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  Got Luck

  Future House Publishing

  Text © 2016 Michael Darling

  Cover illustration © 2016 Future House Publishing

  All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any means without the written permission of Future House Publishing at [email protected].

  This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places, and incidents are either the product of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or to actual events or locales is entirely coincidental.

  978-1-944452-99-5 (paperback)

  9781944452025 (epub)

  978-1-944452-09-4 (pdf)

  978-1-944452-11-7 (mobi)

  Cover illustration by Jonathan Diaz

  Developmental editing by Mandi Diaz

  Substantive editing by Helena Steinacker

  Copy editing by Jenna Parmley

  Interior design by Emma Hoggan and Mandi Diaz

  Join the Future House Beta Reader’s Club!

  Hello Reader,

  Thanks so much for taking the time to dive into Got Luck by Michael Darling. We are thrilled that he picked Future House to publish his book.

  Future House Publishing is a small press that creates fantastic YA, sci-fi, fantasy, romance, mystery, and adventure titles. We have a special club for our readers where you can find out about:

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  Read On!

  Adam, Helena, Ami, Ryan, Mandi, Emma, and the rest of

  the Future House Publishing Team

  Acknowledgements

  First of all, I owe a debt of gratitude to Mom and Dad, who bought books for all my birthdays, transcribed stories I made up before I could write them myself, and enabled frequent access to the library as an act of self-preservation. I’m also glad they didn’t hide the Edgar Allen Poe.

  Thanks also to Mrs. True, my third-grade teacher, who instilled in me the idea that writing a novel was possible as long as I kept putting the right words together.

  Thanks to my Beta Darlings who read through the early roughness of Got Luck and helped polish the facets of the story until they sparkled: Sharee Hughes, Carrie Held, Davor Ninic, Kyle Shields, Jared Barneck, and my wonderful Shaunabella. I couldn’t have done any of this without you!

  Thanks to Callie Stoker who gave the manuscript its first professional edit and got Got into shape as a character. Your instincts and edits are always invaluable!

  Many thanks to “Doey” of Ireland who helped with the pronunciation guide. Foreign words and phrases give the Behindbeyond it’s otherworldliness but it’s difficult to invent a language that sounds consistent and real. Since I was borrowing from Gaelic mythology, I borrowed Gaelic as well. Of course, you are welcome to pronounce the language of the Fae however you like, but if you prefer authenticity, there’s a guide further on.

  Finally, thanks to the staff of Future House! It’s been a great adventure working with Adam, Ami, Helena, Jeff, Jonathan, Mandi, Ryan, and the crew. Your expertise and thoughtfulness has come in equal measures and I’m very grateful.

  Pronunciation Guide

  Characters

  Béil – bale

  Brón - brohn

  Caimiléir - cam-ih-LAIR

  Deamhan - day-VAWN

  Fáidh Bean - FAY-ah ban

  Fiach Dubh - FEE-ock dohv

  Greim - GREE-um

  Láir - lair

  Laoch - LAY-ock

  Madrasceartán - MAW-drah-skar-TAWN

  Prionsa - PRIN-sa

  Stail – stall

  Places and Things

  Ail Bán Dearg - ale bawn JAR-ig

  An Taobh Thiar Agus Níos Faide - on TAY-iv here OG-us niece FAY-dah

  Corrchnámhach - kor-kuh-NAW-vock

  Liagán - leah-GAWN

  Tairseach-Cosantóir - TAR-sock ko-san-TOR

  Phrases and Commands

  Briste briosc broiscaí - BRISH-tah BREE-osk BRIS-key

  Ithe - IH-uh

  Leigheas - lice

  Maraigh tú féin - MAR-ig too fayn

  Oscailte - OS-kull-cha

  Sciath - SHKEE-uh

  Tine - CHIN-na

  Tar anseo - tar ON-shuh

  Contents

  Acknowledgements

  Pronunciation Guide

  Chapter One - A Woman and a Bullet

  Chapter Two - Attack of the Invisible Liondog

  Chapter Three - Office Visits

  Chapter Four - Symbols

  Chapter Five - Realm of the Alder King

  Chapter Six - Gifts

  Chapter Seven - Dangerous Females

  Chapter Eight - Milly in the Sky with Diamonds

  Chapter Nine - Warning at Yoga

  Chapter Ten - Lunch Date with Death

  Chapter Eleven - Some Enchanted Evening

  Chapter Twelve - Magic Lesson

  Chapter Thirteen - Connection

  Chapter Fourteen - Spa Giant

  Chapter Fifteen - Psycho Stuff

  Chapter Sixteen - Keeper

  Chapter Seventeen - Jeweled Gate

  Chapter Eighteen - Deamhan Realm

  Chapter Nineteen - Corporation

  Chapter Twenty - Of Wards and Fire

  Chapter Twenty-One - Evidence

  Chapter Twenty-Two - Boy in the Renaissance Shirt

  Chapter Twenty-Three - Battleground

  Chapter Twenty-Four - Invitation

  Chapter Twenty-Five - Lair of the Wild MacPherson

  Chapter Twenty-Six - Ail Bán Dearg

  Chapter Twenty-Seven - Greim

  Chapter Twenty-Eight - Broken Child

  Chapter Twenty-Nine - Warehouse Rave

  Chapter Thirty - Halfling Ninja

  Chapter Thirty-One - Béil

  Chapter Thirty-Two - Chamber of the Jeweled Gate

  Chapter Thirty-Three - Blood and Summoning

  Chapter Thirty-Four - Betrayal

  Chapter Thirty-Five - Heart of a Deamhan

  Chapter Thirty-Six - Survivor

  Chapter Thirty-Seven - A Woman and a Lie

  Epilogue

  Author’s Note

  Before You Go

  Never Miss a Future House Book Release

  About the Author

  Chapter One

  A Woman and a Bullet

  The woman outside the door was Stained. She stood outside, reading my name on the door and walking back and forth. If she realized I could see her through the glass, she didn’t seem to care. The Stain shrouded her like a torn mantle of dark, writhing ribbons, and nobody could see them except me. I’d seen Stain like hers before, but I couldn’t remember where.

  I sat on the edge of my desk and watched her check the door again. Maybe she was trying to figure out how to pronounce my name, which was painted in silver lettering on the door. Goethe Luck. People always had trouble with the last name. Kidding.

  Finally, she opened the door and leaned in. Somewhere outside, someone was playing Gloria Estefan. She looked at me and then backed out. The door closed itself. She read the door again. I wanted to go ask, “May I help you?” but hesitated. I could use the work, but I didn’t want to scare her off.

 
She opened the door again and stepped inside. I watched her check my second floor office, placing the closet, back room, and bathroom. She was pretty in a debutante kind of way: confident and likely spoiled. Her looping ash-blonde hair was underwire length, and she wore too much makeup for my taste. I guessed she was trying to look older than she was. A light strawberry scent drifted in with her, delighting my nose. The Mama would call her a harlot, but she looked like most twenty year-old girls walking around on your average summer day in Miami. Her clothes were expensive but looked like they came from unrelated shops, as if she had strolled through Bal Harbour and purchased one item from each store with no consideration for color or texture.

  “Welcome to the Pizza Shack,” I said. “Table for one?”

  “Someone killed my husband. The police can’t help me.” She said it flatly, like she’d been practicing until she’d wrung all the emotion out of it.

  No wonder she hadn’t caught my joke. She’d walked in with a script.

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Won’t you have a seat?” I turned the single chair in front of my desk partway around. Like her clothes, the chair didn’t match anything else, so at least the office coordinated with the client. The chair was one of those plastic office creatures that had been ergonomically designed to death. She sat and looked at me with dry eyes.

  “Did you say this was the Pizza Shack?” she asked.

  Ah, there we go. Just took a minute. “It used to be. We still find pepperoni under the rugs.” I sat back on the edge of my desk and clasped my hands. “Tell me about your husband.”

  She took a deep breath, sat down, and launched into her speech. Her voice was husky yet soulful. “They found Barry in his hotel room. He was wearing the shirt and tie I gave him for his birthday. And the pants. And the shoes. He’d been stabbed once in the heart. They said that’s what killed him. He died quickly. But he was also cut open. His belly. They cut open his belly after he was already dead.” She moved her hand in front of her own abdomen with her fingers splayed apart like she was feeling his pain. “His insides were still there and all. But they can’t tell me why he was cut open like that.”

  “I’m sorry for your loss. Sounds like you’ve told that story a few times.”

  “About a million. Don’t worry. I’ve already cried it out.”

  “You’re fine,” I smiled warmly. “When did this happen?”

  “Six months ago.”

  “How long had you been married?”

  “Less than a year. Our first anniversary would have been two weeks after he was killed.”

  “Again, I’m very sorry for your loss.”

  She shifted in her seat.

  “I don’t even know your name,” I said.

  “Are you going to take notes?” she replied. “If you’re going to help me, you should take notes.”

  “All right.”

  I stood up and walked around to the other side of the desk. So far, the girl was sincere. Her tone told me that she was accustomed to having people do what she asked, but she wasn’t a brat about it. She paid attention to detail and expected other people to do the same. Her husband had been gone for several months but, for some reason, she wasn’t happy with the answers she’d been given. Maybe there was something in her subconscious that didn’t agree with what she’d been told. Maybe she just wanted a second opinion.

  My chair was one of those great wooden office monarchs made of oak with dark green real-leather upholstery that weighed about two hundred pounds. It reclined so you could lean back and put your feet up on the desk—also oak—and take a nap. I sat in it and opened the desk drawer. No pepperoni. Just a few notepads and pens that I’d gotten from the nearby office supply. Been here six months and this was the first time I’d used them.

  “Milly,” she said. “Milly MacPherson Mallondyke.”

  While I tried, unsuccessfully, to prevent my left eyebrow from rising, I made notes including all the information she had given me so far. I asked, “So, your husband was Barry Mallondyke?”

  Milly nodded. “The fourth.”

  The fourth? I guess men with a name that sounds like it was made up for the sole purpose of sounding pretentious have no problems attracting mates.

  “I want to know more about you,” Milly said. “I want to know who I’m hiring.”

  “I haven’t agreed to work for you yet,” I replied. Her request was a smart one though. Not expected. Milly might turn out to be even deeper than she appeared. I answered, “I’m twenty-seven years old. When I was eight, I died from a fever. I don’t remember what happened, but the doctors told me I was clinically dead for almost three hours. Apparently, they cooled my body in ice and revived me. From that moment, I found a desire to live every day as if it were my last. I also found out that when I touch somebody I can see their future.”

  “Is that true?” The wry wrinkle in the corner of her mouth told me she didn’t believe all of it, but she was willing to play along.

  “Most of it. It’s true that I have a better appreciation for life than most people because it’s also true that I died when I was eight. The part where I can see a person’s future by touching them is from a Stephen King novel. The Dead Zone. Ever read it?”

  “No. But if you could see the future like that, you could touch me and then we’d know if you find out who killed my husband. Right?”

  Point for her.

  I suddenly remembered where I had seen a twisting mantle of black ribbons like hers. The Stain she wore had also been on a child. A little boy whose parents had both been shot in the head, but no bullets, no bullet casings, no gun, and no residue were found. The case was never solved. If the Stains matched, could the same perpetrator be involved? I’d probably never know, but I made a mental note.

  “You’re right. I can’t see into the future, but I’d be glad to help you with your problem. Just so you know, I’m ex-military and ex-police. I have a private investigator’s license, which gives me access to records that are not available to the general public.”

  “That will help.” She pressed her lips together in a half smile.

  I went on. “I can also interview people who don’t want to talk to me and make a general nuisance of myself with local law enforcement. I also have a gun permit, so I can shoot anybody who tries to kill me before I find out what I want to know. I have a library card too, so if you need a good book to read while you wait for me to figure things out, just say the word.”

  “I have my own library card, thank you.” Her smile ratcheted up a bit. She was warming to me. Not always the easiest thing.

  I nodded. “Milly, there’s a very good chance that I won’t find anything new about your husband’s murder. Most of the time, the police do a good job of finding whatever there is to find. There may be nothing new, and it will cost you the same amount of money to find out. If you’re willing to take that chance, I’ll give it my best shot.”

  The widow Mallondyke looked at me for all of three seconds and then stood up. She’d come to my office to meet me face-to-face, and she seemed to like making her own decisions. She pulled out a cashier’s check from her mismatched purse and handed it to me. It had her business card clipped to it and was made out in my name with a lot of zeroes.

  “If you run out of money, let me know.” She turned and walked to the door that had my name on it. She looked over her shoulder and said, “My father is friends with your former chief. He’s the one who recommended you. He said if anyone could find out who killed my husband, it was you.”

  Milly MacPherson Mallondyke opened the door and walked out. The swirling black ribbons of her Stain trailed after her like a sentient shroud.

  About five minutes later, while I was pacing behind my desk and pondering the unpredictability of financial fortune—and the unpredictable nature of a certain police chief who, I knew, hated my guts and everything they stood for—my front win
dow exploded.

  Whatever chunks of my brain that would be dropped into a jar someday and labeled “instinct” quite capably liquefied my knees and sent me to the floor. Be small! Be still! Be alive!

  The sound of shattered glass scattering in shards across the floor seemed unnaturally loud but didn’t last long. I waited for about ten seconds and then peered out from the side of my desk. The window next to the door had been a floor-to-ceiling piece of glass about six feet wide. Now it was effectively distributed across the tile floor all the way from the front of the office to the back. Glass had been thrown to either side of the desk and across the top.

  There were a few drops of blood on the floor. Since I was the only person in the office, I expertly deduced that the blood must be mine. I privately investigated my hands and face and found a few small cuts on my cheek and forehead. Thankfully, my hair was okay.

  I thought about getting my gun, but my gun was hanging in my holster, which was hanging in the closet about fifteen feet away. Another ten seconds went by as I looked around behind the desk. There was a new hole in the wall, about eight feet up, just below the ceiling.

  “Son of a poodle,” I said.

  At great personal risk, I finally stood up. I stepped out through the door onto the open balcony that ran around the outside of the building. I saw no one fleeing the scene. No manic scrambling. No ninjas in the daylight. I didn’t see Milly and there were no cars moving in the parking lot. I had to assume my client was gone. There were a couple of bystanders going to their cars, but they were looking up at me instead of looking around. If the shooter had used a suppressor, the breaking window had made a bigger noise and that’s what had drawn their attention.

  The ancient shop-owner from downstairs, who ran the Korean cafe on the ground floor, hobbled out into the lot and turned to look up at the damage. He shielded his eyes from the sun and shouted, “You okay?!”

  “I’m good, Qui-Gon!” I replied. His name was Quy Nguyen and he was about eight hundred years old, but he only looked five hundred fifty. Five hundred sixty max. I called him Qui-Gon because I’m such a kidder, and George Lucas isn’t really using the name anymore.

  “You want lunch?” That Qui-Gon. Always making a sale.