Tag: episodic fiction

an episodic Vivian Locke occult noir

Sunny Day Parasol Co.

Case File #13: Quicksilver

This is a serialized story. Start with Case File #1 here.

“I’ll pass on the gin,” I said, keeping my posture relaxed but ensuring my right hand rested casually near the slit in the midnight blue silk. “It dulls the reflexes, and I prefer to keep my head clear when I’m collecting a fee.”

Cross’s smile didn’t waver. He leaned back, his tailored suit seeming to absorb the harsh glare of the chandelier above us.

“Fair enough. Though I notice you are traveling remarkably light for a retrieval job, Miss Locke. Tell me you didn’t leave my property sitting in the back of that rented hack you took from the Brass Canary. It would be a terrible shame to lose our investment to a common cab driver.”

“I wouldn’t insult either of us by being careless,” I said. My left hand, wrapped tight in fresh white gauze, went to the velvet clutch resting in my lap. My burnt fingers brushed the velvet, feeling the unnatural, freezing weight of Kogan’s ward humming against the escrow token.

an episodic Vivian Locke occult noir

Sunny Day Parasol Co.

Case File #12: The Devil’s Doorway

This is a serialized story. Start with Case File #1 here.

The scalding water of the club’s cast-iron shower felt like an exorcism. I stood under the sputtering spray until the hot water tank coughed its last, watching the black, sulfurous grime of the past eighteen hours… Had it only been eighteen hours? …swirl down the drain like a broken promise.

I stepped out into the humid, cramped bathroom and dried off with one of the thick, luxurious towels The Canary kept around — one of several small luxuries afforded the employees who worked the club. I winced, tracing the deep, clean glass cuts across my left hand, then carefully redid the bandages. A girl gets used to the sight of her own blood in this city.

Margot had left a dress hanging on the door. Midnight blue silk, the kind that whispered promises. It was cut on the bias to cling like a second, dangerous skin, but with a slit high enough to allow a full, unimpeded draw from a thigh holster. I strapped the heavy snub-nose to my leg, the cold steel a comforting anchor against the soft fabric, and slipped the silk over my head.

A sharp knock rattled the frosted glass of the door.

an episodic Vivian Locke occult noir

Sunny Day Parasol Co.

Case File #11: A Dress to Catch

This is a serialized story. Start with Case File #1 here.

I carefully wrapped the impossible token back into the velvet and shoved it deep into my coat pocket. The brimstone receded, swallowed by the scent of old fryer grease.

Leviathan’s Cross was the mark of the Meridian Club. They wouldn’t let a banged-up, worn-out gumshoe like me past the bouncers at the door of that upscale joint in a hundred years, let alone to the back room where I could suss out which of the fat cats was my likely Johnson and shake them down.

an episodic Vivian Locke occult noir

Sunny Day Parasol Co.

Case File #10: Brimstone

This is a serialized story. Start with Case File #1 here.

The flat edge of my hook pick slid into the narrow crack. I braced my knee against the hull’s sickening rock, the whole procedure a grim reenactment of the dentist who’d torn a wisdom tooth from my jaw last year. The relief at the time, when it finally came, was probably the whiskey talking. It sure as hell hadn’t been in the dentist’s technique. My ribs ached for days afterward.

The square panel popped loose with a wet, suctioned thwack, spitting out a blast of freezing, diesel-slicked air. It hit me in the face like a fistful of brass knuckles, carrying the rotten-egg stench of the river water sloshing just beneath the deck.

I plunged my good right hand into the darkness, steeling myself for the shock of freezing bilge. My fingers didn’t find water; they found cold, dry iron.

an episodic Vivian Locke occult noir

Sunny Day Parasol Co.

Case File #9: Slag Point Slip

This is a serialized story. Start with Case File #1 here.

Stillwater Moorings was a cruel, dark joke. The water in this part of The Choke was a chemical soup, a shipyard graveyard littered with rusted hulls and skeletal docks. The air hung thick with the metallic miasma of decay and industrial waste—the signature scent of a forgotten port.

I tracked Boyle to the end of Pier 4. His office was a miserable shack of grimy, corrugated tin that rattled in the cold breeze. Inside, the gloom was barely pierced by the sickly yellow flicker of a sputtering kerosene heater. Boyle himself, a heavy man with a slump, wasn’t counting money; he was hunched over a crumpled racing form, poring over the odds with the grim focus of a man searching for one final win.

He didn’t look up when I kicked the door shut behind me.

an episodic Vivian Locke occult noir

Sunny Day Parasol Co.

Case File #8: Dredging Up Leads

This is a serialized story. Start with Case File #1 here.

“So,” Cookie said, sliding a plate of fries onto the table. “You gonna tell me why a walking statue wants to turn you into a paperweight?”

I grabbed the bottle of ketchup and gave the bottom a hard whack before remembering my burned fingers and it sent a nasty jolt of pain, a little deadly dagger that traced a line from my palm to my elbow. I considered asking Cookie to do the honors when I saw the cheap, red sludge escape its glass prison and splurt onto the chipped ceramic plate. A generous third of the bottle, enough to coat the next helping of grease without having to risk the razorblades of agony shredding my arm.

an episodic Vivian Locke occult noir

Sunny Day Parasol Co.

Case File #7: Teeth Are Rent

This is a serialized story. Start with Case File #1 here.

Gallow didn’t bother to try to grab me, he just extended the stasis field in my direction. As my rear foot left the parapet, the air in the middle of the alley thickened into a cold, invisible molasses. My momentum died a drawn-out, gasping death; its final rattle was the only fast thing about my rain-drenched descent. I wasn’t falling; I was drifting. My arc flattened out, the cafe’s rooftop now a cruel joke I was destined to miss. Instead, I was going to hang there, a suspended fool in the ceaseless drizzle, until the Foundry’s enforcer reached out and plucked me from the sky like a rotten apple from a tree.

an episodic Vivian Locke occult noir

Sunny Day Parasol Co.

Case File #6: Between a Gallow and a Hard Place

This is a serialized story. Start with Case File #1 here.

I pushed the door open.

The office was exactly as I’d left it, only wrong. The air was thick, like cheap cigarette smoke, and the silence was heavy enough to cast a shadow. The ceiling fan was frozen in mid-spin, a broken promise of a breeze. A water droplet hung suspended in the air, halfway between the scarred ceiling tile and my rust-stained bucket. The dust motes in the shaft of street light weren’t dancing; they were stuck in place like insects in amber — a still-life of a dead moment.

And sitting in my client chair, looking like a statue carved out of gray meat and bad intentions, was a man in a rubberized trench coat. He didn’t breathe. He didn’t blink. He was just a shape in the gloom, a problem I hadn’t ordered.