Graves Danger: Luna Graves

By Jace Anderson & Adam Gierasch

"E.R. meets Buffy the Vampire Slayer" in this new urban fantasy adventure!

 

Los Angeles tattoo artist Luna Graves spends her days slinging ink, but at night? She's a doctor to monsters, tending to creatures that live in the shadows. Luna's tattoo business is taking off, but, after a series of mysterious deaths she realizes something is afoot in L.A.'s monster community. A group of big game hunters are in town... can she stop them before more of her patients die?

• Language: English
• Publisher: Nobody Loves An Albatross
• Release date: Apr 14, 2022
• ISBN: 9798201777128

Book preview

Graves Danger

Copyright © 2022 Nobody Loves An Albatross, Inc.

ISBN: 978-1-7360089-6-6

Proofreader: Donise Sheppard, www.donisesheppard.com

Cover Design: Najla Qamber, Qamber Designs & Media. www.qamberdesigns.com

Formatting: Stacey Blake, Champagne Book Design www.champagnebookdesign.com

Author Photo: Sean Tretta

This is a work of fiction. Any similarities to persons living or dead is entirely coincidental.

Title Page

Copyright

Chapter One

Chapter Two

Chapter Three

Chapter Four

Chapter Five

Chapter Six

Chapter Seven

Chapter Eight

Chapter Nine

Chapter Ten

Chapter Eleven

Chapter Twelve

Chapter Thirteen

Glossary

Acknowledgments

About the Authors

Luna Graves and Tony Ramirez were hanging out.

It wasn’t a date. Or was it?

It had all started six hours ago when Luna had been outlining the tattoo she’d come up with to adorn the circular scar on Tony’s right shoulder. It was a vine of carnivorous jack o’-lanterns, their design somewhere between a Venus Flytrap and the murderous flower, Audrey, from Little Shop of Horrors. They had compared their Saturday night plans (takeout, movie) and decided to double up, grabbing shawarma (not a date food, definitely not a date food) and retiring to Luna’s apartment.

Luna glanced over at Tony, who was staring at the television screen. The bluish light flickered over his body, and Luna’s eyes instinctively went to his well-muscled arms and chest. Horror-themed tattoos—all designed and inked by Luna—intertwined on them. Luna knew every inch of Tony’s torso, from the curve of his bicep to the slope of his lats. She’d seen him shirtless more times than she could count, but that was in the confines of the tattoo studio, Luna positioned inches away from his flesh with the buzz of the tattoo gun between them.

Luna pulled her hair—naturally blonde, but currently striped with turquoise—into a ponytail. She was wearing her work clothes: faded baggy overalls, an old T-shirt, and orange Converse sneakers. Her arms, like Tony’s, were covered with tattoos. In Luna’s case, they were all fantastic monsters in splendid colors. Her right wrist was home to a needle-toothed creature on a mountaintop. An orange tentacle snaked around her arm, going past the circle of bats on her elbow, ultimately leading to the tentacled being on her shoulder. Residing on her left arm were a ghoulish hag with backward feet and two red-eyed bounding black dogs. Bristly beings huddled on her inner left arm, their boar-like bodies terminating in rugged, brownish fishtails.

Here it comes, Tony said as on-screen a man picked up a giant spinning lawnmower blade and held it out in front of him. They were watching Peter Jackson’s Dead Alive, a zombie splatter film seconds away from its shockingly bloody climax. Definitely not a date movie. Who would suggest a gory comedy if romance was on their mind?

Quite possibly Tony. Over the years, Luna and Tony had spent hours talking, Luna an expert at keeping up a facile conversation to distract her clients when their pain hit teeth-clenching levels. Tony had plenty of stories from his job as a street outreach worker for a shelter for runaway teens, but many a session had evolved into deconstructing Tony’s latest disastrous date. Luna usually blamed outside factors for Tony’s bad luck—he had a teddy bear’s heart in a bad boy’s body—but she had to admit that his romantic instincts weren’t always the best.

Gallons of blood splashed across the screen, and Luna clapped appreciatively. Tony laughed and too-casually stretched one arm out, leaning it along the top of the couch. His hand lay inches away from Luna’s shoulder. Wait a minute. Is he really pulling that move? In the middle of the bloodiest scene in horror movie history?!

She debated leaning back into Tony’s embrace. It would be easy. It would be fun. It had been five months since her ex-boyfriend Devin had dumped her, and her bruised heart was starting to heal. Of course, the whole reason we broke up hasn’t changed. I’d have to lie about almost everything because I have an honest-to-God secret identity. It’s a bad recipe for a relationship.

She shifted in her seat, a fluttering settling in her stomach. Who had said anything about a relationship? I’m just thinking about a kiss.

She glanced over and realized Tony was watching her. On the television, zombie parts flew.

The air felt charged. It’s going to happen. She felt a warmth in her stomach, a certainty that if not right now, sometime this evening, she would be kissing Tony. At the very least.

Luna leaned forward, drawing closer to Tony. She tilted her head, and —

Knock, knock. A loud rapping sounded at the front door. Luna startled. She was inches from Tony and reared back. Uh, sorry.

He cleared his throat, his voice thick. Did you order more food?

No. Luna paused the movie and got up, brushing her hands off on her overalls. She pressed her eye to the peephole.

On the other side stood a tall, striking man with mahogany skin and oil-black hair brushed back off his face: Anil Kettleworth. He looked to be about twenty-five, but Luna knew he was much older—191, to be exact. He was, after all, not a person but a bezaleel—a centuries-old being who could pass for human, save for an easily hidden second set of teeth.

Luna’s anger flared. This isn’t supposed to be happening now!

She opened the door two inches and hissed through the crack, What are you doing here?!

We’ve got one, Anil answered in his clipped British accent.

Luna cursed under her breath. And here comes my secret life, colliding with my normal one. She cleared her throat, eyes darting from Anil to the couch where Tony was sitting. It’s not office hours.

Can’t wait, I’m afraid. Emergency.

Tony looked up from the couch and caught sight of Anil at the door. He smiled, but his eyes didn’t commit to the gesture. Oh. You have company?

Yes, I mean no—I’m sorry to do this, but I’ve got to go.

What?

There’s an emergency. At the tattoo studio. I can’t tell Tony the truth. It might get him killed. Me, too.

She glanced at Anil. This is Anil. He’s my new manager at Ink, Inc., and… Her voice dwindled off, the lie dying on the vine. He came to tell me about it. Dammit! A good lie is supposed to have specifics, but not too many! Luna hated lying, but she’d been studying about how to be better at it. Offering too many details could be a sign of a lie, and so could too few. Nothing she’d read had given her a sense of just how many details a successful lie should have. Somehow, I think a good lie should be more specific than what I just said.

Anil, dressed in a navy-blue uniform, pulled his windbreaker over his shirt to hide the emergency medical patch that read Angeles Paramedics. He adopted an American accent. Fire alarm went off. Plumbing main broke. Drywall needs patching. It’s a disaster.

Wow. That’s way too much detail. Still, Tony rolled with it. Do you want me to come with you? he asked. It’s almost midnight. I don’t mind helping.

He thinks I’m ditching him, and why wouldn’t he? It’s OK, Luna responded. I don’t want you to see the studio when it’s not in tip-top shape. After all, you’re a client. She winced when she saw Tony’s face fall at the word client.

Tony grabbed his coat and headed for the door. Yeah, I guess I should get home. The movie was almost over, anyway. He and Luna shared an awkward hug at the door.

We’ll have to do it again, Luna promised.

Tony exited the apartment and disappeared down the hall. Luna turned to Anil, ready to plunge into her other, secret life. This better be good.

Luna and Anil exited her apartment, heading for a black panel van, hazards flashing, parked in a loading zone.

Like so much else in Luna’s life, the black van held secrets.

She opened the back door and jumped inside. At first glance, it looked much like the back of an ambulance—gurney, cardiac monitor, backboard, and bags of saline—but on closer inspection, everything was just a bit off. A padded suitcase held bottles of liquids and potions, each marked with an exotic label like essence of datura or hemlock solution. The gurney had restraints made of metal tubing instead of cloth. A tranquilizer gun and feathered darts hung on a pegboard.

Luna didn’t give the strange apparatuses another glance as she climbed inside. Hey, Minx.

The red-haired woman sitting in the passenger seat nodded and raised a cup of coffee in greeting. Want some?

I’m good.

Anil appeared at the back door. He nodded toward several large magnetic signs leaning against the side of the van. Hand me A.P.

Luna flipped through the black signs, which were designed to cling to the van’s exterior. Each one had different wording: On-Time Courier, Los Angeles Department of Water and Power, Southern California Gas Company. She pulled out one with the red cross and white letters reading Angeles Paramedics.

Anil slid behind the wheel. He screeched onto Cahuenga Boulevard and cruised down the left lane.

Right side! yelled Luna. Anil swerved into the correct lane, narrowly missing plowing into a blue Sentra. He had moved to Los Angeles from London five months earlier and was still getting used to the whole driving-on-the-right-side-of-the-road thing.

Startled, Minx jerked to one side. Her red fingernails retracted and four-inch-long talons sprung out of her fingernail beds: an automatic response. One talon punctured her coffee cup, and brown liquid splattered onto her nurse’s scrubs. She cursed. Look at that! You made me ruin my coffee.

Caffeine is a crutch, love, Anil responded.

It’s a crutch I need desperately. You woke me from a sound sleep. Downing the remainder of her coffee, Minx retracted her claws.

Luna opened a compartment in the back of the van and pulled out a paramedic uniform that matched Anil’s. As she put it on over her clothes, she mused that driving on the wrong side seemed to be ingrained in Anil’s very cells. Figures. He’s been driving on the left since before cars were invented.

Anil spoke in quick, clipped phrases. There’s a male wood nymph with a bullet wound and lacerations inbound to Cedars. We have to extract him before they do any X-rays.

Yeah, four lungs would raise some questions, Luna responded, tamping down her spike of anxiety. The hospital runs always stressed her out. How’d you intercept the call?

I was monitoring the emergency channels, he bragged, and I heard two paramedics talking about the patient. Gunshot wound to the heart, but he’s awake and talking.

They think it didn’t go deep enough to hit his heart—they don’t know that there’s nothing there but muscle. Like Minx and Anil, wood nymphs looked human to the naked eye, but further investigation would reveal shocking differences.

Good catch, Luna said as Minx touched her elbow. She felt a now-familiar melting away of her anxiety. Minx was a matianak, a kind of emotional succubus that fed on human feelings. Physical contact made the transfer easier, and Luna’s initial annoyance at Minx’s touchy-feeliness had given way to gratitude during times like these, when Minx literally took the edge off of Luna’s nerves.

A clipboard rattled on the seat next to Anil, already holding official paperwork from Cedars Sinai Hospital. Luna examined the document. Whoa. This looks like real transfer paperwork from Cedars to Queen of Angels. How’d you get it?

Hacked into the mainframe. Anil grinned.

I didn’t know you were good with computers.

Just one of my multiplicity of talents.

So far, in their five months of working together, Anil had revealed fluency in Hindi, French, and Chinese as well as nichtling, the official language of the nonhuman creatures known as the shadowkind. He knew how to handle both a crossbow and a ham radio. As Luna’s handler, it was his job to make sure that sick and injured shadowkind got treated—and that they stayed out of sight.

How long do we have? she asked.

At least five minutes once he arrives. They’ve got patients in the trauma bay.

Should be just enough time for us if traffic is good, Luna said. It was rare for a bezaleel, matianak, thrope, or one of the many other types of beings who could pass for human to end up at the hospital. Shadowkind were, on the whole, tougher, and heartier than their human counterparts. Some, like matianaks, could even regenerate lost limbs. Still, Anil, Luna, and Minx occasionally had to divert patients from emergency departments.

As they raced down the street, Luna caught sight of the Cedars Sinai towers. A dull ache settled around her heart. This is where Frederick was at the end.

Frederick Graves, Luna’s estranged biological father, had died six months ago in the Intensive Care Unit. Their last moments together were also the first time that Luna had seen her father since she was a baby. Frederick had barely registered her, and the conversation Luna had fantasized about for years had never happened.

Anil turned off Beverly Boulevard and onto George Burns Drive. So, L.A. We’ve got streets named after actors instead of historical figures. Passing the ambulance entrance to the E.R., he parked at the curb. He grabbed a couple of quarters from the pile of coins in the cupholder and jumped out of the van to feed the 24-hour meter. It was well past visiting hours, and the streets were deserted.

Minx slid into the driver’s seat, angling the rearview mirror so that she could see the hospital doors.

Tucking her turquoise-striped hair up under a blue-billed cap, Luna jumped out of the back of the van. She exchanged a look with Anil. Let’s do this.

They entered the hospital, running down a wide hallway flanked by offices. Up ahead was the low hum of the emergency room: voices over speakers, the soothing chatter of nurses. In their paramedics’ uniforms, they hurried into the Emergency Department without drawing a glance from the admitting nurse. Luna suppressed a grin. Despite the stress, there was a thrill in getting someone out of the hospital.

Anil was even more on point than Luna, operating with the playful energy of a puppy as they entered the E.D. Bezaleels were less emotional than humans, with minds suited for complexity and scheming. Despite his emotional reserve, Anil genuinely liked other beings. He was much easier to work with than Luna’s previous handler, a cranky bezaleel named Vigo. Racing to get a patient out of a camera-laden hospital department was the kind of thing Anil thrived upon. He’s a bit of a show-off, but I’m okay with that—as long as we manage this.

Luna pulled her hat low over her head as they passed the first surveillance camera. On either side of them, patients waited in curtained-off cubicles for medical treatment.

Anil approached the triage desk and flashed a wide grin. I’ve got a transfer to Queen of Angels. Here’s the patient number. He held out the clipboard for the charge nurse. She barely glanced at him, her eyes going from the clipboard to the whiteboard that detailed patient locations. They took him to Trauma Two.

He’s already in the trauma bay? We may be too late. As soon as the charge nurse turned away, Luna and Anil broke into a run. Their footsteps hammered on the linoleum, and Luna’s heart raced. She glanced over at Anil, who hadn’t even broken a sweat. He could run three times as fast if no one was looking.

Anil caught her gaze and grinned, speeding up. Pick it up.

Bloody hell, Luna shot back in a decent imitation of his British accent. A stitch formed in her side. Anil isn’t even breathing hard.

Luna and Anil slowed down as they reached the trauma bays. Luna glimpsed the patient, a Black man in his early thirties with dreads and the characteristic features of a wood nymph: wide-set eyes, small aquiline nose, long fingers. He was waiting outside the entrance to Trauma Bay Two on a gurney. Noise came from behind the closed door. They were working on another patient. That, at least, was good news.

A technician wheeled a portable X-ray toward the nymph. In moments, his unusual physiology would be discovered. Luna leapt forward, grabbing onto the gurney, and pulled it away from the technician.

This is my patient, she gasped. He’s being transferred to Queen of Angels.

We take transfer orders from the charge nurse.

Luna folded her arms and jutted out one hip, affecting an aggrieved air. Yeah? Well, the charge nurse sent me to get him. We have the paperwork.

The wood nymph looked from the technician to Luna, pulse hammering at his throat. His eyes came to rest on the label on Luna’s uniform that read Angeles Paramedics, the name that Anil had used for their fake uniforms. The wood nymph visibly relaxed, and Luna knew he had seen what she and the technicians couldn’t: UPHIR, the nichtling word for doctor, written in ultraviolet ink right below the stitching. Unlike humans, many shadowkind had UV vision. The secret signal let them know they were in the right hands.

The wood nymph turned back to the technician and nodded. I feel fine, he gasped as he tried to pull the IV out of his hand. Red spots marred his hospital gown. Blood. I don’t… need an X-ray. You can transfer me.

Don’t touch the IV! snapped the technician. The doctor ordered the X-ray. They’ll do the same thing at Queen of Angels.

Two nurses ran by, pushing through the door to Trauma Bay Two. Luna glanced inside and saw medical personnel frantically working on someone.

The technician followed Luna’s gaze and nodded. Motorcycle accident.

Two more gurneys were rattling toward them, each with a bloodied patient. Can we take him or not? she demanded.

The technician pursed his lips. After he’s been —

Look, Luna interrupted.