City of Shadows

By kd Alexander

My name is Blake Garrett. I used to be a cop up until a bad guy turned into a colony of bats and dropped a desiccated corpse in its wake.

I got in trouble for telling the truth. No one wants to admit monsters are real.

The city said I got a screw loose and pensioned me out.

Now I fight monsters of a more sinister kind.

There's a war brewing in the supernatural planes of existence and I'm caught in the middle of it.

The wizards don't like me.

The shadow hunters don't trust me.

The city would rather forget I even existed in the first place.

But they need me because an immortal serial killer is on the loose, and if I don't stop him before he completes his ritual, the world as we know it would vanish into a plume of cinder and ash.

And that would suck. Because I live here.

I like it here.

It was supposed to be easy.

Nothing ever is.

If you enjoy urban fantasy cop novels featuring hard-boiled detectives, ancient eldritch enemies, and stories full of wizardry and combat, then you’ll love City of Shadows. Grab your copy and start reading it today!

• Language: English
• Publisher: kd Alexander
• Release date: Nov 15, 2023
• ISBN: 9798215024331

kd Alexander

I write like Michael Bay directs.Put simply, I grew up in a strange time, where parachute pants were cool, and hyper-flourescent colors were all the rage. Cheesy action shows and even cheesier sitcoms fed my television addiction. Comic Books opened my eyes to all sorts of things that my parents would not approve of.Gold Eagle was publishing dirty books that I was never allowed to read. They were full of exotic locations and high stakes adventures. But, the cover art alone convinced my mom that they needed to be passed by. So, instead, she let me read Dragon Lance, Shadowrun, Dark Sun, and Redwall. No really. I was surprised too!When I became a real boy, I made a point to read all the pulpy good stuff I was never allowed to read as a kid. Characters like Conan the Barbarian, Doc Savage, the Shadow, Mack Bolan, and even a little unicorn named Ariel became some of my new heroes.And as a writer, I try to go back to that sense of wonder and adventure that I loved reading about when I was a kid. There’s nothing like the high you get when a book sucks you in. And as you come back to reality, letting the world slowly come back into focus, I hope that you were entertained.

Book preview

PROLOGUE

Robbing a bank with a police car parked right in front is by far the stupidest thing you could do.

So stupid that it actually freaking worked.

Two guys, masked up, jumped out of a nearby minivan. A freaking Honda, leaving it idling in the handicap spot. I mean, the stupid. Come on.

These were all clues any smart cop should have picked up. I think that was their idea.

So, I stepped casually out of my black and white, shutting the door and leaving it unlocked. Because yeah. This was going to be quick and easy. I’d have the whole thing done, soup to nuts in less than 30 minutes. Just in time for lunch.

I stepped slowly to the side of the waiting car, making sure it was empty. It was.

And I waited.

It didn’t take long. They robbed the bank and the teller did what she was supposed to, hitting the panic button just as they entered. The call got toned out. I told Dispatch I was already here set up and holding the getaway car.

And that’s when things went to shit. Two other cops, Ryan Grayson and Danielle Matos were right around the corner. They got there just in time to watch the kid come out of the bank; he looked me up and down and freaked.

It was a kid. A freaking kid. No more than thirteen, maybe give or take a few years. He pushed me back like a linebacker, knocking me on my ass and clear across the parking lot with a shoulder tackle.

Honestly, I didn’t see it coming. I wasn’t expecting a kid no bigger than a mouse to knock me square across the parking lot.

Before I could draw down, they were in the car and the chase was on.

We hit the interstate at about ninety. Lights and sirens going, the whole nine. Think it went six or seven miles. I was in the lead car, so I didn’t get to call anything out. I think it was Ryan working the radio and Danielle taking up the rear.

Like all good car chases, this one ended in a crash. Their stolen minivan wrecked into the back of a Corolla and the two kids foot-bailed across six lanes of traffic. The driver hit the freeway and was in the wind, jumping jersey barriers like hurdles.

The other passenger, a kid no older than sixteen, had more balls than brains. He bails out and points a fucking gun at me. He fires a round; it catches me just above the knee. I go down and as I’m falling, I managed to draw and unloaded my first six shots. There wasn’t any chance for a warning.

I mean, I’m in full fucking uniform, driving a black and white billboard that says ASHBORO POLICE in big block letters on both sides. We had a little disco party as we raced down the interstate, lights and sirens blaring.

There’s no excuse. You know you just shot the damn police.

So, I go down. Danielle and Ryan go chasing after the rabbit. Don’t think they ever caught the little bastard. And I’m watching him. I mean, I just shot the kid six times.

The kid doesn’t fall. I shit you not. As I unloaded, the bastard turned into a colony of bats. Honest-to-God bats. And flies off, leaving nothing but a desiccated corpse in its wake.

How am I supposed to do CPR on a dead kid? A legit dead kid. Like, been dead a month dead. Can’t. Especially considering I’m bleeding out my damn leg and couldn’t stand to save my life.

I know it sounds crazy. Ashboro PD said the same thing. Took six months on admin leave. They sent me to all sorts of shrinks. You ain’t the first, and I’m sure you won’t be the last. They make me see you guys once every year or so, just to make sure they still gotta pay me my pension check every month.

You know what I got for that besides constant headaches, a limp, and shooting pains every time the temperature drops below 60? They gave me a pretty little medal and an early retirement.

You got any other stupid questions? Like what my name is, doc? You going to play the same mind games every other shrink did before?

I’ll tell you my name.

It’s Blake Garrett, and I used to be a cop.

Don’t ask me what I’m doing now, because you honestly don’t want to know.

ONE

I’d been sitting idly at my hand-me-down desk tossing crumpled paper into the garbage can, failing miserably in an imaginary NBA tryout for the better part of a half hour now. I was just reminiscing about shit that has no business being remembered when my phone rang. I considered letting it go to voice mail. It’d been a rough couple days; the shrink really pissed me off, which shouldn’t have surprised me at all because most shrinks piss me off.

It’s not that they’re shrinks. It’s not that they’re trying to help by making you relive painful memories that needed to stay forgotten. What gets old is the side eye they try so hard to hide. It usually comes out when you tell them about stuff they know in their heart of hearts isn’t real. Things like kids turning into bats and flying into the sky, guys with octopus heads trying to rip yours off in a dark alley.

You know. Little things like that.

The phone kept annoying me. So, I gave up on free throws and answered the damn thing. Garrett Investigations.

Ya know, Blake… I got a lotta respect for you and all. But respect don’t pay the bills. It’s been three months. You gonna tell me you’re good for it again or should I just move on with the paperwork?

It hadn’t been three months. Probably closer to two and a half, but he was right. Respect doesn’t pay the bills. I’d been hanging on, barely qualifying for a loan from the Bank of Goodwill for the better half of a year. Bastard knew I was good for it. I just needed–something. Anything, really.

Yeah, Mr. Bronson. Check’s in the mail. Post Office must have lost it in transit again. I’ll write you another one in a bit. I closed my eyes and shook my head, imagining him crumpling his forehead into one of those poses that’s a cross between taking a dump and losing your ever-loving shit. Don’t knock me. You know what I’m talking about.

Check’s always in the mail. This is getting a little old, Garrett. You flat broke again?

I looked around my ratty office with its blinking overhead light and the fan covered in dust that was circling endlessly in death throes above me. Bookcases scattered the four corners of the office, well-loved paperbacks tumbling out from the mess left the last time someone tried to pick a fight with me in my office.

An old Irish Coffee stain had settled into the ink blotter on my desk, mixing with the dust patterns from the files I finally decided to shred. It made the whole of my desk look like one of those ugly abstract paintings they sold at auction for millions of dollars. Heh. Maybe I should try selling the thing as art. Maybe I’d get lucky.

Or maybe pigs would fly. Again.

Leftover fast food containers spilled out of a kitchen garbage can and were slowly taking over my floor. They’d have won the battle by now if my empty liquor bottles hadn’t made their last stand nearby, drawing a thin line that separated the office into little micro conflicts of trash. The exploded garbage fought a battle of attrition, and I reminded myself I should probably get off my ass and drop it in the dumpster.

Maybe later.

Nope. Just fine, Mr. Bronson. I’m a fucking millionaire.

Jesus, Blake. Why don’t you go on one of those stupid ghost shows or something?

Because they’re all bullshit.

And you’re not?

Nope. Not at all.

Your card says you do birthday parties. You Bozo the fucking wizard now?

Times are tough all over. Guy’s got to expand his horizons.

You still making balloon animals with ‘magic’? Mr. Bronson laughed into the phone. His laughter devolved into an emphysematic cough that hurt my ears.

You still smoke three packs a day?

Naw. Cut back. Two now, max.

Then cut back to one until you get my check. Pension’s due to hit the bank account in three days. You’ll get paid and I’ll forget your stupid clown joke. I slammed the phone down and settled back in my chair, grinding my hands against the broken leather arms and pulled out padding by the fistful.

It didn’t help, I liked my chair, and it didn’t deserve to be my sacrificial lamb. It didn’t help, but it sure felt damn good to break something. I sighed and took a swig from the closest half empty bottle. At least this one was a lager. Stale, warm, and full of that moldy, heady taste that comes from leaving it out for a week.

Christ. Had it been that long? A fucking week since I went home? Whatever. There wasn’t anything special there for me anymore. Not since Arianna left.

The chime sounded on my computer. I got a new e-mail. For a fleeting moment, I got hopeful. Maybe she was reaching out to me to check and see if I didn’t drink myself into a coma or something.

Don’t get me wrong. I’ve had plenty of vices in fifteen years as a cop here in Ashboro City. Drinking myself in a stupor was a new one. Matter of fact, I just found out about it two weeks ago.

Which coincided with the time Arianna up and left me.

The e-mail was spam. More junk mail trying to sell me dick pills, weight loss witchcraft or hair growth tonics. I don’t need any of them, thank you very much. I guess they picked a demographic and assumed that all ex-cops were balding fat men with a bad case of E.D.

Problem is, I didn’t retire on my own accord. You can’t rationalize irrational behavior. It was one of the first things I learned on the streets. But the truth is: Every cop does it. Every cop. And when another cop tells them something irrational that they just can’t place outside of Grimm’s Fairy Tales, they think you finally blew a gasket and went off the deep end.

They called it PTSD and gave me half my pay for the rest of my life. Long as I keep seeing the city sponsored shrinks and proving to them that I’m still batshit crazy.

But I’m not. Monsters are real.

I know. Took me a while to rationalize it too. Don’t think real hard on it or you’ll drive yourself nuts.

Been there.

Done that.

Got the pension to prove it.

I scrolled through more bullshit emails looking for any shred of Arianna trying to reach out, scanned headlines of junk mail in a conspiracy filled and beer-goggled haze. Checked my Face-tweet thing and gave up. The frustration was boiling over and I felt like I was going to explode.

Magic smoke blossomed up from my computer as the fan died and the motherboard gave up the ghost. The monitor fizzled and popped. The light above me flickered and blew.

Just fucking great.

I fried my third computer this month.

Apparently, I’m what they call a Natural Mage. Someone who was born with a portion of their brain unlocked, somewhere in the back. I don’t know. Didn’t much understand all that neurological nonsense when they explained it to me.

What I do know is this:

Mages have an aura around them that’s unstable. Kind of like an electrical field times a thousand. It freaks people out, they think you’re creepy, or you smell funny, or whatever. All I know is they can’t get away from you quick enough.

The things that stay behind are influenced by it. If you’re having a good day, maybe you go to a bar and hang out. Someone there gets lucky that night, wins a couple bucks off a scratch off, little things like that.

But if you’re having a bad day, then that repulsion is ridiculously overpowering. Bad shit happens when Mages have a bad day. And that’s why I fried my third computer this month. The aura overpowers mechanical and non-living things. A person can lose their job, their wife, their kids, their finances. A dog or cat can become aggressive suddenly, no matter how cute and cuddly Fido was five minutes ago.

A computer just fucking dies.

But I can throw a fireball.

So, that’s kind of cool I guess. If you have money to buy a new computer every time you feel the need to throw a temper tantrum.

I haven’t been a Mage very long. This shit’s pretty new to me. I’m still learning.

Really, all I’ve learned since I ascended is that I definitely need to learn how to control my temper and stress better. Maybe if I hadn’t been having such a crappy time of things, I would have been happier. And Arianna would want to stick around.

But.

Aura. Repulsion.

The thing about the aura though is it only affects those who haven’t become aware or accepted the fact that there’s shit that goes bump in the night. Once you know the really real is really real, the bad mojo goes away and the sensitive folk treat you like you’re human again.

Instead of this abomination.

A knock sounded on my door. I grunted and smoothed my grimy fingers through the dark brown mop on my head that I called hair. My fingers tangled in a knot and it hurt like hell.

The fan crapped out as a final how-do-you-do.

I limped over to the old tallow candles I kept on the bookcase just in case I got pissed off and killed the lights again.

But it sure put on a hell of a show for everyone that came expecting a love letter to Satan. Everyone pictures Mages and wizards as these wizened old Gandalf looking people. But we’re not. We’re human. Well, mostly.

I lit the candles the old fashioned way with my zippo. The room came to eerie light as the flames flickered across their skull bases. Since I had this sign on the door, it really set the mood. Kids love it at Halloween. And I pass out candy by the bucket, which is surprising considering I’m in the middle of a crumbling office building that was antique in the Eisenhower days. It read:

BLAKE GARRETT

PRIVATE INVESTIGATIONS

NO JOB IS TOO BIG, TOO SMALL, OR TOO WEIRD

SUPERNATURAL SPECIALIZATION

So, with a sign like that–I figured it’s best to put on the show. My office is full of weird bric-a-brac that does nothing but look cool. Things like my skull sconces that the candles were now flickering in. Plus, it hid all the crap I needed to throw out. With a wave of my hand, I sent an incense cone smoldering, hiding the stink of week-old Chinese food.

The knock sounded again. I yelled at the door. It probably wasn’t the best way to welcome a potential customer. But, the only ones that have been by in the last two weeks were some stupid teenagers that wanted me to do a Tarot reading for them.

I don’t do Tarot. That’s for charlatans and harlequins. Plus, both the Legati and Didicit Magis frown on scrying the future. It’s bad for the business of whatever they’re scheming in the background this month. It’s so hard to keep track of politics.

The Legati Magis are black Mages, hell-bent on power and oppression. They believe that natural Mages should be treated like gods. I think they’re assholes.

The Didicit are assholes in their own right, but they’re not so bad. I guess, it would be better if they’d stop trying to kill me or get me to join them in their cause.

That’s when it hit me. Supernatural beings can’t just walk into a place uninvited. My office hours were from nine to five. I know I’ve had a drink or two, but it couldn’t be long past three.

What if it was another one of their errand boys here to subjugate me or offer me three wishes? I closed my eyes for a moment and took in a deep breath. I closed my eyes and whispered, "Lumen Veritas," letting my breath linger over the last word.

The room lit up in a pale blue glow; there was a minor fireworks display going off by my front door, indicating that my wards were still in place. But nothing from the spooky side of the street popped up on my monster radar. The only thing besides my wards that caught my eye was just the simple red outline of a man standing there with his hand in his pocket.

He scratched his ass idly, I figured he was probably wondering why the hell I didn’t answer my door. I vaguely recognized the aura and heat signatures. The spell faded. I relaxed.

You gonna stand there looking like the cat ate your damn goldfish or come in? And stop scratching your ass. It’s unbecoming.

The door opened slowly, illuminating the figure in the threshold. Ryan Murphy laughed and stepped into my office.

It’d been maybe a year or so since he retired, but he still had that natural muscle that comes with years of training, now hid by the layer of fat that only comes with age and experience. His gait was elongated and awkward from the knife wound that gave him an early retirement, too.

We’d stayed close, despite all the bullshit that followed cops around everywhere they went. He hadn’t seen me since my Ascension and I tried my damndest to put on a happy face. No sense in making the aura stink any worse than it probably already did.

Ass scratchers don’t get the high five or the handshake. Get in here and get out of the damn cold.

Seeing a friend did actually make me feel better. Just a little. I beamed an awkward smile.

Dude. Seriously? He was taking in the show. And I could tell from his expression that he wasn’t entirely buying in. Who the hell are you and what did you do to Blake Garrett?

Too much? I laughed.

Too much? Christ, this looks like Satan’s unholy temple.

Money’s tight. They turned off my power last week.

Jesus. Maybe you should drop the whole fraud thing and just focus on being an ex-cop trying to make a buck with years of investigative experience and street smarts?

Yeah. But then I’d be just some cardboard character in a Raymond Chandler book. This puts me in my own class.

Yeah. Your own class of seriously fucked up. It’s no wonder you’re broke. It stinks like a whorehouse in here.

Incense. Garbage piled up.

Murphy laughed. Ain’t that the truth? Seems like garbage always piles up around us.

And past us. We’re forgotten soldiers, man. You want a beer?

Is it cold?

Probably not.

Whiskey then. I pushed my way over Mount Trashmore to the cabinet I kept behind my desk. I grabbed two glasses and found the good stuff I kept for when friends visited, or I had a really bad day. I poured two fingers each and brought the glasses back. We clinked them and said a toast to those we lost as I settled down into my old wingback chair.

Murphy took the one opposite me by the fireplace I kept for decoration. My bookcases flanked it. Like everything else, it was just for show. I pretended to push a button on an old remote control and whispered Ignis low enough for me to just focus my will, but nowhere near loud enough for Murphy to hear me.

The fireplace responded to my will. Magic is all about subtlety and nuance. It feeds off emotion. The less emotional you are, the smaller the spark. The bigger the emotion, well–the bigger the boom.

The room illuminated in a subtle glow, casting shadows across Mount Trashmore.

Dude. You need a maid.

If my pension was bigger I’d have one.

But how? You got sixty-sixed, same as me. I mean, you’ve even been there longer too. And I’m sure your last gig before they shit canned you brought in enough overtime.

Judgments. Settlements. Liens and personal guarantees. You know, all the fun stuff you get when the media outright calls you batshit fucking crazy.

In their defense, you are batshit fucking crazy.

Whatever, Ryan. I know what I saw. You know what you saw. You were there, don’t piss on my leg and tell me it’s raining.

It was a bad crash. There was fire.

You know well as I do that it takes a lot of fire to turn you into extra crispy recipe. The corpse that was left had been left at least a month.

Maybe they had a Weekend at Bernie’s style party with one of their gang banger brothers?

Really, Murphy? I wiped some condensation off my glass and took a slow and steady sip, trying to dull the memories that started to come flooding back. I felt my anger rising again.

The fire fed on it all, rising in time with my pulse.

That was damn near fifteen years ago. Why are you here?

We’re friends. You’ve been a ghost long enough that I figured it was time someone came to bring you back to the land of the living.

I’m fine, Murph.

The hell you are.

Saw a shrink just last week. He said I’m still crazy. It’s all good.

That’s the problem, Garrett. He sipped on his whiskey. It’s just. A pregnant pause filled the air. The fire crackled in the hearth, drinking in the razor’s edge we danced on. Nice fireplace, by the way.

Got it on eBay. Open box model. I lied, and bit back a smile by chewing on my upper lip.

I’ve been having these fucked up dreams lately. The city’s burning down, people are rioting in the streets. Breaking things. Stealing shit.

Something happen in the news? They inciting another war against the police?

No. It’s nothing like that. But they’re so vivid, you know. I can taste the cinnamon burn of the tear gas. I can hear the shouts and screams. But they’re not just your regular anarchists. They’re being guided, like by an outside hand.

I don’t drink the Kool-Aid. So spare me your conspiracy theory shit.

No. Not like some secret black ops coup thing. Like they’re being guided. Stirred up and led into all this chaos and anarchy.

People get pissed off and break things all the time, Murph. Hell, I tore out another chunk of chair today because my computer took a dump on me. Again.

No. Dude. Listen. It doesn’t matter. Sometimes the dreams are broad daylight. I see them whacking cops left and right, setting fire to marked cars, burning police stations and government buildings to the ground. Ryan downed the last of his drink in one big gulp and stood up suddenly, walking over to my desk. He chased the whiskey with my warm beer.

It was gross. Not because I’d already tasted it and knew it was dog piss, but because I was drinking