“How’s it hanging, big guy? Don’t answer that. You can get kinda literal at times, and there are some things I really don’t want to know.”
“I’m fine, Dennis. I don’t know what the Sisters did to me in there, but my wounds are mostly healed.”
“From what I understand, they prayed a lot, gave you like eight units of blood, and then shocked your heart back to pumping with some ridiculous amount of electricity. I think I’m going to need to make a donation to the convent just to help them pay their power bill next month.”
“That is quite a lot of blood,” I said.
“Yeah, most people have like twelve units in them, at most. You’re bigger than most people, but you were running on empty by the time they got you here. And there was a lot of blunt force trauma going on, and a bunch of shredded tendons. Whatever prayers they sent up, they must have been answered. I didn’t think you were going to be moving for days, and I figured it would be at least a week before you could use your hands again,” Dennis’ face morphed into his human guise, and the concern was evident on his digitized mien.
I looked at my right hand where I had gripped the demon’s armor and driven spikes clear through the back of my palm. There were fresh white scars all over it, crisscrossing my skin with more reminders of the punishment I have inflicted upon myself over the years, but I felt no pain. The fingers flexed, the wrist bent, everything worked perfectly. “I suspect there may have been more than simple prayers at work in that convent, Dennis.”
“Well, you know the Templars, Adam. They’ve got all their ancient rituals and spells and shit. At least some of them do. That big goofball in Georgia seems to get by on dumb luck and large-caliber bullets.”
“There are worse ways to go through life,” I replied. “How far am I from the club where Jermaine is playing tonight?” I wanted to move the subject from my miraculous recovery before we got too far down the rabbit hole of contemplating my existence. That road never takes me anywhere good.
“About six blocks,” Dennis replied. “He’s already there, holed up in a back room. The ER docs said he didn’t have a concussion, so they cleared him to play. I made sure the bills were covered. You know jazz musicians aren’t exactly rolling in money.”
“I do not approve of theft, Dennis.”
“I do not care, Adam. Besides, I stole it from David Duke’s offshore bank account. If you can’t steal from a former Klansman to pay for a black horn player’s hospital visit, who can you steal from?”
I had to admit, the concept did have a certain ironic appeal to it. “I suppose I can let that go this time,” I said, calling up a map on my phone and walking toward the blinking lights of the nightclub. “Dennis, I have to ask. What in the world made you decide upon these clothes?” I was dressed in the ensemble provided by the Sisters, which they assured me was sent over by “my associate.” I wore a New Orleans Saints black hoodie with “Who Dat?” on the chest in huge letters, a pair of neon green and purple high-top basketball shoes, and a pair of blue jeans with patches of various colors on them. Under my zip-up hoodie was a black t-shirt with a silhouette of a woman swinging on a pole and a caption that read, “I support single moms.” The entire chaotic mess was topped with my fedora. The overall effect was, in short, awful.
“Do you like ‘em?” Dennis asked. “I just thought about something I’d like to wear after almost dying at the hands of a demonic warlord and super-sized it. I thought the feather in the hat really topped off the outfit nicely. Gives you kind of a rakish vibe, you know?”
His face looked so enthusiastic, so genuinely happy at the spectacularly awful things I wore, that I couldn’t bring myself to tell him what I really thought. “They’re lovely, Dennis. I couldn’t have picked out a better outfit myself.”
He looked at me for a brief moment, then doubled over with laughter. “Dude,” he exclaimed. “That was great! You looked like somebody had switched your sugar with salt and you just put three spoonfuls in your coffee. Yeah, I know it’s all awful. Except the t-shirt. I thought that was hilarious. It was the first shop I could find with enough crap in your size to get you out of the convent not wrapped in a sheet. You’ve got plenty of time to get to your hotel and change before you go make sure nobody murders Jermaine. There should be a room key in the pocket of those pants. Here, I’ll reroute your map.”
I looked at the screen, and a detour appeared, showing my hotel. “Thank goodness,” I said. “I was afraid I was going to have to wear these horrible shoes all night.”
“Hey, cut me a little slack. Size nineteen shoes aren’t easy to come by on short notice, so try not to wreck everything in your room this time. I’m gonna have to raid the Saints’ equipment room if you need more clothes. I think New Orleans is now officially out of size 4XL, Tall.”
I walked to my hotel and changed, then headed to the club. I was now dressed in a much more subdued pair of black cargo pants, black t-shirt, and black combat boots. I kept the Saints hoodie to make me look more like a tourist than a Delta Force operative and had a pair of oversized brass knuckles in each pocket. I also had Oliver’s medal around my neck under my shirt and a long silver dagger in a sheath hidden in the small of my back.
I stepped into the alley beside The Famous Door and pulled a five-dollar bill from my pocket. I handed it to the doorman at the aptly named Alley Club, and he looked up at me.
“Please don’t start anything,” he said. “I don’t want to find out which one of us is the baddest man in the room.”
“I have no intention of starting anything,” I replied. “I just want to hear Thunder Travis play.”
“That’s good, man. Thunder’s good, dawg. He can blow that horn, man. Here’s a ticket for a free drink. On me.” He passed me a small orange carnival ticket with the smile of man who has been in many bar fights in his time and has no desire to be in any more. I took the ticket with a nod and ducked into the club.
It was a small room, maybe thirty feet by twenty, with a long bar down one wall and windows lining the opposite. A low stage, perhaps twelve inches high, took up most of one end of the room, with a narrow hallway leading back to what I assumed was a dressing room or green room area. A dozen or so round tables were scattered around the room, and I took a seat at one that allowed me to put my back to the far wall and maintain a clear line of sight to the rest of the room. Once the room grew crowded, it would be more difficult, but as long as the crowd was small, or seated, I could see the stage and the entrance perfectly.
I ordered a whiskey and water from the young waitress and passed her the ticket and two singles when she brought it. She smiled and tucked the cash into her front pocket, then dropped the ticket onto her tray and hurried off to deliver more drinks.
The room began to fill up as nine o’clock drew near, and shortly after the hour, Jermaine stepped on stage. He wore a dark suit, with gleaming white shoes and dark sunglasses, a far cry from the itinerant street musician I’d watched play in the park earlier that day, and a different person altogether from the terrified young man I’d seen after the demon attack. This was a cool cat, a calm, collected musician about to ply his trade in front of room full of adoring fans. Admittedly, the room was only about half full, and the fans were more intoxicated than adoring, but he was still very much a man in control of his destiny. At least as long as I could keep him alive.
“Good evening,” he said into the microphone. “My name is Jermaine Travis, but my coaches used to call me Thunder.”
Polite applause rippled across the gathered listeners, and I watched one overweight man wearing several dozen strands of colorful Mardi Gras beads lean over to the emaciated woman next to him and whisper something in her ear. I could almost make out “LSU” from his words and assumed he was a football fan.
Jermaine put the trumpet to his lips and started to play. He was, as I saw that afternoon in the park, a good musician, but there was nothing extraordinary about his playing. I detected no magic coming from him other than the magic tha
t all talented musicians bring to their performances. His band was tight, full of obvious professionals, but it was just as obvious that playing gigs in bars was likely the pinnacle of their careers.
The spark that transforms a pleasant night listening to music with good whiskey into a memory, the tiny flame that fans into a life-changing talent, that was nowhere present in these men. They were good, perfectly enjoyable, but there was no hint of the divine in them. This was not my missing Archangel. But judging by the heat growing in the amulet pressed to my chest, something supernatural was nearby.
I looked around, shifting my focus from the band on stage to the room around me, and noticed two things. First, the bouncer had left his post at the door to roust a homeless man from hanging around outside the bar’s alley window, and second, that the well-dressed man from this afternoon was now sitting right next to me.
I turned to him, looking up and down at the interloper at my table, and he smiled at me. The song ended, and he extended a hand. “Pardon the intrusion, friend, but I saw your table was empty and thought you could maybe spare the seat.”
He made no threatening moves, and I had no desire to cause a scene in the crowded bar, so I just nodded at him. I took his hand and said, “You’re welcome to join me. I’m Adam.”
“Thank you. My name is Martin.” He drew his hand back, and I noticed a spot of brown on the French cuff of his shirt, just by the diamond-studded cufflink.
He saw my gaze and pulled his jacket down to cover the spot. “Sorry,” he said with a rueful smile. “I had a po’ boy for dinner and got a touch of sauce on my sleeve.”
I could read the lie, but not the reason, so I let it stand. I cared not a bit about the man’s dinner, just his plans for Jermaine. Everything about him made my senses scream, but this was not the time or place. I turned back to the stage as Thunder and his Lightning Bolts began a new tune, but my pocket began to vibrate. I stood, pulling out my phone, and wove through the tables and out the front door.
I tapped the screen and held the phone to my ear. “Hello?”
“Adam?” The voice on the other end was female, and frantic. “Adam, it’s Madison. Come quick. Something killed Xander. Right here in my shop, Adam. Something got in here through all my wards and murdered my nephew.”
11
I got to the back entrance on Marie Laveau’s less than five minutes after Madison’s call, and there was already a crowd gathering in the tiny courtyard behind the narrow building. A large black man with a shaved head and a pistol on his hip stepped into my path, putting one hand on my chest and the other on the butt of his gun. He was dressed in black tactical pants, black boots, and a black t-shirt. Everything about him screamed former military, particularly the flat glare he gave me as he looked up into my eyes.
“The store is closed, sir. There’s been an emergency. You’ll have to come back later.” He pushed against my chest, but I just kept moving forward.
“Where is Madison? Is she hurt?”
“Sir, I’m going to need—” I swatted him aside, knocking him into another guard and taking them both down. He did everything right, working to control my movements, shift my momentum, all the things he should have done to stop me without causing harm. He just didn’t take into account exactly what he was dealing with.
“Adam?” I heard Madison’s voice and turned to see her sitting at a round wrought-iron table. A white man in a suit knelt beside her, and he was taking a blood pressure cuff off her arm as I went to her.
“What’s wrong, Maddie? Are you okay? Did it hurt you?” I heard the questions tumble over my lips faster than anyone could hope to answer, but I couldn’t stop myself. The torrent of words poured forth, and I recognized a rarely-felt emotion in myself: fear. I was afraid for her. Afraid to lost another one of my very few friends to violence. A violence that I may very well have brought into her life.
I knelt beside her and took her hand. It felt even smaller than usual, and I could feel the butterfly wingbeats of her pulse in her wrist. Her heart raced as she looked up into my eyes, too tall to look directly at even on one knee.
“I’m not injured, if that’s what you mean. Frederick just wanted to make sure I wasn’t having a heart attack.” She patted the leg of the man, who now stood slightly behind her. Madison turned back to me. “Whatever got in there, Adam, it tore Xander to pieces. It was…horrible. I’ve never seen so much blood.”
Coming from Madison, and knowing the sanguine nature of some rituals she had performed, that was saying something. “Can I go in?” I asked. “Are the police coming?”
“No.” The voice came from behind me, and I turned to see the big security guard standing there. He looked angry, and his gun was in his hand now. It was pointed down at the ground, but it was definitely positioned to raise and fire faster.
“No, I can’t go in? Or no, the police aren’t coming?” I asked, rising. I probably could have avoided the macho posturing, but I was upset, and feeling guilty, and it brought out my inner masculine idiot.
He stared up at me for long enough to count to twenty, and it felt like none of the other people in the small courtyard breathed. There was a sense of anticipation in the air, like a fuse had been lit and an explosion of violence was imminent. Finally, just before I thought I was going to have to smear this man across the walls like spackle, he let out a deep breath and holstered his pistol.
“No, the police aren’t coming. I would prefer if you didn’t go in there, but I won’t try to stop you.”
“Thank you,” I said, and I could see the surprise in his eyes. “I think this part of New Orleans has seen enough violence for one night.”
“I think there’s still a little violence to be meted out, myself,” he replied with a tight smile, and I knew he didn’t mean to me.
I nodded, and we silently acknowledged each other in that way that men who shed the blood of others regularly have. I turned back to Madison and knelt beside her.
“Was he alone, Maddie? Or were you here?” I asked, keeping my voice soft. The rest of the alley didn’t need to know these things.
“He was alone, Adam. I left him here cataloging some herbs and some new books that we got in. Harmless things, not anything with true power of their own. I never let him mess with the real magic. He didn’t have no power to protect himself with, so I couldn’t let him mess around with anything that might be carrying a curse.”
“Do you have security cameras? Do they show anything?” I asked.
Maddie looked up at the big man, who dropped to a knee beside me. “There are cameras. We haven’t reviewed the footage yet. It’s one of the first things we’ll do after we…” He looked at Madison. “Um…”
“He trying to say they got to get Xander’s body out the way first,” she said. I noticed her accent was heavier than normal, the stress of the night making her slip back into some of the patois she was raised around.
“I have people coming,” the security man said.
“I would like to see the scene without any disturbances,” I said. “I won’t move anything, and I certainly won’t touch anything,” I said. This last was to Madison. I knew there were very potent magical items around the store, and some of those things could be triggered by contact with human blood, or by being in the presence of death. Her entire store would be on a hair trigger, only needing one misstep to bring about a magical devastation the likes of which had been unseen in the United States since the Great Chicago Fire.
“You can go in,” Madison said. “Be real careful by the door, though. There’s a big puddle of blood there. I wouldn’t want you tracking that all over my store.” She tried to smile, but it broke down into a sob. I stood, patted her on the shoulder in a gesture I hoped appeared more supportive and less awkward than it felt, and walked across the courtyard to the back door of the shop.
I motioned the security guard over. “Keep an eye on her. If anything comes at her, do not hesitate, just shoot it. Shoot it and keep shooting it until you are out of
bullets. Then run like hell. I will try to be back out here as fast as I can. Do not try to fight this thing, just put as much lead into it as you can and don’t let it get to Maddie.”
He nodded, and I turned and walked to the back door. Another guard stood there blocking my path, but he stepped aside after a second of alpha male posturing. I let him posture. I had nothing to prove to the assembled crowd, and he and I both knew how much I cared about whether or not he looked tough.
I pushed the red-painted wooden door open with an elbow and stepped inside. The coppery scent of blood twined with the visceral stench of death to curl around my throat and draw my gorge forth. I took a moment just inside the door to adjust to the dim light and the foul miasma of odors coming from the shop, then stepped into the tiny storeroom. I flipped on a light switch beside the door, and blazing cool fluorescent light illuminated the shelves and the bare wooden floor. The storeroom was clean and seemed undisturbed. Either Alexander was the attacker’s target, or it had found its quarry elsewhere in the store.
The passage to the back of the store stood before me, a cascade of discarded Mardi Gras beads fashioned into a curtain over the years by Madison and her predecessors. I pushed my way through the clicking barrier into the small room where Maddie did her readings and scanned the area for anything out of place.
The room was in slight disarray, but far from ransacked. The crystal orb in the center of the table had a huge crack running through the center of it, but it remained intact, except for the new flaw. The box of prognostication implements Madison kept beside the table was overturned, her Tarot cards scattered on the floor, and herbs and runestones tossed across the tabletop. The shelves of books were untouched, and the furniture stood upright. Again, the signs of a casual search.
The front of the store was a different matter, I could see that from the doorway. The curtain door of silks was matted with blood and gore, and as I passed through it, I saw the true savagery that had been unleashed. Alexander was not simply killed, he was destroyed. His limbs were torn from his body and cast into the corners of the room, painting the walls and shelves with arterial blood.
Angel Dance: A Shadow Council Case Files Novella: Quest for Glory Part 3 Page 7
