Ashburn_A [Sub] Urban Fantasy Novel Read online

  I gave the car some gas and sped away, taking a left at the next stoplight onto another main road. Within a single minute, I passed two almost identical strip malls where the main differences were the names of their grocery stores and their Chinese restaurants. However, the next shopping center had a Moon Dollarz, and I was tempted to stop for a much-needed dose of caffeine, since my adrenaline fix from the dog was wearing off. But when I saw the sign for Dulles Airport, I forgot about my java fix and took the on-ramp to the toll road instead.

  With one hand on the wheel and the other on the stereo tuner, I searched for a decent song until I found a station blasting a favorite from the Clash. I leaned back with a grin and pressed the pedal down hard. The Audi responded beneath me, slammed my body into the bucket seat, and in seconds I was cruising 90 miles an hour in the left lane, still in fourth gear.

  Not bad.

  Meanwhile, Joe Strummer was screaming at me through the car’s speakers, wondering whether he should stay or go. But I wasn’t experiencing that dilemma at all. I couldn’t wait to make it to the airport and get my ass back home. Sure, I’d be in someone else’s body, but that was better than the alternative.

  As the car shot down the highway, I tried to smile, but the muscles in my new face were tight and gave way grudgingly, like the guy who owned my body before me hadn’t used them very much.

  A few months ago, I hadn’t been laughing much either.

  I’d been sick for a long time, with the cancer and the treatments eating away at me more and more each day. I wasn’t going to make it much longer, but I didn’t want to die. I mean, no one ever wants to die, but I really didn’t want to. Not because I was afraid of death, but because I wanted a second chance to do things right and to prove to the world I wasn’t just another blip in the history of music—that I was more than my one hit song, the annoyingly popular Yeah, Yeah, No, No, Maybe.

  But the big C wasn’t a nice mistress, and she wore me down, until I was living full-time in a hospital bed set up in my living room-turned-studio. I tried to play guitar once or twice and struggled to jot down some lyrics about how shitty I was feeling. But the chemicals the nurse pumped into my veins took away more than just the pain. They stole whatever energy I had left, and I could barely stay awake, much less do anything creative.

  The doctors couldn’t help me, and I didn’t believe in God, so prayer wasn’t an option either. I had no hope at all until Duane introduced me to Ahriman.

  I started to relive that painful memory, but a red Hyundai almost ran into me, blowing its horn loud enough to wake the dead. The sound snapped me out of my daydream in time to see the sign for the airport exit coming up fast.

  But before I could merge into the right lane, the surrounding air erupted louder than a stack of exploding Marshal amps. And the next thing I knew, I was cruising close to 100 mph on the other side of the road, heading in the wrong direction.

  I swerved onto the shoulder, kicking up a cloud of gravel, trying to keep from plowing into a line of slower moving cars.

  I had no idea what the hell had just happened, but I merged back into traffic, hunkered down, and took the next exit. I kept my foot off the brakes and sped around the cloverleaf until I doubled back and slingshotted across four lanes of traffic, headed for the airport once more.

  It wasn’t long before I saw the sign for Dulles again, and like a vinyl record that kept skipping at the same place in the same song, I heard another loud bang before the car was pointed in the wrong direction again.

  This time I gunned it and neared 110 mph, threading my way between the other cars on the road like they weren’t even moving.

  I passed the exit for the Moon Dollarz and read the sign.

  Ashburn.

  That was the first time I knew the name of the place where I’d woken up that morning.

  As I cruised along, the roadside markers counted down the miles to a place called Leesburg, which I’d never heard of before either. But since my plans for the airport weren’t working out, Leesburg was my new destination.

  I made it five miles before I ran into another loud boom, and once again the Audi was heading back toward Ashburn proper.

  I slammed my palm into the steering wheel, and the inside of the car shook.

  I shouted an incomprehensible curse above the tune blaring from the speakers. The guy in the song was angry about being stuck in a hotel in California and not being able leave. I nodded in agreement, feeling his pain.

  I looked up at the sky, certain that Ahriman was out there somewhere, laughing his ass off.

  When I saw the Ashburn exit on my right again, I slowed down. I wasn’t having any luck getting out of town, and I needed somewhere to collect my thoughts and to think things through.

  I also needed some caffeine, pronto.

  A few minutes later I pulled into the strip mall and parked in front of the Moon Dollarz.

  I eased my way out of the car and shuffled across the parking lot like a zombie in need of a fix.

  “Admission’s free,” I muttered as I opened the door to the coffee shop. “But you gotta pay to get out.”

  Chapter 4

  THE PUNGENT SCENT of roasted java made my mouth water instantly and brought back plenty of memories slinging espresso shots as a barista one summer at a local coffee shop trying to compete with Moon Dollarz. The job had paid crap, but I had plenty of energy and wrote some innovative speed metal ballads that year.

  Smelling coffee beans wasn’t as good as drinking them, but it was a start. Like I’d done so many times before at my local Moon Dollarz, I got in line and stared at the shelf of pastries and drooled over the sugar-laden goodies while waiting for my turn to order.

  The franchised coffee shop was the same as it was in every other city, but smaller, and most of its dozen customers wore running clothes or expensive casual wear and slurped syrup-sweetened dessert drinks while the latest catchy but crappy pop song infiltrated their ears.

  The cute girl working the espresso machine moved like a robot more than a human, but she was quick and knew her drinks. Person-by-person, I inched forward until I was face-to-face with the cashier.

  “Would you like the usual, sir?” he said in a shaky voice.

  I almost asked him what he was talking about before I remembered I wasn’t in my regular body anymore. As far as the kid knew, I was the same guy who probably came into his shop every day and ordered the same thing. But just because I was stuck in a new outer shell didn’t mean I had to be a slave to the last guy’s taste buds.

  “Give me a grande of whatever’s brewing,” I said. “As long as it’s high-test.”

  The kid cocked his head, confused.

  “Make sure it has lots of caffeine,” I said, not even attempting to explain my reference. Normally I was more of a snob about my java. It needed the right beans, the right grind, and the right ratios, but just as important was the water. You’d think using filtered water wouldn’t make that much of a difference, but it really does. But on that morning, I was happy to have any kind of coffee at all.

  He gave me a quick nod that was more like a bow before writing my order on a cup and handing it to the barista girl.

  “This is just a coffee,” she snapped as she tried to hand the cup back to the cashier. “Get it yourself.”

  The cashier glanced at me, then whispered in the girl’s ear. To my surprise, I could hear every word they said as clear as day.

  “That’s him,” he said through gritted teeth. “Make a fresh pot and do it quick.”

  When the cashier turned back to me, I checked the back pocket of my khakis and sure enough—no wallet. I searched my pockets, hoping to find some cash, but I was dead broke.

  I cursed myself for not looking through the house for money or a credit card before I left, and I started to shake—not because I was angry, but because I was afraid I wasn’t going to get the stimulant I desperately needed.

  I sized the kid up and wondered how well he knew the guy who used to own m
y body. I was about to ask him if he could put it on my tab, but he looked away.

  “What can I get for you today, ma’am?” he said to the woman next in line.

  “Listen…Elvil,” I said, interrupting him as I read his name from the badge pinned to his shirt. “I’m a little light on funds right now.”

  He held up a finger to the customer who’d started to place her order and leaned over to me. I met him half-way, even though I had no idea why we were being so secretive about coffee.

  “As always, there is no charge for your drink, sir,” he said.

  I stepped to the side and tried not to act confused while the girl started to brew my coffee.

  The irritating pop song that was playing overhead ended, and another one took its place. I hated it as well.

  The song began like most popular tunes, with a strong beat and a stylized singing voice altered by a computer to be pitch-perfect. The singer was comparing the woman he was in love with to a goddess. After the second line, another track joined in, fleshing out the melody with a chant that sounded like Tibetan monks praying. The singer kept crooning above it all while I rubbed my neck and frowned.

  The kid behind the register must have seen me cringe, because even though he’d finished helping the woman and was on to the next guy in line, he turned his full attention to me again.

  “Did I do something wrong?” he said.

  I shook my head.

  “It’s this song.”

  He gave me a fake laugh and continued to ignore the man who was still trying to place his order.

  “I love it, too,” the cashier said with a huge smile. “Did you hear what happened? The guy who sang it died last night, right before it came out. It’s already being played every hour on the radio, and the video has a million views. Sucks for him, but pretty cool, too, right?”

  I felt a strong urge to make the cashier a mix tape filled with real music and shove it down his throat, but I reminded myself of a few things. First, I didn’t plan on being in Ashburn long enough to make a mix tape for anyone. Also, it was probably illegal to wedge a cassette tape down his throat. And lastly, it would have been a wasted effort, since I was certain he had no idea what a cassette tape even was.

  As the song drilled its way into my brain, I tilted my head, listened more closely, and raised my eyebrows when I realized it sounded like my voice on the recording.

  My head spun as I reached out to the cashier.

  “Let me see the CD case,” I said.

  His eyes opened wide.

  “The song’s on my phone,” he said. “I’ve never even owned a CD.”

  Of course he hadn’t.

  “Tell me the name of the singer.”

  As he fumbled with his smart phone, a guy with a deep voice spoke up behind me.

  “You already know his name.”

  I turned around and saw a tall, refined-looking man in a black suit, with a pointed chin and a wry grin. It had sounded like he was standing near me, but he was sitting at a table in the back of the store.

  “The artist’s name is David Steele,” he said. “You remember him now, don’t you?”

  The monster lifted his shot of espresso and motioned for me to join him.

  I’d never seen Ahriman in his human form before, but I recognized his smell at once—a pungent combination of burnt coal, charred flesh, and sandalwood. It wasn’t a scent I could ever forget.

  Before I knew it, I was in front of his table, rattling off the words Duane had taught me that fatal night when I’d first summoned the demon.

  “I command you, Ahriman, Avestan Angra Mainyu, the destructive spirit, the loathsome one, Druj, the lie, son of Ahura Mazdā, brother to Spenta Mainyu. I command you to do my bidding and release me from this unholy place.”

  That stopped the bastard in mid-espresso sip. He moved his hand to his chest and winced, and for a second, I thought everything was going to be all right.

  Then he laughed so loud that the rest of the customers should have run away en masse. They should have at least been staring. But no one moved or looked up from their drinks.

  “Thank you for that,” Ahriman said with a smirk. “It’s not often I have a chance to have a good laugh. Everyone is usually so serious in these matters. Now please, have a seat and join me for a drink. We have a few items to discuss.”

  Stunned, I sat, not understanding why the demon wasn’t under my power. I’d used the right names, but I hadn’t been standing in a protective circle. Maybe that was it. I opened my mouth to try again, but a cup of steaming coffee appeared on the table in front of me with the name John scribbled on the side of it.

  I glanced behind me at the cashier, but he was at the register, taking someone else’s order. I took a sip of the hot, black liquid as the chorus for the song started up again. Several of the people in the shop sang along mindlessly.

  When the world ends

  With a wound like a whisper

  When the world ends

  Through the pain I will miss her

  When the world ends

  It will break like a blister.

  When the world ends

  All my blood will go with her

  The words were utter crap, and they sure didn’t sound like they belonged to a hit song, but the beat was infectious, and even my traitorous foot started tapping along without my consent.

  “It’s only your first day, John,” he said, pointing at the name on my coffee cup. “It’s normal for things to be rough as you adjust to your new surroundings.”

  “Who the hell is John?”

  “John Starling is the one who gave up his body for you.”

  “Tell him I’m very grateful to him and to you as well, for whatever that’s worth to you, but my name is David. And I’m not having a hard time adjusting to anything other than being trapped here against my will.”

  Ahriman clapped his hands together and let out a roar of a belly laugh.

  “You really don’t remember everything yet, do you?” he said. “Worry not. I have no doubt your full memory will return soon enough.”

  As soon as he said that, images from my past poured into my head, but none of them were good.

  Chapter 5

  I REMEMBERED A SENSE of freedom when the doctors stopped trying to save my life.

  They didn’t say it, but I could tell by the way they acted when I was around. Discussions turned to ways they could make me comfortable instead of different approaches they wanted to try to fight the disease. They’d given up, but I kept looking for a way out. Whenever I could stay awake long enough, I searched the web, looking for any possibility, no matter how slim. I’d already been through all the legal experimental drugs, so I started thinking outside the box—way outside the box. I tried yoga, energy work, acupuncture, even becoming vegan. Nothing worked. Eventually, I turned to a long shot—a glimmer of ridiculous hope that came in the form of Duane—the little brother of my drummer, Mark.

  I liked Mark more than most people. He’d stuck by me even after the money stopped pouring in and was always there to lay down a beat for one of my new songs. But his brother Duane was strange—the kind of guy who wore silver pentacles for jewelry and only wore clothing that was black. At first, I thought Mark was kidding about Duane wanting to help, but he convinced me that talking to his brother couldn’t hurt.

  Turned out, he was pretty wrong about that.

  Duane showed up one afternoon with his mop of hair falling across his forehead and his hands in the back pockets of his skinny black jeans. We talked for a while, and he did his best to offer me hope.

  “I can introduce you to someone,” he said. “A spirit, actually. His name is Ahriman, and he can help, but he wants something in return.”

  I remembered laughing when he said that, right before I coughed up a load of blood. When I finished rattling and hacking, Duane was still there, still looking serious but also afraid.

  “I don’t believe in ghosts,” I said.

  “He’s a spir
it—not a ghost. And you don’t have to believe,” he said. “Not for this.”

  “Where is he?” I asked—my voice raspy from coughing.

  “You have to say yes, first,” he said. “Then I’ll teach you how to call him.”

  Duane turned away, like he was listening to someone I couldn’t see or hear.

  “He says he can’t wait to talk to you.”

  Well, that shut me up. I still figured the kid was full of crap or certifiably insane, but I was dying anyway, so I said yes.

  I memorized the words he taught me. I didn’t understand any of them, but I’d always been good at remembering the sounds of things. The hard part was making the circle. Circles are harder to draw than you’d think. Duane guided me, but I was the one who had to make the shape and the ancient symbols surrounding it, and it took me three times to get everything right. After the preparations were complete, with Duane by my side, I tried to call the spirit, but nothing happened.

  After an hour, the candle burned down until it was black, Duane went home, talking quietly to himself, and I fell asleep.

  I opened my eyes in the middle of the night to the smell of burning. As I peered into the darkness of my studio, I saw a dark shape that wasn’t quite human sitting on its haunches at the foot of my bed. He had the form of a large man with deadly sharp horns protruding from his forehead, and he reeked of dead animal.

  “I summoned you,” I said in a shaky voice, wishing Duane were there so I could punch his face until it fell off for not telling me Ahriman was a large, putrid demon. I’d never seen, much less met, a demon before, but it turned out they were a lot like pornography—hard to define, but obvious when you saw one.

  Ahriman stared at me with fiery red eyes before speaking in a gut-rattling, profondo voice.

  “Death is seeping from your pores,” he said, sniffing the air. “I can smell it.”

  “Are you here to help or to give me compliments?” I said, still nervous, but trying to assert myself. I was the one who had done the summoning after all.

  “I have the power to save your mortal life and grant you a new beginning, if that is your desire. I only ask one thing in return for my services.”