Gypsy Blood Read online

  GYPSY BLOOD

  Steve Vernon

  First Digital Edition published by Crossroad Press & Macabre Ink Digital

  Copyright 2012 by Steve Vernon

  Copy-edited by: Kurt Criscione

  Cover Design by: David Dodd

  Background image provided by Neil Jackson

  LICENSE NOTES

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  OTHER CROSSROAD PRESS PRODUCTS BY STEVE VERNON

  NOVELS:

  Devil Tree

  NOVELLAS:

  Long Horn, Big Shaggy

  COLLECTIONS:

  Nothing to Lose (Volume 1 of the Adventures of Captain Nothing)

  Nothing Down (Volume 2 of the Adventures of Captain Nothing)

  Roadside Ghosts

  The Weird Ones

  Two Fisted Nasty

  UNABRIDGED AUDIOBOOKS:

  Nothing to Lose (Volume 1 of the Adventures of Captain Nothing)

  Nothing Down (Volume 2 of the Adventures of Captain Nothing)

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  CONTENTS

  Gypsy Blood

  A Preview of Devil Tree

  A Preview of Long Horn, Big Shaggy

  Chapter 1

  Climbing Broken Ladders

  Carnival closed his eyes but it was darker inside than out. He settled for an Eastwood squint. The squint would have worked if he’d had a cigarillo to bite down on. Too bad he didn’t smoke.

  Hurry up, boy. Time has never learned how to crawl.

  What the hell was he thinking? Standing here in the doorway of the SecondChanceChurch and Wedding Chapel, leaning on an eight foot wooden stepladder, with wads of candle wax stuffed in his ears. There were worse ways to commit suicide but at the moment he couldn’t think of one. At least it was a good stepladder. He’d hunted seven city blocks to find it. There was magic in sevens, wasn’t there? He counted ladder rungs, searching for a sign.

  “This has got to be one of the stupidest stunts I’ve ever tried.”

  Are you made of broken clocks? Hurry up.

  That was Poppa, grumbling. Poppa’s grumbling sounded like slow wet rocks churning in the darkness deep inside Carnival’s chest where Poppa lived.

  “Don’t rush me, Poppa. I’m thinking”

  Think faster. There are three roofers sitting up on the roof of the house from where you stole this ladder. By now, they’re wondering how they’ll get down.

  “Poppa, I looked. There was nobody on the roof.”

  I counted three roofers. Maybe you didn’t see them. Open your eyes.

  Carnival decided that Poppa was lying about the roofers. Lying was Poppa’s favorite hobby. What did lies ever hurt? Every man needed a hobby, even a dead man and Poppa was as dead as they got.

  “Three’s good luck, isn’t it?”

  Poppa shrugged. It was a funny feeling; someone shrugging their shoulders inside your chest - like a small wet belch with bony shoulders, waiting to be born.

  Ask Shemp.

  “Who’s Shemp?”

  Poppa said nothing. Carnival went back to his counting. There was magic in numbers. Accountants never saw that. You had to ask a Bingo player if you wanted to get to the truths of life.

  Because he was being ignored rather than doing the ignoring, Poppa chose to speak.

  Shemp was the third stooge. There were five stooges in all, but because you never saw more than three at any time you thought of them as one. A sacred trinity of comedy. Larry, Moe and the other one.

  “Shemp?”

  Could be Shemp. Could be Curly Joe, or even the one they just called Curly. One in three, three in one. Good things come wrapped in triangles – like a slice of gooseberry pie.

  It was hard to ignore Poppa. Even the candle wax in Carnival’s ears didn’t help. Poppa could be more intrusive than a wet willie of cold finger bone and pure sulphuric acid.

  Shemp died. A heart attack. Remember that boy - you cannot trust your heart. Three on a match burns your fingers, every time.

  It was hard to ignore anyone who lived in a little cage of meat and bone just east of your beating heart. Like a ticking clock, placed in a dead dog’s bed, all you could do was listen.

  Ticking clocks usually go boom. Hurry up, you’re wasting time.

  Carnival ignored Poppa. Nuisances went away if you ignored them long enough.

  And where would I go? This cage is stronger than a sour garlic milkshake.

  It ought to be strong. Carnival built it himself with magic, prayers and sacrifice. It took three nights of bargains and counter spells. He still tasted the memory of the magic he’d put into building the cage and the taste made him want to spit.

  Hurry up. You’re so slow. Have you been drinking molasses with your tea?

  Carnival pretended deafness. Poppa didn’t like that. The old man’s distemper burned like old coal. Soul heartburn, nothing hurt worse. Carnival grinned. Pissing off Poppa was endless pleasure that made it easier to face the hell-on-two-legs he was here to confront. He stared at the silver painted spikes he’d driven into each end of the ladder.

  Painted nails? What kind of magic do you think you’ll make with painted nails? Some shuvano you are.

  Shuvano was the Rom word for witch or wise man - which was what Carnival was supposed to be. Of course, Poppa had a point but Carnival would be damned if he’d let him know. Of course real silver would be better than painted nails, but how could a simple back street fortune teller afford spikes of silver?

  You could steal them. A real Gypsy would. Oh, wait, what am I saying?

  Carnival bit his lip, pretending Poppa’s last shot hadn’t hurt. His teeth drew blood. There was a thin crack running straight up the left side of the ladder. He kissed the crack, smearing his blood upon the wood. That was a bit more magic, even stronger than numbers. Blood was strong and Gypsy blood was strongest of all.

  You’re no Gypsy. Stop lying to yourself.

  Carnival stared at the crack.

  He concentrated on it.

  Poshrat!

  Poshrat. It meant half breed and the word hurt Carnival worse than the bit lip. He ignored the insult and stared all the harder. The crack in the ladder seemed to widen just a little, the harder he stared.

  “Come on now baby. Your daddy is ready for some loving.”

  The ladder began to tremble.

  Halfblood!

  “I see you,” Carnival said. “In the shadows, in the back.”

  Nothing. Was the church empty? Had he imagined her evil presence?

  No way.

  “Lilith spawn,” he shouted. “Sucker of skivvy-scum. Dampener of good bad dreams. Come out. I see you.”

  You see nothing, Val my boy. There’s nobody here but echoes.

  And then she stepped out of the shadows from the back of the church. One of the deadliest females Carnival had ever seen.

  She’s not female. She’s just painted herself that way.

  She looked female enough to Carnival - all streak and line and curve and shadow. Flesh and flash running in the ways that made a man scream of angels and hellfire.

  “You’re done here,” Carnival whispered. “
I’m here to end you.”

  She didn’t look impressed. He didn’t blame her. He and his silver-painted two-spike stepladder didn’t look all that dangerous.

  “I’m here to finish you.”

  Tell her a joke. Women love to laugh. A giggle and a wiggle go hand in hand.

  Carnival stared hard at the boot polished rungs, trying to conjure up John Wayne fantasies as he circled the wagons of his courage. The best he could manage was a daydream of a pissed off Chill Wills.

  Tell her how much you earned last year. She’ll laugh her head off.

  Carnival grinned. Poppa was funny when he wanted to. The grin took the edge off of his fears.

  And you could thank me for that.

  For the thousandth time since he’d caged Poppa, Carnival wondered why he hadn’t installed a mute button.

  “Thank you Poppa.”

  He stepped closer to the woman in the shadows, trying hard not to listen to his Poppa, trying harder to avoid her awful stare. Her eyes flashed and he felt it like sparks flung from an angry fire. He risked a glance. She caught the glance like a back fielder snagging an easy line drive. She held the glance hard, a cold frozen gaze. Carnival couldn’t move. Not forward, not back.

  Good.

  He liked it this way.

  Having no options kept things simple.

  He smiled and whispered her true name, stepping closer into the shadows.

  “Succubus.”

  The succubus was the kind of woman that wanted to be stared at. She demanded it by her very existence. She was the kind of woman that made a man want to burn the Mona Lisa for daring to think itself a work of art. It wasn’t so much her looks. It was the thoughts she poked into your skull. The dreams she stirred and the images she conjured. A wave of cool heat rolled off of her.

  Carnival shivered.

  He reminded himself to be brave.

  He could take her.

  You and what army of silver painted tongue depressors? You’re under gunned boy, doomed to die.

  “Shut up Poppa. I’m trying to fight.”

  You’re trying to get yourself killed. Why piss on a dragon in her lair?

  Carnival tried to suck up enough saliva to spit but his mouth forgot what courage tasted like. The succubus smiled as implacable and silent as a carved Buddha grin.

  “You don’t scare me,” Carnival lied.

  She still didn’t speak. That was okay by Carnival. He didn’t want to hear her say anything. Even with the candle wax he’d plugged into his ears he still didn’t want to hear her speak.

  Hurry up, boy. There’s television I need to watch.

  “You can’t watch television, Poppa. You don’t have any eyes.”

  I’ve got eyes all over, boy. Don’t you ever forget that?

  The succubus tilted her head slightly as if she heard Poppa’s grumble which was quite a trick. Darned few could hear Poppa’s loudest yell, yet who could tell with a succubus?

  You’re wasting time, boy. Stop thinking so long and move.

  Carnival took one step forward. The succubus sighed softly; a dove’s wet coo, steeped in rotting honey. Carnival felt a quiver in his groin like the thrumming of a burning bull fiddle. He picked up the ladder by its middle rungs, hefting it like a picket fence quarterstaff. He grinned at her because it wouldn’t do any good to cry.

  “Come on sexy,” he taunted. “Come on you wet dreaming wonder-box”

  Carnival kept his eye focused on the crack in the ladder. That was important. Focus on anything but her.

  Think of nothing.

  Think of baseball.

  That’s right lover boy. Joe DiMaggio would know what to do right now.

  “Let’s play ball,” Carnival shouted.

  The succubus’s sigh grew louder, a record player slowly turned upwards. Carnival felt his blood rush, his dark uncut hair rustling behind his ears like a tiny super-hamster’s cape.

  “Come on now, darling,” he called. “Come on cinder-britches.”

  The sigh grew louder. Her face simmered. That was the only word for it. It simmered like a pot getting ready to boil, the flesh softly heaving and churning.

  Sweet talk her, boy.

  “Come on, you mouth breathing bimbette psycho queen.”

  Her face stretched and flexed like a reflection in a funhouse mirror.

  “Open up, baby.”

  Her mouth opened into a trapdoor full of secret nightmares. Carnival felt them pulling him closer. He wanted to climb inside that mouth. He wanted to get naked, peel off his skin, climb inside and roll around in his bare buff bones. Damn it. He wanted her. That’s what she did. That’s what her job was. She was a succubus – a bitchling daughter of a yearning want. Lilith’s premenstrual backwash. She was a doorway on two legs. She’d open up and suck a man into a world of darkness and fantasy and raw living hunger - and it was Carnival’s job to stop her.

  Gypsies don’t have jobs. Not real ones, anyway.

  “Shut up Poppa. I took the job and I’ve already been paid”

  Ha! I saw your paycheck, tied up in a pretty blue bag.

  Carnival raised his voice, yelling as much at the succubus as at Poppa. “Open wide!”

  She opened like a door, a coffin, a canyon, like the mouth of a crescent moon.

  He rushed towards her holding the ladder out like a rickety shield.

  “Open wide and say aaaaaaaaaahhhhhhhhhhhh!!!”

  He screamed the last word as he rushed in, trying to keep his courage up. It was the only way to keep from pissing in his pants. He felt his feet leave the floor. A pew rushed past, sucked straight into her mouth. The silver-painted nails he’d pounded into the top and bottom rungs of the ladder drew and snagged at the corners of her mouth just as he’d prayed they would.

  Now what?

  Don’t ask me. You’re the one who insisted on carrying a stolen wooden ladder into a mystical sudden-death showdown.

  Carnival hung there, gripping the ladder with every mulish ounce of stubborn Gypsy blood. Her teeth gnashed like churning ivory tombstones, bits of bone and flesh wedged in between them, chunks of flesh colored parsley. Temptation spirits never bothered with dental floss. He stared at the chunks because they were better than staring at that awful darkness down beyond. One of those chunks used to be named Benny. A dead man he’d been paid in blue plastic to avenge.

  He felt the ladder give and shiver. The crack in the wood widened. If it snapped he’d be sucked in and gone. He felt the strength running out of him. It would be so easy to just let go and let the succubus swallow him. He started to let go. Why not? It’d be easy. Just give up and let go.

  Then he heard Poppa’s laughter.

  Let go, boy. Let’s both let go and see what’s inside. Let go, but look down first.

  Carnival looked. The bones inside the mouth were moving. He told himself it was the wind but it wasn’t. He watched as a gnawed up nest of knucklebones reached out for him. A masticated skull, castaneting the ruin of its teeth like a clatter of petrified rattlesnakes chattered at him.

  Let go boy. They want you to let go. They want your company.

  Carnival hung on.

  Listen to her boy. The bitch is laughing at you.

  She was. Even above Poppa’s laughter.

  Listen, boy. She is insulting your mother.

  She was. The hellacious Hoover-queen was insulting Momma. That did it.

  Nobody insulted Momma.

  Carnival kicked at one of her teeth. A molar, maybe. A platter sized molar. The tooth gave way like a well oiled gas pedal. His wind tunnel monkey bars creaked like the mast of a storm tossed ship. The succubus sucked harder. Carnival’s cock hardened. He didn’t want it to, but the situation was worse than staring at a wall full of hard core porn. It shouldn’t have been sexy but it was. His memories flooded in, threatening to drown him. That was her power - to stir up a man’s memories and make him yearn for the rear view mirror.

  He remembered his first kiss. The first time he got naked with
a girl. The first time he masturbated. The first time he saw a woman’s eyes glaze in that amazing state of torpid satisfaction, following the first mutual orgasm he’d been lucky enough to conjure.

  Not that he’d ever stoop to using magic on women.

  He had some scruples.

  Scruples? You? There are no scruples in screwing, boy. A man will grab what is hung before him.

  Carnival kicked another tooth, ignoring Poppa’s misogynist fantasies. He blamed it on the succubus, and took it out on her.

  Dance, boy. Kick up a jig. And then you screw her.

  “Screw you, Poppa.” Images conjured by the sin-siren’s singing rose before Carnival’s eyes. Flesh, dancing in candlelight, memories of slow wet lips, hot kisses, and the damp moth flutter of a woman’s breath upon the hollow beneath his neck.

  He kicked again.

  Choke, you pneumatic bitch!

  The bones of men were nothing to her but her own bones would catch in the funnel of her throat. At least that was his plan. The second tooth came loose. The ladder bucked and swayed like an acrobat’s spring pole. Her lips puckered inwards trying to cover her remaining teeth.

  She wants to suck you, boy. I guess you look better than a bus.

  It was a bad joke. Carnival kept kicking, trying not to laugh at how bad it was. The world swallowed inwards. His hair whipped past his ears like a cat of nine thousand tails. The skin of his face threatened to blow loose and blind him. She was choking on her own teeth, catching somewhere in her throat. Carnival wasn’t about to offer her a psychic Heimlich. He was winning but it was happening way too slowly. He felt his fingers giving way. He felt a fingernail folding back and screaming through his nerve-lines. He was losing, letting go.

  And then something changed.

  He felt strength, strange muscles, moving beneath his skin.

  Hold on boy, let me drive.

  This had never happened before. Poppa had never moved this close inside him. It didn’t matter. Carnival needed help right now and it didn’t pay to ask the cost. The succubus billowed inside herself. Carnival felt his ears popping like a shout of flattened balloons. She gave one last heave, her face all full and swollen like a burning bright blue birthday balloon. And then it burst. Just as sudden as a bullet, she was gone, sucked into herself, through herself.

  The church rattled. The stained glass shattered inwards in an implosion of color and light. The pews heaved about like trailers in a Florida hurricane. Carnival felt the aura of the building pull and push itself out of shape. The succubus was a pathway between this world and another and when she’d imploded the real world rushed in a little bit to fill the vacuum. He didn’t know what effect this might have on the future. It didn’t bother him. He was a live-in-the-moment-and-don’t-worry-about-the-cholesterol kind of guy.