The Devil's Gunman

by Philip S Bolger

  Toward the back, I saw what I wanted—the admin section, right next to a small storage room and a unisex bathroom.

  * * *

  I walked in and nodded at the clerk as I headed back to the employees-only area. He put down the chips, abandoned his customer, and ran after me, shouting. I flipped him off and opened the door, closing and locking it behind me.

  The room wasn’t a typical office; it was pitch black. I couldn’t see an inch in front of me, and the light that should’ve been peeking in from the hallway wasn’t. The room reeked like a butcher’s shop, and I suppose, in a way, that’s what it was. Vamps, like dogs, like rotten smells, because it reminds them of food. Even if Anders hadn’t changed anything else since I was last here, I knew his “air fresheners” would be new.

  “Anders, we have to talk,” I said. Someone lit a candle on the far side, and I saw the man I expected to.

  Anders Mortensen was older than the United States of America. Once a prominent vampire in Sweden, he was displaced by the European wars of nationalism and poor economic conditions during the 1800s, and he found himself in the US. And, like so many other Swedes, he chose to settle in Minnesota.

  Anders looked like a man in his late 20s, and a very ugly man at that. His hair was fashionably styled; it would’ve blended in at any of the nearby hipster joints, but it was unwashed and greasy. If his hair was bad, his face was worse—raggedly asymmetrical and damaged, courtesy of a run in with a Jesuit during the Thirty Years’ War. Two red eyes glared in his ruined face, and his lopsided mouth worked at an odd angle when he addressed me. He had a memorable look—I’d first encountered him during the rogue vamp hunt-down I’d done for the Patron. He was clad in the same sort of hipster-chic bullshit everyone in Uptown seemed to like, and it made his mangled face difficult to take seriously.

  “You!” he said, startled. “You’ve got brass balls walking in here, Nick. I snap my fingers and three blooded vampires will run in here, truss you up, and send you straight to the Duke.”

  For the second time in 24 hours, I had no idea why the vampires thought the Patron wanted me prisoner. Maybe he’d found out about Vinter, or I’d gone and accidentally pissed off some crossroads ghost that was in good with Hell.

  “No,” I retorted, camouflaging my confusion. I drew my handgun but kept it at my side. “We both know you don’t have any real influence, Anders. That face of yours is a goddamn eyesore, and, despite those skinny jeans, you don’t look like you belong in Lyndale. If you weren’t good with money, you would’ve been sacrificed to stronger powers a long time ago. So, drop the tough guy act. You’re a fucking supernatural accountant. I want you to run some figures on this: tell your boss to call off his thugs, or I’m gonna repave my driveway with nothing but the ashes of dead vamps. You’re an accountant, so you know what I mean when I say I’m sure the risk/reward choice is clear.”

  The clerk banged on the door, trying to get in, and he kept shouting that I needed to leave the store. I reached back and double-checked the lock—the doorknob didn’t budge.

  Anders stood up and preened, a carnivore’s smile on his corrupted face.

  “You don’t frighten me, Nick. You receive no favoritism from Hell anymore,” Anders said, sneering. “And I doubt the other side is answering your calls. Why should I do what you say?”

  “Because I’m the one with the gun, dumbass.”

  I levelled the handgun and shot him. He threw his hands up, like that would protect him. The bullet tore through his right side, ripping open his cheap polo shirt and tearing off dead flesh. I saw the wound rapidly start to re-knit as Anders moaned.

  “Ow, fuck!” he howled, holding the wound. Luckily for me, Anders was much more sensitive to pain than most of his kin. “That fucking stings! You fucking humans and your damn guns!”

  “Yeah, you should see the one I’ve got at home,” I replied. “The weak-ass, entry-level fuckup you sent to break in found out the hard way that I might not have the Patron’s services, but I’ve got plenty of tricks of my own.”

  His eyes widened as he put two and two together.

  “You…you murdered a coven official?”

  “I stopped a two-bit extortion artist,” I corrected him. “You should thank me. I got rid of a shitty employee. I’m a one-man Coven HR department.”

  “I’m calling the police!” came the muffled cry of the clerk.

  “That’s my cue,” I said, giving Anders a two-finger salute. “I’d suggest you lose the surveillance footage of the last five minutes.”

  “You will regret this decision,” said Anders. “I will make sure you do not live.”

  “That’s great,” I said. “Just pass my message along and save your blood feud for the next guy who tells you how fucked up your face looks.”

  I opened the door and slammed it before he could respond, holstering my pistol with my other hand. The clerk was dialing a number on his phone.

  “Think about what you’re doing,” I said. “The homicide desk won’t like what’s in that closet.”

  Hearing my words, the clerk put his phone down as I walked out.

  Maybe he would call the cops, but I doubted it. If he did, the cops would send the “right” patrol. They’d exchange words with Anders, who would likely warn them, or more appropriately, remind them, about me. The funny thing about vampires, though, is that many of them are luddites, unwilling or too apathetic to adapt to the modern world. I didn’t think Anders could name a make and model of a current car, let alone identify mine. It was one of the reasons I’d gone to see him, rather than of one of the more social vampires.

  Of course, if the vamps figured out they could send a SWAT team to my house, I’d be fucked. I had to hope they weren’t up-to-date on internet culture, or that their bizarre vampire honor required one of their kind to kill me. Still, there was no sense in panicking over stuff beyond my control.

  Despite my bravado, it was possible I had escalated my problem with the vampires. Then, there was the inevitability of Jerry’s call about mounting his coup d’état. And there was always the possibility that any one of my many crimes would eventually lead some prodigious detective to draw a conclusion neither I nor the Patron had anticipated.

  Worst of all, I had no way to relax. I could deal with pressure, and I could deal with danger, but it was the constant stress and fear that were eating at me, and putting a halt to the drugs and slowing down the drinking really fucked that up. I did think about trying to get a girlfriend, someone I could share a bit of my life with. But that seemed unrealistic. I’d traded a satanic master for a sanguine vendetta and a suicide mission. I doubted I could be with a woman who wasn’t an escort.

  And hobbies? Fuck, I had no idea what to do about hobbies. I thought about golf, but it didn’t appeal, and besides, I had nobody to golf with.

  I shook myself out of it. I hadn’t realized when I’d lost my friends that it was a great loss. When you go from seeing people all the time to not at all, there’s a sense that something’s missing.

  The thing is, most of my “friends” were shitty people I either hung out with to gain social standing and impress my wife, or shallow work buddies I never discussed anything important with. Losing them might’ve hurt because of the solitude, but they really weren’t any great loss. And it made it really fucking hard to find someone to go golfing with.

  I had no idea how to make friends or, if I wanted to make a really bad decision, go on dates. “Hi, I’m Nick Soren, former gunman for a duke of Hell, and I’m currently being pursued by a couple of BDSM Hellhounds and a vampire coven/convenience store cartel. I like binge-watching streaming shows, expensive sushi, and long walks where I don’t have to worry too much about being ambushed by SWAT teams or supernatural enforcers. What are you into?”

  I almost laughed at the absurdity of it.

  It was clear, however, that I needed a drink. Rather than returning to my car, I went to a nearby bar, and killed a few hours sampling microbrews and watching whatever wa
s on TV. I drank slowly, enjoying the flavor more than trying to get hammered. I discovered a new brewery I liked, and chatted for a bit with the bartender about hockey. It didn’t do much to ease my anxiety, but the booze and mindless televised chatter did let me suppress it for a while. The vapid conversations going on around me helped add a sense of normalcy to the whole situation, which was pretty nice. I sobered up enough to drive and walked out.

  As soon as I walked out, I was reminded of the stakes. It was just past sunset, and there were four vampires watching me.

  Unlike my earlier tail, these guys were all discreetly dressed—flat-patterned, non-descript clothes. No noticeable logos. No flashy colors. The kind of stuff I usually wore. Hell, one of them wore an exact copy of a long-sleeved shirt I owned. They were busy looking like they weren’t looking at me. A casual observer might not have noticed. I caught a flash of fangs which confirmed my fears.

  I wasn’t carrying anything that could kill them, at least, not easily. I’m sure there are many ways to kill vamps, but the two I was most familiar with were simple: either take their heads off or do enough damage, quickly enough, so they can’t regenerate. I’d heard holy water was somewhat effective, but I didn’t exactly have a priest or monk on call. Damage was my only option if I wanted to kill a vampire with my VP9, and that would be tricky. They’re not invincible, just tough, and much tougher than an average human. Don’t ask me how it works, I didn’t create vamp magic, I just learned how to kill them from an angry Confederate and a sadistic gangster. The big problem was my magazine capacity. My VP9 carried 15 rounds. I’d need to use most, if not all, to drop one vamp. In that time, the other three could rip off my arms and beat me to death with them, or at least hold me down and subdue me, take me prisoner and condemn me to spend the rest of my short, miserable life in a cell before moving on to an enterprising career as one of Anders’ rotten air fresheners.

  I couldn’t tell if these vamps were Lyndale. I knew there were other covens in the Cities that owed the Patron their existence, but I had no idea how to identify them.

  The vamps weren’t approaching, so I headed for the Jeep. As I got in, they backed off and made no effort to follow me as I sped back to Deephaven and to safety. I checked for tails a few times and took an unusual route home, even stopping for a bit at a bar in St. Louis Park. No one had followed me.

  Still, I anticipated that any time I went Uptown, I’d have a reception committee. I’d need to check my weapons and make sure I was running an anti-vampire loadout. I made a mental note to seek some help for that. I had enough money, and I was confident I could get the right materials, but it wasn’t like “Your Anti-Vampire Weapons Solution!” would be on Craigslist.

  Once I was home and confident no one was in my house, I cleaned my weapons and put on a movie. It was some Arnold flick from the ‘80s. They all kinda run together for me, but I love them all the same. The 1980s had an awesome sense of authenticity. Arnold knows he’s cheesing it up for the camera, but he does it anyway. He executes his goofy-ass one-liners, flexes for the camera, and moves along. Movies these days are pretty good, but too much time is spent on edits and shoe horned-in lines designed to get their corporate masters money from ever-broader markets, while sacrificing a bit of authenticity every time they did.

  While the movie played, I thought about the loadout I’d need to start carrying. In the past, it was easy—get a mission, find a drop site, pick up weapons, familiarize yourself with the details (time permitting) and move out. If I wasn’t explicitly ordered to dispose of the weapon, I kept it. Most of the guns in the basement (and the ones in the bathroom, the two I kept in the kitchen, the four in the bedroom, and the Winchester buried in the backyard) were keepers from those missions. The Patron had an endless supply of guns.

  But I no longer had the Patron to rely on for weaponry. The handgun he’d given me wasn’t very effective against vampires. My bravado with Anders proved that. I had used silver bullets before, against ghosts and specters and something that was referred to as a “changeling,” but which looked more like a bad cross between Jabba the Hutt and an overflowing sewer pipe. Silver usually worked.

  I had no idea if silver worked on vampires. I knew holy magic worked. Before the Joey Rifle, I’d poured holy water on a vampire who was prostrating himself before the Patron. The vampire withered away while the Patron laughed his hideous mocking laugh.

  I didn’t have any holy water or anything blessed in the house, though I had an incredible number of Christian icons. Maybe one of them was blessed, but if it wasn’t, I’d just be bopping a vampire on the head with a picture of the Virgin Mary as he tore my insides out.

  I needed research. I needed weapons. I needed help. I only had one guy to turn to. I sent Jerry an e-mail requesting assistance. It wasn’t more than a minute before I got three words back: “On the way.”

  I had no idea what he meant, but I knew he wouldn’t want to communicate in the open. Bad tradecraft. There were rumors in the supernatural community that there was some secretive government organization that made the NSA look like a town gossip and the Navy SEALs like a troupe of girl scouts.

  And then there are the cops on the Coven payrolls and the sorcerers who can listen in. I had to hope my message had been interpreted correctly, and that Jerry’s reply was more than the underworld equivalent of “Thoughts and prayers are with you, Nick.”

  I couldn’t stress about that, though. I checked my nightstand guns, my Templar’s lamp, and my home security system, and then I tried to sleep.

  * * * * *

  Chapter Four: A Helpful Miscommunication

  I’d been asleep for a few hours when there was a knock at the door—three raps, then a pause, then three more. I jolted awake, grasping the pistol next to me, but no invader came through the door, no specter or zombie to tear my insides out. I looked at my bedside table, but the Templar’s Lamp wasn’t glowing. The clock read 3:00 AM, the witching hour, which suggested whatever was requesting entry wasn’t the local neighborhood watch. I groggily stumbled out of bed and swapped the handgun for the Joey Rifle. I checked the chamber just to be sure it was loaded, then I moved out. I kept the VHS in front of me and walked down the hallway to the door. I leaned against the wall, my weapon held at the high ready. After I checked the peephole, I relaxed a bit and let the weapon go slack on its sling. I opened the front door and saw a smiling Amalfi dragging a rolling suitcase. She was dressed in casual clothes—a t-shirt advertising a Texas craft beer festival and a pair of jeans that came with pre-ripped holes, quite a different picture from her formal house servant uniform or her flight attendant garb.

  “Hello, Nick Soren,” Amalfi said, extending her hand for me to shake. “I didn’t think I’d get to see you so soon, but I’m glad to see you again!”

  I took her hand and winced at her shark bite grip. “Thanks for coming, Amalfi. I don’t mean to be rude, but can Jerry spare you right now?”

  “Technically, he can’t,” she responded, cheerfully. “But who do you think checks his e-mails?”

  I shrugged. A demon breaking household orders to visit someone was more than a bit unusual, but I wasn’t one to judge. Then again, I wasn’t 100% sure she was a demon and not some kind of pint-sized, all-in-one helper.

  “Now,” she said, walking over and raising an eyebrow at my bullet-riddled couch. “What kind of assistance do you need? Someone killed? Captured?”

  “I need weapons and the right kind of ammo,” I said. “And information on vampires. Contacts, too, if possible.”

  “I’m curious about your trouble with vampires,” she said.

  “Well,” I said. “I’m not really sure. I know it’s the Lyndale Coven, and I know they think they can extort me, for some reason.”

  “If you don’t know much about vampires, how do you know their coven affiliation?” she asked. “Did one of them tell you?”

  “Yeah. They sent some guy here, an emissary or something. He gave me a pretty lengthy ‘kneel before Zod’ kind
of ultimatum.”

  She nodded. “That sounds like vampires. Very formal, addicted to ritual and intrigue. An emissary would represent that.”

  She titled her head from side to side. “I think, perhaps, I can oblige your request for aid, within my capacity. How much of the shadow world do you know?”

  “Only what I’ve shot at or overheard,” I said. “I know there are vampire covens in town sworn to the Patron. I know Heaven has forces in the area. I know—”

  “Doesn’t sound like you know who to contact about this. I know a few entities around here that may have what you want,” she said, cutting me off. “Perhaps more importantly, I can show you how to get in touch with them.”

  She reached toward the floor. Her hand’s shadow was a wicked claw, and as her fingers moved, the shadow claw moved with them, scratching a glowing, red sigil on my expensive floor. I couldn’t re-draw it—it was an intricate pattern of swirls and curls, arranged in a diamond, reminding me of some of the more advanced Arabic calligraphy I’d seen in a museum. When it glowed, it pulsed, moving from one side of the diamond to the other, different curls lighting up as the color crossed them.

  “I’ve marked your house,” she said, “as a waypoint for my kind and those we travel among, letting them know you’re requesting information and weapons and willing to pay in blood and gold.” She looked at me. “You don’t mind entertaining visitors, do you?”

  I shook my head, though I was terrified that such a sigil would draw the Patron.

  “Worry not,” Amalfi said, grabbing my hands with hers. They felt colder than the last time she touched me. “We lesser creatures have our own codes and channels. Your former master will never look for this, any more than you would look at a high school notice board.”