MudMan (The Golem Chronicles Book 1) (16 page)

“I’m not looking for trouble,” Levi replied, laying both hands flat on the bar top. “We’re just here to meet a contact. I won’t break the peace of your roof.”

“I expect not,” the barkeep said with a shrug. “I’d have incinerated you already had I thought otherwise. Consider this a simple reminder to leave your problems outside—otherwise, they become my problems. You won’t like the way I handle problems.” He picked up a large beer stein and exhaled a plume of dark smoke from his nostrils. “Now, what’ll you take?”

“I just want to know where Chuck MacLeti is.”

“You think I don’t know what goes on under my roof?” The question was a grunt, one with a sharp, threatening edge. “I know damn well what you’re after—and I know where you can find your man. But this is a bar, not a library or social hall. My kin and I aren’t known for our great charity. So, I’ll ask again, what’ll you
take
? Something expensive I hope.”

“Three pints of Guinness, extra stout—”

“And something to eat,” Ryder interjected. Her middle growled, unsettled and uneasy. She’d eaten a solid meal before crashing back at Levi’s pad, but her stomach argued—even if erroneously—that it’d been days since her last meal. “Sorry,” she said with an apologetic shrug. “Girl’s gotta eat when a girl’s gotta eat. Trust me, Muds, you’ll like me even less when I’m hungry.”

“Fine.” Levi said. “And never call me
Muds
again,” he added, almost as an afterthought. “Three pints of Guinness, extra stout, and a platter of—” He paused and drummed his fingers on the counter as if searching for something suitable for human consumption.

“Nachos?” Ryder supplied, fingers crossed.

Firroth nodded, pulled out another two mugs, filled all three with beer so dark it looked black, and set them on the counter. He strutted down the length of the bar—back straight and a swagger to his gait—dipped into a back room, and came out a second later with a plate heaped high with chips, cheese, and meat of questionable origin.

She’d eaten worse.

He set the platter of chips on the counter next to the mugs. “Hundred bucks, even.” He held out a monstrous hand tipped with dark claws.

“Steep price for a few pints and some chips,” Levi mumbled.

“Hazard pay”—he smirked, an unpleasant half-grin—“plus an information tax.”

Another flash of annoyance sprinted across Levi’s face, but he shook his head, brow furrowed in resignation—
such is the cost of doing business in the Hub
, the look said. He fished out two fifties and laid them on the beer-stained wood.

The inhuman bartender swiped the money without a second glance and shoved it into a loose pocket on the leather apron tied around his waist. “Your guy’s in the far corner,” he said, hooking a clawed thumb toward the back of the club. “Last booth. Has a privacy curtain, provided free of charge.”

Levi nodded, collected the drinks, and headed off to meet their contact, Chuck.

Ryder carefully scooped up the formidable platter of chips and burst into a quick trot, anxious to keep near the Mudman. She didn’t like him exactly, but he seemed to be genuinely trying to help her, and she knew from a long and difficult life how rare finding a stranger like that was. Not to mention the thought of being stranded in this place by herself was enough to send her into hysterics. Best to stick close to Levi, at least for now.

Chuck MacLeti, their contact, reclined in the far booth like the King of the world: long arms sprawled over the padded booth back, blue-jean-clad legs up on the seat, white-and-red Air Jordan’s crossed at the ankles. He was black and lanky—six and a half feet—and wore a puffy winter coat with a fur-lined hood. Around his neck hung a thick gold chain with a tacky diamond-studded shamrock dangling on its end.

This supernatural craziness might’ve been new to Ryder, but she knew plenty of guys like Chuck. Even at a glance she could spot a hustler looking to work an angle. Maybe this place wasn’t so different after all—the same old world, just dressed up in gaudy Halloween costumes.

Levi slid into the opposite seat. Ryder followed suit, not sure what else to do. That thought was sort of reassuring.

“Levi Adams, my man. Been a hot minute,” Chuck said, offering a hand, which Levi took and pumped twice. “And who’s this sweet little piece you got with you?”

“She’s not your concern, let’s just keep this—”

“Hey asshole,” Ryder said, scowling. “I’m not some sweet little piece. You better watch who you’re talking to.”

“Damn, Levi, you know how to pick ’em—feisty, sassy. That’s what I’m talkin’ ’bout.” He held out a fist, just waiting to be bumped. Levi regarded the fist for a moment, then cleared his throat, his hands never even twitching.

Ryder eyed the lanky man, then slid back out of the booth, abandoning both the Mudman and the nachos. The loss of the nachos was far more distressing. “Look, I don’t need to put up with this,” she said, hip cocked out, arms crossed. “I’m sick and tired of being treated like a child. I’m not a child. I’m not a sweet piece. I’m not taking any more shit. If you want my cooperation, I intend to be treated with respect. Period. Everyone clear on that?” She quirked an eyebrow, turning up her attitude to max level.

Levi looked skyward, lips moving as though uttering a silent prayer. “Sit back down, Ryder,” he said after a second. “Now.”

No invitation, no apology, not even an acknowledgement that her complaint was valid. Jerk. She backed up a step, preparing to turn tail and leave, the consequences be damned. Not that she actually
wanted
to do that, of course, but she wasn’t going to be a doormat, even if Levi was the only thing standing between her and the Kobock Nation.

“Fine,” Levi said. “Chuck, if you want to earn your pay, I expect you to keep this professional. I’ve got enough to worry about without adding a couple of squabbling kids—excuse me,
adults
—to the equation.”

“Yeah, cool, cool, whatevs,” Chuck offered, flashing a grin and a
just-between-you-and-me
wink. “You the boss man, you cuttin’ the check, whatevs. Though, Skip
did
tell you what my going rate is, right?”

The Mudman reached into a pocket and pulled out a wad of banknotes bound by a red rubber band. Ryder’s eyes bulged and she choked a little. There had to be ten grand there, easy.

Ryder wasn’t poor precisely, but she could never be accused of being rich. For the first time in a long time, she had a respectable job working at a used bookstore over in Bethlehem, Pennsylvania, near Lehigh University, just off of 4
th
and Vine.
Fireside Books and Coffee
. The joint stayed open twenty-four hours and boasted free wifi, which made it popular as hell with the college crowd. A nice study spot.

Ryder worked nights, Monday through Thursday, ten-hour shifts a shot. Not a dream job, but not half bad either and the owner, Jim, had done her a solid by hiring her on. Especially considering her less-than-stellar record.

Still, what Levi had laid, so nonchalantly, on the table was damn near half a year’s salary.

“Money’s not a problem,” Levi said flatly, uninterested even. “But I’m not just paying for a guide—I’m paying for a professional. Understood?”

“All good, man.” Chuck smiled wide, a glint of gold flashing from his mouth.

“Ryder?” Levi asked, holding her in his muddy gaze.

She eyed the money, eyed the nachos, and finally plopped back into the seat.

“Sorry ’bout that.” Chuck extended a hand across the table, which Ryder ignored. “If we’re gonna work together, best to start things out right. I’m Chuck, Chuck MacLeti.”

“Sally Ryder,” she replied. “And, before we go any further, what are you? I don’t wanna get backed into a corner and find out you’re some kind of freaky Sasquatch or some kinda demon spawn or evil clown. I hate clowns. So tell me now, what are you?”

“That’s rude, you know?” Chuck said. He swiped the wad of bills from the table, then pulled over a pint and swallowed a long pull instead of answering. After a few seconds, he set the glass back down and belched. “Obviously you’re new here, so let me fill you in on the rules, baby-girl—”

“Call me baby-girl again,” she said, glaring at him, “and I’ll castrate you.”

Chuck hastily cleared his throat. “Whatevs. As I was sayin’ it’s impolite to ask what people are.”

“He’s a leprechaun,” Levi said matter-of-factly, apparently not caring about politeness. “He’s also going to be our guide, so let’s all play nice. Now, back to business.”

Ryder snickered, unable to help herself, then scooped up a chip loaded with gooey cheese—well, imitation cheese at least—and meat-substitute and shoved it into her mouth. “Leprechaun,” she mumbled around a mouthful of flavorful awesomeness.

“Oh, I’m sorry, is there something funny ’bout that?” Chuck asked, swinging his feet off the bench and sitting up straight, the posture of the morally offended.

She swallowed her chip in a gulp and picked up another. “Yeah. He called you a leprechaun, but you’re like NBA-sized and black.”

Levi groaned and rubbed at one temple. “Not a joke—” he started.

“Now hold up, that’s some racist bullshit right there,” Chuck interjected. “You sayin’ I can’t be a leprechaun because I’m black?”

“Well, I mean that’s kinda weird, I guess” she said, “but it’s more the fact that you’re not all fun sized.” She shoved the chip into her mouth and bit down with a sharp
crunch
.
So good.
Her belly definitely approved.

“Oh I get it, a sizeist—discriminating against the tall folk.”

Levi, still rubbing at his temple, let his true form bubble up and out, the table jolting as his gray legs swelled beneath. “I don’t have the patience for this.” His voice was now rocky and deep, the sound of an earthquake given vocal cords. “It’s the same thing every time with you, Chuck. You’re not even a full leprechaun, you’re a halfie. More to the point, every other leprechaun
is
short and white, so it shouldn’t come as a surprise when no one believes you. Now please, back to business.” He grabbed the edge of the table and squeezed, the wood dimpling under the pressure of his fingers.

Ryder scooted away an inch or two.

“Chill, dog, no need to Hulk out and get all belligerent up in here,” Chuck said, smoothing out his fluffy coat and leaning back. “I was just giving her a hard time—”

Ryder scarfed down chip after chip as she watched, amused. This was better than TV. So maybe Levi was a stick-in-the-mud, but Chuck seemed alright. An asshole, sure, but a fun one. If he was coming along on this trip, it might actually be bearable.

“Back. To. Business,” Levi said again.

“Cool, man, cool. Look, everything’s good to go. I got us rucksacks with everything we’ll need for the Sprawl. Sleeping bags, camp supplies, compass, maps, hacksaw, even a couple of peashooters that’ll work out there in BFE. All taken care of, okay, so just chill.”

“Where’s the gear stowed?” Levi asked, stealing a quick glance around.

“Got it all stashed in the train station. My ride’s parked out back. We can finish our drinks and baby gi”—he faltered just short of saying the word—“err, what was your name again?”

“Sally Ryder. My friends call me Punk Rock Sally. Everyone else calls me Ryder. You can call me Ryder.”

“That’s cold-blooded, right there.” He shrugged. “Fine, if that’s how it’s gonna be. As I was sayin’, we’ll finish our drinks, Ms. Ryder can finish inhaling those nachos—like a Hoover vacuum over there—then we’ll scoot on over to the train station and gear up, no worries. See”—he turned to Levi—“told you I can be professional.”

Ryder watched Levi out of the corner of her eye while she polished off the chips. He didn’t look relaxed exactly, but he did look a tad less uptight. The Mudman nodded his blocky head, shrinking back into himself. Basset-hound face firmly in place again, he picked up the beer and took a drink. The motion looked natural and normal, but Ryder got the sense that it was only for show. Something the Mudman did to fit in, but not something he needed to do at all or even wanted to do, for that matter.

“Chuck,” Levi said, setting his empty glass down, “you’d better not be tricking me. Better not be working some scam. ’Cause I swear if you pull some leprechaun nonsense on us … I’ll find you, Chuck. Very bad things will happen. Painful things, involving legs and fingers and toes.”

The gangly leprechaun drained his glass, issued another ferocious belch, and wiped a hand across his mouth. “Yeah, I hear that,” Chuck replied, brushing off the threat without missing a beat. “But don’t sweat it, Boss man, you and Miss Thing”—he flashed Ryder a wink—“are safe with me. Now let’s roll.”

THIRTEEN:

The Sprawl

Ryder lounged beside a small campfire, hunger gnawing a hole in her middle while her mind circled round and round. Chuck sprawled on a sleeping bag across from her, propped up on one arm while he stared into the dancing flames. Levi was off, rummaging around in the dark, looking for more wood, or anything really, to burn. So far Chuck, their “guide”—and Ryder used the term only in the loosest sense of the word—hadn’t been much of a guide. Up to this point he’d been about as useful as an ejection seat in a helicopter.

Guy couldn’t guide a turd down a toilet.

Sure, h
e’d had sturdy hiking packs waiting for them at the train station as promised, but he’d forgotten more than a few essentials—one being firewood. Matches, lighter fluid, fire-starters, sure. But no wood, which turned out to be quite problematic since they were in what amounted to an endless desert devoid of any sign of habitation or vegetation. Just gritty sand, blowing wind, and towering dunes for miles and miles on end.

And they needed the firelight, not only because the desert was downright frigid once the sun dipped below the horizon, but because there were apparently unfriendly things that called the ugly patch of sand home. Bizarre, mutated things hungry for live food, but afraid of fire—or so said Levi. So far, however, the trip had been uneventful.