Parting The Shadows

By Fiona Skye

Seven stories of sacrifice, love, and murder from the Revelations Trilogy Universe.

The Machete: Marty Holmes discovers that the Catholic Church employs Preternatural hunters when his fiancee goes missing.

The King of Hell: A routine break-in investigation sends San Francisco Police Officer David Lo on a tour of the Chinese afterlife and presents him with a glimpse of his future.

A Matter Of Time: A fledgling vampire brings deadly trouble with him on a visit to the vampire Duke Onyx's territory.

Nemesis: When an insane elder vampire invades Tucson, Onyx is forced to confront changes brought on by his own ancient years.

The Night of Revelations: After a phone call from a source inside the Tucson Police Department, Riley O'Rourke inadvertently participates in a series of events that change the world.

White Dove of the Desert: Riley O'Rourke interviews Onyx and learns of his origins, both as a human and as a vampire.

Puzzlewood: Eamon Wilde embraces his identity as the Green Man and comes to the aid of a human woman with a desperate prayer that only he can answer.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Casa Cielo Press
• Release date: Apr 16, 2020
• ISBN: 9781393783701

Fiona Skye

Fiona Skye is a fantasy author currently living in the deserts of Southern Arizona. She has dedicated her life since she was twelve years old to writing and is only occasionally distracted by the dogged pursuit of the perfect plate of cheese enchiladas.

Book preview

The Machete

September 1982

MARTY RUMBLED TO A STOP OUTSIDE a run-down roadhouse called The Machete. A quick glance in his rear view mirror revealed the Nebraska state trooper had stopped just inches from his back bumper. He'd cut the siren but the lights were still going. Marty loosed a heavy sigh, leaned over to his glove compartment, and withdrew his insurance card and registration papers. Then he watched as the Trooper climbed out of the car, settled his duty belt across his thin hips, and strode up to Marty's window.

After Marty rolled it down, the Trooper leaned over and said, Tail light's busted.

I checked them this morning, Marty replied. Before leaving Omaha, and they were all intact and working just fine.

Hop on out and go have a look for yourself. I'll take your license, registration, and insurance info in the meantime. The Trooper opened Marty's door and held out his hand for Marty's papers.

Marty slid out with an annoyed grunt, handed over his papers, and went around the back of the three-year-old El Camino his uncle had given him for his eighteenth birthday. He saw that the Trooper was indeed correct. The covering over his passenger side tail light was nothing but a ragged hole, lined with shards of red plastic like the bloody, broken teeth in a losing prize fighter's mouth.

Marty heaved another deep sigh and tried to explain. Must've been a rock or something kicked up by a passing truck.

The officer, whose eyes were covered with mirrored aviator-style sunglasses that reflected Marty's face back at him, said nothing and finished writing out the ticket. He tore it expertly from his notebook and handed it to Marty. It was a twenty-five-dollar fine, and Marty couldn't help but shake his head and laugh.

Something funny, son? the trooper asked.

It's twenty-five bucks, Marty said. Can't I just give you the cash, and we can call it even?

Are you attempting to bribe a sworn peace officer? The trooper's hand slowly moved towards the butt of his service pistol. Marty took a step back, his hands flying up into the air, open palms facing the Trooper. His heart hammered triple-time in his chest, and he could feel a thin sheen of sweat breaking out under his flannel shirt and denim jacket, despite the cool late autumn air.

N-no, sir, Marty stammered. I wasn't doing anything like that. It's just that I'm leaving the state, sir. Going to school in Fort Collins. Colorado, he added, in case the officer didn't know which Fort Collins Marty was talking about. Won't be back until next Spring.

The trooper's face remained impassive and silent in the wake of Marty's explanations, and for lack of something better to do, Marty dropped his eyes to the ticket and read it more closely. Oh, he said, looking back up at the officer, whose hand had, thankfully, moved away from his gun. I can just mail it in, right? He held the ticket up trying to be helpful, as if the trooper had never seen it before.

Yes, son. You can mail it in. The officer closed his ticket book with a resounding snap and gave a curt nod to Marty. Get that light taken care of soon. He swiveled his head towards the run-down building off to the side of the road. Bert in the Machete will fix you up. You have a nice day. He smirked, completely aware of the irony in his instructions.

Marty's mouth thinned into a flat, irritated line, and he said, Yeah. You, too. Then, as he watched the officer swagger back to his patrol car, Marty heaved a third great sigh. Perfect. Less than three hours left in his trip and he was stuck in some no-name town in the far western part of the most boring state in the Union, at the mercy of a robotic State Patrol officer and some guy named Bert who owned a roadhouse called The Machete. Marty knew he should have listened to his mother. He should have let his father drive him back to school instead of making the trip on his own.

Still, he thought, it's a learning experience, right?  He climbed into the El Camino and rolled up the window, set the parking break, and covered his guitar case with a ratty old blanket he found in the back seat. Isn't that what Heather would say when he told her all about his adventures? He sighed again and slammed shut the truck's door and walked up to the ragged front door of the roadhouse.

The gravel covering the empty lot where Marty had pulled over crunched beneath his feet, reminding him of the sound of a man's nose being broken by a flying fist, and he shivered. God, he muttered to himself, you're awfully morbid today.

He mounted the roadhouse’s porch steps, wincing at the loud creaking that accompanied his every step. For some reason, he was loathe to lose the element of surprise, as if the building was the stronghold of some enemy force, and he needed stealth in order to infiltrate and destroy. He chuckled at his run-away imagination, despite the niggling little feeling in the back of his mind that said not all was as it seemed in this place. It said he was right to keep his guard up, and he should try to make himself as small and unobtrusive as possible.

He crossed the porch to the tune of squeaking, groaning floorboards that were even louder than the porch steps and yanked open the roadhouse's front doors. The hinges sounded as though they were being tortured by Torquemada on the rack. He felt a flush rise in his cheeks and raised his hand in an awkward greeting, a nervous grin on his face that let everyone know that he was harmless. Six or seven faces stared back at him from out of the darkness; their eyes accusing as they raked over his body. Finally, they seemed to come to the conclusion that the newcomer wasn't there to rape and pillage, so they went back to nursing their drinks, ignoring Marty completely.

Marty inhaled deeply and immediately wished he hadn't. There was a fug in the air of stale beer, unwashed bodies, vomit, and something that made his lizard brain freak out—blood maybe, but old blood, like from a bar fight that had occurred ages ago—and for a split second, he thought about turning right around and climbing back into his truck, ignoring the trooper's instructions to get his tail light fixed. Surely, there would be a clean, friendly gas station in North Platte that could help him.

Come on in, called out a raspy feminine voice from somewhere in the dim recesses of the room. You're letting all the atmosphere out.

Marty involuntarily took a couple of steps forward, letting the front doors swing shut behind him and plunging the room into near-darkness. He swallowed, his throat gone almost completely dry, and mumbled an apology, moving through the room, bumping into empty chairs as he made his way towards the voice.

Finally, he found the bar and the source of the voice. She was tall—almost as tall as he, and he stood just an inch over six feet—as skinny as a rail, and had a glorious mane of thick, dark red hair. Her mouth was wide and generous and when she grinned at him, he saw that she had excellent teeth. They were neat and white and straight and maybe a touch too sharp.

What can I getcha? she asked, as she wiped down the bar with a fluffy white towel.

Marty estimated her age at somewhere between thirty-five and forty. She was pretty in a run-down sort of way; despite the mischievous glint in her eyes, she looked like she'd done a lot of hard living and some of it had left her scarred. Literally. He saw a long, jagged scar that ran from her left wrist up the inside of her arm to end at a knot of ugly, raw-looking skin in the bend of her elbow that looked as though someone—or something—had gnawed on her for a good long while.

Uh, Marty said, dragging his attention away from the scar to the woman's eyes. Just a Coke, I guess. He had just turned twenty a few weeks before and hadn't yet updated his driver's license to reflect that he was now over the legal drinking age in the state of Nebraska, which had been changed to twenty last year. He seriously doubted this was the kind of place that checked IDs, but he knew his luck was bad enough that he'd get caught and that robot State trooper would be called back. That was a situation he desperately wanted to avoid.

You guess? the woman asked with a teasing tone as she reached into a beer cooler behind her and withdrew a glass bottle. You ain't sure?

No. I mean, yeah. I'm sure. Just a Coke.

The redhead nodded and popped the top off the bottle and slid it across the surface of the bar to him. He picked it up with a wobbly smile and took a tentative sip. It was good, better than he remembered Coke being.

Thanks, he said and fumbled in his wallet for payment.

Nah, the woman said, coming to lean against the bar across from him. It's on me. What's your name, kid?

Marty. Marty Holmes. He took another sip and again marveled at the complexity of the flavor of his drink. Had Coke always tasted like this? He glanced at the bottle and saw that its label was written in Spanish. Ah. That explained it. One of the guys in his dorm was from Tucson, Arizona, and always said that Mexican Coke tasted better than American Coke. It had something to do with the kind of sugar in it.

Well, Marty-Marty Holmes, I'm Bert and this here's my place. You new in town?

You're Bert? Marty asked in shock. For some reason, he'd expected Bert to be a middle-aged fat man with thinning hair and the wide, florid nose of an alcoholic.

Yeah, I'm Bert. Short for Roberta. Her eyes narrowed a bit. You looking for me, kid?

Sorta. I got pulled over just outside. Broken tail light, he explained quickly, lest she or the other eavesdropping patrons think he was a troublemaker, and the trooper said you could fix it before I go on my way.

He did, did he? Bert's eyes narrowed in appraisal for a moment before she nodded. Yeah, I can do that. Hey, Florence, she called out, and from somewhere behind Marty, a guttural grunt responded. Marty slowly pivoted and saw that a seven-foot-tall, heavily-muscled black man had lumbered to his feet and was staring at him like a starving man stares at a cheeseburger.

You help this kid out, Bert said, nodding to Marty. Florence—what was it with names in this place, anyway?—suddenly lost the hungry light in his eyes, and Marty loosed a breath he was unaware of holding. Fix his tail light so those damned Troopers don't harass him no more.

Florence grunted again and jerked his chin towards Marty. Which one's yours? he asked after a long pause, almost as if he was trying to remember how to speak. His voice, like a sheet of coarse-grit sandpaper being worked over rough wood, made the hairs on the back of Marty's neck stand straight up.

Marty stared at the man, slack-jawed, for the brief amount of time it took his brain to translate the question. Oh. My car. It's the '79 El Camino. The red one, he said, in case there was another El Camino in the lot with a broken tail light. Florence nodded and hauled his bulk towards the door.

Um, Marty said. Florence stopped walking and turned to him. It was like watching an ocean-going freighter come about. Just how long do you think it'll take?

The giant flicked a look at Bert and then turned his attention back to Marty. The red-head shrugged, and the rise and fall of her shoulders brought to light another jagged scar across her chest that had been previously hidden by the dim lighting in the bar. I imagine Florence has to go into Kearney, pick up the part, come back, and install it, right? Behind him, Florence grunted an affirmative. So, maybe four or five hours? Florence grunted again. Marty had the distinct impression that he was more comfortable with grunts than with words.

Marty looked at his watch. Waiting that long would have him back at school close to eight that night. He shook his head. It couldn't be helped. Yeah, that sounds fine, he said grudgingly. Thanks, he added, turning back to Florence. The giant man afforded him a curt nod and then went out. The door's squeaking and the porch's groaning seemed less pronounced to Marty, but that was most likely because he was on the other side of a closed door.

So, um, Marty said as he turned back to Bert. Is it okay if I wait here 'til my car's fixed?

Sure. And I won't even charge you rent for the stool you're occupying. Bert winked and went back to her bartending. Marty watched for a moment, enjoying the flow of the red-head's muscles beneath her clothing. She wasn't bad looking for an older woman. Marty never thought of himself as having a taste for older women, but he might make an exception for Bert.

He sipped his Coke quietly, eyes moving around the bar, never resting long on any of the faces gathered. It was something he'd trained himself to do. It sharpened both his memory and his artist's eye to study bone structure, light and shadow, negative space, and texture. His fingers itched to grasp a pencil as he looked around this motley crew. The dim lighting in the bar lent horrifying, almost monstrous casts to most of the patrons of the Machete, and for a moment, he could almost allow himself to believe he was in Hell, surrounded by demons awaiting a feast of his soul. He turned back to face the wall behind the bar, his attention now solely focused on his drink, the itch for a pencil replaced by a frisson of fear.

He frowned and shoved the irrational fear down deep and covered it with six feet of dirt. No one had threatened him here. No one had given him the bent eye or even the finger. In fact, they had all either been extremely accommodating or had ignored him entirely. So why was he feeling so hinky?

He drained his bottle of Coke, and Bert slid another one across the bar to him, a generous smile on her full mouth. On the house, she said. Make it up to me by telling me what you're doing in Funk.

Marty blinked at her in confusion. Funk? he asked, his brows drawing down in a profound frown. What on earth was she talking about? Like a blue funk? How could she know what he was feeling?

She laughed, a sound that tightened things low down in his groin and appealed to the more animal side of his