A World Apart: Shades Below, #1

By LJK Oliva

There are things that go bump in the night. Are you ready to bump back?

 

San Francisco's homeless residents are disappearing... and an epidemic of ghosts is rising in their place.

 

Lena Alan is your friendly neighborhood medium.

 

Most of her job involves convincing half-baked ex-hippies the sound in their attic is a problem for pest control, but a shocking visitation kicks off a case that's anything but business-as-usual. In the dangerous and derelict Tenderloin district, people are disappearing from street corners and SRO's... and no one is asking why.

 

Together with private detective Jesper MacMillian, Lena discovers a deadly threat stalking San Francisco's shadowy underbelly, and is forced to confront some shadows of her own.

 

Can she discover the source of the disappearances before it's too late?

 

Once she faces down the source of the evil, will the shadows ever let her go?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Laura Oliva
• Release date: Mar 29, 2017
• ISBN: 9781386482000

LJK Oliva

L.J.K. OLIVA writes gritty urban fantasy in the Shades Below ShadowVerse. She spent much of her childhood exploring the creeks and storm drain tunnels near her house, and remains fascinated by the places no one notices. After all, that's where magic lives. When not poking the thing that lives in her closet, L.J.K. enjoys exploring the shadows of the San Francisco Bay Area and searching for faeries in every creek within driving distance. She hasn't found any yet, but thinks that's because they're better at hiding than she is at looking. She's still waiting for one to slip up.

Book preview

Chapter 1

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She knew better than to try and sleep on nights like this.

Lena Alan sat up with a sigh and swung her legs over the side of her bed. A telltale itch whispered over her skin. She rubbed her arms.

Someone was trying to reach her.

She'd experienced it too many times to try and fight it. Lena eased her feet to the floor, grabbed her robe off the chair on her way out of the bedroom. Light from the retro street lamp outside bathed the living room in an odd shade of orange. Across the narrow street, the neighborhood's park was quieter than usual.

She paused, listened. Come to think of it, everything was quieter than usual. Even once the sun went down and the fog rolled in, San Francisco always hummed with constant, mid-grade energy.

Not tonight. The neighbors' bipolar taco terrier wasn't even barking.

Lena sighed and made for the kitchen. Only one thing could make her feel better about being awake at the crack of insanity. She plucked the kettle off the stove and stood in front of the sink, willing herself into a kind of waking sleep while it filled with water. Her eye drifted to the glowing digital display on the microwave above the stove.

Two fifty-eight.

Lena groaned.

She flicked on the burner and set the kettle over the flame. Pleasure swelled briefly in her chest. All through her twenties, standing in front of one shitty electric stove after another, she'd promised herself someday she would do better.

Not that she'd settled on this place for the gas stove. The instant she realized the restaurant space downstairs came with its own apartment, that had been it. Never mind the leaky roof, the shitty insulation, the sometimes overly-raucous drunks who made the park their headquarters. The instant she'd turned the key in the lock, she'd known she was home.

Lena smiled to herself as she opened the cupboard next to the stove. A wall of small, cheerful boxes greeted her. Suddenly, being awake didn't seem so bad. She scanned the familiar names. What was a good sipping blend for the witching hour? Lapsang Suchong? Too exotic. English Breakfast Tea? Too early. Irish Breakfast Tea? Too late.

The kettle whistled, and she settled on Earl Grey. The familiar motions felt meditative: turn off the flame, lift the kettle, fill the cup to the brim. The herbal, citrus-y scent of black tea and bergamot flooded the kitchen. Lena sighed, not with resignation this time. Gingerly, she carried the cup out to the living room, settled into her favorite chair, curled her legs up underneath her.

And waited.

The energy in the room built gradually. Lena checked the clock on the sideboard and furrowed her brow. A mature spirit wouldn't take this long. Either something was holding it back, or she was dealing with a juvenile.

She sighed and readied her shields. The recently dead were always difficult. So many emotions: anger, fear, bitterness, regret. She'd learned long ago to be careful, to keep at a safe distance, like someone preparing to witness a nuclear test.

It was an apt metaphor, the more she thought about it. If spirits were pure, concentrated energy, then a volatile spirit was the equivalent of a bomb blast.

The energy spiked abruptly.

Before she could fully prepare herself, a ball of white light exploded into the center of the room. Lena leaped to her feet, swore as tea sloshed onto her white camisole. In the building next door, the Johnsons' taco terrier started to howl.

The light careened around like an out-of-control pinball, bouncing off walls and rattling the light fixture on the ceiling. It zinged by her head, sending a crackle of electricity down her spine. She set her cup on the table beside the chair.

Look, I realize this is all probably really confusing, but would you please calm down before you destroy my home?

The light stopped, flickered, as if considering her request. Slowly, it floated back to the center of the room.

Lena brushed off a few lingering droplets of Earl Grey. Thank you. She took a deep breath and strengthened her shields. Okay, then. You're here. I'm here. Let's talk.

The light brightened a fraction, then dimmed again.

Lena crossed her arms. You really are new at this, aren't you? Here's how it works. I'm your friendly neighborhood medium. I can hear you and I can talk to you, but not if you keep up the whole 'one-with-the-universe' thing. So concentrate really hard, and give me something I can work with.

The light brightened, then as abruptly as it had arrived, flicked out.

Lena scowled at her empty living room. She'd stayed awake, spilled a cup of perfectly good tea, and for what? Mostly she was fine being permanently on-call in the Veil. On nights like this, however, it sucked.

She forced a deep breath, then another, and turned to retrieve her tea cup from the table. When she straightened again, she was nose-to-nose with a wild-eyed young man.

The cup slipped. At the last minute, she regained her grip. Didn't your mother ever tell you it's rude to sneak up on a girl?

The man took a step back, eyes sweeping the room. Please. You gotta help me. I think I'm... I think I'm dead.

Lena set the cup back down. Yeah. Hate to break it to you, but you've got that about right. She paused. Why did this spirit seem so familiar? A second later, it came to her. Her eyes shot wide. "Oh my god… Jimmy? What the—what happened?"

The man had been dancing from one foot to the other. He froze, peered closer at her face. Lena? For real? I felt something pulling me here, but I didn't realize you were a—is this some kind of trick?

Lena winced. She hadn't known Jimmy long—he'd only started working odd jobs at the shop about a month earlier—but already she'd come to like him. Sorry. No trick.

The agitated look returned to his face. "Then I really am dead. I was hoping all that shit was a dream. He cracked my fucking chest open, and I... I felt it. Hell, I watched."

Lena's stomach soured. I'm sorry.

He shook his head. "That's not why I'm here. Look, my mamío, she was always telling us about souls and good and evil and what happens when you die. I always thought she was just a crazy old bat who'd had too much plum brandy back in the old country, but she was right. About all of it. Something's wrong. It's like... confused. Everything's all confused, and something bad's going down, and I—"

Lena held up both hands. Hold up. You lost me. What's a mamío? What's going down?

Jimmy blew out a frustrated breath. My grandmother. She's... I'm... Shit. I'm not really supposed to tell you any of this, you being a raklí and all, but... you've heard of the Roma?

Lena nodded slowly. Yes.

Jimmy jerked his head in the affirmative. "Right, well, I'm Rom. Or I was. My mamío's a fortune teller. The real deal. At least, she's good at palms and tea leaves and shit. The rest of it- damn. I should've fucking listened to her." He raked a hand through his hair, pulled it back and shot it a puzzled look.

Lena cleared her throat. You don't have a physical body anymore. Everything probably feels different.

Jimmy wheezed out a half-hearted laugh. Yeah. Different. Shaking himself, he looked back up at her. Anyway, Mamío was always going on about the ‘cosmic balance’, and all that. According to her, the universe needs both good and evil.

Lena furrowed her brow. You don't sound convinced.

Jimmy shrugged. I always was a pretty shitty Rom. The kris—that's our, I dunno, internal court system, I guess—kicked me out of the community about a year ago. Been on my own ever since.

If that bothered him, he gave no sign of it. Lena swallowed the sympathetic murmur that sprang to her lips. Okay, so what about this balance?

Jimmy started to pace. Well, apparently, when something throws it off, things get all kinds of crazy. So crazy, people say the ancestors will give you signs to warn you about it.

His ethereal form shimmered as he drew a deep breath. "I wasn't supposed to, but I stayed in touch with my family. Lately, Mamío's been saying her sister keeps waking her up in the middle of the night, telling her something's wrong. Only her sister died during the Porajmos, back in the forties."

Lena's head pounded. Three in the morning was too early to be dealing with cosmic balance and the Romani Holocaust. She pressed the pads of her fingers to her eyes. Okay. I agree, that sounds bad.

Jimmy shook his head. If I'd just listened... But I thought she was crazy. I mean, I never told her, but she knew. She's like that. He stared off into the fake ficus in the corner. I should have listened.

Lena snapped her fingers in front of his face. Hey. Earth to Jimmy. Maybe your grandma was on to something, maybe not. Regardless, I think we have a bigger problem.

He gave her a blank look.

She rolled her eyes. Somebody killed you.

Jimmy grimaced. Right.

Any idea who it was?

He thought for a moment. No. Never saw their face. Don't even remember what happened, really. Not until… Well, you know. He winced down at his chest.

Lena fought back a shudder. Yeah, I'd probably try to forget that, too. But think for a second. If you can tell me where your body is, maybe we can figure out what happened. At the very least, I can get it back to your family. They'll probably want to give you a proper send-off, right?

Yeah. His eyes started to shimmer. Yeah, they probably will. His gaze sharpened. Hey, you can give them a message for me, right?

Sure. Lena pulled her robe tighter. I could do that.

Just, I dunno, tell my folks I love them. And tell my brothers to quit giving our dále such a hard time. And maybe you could tell my mamío— He stopped. A confused look flitted across his features.

Lena waited. Yes?

Jimmy's lips parted. What the...

Lena took a step forward. Jimmy?

But he wasn't looking at her anymore. He stared off into the Veil, mesmerized by something she couldn't see. Then his eyes went wide. Horror infused his face. He dropped into a crouch and covered his head with his hands. No! Go away! I don't want—Leave me alone!

Lena strengthened her shields, reaching out at the same time. Energy was all over the room: Jimmy's, hers, even energy from the last couple who’d lived there. She could feel it when she focused, crackling all around her like a broken net of superheated thread.

She gathered each individual strand, willed the energy to flow into her. Her hands tingled. Jimmy? Just stay close to me. I can protect-

Jimmy's eyes rolled back in his head. He let out a shriek that chilled her to her core.

Then he disappeared.

Chapter 2

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The King was dead.

Jesper MacMillian stood over the ornate mahogany coffin and stared down at the man inside. Seeing him like this, it was harder to hate him than it should have been. A slip of paper scrawled with Orthodox liturgy rested on his forehead. Beneath it, the man's white hair was combed painstakingly back from his leathered temples. His eyes were closed, his mouth relaxed. He almost looked gentle.

MacMillian peered closer. No, sure enough, there it was: the faint remnants of a predatory smirk. The tightness around the eyes, the hollowness in the cheeks. Hawk-like nose and rigid brow. This was the grandfather he remembered.

This was the man who'd ruined his life.

A strong, bony hand clasped his arm. MacMillian swallowed his feelings and smiled down at the tiny, wrinkled woman beside him. The crowds of mourners had already filed out of the chapel. Now, it was just the two of them. How are you, Babko?

His grandmother shrugged and gave him a watery smile. Alive. She released MacMillian's arm and leaned down, placed a shaky kiss first on the Christ icon in the man's hand, then on his cheek. Ah, ves'tacha. Her voice wavered. You leave me too soon.

MacMillian shifted his weight against his cane and didn't speak.

The woman rested her forehead against the rim of the coffin, then straightened and turned, holding out her hand. MacMillian obediently took it and twined it around his arm. She nodded her approval. It is good to see you, Pusomori. It isn't right, you staying away from us for so long.

MacMillian didn't answer.

His grandmother glanced down. You don't limp at all. Your recovery is going well.

Yes. Though whether someone ever fully recovered from losing a limb, he didn't know. He sure as hell hadn't. It had been five years, and still there were days when the pain in his nonexistent leg was enough to drive him out of his mind.

And how is your work?

His lips twitched. Steady. He lowered his voice and leaned down conspiratorially. I just finished a case involving a tech CEO’s missing wife. Turns out she wasn't missing at all, just on an unannounced, week-long getaway in Tahoe—with her personal trainer. Her husband was generous with my compensation, if not exactly pleased with my results.

His grandmother cackled, earning her a glare from the priest attending the altar. I bet he wasn't. But it serves him right, shoving a handsome young man under his wife's nose.

MacMillian grinned. The trainer was a woman.

His grandmother gaped up at him. A slow, answering grin spread across her face.

What are you telling your grandmother now? A harsh voice echoed behind him. More stories about the degenerate gaje you associate with? Shame, Jesper. She is in mourning, and this is a church.

MacMillian stiffened, and his grandmother tightened her hold on his arm. He grimaced. If she thought she could keep him from running, she was wrong. But it was just as well he deal with this here.

If he didn't, his mother would only follow him home.

He wiped his face clean of any expression and turned. Hello, Mámo.

Rose MacMillian adjusted the scarf covering her head. She had been beautiful once, with her lightly tanned skin, burnished copper hair, the dark, penetrating eyes that he'd inherited. She still was, but it was a harsher beauty, whatever softness she'd once possessed long since whittled away.

She looked him up and down. You seem well.

He waited.

She fidgeted with the patchwork handbag under her arm. Of course you will be moving back home now. Babko will take your old room. I've cleaned out the master suite, and your grandfather's office has all his files. You can take over immediately.

MacMillian took a deep breath. It was now or never. No.

His mother stilled. No? The word seemed to bewilder her. She shook her head and tried again. You can keep your current job as well, I suppose. You can move what you need to Papo's office. It can't have been pleasant for you, working in the gaji-kanó all this time—

Pleasant enough. The thought of leaving his office in North Beach made his stomach curdle. Anyway, it was my choice.

Yes. His mother tried and failed to keep the look of naked distaste off her face. But it will be good for you to return home.

MacMillian crossed his arms. No.

He rocked back on his heels and waited. Sure enough, Rose's face reddened. She opened her mouth, closed it. Finally, she found her voice. But you must! You are rom baro now. Papo appointed you.

MacMillian shrugged. And I told him not to. I begged him to choose someone else. To choose a better Rom. He may have refused, but that isn't my concern. The kris will just have to name someone in my stead.

That is not the role of the kris, and you know it, Rose spat. There are those in the community in need of your services. You cannot leave us without a big man. You will not abandon us. Not again.

MacMillian pressed his lips together. Fury rose in his chest. Of course she would try to manipulate him with that. He dug deep for self-control. I didn't abandon you. I moved on with my life.

Is that what you call it? Where were you after the accident? Her accusing eyes sliced at his restraint. Wasn't it enough I lost one son?

You forget I also lost a brother. Not to mention a leg, and what little self-respect he'd ever had. "Don't talk to me about loss. Or family, or loyalty, for that matter. Where were you after the accident? How is it I never saw you when I was lying broken in that hospital bed?"

His mother looked away, but now that he’d started, he couldn’t stop. MacMillian leaned forward. Where were you when they were peeling the flesh off my back and piecing my bones back together, Mámo? Did you only come when I was unconscious? Maybe you just weren't there at all. He firmed his hand over his grandmother's. The only member of our family I ever saw was Babko. She's the only one who has the right to talk to me about loyalty.

Rose looked back at him, eyes fierce, lips thin and white around the corners. How much longer do you think you can keep ignoring our laws? Sooner or later, your actions will have consequences. For all of us. Her chin firmed. You have responsibilities now.

MacMillian growled low in his throat. Before he could answer, his grandmother laid her other hand over his. Actually, Pusomori and I were just speaking about that. He's agreed to look into something for me.

MacMillian's eyebrows went up. Rose's eyes narrowed. Has he, now?

Yes, he has. His grandmother shot him a pointed look. Istvan and Sonya Vaspurkan. Their eldest boy is missing.

Right. He forced the word through clenched teeth. The Vaspurkans.

Rose's gaze shifted back and forth between them. How have I not heard of this?

The older woman lifted her shoulder, and let it drop again. Istvan's mother and I crossed over together from the old country. We speak often.

Rose hesitated. The resolve on her face wavered. If that's true, the baro should look into it.

His grandmother let out a frustrated noise. Of course it's true! As if Viona would lie about such a thing. Jesper will look into it. She firmed her hand over his. Her eyes grew hard. As he said: I have the right to his loyalty.

MacMillian bit back a groan. She had him. He could try to refuse her, but they both knew he wouldn't.

All he wanted—the only thing he'd wanted since the accident—was to live his life in peace. Come and go as he pleased. Leave his shoes on in his apartment. Drink what he wanted, with whoever he wanted. He'd almost managed it. He'd almost escaped.

But now