Axes and Angels: A Snarky Urban Fantasy Novel (Better Demons Series Book 1)

by Matthew Herrmann

  I grunted in frustration as I glanced at the dirt piled up beside the hole I now found myself shoulder-deep in. How much deeper was this casket buried?

  “Can we leave now?” Simon twiddled his tiny fingers. “It’s against the law to dig up graves. Also … um … it’s sacrilegious.”

  “My middle name is sacrilegious,” Garfunkel said from my left shoulder.

  I exhaled loudly through my teeth. Men …

  Of course, Simon and Garfunkel weren’t men. They were 5-inch-tall mythical creatures in Ken doll suits who just looked like men. But they did have the required male parts. They couldn’t be more different in personality … except for the heels. They both loved Barbie heels.

  And no, Simon and Garfunkel weren’t their real names. But they were unwilling to give me their actual ones, so the folk-rock duo seemed fitting.

  Simon was the slightly shorter of the two and had thinning grey hair, while Garfunkel sported a fro despite being well into his own balding process. They were dead ringers for the singers ... although neither could actually sing.

  I would take a root canal over their hell-inspired version of “The Boxer,” any day—

  Crunch.

  I slammed down the shovel once more into the nearly six-foot-deep hole.

  Crunch.

  Had this not been my first grave-digging operation, I might have expected a solid thunk or even a ding like you hear in the movies. But the fact is, depending on the wood of the casket a hundred years really takes its toll. Also, most graves are only three or four feet deep—not six, as romanticized by film and literature.

  Apparently these gravediggers didn’t get that memo.

  I cleared the rest of the dirt off the coffin’s top and raised the shovel over my head like Excalibur.

  “I love this part,” Garfunkel said.

  “I can’t watch,” Simon said.

  Orion hopped off the tailgate and looked expectantly down at me while wiping his callused hands clean on his jeans.

  “Here goes nothing,” I said, more for show.

  I clove into the top of the coffin with the shovel’s blade.

  Most people think skeletons last many years. Actually, after a hundred years they turn to powder, something about the breakdown of collagen in the bones. So what I was looking at were flattened, dusty remains in a decomposing formal suit, two lines of powdered residue crossed over the chest in Lazarus fashion. And there, resting just over where the heart had once been …

  The ring.

  “Guardians of the Gal—er, Cemetery”

  Silver band. Blue sapphire. Arcane engravings around the band.

  It was gorgeous in the moonlight.

  I set the shovel up on the grassy ledge beside me as I slipped on a glove so as not to make contact with my bare skin.

  Orion and I weren’t gravediggers—we were more like treasure hunters. We found things, if the price was right.

  I reached down.

  “Wait.”

  I looked up at Orion, who sniffed at the wind before nodding for me to proceed.

  I lifted the ring and turned it over in the moonlight.

  And then the earth started shaking.

  GoneGodDamn …

  “Uh Theo, you need to get out of the grave!” Simon said.

  Too late. As fast as I was, some magical essence had swirled the dirt piled up at the side and slung it at me in a feral whirlpool, burying me in two seconds flat with dirt up to my armpits. Luckily, I’d raised my arms over my head before they could be buried as well, the sapphire ring clenched in my gloved fist.

  “Orion,” I said as I glared up at him. He already had his compact crossbow in his hands. “What are you doing?”

  His features were tense, eyes avoiding mine completely as they swept the surrounding cemetery and the tree line of the woods wrapping us for miles in all directions.

  All around me, the dirt sucked at my skin and clothes, compressing my chest, my lungs, my legs. I don’t like tight places. And I don’t like being smothered by dirt like quicksand. (In my line of work, it happens to me way more often than you might think.)

  “Damnit, Orion. Say something. What is it?”

  He held up a callused palm for me to be quiet.

  Damn that man and his good hair and brown eyes and rugged looks. But mostly that hair …

  “Theo, I’m scared.”

  “Everything will be alright, Simon,” I said.

  “When do I get a crossbow?” Garfunkel asked excitedly.

  “Uh, never. Now someone tell me what in the hell is going on. Is this ring cursed?”

  “Most definitely.” Garfunkel scanned the cemetery from his position atop my barely-exposed shoulder. A fog began to creep out of the woods, seething upward from the ground. No doubt masking the approach of whatever entity was coming to finish us off.

  “Orion, you and I are going to have a little chat after this.” I didn’t care if he shushed me, and he didn’t. Which kinda made me mad.

  A sucking sound emanated from the dirt-filled rectangular grave I was chest-deep in, just in front of me.

  A specter garbed in a crimson, satiny robe rose up from the grave, slinking toward me like a greenish, smooth-skinned phantom—which is exactly what it was—until it was inches from my face. It drifted about in unsteady jerks and twitches, stopping just before it reached me and cracking its neck both ways with a series of popping creaks. Its wispy hair floated like dandelion seeds on a dry breeze, its eyes pearl-white marbles.

  It brought itself to within an inch of my nose before rearing its ghostly head back and … I don’t know, sneezing right at me.

  I held my breath until its own breath dissipated. No way in hell was I going to breathe that in. I stared directly through the ghostly face before me to where Orion had been standing moments before, but he was gone. Grr. I turned to my familiars as the ghost raised a skeletal finger to my cheek before wafting upward and performing a slow and silent somersault directly above me.

  My eyes flicked over to the shovel beside me, but I didn’t think I’d be quick enough. “Guys, what the frick is that?”

  “A lich king,” Simon said dutifully, then passed out on my right shoulder while Garfunkel clasped his hands in eager anticipation on my left, his eyes wide with delight.

  “A lich king?”

  Garfunkel licked his lips. “Yeah. You know, like from Dungeons & Dragons. Hit points 400. Strength 20. Dexterity—”

  “Yeah, yeah. I get it. So how do we kill it?”

  The lich king, if it heard me, showed no sign; it slithered about in the air above me before gliding back down and wreathing its effervescent frame about me. Its tongue flicked out at me like a snake’s, then it sneezed once more and it no longer wore a regal crimson robe. It looked more like a tattered gypsy shawl. And no longer were its cheeks smooth and greenish; they were patchy and sunken and covered with moss. So too did its long, flicking tongue, which had holes like swiss cheese.

  “You paltry mortal … what hubris to disturb the Ring of Adamas …”

  “Hey, watch who you’re calling mortal, you mortal,” I said.

  What can I say? I’m good with words.

  The lich king studied me with cataract-glazed eyes.

  The quicksand continued constricting my body, but I stood my ground—er, you know what I mean. “Yeah, you heard me. The gods have left. And you’re no longer immortal.”

  The lich king opened its ghostly mouth. Didn’t say anything.

  “You did hear the gods’ message that night, right? ‘Thank you for believing in us but it is no longer enough …’ ”

  The lich king’s head bobbed yes, and I thought I might have seen a tear at the corner of one eye.

  “I mean, LK, aren’t you at least a little scared of us? I can call you LK, right?”

  The lich king glared at me. “Dost thou mock me?”

  I caught a whiff of the ghost’s breath. I couldn’t help it—I had to breathe. Crazily enough, it smelled minty. “Moc
k you? No. I’m saying I can kill you,” I bluffed. “If I want to. So don’t give me any cause to.”

  “Then drop the ring. It does not belong to thee.”

  “Oh yeah? And it belongs to some wealthy patriarch who’s been dead for over two hundred years?”

  “Yes. I was set in place to guard it. Relinquish the ring, or I shall be forced to reduce you to bones.”

  “Cool!” Garfunkel said.

  Shit. This is not how I was planning on leaving this world …

  “You have untilith I count to ten.”

  Really, they counted to ten in ancient times? Who knew?

  “One. Two. Three …”

  Damnit, Orion. Where are you? He wasn’t one to flee from a battle; he was as loyal as they came. Usually …

  “Four, three, two, one.” The lich king took another deep, minty breath. “Thy time has expired. Any last words before I strip thy flesh from thy bones?”

  I caught a flash of movement in my periphery, and then Orion was standing at the edge of the filled-in grave, the full moon glinting off the crossbow in his steady hands.

  I cleared my throat, my arms still suspended awkwardly above me. “Yeah I would like to say something.” I paused, allowing Orion time to line up his shot. “What kind of gum do you chew?”

  “Gum?” the lich king rasped.

  Thunk.

  “Aaarrgghhhhh!” The lich king’s body collapsed forward, its old ratty hands passing through my chest. It reared back, its mane of inglorious tangly hair lifting airily like Medusa’s snakes. A pale, faintly glowing crossbow bolt protruded from its back.

  The lich king drew out the bolt from its back and scrutinized the dark-tipped, bladed broadhead. Its mouth opened wide, and I prepared for its undeadly scream.

  “Ouch,” it said. “Is this what mortal pain feels like?”

  “Yeah,” I said. “You want another bolt?” I glanced past the phantom at the crossbow held snug against Orion’s shoulder.

  The lich king felt at its back with its translucent, mossy, clawed hand. His cloudy eyes rested on his fingertips, spotted with brownish blood, as he considered his options: a painful fight or retreat. He shook his head and with a heavy sigh, spoke. “No. I shall not face death for such a trinket. Thou may take the ring. As thou says, its previous owner is dead and, barring miracle or curse, will never rise again. But heed my words, human … should he rise, I will come for thee and thy ring.”

  “That’s fine,” I said, staring up at Orion. “What the hell did you shoot it with? I mean, he gave up pretty easily.”

  “Indeed, I did,” LK agreed.

  “Ghost-killing crossbow bolts.”

  “Yeah, but how?”

  “Those ingredients I had you procure for me the other day. What did you think the ectoplasm, fairy dust and death cap powder were for?”

  “Um … some weird hobby of yours I don’t want to know about? I don’t know.” I paused. “I can’t believe you used me as bait!”

  Orion dropped his head. “I wasn’t a hundred percent sure the grave was booby trapped—”

  “But you had a pretty good idea—”

  Awwhoooooo!

  My skin crawled at the suddenness and prolonged nature of the wavering wolf howl splitting the night air. I glanced up at the full moon. “What the frick was that?”

  The lich king scrunched up his decrepit face and bowed embarrassedly. A green flap of glowing skin fell to the cemetery floor as he straightened. Cleared his throat. “That would be the legion of werewolf ghosts I summoned the moment thou picked up the ring.”

  “You summoned? You summoned?” I could feel my face turning red.

  “Ah yes. About that ... I truly am sorry. A rather extreme precaution I know but—”

  “Sorry my ass. Tell them to stop. Their howling is loud enough to wake the dead …” (What? It was!)

  “About that. Sorry. Eh heh. Once summoned from their crypts … they cannot be unsummoned. They shall be here … rather soon, I’m afraid.”

  I twisted about in the dirt still pressing against my sides and legs.

  “Oh, sorry about that, too.” The lich king snapped its bony fingers and the sucking quicksand treatment melted away.

  I swatted Orion’s offered hand away, pulled myself out of the grave and brushed dirt from my jacket, blouse and jeans. Then I slid the ring into my pocket and turned to face the lich king. “How do I kill them?”

  The lich king indicated the tip of Orion’s glowing crossbow bolts. “Like me, they are spectral beings. So those shall work. But thee shall stand little chance of felling the entire pack.”

  “How many werewolves are in the pack?”

  “Five. And thy bearded friend has only four bolts left.”

  “What do you suggest we do, then?” I asked with a hand on my hip.

  The lich king nodded at the truck. “Flee with much haste. And hope thy horses have the stamina to last until sunrise …”

  Great …

  Orion moved toward the driver’s side door.

  I launched the shovel into the truck bed and slammed the tailgate. “Oh no you don’t.” I held up the keys and jangled them in front of Orion’s face. “You get to ride in the back.”

  Awwhoooooo!

  It sounded like the werewolves were only a couple hundred yards away and about to clear the woods.

  I hopped behind the wheel as Orion jumped in the truck’s bed.

  The lich king was still shuffling about uneasily as I threw the truck in gear. “Again, I truly am sorry,” he said one last time.

  “Not as sorry as Orion is going to be,” I said, and then tore off, spitting cemetery dirt back at the ghostly werewolves now rushing toward us in the rearview mirror, their hulking, ghostly forms bounding on all fours, their shaggy dark outlines passing right through the headstones behind us.

  I wish I could say this sort of thing wasn’t the norm for my adventures with Orion …

  But that would be a lie.

  “The Girl with the Magic Tattoo”

  “I don’t care if you were being chased by werewolf ghosts,” Blue Rag, my employer, said back in the darkened restaurant. “You were supposed to dig up the ring, put back the dirt and get out of there real quiet-like as if you’d never been there. And what happened? State police were responding to calls all night long of wolf howls along the interstate!”

  “I get it,” I said. “You didn’t want someone to know the ring had been stolen. So just knock off half of the recovery fee and we’ll be on our merry way. It took days to locate that cemetery way out in the boonies. And we put ourselves in considerable harm when digging it up.” I rolled my eyes at Orion, who shrugged as if he truly didn’t know what he’d done wrong.

  My employer laughed and shook his head. I sensed it wasn’t a happy laugh or even a joking laugh. It was a threatening laugh. “You recovered the ring. True. But you broke the can-tract. And the Brotherhood of Zeus don’t believe in such things as breaking can-tracts. They’re binding. They keep us all in line. That’s the problem with kids these days. It’s why society is falling apart.”

  He turned to his crew standing about in the shadows. They wore hooded cloaks with the sleeves cut off and sky blue bandanas wrapped around their tatted-up necks and forearms and biceps. Sky blue was the official color of the NYC gang known as the Brotherhood of Zeus, a group of men and women who’d tasked themselves with keeping the memory of the god Zeus alive through the ages.

  Of course, they were also nutjobs with probably no real association with Greek gods except for their name, but it was a cool name. The police probably wouldn’t have minded them if not for their tendency toward violence when they clashed with other gangs in the area. Which, unfortunately for all parties involved, was frequent.

  Here in the restaurant, with their hoods concealing all but their mouths, the gang members nodded and muttered their agreement like an assembly of medieval assassins. From the kitchen came the sound of a butcher knife chopping through bone.


  Orion and I were very much outmanned. I swallowed. “What’s your point? And more importantly, are you going to pay us for the ring? I got bills to pay.”

  Blue Rag took a breath. “You’ll get your money. That’s fair. But only after yous do one more job for us.” Except he said jab instead of job.

  “No way. Then we’ll be even more in your debt.”

  The man grinned at me with an underbite, his lips pinched back like a Doberman’s. “Did I says yous have any say in the matter?”

  I was about to say something (stupid) when Orion placed a hand on my shoulder.

  “Now this jab … it isn’t ready yet. It’s a paid jab—we ain’t savages. I’ll come a-callin’ when the time is right.”

  I crossed my arms over my chest, if not to fortify myself, then to barricade my chest from his lascivious, disgusting glances. “How are you going to call me when you don’t have my phone number?”

  This time he did laugh. For real. “We’re the Brotherhood of Zeus. We don’t need phones to stay in touch.”

  I didn’t exactly know what he meant. Probably something to do with magic. Which wasn’t good. “We done here?” I asked.

  He smiled.

  I took it as a yes and started to rise from the booth.

  “Hold on,” my employer said, and fat hands pushed me back into the booth. He beckoned forth a man with a spider tattoo on his face. The man was built like a tree. He flicked out a switchblade with some arcane writing etched into the side of the blade and said, “Wrist, please.”

  I raised an eyebrow.

  Spider Face held out his own wrist, palm facing the ceiling.

  Orion placed a hand onto the tabletop and locked eyes with Blue Rag. “Do me instead.”

  The gang leader shook his head. “No. The girl.”

  I turned and looked into Orion’s milk-chocolate eyes. I’d worked with several partners over the years, but Orion was the only one I considered my equal. He was also the only one who would have willingly volunteered for whatever Spider Face wanted to do to me—probably cut off one of my fingers …