

Why?

Again, no response.

It didn’t matter. Five bullets left: plenty to destroy this monster and still end his own life, Blake fired. This shot struck true, and put a fist-sized hole in the man’s chest. He dropped.

Blake nodded. He’d failed to protect his family, but at least he had avenged them. He put the gun under his chin again and had his finger on the trigger. He stopped when something moved on the floor. The man, the big, gray-skinned, white-eyed man, was climbing to his feet. Blake gaped. He’d never fired this gun before, but at this range, the thirty-eight special bullet had punched a hole through the man’s heart. He should have breathed his last.

Sirens were wailing in the distance. Someone must have reported the gunshot. The cops would be here soon.

The killer took a step forward, and Blake retreated the same distance. He raised the revolver again. The other man kept coming and stepped out of a shadow that had been cast on his face by the ceiling fan and into a patch of white light from the fixture. Blake knew that face.

DiLama? he said, in amazement. Johnny Two-Blades?

The other man grunted, a guttural sound that could have come from a wild boar, and charged.

Blake screamed and fired the gun. Again and again. He pulled the trigger until it clicked. Then he closed his eyes and waited for the end. It didn’t come.

Blake opened his eyes. The killer was on his back now, as if one of the shots had picked him up and thrown him backwards. His face was mostly gone. At least one of the shots had struck home. Blake stared at the mangled body. He was a lot less frightening without a face.

Gently Blake put the gun on the table and walked to the dead man. It was hard to be sure, of course, what with the bloody mess that was all that remained of the killer’s face, but Blake recognized the nasty pair of bisecting scars on the chin.

Yeah, it was Jonathan Johnny Two-Blades DiLama, the notorious Mob enforcer. Blake had prosecuted him, sent him to Rikers Island. But this didn’t make any sense.

Because Johnny Two-Blades had been dead for two weeks.

Chapter 2

The sun was shining and I was sprinting through the park, which was unusual. Not the running—that happens all the time—but the part where it was daylight. Most of my running is from something or after something, and it almost always happens at night.

This particular afternoon, I wasn’t running for my life: I was getting exercise. Is there a more painful experience than unnecessary running? Probably—I have been literally tortured before, so, yeah, okay, that’s worse, but otherwise? Not much worse. We’d done six miles, and my knees ached. My lungs screamed in the cold, crisp November air. All I wanted to do was stop, but my self-appointed personal trainer wouldn’t let me.

Krissy Thomas was a few steps ahead of me, jogging like a champ. It sorta annoyed me. How was she in better shape than I was? Pure indignation was the only thing keeping me from collapsing in a heap on the dirty trail of Central Park. Well, that, and the yoga pants that Krissy was wearing. They clung to the swell of her ass in a way that had a Pied Piper effect on me, and my body refused to stop following. I suspected that was why she was wearing them.

C’mon, Dave, Krissy said without turning around. Another mile and we’re done.

I took a big gulp of air, helping it would help the burning in my lungs and the stitch in my side. It didn’t. Well, crap. Another mile. I could do that.

A very pretty woman, mid-twenties, jogged by in the opposite direction. I smiled through the agony. She glanced at me, decided I wasn’t worth acknowledging, and kept running without a response. Typical.

Look, it’s not like I’m in terrible shape. Conservatively, I’m in the top ten percent of pure athleticism of anyone in New York. I have to be for my job, which frequently requires me to go toe-to-toe with the monsters from humanity’s nightmares. I just wasn’t good without proper motivation. Toss a hungry werecheetah behind me and I’d have booked. Normally, extracurricular exercise wasn’t necessary. There were usually enough vampires, hired guns, or hellhounds wandering around my turf that I got enough cardio without having to lace up my running shoes. But this last week had been slow—almost dead, really (ah-ha-ha)—and as a result I’d gotten kind of lazy.

Krissy, sensing this, had taken it upon herself to keep me fit enough that I wouldn’t get eaten the next time a monster sprung up. It was good idea, but still. Running in the park? What was I, a Fifth Avenue socialite?

My toes hurt in a new way. The bottoms, near the first joint, felt like a bubble was getting ready to pop. I’m what you’d call a sprinter. The muscles in my legs are conditioned for short bursts of intense activity, the kind that’s most useful for escaping a charging troll or chasing down a fleeing gunman. But I’d been pushing them for the better part of an hour now, and they weren’t used to going so long. At least, not without the fuel of adrenaline, which you can only get from real danger.

Should I have realized that going down that particular line of thought would be too much temptation for the universe to resist? Yeah, probably. But I didn’t, and I was actually surprised when, behind me, someone screamed.

Say what you want about my endurance, my reflexes are sharp. I spun and shouted over my shoulder, Follow me.

There was a bend in the trail so I couldn’t see anything that might have caused the scream. On the way out it had taken forty-five seconds to run around the curve. I went back in fifteen. See? Adrenaline plus danger equals a more athletic Dave Carver.

The woman who had ignored me on the trail a few moments before was squatting on the ground, hands above her head and her eyes shut tight. She screamed again as I approached, a real scream, full of real terror. I paused. I couldn’t see anything.

Miss? I said. You alright?

Help me, help me, help me! she shrieked.

I know fear. I see real, true terror all the time. I know what it looks like and what it sounds like. This woman was terrified.

A lot of people would have assumed she was crazy. It had been Halloween the night before, so maybe she’d had some bad punch and the aftereffects were catching up. I’m not most people. One thing you need to understand in my job: just because you can’t see a threat, doesn’t meant there isn’t a threat. Most people wouldn’t recognize a vampire if they saw one, but that wouldn’t stop them from getting sucked dry.

The problem was, I couldn’t fight something I couldn’t identify. And you can’t identify what you can’t see. Still, there are only a few things that can use invisibility like this. I ran through a few of the usual suspects.

Ghost? Almost never come out during daylight. It’d have to be extremely powerful to attack this woman in broad sunlight.

Brollachan? Fear-demon that feed on, you guessed it, fear. They imitate ghostly activity and slurp down that sweet, sweet horror. But they usually hang out in basements or attics, or swamps or isolated farmhouses. I’d never heard of one staking out a running trail in a big-city park.

Incubus? Sex-beast that sends out an invisible manifestation of itself to seduce and ensnare their prey. But they feed off the energy created by sex, and, for most people, sobbing on the ground is a turnoff. I doubted an incubus (or a succubus—the female version) would attack like this.

Gremlin? Only attack machinery. Sasquatch? I’d have smelled it, and it had been more than a hundred years since the last confirmed ‘squatch sighting in New York.

The girl screamed again, shaking me out of my mental checklist. She didn’t have time for me to puzzle this thing out.

I put a gentle hand on her shoulder. She screamed again at the contact, but I didn’t take it personally. "My