Shade City

Copyright © 2014 by Domino Finn. All rights reserved.

Published by Blood & Treasure, Los Angeles

Second Edition

This is a work of fiction. Any resemblance to reality is coincidental.

No part of this work may be reproduced or distributed without prior written consent by the publisher. This book represents the hard work of the author; please read responsibly.

Cover by James T. Egan of Bookfly Design LLC.

Print ISBN: 978-0-692-24295-7

DominoFinn.com

Shade City by Domino Finn follows an irreverent urban fantasy misfit who gives readers an outsider's inside-perspective of a shadowy Los Angeles.

★★★★★ "Keeps getting more intense the further you read."

★★★★★ "It's rare to find something actually worth adding to the mythos of supernatural fiction."

★★★★★ "Edgy, aloof, and cool, no one hones the same edge that Domino's characters have."

Ghosts are Real

And they’re everywhere. Lost souls unprepared to move on, they desperately cling to our world with every fiber of their haunted beings.

You can’t see them. Shades hide in plain sight, possessing our bodies. Our hearts and minds. They drink and smoke and revel in the pleasures of the flesh, with no regard for the broken victims they leave behind.

What you need is a misfit. Someone with open eyes who can see the shades. The fakers. A fighter too stubborn to know when he’s in over his head, and one with a trick or two to send them back to where they came from.

What you need is Dante Butcher, a work-hard, play-hard, fight-hard hero.

Welcome to the dark world of The Dead Side, where on the nightlife circuit, anything goes.

Sex, drugs, and hunting ghosts.

For Dante Butcher, ghost hunting isn't a business, it's a pastime. He frequents the Los Angeles nightlife circuit, where meeting strangers, knocking back drinks, and even taking the occasional punch are all in a night's work.

Staying up late is easy when you dream of the Dead Side, a muted world inhabited by nightmarish shades. Only the dead don't always stay that way. Sometimes they come back, and that's where Dante comes in.

But cool confidence doesn't prepare him for what begins in a piss-soaked bathroom. The Dead Side opens up a whole new world to him, and for the first time, it's the ghosts that are hunting Dante.

Sometimes, when a person is killed, the spirit suffers more than it can bear. It clings to a piece of this world and endeavors never to let go.

Chapter 1 - Saturday

I've been called a hipster before. I smoke cloves. I carry around a century-old pocket watch. Don't get me started on my exceptional taste in indie music. To be fair, I was currently having a drink in a bar under a widescreen TV playing Point Break (Pure Adrenaline Edition).

In black and white.

Hey, Casablanca it ain't, but Keanu Reeves and Patrick Swayze made a damn entertaining flick.

A hipster, though? Gimme a break. I don't sport a Victorian-era beard once popular with British magistrates. I can't stomach Pabst Blue Ribbon. I don't wear ironic clothing. Skinny jeans need not apply.

I'm a pretty straightforward dude when it comes down to it. Longish hair creeps over my eyes. My short goatee is the only facial hair to speak of (except when I get lazy about shaving). I do wear tight T-shirts because I'm thin and work out, but that's not a crime, it's style.

Hey, I'm young and living in Los Angeles. A guy's gotta make due, right?

I squeezed through the crowd in the small, backroom bar. The faint lighting and cramped seating exuded the feel of a house party. That was good on lazy nights. I could do the rounds without breaking a sweat. As I scanned the crowd, my gaze passed over the collection of Mexican crosses nailed to the wall. Some painted with bright colors, others sporting their natural weathered wood. Each with its own story, just like every person I brushed against.

I'm not a local, of course. Nobody here is. I've been around four years, but the first twenty of my life were spent in Miami. You might see that and think I wanted to be an actor, but it was nothing like that. I just wanted to get away from my fucked up childhood—the doctors, the drugs, the depression. I've had issues, you see, as long as I can remember. Moving west was like the old frontier settlers escaping the puritanical cities that stifled them. No more family for me. I was all alone now. And I loved it.

I'm a game programmer, if you can believe it. You know those old-school puzzle games you play on your phone, the ones that don't require much thought or coordination? Yup, you can blame me for contributing. But I work from home on my laptop and it's a steady paycheck so I'm riding this train as far as it takes me. Besides, I have to fund my partying somehow.

Maybe I don't take my career seriously enough, but I'm all about living in the present. I'm kinda rock and roll like that. There's a lot of fun to be had in this town. Honestly, there's a lot of trouble to get in as well. Especially when you know the things I know.

They call it the City of Angels. Well... angels, demons... I don't really know the difference. But I do know bad things are out there. I've seen them. Or felt them, anyway.

So why was I wasting my time at a small bar in the Valley? There was nothing wrong here. Nothing to see. I waved to the bartender on my way out.

Tonight, we're going clubbing in Hollywood.

Chapter 2

Full-on nightclubs are majestic articulations of wonder. I'm not talking about bars or lounges or other places where friends can gather and drink and bullshit—I mean dark halls and blinding dance floors, music that prohibits conversation, and crowds that make it difficult to maneuver.

Electronica was the weekend anthem at Avalon, a converted theater that was as much a staple of Hollywood as the manic club scene allowed. The venue was all about mass business. It didn't have the most refined interior or subtle offerings, but what it did have it had in spades.

Five bars lined the cavernous interior. A side alley housed smokers and the terrace upstairs had an open-air ceiling with a view of the Capitol Records building. The mezzanine seats were mostly intact and provided ample opportunity to engage in passionate rendezvous. The entire layout, of course, wrapped around the main stage. The accompanying area was clear of chairs to afford the kinds of crowds that should never be contained in one place. State-of-the-art lights spun wildly above, sequenced with the blaring of countless speakers. It was an old theater, beat up by the throngs of partiers, stripped of its beautiful propriety and made magnificent anew.

I hovered on the edge of the dance floor, palming my pocket watch. It was a Hamilton 940, a shiny brass number. An antique. A partner in crime.

You're officially eighteen today, I said to the watch.

The timepiece ticked along and music filled my ears. Frowning, I slipped it back into my jeans and continued my lookout.

The mass of people was an ocean, sometimes drifting together like a slow current, other times crashing against each other in waves. Clubs are all about limiting activity in a way as to focus it, restricting the senses and squeezing them into uncomfortable positions where the only recourse for enjoyment is to let go and become completely free.

Free. It's a funny word that means a lot of serious things. I saw a lot of free people here. But any time you had an amalgamation of this much fun and exhilaration and sex, you'll always attract some fakers. And I saw every single one of them for exactly what they were.

The ocean swelled, the life within as diverse as any real body of water. Lowlifes, trust fund kids; businessmen, drug dealers (were those the same thing?); party girls, working girls; white, Chinese, Mexican, and more; pretty, cute, and ugly. It took all kinds.

A group of well-dressed guys loosened ties that still clung to their necks. They didn't get out much and used a special occasion as an excuse to fly the coop.

Couples grinded on the dance floor, trading partners until they found an acceptable pairing (if only for the moment). They wouldn't have been here if they had someone to go home to.

A group of friends egged each other on, pressing to make the most of their ill-advised antics. This was their release. After a long week of menial labor, they came here to discover new ways to stay sane.

Others, like the old man at the bar, ignored the raucous activity except when it begrudged him a bump or a shove. He just came here to indulge his addictions. He wanted to feel normal so he surrounded himself with crazy.

Back on the dance floor, four girls in a circle wore high heels and tight skirts. They thrived on the social atmosphere. They wanted to feel wanted. Needed to be needed.

And of course, there was the tall girl next to me who watched them. Like me, she wasn't dancing, but for entirely different reasons. It was obvious she was dragged here and hated every minute of it. The only thing she hated even more was being labeled uncool by her friends. So she came along, swallowed the contents of her cups, and was sometimes even persuaded to dance.

You'd think it was hard to fake it more than she was, but you'd be wrong.

I could relate, but not because I was shy or balked by the lights. I may be a transplant but I belonged. New to the city, but not blinded by its brilliance. Mine is an outsider's inside perspective of Los Angeles.

I'm a studious drinker. I crave the adrenaline. Feed off the camaraderie. This scene was a rare opportunity to cut loose. And as for those participating in the charade of fun, well, I wasn't dragged here and certainly didn't seek anyone's approval, but I was the biggest faker of them all.

This was work for me. Simple as that. But who ever said that work couldn't be a little fun?

The DJ was capable, spinning a good Daft Punk remix that had the horde swimming on the sticky cement. I wanted to be out there. These moments made the hunt pleasurable, if not distracting. Even though I was clubbing, the discipline to remain fully alert was my priority.

As I saw the girl break away from her compatriots in the field and make for a spot at the bar, I killed my third drink.

I was mostly alert, anyway.

I traced each step of her candy heels along the moldy carpet. Her red blouse hung loosely over a black skirt that was tighter fitting than it should have been, but her legs were more appealing for the effect. Her supple thighs mesmerized me as they danced ahead, slightly sweaty but awash in a bath of perfume that was ever sweeter as I closed in.

I forced myself past some kids who downed shots to build up liquid courage. The girl flicked her long brown hair to the side, waiting for the attention of the bartender. I didn't need courage or patience. I brushed my chest against her arm as I put my side to the bar, ready to reload.

She didn't even grace me with a glance.

A blonde woman mixed cocktails, a little older than the crowd but with big enough tits that most men would settle for the cleavage. She did her best to ignore her customers, but the girl with the brown hair was doggedly determined to change her mind.

I smiled and signaled the guy working farther down. He was occupied as well—that was one of the signs of a good bartender—but he immediately saw me and nodded. That kind of notice wasn't afforded to just anyone. As I pulled my leather money clip from my pocket, I took that as a sign I was a good customer.

The brown-haired girl next to me pouted and put a hand on her shapely hip, giving me a jab with her elbow in the process.

This stuck up bitch won't even look at me, she complained to no one in particular.

Of course, I cut in. She works off tips.

The girl turned to me. Her nose looked bigger up close and I could see the pale hairs above her fat lips. But she had big, seductive eyes.

I was going to tip her.

Don't get me wrong, I said. I'm not questioning your ability to give her a dollar. And she might be stuck up—I can't say. But I think her target audience would say she was doing a bang-up job.

She watched as the blonde bartender bent over to grab a beer from the cooler. Her miniskirt rode up and her pink underwear flashed the onlookers. Then she spun around and placed the bottle in front of a pack of guys, leaning forward and looking down, innocently unaware that all eyes were on her chest. The old lady was a pro.

The brown-haired girl pretended to be dissatisfied with my explanation, but her eyes held an envious tinge. I wish I had boobs like that.

Me too, I agreed.

She widened her mouth in surprise, but the corners of her eyes wrinkled playfully. Her hand swatted my chest in admonishment. Her fingers lingered an extra moment. Her nails were short and painted a bright red to match her outfit, and she wore an engagement ring with an expensive diamond.

Maybe if I had boobs like that, I wouldn't give you the time of day either.

I nodded at the probable truth. Well, since you don't and you are, you might as well give me your name so I can buy you a drink.

With perfect timing, the male bartender put another Captain and coke down in front of me.

Thanks, man, I said, stirring the glass with the cocktail straw. And one for her.

Two actually, she said, almost apologetically. Long Islands.

I raised an eyebrow at her but nodded for the bartender. This was a trade, after all. Most men think it a necessary part of their repertoire to buy women they're hitting on drinks. I say they're suckers. You want to find women that want you, not want something from you. Drink after drink after drink; they might get lucky, but they're not doing themselves any favors. Me? I wasn't often seen buying women drinks for the purposes of pleasure. Let's call this an exception.

Pam, she said. That's my name. But I'm not one of those girls who'll grind on you for a drink. I can pay. Pam reached inside her purse.

No, I insisted, it was my offer. I have a hookup here. I'll get it. I put my hand on hers to stop her from retrieving her wallet. She didn't shy away from the contact. My name's Dante Butcher. And I'm not in the mood to dance.

Chapter 3

The bartender returned with the other two drinks. Twenty-seven, he said.

Nice. He'd given me mine for free. I handed him two twenties and told him to keep it.

So let me guess, said Pam, flitting her lashes at me suggestively. You're one of those smooth-talking guys who's used to sweeping girls off their feet?

I raised an eyebrow. Are we talking about sex already?

Her smile tapered a little. Maybe I've got you wrong then. Maybe you're just a dick.

I smiled plainly. Now you've got a bead on me. I am.

You are what?

A dick. There's no maybe about it.

She pursed her lips as she decided how to respond to that admission. Always beat them to the punch, I say. The sooner they know who you really are, the sooner you can get past the boring introductions.

Pam glanced at the Long Islands sitting on the bar. It's not very dick-like to buy a girl a couple of drinks.

I considered her premise. I'm more of a casual dick, really. It's more about my complete apathy to people's problems than a need to be a douche bag. Trust me. I get into enough fights without needing to look for them. I brushed my hair out of my eyes and looked deep into hers. What about you? Tell me something about yourself.

Pam smiled. She wanted to play along but was at a loss. Um, like what do you want to know?

For starters, who's the other drink for?

She hesitated and looked shy but held up her hand and showed off her ring. My fiancé.

Oh, I didn't notice, I lied. As I returned my money clip to my pocket, I reached around for a small plastic vial and screwed it open. I turned my back to her as I grabbed her drinks, carefully pouring the powder into one of the Long Islands and swirling the liquid to hide the evidence. Then I faced Pam again, holding both glasses in my hands.

Bunny! we heard, almost on cue. We turned and saw a broad-chested dude approaching us. He had a little more fat than muscle but it wasn't an unflattering ratio. He was only slightly taller than average, like me, so his eyes met mine perfectly. What's going on?

Soren, said Pam, slightly flustered. Hi. This is Dante. We were just talking...

About the Winter Music Conference, I finished. Pam's eyes darted to me quickly but she nodded. Given the subject matter and the present circumstances, it was sure to evoke a positive reaction. Especially since he was wearing a T-shirt that said Ultra Music Festival 2012 on it.

No shit? he asked. Are you going this year?

I always do. I'm from Miami and I know some of the producers.

Of everything I was doing, this lie made me feel the scummiest. Maybe it was because it was such an LA cliche. People left and right pretended to have connections they didn't. Just another kind of faker.

Soren raised his eyebrows in unison. That's awesome, brother! I went a couple years ago!

No shit. Really? The poor guy still didn't realize his T-shirt advertised that to everybody except him.

For real. I deejay at the Echo on Mondays. We should talk!

Soren raised his hand to shake mine. This was easier than I had thought. I returned both glasses to the bar and gave him a bro hug. I felt the shadow nestled deep inside him.

He knows the bartender, said Pam. He got us drinks.

Before I could release myself from the half-shake, half-hug, the girl snatched both Long Islands. The music kicked up in a steady beat and we were jostled to the side by a clumsy group of big women. When I finally turned around, Pam was handing a cocktail to Soren. I couldn't tell which was which.

Good deal, yelled Soren above the noise. Let's have a smoke on the patio and I can buy you one in return.

The guy placed an outstretched arm around his fiancée and pulled her towards the side exit, motioning for me to come along. Pam took a hesitant sip of her Long Island as they moved away.

Shit. What if they had the wrong drinks?

I sighed and tasted my rum and coke. I almost coughed as I inhaled the alcohol. It was even stronger than the last one. As I stepped away, I nodded thanks to the bartender who'd poured it.

The blonde with the big tits was selling sex. She made her tips by flashing her skin. The guy, he had a different game. He replaced flirting with hustle. But the main thing he offered, the thing that he could sell instead of sex, was a heavy pour. My choice of bartender was really just a practical application of my priorities.

Chapter 4

Layers of smoke greeted my face the moment I was on the patio. Technically, it was a skinny alley between two brick buildings. Despite being outside, the smoke hugged the ground ominously. It enveloped the resting patrons like a welcoming party from Hell.

In spite of that, it was a bit cool tonight. A welcome development after escaping the tepid confines inside. It didn't take much to sweat in there. Fresh air, or polluted air anyway, was a pleasant contrast. At least twenty other worn out people thought the same, and the tight space felt especially cramped.

Soren leaned against a painted wall that was thick with dirt. Everything in Los Angeles was covered in a sheen of grime. The smog wasn't noticeably bad—I mean this wasn't Beijing—but the lack of rain left the city a far cry from the cleanly washed surfaces I knew in Miami. People praise the sunshine in this city. Not so much the dust and brown grass.

Pam smiled and sipped her drink through a straw. She watched her fiancé produce and light a cigarette. He was a classic case.

So you're a promoter? he asked. He sucked heavily at the tobacco as he held a lighter to it again.

Not me, I said. I know people who run venues in South Beach and Downtown Miami. Friends of friends. I was purposely vague. It was just a cover story to make me interesting.

You should look me up, said Soren, sounding a natural at his sales pitch. I'm DJ Ingress. I spin minimalist post-electronica. It puts the crowd in a different place, man.

What kind of places are we talking?

I have a residency at the Echoplex on Mondays. Swing by and see for yourself. Soren took heavy drags from his smoke and had a reflective moment. I've always wanted to spin in front of a huge international crowd.

I motioned inside with my chin. This is a big club.

You need to know people, man. He lifted his broad frame away from the wall and shook his somberness away, holding up his cocktail in a toast. To friends.

Pam and I clacked our glasses to his and we all drank. I kept a close eye on her as she sipped the Long Island, wondering if she had gotten the one with the powder. It would be a lot for her system to handle and the effects would be noticeable soon. She smiled at me.

After we get married, she started, Soren is going to work for my father and won't have as much time for deejaying. It would be great if he could get a chance to be a part of the Winter Music Conference before then.

The DJ rolled his eyes as she explained the bit about her father but was clearly excited about the opportunity in Miami.

When's the wedding? I asked.

It feels like a lifetime away, he said.

Pam slapped her hand to his chest, as she had done to me earlier. This summer, Soren! You promised!

It wasn't even Thanksgiving yet. The two had plenty of time to fight and make up before then.

I know, Bunny.

I hate when you call me that.

Soren threw the cigarette butt to the ground and looked up and down the alley. Satisfied, he pulled a small joint from his pocket and lit up. I'd only known Soren five minutes and was already witnessing the third drug going into his system. That alone wasn't too strange. Everybody here fiended for something. People don't go to nightclubs to moderate themselves.

Still, Soren was different. I can always tell with them. A light touch, just while brushing past, is enough to feel the second shadow inside. I had bro-hugged the guy and the presence was unmistakable. Now it was only a matter of taking advantage of his need.

He passed the weed to Pam. She took a light hit and gave it back to him, then drank a large gulp from her glass.

Hit this, he said. He held the frizzled paper between two fingers as he offered it to me. There was a chunky piece of metal on his finger. A ring gone bad. It looked like something you might pay too much for at the Renaissance Fair.

I shook my head casually. No thanks. I usually go for the harder stuff.

Soren smiled. He still seemed very alert as he took heavy tokes and paced between the two walls. I can help with that too, he said, but this patio isn't private enough.

That was the last piece of the puzzle as far as I was concerned. He was one of them. A faker. Soren was a fiend, trying to exploit his senses and adrenaline any way he could. Dancing, drinking, smoking, spinning—he placed those pleasures above all other concerns, probably even Pam. If chemicals were his weakness, he'd be easy to exploit.

Those outside kept mostly to themselves, but there was a constant wave of people shuffling in and out. Doing anything illegal here would attract a lot of attention, especially from the bouncer standing outside the gate at the front. This was a bad spot.

Pam put her hand to her forehead. Baby, I want to sit down. Our drinks were half finished but hers was hitting harder.

Go ahead, Bunny.

She looked at the filthy concrete in disgust, put her hands on her knees, and leaned her ass against the wall. Her tight red skirt would have made it difficult to go all the way down.

It's always something with her, said Soren in an annoyed voice. It's Saturday night. I'm here till I get kicked out. He waved his hand dismissively at her. His heavy ring slipped down his finger, but he caught it and adjusted it back into place.

I took another sip of my rum and watched as Pam swayed to the side. She was getting groggy and her heels weren't the surest of footings. I put my hand on her shoulder to steady her. I was, after all, responsible for this.

Maybe we should go upstairs and chill out for a bit, I said.

Soren let out a disgruntled sigh and upturned his glass into his mouth. Every single time, he inflected. He extinguished his joint on the wall and returned it to his pocket.

Here, I said, taking the Long Island from Pam's hand and pouring the remaining alcohol into his glass. He looked at me with a frustrated expression but appeared grateful.

Thanks, he said. Soren stepped closer to me and lowered his voice. You know, it wouldn't be so bad if she were a better fuck.

Soren! Pam yelled. One moment she was struggling to stand and the next she had summoned the strength to slap him in the face. His glass fell from his hand and banged on the concrete, somehow not cracking but tipping over and spilling nonetheless. Great.

Soren shot her an evil grimace and jumped at her. I put my arm