Trafficking in Demons

by Michael Angel

I grinned as I dug into a pocket and pulled out the cartridge casing I’d found at the Wainwright house. The day that I’d been pushed out of the OME elevator by the pair of uniformed gorillas was also the day I’d examined the thing in the photo and chem labs. There were no physical clues to be gleaned off it. But I was betting that magic could tell me more.

  “Liam, you once used the magical traces you found on a bullet to locate a gun in Magnus’ possession. Think we can try that same spell again?

  Liam chuckled. “And I thought you would ask for something truly difficult.”

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The blazing white of transport faded away until my friends and I were left in complete blackness. Or at least it seemed like it at the time. Galen’s hoof knocked against something before Liam warned him to remain still.

  My eyes slowly adjusted to the darkness. Then a waxy gibbous moon appeared for a moment before it was swallowed up again by the clouds. Galen muttered a quiet trio of words as a little sphere of weirlight winked on in the palm of his hand.

  “That is all I dare risk for the moment,” he said quietly. I nodded and looked around as best I could in the wan light.

  All four of us had followed the vision-quest evoked by Liam’s spell. There were no spells to interfere with the tracking of the Demon. The weapon had been placed in a metallic red case. Said case rested in the back of a large black sedan. And the sedan was parked in front of the house down the hill before us.

  To my surprise, this residence turned out to be only a dozen or so miles to the north and east of the Wainwright house. It too was up in the same pocket of isolated mansions and rugged hill country. That wasn’t necessarily bad news. Between the near-deserted countryside and the darkness of night, it might be easier for my friends and I to get in and out without anyone asking awkward questions.

  I’d asked Galen to bring us to a spot where we could observe the house before going in full-bore. For all I knew, there were magic wards set up to block us. Or guard dogs. Or a half-dozen things that could be even worse. So we crouched amidst the tangled underbrush and listened to the calls of the local screech owls as we watched.

  When I squinted, I could just make out the general shape and color of the house by the shine of its interior lights and a couple solar-powered yard lamps. The place looked as if it were painted chalk white. It had an angular look, with a bunch of large windows along one side. My binoculars were still packed away in a backpack at Shelly’s, which didn’t do me any good right now.

  “Galen, Liam, what do you two think?” I asked, as the two magic-using members of my group quietly went about their work, murmuring their spells under their breaths.

  “I have detected no magic wards in this vicinity,” the Wizard said. “Nor are there other people or animals guarding the house.”

  “And I sense no other magic being used,” Liam added. “There is the channeled lightning-force running in the dwelling down the slope, but none is powering anything outside.”

  That was all good news. It meant my friends wouldn’t be hindered by magical forces or an outdoor security camera system.

  “Can you make out any details down there at the house, Shaw?” I asked. “You’ve got the best eyes of any of us.”

  “Mine own eyes work best when there is some light,” the drake replied. “Thou must bide until the moon emerges from cloud once again.”

  We waited a little more.

  Spring wasn’t far enough along yet to make the Southern California nights oven-hot. But it was just warm enough for anything flying and blood-sucking to hatch. Apparently, between their magical auras, deer fur, lion pelt, and feathers, my companions weren’t bothered by the plague of mosquitos that had descended upon us.

  “Dayna, are you all right?” Liam inquired, after my third slap and curse.

  “It’s just these darned bugs,” I complained. “If this keeps up, I’m going to need a transfusion.”

  “Ah, I see. Well, I’ll just have a word with them.”

  The Protector of the Forest bowed his head. He murmured a barely-audible phrase in fayleene. His antlers glowed dimly for a split second. And the buzzing, biting horde that surrounded me simply flew off and vanished.

  It was useful having someone who could magically speak to nature on your side.

  The moon emerged from cloud again. Shaw rose onto his hind legs, balancing himself with half-outstretched wings. He only remained in that position for a second or two. When he sat back down in the brush, the drake sounded puzzled.

  “I mislike what is going on down there,” he declared. “I saw movement by the side of the house, by the driveway. ‘Twas of the furtive kind.”

  “How many people did you–”

  Liam’s ears pricked up. “Voices!”

  I kept quiet. Now I heard it too. The distant sound of men yelling at each other.

  Then, like a thunderclap, the rat-tat-tat sound of automatic weapons fire.

  Shaw’s talons came out in a snick. A sphere of energy winked on in Galen’s palm. Liam lowered his head and prepared to charge.

  “Wait!” I hissed.

  My friends froze as they heard the urgency in my voice. Galen snuffed out his spell. Liam followed suit. Shaw remained tense, ready to spring into action at a word from me.

  More gunshots rang out from below, but none came our way. The whine of bullets remained distant. The crash of shattered glass. A few moments of silence. And then the sound of a motor starting, humming, and fading away.

  “It appears that we have missed the action,” Galen finally observed.

  “Maybe, maybe not,” I cautioned. “Let’s go down. But stay alert. This might be a trap.”

  Shaw leapt into the air with a massive downbeat of his wings. Liam bounded down the slope with the effortless gait of a white-tailed stag. Galen extended a muscular arm and helped me swing up on his back. He broke free of the underbrush and cantered down the hill at a bone-rattling pace through the waist-high grass.

  As we drew closer, I could make out more details. At least one of the big windows on the side had been shot out. The front door yawed open. A slash of grey granite made up a path that led from the open door down towards the now-empty driveway. Two dark shapes lay sprawled upon that path.

  Liam had stopped by the first of the shapes. Grimshaw’s great eagle form plummeted out of the darkness overhead and landed by the other.

  Galen slowed as we reached the house’s front yard and halted next to Shaw. The griffin reached a forepaw out to touch the fallen form. I slipped off the Wizard’s equine back and squatted next to the big drake. Blood had begun to pool beneath the body.

  “He shall not rise again, methinks,” he said gruffly.

  The fallen form belonged to a lanky, clean-shaven man in his thirties. Whoever it was had a hard look to their face, though their expression was distorted by the gunshot wound which had blown out the back of their skull. He had the same type of sharkskin-gray suit I’d seen on Archer and Harrison.

  Shaw had pulled the side of the man’s jacket back to reveal a shoulder holster. The half-drawn weapon was half semi-automatic pistol, half submachine gun. Whatever it was, I hadn’t seen anything like it before. I let out a low whistle as I got back up.

  “Whoever this was, he was packing some serious heat,” I murmured.

  “The other man had a similar-looking weapon in his hand,” Liam reported, as he joined us. “He’s missing more of his head than this one. And there’s something else of note.”

  “What might that be?” Galen inquired.

  “I can hear someone breathing inside the house.”

  I chewed my lip, considering what to do next. It helped that I didn’t have a whole lot of options.

  “I’m going in,” I announced. “We don’t know if there are interior security cameras. I want you three to wait out here unless I call.”

  “Art thou sure?” Shaw asked. “‘Tis possible that yet more warriors lie in waiting.”

  I shook my head. “Who
ever brought these two guys was deadly serious. If the fight was still going on, we’d hear it. At least one person got away with the car carrying the Demon. And there’s at least one more person inside. Maybe they’ll be willing to answer some questions.”

  Or maybe, my mind helpfully added, they’re just lying low and waiting to plug you as soon as you walk through the front door.

  Chapter Forty-Three

  The night breeze kicked up, making the front door sway on its hinges with a creak. I sidled up to one side of the entryway and pulled my gun from its holster. The house lights were still on, so I risked a glance inside. A blond hardwood floor and matching walls glistened back, though the interior was peppered with bullet holes, shattered glass, and splinters.

  “Hello?” I called out, feeling more than a little ridiculous. “Is anyone alive in here?”

  No response. I crossed over the threshold and cringed as my footsteps crunched through the debris. My nose filled with the burnt smell of nitroglycerin, so pungent that I could taste it on my tongue. I looked back outside, where my friends stood watch. I tried to look confident as I continued down the hall and out of their sight.

  Now I heard it. Ragged breathing.

  My breath caught as I spotted a third form crumpled on the floor. Another gray-suited man lay in a rapidly growing pool of blood. Another exotic handgun lay where it had skidded across the floor.

  I passed the entryway to the kitchen. Cabinet doors hung askew and broken from multiple bullet holes. Shattered glassware and plates caught the light from a nearby window and glowed a pastel lime green.

  The breathing sound grew louder, more rapid. I turned the corner to my left, skin crawling, heart thumping in my ears.

  The next room was more dimly lit. A tulip-shaped torchiere lamp lay askew and broken. Only the ambient moonlight provided the bare minimum of milky-white illumination.

  An executive-sized office desk lay on its side, pockmarked with yet more bullet holes. Computer equipment and power cords lay busted and strewn about as if the house itself had been eviscerated. Spent bullet casings littered the floor.

  My eye settled on the black circle of a gun muzzle. It pointed at me from the shadow of the overturned desk.

  I froze.

  A thin, reedy voice told me what to do next.

  “Drop the gun.”

  I slowly put my weapon on the floor.

  “Kick it away.”

  I made a sideways movement with my leg and sent the firearm skidding into the corner. As I did so, my eyes finally adjusted to the low light. A small man sat in the deepest part of the shadow, his legs lying askew out in front of him.

  He had one hand holding his gun, the other clamped to his belly, a few inches below the rib cage. His light-colored shirt and pants were stained with blood from the midsection on down.

  “You’re not one of them,” he wheezed. The muzzle drooped.

  “No, I’m not,” I said. Out of reflex, I moved forward to see if I could help the man.

  Instantly, his gun came back up to point directly at my face.

  “If you’re not one of them,” he demanded, “Then who are you?”

  But that act of defiance was the last he could muster. The man’s arm trembled, and he lowered it at last. The weapon slipped out of his grip with a clatter. I immediately knelt, moved it out of his reach, and then moved to look at his wound.

  I pulled away the hand he had pressed against his abdomen for only a moment before putting it back. The hole he had covered was horribly wet. And it pulsed.

  “Oh, God,” I muttered, as I felt the warmth of the man’s blood on my fingers as I dug out my phone and dialed 9-1-1. I quickly identified myself and summed up the situation as best I could. I didn’t know the street address, but the dispatcher was able to get the location data off my phone.

  The man gave me a strange look as he rasped, “So, you’re Dayna Chrissie.”

  My eyes flicked to my phone, then back to him. I decided to mute the phone before I answered.

  “Yes, I am,” I said. “Who are you?”

  “Karl,” he breathed. “Karl Nystrom. I know you. Of you, I mean. He told me…about you.”

  “Who told you about me, Karl?”

  “The man who shot me. Damon Harrison.”

  “Why did he shoot you, Karl?”

  “I deserve this,” he mourned. “Got too greedy…for the Demon. Archer’s little baby.”

  The hand Nystrom had clamped over his belly fell away. I didn’t want to cause the man more pain, but without compression on his gunshot wound, he’d bleed out in no time. I placed both of my hands on the gory circle and pressed in firmly to staunch the tide of blood.

  He gasped. The words came out like I’d squeezed them from his lungs.

  “Built it for him. No idea where he got the design. Amazing specs. He hid it from Harrison. Now I know why.”

  “Keep talking, Karl,” I urged, hating myself even as the words came out of my mouth. “Please, keep talking.”

  “Harrison kept trying to weasel it out of me. But I wouldn’t talk to him.” Nystrom coughed, and I felt a fresh warm spurt against the palms of my hands. “I was scared to cross Archer. That man knows things…I don’t know how…”

  “But you did cross him, didn’t you?” I insisted.

  “Wasn’t my fault,” he said, pleading. “I had debts. Big ones. I needed the money. Went to Wainwright to sell. Mose said he’d look it over, so I left it with him.”

  I didn’t say anything. The next part of the story I knew all too well. Nystrom’s breath started coming faster and faster, like a runner who knew that he would never quite catch up.

  “Harrison...and three of his goons…showed up earlier. He said…that he got the Demon. That he was here to tie up…loose ends.”

  Wordlessly, I looked around at the smashed remains of the man’s house.

  “Left two outside. Killed last one…in here.” He crooked a grin as he said, “Nice that I get…to have company…when I arrive in hell.”

  Karl Nystrom’s last breath whistled out. Nothing more pumped from his wound against my hands. He slumped to the side like a rag doll.

  I left a red-brown smear on his neck as I checked for a pulse. My bloody hands came away empty. I got up, retrieved my gun, and retreated down the hall.

  “Dayna, you’re hurt!” Galen gasped, as I went back outside. In an instant, the Wizard, the griffin, and the fayleene surrounded me protectively.

  “Who did this to thee?” Shaw demanded. “I shall tear them asunder!”

  “It’s not my blood!” I said quickly. “It’s Karl Nystrom’s. He told me what he could before he died.”

  Liam’s furry cervine ears flicked back and forth for a moment. “I can hear sirens. They’re quite close already.”

  “I had to call 9-1-1,” I explained. “That’s the number for emergency services.”

  “Then we need to return to the palace, should we not?”

  I shook my head. “You three should return to Andeluvia. I’ll stay here and handle the paramedics’ questions when they arrive.”

  “Very well,” Galen agreed. “When shall we expect you back at the palace?”

  “Tomorrow afternoon. I need to file my report on Nystrom, and I want to stop by First Samaritan to see how King Fitzwilliam is faring.”

  The Wizard nodded. “All important tasks, to be sure.”

  “Best of luck,” Liam added, as he and Shaw moved to stand next to Galen.

  A flash of white light, and they were gone.

  Best of my rotten luck, anyway, my mind said wryly. I pushed those thoughts away as I turned to face the approaching headlights of the ambulance.

  I suppose that I should have been thankful. The way things were going, if I didn’t have rotten luck, then I’d have no luck at all.

  Chapter Forty-Four

  Not for the first time, I wondered if my luck was based on other people’s tragedies.

  An entire squad of ambulances pulled up just as
I walked through the sliding glass doors at First Samaritan. Several people were brought in on stretchers and wheeled directly into the ER. I wasn’t sure what had happened to cause the rush, but it left the local nurse’s station empty once again.

  Since no one was watching, I easily slipped into room 14-D. I made sure that the door closed behind me with a click. The sun filtered in through a set of gauzy green curtains, bathing the room in a soft light. I grabbed the room’s one visitor’s chair and moved it to the far side of the bed so I couldn’t be easily seen through the viewing window set into the door.

  Fitzwilliam lay on his back, sleeping the morning away. His arms had been hooked up to different monitors and his IV was attached to a brand-new bag of solution. The King no longer wore the nasal cannula, and the oxygen tank had vanished. A gentle snore rose from his lips.

  I envied him a tiny bit. I’d gotten some sleep, but I still felt exhausted enough to fall asleep just sitting here.

  Last night, I’d hitched a ride back with the paramedics once they’d loaded Karl Nystrom into the back of the ambulance. I’d thought him dead already, but he was officially listed as DOA by the time the vehicle had pulled into the local trauma center.

  I’d cleaned myself up and talked to the county law enforcement officer at the hospital, then I called Shelly for a ride home. I’d fallen asleep as soon as my head hit the pillow. My dreams were strange, but I couldn’t recall anything from them when I woke.

  The following morning brought more paperwork and questioning by LAPD officers once I showed up at work. Compared to the song-and-dance number I’d come up with on the fly at the First Samaritan ER, this was easy. I first led the officers through the report I’d gotten from Shelly Richardson about finding ‘rock butterweed’ pollen on Max Cohen’s remains.

  I’d then played ‘connect the dots’ between that report and the findings that had been compiled on the Wainwright case. Both Wainwright and Nystrom had worked with Crossbow Consulting. Both men lived in the same general area – a high elevation outside of downtown Los Angeles, where rock butterweed could grow.