Last Car to Annwn Station Read online

  Last Car to Annwn Station

  By Michael Merriam

  “The fare is ten cents, miss.”

  Mae Malveaux, an attorney with Minneapolis Child Protective Services, is burnt-out, tired and frustrated. Passing on an invite from Jill, her flirtatious coworker, Mae just wants a quiet night in. Leaving the office late, she’s surprised to find the Heritage Line streetcars up and running and hops aboard, eager for a quick trip home.

  But this is no ordinary streetcar. Death is one of its riders, and Mae is thrust into Annwn, a realm of magic and danger.

  “Your transfer, miss. You’ll be needing that.”

  Mae’s life is turned upside down as human and fae worlds collide. Her budding relationship with Jill takes a perilous turn when they are hunted by mythical beasts, and Mae is drawn into a deadly power struggle. With Jill at her side, Mae must straddle both worlds and fight a war she barely comprehends, for not only does the fate of Annwn rest in her hands, but the lives of both a human and fae child…

  81,000 words

  Dear Reader,

  I feel as though it was just last week I was attending 2010 conferences and telling authors and readers who were wondering what was next for Carina Press, “we’ve only been publishing books for four months, give us time” and now, here it is, a year later. Carina Press has been bringing you quality romance, mystery, science fiction, fantasy and more for over twelve months. This just boggles my mind.

  But though we’re celebrating our one-year anniversary (with champagne and chocolate, of course) we’re not slowing down. Every week brings something new for us, and we continue to look for ways to grow, expand and improve. This summer, we’ll continue to bring you new genres, new authors and new niches—and we plan to publish the unexpected for years to come.

  So whether you’re reading this in the middle of a summer heat wave, looking to escape from the hot summer nights and sultry afternoons, or whether you’re reading this in the dead of winter, searching for a respite from the cold, months after I’ve written it, you can be assured that our promise to take you on new adventures, bring you great stories and discover new talent remains the same.

  We love to hear from readers, and you can email us your thoughts, comments and questions to [email protected]. You can also interact with Carina Press staff and authors on our blog, Twitter stream and Facebook fan page.

  Happy reading!

  ~Angela James

  Executive Editor, Carina Press

  www.carinapress.com

  www.twitter.com/carinapress

  www.facebook.com/carinapress

  Acknowledgments

  I’d like to thank my wife, Sherry L.M. Merriam, who was the first reader and helped me edit the manuscript into something I could submit to publishers.

  Thanks to Adam Stemple, Alison Ching, Jaye Lawrence, Joanne Anderton, Kevin McIntyre and Hilary Moon Murphy, all of whom read the novel in various drafts and offered thoughts, ideas, occasional smacks to the back of the head and all the encouragement I needed to finish it.

  A special thanks to the editors and staff at Carina Press for choosing to publish my novel and helping me polish it until it shined. They are a joy to work with.

  To everyone on Live Journal who cheered me on as I wrote the novel and who, when I described it as “a dark urban fantasy, revenge and redemption paranormal romance and supernatural horror novel with mythological and fairy tale overtones and lesbian protagonists, featuring the ghost of the defunct Twin Cities streetcar system,” had a good laugh about me finding my little niche.

  Dedication

  Dedicated to Mr. Thomas Lowry (February 27, 1843–February 4, 1909). For the streetcars.

  Contents

  Copyright

  Monday, 23rd of October

  Tuesday, 24th of October

  Wednesday, 25th of October

  Thursday, 26th of October

  Friday, 27th of October

  Saturday, 28th of October

  Monday, 30th of October

  Tuesday, 31st of October

  Wednesday, 1st of November

  Sunday, 17th of December

  About the Author

  Monday, 23rd of October

  Somewhere in the world, at any given moment, Roy Orbison is singing.

  Mae Malveaux blinked at her reflection in the washroom mirror as she slapped a bit of water on her face.

  And I really need a vacation.

  She sighed and returned to her desk, trying to tune out the tinny music coming from the office to her left. She had left her door open in a vain attempt to get some fresh air in the windless space her desk and file cabinet were wedged into. Instead, her neighbor’s radio was filling the airspace. For the sixth time today, she had heard Roy Orbison singing. It was starting to get under her skin. She did not understand why the fates seemed determined to haunt her with the voice of a dead man in large sunglasses.

  An opened folder sat waiting for her return, right where she had left it. This particular case was another thing Mae did not understand. Despite persistent abuse and neglect, on four occasions, judges had returned Chrysandra Arneson to the custody of her mother, Marie Arneson.

  Child Protective Services, after contact from school officials and doctors, had removed the girl from the home within six months after each judicial order. Now Marie, having completed a drug rehabilitation program and found gainful employment, was again seeking custody of her twelve-year-old daughter.

  In each of the previous rulings, the judges had cited the need to “keep the family unit intact” as one of the driving reasons for returning the little girl to her mother’s care.

  Mae suspected it had more to do with the woman’s family being white, wealthy and suburban. The Arneson family, already established among the elites of the Twin Cities after decades of doing business in the brewing and milling industries, had made a fortune in the 1950s when the public transportation system in the Twin Cities switched from streetcars to buses.

  Mae had spoken to the child’s grandparents, but while they were happy to be her temporary guardians, they did not want to be responsible for Chrysandra long term. Instead, the elder Arnesons were single-minded in their belief that Marie was a good mother and that for some reason the State of Minnesota had singled out their precious daughter for harassment. Mae felt the Arnesons were willfully ignoring evidence that Marie was abusing their granddaughter, pretending the constant parade of bruises, burns and broken bones over the last three years were all accidental. The identity of the child’s father was unknown, and Marie Arneson and her family refused to share any information about him, closing off that avenue of aid from Mae.

  Mae groaned with relief when the song ended and she heard the solid click of the radio being switched off. She had the beginning of a migraine. Walking into the meeting with Juvenile Court Judge Slotky on a matter unrelated to this case, she had found herself in an impromptu negotiation conference with the attorney representing Marie Arneson. Judge Slotky seemed sure they could work out a deal without the need for a court session.

  This morning’s ambush was bad enough, but William Jefferson Hodgins’s refusal to take her seriously had infuriated Mae. At one point Hodgins and Judge Slotky began talking to each other as if Mae were not even in the room. The “old boys” in local law circles saw her childlike frame, pale complexion and thin, slightly stringy blond hair, and brushed her off. Mae had refused to agree to anything and stormed out of the judge’s chambers.

  “Hey, I thought you left hours ago.”

  Mae looked up, startled by the voice. Jill frowned down at her and Mae gave her a lopsided smile. They had been office pals since Jill began working for the county a year ago, meeting socially o
utside of the office for drinks and lunches on a regular basis. Jill was younger than Mae, barely past thirty, and worked in the law library upstairs. She dressed conservatively and kept her hair up at work, exuding a “sexy librarian” aura, with her black hair, pale blue eyes and long legs. The men who worked in the Government Center were stupid for her. Jill seemed mostly oblivious to the attention of her male coworkers.

  “I’m nearly done.”

  “Mae, sweetie, when was the last time you did something fun?”

  Mae blinked in confusion. “I have fun. All the time.”

  “Um-hmm.”

  “Really!”

  “Well, Miss Fun, I’m meeting Teresa, Stacy and some of the other girls in the building down at the Fine Line tonight for dancing, booze and hot, hot boys. You’re welcome to come with.”

  “On a Monday night?”

  “That’s when the hot boys troll for football widows.”

  “Maybe some other night. I’m really worn out.” Mae rubbed her head for emphasis. She appreciated the offer, but the noise and crowds of the Minneapolis club scene were the last thing she wanted to face tonight. “I think I’m going to wrap up and head home.”

  “Suit yourself,” Jill said. “The offer stands if you change your mind.”

  Turning back to her file after Jill walked away, Mae flipped through its contents. A serious concern with this case was the lack of photographic evidence. Without pictures to document and corroborate the medical and police reports, Mae had trouble convincing the judge of the severity of the situation. When she had asked why there were no photos, her boss had shrugged and told her that by odd coincidence, every time photos of Chrysandra Arneson were taken, the camera failed or the memory card went bad.

  Deciding she needed to go home before the migraine took full effect, she closed the folder and stuffed the entire manila-covered mess into her bag. She was not allowed to take files out of the office, but it was a common practice.

  Mae rode the elevator to the lobby. Stopping at the security checkpoint long enough to claim her can of pepper spray, she stepped into the gathering evening and made her way toward the light rail station.

  Climbing aboard the sleek, modern machine, she closed her eyes and dozed for the short trip to Hennepin Avenue. At her stop, Mae checked her surroundings. There had been a rash of robberies along Hennepin in the last two weeks. A small, professionally dressed woman would present a tempting target. She stood with a group of people awaiting buses and checked to make sure the can of pepper spray she carried was within easy reach.

  The ringing of a bell startled her. Mae took a step backward at the sight of a big yellow streetcar. She had heard there was a plan to bring back the old streetcars. “Heritage Lines,” Metro Transit called the resurgent machines. They would intersect the modern and highly popular Light Rail Train in downtown Minneapolis. She had not realized the streetcars were running, had not even noticed the tracks when she crossed the street.

  Mae looked around. The open doors of the yellow streetcar beckoned. She glanced at her fellow travelers. No one seemed to notice the old streetcar. Mae read the route sign on the side of the car: “Hennepin Avenue Express.” She lived in Uptown, so the streetcar would work as well as a bus.

  “The fare is ten cents, miss.”

  She hesitated for an instant, starting to protest that she had a pass, but let her curiosity win out. Mae fumbled in her bag. Finding five tarnished pennies and a nickel, she dropped them into the fare box. The sturdy-looking man in an old-fashioned conductor’s suit offered her a slip of paper.

  “Your transfer, miss. You’ll be needing that.”

  She took the slip and turned toward the interior of the streetcar. Mae froze for an instant, then the car’s bell rang twice before it lurched, making Mae lose her balance. As the car rolled forward with a sharp clack-clack, she gazed in bewilderment at the other occupants.

  It was as if Halloween had arrived early, and all the riders of the streetcar except her were on their way to a costume party. Mae grabbed the long overhead rail, more to steady herself from the shock than against the swaying of the streetcar. She locked eyes with a man in a business suit who had the head of a bison. He snorted and nodded solemnly to her. A small woman with fragile-looking wings and electric-blue hair stood near her. Too short to reach the rail, she clung to the support pole. The woman smiled up at Mae and leaned toward her.

  “These seats aren’t exactly friendly to someone with wings. Hi, I’m Elliefandi. You can call me Ellie, if you want.”

  Mae barely followed the high-pitched and rapid speech. “I’m Mae,” she mumbled, looking out the window.

  Hennepin Avenue passed by outside the window, but it was not exactly her Hennepin Avenue. The shops were dark and squat. There was none of the usual hustle and activity as they turned left at the Basilica of St. Mary and started toward Uptown. The Walker Arts Center and Sculpture Garden stood in grayscale and washed-out coldness.

  “Don’t worry,” the winged woman said as they crossed Franklin Avenue and began to click along, gathering speed. “It’ll all be there once you go back.”

  “Go back?” Mae asked. She could hear the note of panic in her own voice.

  Ellie smiled. “Of course!” Her smile faded. “You’ve got your transfer, right?

  Mae held up the slip of paper.

  “And a return fare?”

  “I—I’m pretty sure I’ve got enough loose change.”

  “Good, good. Old man Lowry’s cars, they’ll take you where you need to go. Getting back, now that can be a bit of trouble.”

  The car’s bell rang twice and the machine jerked to a stop in front of the Uptown Bar. Mae was surprised, since only a moment before they had crossed Franklin Avenue, now ten blocks behind them. The bison-headed man stood and exited the car from the rear. Mae moved to follow the bison-man, having missed her usual stop, the Uptown Transit Station, completely. The back doors slammed shut and would not budge for her, no matter how hard she pushed on them.

  “This must not be your stop,” the winged woman said.

  Mae turned to call out to the conductor and motorman that she wanted to exit. Her voice caught in her throat as two riders boarded at the front.

  The first seemed blessedly normal to Mae’s eyes. He wore black slacks and shoes, with a white dress shirt and black tie, loose at the collar. His black jacket was slung over his shoulder and he carried a mundane, everyday briefcase. Mae watched him drop his coins into the fare box. She held her breath, waiting for him to turn towards her, hoping to find a human, perhaps even friendly, face.

  The face itself would have been at home on the cover of any number of fashionable magazines, or perhaps as part of one of those clothing campaigns featuring a professional male modeling casual wear while petting a happy-looking golden retriever gazing up adoringly at him.

  It was his eyes that ruined the effect.

  The eyes that turned to regard her looked like clear, moonless night skies, all velvet black and shiny points of distant starlight.

  Ellie nudged Mae in the side with her elbow. “Handsome bugger, isn’t he? Of course, if he’s interested in you, you’re done for.”

  “Who is he?” Mae asked, staring at the man with stars in his eyes.

  “Well, he’s—you know—Death.”

  She glanced at the man again. He was coming toward them and for a moment Mae considered smashing the back door of the car open and running into the night, following the bison-headed man down Hennepin Avenue. She took a step backward, but then stopped in her tracks.

  A voice was singing Roy Orbison’s “Ooby-Dooby” and Mae half expected to find the dead rocker climbing onto the streetcar to join the rest of the menagerie of creatures surrounding her. She was disappointed; it was not Roy Orbison singing. Maybe, Mae realized, she should be happy for that. She could not decide which would be worse: being faced with the spirit of the deceased or with the creature that sang in the dead man’s voice.

  It walked on two l
egs, had two arms and hands, and wore a red button-up shirt and black jeans. It had a battered old wide-brimmed hat perched on its head. That was where the resemblance to anything human stopped. It could not have stood more than four feet tall. Silver hair bunched into a loose ponytail and tied with a bit of dull green ribbon spilled from under the hat. The face was flat and smooth and a deep gray. The nose was little more than two nostrils. The creature’s eyes were amber in color and catlike, its nails shaped like an eagle’s talons reaching past its fingers. It smiled at her, showing a mouthful of pointed yellow and green teeth.

  It was all too much. Mae sat down on the nearest bench with a thump and turned to face the aisle. She scooted her back against the cool wall of the streetcar and raised her knees up to her chin, clutching her bag between her body and her thighs. She started to tremble, swaying in her seat to the rhythm of the streetcar moving down the tracks.

  The winged woman gave her a sympathetic look and turned to the car’s newest riders. “Stop it, you two. You’re scaring her.”

  “There is no need to fear, Maeve Kathleen Malveaux,” Death said. His voice was soft and soothing, not at all the deep ominous sound Mae’s mind had imagined it would be.

  The winged woman rolled her eyes. “As if that’s going to make her feel any better.”

  “What?” Death asked, looking down at the winged woman. “What have I done, Elliefandi ferch Myfleria?”

  Ellie put her hands on her hips. Her wings fluttered in agitation. “How do you usually greet mortals? Especially the ones you have business with?”

  Death blushed, embarrassed. He turned toward Mae. “I am terribly sorry. You may rest easy, Maeve Malveaux. My business is further down the line. I have not come for you tonight.”

  The squat creature laughed. “Of course you haven’t, I have. I’ve come seeking you, Mae. I’m here to guide you—”