Dimension6: annual collection 2019

By Sparks Cat and Fischer Jason

Dimension6, the electronic magazine of Australian speculative fiction brings you its sixth annual collection with all new stories from Cat Sparks, Jason Fischer, Mark Barnes, Deborah Sheldon, Aiki Flinthart, David Levell, Peter Ninnes, Chris Barnham, Matan Elul, and Michael McGlade. Enter Dimension6!  

• Language: English
• Publisher: coeur de lion
• Release date: Nov 1, 2019
• ISBN: 9780648197522

Book preview

Introduction

The Dimension6 mission is to provide a platform for Australian and overseas authors to get their work out to as wide an audience as possible. That’s why three times a year we release a free and DRM-free issue of our electronic magazine to the multiverse for everyone to read and share. And every year, so we can get those authors on to Amazon and other sites that don’t accept free publications, we publish our annual collection for the smallest cover price possible.

We’re not going to get rich doing this. That’s not the reason we’ve been doing it for the past six years. But if you buy a copy of our collection and enjoy the work of our writers, we consider our mission accomplished.

So thanks for your support, sit back and prepare to enter Dimension6.

Keith Stevenson

The Eviction of Willa Coventry – Mark T. Barnes

The body of Angelo Barbary lay at my feet with a smoking hole the size of my little finger in the middle of his chest. Blood seeps into the carpet of the cheap hotel room in a frayed Rorschach pattern. A dog? A butterfly? Two old people screwing?

If I know my target at all it’s probably a parting message telling Lamb and I to go fuck ourselves.

And that’s just rude. Even if we are the ones that evicted the demon Asharat from its temporary spirit house there’s no need to be a dick about it.

I hadn’t wanted to kill Barbary. We’d been colleagues of a kind. Had enjoyed professional courtesies and rivalries. Swapped stories and secrets from time to time. He’d been an upstanding member of the Opus Dei who honourably fought a secret war against threats supernatural. Me? A contractor they outsourced work to when they’d gone beyond the limits of how dirty they were prepared to get their hands.

This is what it led to as often as not.

On the plus side, with Barbary dead, Lamb and my rates just went up.

Barbary had been a casualty. Asharat, one of the demons we’d been hunting, had taken possession of Barbary’s body – his spirit house. The demon had run amok. Ruined Barbary’s life financially, with family and the law, and trashed his body. Then it up and got itself evicted before Lamb and I could question it, or save what remained of Barbary.

Some demons are just rowdy like that. No surprises there. They’re mostly self-involved narcissistic sociopaths who find their groove by being pricks and stick with it to the bitter end.

Another demon, a horrid piece of work, is out there and it’s on our ticket. Asharat had answers we needed. Who is Willa Coventry and why has she returned to go on a murder spree? We don’t have a lot information on most demons, mostly rumour and self-promotion. If they’ve been in Hell for a while there isn’t much of a record from before they threw away their humanity to embrace the core of their own darkness.

Reaction sets in. Adrenalin fades. Muscles relax. Aches and pains bloom from where I’m beat, bit, and cut. I hold my breath. Steel myself for the cat scratch and sunburn pain of a cartouche as it fades from my skin. I’ve hundreds of them though less than I had. One for each demon I’m to catch and return home. The pain is always fresh no matter how many times it happens. A not so subtle reminder that though I have free will in most things, the debts I owe for sins both remembered and otherwise are branded into my skin.

Lamb steps out of the darkness to prop my old body up before I fall.

Her body takes substance from broad brush strokes of shadow, lit with smouldering embers and coalescing ash. My skin goosepimples at the drop in temperature around me. Breath steams. The demon steals energy from around herself to become physical. Her true form of razor horns, mottled grey flesh, and exposed bone and ligaments stays as an echo for a second too long for comfort before she settles in to her human suit.

Tanned skin. Suit so sharp it could cut meat. Wing tipped gangster shoes. Hair pinned up under a broad brimmed hat. She has a shark’s smile, all teeth and none of it reaches her eyes. They’re ophidian things. Cold and dark with little humanity, though more than she had when we first met. Round rose-coloured glasses form, shuttering the windows to what passes as her soul.

I suppress a shudder despite having seen it hundreds of times before.

Lamb pats me on the cheek. Her skin is too warm for comfort.

‘Shame you had to kill the owner, Holiday.’ There’s rarely a word from Lamb that doesn’t sound like a criticism. Its – demons are gender neutral though she sounds like a woman – British accent makes her sound posh and kind of condescending. ‘It’s these kinds of thing that might count against you when your ledger is balanced.’

‘My ledger being balanced? Shit, please. There’s red ink in Lucas Holiday’s future as far as I can see. Nothing but mortgage payments on my soul.’

‘At least you’ve a ledger to balance. Most don’t.’

‘Can I get a Hell yeah?’

Lamb snorts.

At least the Infernal Regency – the most powerful and influential voices in Hell – are giving me the chance to pay my penance. With interest. Hell runs on the economy of bargains and demons can be quite pragmatic. It’s better than the alternative of languishing in the Pit, Hell’s deepest and most horrific gaol. Forever.

I kneel by the corpse and dig my bullet undamaged from its chest. My hands tremble. Arthritis swells my joints. Orichalcum – Atlantean Bronze – is hard to come by these days and when enchanted with Enochian rituals is the perfect temporary prison for a demon, or any of the other incorporeal Outsiders. Generally I prefer knives, batons and swords to guns. They’re what I was raised with. Not as sloppy. Less chance of hitting bystanders by accident. But I’m old and slow and leave pride at home these days when it comes to getting the job done.

Rising on creaking knees I wipe the blood and ectoplasm from the bullet. The shell is warm. It vibrates a little in my palm. The Enochian binding glyphs shimmer, an arcane thumbs up. Job well done! I drop the shell into a small mystic Faraday cage to reinforce the protections and make sure no random energies weaken the rituals. The little box lights up. It hisses and steams as I return it to my pocket.

I take an ornate leather and metal box from my coat. Pop it open – the old machine reminds me of a vintage box brownie, etched with runes and thaumaturgic circles – adjust apertures and settings. Fractals turn to refracted rainbows, to blurs, to grotesque close ups, to monochrome and daguerreotype images.

‘I got nothing. Any sign of our good intentions?’ I jut my chin at the blood.

Lamb steps around the spreading blood, gaze intent on the corpse. She leans closer in an improbably supple display. Sniffs. Takes Barbary’s hands and licks the palms. Her jaw moves, eyes narrow as she samples the taste. Lamb spits on to the corpse.

‘Somebody’s taken some of them, but it wasn’t Asharat.’

‘Shit. You sure?’

Lamb eyes me. ‘I’ll not fuck up a chance to put myself right any more than you will. We both need to find our good intentions, Holiday, if we’re to walk the road out of Hell free and clear. I’ve as much to lose as you and my good intentions have been gone a lot longer.’

She’s right. I might be a shitty human being trying to make amends but she gave her humanity away and went full darkside of her own free will. It surprises me she remembers as much of herself as she does.

Jaw clenching in frustration I reload my heavy pistol with its engravings of divine and infernal rituals. I holster it under my long coat. Cutlery and other tools rattle faintly as I shrug the battered and threadbare garment into more comfortable lines.

Lamb whispers a charm to cleanse the room. Fingerprints, and any skin, hair, sweat, or saliva flares in glittering pyrotechnics. Good luck sorting that out, forensics nerds. A quick inspection of the squalid hotel room shows nothing else to link us to the place.

Knees creaking and bones aching I stride from the room with as much purpose as I can muster. Lamb is spry at my side. Bruises are forming from the beating Asharat threw me before I put him down. One wrist clicks as I stretch it this way and that. My gums ache and the bones on my left ankle grind for a few steps.

‘You need help?’ Lamb looks at me askance. ‘You’re useless to me if you fall apart.’

‘This house should last a little longer, but it’s well beyond its best before date.’

I’ve been in this body longer than most I’ve had over the centuries. Ironic that I need to bodyjack to serve my penance for my wrongs, one of which was bodyjacking in the first place. An exorcist turned crusader turned entrepreneur – though most use the word mercenary when they speak of me – in the literal peddling of human flesh for anybody minted enough to afford my services. And there’d been quite a few, humans and demons alike, who’d wanted to trade their houses for something newer and better. I hadn’t much cared who so long as they had the money.

So long as I have a house in which to live I can balance my ledger and the powers that be are content to let some things slide. Provided I don’t take the piss. I’ll take the houses that are willingly going on to the market. This day and age there are plenty of folks who want to end their tenancy ahead of schedule. The world has become the kind of place where more people are keen to check out.

Not me. I’ve got a chance to set things right. Mostly with myself, but with others I’ve wronged. It’s my fervent hope I can do enough to balance my books and avoid the eternal damnation heading my way.

Problem is, sins weigh more heavily than good deeds and my heart certainly weighs more than a feather.

We walk from the room. The hotel corridor is haunted by the sounds of arguments and loud televisions from behind closed doors. Lights flicker with a jaundiced hue amid marbled stains on the ceiling plaster. Bubbled paint on the walls. The carpet underfoot is sticky. Downstairs and through a claustrophobic foyer that doesn’t know the meaning of the word grand – or clean – elegantly wasted rent boys and girls with prominent bones outside their dirty singlets sit on dirty couches. Their dark circled gazes slide from me, a limping old man, but not before I catch the ruddy gleam from their pupils. I catch the hint of their pheromones. Half-breed incubi and succubi, peddling their wares to feed.

Lamb gets raised eyebrows. I’m thankful she’s not in a mood to play. It rarely leaves fond memories. The desk clerk behind his fingerprint stained window turns and walks away.

‘Asharat’s crew?’ Lamb says.

‘Maybe. Or just sad and desperate enough to hang out in a shit hole like this. I mean, I know there are establishments that entertain people from across the Six Worlds, but most come here with more money and taste.’

‘Better watch your mouth, old man.’ The incubi’s voice reminds me of a yappy little dog, more grizzle than gusto. ‘Asharat will have something to say.’

‘About that,’ Lamb says. ‘Your demon pimp won’t have much to say, well, ever. You might want to reconsider flapping your jaw before somebody smashes it off.’

‘Like you and grandpa there?’ A succubus sneers as she rises to her feet. She flicks open a dirty switchblade.

I open my coat to show the bulk of my pistol. The Enochian engravings glimmer. The half-breeds flinch. The shapes of my sheathed kukri and my baton are obvious. There are weapons hidden elsewhere. No need to show my entire hand.

‘You lot might be able to help us out,’ I say. ‘Asharat up and got itself blitzed before it could be much use but–’

An incubus hurls himself forward.

I fumble for my pistol. My fingers catch in the folds of my jacket.

Lamb slides between the incubus and me. Her fingers are flexed like claws. Her onyx nails are ruddy with volcanic fire. Swipe. Rake. Ragged lines across the incubus’s throat. What remains of its face is a wreck. The wounds are cauterised. The corpse slides limply across the floor.

I manage to unholster my pistol too late to be of any use. The half-breeds have done a runner.

‘Nice shootin’, Tex,’ Lamb mimes guns with her hands. Leathery strips from the incubus’s face dangle, smoking.

‘Nice not leaving the little turd alive so we could ask him questions.’

‘Touché.’ Lamb flicks the strips of skin away and kneels beside the body. She shakes her head. Its lights have gone out. ‘Want to chase those other arseholes?’

I shake my head. ‘I don’t have the juice anymore to run a marathon and get in a fight at the end of it, and win. They’ll likely try and find us. Come for some payback, maybe hope to make names for themselves with Ruby Tuesday and the other wankers of the Sundowner Court at the Necropolis. Until then let’s settle up with the Bookkeeper and see whether she’s anything else to tell us.’

‘You’ve more faith in the Opus Dei than me.’

‘Not really. I’ve faith that they’ll look the other way to get the job done rather than let Coventry stay on the rampage. The Opus Dei are pragmatic in their hypocrisy.’

‘But not hypocritical enough to let you back in their august ranks. They’re not a fan.’

I shrug. ‘It’s been a century or so. I’m sure they’ll forget it ever happened. Eventually. Until then their money folds just as well as anybody else’s. And with Barbary dead we’re now in a bonus round.’

‘That’s a little opportunistic, don’t you think?’

‘No. It’s a lot opportunistic. And realistic. Nobody’s going to take care of us, but us.’

Lamb rests her palms on the body. The curse she utters grates on my ears. Within seconds the incubus’s corpse is a desiccated pile of ash and flaming sparks. Lamb breathes into her hand. Extends it outwards. A small cyclone swirls the ashes to the corners of the room.

Leaving Barbary’s body is one thing. It’s explainable. An incubus? Yeah, nah.

Cold and damp roll in as we stride from the hotel. I shiver and settle deeply into my coat. Sydney only has two seasons: an oppressively hot and humid summer; and a cold brittle winter where often as not the warmish days leave you unprepared for the evening chill. Spring and autumn are blink-and-you-miss-it weeks wedged in between.

Outside, the noise of Sydney batters me. The cloudy neon sky hangs low, clouds swollen. Cars and motorcycles growl down rain-slicked streets. Shadows are made more profound by the brightness of the city lights. The bitter, sweet reek of garbage and damp swirls in the air, barely masking grilled meats, spices. The aroma of freshly brewed coffee from an open-fronted café makes my mouth water. Donuts, pastries, and cakes glisten under a scratched glass dome. My stomach growls.

Pitt Street, not far from Chinatown, is littered with dawdling people in their coats and scarfs. They cross the road against traffic oblivious to the danger they cause, eyes intent on their phones. Focussed inward and downward they neither see nor care for the world around them unless they’re mentioned in it.

I grit my teeth.

‘If people only knew–’

‘But they don’t know.’ Lamb bares her teeth. ‘They’re not meant to know. Can you imagine what the world would be like if they did? You wouldn’t be able to walk to the corner store without somebody taking a shot. No, it’s better this war is kept a secret for so long as it can be. You come from a time when the supernatural was an accepted truth. How much good did it do? Can you honestly say that ignorance of some dark and terrifying truths makes for a worse place to live?’

‘True. There are fewer arseholes looking for answers if they don’t know what questions to ask.’

Fewer. Not none. Those who wielded true power across the world, the carefully hidden names behind monarchies, presidencies and industries, make sure the nature of the world is kept hidden. People are faced with everyday challenges, both real and fabricated, to keep their attention away from what stirs when they scratch at the itch that something isn’t quite right.

It hadn’t been right for centuries. Most people have no idea. Have never heard of the Briar King, the Thistle Queen, and the arcane Court of Keys that Burrowed between worlds in an attempt to bring about a mystic Enlightenment. The Burrows – tunnels between dimensions and worlds – were supposed to have brought knowledge and a golden age for humanity. We were supposed to have access to worlds where dreams are made manifest. Yet the Court of Keys had Burrowed too far and the foundations of worlds had collapsed into each other. The power and insight of the Thistle Queen and the Briar King, along with the magicians of the Court of Keys, had vanished without trace.

As had the high point of magic on Earth, never to be replaced.

Continental plates and lay-line geography shifted. Fissures that should have been closed remained open. Earth – part of the Materium – and the worlds bordering it became the Sunderland, a nexus for supernatural events and beings seeking new lands of opportunity. Where many of our myths and legends disappeared into the Fissures, now they and worse return through them.

With magic and the Enlightenment lost we turned our hands, hearts, and minds to industrialisation. To pillaging the earth. To wheels, tracks, roads, and the accumulation of wealth. Things easy to define, control, and measure.

Some of us can cast charms and curses at great cost to our minds, bodies, and souls. Can even Burrow to the Outside to find a patron who might, or might not, give us power in return for sacrifice. The Great Works however are beyond us now in times when those who defend humanity need them most.

‘It’s getting worse, isn’t it?’ I say.

Lamb shrugs. ‘We’re headed for Revelation, rather than the Enlightenment. We missed that boat before my time. The rules have changed and this is how the world is. Humanity needs to grow stronger to compete, or let other species take the wheel. It’s the laws of nature at their finest, and most honest. Thrive, or die.’

I rub at the pain in my chest. My left hand quivers and aches. I grit my teeth, clenching and unclenching my fist.

Lamb eyes me.

‘It’s already been a disappointing night and I don’t need you adding to it by up and dying on me.’

‘Sorry if this ailing old wreck is an inconvenience. And here I was having such a great time in it and all.’

‘Don’t be snide. The Infernal Regency made you stay in there as part of your penance. You took money to rip human souls out of their bodies so other humans, demons, or whoever had the coin could go nuts in a new house. I don’t blame them for giving you some perspective.’

Perspective. I’ve seen Hell first hand. Walked its labyrinthine streets with but the barest glimmer of my humanity to guide me back. Ash falls from a perpetual forest fire twilight and the air is so cold it burns. Buildings are made of black and white stone and the great basin that stretches farther than the damned can walk is surrounded by the silhouette of razor-edged mountains and volcanoes that spew ash and molten discord. The wind through razor sharp grass and reeds is the moan and wail of the damned. Rumour is that fallen angels live in palaces on those mountains, Lucifer and their lot behind layers of illusion and compulsion, driven from the centre of Hell by the trailer park grifters who’d once been human.

It’s a place of self-fulfilling prophecy for most. Nobody sends you there. You damn yourself and you can’t lie to yourself. The stains on your soul are there for you to see in the bitter hours of the dark when you’re alone save for the truth that hangs over you. You’re there ’cause you believe, past all the self-serving bullshit, that you deserve to be there.

No matter how hard you think you are, there’s invariably somebody harder in Hell.

The Regency showed me that when they caught me prowling about in their back yard. And there I was trying to do right by somebody I’d wronged.

Now that’s pretty much all I do.

Lamb grabs my elbow and shoves me until I’m ambling along, all aches, pains and weariness. She skips to my side, the seeming opposite of all those things. Her body is warm though we’re not touching. Her skin burns brassy. From time to time embers flicker at the ends of her hair and the hems of her clothes.

Few if any notice what walks in front of them. They turn blind eyes and deaf ears to the violence down an alley. At the seductive oddities that brush past them.

I envy a little the people who shuffle and bump past me. When supernatural death comes for the pristine – those who’ve not been touched by the supernatural world – it does so with a final shocked ‘fuck me!’ and then it’s over. It’s easier that way.

People like me know what’s coming. I’ve experience enough to fear almost everything. Something seen from the corner of my eye. The cold shudder. The sense of being watched. Knowing what lurks in the shadows, among the trees and beneath hills, under bridges and loitering watchful around places of worship older than any monotheistic faith. Even those shrines have their guardians, ancient and inscrutable by human measure. None of it is bullshit. I know what goes bump in the night and wish I could forget it all.

But I can’t.

Or perhaps I won’t.

A muffled scream from down a set of stairs leading to a basement level of a pub.