1. Ryanne “Shorty” Larwick

1

RYANNE "SHORTY" LARWICK

He peeled himself from the darkness like a cloud slowly coming to life. It didn't take me long to wonder if I wasn't safer with the men trying to kill me. In a swirl of flying arms, sailing legs and grunts for mercy, my attackers were on the ground in various broken positions and the specter who was my supposed saviour, was looking over a muscular shoulder at me.

He wasn't even breathing heavy.

Dressed in all black, he had his hoodie up over his head, hiding his face. And even when he shifted slightly, he kept his face within the shadows.

It took everything in me not to scurry backward—fear permeating every part of me like water soaking through sand.

—level by level.

"You alright?" His voice was like the raspy roll of far-off thunder.

I swallowed.

My throat burned as if I'd swallowed sand.

I tried again.

"Are you hurt?" He barked.

I gasped and shook my head.

"Good." He turned to look down at one of the men who, by some miracle, was still moving. "You should call the cops."

"Um—I'm not sure what I would tell them." I stuttered. "They probably just wanted my purse."

The man glanced toward where my bag was now sitting, contents strewn all over the ground.

I didn't have much.

A cellphone that was older than Jesus, a lipstick that was so finished, each time I used it, the plastic end of it scraped my lips—a few hair pins, a tattered wallet that once belonged to someone's mother, an empty pack of gum and my keys.

The purse itself wasn't even a designer—hell, I bought it at the dollar store close to my shit apartment with the leaky faucet and the toilet without a seat cover.

"Hey, what's you?—"

I looked around.

Where'd he go?

I didn't have to check, two of the men who'd chased me down this shit-ass lane, were now lying in a puddle of their blood—they were dead.

The third man looked as though quite a number of his bones were broken. Something in me told me to help him when he asked me to.

As I gathered my things back into my bag, I supposed I wasn't moving fast enough for him. He called me a bitch, spat in my direction then tried lunging for me again.

I kicked him in the crotch and took off out of the laneway, made a left and kept right on running until I made it to my usual bus stop. There, I sat inside the lit shelter, my keys through my fingers, ready to use them as a weapon if needed.

I fixed myself up as best I could, straightened my clothes and when my bus came, I climbed on, trying to look as normal as possible—as normal for me.

After tapping my card to pay, I wandered to the very back of the bus with the empty seats and sat.

This way, there wouldn't be anyone behind me.

The first time I took this route, I'd counted.

From my job to my apartment, there were thirteen stops.

The ride bypassed two wealthy neighbourhoods, an abandoned attempt at a gated community and into my neighbourhood, a place where they warned women not to walk alone at nights.

And after what I'd been through that night, I was one of the most dangerous things on that street.

Slowly, the bus emptied.

People looking exhausted and just plain over life.

Who was I to judge?

Hell, I was over life the moment my mother popped me out.

According to my file from the group home I aged out of, I was born dead.

One of my foster mothers, who sent me back, joked that I'd always been a zombie.

She sent me back to the home because she believed that I was cursed—that I was the bringer of death and bad luck would always follow me.

Another foster mother tried putting me through an exorcism in her backyard.

Luckily, a neighbour realized what was happening and called the police.

They showed up just as the woman was trying to drown me in holy water.

With the way my life turned out—I really couldn't say she didn't have a point about the cursed thing.

And while I would love to get rid of said curse, it wouldn't have been a good look to have drowned in holy water on my gravestone.

I was about to try and see if my phone had any battery left when I looked outside to see I was coming up to my stop. Straightening my spine to make myself taller, I rang the bell, and made my way to the back door.

"Thank you!" I hollered.

"Welcome—be safe walking home!" The driver called.

Waving, I descended the steps as the doors slid open.

Waiting for it to leave to ensure I wasn't followed off, I clutched my purse to my side and hurried along the desolate road toward my apartment. The walk would take about five minutes if I put my back into it, longer if I crawled along.

It was then I realized my palms were burning.

The street was barely lit but I could make out scrapes that were now getting clogged with blood as they grew older and weren't cleaned.

I should have kicked the fucker harder.

By the time I entered my place, the adrenaline crash was real.

I showered, suffering through the burns from all the scrapes, then stood naked in front of the full-length mirror I bought at a thrift store two years before.

I inspected my body to see where my injuries were—my right hip was bruised and I knew I'd have trouble walking the next day. There was a gash on my right forearm, and I could see that when I woke up, my face would looked like I survived two rounds with Jackie Buntan.

Twisting one way, then the other, I noticed what I'd always thought.

I wasn't sexy—my body wasn't tight or special.

I had scars from fights I'd gotten into as a kid, and while I'd lost some weight over the past year, it still had its imperfections.

None of that made me happy but it was what it was.

Sighing, I picked up what was left of my body lotion and sat on the edge of my bed.

I guess I should have felt fortunate the injuries weren't worse.

With the tips of my fingers, I massaged cream into my skin while thinking of the man who'd stepped in to help me. I didn't know his name or even what he looked like.

If I was being honest, I would say I'd been saved by death.

Shaking my head to clear it, I recork the bottle, set it on the bedside table and crawled my naked body under the cold sheets.

But I couldn't sleep.

Every sound made my mind wander, every passing shadow of a car's headlight that lit up my second story apartment left me feeling as if I was being watched.

In the wee hours of the morning, I relented, found the tattered business card from where I had it tucked within the pages of an old bible.

Someone from the foster system had given it to me

That was a useless thing to try remembering—my hands shook as I dialed the number.

He'd told me if I needed anything I should call—he said it didn't matter the day or time, he would answer.

No one had ever been there like that for me before and I held out no hope he'd answer or even still remember who I was.

"Yeah?" The sleepy voice answered.

"Dude?" I managed.

"Yes?" He questioned. "Who is this?"

"Um—It's Ryanne—Ryanne Larwick?"

"Ryanne? Are you alright?"

"Um—" I looked up from the corner of the room I'd been hiding in. "Something happened tonight—I was going to ask if you could help me find someone?"

"Now?"

"Sorry. I couldn't sleep and it's kind of important."

Faulkner "Dude" Cooper grunted.

"Go back to sleep, baby." Dude said. "Everything is okay. I'll be back."

There was the sound of a kiss and I blushed.

I closed my eyes while I waited for him to return to the conversation. I allowed myself to think about Dude, the man who'd grinned boyishly at me and waved as he told me that even though his name was Faulkner, that everyone called him Dude .

He was beautiful.

But by the time I met him, he was engaged and off the market.

He wouldn't have been interested even if I looked like Aphrodite.

I saw the way he looked at Cheyenne—in her eyes, the world could end, and he wouldn't have had a clue.

"Okay, talk to me."

I explained everything to him. There was just something about the way he listened to me.

Over the years, I hadn't believed in him and even when I was almost homeless, I couldn't gather up enough courage to call him.

I never called—I didn't think he was serious and since I had a massive crush on him, keeping in contact would have been like breaking my own damn heart.

"Did you see his face?" Dude asked.

"No, not really." I replied. "He had a hood over his head. But I did catch a glimpse of what looked like a tattoo on the back of his right hand. I remember thinking—that must be a painful place to get a tattoo."

Dude chuckled, softly.

"Do you know what the tattoo was of?"

Closing my eyes, I allowed myself to rush back to the terrible time of the attack.

"It looked like a phantom of some sort."

"Mm—"

"It had like a white glow around it—that's why I could make it out. And I only saw it for a second so I could be?—"

"It's a celestial phantom."

"A what?"

"A celestial phantom." Dude replied. "Only about four men in the world has one—well three. One died two years ago from a hit-and-run in Argentina."

"How do you know?"

"Because that ink is only given to soldiers who survive solo missions into a place we call the Tombstones." Dude explained. "It's a long story, one I probably shouldn't tell you about at the risk of being electrocuted for treason. Get to your computer."

When I was sitting in front of my old laptop it chimed.

I opened the email he'd sent, and the attachment to find the pictures of three men, soldiers in uniforms.

"Canadian soldiers?" I asked.

"Not just any soldiers." Dude explained. "Special forces. If the tattoo you said you saw was in fact the tattoo he has, then it can only be one of these three men."

"Well, it's not Leonidas Patchenko," I said. "You can cross that one off the list."

"How comes?"

"The man who saved me wasn't white."

Dude sighed.

"The it's either Khadri Weston or Boswell Teller." Dude sounded hopeless. "This isn't going to be as simple as finding their location and see which one was closer to you."

"Why not?"

"Because they're special forces, Ryanne. They never want to be found. With their training, when they don't want you to find them?—"

"They become ghosts."

"Mm." Dude replied. "Let me run this by Tex and see what he can find."

Agreeing, Dude hung up and I placed my cell phone on the desk—it was fully charged when I started the call and almost dead after that short talk.

Leaning back in my seat, I stared at the men on the screen.

Boswell was handsome, full lips, big brown eyes—a face that commanded authority.

The other, Khadri Weston on the other hand looked as if he'd gone through hell. His eyes held nothing but darkness and the ghastly scar lengthwise down his left eye left him looking like the sandman.

Hanging my head I sighed—I wasn't good looking either.

I shouldn't be calling anyone ugly.

But no matter what I was thinking, I couldn't take my eyes off Khadri's face—it was as if I knew him, somehow.

My hip began pulsing and I groaned. Picking up my phone, I made my way over to my bed.

By the time I sat down and found the end of my charger to plug my phone in, it was dead.

Irritated, I plugged it in and waddled to the bathroom to find ibuprofen.