Death in Yellow

So, as some of you may, or may not, know, Jim Anthony, Super-Detective: THE HUNTERS was recently released from Airship 27 Books, and it features TWO action-packed novellas, one by the ever-luminous Micah Harris (The Eldritch Adventures of Becky Sharp) and the other by me, myself and I.

Now, seeing as I'm interested in seeing this book get a good run, I'm going to be nice and give you a taste of my contribution, "Death in Yellow", for free! Read it, and maybe give the book a try, hunh? It's got action, adventure, and yetis. What more do you need? And if you should feel like giving it a nice review on Amazon (where it's also available) or elsewhere, please do go ahead.

DEATH IN YELLOW

1931.

New York at night looked like an ocean of stars from Edgar Phipps’ penthouse balcony. Foam capped waves in the form of snow-encrusted roof tops rose from the sea of light, the crystals of ice glittering like a thousand jewels. But the heir to the Phipps Pharmaceuticals fortune had eyes only for night sky, and the actual stars glittering in its dark embrace.

Phipps was short and pleasantly round, plump rather than obese, and seemingly small for all his weight. Thinning, mussed hair decorated his avocado shaped head and his bubble-cheeks threatened to puff out even further as he smiled at his guest.

“Jimmy, champagne?” Phipps extended the bottle, cork long since popped, and shook it slightly, slopping clear liquid onto the balcony.

“And what exactly are we celebrating, Eddie?” Jim Anthony said, smiling, as he lounged in the doorway. His appearance was in stark contrast to that of his host. He was dark of mien, with thick hair and a broad shouldered, thin waisted build. A loose silk shirt covered his torso and muscular arms and rough-woven cloth trousers the color of pampas grass hid his long legs. His feet were bare, despite the chill of the evening. “They name a new star after you?”

“Even better,” Phipps said, pouring himself a flute of champagne. He drained it and smacked his lips. “A comet.”

“A comet? Well, that’s quite an achievement.” Jim stepped onto the balcony and hopped up onto the stone railing with the grace of a savage, sitting comfortably on the edge despite the snow crusted there, his legs dangling off and over the never-sleeping city. He accepted a glass from Phipps and took a sip. “Quality,” he said, raising the glass in salute. Phipps nodded.

“Only the best. I can afford it. And, I needed to thank you.”

“All I did was help you build the thing,” Jim said, pointing at the telescope standing at one corner of the balcony. It was of unique design, with specially crafted lenses and a one-of-a-kind magnification system. Jim knew this because he had been the one to help Phipps design it, over crullers and a pot of rapidly cooling, bourbon laced coffee. “You came up with it in the first place.”

“True, very true. But I have all of the practical application skills of a jellyfish.” Phipps raised his own glass and threw it back, draining it in moments.

“You’re not that bad.”

“You weren’t singing that tune when I soldered my cufflink to the housing.”

Jim laughed and took another sip of the champagne. It was light and the bubbles popped pleasingly on his tongue. He held up the glass and then looked at Phipps. “So where’d you get this?”

“A speakeasy, where else?”

“The one on third?”

“Where else?”

“Good vintage.”

“As long as it tickles my tongue, I’m happy.”

“Yeah,” Jim finished his glass and shook his head when Phipps shook the bottle. “Moderation, my friend. All things in moderation.”

“Except fame and fortune,” Phipps said.

“Ha,” Jim said, noncommittally. He looked up, past the edge of the roof of the penthouse and into the sky. Snowflakes circled down in an endless dance and Jim felt a momentary flush of pleasant vertigo. His grandfather, the wily old Comanche, said that the stars were holes that the sun had burned into Moon’s blanket to find Coyote.

Unconsciously, his eyes found the distant spire of his own penthouse at the top of the Waldorf-Anthony on Fifth Avenue and he wondered whether Mephito was sitting on the roof, as he often did, communing with the night sky. A chill flashed through him, and an image of Mephito’s frowning face. He shifted on his perch.

“You were out west a while this time,” Eddie said. “Come up with any new philosophical treatises on the psychology of the modern criminal?”

“Not this time,” Jim said. “It was more like recovery. I just needed some time away.” He thought of the Pueblo, his home away from home, far from the urban sprawl. A place where he could more fully be himself. A place where he could commune with his heritage. Both of them.

“Recovery? The great Jim Anthony, murderist extraordinaire, needed some relaxation?”

“Coming to the next meeting of the Gun club, Eddie?” Jim asked, changing the subject.

“Hmmm? Oh, probably.” Phipps, bottle still in hand, was bending down to peer through the telescope. He paused and looked at Jim. “Why do we call it the Baltimore Gun Club anyway? We’re in New York, after all.”

“Tradition,” Jim said. He shielded his eyes. The wind was picking up, and the snow with it.

“Tradition should be geographically correct.”

“I’m sure you could put forth a motion-”

“I’ll stick to finding comets, thanks. One impossible thing a lifetime, I always say. I-” Phipps voice died in his throat, his words stuttering off into silence. Jim said,

“Eddie? What’s wrong?”

“There’s something-” Phipps stopped again, stepping back from the telescope, the bottle of champagne falling from his hand to shatter on the balcony.

Jim turned on his perch even as a shadow fell over him. Finely honed instincts pulsed to the surface of his mind and he reacted without thought, flipping up and off of the balcony rail to land in a crouch near the door. Something landed heavily on the space he had vacated, and a hot animal stink washed over him, carried by the rising wind. Claws scraped the brick as something white glared at them through mad eyes, jaws gaping, brutal fangs glistening.

Phipps screamed and the tableau was shattered. The white thing leapt from its perch with a grunt and shot long arms-impossibly long-towards Jim. Claws dug into his shirt, tearing the skin beneath as it hoisted him easily, swiftly.

Jim’s mind whirled-it was fast, too fast-and he reacted with savage desperation, his legs shooting up, catching the thing in its taut belly. It gave a whuff of surprise and released him. Jim dropped to all fours and shot to his feet, one big fist popping out to catch the thing in its jaw.

“Eddie! Get out of here!”

The thing-the creature-howled and brought both of its own bludgeoning fists down, hammering Jim to his knees. Bleary-eyed, he looked up into its inhuman face even as it grabbed him and hauled him up over its peaked head like a sack of concrete.

“Oh hell,” Jim said.

Then, with a growl, the white thing hurled him from the balcony!