No More Devils: A Visit to Superstition Bay

by Benjamin LaMore

  “Can you do me a favor,” I ask nicely, “and find Adam Farelli? I need to see him.”

  “And who are you, sir?” See? Perfect manners, too.

  “Just tell him it’s the only guy in town who would bug him at this kind of scene.” I don’t want my name banded carelessly about over the airwaves. “Tell him it’s urgent and that it pertains to this crime.”

  “Sir, I’m not even sure…”

  “He’s here,” I cut in, breaking the manners truce we’d established but we may not have time for niceties. Officer Blanchard looks miffed, but he bites back his natural, four-letter response and falls back on his police academy training and remains courteous. He turns his face towards his shoulder mike and speaks quickly.

  Moments later I can spot Adam’s bulk steering our way from inside the building. He’s a big man, but in a very different way from Sota Gamagori. Adam is soft through and through. He’s never met a drive-thru he didn’t like and thinks treadmills are for mice. You can usually figure out his last meal based on what’s dripped onto his shirt, but his mind is sharper than a shark’s tooth.

  For many years he and I danced around each other. He knew that I was more than I let on, and I knew he was more than he realized. It wasn’t until fairly recently that we’d connected, and I’ve been using that time to help open his eyes to the true nature of the town he lived in and protected. It’s a difficult waltz, though, whenever his partner is around.

  Lance Matthiassen is a prototype cop. He’s mechanical in thought and deed, with just about as much emotional scope. If it weren’t for the fact that I’ve seen him bleed I’d think he actually was a machine, one of those futuristic models that always seem to develop when the computers gain intelligence and make a play for world domination. I know he’s got military service in his background and I bet he loved every grinding, dirty moment of his training. It’s carried over into his personal life – I’m willing to bet he uses a ruler to keep his flat-top in line. Fortunately for us all, he’s not with Adam at the moment. So much the better.

  “Ian,” Adam says when he finally gets to us. He reaches across the wooden barricade and we shake hands, then he moves the barrier aside to let me through. When Hollett and Nariko slip in on my coattails his face locks up and his hand moves towards his belt. I make sure to keep myself in between them.

  “It’s all right, Adam,” I tell him. “They’re with me. For tonight, at least.”

  He doesn’t like it, that much is plain to see, but he takes me at my word and nods his approval to Officer Blanchard. Blanchard nods his acceptance and lets us pass. As we do, Blanchard makes eye contact with me and smiles. “Merry Christmas, Mr. DeLong,” he says as we pass by.

  His canine teeth are a little longer than normal. Normal for a human, that is. For a werewolf, long canine teeth are just part of the package, especially if they’ve spent too much time on four legs. Damn it. Hollett takes note of my sour face, but I sweep him into Farelli’s wake as we head towards the ruined building without saying a word.

  “So much for Parkman Gems,” I say once we’re past Blanchard. “I’m surprised Captain Bayle’s not here.”

  “He’s on his way. Man as big as him, he don’t start up easily. Needs to build up some momentum.”

  “How’s the kettle look from your vantage point?”

  “Um, excuse me,” Hollett cuts in. “Parkman Gems?”

  “As in Renee Byron Parkman,” I tell him. “As in Mrs. Mayor Richard Parkman.”

  “Ah,” he says.

  “Captain Bayle gets here, this place is going to become a circus.” Adam adds.

  Captain Martin Bayle is the nominal head of the SBPD. Technically, Sheriff James D’Abo is the top of the food chain when it comes to police operations, but as a general rule he’s too preoccupied with public appearances and playing golf with Mayor Parkman to attend to much in the way of police work. Bayle is a squat, acne-scarred pigheaded bully and a bone-deep prick, but when it comes to human law he’s the last word in this town. It’s just lucky for me and the members of the Grey that he’s not aware of what goes on behind the scenes in his town. Right now, with his friendship with the Mayor possibly at risk, he’s double-timing it down here, and His Honor will be right at his heels. We don’t have much time.

  “Where’s Math?” I ask. I’d only say that when Matthiassen wasn’t in earshot. For some reason he hates when people shorten his name.

  “Interviewing witnesses over in that donut place over there.”

  Trust Adam to know the whereabouts of the closest pastry shop. “What are they saying?”

  “Nothing concrete,” Farelli says. “Just a couple of kids who happened to be walking past when the building blew up. There was some kind of explosion, we can tell that by the debris field, but there’s no fire or traces of any residue.”

  “You can tell that already? You’ve only been here a few minutes.”

  “You smell that?”

  I sniff the air but get nothing but dust. “No.”

  “That’s just it. No fire. No chemicals. No nothing. Hell, the sprinklers never even came on. It’s like the ground just had enough and popped like a zit.”

  “Great analogy, Adam. Not gross at all. Anyone been inside yet?”

  “Only around the perimeter. There’s one hell of a big hole in the showroom floor. We’re waiting for someone to tell us the foundation’s not going to fall in on itself before we send anyone any further in.”

  “Perfect. My friend here,” I jut my chin at Hollett, “used to work construction. He can check it out for you.”

  “Really?” Adam looks at Hollett with glaring doubt.

  “Yes,” Hollett deadpans.

  “You’re going to need a better story than that if you want to make it stick. Go ahead in. Make it quick, though. Bayle’s building that momentum. What about Athos and Porthos here?” He turns to Hollett and Nariko. “I’ve seen you two around. You work for Clive Reese, and you’re Sota Gamagori’s kid. What the hell are the two of you doing running around together? I thought you guys were oil and water.”

  “Adam, I’m sorry about the cliché, but it really is a long story. I promise I’ll tell you about it next time, but right now we’re on the clock.”

  “Yeah, I get it. Go do what you have to do. Just don’t forget it’s your turn to spring for the pizza. And no more margaritas. Jamie makes ‘em way too strong.”

  “Jamie sounds interesting,” Hollett says under his breath quietly.

  “You don’t know the half of it. You’ll keep Math off us?”

  “Don’t take too long. There aren’t that many witnesses and he chews them up quick.”

  We thank him and quick-step over to the ruined storefront. Parked neatly in the space nearest the door is Celeste’s Magnum. The rear hatch is still open, the interior speckled with bits of damp earth and tiny crumbs of rock. The kids are here, all right, with their cargo in tow.

  We duck under yellow crime scene tape and slip inside through the shattered plate glass window. Adam was right – there’s no trace of the bitter chemical stink of plastic explosives or the burnt haze of black powder. There’s a choking layer of concrete dust in the air, but no standard explosive put it there.

  The inside of the building is a complete write-off. Yesterday it had been an opulent parlor, tastefully decorated in pale creams and tans with mirrors on every flat surface and several full-length ones at strategic locations across the floor. There were long settees considerately nestled along the walls, perfect for when the prospective buyer needed a break from the ordeal of finding the perfect setting.

  The rear of the building boasts the main display case, a twenty-foot ouroboros that fed itself in a narrow, twisting loop. There had been three display cases spaced out across the floor for maximum exposure, and these were the ones that took the brunt of the damage. Two of the cases look like they’ve been chewed up by shotgun fire, but their damage was done by shards of rock and floor tile. The third is on its side against the r
ear wall, bent vertically in the middle at about a forty-five-degree angle. This one must have been right above…

  Well, clearly it had been above the six-foot-wide hole in the floor.

  “Why is nothing above ground anymore?” I ask.

  “The good stuff is always buried,” Hollett answers. “Now where’s your backup?”

  I look at my watch. “I could only give him a general area where we might be, but I have a feeling he’ll know where to find us. No idea how long, though.”

  “Do we wait,” he says with uncharacteristic generosity, “or do we go?”

  I want to wait, but whatever Kenta and Celeste have in mind for the kiovore is more important.

  “We go.”

  “Marshal, do want to tell me where the bloody fuck we’re going?” The voice is deep and rough, and two feet behind us.

  The three of us jump violently, and at least one of us almost takes a shot at the tall figure standing brazenly behind us. I’m the only one with a gun, so it must’ve been me.

  Erich Gault is about five foot ten, same as me, but while I have to work to maintain my lean muscle mass he just seems naturally blessed by it. Or maybe it’s supernaturally blessed. His tumbledown shock of brown hair spills out from under a wool Saints hat. His blue jeans and jean jacket should look dated and ridiculous, but he’s so casual and relaxed in his manner and so goddamn cover-model handsome that he just looks natural.

  Gault is sergeant now in the SBPD. He’s also a werewolf, and he’s the reason the lycanthropic quota of the police force has been steadily growing. We’ve known each other a long time. And he’s no fan of mine. Last time we were face to face he was trying to turn me into a deleted scene from a nature documentary, one where they show the wolf bring down a kill but cut away from the blood-drenched result.

  “Jesus, Gault. Make some noise next time.”

  “Like you’ve been? I could hear you breathing half a mile away, even through that crowd.”

  “You’re a werewolf. You’re supposed to.”

  He crouches down behind us, smirking at our attempts to be stealthy.

  “Your backup?” Hollett asks, his stare weighing Gault.

  “Such as it is. Gault, this is Andrew Hollett and Nariko Gamagori.”

  Gault doesn’t even look at Nariko. Hollett has his full attention. “Scalpel Hollett? I’ve heard of you.”

  There’s no admiration in Gault’s voice, just a cool appreciation. Hollett acknowledges it with a slight nod. Satisfied, Gault looks back at me.

  “DeLong, you must have a death wish. The one and only reason I’m not biting your throat out right here is that I’m curious as to why you called me. You didn’t have much to say on the phone.”

  “You’re going to get a laugh out of this, Gault, but I need your help.”

  “My help? Are you fucking high? What the hell possessed you to call me for help, of all people?”

  “Cliff’s Notes: Celeste Reese and Kenta Gamagori are somewhere close by. They’ve discovered a forgotten magical superpredator and brought it here. We don’t know why, but they picked this spot for a reason, and we’re pretty sure their plan involves a lot of carnage. Hollett works for the Reese’s and Nariko is Kenta’s sister. Both of their families are outside, but the cordon won’t stop them if things go sideways and I don’t trust them not to do the wrong thing. If it comes to it, I know you’ll do what you have to do to keep the town safe.”

  That steams him, and I can see him weighing my words against whatever he thinks my blood will taste like. If I’ve made a wrong call here I’m pretty sure he’ll kill me. Maybe not right this moment, due to the throng of witnesses outside, but eventually.

  “You didn’t seem to care much about the town when you were letting it be overrun by monsters last summer,” he points out, but I think his badge is starting to overbalance his lycanthropy.

  “You asshole, I was the only one trying not to let it get overrun. And don’t forget, you and your pack were among the monsters there.”

  “That’s enough,” Nariko whispers. Gault and I stop bickering. Somewhere back there I had stepped up to him without realizing, and he’d followed suit. I don’t think either of us realized we had moved until we were breathing each other’s air.

  “Okay,” Gault finally says. “I’ll go with you, just to see what’s going on in there. After it’s done, though, I’m going to disembowel you, and I’m not going to do it fast. Got that?”

  I don’t look at Hollett or Nariko, but Gault does. Neither move overtly, probably unsure of exactly how far their loyalties extend, but Hollett’s thorn wand moves a little closer to pointing at Gault, and Nariko’s knife begins to faintly crackle as if it’s just been electrified. Looks like the walk out will be a lot more interesting than the walk in, but if it means the lovers’ plan gets shot down I’ll take that chance.

  “What is this ‘superpredator’ they’ve found?” Gault asks nobody in particular.

  “A kiovore.”

  “Never heard of it.”

  “It’s a magic-eater. It hunts people with magic and drains it out of them.”

  “Now I know why you brought me in. I’ll make a tasty diversion. Okay, I know Hollett’s rep, so I know he knows his stuff. What can you do?” he asks Nariko.

  Nariko, who has been watching the entrance unblinkingly, turns her head towards Gault with all the emotion of a security camera. She takes a breath and lets it out slowly through her teeth. It comes out as smoke, as if someone lit a furnace in her lungs. Gault looks enraptured.

  “Where’ve you been all my life,” he whispers.

  If it’s possible for a blank stare to go blanker, Nariko Gamagori accomplishes it. If it bothers Gault, it doesn’t show.

  “We’re pretty sure they’ve gone down there,” I interrupt, pointing down the hole. If I don’t pull the conversation back on track we’re never going to get anywhere.

  “Of course they’re in there,” Gault says.

  “How do you know?”

  “Because I’m a werewolf, you idiot.” Gault smiles again, wide enough to show his fangs. “I can smell them. Man and woman. Check that – two men and a woman. She’s wearing some kind of citrus perfume. One of the boys uses Irish Spring soap. The other thinks cologne replaces showers.” He sniffs the air in tiny, spasmodic twitches. “Something else, too. Must be your new monster. Smells… weird. Like a spider. Or a hawk. Or both.”

  “Let’s go find out,” I say, turning to face them as a group. “Okay, here’s the plan. Gault here can pretty much see in the dark…”

  “So can I,” Hollett says.

  “Well, isn’t that great. Glad I knew that ten minutes ago.” I roll my shoulders to relax them. “Hollett, Gault, you two take point. Nariko comes in at your eight o’clock, I’m on your four. Did you bring a gun?”

  “You didn’t say to, and I never felt the need to carry off duty. I’ve got a shotgun in the trunk, but I parked half a mile down the road.”

  “Why?”

  “So I could get past the gawkers without anybody bothering me. Anyway, I don’t need a gun. I’m always armed.” He holds his hands out in front of him. In the moonlight it’s easy to see them twist and spread, the palms flattening and the fingers stretching into monstrous, gnarled digits with a series of sickly cracks and moist pops. Only when the claws slide out of the ends of his fingertips does he moan, and it’s not a sound of pain. He takes a deep, shuddering breath and releases it with sounds that are far too much like a gasp of pleasure for me to feel comfortable with. When he exhales his teeth are visible, crowding his gums like coral grasping for prominence on an undersea hill. They’re far too long and far too sharp.

  “Need a cigarette, friend?” Hollett asks.

  “Maybe after I settle accounts with Ian here.” His voice, already husky from spending so much time in his wolf form, is now a guttural nightmare as it rumbles through his distorted mouth. He’s readying his weapons, that’s for sure, but he’s doing more than that. He’s making
sure I can see them in all their razor glory. Just in case I forgot what, and who, he’d like to use them on.

  I do my best to ignore that. Tomorrow’s problems are for tomorrow. We talk strategy for a minute, then we start.

  Hollett and Gault approach the hole shoulder-to-shoulder. When they’re a few feet away Hollett angles to the left and Gault to the right, moving with military precision. Their teamwork is astounding, and it’s clear to me that they’ve had similar training. I know a bit about Hollett’s, but is there something in Gault’s past I don’t know about?

  Nariko and I give them three seconds before we follow. Now that we’re heading into action my gun feels pitifully outmoded compared to the claws, wand, and knives my companions are sporting.

  Our flashlights won’t penetrate far into the darkness down there, but the stone steps leading down are unmissable. They’re wide enough for two of us to walk down comfortably, cut from what looks like sandstone. They’re remarkably even, regularly spaced and of a general height, evidence of superb craftsmanship given their age. Hell, by today’s standards they’re well done. The only problem is how steep they are. They must be at something close to a forty-five-degree angle.

  The trip down the stairs takes a week. They go down impossibly far, at least two stories into the strata of Superstition Bay. With every step the pressure seems to grow, as if we were descending into a lightless sea. It’s the tension, pressing hard into my nerves with growing weight.

  The air gets colder as we go down, but surprisingly not damper. It’s not like under the barn, not like it should be in a coastal Louisiana town. The chill is crisper, dryer, less natural, a patch of winter in a summer town. Maybe Gault can smell the bodies down there, living and otherwise, but to me the air smells like a disused cellar, lifeless and void. We sink through the dead air until our lights find the bottom.