My bike dipped into the parking garage, out of the night and into the concrete cave. My muscles began to relax. My bag of cash pressed into my back, feeling ten times heavier than before. I parked and pulled myself off the seat.

Suddenly, a screeching roar of an engine and screaming horse filtered in from the garage entrance, making me turn my head. The sound was far off but still made me grimace. It was a noise that now haunted the streets of my city, eliciting fear in humans and supernaturals alike. Preternaturally loud and guttural—it sounded like the combined noise of a motorcycle’s beastly engine and a high-pitched screech of a demonic horse just pulled from the fires of Hell.

I’d never seen Dullahan and I never wanted to. He had nothing that interested me and I hoped I had nothing that interested him. I was wary of very few but he made the list. He was an ageless creature that used to haunt Ireland but now haunted my very own city for reasons unknown.

Dullahan had shown up a few weeks back and no one was happy about it. His presence couldn’t be ignored. He rode the streets all night on a black motorcycle that glowed with a hazy red glare. Its sound was atrocious, the decibels alone were enough to accost but the scream of horse noises really put it in a class of its own. I’d heard that the thing was alive in some way, a metal beast with the spirit of a Hellhorse inside.

I’d also heard human bones decorated it, but I didn’t believe everything I heard.

The noise of Dullahan faded and I finally dragged myself up to the tippy top of my golden building. My penthouse was dark, the colors muted in shadows. The silence was off-put by the hum of the refrigerator. I didn’t even stop to look out the wall of glass windows, too tired to enjoy a thousand gleaming sparkles shining from buildings across the city.

The bag slid from my back and plopped to the floor. I’d deal with it later. With a sigh, I finally shrugged off my leather jacket. I slipped my boots and pants off too then padded into the open kitchen, retrieving my most special bottle of Irish Whiskey.

It was from the Aoife distillery, which made its last bottle of whiskey in 1847. What they called Black ‘47 because of the famine. Nothing could beat its smooth taste and spending two hundred grand was worth it. This was my celebratory shot for another successful night of gaining more treasure for my hoard.

The rich amber liquid looked almost like honey in my crystal shot glass. I swallowed it slowly, savoring the brutal warmth as it slid down my throat and settled in my belly. I sent a silent prayer for those long dead.

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