Special Features: A Deacon Chalk Short Story Collection (Deacon Chalk Occult Bounty Hunter) Read online

  SPECIAL FEATURES

  A Deacon Chalk: Occult Bounty-Hunter

  Short Story Collection

  James R. Tuck

  Another pulse-pounding Urban Fantasy Collection brought to you only by

  BLAMMO!

  ALSO BY JAMES R. TUCK

  The Deacon Chalk: Occult Bounty Hunter Series

  THAT THING AT THE ZOO

  BLOOD AND BULLETS

  SPIDER'S LULLABY

  BLOOD AND SILVER

  CIRCUS OF BLOOD

  BLOOD AND MAGICK

  also

  James edits THUNDER ON THE BATTLEFIELD Vol. 1 & 2

  which includes his Sword And Sorcery short fiction

  “Where The Red Blossoms Weep” and “Angels Of Scrawl”

  For his Crime Fiction short stories you should pick up

  HIRED GUN

  and

  TROUBLE IN THE HEARTLAND

  Lovecraftian Sci/Fi scares the hell out of you in

  THAT WAY LIES MADNESS

  (feat. He Stopped Loving Her Today as a backup story)

  Uncollected works appear as follows

  “Sovereign” in THE BIG BAD

  “Godrider” in ROBOTS UNLEASHED!

  For information about appearances, news, and new releases as well as up-to-the-minute social media go to:

  WWW.JAMESRTUCK.COM

  © 2014 by James R. Tuck

  All rights reserved.

  No part of this document may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic, mechanical, photocopying, recording, or otherwise, without prior written permission of James R. Tuck.

  Quotes may be used for review purposes only.

  This book is licensed for your personal entertainment only. This book may not be resold. If you would like to share this book with another person then please tell them about it and direct them to purchase their own version of this book. If you are reading this book but did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for you as a gift, then please go and purchase your own legal copy of this book.

  Cover Photo © 2014 James R. Tuck all rights reserved

  Cover and Interior layout by James R. Tuck

  Thank you for respecting the hard work of James R. Tuck.

  DEDICATION

  To the Missus,

  my Loyals and True Believers,

  and all the ships at sea

  THE GUTS OF THIS BOOK

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR

  i

  1

  DOLLY

  1

  2

  BLOOD AND BULLETS TRAILER SCRIPT

  25

  3

  FATHER MULCAHY AND KAT INTERVIEW

  27

  4

  META

  31

  5

  RECIPE FOR AN OCCULT BOUNTY HUNTER

  35

  6

  INTERVIEW WITH CHARLOTTE VALE

  38

  7

  TIFF'S FIRST DAY

  41

  8

  THE MAN FOR THE JOB

  50

  9

  O.C.I.D. INTERVIEW WITH CHARLOTTE VALE

  52

  10

  THE RAVENOUS

  55

  11

  T'WAS THE FRIGHT BEFORE CHRISTMAS

  72

  12

  SHOP TIL YOU DROP

  77

  13

  NATURE TRAIL TO HELL

  86

  14

  BLOOD AND MAGICK ALTERNATIVE CHAPTER 2

  93

  15

  FRESH INK

  100

  16

  SILK AND SCALE SNEAK PEEK

  114

  ACKNOWLEDGEMENTS

  Thanks goes out to all the blogs who helped me spread the word about this series when it first came out. Not just the ones named in this book, but all of them. You guys rocked like all hell to make this a success.

  Thanks to the Writers Of Metro-Atlanta critique group who always keep it real.

  Thanks to Kensington and John Scognamiglio for helping me bring out the first 3 books and the first 3 novellas.

  Thanks to Derek Tatum and Carol Malcolm for kicking that Dragoncon ass and helping me out when I was all fresh and new.

  Thank you to Faith Hunter, Adrienne Wilder, Matt R. Jones, Annabel Joseph, and Jenna Maclaine for blurbing that first book.

  Thanks to all the others on the way who have helped and supported and cared for me when I was learning the ropes.

  I certainly hope I can repay.

  A WORD FROM THE AUTHOR

  When I began to write the Deacon Chalk series I had a plan.

  Well, plan might be overstating it a bit. I had some schemes. One of the big things I wanted to do was to treat the series like it was a really awesome, kick ass, urban fantasy TV show. Keeping with that view the story is continual but has arcs, storylines that play out and end while other threads continue to run through the narrative.

  The first six releases all make Deacon Chalk Season 1.

  If you read from THAT THING AT THE ZOO through BLOOD AND BULLETS, SPIDER'S LULLABY, BLOOD AND SILVER, and CIRCUS OF BLOOD until you finish with BLOOD AND MAGICK you have a complete story arc. That's why BLOOD AND MAGICK is so damn explosive.

  It's the season finale.

  Keeping with that mindset, this little collection is the Extras disc in your Deacon Chalk Season 1 boxset. Here you will find deleted scenes (things that didn't make it into the books), bonus material (adventures between the books), behind the scenes (an essay, a blog post, and the first notes I ever made concerning Deacon and his world), and previews (a wrap scene from this season and a glimpse at the next).

  This is the icing on the cake of badass goodness.

  Enjoy.

  I wrote this in the first draft of BLOOD AND MAGICK and then cut it. It's a story set in the very early days of Deacon hunting monsters and gives you a glimpse of how it all worked. He's raw and not very experienced and broke as hell. This is the earliest look at Deacon and gives you some insight on how he came to be the monster hunting sumbitch he is on page one of THAT THING AT THE ZOO. This is Deacon: Year One for all you fanboys in the audience.

  DOLLY

  She sat in the second-hand leather chair across from me, five foot ten with a mass of platinum blonde curls and two miles of cleavage . . . and all I could look at were her shoes.

  Blue-black satin with a peek-a-boo toe and delicate white trim that became thin straps across her arched instep over a six-inch stiletto heel. They were fabulous.

  I'm not a man who notices shoes, much less calls them fabulous.

  “Normally men stare at my tits.”

  Her voice had just enough smokey edge to soften the higher tones and give it a nice, soothing sound, breathy without being forced.

  It made me look up at her face.

  It was a good face, belonging on an old Hollywood poster, calling back to a day long past. Rounded and smooth with high cut cheekbones over a softer chin. Her lips were a crimson slash, painted fuller than they were in a convincing illusion, the makeup around her eyes was dark and smoky, a soot gray smudge that made their hazel-brown color stand out like it was special. In between the lips and the eyes was a button nose that could have been on any girl's face. Cute, but it didn't add or detract from her appearance. It was a face for first looks. A stunner at a glance and just fine every time after that.

  I shrugged. “How can I help you, M
iss . . .?”

  “Dolly is fine.”

  “How can I help you Miss Dolly?”

  “No Miss, just Dolly.”

  “Good enough. Call me Deacon.”

  “You still haven't looked at my tits.”

  “Is that how I can help you? By looking at your tits?”

  She stared at me for a long second. Her fingers snapped open the tiny pocketbook clutched between scarlet-tipped nails, digging around for an unfiltered cigarette and a cheap, disposable lighter. Her lipstick stained the thin paper on one end as the lighter burned the other. She inhaled, making her throat work to pull the smoke like she was drinking a thick milkshake through a thin straw.

  I still didn't look at her tits.

  One smokey eye squinted at me as she cocked her head to the side and blew smoke at the ceiling. “Are you funny, Mr. Chalk?”

  “Nobody ever laughs at my jokes.” I assured her.

  “No, I mean funny. Do you like men?”

  “What would it matter?”

  A crease formed between her drawn on brows. I leaned forward, ready to get on with this. “Look sister, I'll make it plain for you. I like girls just fine, but I prefer women. None of that matters since I'm married so let's get down to why you're here to see me.”

  My thumb found the thin band on my finger, rubbing underneath it.

  Don't push. Don't question any further, just move on lady.

  Her eyes cut down to my left hand then back up to my face. Whatever she saw there made her blink.

  She shifted, rocking back and forth on a pair of narrow hips, skirt making a slight squeaking sound on the torn leather of the chair. “I need you to help me get my dog and house back.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Mrs. Penelope Prissypants is being held hostage at my grandmother's house.”

  “Your grandmother is holding your dog hostage?”

  She sighed deeply and it made an earthquake in her Himalayan cleavage. “My ex-boyfriend is holding my dog hostage. My grandmother has passed on. She left me her house and that's where the ex and the dog are.”

  I leaned back from the battered wood desk that came with the battered office. “I think you have me mixed up with someone who does that kind of work. You should call the Humane Society. Maybe even the cops.”

  Her platinum curls didn't move as she shook her head. “It has to be you.”

  “No, it doesn't.”

  “I have money.”

  “I don't care.”

  She looked around my office, painted lip lifted in a snurl like she smelled something bad. In this place she might've. I wouldn't know, I'd grown used to it. I followed the trail her eyes made around the office, it didn't take long. The place was only 300 square feet. Just enough room for the chair she sat in, the desk I was behind, and the couch I slept on. It had a tiny bathroom with a stand up shower in the right hand corner. In the left hand corner was a closet where I kept my clothes and my weapons. It was sparse.

  Hell, it was damn near hollow.

  The office was upstairs, over a club that had shut down in a section of town that had shut down. The buildings around me sat empty except for derelicts, winos, and the homeless. I rented the office from the owner of the building off the books, three hundred a month in cash and he kept the electricity on and a phone line for me to use. I kept anyone from squatting downstairs and we called it even. It was a shithole, but it was in my budget.

  Well, it had been in budget up until last week.

  I still had ten days until the first of the month. Something would work itself out.

  She made a small sound in her throat bringing my attention back her way. “I think you do care that I have money.”

  “Look lady, this is a specialized operation. I don't have time to screw around with getting your dog back, or kicking your good-for-nothing ex out of your grandmama's house. It's. Not. My. Gig.” The chair scraped the floor as I stood up. “So if you'll excuse me, I have work to do.”

  The last half inch of cigarette fell from her fingers. She stretched out a leg that seemed to go on forever and crushed it with the toe of that fabulous shoe while blowing out the last bit of smoke held in her impressive lungs. Her voice was clear as a bell when she spoke.

  “Does it make a difference that my ex is an Elven prince?”

  I sat back down.

  * * *

  The sun through the windshield hurt my eyes. I hadn't seen daylight in months, spending most of my time chasing monsters through the night. It also didn't help that the morning had been a rough one, taking half a bottle of Southern Comfort on an empty stomach to knock the jagged edge off. That particular morning had been spent drowning the memory of my children's baptisms.

  Ironic.

  Maybe it wasn't ironic. I know people always use that word wrong. Maybe I did too. I didn't know and what's more, with the leftover buzz of a hangover trying to push my eyeballs out of my skull, I didn't give a flying fuck.

  Dolly perched on the seat of the Comet, feet together on the floorboard, back straight, seatbelt accentuating her cartoon figure by disappearing beneath her breasts. She rode silently, looking out the window.

  We were heading to her house somewhere below the Perimeter that she shared with the Little Elven Lord Fonteroy.

  Apparently the ex part of the word ex-boyfriend had been recent. Very recent. Granny's house wasn't that far from the office which was a good thing. I eyed up the gas gauge. The needle was two notches above the big E. Under a quarter of a tank. I should have just enough to get there and back to the office.

  In the harsh light of day I could see that the heavy make up she wore covered a bruise lining the left side of her face from eye to jawline. It was older, fading, but still there. B.B. King crooned low and quiet over the speakers, his smooth voice just below the rumble of the engine, making an accompaniment, not a statement. It was a mellow, laid back kind of blues.

  “So what's the deal between you and the keebler? Why are you leaving and why is he holding your Labradoodle hostage?”

  “Mrs. Penelope Prissypants isn't a Labradoodle.” Her lip pulled into a pout. “She's a Peek-a-poo.”

  “I stand corrected. Why are you leaving?”

  “Besides the fact that Mael gets drunk or stoned and likes to smack me around?”

  “Yeah, besides that.”

  She looked at me sharply.

  I waved my hand. “Hey, no offense, but those bruises on your face aren't new. He's been smacking you around for a while now. So I want to know what changed. What made you not only leave, but then forget to take your dog?”

  Dolly fidgeted in her seat, fingers pulling on her skirt. “I'd rather not say.”

  “And I don't care.” I heard her sharp intake of breath. “I'm not trying to be an asshole, but I need to know. I've never dealt with an elf so any information you give can only make this go easier.”

  It took her a minute to start, and when she did the words came lackadaisically, nearly in a drawl. “I'm a stripper. I get naked and men pay me. God gave me these,” Her fingers flicked dismissively across her chest, “so I might as well make money off them.” From the corner of my eye I saw her turn toward me, pulling one of her legs under her so she could lean back against the door. “Have you ever been inside a strip club, Deacon?”

  “This might surprise you, but I've been a bouncer in a few.”

  “So then you know how it is. It's all about the money you can make. Some nights it's a blonde night, some nights it's a brunette night, but it is always a big tit night.”

  I nodded to keep her talking.

  She did. “I make good money. I may not be pretty, hell, I can't even dance worth a shit, but I can swing on a pole and I have the biggest set of funbags at any club I work at.”

  “Wait a minute. Did you just say you weren't pretty?”

  “I'm not.”

  “Whoever told you that is just stupid.”

  “What do you mean?”

  “You look like you just s
tepped off a movie poster from 1947. You've got legs for days and a face to match. Even if you were flat-chested you'd still be a head-turner. You are pretty.” It was a little generous, but I couldn't stand the defeated sound in her voice when she talked about herself.

  “Men always tell me I'm pretty. They do it while they stare at my boobs.”

  I drove sarcasm hard in my voice, hoping she'd get the point. “I remember you complaining about me doing that very thing back at my office.”

  She was quiet for a minute. I let her have the silence, just driving and waiting. Her voice was small when she spoke. “Mael says I'm a life-support system for a pair of tits.”

  “Mael is an idiot to go along with being an asshole.”

  I could feel her looking at me, watching me as I drove. I glanced over and she turned back to the window. This time her words were fast, tumbling over each other in a spill of poison. “I've always liked bad boys. My whole life. If a guy was bad news then I just couldn't get enough of him. I met Mael at the club. He came in one night with some skanky little bitch who was looking for a job. I saw him the second he walked in, acting like he owned the place, like a lion walks in the jungle. Even from across the room I could feel the darkness in him. I couldn't take my eyes off him. He was the most gorgeous man I had ever seen. The second he looked at me I was his. I went home with him.” She looked over. “He hit me the first time that night.”

  I didn't react, just let it come.

  “I've had men hit me before. It normally takes a little while before it happens, but not with Mael.” From the corner of my eye I saw her shake her head. “I couldn't leave him. It was like he had some kind of hold on me, like he owned a part of my soul. I did everything he wanted. Nothing he asked was too much. I did things for him, things that I'll never be able to forget.”