by Cori Vidae
Kiki turned toward Benji dazedly. Tears shone in her eyes. “Benji?” Her voice wavered.
He couldn’t respond; black coils lashed his snout shut. He struggled, but they tightened. Kiki covered her mouth with both hands. A hiccupping sob escaped her. She turned back to Beirak. “What will happen to him?”
“He will be punished for killing his master.”
Kiki didn’t get to ask any more questions. The black coils tightened and a blinding purple light flashed. When it faded, Benji lay bound in a cage, circled by raging, age-grayed Dromtsiirin. He smelled sulfur, swampy water, wet soil, and smoke.
Dromtsuul.
The long-wished-for homecoming scalded his heart.
Beirak stood beside the cage. “The Master of the Long Mire Under the Five Moons is dead,” he said flatly. “Here is his murderer.”
CHAPTER TWELVE
Kiki turned off the vacuum cleaner. The swell of silence afterward felt oddly heavy, full of things she was afraid to think about too clearly. She glanced at the stereo in the corner. Her iPod sat dark in the dock. She thought maybe listening to something subdued might be nice. Something that would chase away the quiet, but that could be otherwise ignored.
She decided against it. It didn’t take long to clean the bathrooms and balance the books. The brisk air outside made her shiver as she walked to her car. She didn’t start it right way, but sat staring out at the moonlit desert. She’d seen Benji looking at it plenty of times. It wasn’t until he paid so much attention to it that it really caught her eye; she’d lived here too long to appreciate the local scenery.
Low black and gray bluffs broke the moon-silvered wasteland far out in the distance. It made her think of a Zen garden, except this one never changed. She took a strange comfort in that. Despite her sense of reality having been turned upside down, the desert remained the same. Maybe that’s what drew him to it.
Kiki knuckled away frustrated tears. The sharp ache in her chest was heartburn, nothing more. The engine roared to life, and she pulled out of the parking lot. She glanced at the front of the Tiki Lounge as she passed it. A lump rose in her throat.
This place wasn’t home anymore. Not since the night the demon-things destroyed it and Benji disappeared. She flashed back to those sickening moments after the fight, when she’d sat on the floor, too stunned for a proper breakdown.
A polite knock came from the front door. A small, bespectacled man in a neat suit stood outside with a briefcase. He waved at Kiki through the glass, a hesitant smile on his face. She let him in. Why not? He could see the corpses of the yellow and green monsters from where he stood outside and didn’t seem alarmed.
The man introduced himself as Mr. Thaggins, an attorney with Bey and Gold Financial. Oh, she needn’t worry; he was here to provide assistance with “the unfortunate mess.” He glanced meaningfully around the wrecked dining room as he said it.
“You’re one of them, aren’t you?” Kiki wondered what color his scales were.
After a pause, Thaggins nodded. “I apologize for the uncivilized conduct of my predecessor,” he said, motioning to the bigger, yellow monster who’d started the fight. “And for the damage to your property. We’ll compensate you, and get started on cleaning up right away. Everything should be right as rain by tomorrow morning, my dear. That is, if you’ll allow us to be here in your absence?”
“Us?”
Thaggins only smiled. Behind him, a big rig pulled into the front parking lot. “Gold’s Acquisitions, Est. 1648” was painted on the side. The man driving it stared at Kiki as he slowly rolled past. He looked hungry.
“I’ll escort you to your apartment,” Thaggins continued. “My associate spoke true; after our debt is paid, you will never see or hear from us again.”
Kiki shook her head. That was six months ago. As far as she knew, Thaggins had told the truth, though she wondered about the humanity of anyone she met from that day on. The next morning, the Tiki Lounge looked as if nothing had happened. Everything broken had been replaced; everything soiled was clean. Even the floor in the kitchen, where Benji’s claws ripped through the linoleum and concrete beneath, was new.
Ming Song and Lars Barron both lived, though neither would ever be the same. The Mystic shut down when its owner was found wandering the desert one evening, muttering about glowing dragons. Song Enterprises was under new management, its previous CEO having given notice. The last Kiki heard from Ming, she was “recuperating” in Fiji. She’d sounded like she needed it.
But Kiki had nowhere to run to. She didn’t have the luxury of a mental lapse; the only other person she’d trusted to run the Tiki Lounge had been dragged into some hellish portal by black tentacles.
She choked back an angry sob. Damn you, Benji. Damn him for lying to her, gaining her trust, then using her and the Tiki Lounge for some devilish deal. And for making her care about him. She’d long before sworn off romance; it was always more trouble than it was worth. Who the hell was he to think he could sweep her off her feet, then leave?
Her lower lip quivered. She thought of the first time she’d seen Benji, when he walked into the Lounge wearing that ridiculous leather biker jacket, his long brown hair messy from the wind. Said he needed a job. She took a chance on him, because despite his gruff exterior, a certain calm radiated from him. He intrigued her. She liked his eyes, a bright hazel edged with gold.
She thought of those eyes turning shy in the coffee shop. The way they widened in wonder when he came. The way he whispered to her that this—that what they had done—was beautiful. How he held her when they danced, like it was something far more sacred.
She turned into the apartment complex and tried hard to avoid the memories she knew were next. She didn’t want to recall how he’d defended her innocence to the monster he’d called “master.” Or the way his claws and teeth drew blood without hesitation. His desperate pleas for her to run.
Kiki sat in her car in her parking space and cried. When she had nothing left but hiccups and a runny nose, she sighed. Six months, and it hadn’t gotten any easier. She refused to think of Benji as being dead. He was missing, that’s all. Gone without notice, as she’d told Manny and Leanne. She made her way up the stairs in a bleary-eyed haze. “Aloha” was printed in big green letters on her welcome mat. It didn’t feel welcoming tonight.
She froze just inside the door. The kitchen light was out, but a soft glow from the living room told her the lamp beside the couch was on. Her heart thudded frantically. She readied the little can of Mace on her key ring with one hand and grabbed a kitchen knife with the other.
“You’ve got five seconds to identify yourself,” she said loudly, hoping her voice sounded steadier than it felt. “Then I’m calling the cops and coming in after your ass.”
The response was uncertain, the voice a harsh croak. “Kee?”
Mace and knife slipped from nerveless fingers. Kiki gave a strangled squeak. She lurched around the corner, hardly daring to hope.
Benji lay on the couch. His clothes were dirty and ripped, his hair uncombed. Bruises mottled the side of his face. He struggled to sit up, wincing. His brilliant hazel eyes bored into hers. They glistened with unshed tears.
Kiki was on him in an instant. He grunted as she pushed him back against the cushions, then smiled and settled her more comfortably on his lap. She kissed him hard, furious and relieved at the same time. He tasted just like she remembered. His arms wrapped around her tight.
She was crying again and didn’t care. Benji murmured to her. “I’m so sorry, Kee.” He kissed her damp cheeks and stroked her hair.
Kiki gave a choked laugh. She straightened on his lap, pushing away from him. The ferocity of her slap surprised even her. Benji winced, but did nothing to ward off the second strike.
“You lied to me!” She trembled and hated it.
“Not at the end,” he said quietly. “Not about how I felt… how I feel.”
“And how exactly do you feel?” It came out harsh, but her heart was i
n her throat.
Benji touched her face gently. “I tried not to love you, Kee. For the longest time I told myself it was a bad idea. You’d hate me if you knew what I was. But I failed at that as surely as I failed my master.”
She blinked at him. “How did you escape? How did you get back here?”
“Beirak intervened on my behalf. Though he took his time about it.” Benji touched the worst of the bruises on his face. A small, blood-crusted cut marred the flesh beneath his left eye.
Kiki rubbed her temples. “I thought he was on your master’s side.”
“He was. He hates me.”
“Then why did he help you?”
Benji shrugged. “He’s my father. So he also loves me, in his way. He couldn’t stand by and let me die.”
Die? She frowned, peering closer at the evidence of more injuries peeking up from the neck of his shirt. He drew her against him again. She let him.
“I murdered my master, Kee. Where I come from, that’s akin to killing a king. Or at least a greater lord. It carries a death sentence, but there is punishment to be endured before that.”
“How was your father able to get you out of it?”
“I have no idea. All I know is that the Justicars agreed to let me live, as long as I promised never to return. I am banished for the rest of my days. I will never see my home again.” His voice choked at the end. His arms tightened around her. “It doesn’t matter. I’d never dream of setting foot there again if it meant losing you.”
“Oh, Benji.” She kissed him gently this time. “You couldn’t lose me now if you tried. I love you, you damned whatever-you-are.”
“Dromtsiir.” He smiled against her lips. “And I love you, too.”
* * *
Nicole Blackwood lives in the mountains with two cats (who speak with demon tongues) and an imagination that keeps her up at night. She spends her free time scaring herself silly exploring secluded forests and imaging they’re haunted. She draws and writes about things she dreams up, and is still disappointed that dragons aren’t real.
Soul Mates
J.C.G. Goelz
The red glow at the back of my eyelids told me it was daytime, but I dreaded the idea of opening my eyes. I didn’t know how long I had slept. Usually I didn’t wake before noon, but I never felt this bad.
I struggled to inhale, like a dead weight pressed on my chest. At least I was alive—though my headache made me wish I was dead. What had I drunk last night? Had I gotten in another bar fight? Did broken ribs hinder my breathing?
I let my eyes slit open. The strands of long, silky, black hair that lay over my right eye weren’t mine. I tried to stay calm, taking slow, deep breaths. A person in bed with me: that’s weird. Probably a very bad thing, but I tried to keep an open mind.
Who was my bedmate? I remembered doing my job during the early night shift at the Parrot Club. I’m a good bouncer because I can usually calm things down without getting rough. Blessed are the peace makers. They call it “presence” in the business. Sometimes I drink after my shift, but I don’t black out.
Her body draped over me—it better be a “her”—her head next to mine, her face buried in the pillow. I rolled my eyes up as far as they would go and then to the sides. Yes, this was my bed—headboard of brushed aluminum bars, a crucifix on the wall—and my room, with a mess of old vinyl albums near my stereo and fast-food carryout bags scattered across the floor.
She wasn’t breathing. Shit. I touched her forearm. Room temp. Not cold and clammy—how I expected a dead body to feel—just not alive.
Motherfuckingsonofabitch. An icy dagger ran up my spine, then hot needles flushed my face. Shit, I had to get this situation under control. That’s who I am: I stay calm when the shit starts to fly.
This wasn’t the first time I’d encountered a dead body, but it was the first time I’d woken up next to one. Sometimes I flashback to when that IED went off; I was the only survivor in my Bradley. Shrapnel had torn through me, but had ripped my buddies to pieces.
Handcuffs bound my left wrist to her right, and my right wrist to her left. The chains threaded through the aluminum bars of my headboard. I’m not into bondage, so this was weird.
I slid out from beneath her. The cool air of the room hit the sticky, moist skin of my torso and legs, and I shivered. My nose prickled at the funky smell, but then it kind of smelled good once I realized what caused it. Except, she was dead. Shit. She had her own smell—cinnamon and musk, and something else.
She was tall, at least six-four, and her black hair extended down to her lower back. Her body was lean, but soft around the edges.
Plenty of six-foot-tall women work in the French Quarter, but almost none were born female. I had nothing against them, but I preferred to have the only Y-chromosome in the bed. I’m adamant about having the only dick.
I’d put enough cuffs on people in my life that I know how to slip out of them, assuming I had given myself just a little bit of slack. I held the cuff with my feet, distorted my hand, and wrenched free.
They were my cuffs, so I contorted my body over hers and reached into the drawer for the keys. I fumbled around, found them, unlocked my other hand, and removed the cuffs from her.
I slid off the bed and stretched my arms out like a pair of great wings, trying to get some blood flowing again. I took a deep breath and tried to organize my thoughts. I looked at my crucifix, but He didn’t offer any suggestions.
I had to look at her.
I rolled her to her back. She was a beauty, but she didn’t look familiar. Her eyes were closed. Good. I’ve seen corpses, but I hated to look into their lifeless eyes. She seemed exotic, but I didn’t know if it was her or her makeup, which was extreme: black arched brows, eye shadow that looked like powdered emeralds, the longest, thickest eyelashes I’ve ever seen. Her complexion looked like it was poured on, but not completely dry. Her full lips were a dewy maroon.
But that’s not what I really needed to see. I looked down.
No cock.
I exhaled a blast of air and anxiety. At least I hadn’t been that drunk. I noticed her long black hair was her natural color. Her breasts looked slightly too large for her frame. If she danced, she hadn’t gone to extremes to improve her tips. She could still be a tranny. I had to check.
They looked real. Fake breasts hung differently. No scars around her nipples. I lofted them to look for a scar hidden underneath. She didn’t have scars anywhere. Her nearly translucent white skin was flawless. Hadn’t she ever fallen as a kid? No marks of any kind. So what killed her?
I didn’t know her, but it was such a waste. To die this young, looking this good.
Who was she? If she didn’t dance, she could have. She would have raked in a thousand a night. You get all sorts in the Quarter. She could have been a tourist dressed up for a night on Bourbon Street. Some Anne Rice fans even visit New Orleans because they want a vampire to bite them. Tourists look for weirdness; weirdness that they know is fake, or weirdness they hope is real.
Weirdness finds me. I never have to look.
I looked for her things. A dress, a pair of shoes, and a small purse. Nothing else. The shoes had six-inch stiletto heels and looked like they were encrusted with crushed rubies. God, she’d be six-ten with those on. I’m five-eleven, and she’d tower over me. I draped her body with the red silk slip of a dress. It barely covered anything.
I looked under the bed for her underwear, but only found some trash and a sticky trap with a skeletonized rat on it. I seemed to recall a smell a couple of months ago.
I opened the clutch, and the only thing it held was a roll of cash. No I.D. of any kind. No scrap of paper. Not even a condom or a cell phone.
I started counting out 100s from the roll, and got up to fifty-three. She had to be a pro, of some sort. Fifty-three hundred dollars would be a pretty sick haul for a night of dancing. A prostitute who made that amount of scratch wouldn’t have been in bed with me. I don’t have that type of money, even if I went fo
r that type of girl… anymore. Not that I date much, with my mug.
Once upon a time I wanted to be the guy that made an honest girl of someone who had fallen by the wayside, but after several failures I’d learned that’s not the way these things work. A bad girl turning into a good girl was a fairy tale.
On one hand, I didn’t think I had anything to do with the girl’s demise. On the other hand, the cops would laugh at my story. I needed to find out more about this girl. Maybe someone at the Parrot had seen us before I left for the night.
I washed the crusty bits and sour slime off with a quick shower and got dressed. I gave her a kiss on the lips before I left—I don’t know why, it seemed right.
New Orleans smells like rancid oyster shells and urine, with a side dish of mule shit, and the late afternoon sun was cooking it into a toxic stew.
I marched two blocks to Bourbon from my little apartment, past old buildings that were in a perpetual state of decay, then walked another three blocks along Bourbon toward Esplanade. The glare of neon fought against the surrendering sun. Loud music—jazz, rock, blues, country—blared out of the trashy businesses aimed at taking money from yokels and drunks. Packs of tourists and half-crazed locals walked along the streets studded with strip clubs, shops full of local voodoo shit, t-shirts and mementos, daiquiri bars, full service taverns, restaurants—some excellent and some that only the clueless would enter—and a couple of hotels that charged hundreds of dollars per night. Who could afford to stay there? Honeymooners and executives on an expense account. And celebrities.
I had a nice conversation with John Goodman once. He and his then-fiancée were staying at the Royal Sonesta over Mardi Gras. Helluva nice guy. Said I had a face for the movies, as a tough guy or hit man or down-on-my-luck boxer.
I turned south toward the river. Before I made it to the Parrot, I could see the spires of St. Louis Cathedral, where I had grown up. When I first saw pictures of the Disney World fairy-tale-princess castle, I thought it was a Catholic church.
