“If they tried to transform without removing their gear,” Ryan mused, “then yes, we have an issue with the intelligence of new recruits to the Pack.”
Fred timed his next comment carefully—he waited until Ryan had lifted his mug to his mouth before saying, “Or you need to stop recruiting people at BDSM conventions.”
Ryan spewed beer across the table, while Fred blew on his fingernails, then polished them on his jacket.
“You got me there, dwarf,” Ryan said, offering Fred his hand to shake.
“I wouldn’t try the grip game, Ryan,” Lou said. “Fred’ll win, you’d have to transform to heal, and we’d lose time.”
The dwarf and the therianthrope shook hands, cautiously.
“The issue being the…who are these clowns anyway?” Ryan asked.
“The magic used in the implants is Akkadian,” I said. “Think Tiamat and Abzu.”
“I’ve never heard of Abzu. Tiamat, however…hmm. You mean the multi-headed dragon god from Dungeons and Dragons?” Ryan asked.
“No,” Dalma said with a sigh. “She means the ancient mother goddess of dragons and chaos, from her udder to the skull on her head.”
“Udder?”
“Apparently ancient Chaos Goddesses don’t have to follow the rules,” Dalma replied dryly.
“Sounds more like they lacked good taste,” Ryan said. “If they’re the source of the implants, they’re the source of the problem.”
“Tell me about it,” Lou said, rubbing his neck. “I’m still waiting on an expert to arrive from Europe to remove this thing.”
“We could try a spell,” Ryan offered.
“What spell? I’d really rather keep my head in place, you know what I mean?” Lou replied. “I might be able to survive having one of my carotids blown out, but almost a hundred years of living tells me the pain is going to really suck.”
“Yes, well,” Ryan said.
My phone went off. I looked at the number—it was the office.
“I’ve got to take this,” I said. Before I could answer it, the entire team’s phones started going off.
I got a text—REPORT TO THE OFFICE NOW.
“That’s a wee bit abrupt,” Fred said, shoving his phone back into his pocket. “I take it we all got the same message?”
“Yes,” I said, “which in and of itself is odd. Usually team leads get the message and spread it if their teams are out and about.”
“Ryan, is there a back door to this place?” Lou asked as the lights went out.
I’ll give the band this—they kept playing. The lead singer incorporated a couple of hand passes into her song and the band, at least, had power to their instruments. Other than that, the Howlin’ Coyote was as dark as the inner pits of Hades.
“Really?” Fred threw back his head and laughed, thrusting something at me.
It was a pair of night vision goggles. I slipped them on and reached behind my jacket, drawing the 1911 Jesse had given me last year.
“Report?” I said.
“Malone, ready,” Singh said. I could see, through the modern magic of night vision, that the big Sikh had a kirpan in one fist and his favored pistol, a Model 29 S&W, in the other.
“Tortelli up,” Dalma said—she’d gathered most of my team, and they were facing away from the table, across the dance floor, into the crowd.
“Tyrion and Grumpy, ready,” Fred shouted.
The dwarfs had sprouted weapons—the jackets they wore incorporated features that hid weapons, after all, and as with the Sikh, weapons were “religious artifacts” with dwarfs. Although I wasn’t sure where, exactly, Andre had hidden the double-headed axe he was lightly tossing into the air.
Something slammed into the roof.
“Well, one thing we know,” I said, watching the crowd flow toward the exits.
“What’s that?” Lou shouted over the sound of the roof creaking, as whatever was there tried to pull it off.
“We’ve pissed somebody off. Jesse will be so proud when we rescue him,” I replied as one corner came off the building, and an eye the size of a trashcan lid peered in through the hole.
“Draken!” one of the dwarfs shouted.
The dragon enlarged the hole in the roof, forcing its head inside.
“Scatter and protect the patrons!” I shouted.
By this point, even Parade of Stimulants had decided that Falstaff was probably correct, and discretion was the better part of valor. They’d abandoned their instruments and were trying to make it to the exit. The dragon saw the movement and snatched the drummer with a claw.
“FUCK THAT!” Dalma shouted, emptying her pistol into the beast’s eye.
The thumb-thick bullets splashed ichor everywhere as they blasted into the eye, and by the time she’d pulled the trigger the fifth time, the eye had disintegrated, spraying goo everywhere. The dragon dropped the drummer and slammed its head through the ceiling, spraying steel and roofing material into the night.
We all took cover around the room.
“A back door would be nice,” Fred said, joining me behind the bar.
“It’s jammed, too,” Lou said, pointing.
The dragon screamed its rage into the night before getting serious about removing the roof.
“What the hell is Ryan doing?” I asked.
The druid stood in the middle of the cleared space, shaking his head. He made a few quick passes with his hands and pulled a staff from somewhere, which he shook in the dragon’s face before slamming it into the dance floor three times.
“Get away from any wood!” Ozzie shouted over the roar of the dragon.
The dance floor erupted in new growth. One minute it was boards, the next it was young trees, spiraling upward to entangle the dragon. The dragon snapped off the growth, but there was always more. Somehow sensing that Ryan was the cause, it turned its head toward him and lunged. Ryan danced back, tripping over the remains of the low railing that surrounded the dance floor.
The dragon, sensing victory, lunged again, grabbing Ryan in its jaws. Ryan shouted something in a mix of Elvish and proto-English, and the dragon’s jaws stopped tightening.
The spells, shots, and so forth seemed to confuse the dragon. It tried to crunch Ryan again, only to have its bite stopped by the spell Ryan used.
“Dead or alive, Diindiisi?” Fred asked, pointing to the dragon.
“Alive, preferably,” I replied.
“You heard the Foreman, mine brothers! She wants the dragon alive!” he shouted.
The dwarfs swarmed from under tables and behind the bar. Fred stood on the dragon’s blind side, hands forming a stirrup. Andre ran up and placed a foot in Fred’s hands. Fred grunted and tossed Andre up—Andre grabbed the frill hanging behind the dragon’s ear and climbed up. In short order, Fred repeated the step-toss dance with the remaining dwarfs, and then climbed up a support pillar and hooked himself through the hole the dragon had torn in the roof.
“Huh,” Lou said, watching the dwarfs go to work. “Never seen dwarfs who were that acrobatic. Usually you see that kind of shit with elves.”
The dwarfs were hammering at the dragon’s head and neck—it still hadn’t released Ryan, but it was starting to look even more confused. Finally it reached the same conclusion as the crowd had earlier and spat Ryan to the floor. When it did, Fred landed on its snout, ran along it, and punched the dragon right between the eyes.
My eyes watered in sympathy.
“Now, you scaly bastard, you’ve got a choice,” Fred said in a sepulchral voice. “We can keep fighting—I’m pretty sure you’ve noticed my boys have all set pitons in your overgrown lizard ass and are locked on to you—so even if you fly away, you’re stuck with us.”
The dragon shook itself, albeit gently. The dwarfs clung like ticks, and Fred rode the shaking like a ship’s captain on a tossing deck. When it stopped moving, Fred punched it again, his hand striking the dragon between the eyes like a maul driving a post into the ground.
The dragon winced at
the second blow.
“Enough,” it said. “I yield.”
“Behave, then.” Fred looked down at me. “You want it in the street?”
“That should work.”
“Meet you outside,” Fred said, turning back to the dragon. “You heard the lady. Street. Land gently, as if you’re carrying your momma’s sainted china. No landing on the crowd or anything like that, either.”
The dragon backed carefully out of the hole. There were a pair of wing beats and a muffled thump.
“I’ve got to go take the dragon into custody,” I said, watching Ryan rise out of the wreckage of the stage. Someone owed Parade of Stimulants a full new kit—drums, speakers, and all.
“I’ll see what I can get out of Ryan,” Lou said to my back as I went out the door.
Late night in Austin, even on a Sunday, there’s always someone around for street theater—even if it’s only the late, lamented shade of Leslie, Austin’s resident cross-dressing street spirit, haunting the environs around Sixth Street in his leopard-print skirt and six-inch pumps. Tonight there was the crowd from the Howlin’ Coyote and a few frat types from UT, who were out squeezing in the last little bit of weekend they could get before going back to class on Monday. None of them were insane enough to close to touching distance with the dragon, however.
“Ah, Diindiisi, be a love and take Tatsuo’s parole, would you?” Fred asked.
“Why can’t you take it?”
Fred frowned. “Hierarchy. She heard me call you ‘Foreman,’ therefore you’re the boss. And she can only surrender to the boss.”
“Ah,” I said, stepping closer.
Tatsuo lowered her head, placing it on the ground, then reached out and lifted me with one forefoot so I was standing on her nose.
“Say it,” Fred said.
“I surrender, Mistress Foreman,” the dragon said in passable English. “Do you accept?”
“Yes,” I replied.
“Might I humbly request your other minions remove their pitons so I might change into a less obvious form?” Tatsuo asked.
“Fred?”
“Right, Foreman. Out spikes, boys. Tatsuo, this is probably going to hurt.”
“Yes, I’m aware of that,” the dragon replied. “You’re just lucky I was hopped up on adrenaline when you put them in.”
“What about your eye,” I asked, jumping lightly down from the dragon’s muzzle.
“It should heal, given time and food,” Tatsuo replied. “That which doesn’t kill us makes us stronger.”
“Fuckin’ Nietzsche was an ass,” Fred said from the far side of the dragon. “You’re clear, I’ve counted the pitons.”
Tatsuo turned to me. “May I?”
“By all means,” I replied.
There was a shimmer, and the omnibus and team-sized dragon was replaced by a petite Eurasian woman in a red silk dress. Her long, dark hair covered the missing eye quite easily.
“You know, if we got you a patch and you switched the hair to the other eye, you could be an anime ace,” Ozzie said.
“I hate anime,” Tatsuo replied. “Things are bad enough being a ‘cute’ half-Asian girl in human form. But the otaku make my skin crawl.”
“I didn’t know,” Ozzie said.
“How would you? We just met. Just don’t expect me to go around shouting things like ‘Kawaii’ or wearing cat ears, okay?”
“Understood,” I replied, even though the cat ears comment went over my head. “I know you said it would heal, but let Ozzie look at your eye.”
“Yes, Foreman.”
“You don’t have to call me Foreman, you can call me Diindiisi,” I said.
“Yes Fore…I mean, Diindiisi,” she replied, crouching down so Ozzie could inspect her socket.
“Area’s secure,” Dalma said. Singh followed, my go bag in his hands.
They had both found time to gear up. I sighed and put on my armor and weapons.
“They’re going to want to talk to you back at headquarters,” I said to Tatsuo as my head came through the armor.
“Yes, Diindiisi. However…”
“However?” I asked, arching an eyebrow.
“However, there are things about a dragon surrendering you’re going to need to know,” Fred supplied. “Like, you have to be there for the questioning, and they can’t do anything to her they wouldn’t do to you.”
“Someone needs to call a lawyer,” I said.
“Already taken care of, Foreman,” Fred said.
* * * * *
Chapter 7 – Jesse
“Either way, Sneezy knows I’m here,” I said.
Mel shook her head.
“What?”
“I’m amazed at how little you’ve changed,” she replied. “Only you would refer to an ancient priest of Nergal as ‘Sneezy,’ like he was one of Disney’s dwarfs.”
I gave her my best grin before touching the scroll. “If it would help, I can think about my last meeting with my bishop after you died. I almost gave him a heart attack, he got so angry.”
“No, that’s fine.”
When Mel used that tone, it was an indication that the discussion was over. Period. Well, until she wanted to bring up my flip attitude about life six months from now.
The scroll changed, showing major events from my life. I lifted my fingers.
“You know, it figures you’d be hung up on that,” Mel said, pointing.
That was her death.
“Look, I talk to the shrinks about it regularly. I just haven’t, you know, worked all the way through it yet,” I said, shrugging.
“Well, now’s as good a time as any,” she said, walking around the table to where I sat.
“What’re you going to do?”
She placed one hand on my shoulder and one hand on my face. “We’re going to look at things from a different perspective.”
She pushed.
* * *
“Jesse’s doin’ ok for himself.”
Ahead I could see the apartment where Mel and I had lived after I graduated from Seminary and the Tundra I’d bought when I got out of the Corps.
What the hell is going on, and who said that?
Stop worrying. You’re seeing this from Jed’s point of view, the answer came back.
Somehow I knew the message was from Mel.
“He’s probably not paying for this place on what recently graduated priests make,” Terry replied. “Want to bet who’s paying for it?”
“No, I don’t,” Jed answered, looking at the big Folex watch he’d bought while we were still in Iraq. “I really hated doing this while I was in the Corps. Doing it now isn’t much better.”
Huh. I figured he had a glad on when he delivered the message—after all, I joined QMG that afternoon, and he’d been pushing for that since I left the Crotch.
“Someone has to tell him the truth,” Terry replied. “APD and DPS are just going to blow smoke up his fourth point of contact, you know?”
“Yeah.” Jed sighed, walking up the short path to the front door and ringing the bell.
It was weird as hell seeing my own face when I opened the door. A look of “not this shit again” crossed it before I spoke.
“Gunny? What brings you to my neck of the woods?”
“Jesse, can we come in? This isn’t something you want to discuss on the front porch.”
“Sure, come on in. Mel should be home in a bit; she had to run some samples up to Temple.” I watched myself lead the parade into the living room. “Can I get you something to drink?”
“Not yet,” Terry said, taking a seat on the couch.
“Not yet?” I asked.
“We need to discuss a few things first,” Jed replied. “You know who I work for, right? This is my second team lead, Reverend Terry Polk.”
“Reverend,” I said, shaking her hand. “Gunny, what the fuck, over?”
Jed grinned at that. “You never were one for bullshitting around, were you? I need you to look at this.”
&nbs
p; He handed me a large manila envelope. I undid the clasp and shook out the contents—a phone in a pink OtterBox, and a driver’s license that had reddish smears on it. I flipped the license over.
“Gunny, this shit ain’t funny,” I said, looking at Mel’s photo. A large, bloody fingerprint covered her face.
“Not meant to be funny, Jesse. There was an accident on I-35 this afternoon,” Jed replied. How the fuck do I tell him his wife, who waited all those years for him, is in the hands of a lich?
“There was an accident?” I asked, sinking into a chair. “So you found her body? And the cops sent you because?”
“The cops sent me because QMG got called to the scene. There were some…anomalies on site.”
“What kind of anomalies? Ghouls, like in Iraq?” I asked, Mel’s ID clutched like the precious thing it was.
“Two ghouls, a minor vampire, and their human minder,” Reverend Polk said.
“Say what? How the hell did she run into that?” I asked, turning on Jed. “I thought it was your job to keep that kind of thing from happening.”
“Do you know how many supernatural creatures are out there? How many there are compared to how few of us there are holding the line against them?” Jed asked.
“Gentlemen, and I use that term loosely,” Polk said, “we think, and DPS concurs, that there was an eighteen-wheeler with the ghouls and the vampire in the box. From the looks of her car, there was a collision, and the vamp and the ghouls got out. Somewhere in all that, Mel got grabbed and tossed on the truck.”
“You think?”
“Right now that’s all we’ve got. Her personal effects were scattered on the ground next to her car. I recognized you on the landing screen of her phone,” he replied. “We’re trying to find her, but…”
“Yeah, I remember the brief after we got back to Al Taqaddum,” I replied. Officially everyone had come back from that mission, one way or the other. Unofficially, we’d left three guys in that hellhole in the ground when the fighters blew it into a crater. “What do we do?”
Last Call Page 4
