Whiskey and Ink

By D. Gabrielle Jensen

The hunt is on: who is the predator; who is the prey?

Convents, crossbows, and creeps-all in a day's work when it comes to hunting damned souls. Quick-witted and always on the go, Fia Drake's whole life has revolved around independence.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Balance of Seven
• Release date: Mar 26, 2021
• ISBN: 9781947012141

Book preview

Praise for

Whiskey and Ink

Whiskey and Ink is emotive, sometimes sexual, and as with its predecessor, packed with mystery.

—Rosie Wylor-Owen

USA Today Bestselling Author

Fia Drake is the kind of heroine who punches you in the gut and you gladly ask for more. Whiskey and Ink, the second installment of the Fia Drake, Soul Hunter series, delivers that gut punch from beginning all the way to the end, which leaves you begging for book three.

—Theda Vallee

Author, Stir Until Petrified

Other Books by

D. Gabrielle Jensen

Fia Drake, Soul Hunter Series

Drummers and Demons

(Book 1)

Whiskey

and Ink

Fia Drake, Soul Hunter Series

Book Two

D. Gabrielle Jensen

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Balance of Seven

Dallas

Copyright

Whiskey and Ink

Copyright © 2021 D. Gabrielle Jensen

All rights reserved. Printed in the United States.

No part of this book may be used or reproduced in any manner whatsoever without written permission except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. Unless otherwise indicated, all names, characters, businesses, places, events, and incidents in this book are either the product of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.

For information, contact:

Balance of Seven, www.balanceofseven.com

Publisher: [e-mail]

Managing Editor: [e-mail]

Cover Design by Adam E. Mathews, Pikuled People Art

[e-mail]

Developmental Editing, Copyediting, and Formatting by TNT Editing

www.theodorentinker.com/TNTEditing

Publisher’s Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: Jensen, D. Gabrielle. | Jensen, Desiree Gabrielle, 1980- .

Title: Whiskey and ink / D. Gabrielle Jensen.

Description: Dallas, TX : Balance of Seven, 2021. | Series: Fia Drake, soul hunter; book 2. | Summary: The life of Fia Drake, soul hunter, has revolved around independence. Now that independence is being threatened. She’d rather just skip town, but between the tarot revelation of a traitor and the drummer in her bed, she’ll have to face the hunt, armed with whiskey and a blessed tattoo.

Identifiers: LCCN 2021931430 | ISBN 9781947012134 (pbk.) | ISBN 9781947012141 (ebook)

Subjects: LCSH: Interpersonal relations – Fiction. | Intimacy -- Fiction. | Mythology – Fiction. | Rock musicians -- Fiction. | Solitude – Fiction. | Tattooing -- Fiction. | Denver (Colo.) -- Fiction.| BISAC: FICTION / Fantasy / Action & Adventure.| FICTION / Fantasy / Dark Fantasy. | FICTION / Fantasy / Urban.

Classification: LCC PS36010.E57 W45 2021 (print) | PS3610.E57 (ebook) | DDC 813 J46W--dc23

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2021931430

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One

Fia Drake leaned back against the straight, square arm of her black leather couch, her bruised, scarred, and tattooed arms folded across her bare chest. Her eyes were trained on the glass coffee table that had miraculously escaped demolition when a demon smashed through her balcony door.

Though at the time, she hadn’t known that’s what it was.

When she was sixteen, a priest had tracked her to the warehouse where she had been living with a handful of other homeless teens and left a crossbow on the sofa she had used for her living space. Zeke, the boy in the tepee next to her couch, had wrapped the bow in an old coffee bean sack.

That weapon—and the sack—had traveled with her until just a week ago, when she thought the bow had been crushed in an explosion. Now the bow rested, once again, on the sack in the middle of her glass-top coffee table.

Fia had lost track of time staring at the weapon, as if waiting for it to transform into a bird or a bouquet of flowers, when Max Hawkins’s warm-brandy baritone cut into her thoughts.

Imagine my surprise at waking up alone in a strange bed. It’s a lovely bed, don’t get me wrong, but—what is that?

A crossbow, Fia replied without turning to face him, her voice completely void of snark.

He nodded, rounding the sofa to sit beside her. Okay. He sat quietly for a moment, then asked, Is it yours?

Fia shrugged. It looks like mine.

But?

But it shouldn’t be. It should be a mangled heap beneath a couple tons of limestone.

Oh.

Fia stood and stepped away, crossing to the kitchen. She pulled two glasses from the cabinet and held one up for him to see. Water?

Sure?

She filled both glasses and carried them back to the couch. She handed one to him, rested the other on the table beside the weapon, and retraced her steps to retrieve her discarded t-shirt from the dark wood floor. Near the front door, she found Max’s boxer shorts and brought both items back to the couch.

She slipped the t-shirt over her dark copper hair, catching a quick glimpse of their reflection in the glass of the balcony door. She savored the view of Max’s nude body—the sharp lines of his muscles, the intricate lines of his tattoos—before handing him the shorts. Leather, she offered as he took them from her.

Thanks. He made an elaborate show of peeling his bare skin from the leather sofa and slipped into the deep blue cotton garment. Why— He stopped, chewing thoughtfully at his top lip before starting over. Why do you think it should have succumbed to such a terrible fate?

She sighed from deep in her gut and shook her head, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. A memory flooded into the red darkness.

The crowd of baseball fans gathered in the street was in chaos. Sitting on the concrete, his back against the iron grate along the bottom of the raised sidewalk, a man clutched frantically at a gaping wound in his shoulder. Flesh and muscle had been torn free of the limb, and the wound was larger than he could cover with his hand.

A rough, calloused hand gripped Fia’s shoulder, and she jumped, turning to see Max had caught up with her. Max! What the—get out of here! Or you know what, make yourself useful and see if you can help that guy.

On it. He pulled his shirt off over his head and utilized a small hole in the side to rip it into a bandage. Fia turned away, toward another scream.

Fia dropped her hands, shaking off the memory. Max, are you religious? I don’t mean ‘do you go to church?’ I mean, do you buy what they sell there?

He blinked, scratching his head. I haven’t been to church since high school. But I guess I’m open to suggestions. Why?

Perfect. I think you deserve a story, but if you were deeply rooted in either answer, I think it would be harder for you to accept what I’m going to tell you.

She studied the sharp angles of his long face, not really looking for anything as much as just stalling. She took a healthy drink from her glass of water before setting it back on the table with a flat clink.

I’m just not sure where to start.

I find the beginning to be a good place.

Yeah, she huffed. She wasn’t even sure where the beginning was. He deserved something, but how much? Well, in the beginning, there was darkness. From the darkness, the Mother emerged, and she was called Gaia.

Max’s eyes widened, and he chuckled. Maybe not that far back.

Fia shrugged, an exaggerated dismissal. Fine, but you’re missing out on some quality storytelling. Okay, the crossbow. I guess we’ll start there.

She finished her water and rose from her seat, returning to the kitchen. This time, she pulled a tall, square bottle of amber liquid from another cabinet. She filled her empty glass with the whiskey and held the bottle up in a silent offer.

Max joined her in the kitchen. It’s that kind of story?

It’s that kind of story.

He, too, emptied his glass before handing it to her. She refilled it and, bottle in hand, rounded the island counter to sit on one of the steel stools. She jumped as cold steel touched her bare butt. He took a seat on one of the other stools and sipped at his whiskey before motioning for her to start her story.

Max, I am . . . She scratched her head. Remember that guy at the bar downtown?

The zombie guy?

The zombie guy. Except he wasn’t a zombie. He—it—wasn’t even human. A question spread over Max’s face, but he remained silent, letting her talk. What do you know about ancient religions, mythology?

You mean, like Greeks, Olympus, that sort of thing?

Any of them, really. But yeah, Greeks.

Not a lot. The standard, I guess: gods, beasts, mazes, Hercules, Wonder Woman.

Fia laughed. There’s a little more to it than that. I learned all that same stuff too, in school. I don’t remember learning a lot about the original gods, though. Do you? He shook his head. In the beginning, there was darkness . . .

You mentioned that.

Yeah, but now it’s relevant. As to be expected, there are some discrepancies in the stories, but basically, there were beings created before the commonly taught pantheon. Titans, furies, and muses were all created before Zeus and his crew.

Yeah, I remember something about that. Very surface-level stuff. Mostly just that they existed. Not too much about who or what they were or where they came from.

As it was broken down for me, each belief system kind of functions on the same principles. There is a being at the top of the heap who creates everything under them from nothing. In this story, it’s Gaia. Gaia created her siblings—Nyx, Eros—and she created the Titans and some other beings on the same level of their hierarchy.

Fia sipped at her drink. This story made her head swim, and telling it was worse.

In the world I was raised in, Gaia was God, and the Titans were equated to a race of what we call demons. Fia paused, frowning. Species? Race? Max shrugged, and Fia dropped it. Anyway. Basically, these demons were the first beings. Then there were angels, which would be the same tier as Zeus and his ilk. After the angels, mortals—humans and animals—were created.

I remember this chapter.

So, the demons were first, and I guess, like any eldest child, they were grumpy about the angels, so they took off and colonized their own island—Hell, the underworld—and lived happily ever after.

Until the humans came.

You do know this story.

I know this plot formula.

A group of angels were pissed because Mom favored the mortals over the immortals. So they left to live with their older siblings, which didn’t sit well but was tolerable, I guess. Granted, this is coming from the human perspective of someone who definitely wasn’t there.

Of course.

Fia drained her glass and refilled it, offering to refill Max’s as well. He took a drink and pushed his glass toward her.

"There’s some bit about some beings with one hundred arms becoming jailers of the Titans. I’m not sure how they figure in here, but I guess the demons of this story were turned into prison guards on their little island when Gaia or whoever started sending wicked humans there.

Which is where my story starts, indirectly. There was a demon, Irzelen, who decided enough was enough and turned all his souls loose. Just happened, he was in charge of the violent ones: murderers, rapists, abusers. He decided the single best way to destroy humanity wasn’t to send them to the underworld after death; it was to send the underworld to them when they were still alive.

Yikes.

Max’s face flickered with shock. Fia was at least a little relieved by this reaction. Max had taken everything—from a mythical creature in her living room to something he probably still thought was a zombie—so easily, she had wondered if he was capable of being shocked by anything. She knew it was possible she would finally say something to break him—though she couldn’t imagine what, after all he had seen—and he’d run for the hills, but so far, she hadn’t gotten much reaction from him at all. That he showed even a slight shock regarding the incident that had helped establish the world she grew up in was encouraging.

Yeah, yikes.

Where do you fit into all this?

She puffed a small laugh through her nose. Oh, I guess I never finished that. Max, I hunt these souls to send them back.

Oh. He took a deep swallow of whiskey, which she guessed meant her confession had struck a nerve he hadn’t expected to have struck. That sounds dangerous.

I guess it can be. I try to stay off the radar as much as possible.

She swallowed hard on the memory of not one but two of her recent bounties gripping her by the throat with the intent to kill.

That’s where the crossbow comes in. Long-distance hunting. It’s not a dead-or-alive situation. The only way to neutralize my targets—to reclaim the fugitive souls—is to sever the connection to the hosts, which means killing the hosts. I guess that’s like zombies, yeah?

Usually, the best way to kill a zombie is to cut off its head, or at least destroy its brain. Some lore suggests that’s why they eat healthy, living brains: to keep their own rotting, diseased brains viable . . .

Max shrunk into himself, a soft blush touching his cheeks. That wasn’t what you—sorry, please continue.

Fia smiled. So I spent some time as a kid learning to shoot through the brainstem—or at least into the spine—from a distance.

Then what happens?

She shrugged. I’ve never stuck around to find out. I have these collars that look super simple but aren’t, really.

She watched his brow furrow—a look of interest, not concern—as she explained the collars and how they worked. She relayed then-Sister Agnes’s warning about being as far away as possible when the cleaners showed up to handle the corpse.

I was told it was safer for everyone if I was gone. Believe me, I’ve been tempted to stay. But I guess when something works, you stick with it.

Who do you think shows up?

I had only ever given a passing thought to a group of priests, or maybe bishops, in full ceremonial robes, gliding in from somewhere off screen. It was all quite theatrical. But realistically, I guess average people, like me. Maybe cab drivers? I can see how something like that would provide them with the ability to be on call for an exorcism at a moment’s notice.

Cops, Max said with a nod. What about people who work in the sewers? Oh! Or . . . I assume you make a pretty decent living doing this? Your exorcists probably do too. What about someone posing as a transient? They are both everywhere and invisible.

Sewers? She laughed. I guess it’s possible.

Fia, you just told me the mortal earth is teeming with malevolent souls that escaped from Hell. And in case you forgot, the first time I was here, a phoenix shattered your balcony door. I’d say just about anything is possible. He took another drink. Tell me about the crossbow.

It was given to me when I first started doing this. And then, about a week ago, I followed a couple of those zombie things, like the one outside the bar, to a hidden little sulfur reserve up north. I had a couple people with me: this priest—the guy who gave me the bow in the first place, Father Scott—and a nun about my age, Rebecca. We got trapped inside. I climbed out through an opening in the ceiling, but I couldn’t pack the weapon with me, so I left it with them. Before I could get them out, the whole thing blew. Or caved in. Or both, really. I got thrown, dislocated my shoulder—

Fia! There was the shock she had been looking for.

I’m fine. She shrugged her bruised shoulder toward him. A little scuffed but still good. I also spent some time as a kid learning how to relocate my shoulders. And my thumbs. I can dislocate them too. We were trained for a lot of contingencies, but I haven’t actually encountered many of them. I don’t get close enough to be put in restraints, so I really haven’t had the need for dislocating my thumbs—

That sounds horrible.

Fia shrugged. Probably, but it was survival.

You were a kid.

They say that’s the best time to learn anything.

They mean foreign languages and swimming, not setting your own joints. Concerned horror mixed with anger dug deep trenches in Max’s handsome face. It was a look Fia tried to avoid as much as possible.

The truth was, she knew how all this sounded. She hadn’t as a kid, but she had only let a couple of small details slip to Zeke, and he had given her a very similar look. He had told her what she was describing was abuse and she should call the police, report Agnes and the others. She hadn’t told him much of anything after that, and she hadn’t told anyone else any of it. She felt the tips of her ears burn, feeling a little angry about feeling a lot embarrassed.

Don’t look at me like that. It’s ancient history. Besides, I just finished telling you two people were crushed under a small mountain, and you’re worried about my childhood?

Shit, Fia, I’m sorry. Are you okay? I mean, besides the physical?

I thought so. I didn’t really know either of them. Not well. There was a weird connection with the priest, Father Scott, because of the bounties. Rebecca seemed like a sweet girl—ambitious, all about her mission to fight the forces of evil—but I hadn’t had a chance to really do much bonding with her. So it was weird. Kind of a numb feeling. The acceptance that a human life had ended—indirectly because of something I had done, a choice I had made—but without the emotional attachment.

You’re sure they didn’t get out somehow?

"Max, it was a mess. There was this little bump—I don’t know, maybe the size of a garden shed on the outside—and then it was gone. Almost completely flat. I tried to dig in, threw aside what I could, but there was just too much. I guess there is a way. They could have been trapped in some little pocket. I did leave them tucked into a crevice in the wall; maybe that was enough to protect them. But then, how long before they suffocated? No, I was sure they hadn’t made it out.

But now . . . She looked back at the weapon on the table. I think it would have taken a miracle.

You live in a world of demons and condemned souls. Is a miracle really that far off? Max slipped off his stool and drained the whiskey from his glass. I want to show you something. Sit tight. He crossed the condo to the front door. Flipping the locks, he left, still dressed in nothing but his underwear.

Fia poured herself another glass of whiskey, swirling it around while she waited for him to return. She climbed down from her stool and carried the drink to the floor-to-ceiling glass door leading to her balcony. The balcony had been one of the biggest selling points when she bought the condo. It stretched the full length of the converted warehouse. She had hung a screen over the corner of the space facing the street and had, on more than one occasion, slept on one of the lounge chairs she kept out there in the summer.

She stepped out onto the concrete platform and rested her glass on the railing, gazing out over the city. The view from here included the lights of downtown, and she found it relaxing. She lost herself in her whiskey and the view and didn’t hear Max return. He stepped close enough that she could feel him without him touching her.

Before she could turn to face him, she heard a sound. A soft hum. Not fully electrical but unlike anything else she had ever heard before.

Unlike anything else, that was, except a feather hidden away in a safe in her bathroom.

Where did you get it? she asked softly, without looking to see what he held.

How did you know? Max reached around her, pressing himself into her back, and laid a feather on the balcony railing. It was pure white, bright enough to emit its own light in the glow of the half moon and stretched from the tip of her middle finger to the crook of her elbow.

I could hear it. Can’t you?

I can. I thought I was crazy. But you can hear it? He didn’t let her answer. "I’m sorry, Fia. I took it while I was cleaning up the glass from the door. It was in the mess. I couldn’t help it. It just . . . drew me to it. The glow, the hum . . . Fia, what is this?"

She released a deep sigh. That is a feather. Now ask me where it came from.

Where did it come from?

I don’t know, but I have an idea how to find out.

Two

Fia woke the next morning eager to get started on her plan.

The sheets on the other side of the king-size bed were thrown back where Max had gotten up before her. She crawled out, setting her bare feet on the yarn rug beside the bed, and padded into the bathroom in search for him, then out to the main room of the condo.

She found Max, fully dressed, standing at the stove. The aroma of sausage and coffee filled her senses, making her mouth water.

Good morning, he chirped, pouring her a cup of coffee.

She considered his clothes, then her own underwear. Deciding she was underdressed, she picked her shirt up from the floor where Max had dropped it after relieving her of it when they went back to bed. After slipping it over her head, she climbed atop a stool to enjoy her drink. You could have woken me. Did you leave?

Yeah, sorry. I know I shouldn’t have left the door unlocked, but I noticed there was a supermarket . . . He waved his hand vaguely in the direction he had gone. And I was starving, so I thought you might be too.

No, that’s fine—yeah, it smells great. I guess I need some groceries. She drank greedily from her cup, watching Max at the stove.

He held up a pair of eggs for her to see. Scrambled?

Sure.

A few minutes later, he placed a plate in front of her, joining her with his own. What are you going to do about the . . . ? He nodded toward the coffee table, where the crossbow still lay. Fia hadn’t said any more after her initial idea struck.

The truth was, she wasn’t sure herself what she was going to do. Not completely. She had remembered a snare gun she had bought early on, when it seemed like fancy hunting toys might come in handy.

She had used it to catch a squirrel.

Fia shrugged. I’m working on a trap . . . She tapped a finger against her temple. But I need a job first.

Are you going to wait for the cab driver to stop for his exorcism?

Whoever shows up, yeah. After a moment, she spoke again, asking him about his plans, pushing the focus off herself.

"I need to pick my gear up from the studio. I was