Free Dark Light by Randy Wayne White Page A

from a heavy black leather boot, and scampered toward her.
    â€œI just got bit by a rat,” the injured Rider yelled. “I’m gonna need shots.”
    The other man ignored him. He charged after Sierra.
    She shoved open the tavern door and stumbled inside.
    Three khaki-and-leather-clad men lounged on stools at the bar. Simon Lugg, the proprietor, looked at her.
    â€œSierra?” he said. “What’s wrong?”
    â€œNight Riders,” she got out, whirling to slam the door shut. “Call the cops. Hurry.”
    It was too late to get the door closed, let alone lock it. One of the Riders shoved it open with such force that Sierra was thrown back against the nearest booth.
    The Riders surged into the room. One had a hand clamped to the side of his neck. Both raised their visors higher in order to see in the eternal gloom that was the Green Gate.
    â€œNobody moves, nobody gets hurt,” the first Rider barked. “We just want the woman.”
    â€œSorry, I’ve got a real strict dress code here at the Green Gate,” Simon said. “No tie, no service.”
    â€œShut up, old man,” the second Rider snarled. He reached into the pocket of his black jacket.
    â€œMan, I really hate being called old,” Simon said.
    â€œLook out,” Sierra shouted. “I think he’s got a gun.”
    â€œWho doesn’t?” Simon asked, producing a mag-rez from under the bar.
    There was a moment of profound stillness as both sides contemplated the standoff. The three patrons swiveled on their stools. They studied the newcomers with keen interest.
    â€œWell, well, well,” Mitch Crozier said. “What have we got here? Couple of biker wannabes, you think?”
    â€œNah.” Jeff Duvall shook his head. “Looks more like they just came off a movie set.”
    â€œWhoever the hell they are,” Andy Bunt announced with a toothy grin, “they wandered into the wrong neighborhood.”
    Mitch chuckled with anticipation. The tiny chunk of crystal set into his front tooth gleamed. “That they did.”
    The Riders finally began to comprehend that they had blundered badly.
    â€œWe don’t want any trouble with you guys,” the first one said. “Like I told you, we’re after the woman.”
    â€œCan’t have her,” Simon announced. “She’s a friend. Don’t know how it is with you Riders, but hunters look after their friends.”
    The atmosphere in the gloom-filled bar suddenly shivered with energy. Four wildly flaring balls of green fire materialized directly in front of the two Riders and began drifting toward them.
    â€œGhost light,” the injured Rider said, backing quickly toward the door. He seemed genuinely awed. “Shit.”
    â€œYeah, who would have thought a bunch of washed-up hunters could still pull a lot of green heat aboveground?” Simon said with menacing good cheer.
    Even the most powerful hunters could not maneuver a flaring ball of dissonance energy quickly. At best a ghost could only be driven at about the speed of a fast walk. But the erratic, acid-colored psi fire was scary stuff, especially in a confined space. Sierra knew that even the slightest brush with one of the UDEMs would be enough to knock the Riders unconscious.
    The intruders understood that, too. Swearing furiously, they nearly trampled each other on their way out of the tavern. A few seconds later they disappeared into the fog.
    Inside the Gate, the ghosts winked out.
    The muffled thunder of motorcycle engines sounded out in the street. Two black cycles flashed past the window and vanished.
    Simon made the illegal mag-rez go away under the bar. “You okay, Sierra?”
    â€œYes, I think so.” She collapsed onto the nearest vinyl seat, shivering with reaction. Anxiously, she peered around. “Elvis? Where are you?”
    He bounced at her feet, fully fluffed once more, only his blue eyes showing. She leaned