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

by Matthew Herrmann

  Orion and I were badasses, I myself having served some time in the Greek special forces (I was born and raised mostly in Greece), but we were surrounded by at least fifteen gang members, some with guns in plain sight. Brass knuckles glinted on the hands of about half of them. Even if these guys were just nutjob wannabes, I had to remind myself that anyone could kill with a gun, even a kid.

  And a brass knuckle wouldn’t do this girl’s face any favors …

  In the kitchen, the heavy knife slammed down on the butcher’s block again, snapping me back to reality.

  I placed a hand over Orion’s. “It’ll be OK. In fact, I probably deserve this. Besides, who needs all ten fingers anyway?” I gave an awkward laugh. I turned back to Blue Rag. “Do I have to?”

  He tilted his head to the side to catch all the grins of his crew and then brought his gaze back to me. “Babes, you always gotta choice.”

  By which he meant I didn’t.

  “Now stick out your wrist like a good little girl.”

  I stuck out my wrist.

  Spider Face twisted my arm so my palm faced the ceiling and then he carved some arcane symbol onto the inside of my wrist. It looked sorta like a lightning bolt with some crisscrossing marks across the two longer lines. I clenched my teeth. The cuts weren’t deep, and they bled, but then the incisions melted into my skin, forming a sort of scarred welt. Then Spider Face made the same cuts on his own wrist, which bled slightly before swelling up in an identical fashion.

  He tapped at his new “tattoo” with his index finger and his mark glowed with a faint bluish aura. The “tattoo” on my arm lit up momentarily, as well as if the two marks were communicating wirelessly.

  “That’s a tracker sigil,” Blue Rag said. “When the jab is ready it’ll burn like hellfire, and my associate will come find you. Capeesh?”

  I nodded. “Does it come in any color other than blue?” I asked with a smirk to mask my unease.

  Spider Face shrugged. “You can change it to whatever color you choose just by thinking about it.”

  I blinked. “This … tracker sigil tattoo thing comes with customizable settings?”

  My employer chuckled. “That’s magic for you. Now that wasn’t so bad, was it?” He clasped his hands together and rose. “Alright then, I bid yous adieu. Don’t let the door smack your ass on the way out ...” He eyed my waist hungrily from his raised vantage point. “Or do.” He grinned like a complete sicko.

  “All things considered, that went well,” I said as we stepped out of the restaurant and walked down the tree-lined sidewalk. I stopped to breathe in the smells of NYC, to bathe in the sounds of cars honking, garbage trucks backing up, people talking on their cell phones. Ah, home.

  Orion wrinkled his nose, his bushy mustache waving like an inchworm. “You call getting a tracking sigil etched into your arm and indebting ourselves to this gang a ‘job well done?’ ”

  “What?” I said. “They didn’t have sarcasm in ancient Greece?”

  Orion was about to say something but stopped.

  “At least I got to keep all my fingers,” I said.

  Garfunkel wriggled out from his protective shoulder pad and raised a fist back at Spider Face, who lingered on the restaurant’s door step. “Poser!”

  I grinned, mostly to hide the fact that my heart was still beating a bit fast thanks to that … discussion in the restaurant. I was glad Garfunkel had waited until after we got outside to say that. My familiars and I had an agreement that they hid in their cases during any in-person interactions with prospective or current employers. Partly for their protection in case bullets started to fly, but mostly so I didn’t have to put up with their conflicting opinions when I was trying to reach an important decision.

  “When do you think that job will be ready for us?” Orion asked, always the analyst.

  I shrugged as we passed people in important business suits who gave us odd looks and several feet of distance. “Dunno. But maybe next time I’ll actually read the can-tract.” I chuckled. Orion didn’t. “Look, I still consider this mission a success. They said we’d get paid for it.” Although, to be honest, I really could have used that money now. Living in NYC wasn’t cheap. And I had other expenses …

  My stomach grumbled, and I grabbed the sleeve of Orion’s jacket and pulled him after me down the sidewalk. “Come on, I know the perfect place we can grab breakfast.”

  We walked a couple minutes in silence before coming to a cross stop, joining an early morning crowd on their way to work. Behind us, a sea of unmoving cars sat backed up for blocks.

  Orion raised a hand and balanced himself against a tree on the sidewalk as he regarded me. I noticed then how his eyes kept jerking from side to side, his eyebrows blinking as if to protect his eyes. His fingers were twitchy too, his body unusually taut and so un-Orion-like.

  I knew what was ailing him: Orion was a country boy who was more at home at that organic farm in Upstate New York he spent most of his time at between jobs with me. If not for some big job offer he had lined up for us tomorrow morning, he would’ve already been on his way out of the city.

  “I get it,” I said. “The city can be overwhelming at first. The sights. The sounds …”

  “The smells,” he added.

  “Hey now.” I don’t know why out-of-towners always have to diss the city’s smell. “Anyways, let’s grab breakfast and put this whole morning behind us. I won’t even ride your ass for standing around in that cemetery while LK buried me up to the armpits in that grave.”

  A woman in a business suit raised her eyebrows at this and swallowed indignantly.

  Like I cared.

  Orion cleared his throat and brushed some dirt from my arm. “About that … I’m not hungry. I think it might be best if we rested up for that big job offer tomorrow morning.”

  I turned toward Orion. He was still on edge, his sanity under assault.

  I stretched my arms up and out to the sides like a cat, a posture that always brought a grin to Orion’s face, but his serious demeanor didn’t change.

  Crap …

  “You’re serious? You don’t want to get something to eat after a successful mission? It’s how we celebrate. It’s tradition!”

  Orion reached out and plucked a worm from my hair and set it on the mulch at the tree’s base. He shook his head sadly. “We look like we just robbed a graveyard.”

  “But Orion,” I said with a hand on my waist and in my best impersonation of a Victorian woman, “we did just rob a graveyard.”

  Orion always loved that accent. Today, he didn’t even seem to notice it. “You know what I mean. People might ask questions. The police ...”

  My stomach growled again, and Orion’s stomach rumbled in answer as if our stomachs were communicating.

  What a liar! Damn Orion and his responsibility.

  A taxi’s horn blared obnoxiously next to us as it sped by, and Orion winced. “Maybe not this time?”

  I raised my fist and shouted, “Learn to drive!” before turning back to Orion. “Let me make sure I heard you right. You want to break tradition?” I drew in a breath. “Fine. Let’s break it. Who needs tradition, anyway?”

  Orion stretched out a hand toward me, but I pushed it away. “That’s not how I meant it. Are we good?”

  My apartment building was just across the street. And the traffic light had just changed. “We’re fine.”

  “Theo, you shouldn’t lie,” Simon said.

  “Oh yes she should,” Garfunkel countered.

  I was with Garfunkel on this one. “See ya tomorrow,” I said, and disappeared into the cluster of people crossing the street.

  “Where’s a Snickers Bar When You Need It?”

  As I made my way across the street, I couldn’t help but feel like I’d just been a total bitch to Orion. But in my defense, I was hangry.

  “Are you feeling OK?” Simon asked. “You’re acting more agitated than usual.”

  Garfunkel whistled. “Yeah, I mean, you’re not on y
our period. We’d know.”

  I shook my head. They would. They were magically tethered to my shoulders, as in I couldn’t go to the bathroom, take a shower or change clothes without them nearby. And don’t even get me started on when things get steamy on a date. Simon’s chiding me about virtues while Garfunkel is making goo-goo eyes and licking my ear.

  Simon tapped my shoulder. “Is this because you love Orion? Popular culture says love makes humans do strange things.”

  No more watching The Bachelor for these guys.

  “I don’t love him. We’re partners. That’s all.”

  “He’s a lame partner,” Garfunkel said. “I like your old one better. Of course, Orion does have a pretty sweet crossbow …”

  “I like him,” Simon said as he mimed catching an imaginary butterfly, and for some reason, the sight got to me. Not because it was cute—well, it was a little cute—but because in that moment I realized Orion was the butterfly: a creature of the outdoors lost in a concrete jungle …

  “Damnit, I really should apologize to him. Shouldn’t I?”

  Simon’s head bobbed energetically while Garfunkel shrugged with a, “Nah. He’ll be a’ight.”

  I stopped once I reached the other side of the crosswalk and raised my phone, but then my stomach grumbled again. I slid it back into my pocket and turned to face my apartment building. It was unique because it had a bodega on the first floor. I opened the door to Pop Amir’s, a magical place where a person could find anything they needed 24/7.

  Heavenly smells hit me as I stepped inside: flaky beef patty pastries, oniony chopped cheese sandwiches and my personal favorite: lamb kebobs. The owner Amir, who everyone called Pop, had immigrated from Turkey, and we’d bonded over Middle Eastern and Greek food.

  The smell of kebabs always reminded me of my family in Greece, whom I hadn’t seen in a while. Partly because international plane tickets were so expensive.

  The door closed behind me with a jingle of bells.

  “Theo!” Amir called from behind the counter. I swear, Amir is one of the happiest people I’ve ever met. Even though his bodega barely scrapes by each month financially, he always has a smile on his face.

  “Hey Amir,” I said as I walked toward him and past the aisles of junk food calling my name. The elevators were located at the back of the bodega next to the beer and milk fridges.

  “A package came for you. I signed for it,” Amir said, and pulled a small rectangular box from behind the counter. As he brought it up, he glanced uneasily at the narrow door behind the counter leading downstairs to his basement tenant.

  “Really?” I reached out for it, but hesitated when I saw Amir’s cat Daredevil curled up on the counter next to the cash register. Daredevil appeared to be asleep, but I knew it was just for show. See, Daredevil and I had a love/hate (actually just hate) relationship, although I’ll never know what I did to deserve her ire.

  Amir chuckled, and I stepped to the side so I was out of swiping range of his cat. I accepted the package, reading my name on the delivery label. I glanced at my familiars. Simon smiled and waved to Amir, who couldn’t see him, while Garfunkel grinned like a weirdo.

  What did he order this time? I thought.

  “Thanks.”

  My stomach grumbled, and I looked longingly at the kebabs spinning in a toaster oven on the counter.

  “Uh, Theo, you’re drooling,” Simon said in his endearing high-pitched voice.

  I wiped my mouth and ordered two lamb kebobs and some butter rolls. “You guys want anything?”

  That’s another thing I like about Amir. He doesn’t judge me when I talk to myself like most people do. He just smiled.

  “Pancakes!” Simon said.

  Garfunkel crossed his arms over his chest. “You know what I want.”

  I hadn’t planned on grocery shopping, but my apartment was far from stocked. I sighed and placed Garfunkel’s package on the counter as I picked up a shopping basket.

  I reached for a box of cherry Pop-Tarts in the center aisle.

  “Theo, do you really need more sugar?” Simon asked from my right shoulder.

  “It’s just sugar,” Garfunkel said from my left.

  Simon shook his head. “Diabetes.”

  Garfunkel picked at his teeth with a toothpick. “YOLO.”

  “Don’t listen to him, Theo. Remember what the dentist said—”

  “Simon, hush. The Pop-Tarts aren’t for me. They’re for Garfunkel.”

  “Oh,” Simon said. “Hey, don’t forget we need some more maple syrup!”

  I reached out pensively for a bottle of syrup. “OK, Mr. Sweet Tooth. I can’t have Pop-Tarts but you can have syrup?”

  “It’s all natural!” Simon blurted. “And you can’t have pancakes without it.”

  “I’m pretty sure you can.”

  “Not when you always burn them,” Garfunkel said in a hushed voice with his arms crossed.

  “Why you ungrateful little … Don’t make me put the Pop-Tarts back.”

  “I jest, Theo. I jest!”

  “I’ll show you jest …” My voice trailed off as one of my elderly neighbors passed me on his way toward the door, looking very much ready for his daily morning group run in his thermal pants and light jacket. I didn’t know his name, but he never missed a run even though he had to be pushing eighty years old, decades older than most of the runners in his group. I liked to run too, a healthy habit picked up from my time in the military, but I always ran by myself. Speaking of which, I needed to set my morning alarm so I could get my run in tomorrow before the big job interview Orion had lined up.

  “Need help finding anything, Theo?” he asked awkwardly, probably because of the whole talking-to-myself thing, but maybe also due to my dirt-stained shoes, jeans, jacket and hair.

  “Nah, I’m good.”

  He eyed my shopping basket conspiratorially from behind his spectacles. “Planning a pancake party?”

  “Yes!” Simon said. “Pancake party!”

  “No,” I said. “Just stocking up. You never know. Blizzard … pandemic … horde of locusts. The apocalypse could take many forms. Best to be prepared.”

  “Ahh, I see. Very well then …” My neighbor gave a smart, elderly grin. Most of the people in this apartment building were alright. They were the closest thing to family I had, even though they probably didn’t even know my name. Also, unlike my father, they didn’t judge me for how I’d turned out …

  As I watched my neighbor step outside, I caught a glimpse of a familiar figure standing on the sidewalk, peering inside through the storefront’s glass. No … It couldn’t be …

  I blinked and knuckled my eyes. The woman was gone—if she had even been there to begin with. “Man, I’m so hungry I’m seeing things now,” I said out loud, this time actually to myself.

  Ten minutes later (note to self: never shop on an empty stomach) I lugged my shopping basket to the counter and Amir rang me up slowly. Cheerfully.

  I paid with my credit card, hoping it wasn’t maxed out. It went through, and I sighed. My stomach grumbled.

  Amir’s eyes smiled at me with grandfatherly warmth as he handed me my bag. “May you have a blessed day free of further trouble.”

  I appreciated the gesture, as I was on a first-name basis with trouble—I called them Simon and Garfunkel.

  I nodded and headed for the elevators located at the back of the store. When I was waiting for the car to come, Simon said, “Take the stairs! It’s good for you! You know it’s true.”

  “Yeah!” Garfunkel chimed in. “I want to ride the horse!”

  Ride the horse? Then I saw Simon and Garfunkel sitting on my shoulder pads as if they were astride a saddle, invisible reins in their outstretched hands. Great. Now I guess I’m a horse.

  “I’d Probably Die Without a Smoke Alarm (Literally)”

  I was so hungry that by the time I reached my apartment I was almost no longer hungry, if that makes any sense. The last thing I wanted was for Simon to shout, “Pan
cake time!” as he and Garfunkel hopped off my shoulders and ran through my cramped apartment like a pair of cooped-up four-year-olds.

  They wouldn’t go far on account of what I liked to call their “twenty-foot-long leash.” If they went any farther, an invisible force would slingshot them back to my shoulders with an audible snap like a flicked rubber band. They claim that it hurts like a belt to the butt, and I’d be lying if I said I didn’t think about flinging them several times a day … Snap, snap … snap!

  Ahh, crap. Garfunkel’s influence is rubbing off on me.

  Anyways, right now the last thing I wanted was to make breakfast for my familiars—I just wanted to sleep—but I got the pancake mix out and mixed in the milk and egg like a good master or owner or whatever I was.

  While I waited to flip the pancakes on my state-of-the-art electric griddle—there was no way in hell I was going to let them burn this time—I heard the fwip! of Garfunkel’s miniature Nerf gun and then Simon saying, “Ouch!”

  I turned; my familiars were nowhere in sight but the rippling of the frayed medieval tapestry hanging on my wall told me that I’d just missed them. That and the priceless genie lamp tottering on the bookcase next to it …

  I rushed over to the lamp and pushed it back on the shelf. Sure, it was empty (I think) but it didn’t need another dent in it as was the case with the Spanish conquistador helmet sitting beside it.

  “Guys, what did I say about playing near the artifacts?” Sighing, I glossed my eyes over my bookcase of treasures I’d recovered over the years that my familiars seemed determined to destroy.

  I hadn’t started out as a thief. And I didn’t consider myself a thief now, either.

  But I was good at what I did, although I’d much rather prefer venturing to some ancient ruin or trekking through the jungle after an Aztec relic than robbing graveyards. But the former didn’t exactly pay the bills. Was I Indiana Jones? I preferred Laura Croft but with a more realistic bust size.

  I returned to my griddle and flipped the pancakes, catching them just before they could burn. So far, so good. I wasn’t exactly known for my cooking prowess, but my cupboards were filled with every Martha Stewart cookbook and NutriBullet appliance ever sold, and that counted for something, right? The scant, precious countertop I had available was mostly displaced by an industrial-sized KitchenAid mixer; my familiars eat a lot, especially for their size. I mean, they eat enough for an eight-foot-tall giant.