Thinning the Herd

by Adrian Phoenix

  “Why did you come over?”

  “I seen you go by. Your head was down. Thought I’d check on you.”

  “Because my head was down?”

  “Course! You always got a jaunty stride and your head’s always held high,” she said softly. “You carry yourself with pride. Don’t you know that?”

  Hal stared at Della, really looked at her. Her bottle-blond hair was piled high on her head, contrasting sharply with her dark skin, making it hard to put an age to her. But her gaze, dark and shining, held his own. Open. Direct. Brimming with strength. With experience. With a sorrow bone-deep.

  “No, I didn’t,” he said finally. “You got family, Della?”

  “Once, sugar,” she said. “Once upon a time.” She stood and walked back into the kitchenette. “I made you some tea. I want you to drink it all. Then I want you to sleep.”

  Hal heard the clatter of a cup, the gurgle of poured water. His thoughts slipped back to Nick. To Galahad. To Desdemona. His heart constricted and his breath caught in his throat. He propped himself up on one elbow.

  “Can’t sleep,” he said as Della walked back into the room. “People depending on me.”

  Della tsked again. “Well, they just gonna have to wait. You in no shape to get up, Hal Rupert. Lay your ass back down on that sleeping bag.”

  Hal shook his head, quickly regretting it as the room spun and his stomach lurched. He squeezed his eyes shut. The chair creaked as Della sat down. “You don’t understand . . .”

  “What’s to understand?” she said. “You’re no good to nobody like this. Hear me? Nobody.”

  A hand pushed against Hal’s chest and he felt himself go down, unresisting. He kept his eyes closed. Everything Della said made sense. But they were out there—Nick and Galahad and Desdemona—in the paws of monstrosities. Or maybe in their bellies. He thought of Louis spilling onto the floor. His eyes flew open.

  “I gotta go,” he said, struggling back up onto his elbows. “They could be dying.”

  Fire flared in Della’s dark eyes. “Lay yourself back down,” she snapped. “They could be dead already too, and you jumping up and dashing out that door wouldn’t change that fact one iota.”

  Hal froze. His heart hammered slow and hard. “What?”

  “Dead or dying or hanging upside down like bats—you can’t make no difference,” Della said, meeting his gaze. Steam curled up from the cup in her hands. Her expression softened. “No difference. Not like this. Maybe kill yourself, but that’d be it. That’d just be doing their work for ’em. And how would that be any help?”

  “What’re you saying?”

  “What’re you saying, Hal Rupert? The world can’t spin without you?” She snorted. “Guess again, sugar.” She lowered the cup to his face. “Take a sip.”

  The tea smelled of apples and cinnamon and spice, the steam warm against his face. He stared at Della, trying to read her, trying to see into the heart of her, but he couldn’t see past the pain in his head.

  What did she know? How did she know it?

  “Where you from, Della?” Hal wrapped a hand around the cup, but she continued to hold it for him.

  “Came here after Katrina,” she said. “After I realized my neighborhood was gone. When I realized those assholes wanted to bulldoze the Ninth. They never gave a damn, no how, no way.”

  “Do you know Louis Dark?”

  That deep, deep sorrow surfaced for a moment and shadowed Della’s face. “Drink,” she urged. “You can have answers later. You need sleep now.”

  “I never knew you were from New Orleans,” Hal said. Weariness washed over him. He took a sip of the fragrant tea. It slid down his throat warm and soothing and tasting of tart Granny Smith apples.

  “You never asked,” Della said. “But that’s all right.”

  Hal swallowed another mouthful of tea. And another. His thoughts blurred. The pain dulled. He felt sleep swallow him like a snake. Allowed himself to slide down that warm gullet.

  He thought he heard Della whisper, “Be a hero tomorrow. The world’ll still be here.” Underneath her words, drums pulsed in time with his heart, a strong, steady rhythm. “The world still needs heroes. Always will.”

  Hal slept.

  * * *

  When Hal awoke from a dreamless sleep, he was alone. The cup rested beside his sleeping bag, the chair parked close. He sat up gingerly. His head ached a little, but it was nothing that aspirin couldn’t cure.

  Crawling out of the sleeping bag, he eased to his feet and crossed the floor to the window. Pulled aside the curtain. Late-evening sunlight slanted across the parking lot, casting long shadows across the cement. Hal glanced at his watch. A little after eight. In the p.m., baby.

  For a moment, panic knotted his muscles and stroked a finger of dread down his spine. Eight p.m. But what day? How long had he been asleep?

  Hal unlocked and opened the door, then trotted down the sidewalk in his bare feet and boxers to the newspaper vending machine. Checked the date. He breathed a sigh of relief. Only the next day, Saturday. He hurried back to his office.

  After he’d showered, shaved, and dressed in a fresh pair of jeans and a plain black T-shirt, he searched for the jeans he’d worn yesterday. He checked the office, bathroom, and kitchenette, but found nothing. The jeans had vanished. He thought of the choker in the pocket. The broken cameo—a gift for Desdemona.

  Grabbing socks and his boots, Hal ran out the door and over to Della’s restaurant. The bell over the door dinged when he stepped inside. Hal seated himself at his usual booth, then tugged on his socks and laced up his boots.

  Pushing his hair out of his eyes, Hal glanced toward the kitchen. A pan clattered, the sound gradually diminishing as the pan rolled and rolled. The hair rose on the back of Hal’s neck. The air thickened, ripe with danger.

  He slid out of the booth, walking across the restaurant in a measured stride, keeping his breathing even. Adrenaline surged through his veins. His heart picked up speed. He paused beside the counter and the cash register resting upon it, then leaned over and peeked behind the counter. A baseball bat. Hallelujah. Hal wrapped his fingers around the grip. Hefted it and walked to the kitchen doors.

  Sounds faded—the traffic rushing by on Main and Forty-Second Streets, the radio playing low, the buzzing of the neon OPEN sign—until all he heard was his beating heart and the air rushing in and out of his lungs.

  With one hand, Hal pushed open the kitchen doors. A large gray wolf licked the inside of a pan on the tiled floor while Della swiped at it with a large metal mixing whisk.

  “Shoo!” she hissed. “Shoo! Out with you!”

  Hal’s gaze flicked over to the open back door and a ravaged bag of trash. A scavenging lycan wasn’t too unusual, but one stealing garbage before the sun set was a little odd.

  “I’ll take your order as soon as I’m free,” Della said, never sparing Hal a glance. “If you wouldn’t mind pouring yourself a cup of coffee, I’ll be right there.”

  “Where’s Jeff?” Hal asked. A quick scan of the kitchen confirmed the cook was nowhere in sight.

  “Oh, evening, Hal,” Della said. “That no-good coward ran out the front door, leaving me to deal with that mangy mutt all by my lonesome.” She shook her head, stepping closer to the lycan. Waved the whisk. “Out! Shoo!”

  The lycan growled, a deep warning rumble.

  “Oh, no—you didn’t!” Della’s eyes narrowed. “You did not growl at me in my own kitchen, you mangy mutt!”

  “That’s a wolf,” Hal pointed out politely.

  “I can see that, boy!” Della snapped. “Where’s your big-ass pole now that we need it?”

  “In the shop,” Hal said, stepping forward and tightening his grip on the baseball bat. “Step away. I’ll handle this.”

  “And why you so qualified?”

  “This is what I do
.”

  Della glanced at him for a moment, then stepped back to the counter, whisk still extended. “All right, then. Have at it, sugar.”

  The wolf lifted its head from the pan. Batter dotted the tip of its black nose. Its tongue curled around its muzzle, licking its mouth. Bright blue eyes fixed on Hal. Too bright. Hal frowned. The wolf stumbled, claws clicking against the tile, over to the butcher block in the middle of the kitchen, nudging at another pan handle with its nose. It hiccupped. A feather, caught in the thick fur on its chest, floated to the floor.

  Hal grinned. Drunk on ducks. And craving yummies. Sure as hell didn’t need a baseball bat to handle one drunk lycan. “Broom,” he said.

  The pan clunked to the floor, slopping what looked like chicken gravy all over the floor. The lycan buried its muzzle in the pan.

  “One broom,” Della said, handing it to Hal. He offered her the bat, then motioned her back to the counter with a tilt of his head. She backed up without a word.

  Hal stepped forward, broom in his left hand. He swung it around in a lazy figure eight, getting the feel of it. Lighter than his catch pole and no loop to slip over a wayward werewolf’s neck, but it would do the trick.

  The wolf growled. The pan moved in a frenzy of motion as the lycan licked up the gravy. Hal poked it in the ribs with the broom. Another growl. More frenzied eating. Twirling the business end of the broom around, Hal swatted the lycan across the rump. It pulled its head from the pan, fangs bared, lips wrinkled back, and snapped at the broom.

  “G’wan,” Hal said, poking it with the broom. “Get out of here. Go sleep it off.” He swung the broom around and poked the bristles in the lycan’s face.

  Snarling, the wolf lunged at Hal, but its claws skittered across the tile and it lost its balance. Fell onto its haunches. A puzzled expression ended the snarl. It hiccupped and another feather wafted into the air.

  Hal poked and swatted at the lycan, herded it—snarling and snapping and hiccupping—to the open back door. The wolf paused in its snarling to sniff the garbage bag, but Hal whopped the broom against its rear end. It dashed outside with a startled “Yipe!”

  “You’re lucky I don’t throw your ass in lockdown until sunrise!” Hal shouted, shutting the door and locking it. He turned around. Della met his gaze.

  She nodded, blond beehive bobbing. “Mmm-hmmm,” she said. “You hungry, Hal Rupert? Want your usual?”

  Hal’s stomach grumbled as he breathed in the smells of fried chicken and roasted potatoes. “I could eat,” he allowed, grinning.

  Della waved a hand at an empty booth. “Go on, sit your ass down, pour yourself a cup of coffee, and I’ll fix your supper.”

  Hal leaned the broom against the counter. “Need help cleaning up?”

  “Thank you, sugar, but no,” Della said. “But could you turn off the OPEN sign? I think I’m done for the evening.”

  “Sure thing, Della.”

  Just ten minutes later, Della served Hal a plate of fried chicken with potatoes and gravy, tender steamed green beans, and homemade buttermilk biscuits. The warm, spicy aroma teased Hal’s nostrils, and he dug in with his fork.

  Della sat across from him with a cup of coffee and a cigarette and silently watched him shovel food into his mouth. Hal sopped up the last of the gravy with a biscuit, savoring every bite. He licked his fingers when he finished and the action reminded him of Nick. The meal’s pleasure faded and the food settled like bricks into his belly.

  “Seems like you’re feeling better,” Della said, stubbing out her cigarette in the ashtray she’d carried over with her.

  Hal nodded. “Thanks, by the way—for last night and for the food.”

  Della waved a hand. “Nothing to thank me for. Did what any neighbor would.”

  “If I remember right,” Hal said, holding her dark gaze, “you told me I could have answers later.”

  “I mighta,” Della conceded. “What answers you looking for?”

  “Do you know Louis Dark?”

  “Card-reading boy? Dreads of many colors? Pierced lip?”

  Hal nodded. “That’s the one.”

  “No,” Della sighed. “I don’t know him.”

  Hal stared at her. “You just described him!”

  “Seen him around. Never spoke to the boy.”

  “But you know his name.” Hal leaned across the table. “What’s going on?”

  “You tell me, Hal Rupert.” Della slid out of the booth and walked over to the hot plate. Picked up the pot of coffee and brought it back to the table. “Talking to mangy wolves, carrying a big-ass pole around, someone always trying to kill your ass.” She poured coffee into her cup. Held the pot over Hal’s cup. Arched an eyebrow.

  Hal nodded. She poured coffee into his cup. Then, setting the pot on the table, she scooted back into the booth. Lifted her cup to her mouth. “Some things I don’t want to know,” she murmured. “Some things can’t be explained. They just are.”

  “You know Louis Dark, though,” Hal said. “I saw it in your eyes last night.”

  Della snorted. “I expect you saw a lot of things last night. You cracked your skull pretty damned hard. Lucky you didn’t spill your brains out.”

  “You said something about the world still needing heroes.”

  “Or maybe you did spill out your brains,” she said, sweeping a narrow-eyed gaze over him. “I never said any such thing, Hal Rupert.”

  Frustration knotted the muscles in Hal’s shoulders and neck. He hadn’t dreamed Della’s words, had he? Imagined them through all the pain? He rubbed his chin. “Okay, then. So you’ve never spoken to Louis. You don’t know him. But you’ve seen him.”

  Della nodded, sipped her coffee.

  “What have you heard about him?”

  “Ah, the magic word. I heard that the boy has mojo. A lot of mojo. Got a gift with the cards. His readings are always right. Always.”

  “Heard anything else?”

  Della took several swallows of her coffee, her gaze focused inward. “I heard that the boy’s bad luck. Not his fault, just the way it is. And that he’s especially bad luck for those that he loves.”

  “You heard a lot,” Hal commented.

  “That I have,” Della said. “That I have.”

  Hal glanced out the front windows, watching the sunset stain the sky purple and deep pink, listened to the beat of his heart as night slipped across the horizon. “Louis love anyone?” he heard himself ask.

  “Some little slip of a thing,” Della replied. “Purple hair, I heard.”

  Hal’s eyes closed. His poor Desdemona! Loved by a bad-luck yōkai. But how could she know that her radiant beauty would steal the heart of a refugee touched by her generosity, a grateful little shifter? So caught up in her love for Hal and their clandestine romance, she’d never noticed Louis’s attachment.

  So Louis’s bad luck had thwarted Hal’s rescue.

  “Okay, then,” Hal murmured, swiveling back around to face Della. “Every hero has a wise woman to go to, a wise woman to seek advice from.”

  Della’s eyes widened. She fumbled her cup to the table. “What now?”

  “Hero,” Hal repeated. “Wise woman. You know.”

  “Oh, hell no!” Della sputtered. “I ain’t your wise woman or anybody’s wise woman! That’s a heartache I don’t need. You hear me, Hal Rupert? A heartache I. Don’t. Need.”

  Hal stared at her. “But—”

  “No buts about it,” Della said, scooting out of the booth. “You go find someone else to be your wise woman. It ain’t me.” She grabbed the coffee pot handle.

  “But—”

  Della shook her head. “Close your mouth, boy. Letting it hang open like that ain’t a good look on you, trust me.”

  Hal snapped his mouth shut. He watched Della place the coffeepot back onto the hot plate. Watched her clear the table w
ith quick efficient movements. He opened his mouth again.

  “Last night you said—”

  “No I didn’t!” Della stopped and looked at him. “I don’t know what you thought you heard me say, but that’s the final word. No. The wise ol’ black woman always dies the moment the hero starts depending on her.” She snorted. “Don’t you watch the movies?”

  “Nick and Galahad are in trouble,” Hal said quietly. “So is the woman I love. A little slip of a thing with purple hair.”

  Della glanced away, face troubled. “I’m sorry to hear that. I truly am. I’m fond of those boys.” Shaking her head, hands full of dirty dishes, she crossed the floor, her rubber-soled nurse’s shoes squeaking against the tile. “Sounds like your woman needs rescuing from the affections of Louis Dark,” she called as she walked away.

  “Louis’s missing too.”

  Della hesitated for a moment, then pushed through the kitchen doors.

  Hal trailed a hand through his hair. Had he imagined their conversation last night? Sliding from the booth, he stood and paced, his gaze on the day dying beyond the windows. Another nightfall. And he’d done nothing—nothing—to help his friends, nothing to save Desdemona.

  Time to go. Way past time for action.

  He’d return to the tunnel, search for clues. He’d swing by work first, grab another catch pole and a flashlight. What about a gun? Some kind of deadly, oversized hand cannon? Hell, grenades might even be useful. Smoke bombs for distraction? He strode to the door, grasped the handle, and pulled it open. Maybe a bazooka.

  “Wait.”

  Hal stopped, fingers wrapped around the door handle.

  “I won’t be your wise woman—I plan to live to a ripe, crotchety old age—but I know someone who will.” Della’s voice was low, earnest.

  “I’m listening.”

  “Go to Mount Pisgah. Wait at the bottom of the main trail. Last person down will be the one you’re looking for. Red down vest. Walking stick. Goes by the name of Hunter Lawrence.”

  “Sun’s going down,” Hal said, and immediately imagined Galahad saying, Incredible grasp of the obvious. “Will my wise woman still be there?”