The Devil's Gunman

by Philip S Bolger

  “Those lesser creatures,” I said. “Can they kill me?”

  “Probably,” she admitted. “So could your car, but you still drive it plenty. The preferred method of communication is letters, though. Only the very old or very formal will insist on an in-person visit rather than a written introduction. Besides, most of the underworld still relies on secrecy. You may have upset the vampires enough for them to risk breaking that secrecy, but I doubt those of my kind hold any grudges against you.”

  She relaxed, lying back on my broken couch. She raised an eyebrow as the beat-up thing creaked.

  “What happened?” she asked, motioning to the couch.

  “My last encounter with Lyndale,” I responded. “But I didn’t call you for help with interior decorating. You said you could get information, and I’m assuming that won’t come from your little sigil.”

  She nodded.

  “We may risk missing callers, but sunrise is in three hours, and most of my kind do not lurk in the daylight,” she said. “So, let us go. Gather whatever weapons you need.”

  She snapped her fingers, and her clothes transformed. She was now wearing a good replica of a Minneapolis PD uniform. The details were perfect, from the color of the ice-blue blouse down to the last snap and button. Her badge number, 34666, and her name, A. Malfi, were the only things out of place. Her hair was done up in a bun.

  “That’s convenient,” I said.

  Amalfi smiled, pleased with the compliment. “Protectors know how to be protectors,” she said. “Human police and soldiers are not very different from me. Now finish getting ready.”

  I picked an olive-colored jacket, a Minnesota Wild ball cap, some cargo pants, and a pair of work boots that had seen better days. Nobody would look at me twice. I put my VP9 in my waist band holster, a backup gun in an ankle holster, and a pair of knives inside the jacket’s pockets.

  I walked out of the room. Amalfi was waiting by the door.

  “You are…quite slow,” she said, raising an eyebrow. “Don’t take this the wrong way, but you wouldn’t have cut it in the types of outfits I’m used to working with. I’m not your boss, but I do want you to live.” She reached over and pinched my cheek. “You must be faster next time, or you will not be ready for war,” she said in a singsong voice.

  I was more than a little bit indignant. I don’t generally like being treated like a dog. Then again, I had no idea what the Hell Amalfi was, and for all I knew, my relationship with her would never be more than that of a dog and a curious friend of an owner. I sucked it up and nodded. “I’ll work on that.”

  “You should,” she said. “I’ll teach you some techniques. But that’s for later. For now, I need you to take me to the nearest gathering of youthful revelry.”

  I knitted my brow. “Like a club? Or a party?”

  She waved her hand dismissively. “I don’t care. I need to find youth reveling, as the type of person I am looking for will certainly be there.”

  “Don’t say reveling,” I said. “Please,” I added, as she shot me a harsh look. “It makes you sound like you’re a promoter at a Renaissance Faire.”

  “What word should I use instead?” she asked, furrowing her brow.

  “Partying,” I said.

  “Okay,” she replied. “I’ll use that. It’s been a bit since I had to talk with humans at length. I try to keep my vocabulary current. Take me to where I can find youth partying.”

  I thought, briefly, of asking her not to say “youth,” either, but it wasn’t worth it. We walked over to the Jeep, and I unlocked it. Amalfi shouldered me out of the way and opened the driver’s door. I protested, but she ignored me. The Jeep turned on without her touching the start button.

  “How did you do that?” I asked as I sat down on the passenger seat.

  She looked at me as the Jeep backed out of the drive, without her hands on the wheel or her feet on the pedals, and shrugged.

  “I’m imbued with many powers, Nick Soren. The most useful, and also my favorite, is the ability to intuitively command any machine I touch. When I received this power, machines were simple—catapults, ballistae, straightforward stuff like that. Nothing had more than a few gears and pulleys. Machines have advanced, and my magic has adapted.”

  “So, you can drive anything?” I asked.

  She shrugged. “I haven’t tried everything, but I’ve yet to run into a machine I couldn’t command.”

  She drove fast, but expertly, weaving neatly in traffic. We otherwise sat silently during the ride. Amalfi turned her radio on, and police chatter filled the car. She seemed to be listening intently. The sharp bursts of communication between a dispatcher and cop cars, a bunch of code words and alphanumeric combinations, might as well have been the Muppets’ theme song for all the sense it made to me.

  The drive wasn’t too bad—it was 4:00 AM, after all, and there wasn’t anyone out. Most bars and clubs in the Twin Cities close earlier, but if you wanted to find a party, during the school year, you headed over to Dinkytown. The closer you get to the University of Minnesota, the more likely it was you’d find a house party.

  We didn’t have to look long. A house party at a big fraternity was still raging, with bass-filled music pumping into the streets as college kids stumbled around on the lawn. We parked a block away and walked over.

  “This is exactly what I was looking for,” she told me as we approached. “I’d wager we’ll find the type of creature I need here.”

  We walked up the lawn, and Amalfi turned her head, slightly.

  “Follow my lead,” she whispered.

  The frat house was painted white, with gigantic Corinthian columns, and three Greek letters across the top. Despite the lateness of the hour, a bunch of frat brothers and women were partying. Lights in each of the windows were on, and the upper balcony was filled with college-aged kids enjoying themselves. Upbeat techno music was blasting from a set of speakers set-up on the front lawn, as a young DJ aggressively worked the turntables. Most of the women were half-dressed, and many of the guys were shirtless, though the ones wearing shirts sported the bright pastel polos that seemed to represent identity in the bro culture.

  Amalfi swaggered confidently up to the party, hand on her nightstick. A couple furiously making out stopped long enough to look at her. She seemed to notice the apprehension of a couple of frat guys as they abandoned their game of beer pong and motioned toward her. I overheard them talking about her. Something crude about Amalfi’s looks. Something racial about her skin tone.

  Her face remained impassive, though I was positive she heard them.

  The crowd seemed uncertain. Several of the frat guys approached her, and one of them, a smarmy blonde fuck, the same kind of guy I was a decade ago, stepped forward.

  “What seems to be the problem, officer?” smarmy guy asked. To his right, a beefy guy with rippling muscles stepped forward and crossed his arms, veins bulging as he tried to posture. Beefy guy had beady little eyes that conveyed something between disgust and annoyance. I kept my hand on my VP9 just in case.

  “This party’s over,” Amalfi said, her voice booming. “Too many noise complaints. Everyone needs to go home.”

  “I’m not sure you know who my dad is,” said smarmy guy, the look on his face suggesting he expected Amalfi to leave.

  “I know he’s not the mayor, and he’s not the police chief, so get fucked,” she said.

  Smarmy guy nodded to his would-be bodyguard and stepped out of the way.

  The big, muscular guy stepped forward, braced to swing, but Amalfi read him like a book. She sidestepped his haymaker, whipped out her nightstick and struck rapidly, three times. The blows shattered the guy’s kneecap. He fell to the ground, screaming, knocking over a folding table set up for beer pong as he writhed.

  She put her boot on his neck and motioned with her nightstick.

  “Anyone else have a problem?”

  “Hey, you can’t do that!” someone shouted. “Police brutality!”

  “Tak
e down my badge number,” she snapped back. “And then fuck off.”

  The crowd cleared out quickly. The drunken college kids headed for home and left the owners of the house to pick up the worst of the messes. The music cut out, and a few people mumbled something about cops.

  “Now,” she said to me, taking her boot off the crying fraternity brother. “Let’s go downstairs.”

  She entered the house and went down to the basement. It was cluttered with framed pictures of past fraternity brothers, broken electronics, and a handful of cryptically-labeled cardboard boxes. Amalfi navigated the mess with ease, stepping nimbly over spilled storage boxes and odd-looking, dark stains. Finally, she reached what appeared to be the center of the room. She chanted some words I didn’t understand, and a circle began glowing in the middle of the floor between some old gym equipment and a blow-up doll.

  She kept chanting, and the circle gradually filled with a goat-legged man, who seemed to be eating grapes. He was sitting with his back to us. Suddenly, he realized he was visible. He turned around, revealing a bearded face stained with grape juice. He was light-skinned and nearly bald but had prominent goat’s horns. They were short and dull. He didn’t look very deadly to me.

  He looked surprised to see Amalfi. He stood up, and his grapes tumbled to the floor. He looked a bit disappointed by that, but surprise and fear once again dominated his feature as he knelt.

  “Oh. Oh! Oh!” he said, his voice rising in pitch with each exclamation. “Zeus help me, a monster! I’ve done nothing wrong, honored protector, I am simply exercising the rights of my domain.”

  “Yes,” she said, “you are. I am not here for you.”

  “Oh!” he said again, his face not relaxing one bit. “I am a humble servant, then, happy to provide whatever services the honored protector might require.”

  Amalfi turned to me. “I’ve got a lot of experience dealing with satyrs. They like talking and adore formality. Follow my lead, and please don’t interrupt. Gently tap my leg if you would like me to ask a specific question.”

  I nodded. I hadn’t realized satyrs were real. One interesting thing about serving a power of Hell is that you gradually find out that myths are real and, eventually, you become immune to the surprise.

  “Satyr, what shall I call you?” Amalfi asked, a tone of the dramatic entering her voice. I tried not to smile. The intense woman sounding all the world like a community theater actress wasn’t something I’d expected.

  “The children who worship at this shrine call me Kappa, and I am their benefactor,” he beamed broadly. “I have had custody over this shrine since its establishment more than 70 years ago!”

  “Very well, Kappa,” Amalfi said. “I am called Amalfi. You are already aware of my nature, so I shall not insult us both by explaining it. I am a traveler, and I need information.”

  “Oh, oh,” Kappa said, his eyes lighting up. “You have come to the right place, you have! I have much information, so much information, all of it useful.”

  The fear in his eyes gave way to excitement as he gestured with his hands, and a set of books appeared out of nowhere. They were branded with U of M logos, as well as the three letters that adorned the frat house. He laid them out, excitedly, in front of us, the fear in his eyes completely gone.

  “I have divined the scores of the next three Gopher football games, as well as the best ways to enhance the skill of the hockey team. If sport does not please you, I have collected the names of the most nubile women arriving on campus this year, and—”

  “Such things are beneath me,” Amalfi said in a harsh tone. “You know this, satyr. I would prefer not to have to demonstrate my power.”

  “Yes, of course, honored protector,” the satyr said hurriedly, groveling a bit as he collected the books, which promptly disappeared in a puff of purple smoke. “You wish to know about, the ahh, shall we say, the true side of the veil?”

  Amalfi nodded once.

  The satyr stroked his short beard. “My knowledge is limited, honored protector. I am but one of many shrine keepers in this region. The children of this shrine care little, so I do not keep written records, but I am attentive, so very attentive! To honor our races’ ancient relationship, and out of respect for your position, I will tell you what I know.”

  The satyr produced a flute, not a set of pan pipes but a modern flute, and began playing. As he did, his voice echoed through the music, though his lips never left the instrument. He had quite a singing voice, one that didn’t match his gruff appearance in the least.

  “Whispers tell of sorcery on campus,” he sang in tenor. “Their rituals to sanctify and purify, in advance of the storm.”

  Amalfi looked at me, and I shook my head. I had no idea what it meant.

  “Rumors tell of Roman forces,” he sang. “New to the area, closing in on a renegade sect.”

  I shook my head again. The satyr started playing quicker, beads of sweat appearing on his brow.

  “Whispers tell of the Lyndale Coven,” he sang. “They wish to strengthen their position. They are hunting the duke’s knife.”

  I tapped Amalfi’s leg and nodded.

  “Yes,” she said. “Tell me more of the Lyndale Coven.”

  The satyr nodded and changed his flute’s melody as his words came out quicker and quicker.

  “It is said, the coven master, for too long, has been in the shade of the powers of Hell. His compact is up for renewal, and he wishes for more domains. The knife has gone rogue, a cardinal sin for the orders of Hell, but you know that.”

  Amalfi looked at me, an eyebrow raised. I shook my head.

  “The whispers tell,” he continued singing, “of a vain vampire lord, a sinister rogue, a man who has only found love in power. He will do anything to improve his position, and he has chosen to hunt for this knife. The coven master, he sees a path forward, a path made of the knife’s blood.”

  The music abruptly stopped. The satyr lowered his flute and bowed.

  “I hope you were pleased with my performance,” the satyr said. “A small donation to the shrine would be appreciated.”

  “Yes,” said Amalfi. “Consider my donation my generous choice to not decapitate you. You are welcome.”

  The satyr went pale but bowed again.

  “Thank you, honored mistress. I am here to serve,” he said, bitterly.

  Amalfi didn’t acknowledge him as she got up and walked out. I followed her.

  “Satyrs don’t communicate well, despite how much they love talking. I think because the gods that made them loved the power of the theatre, satyrs assume they’re all great actors. I knew one, briefly, who tried to charge me to hear his voice.”

  She smiled sweetly. “He didn’t last very long.”

  I didn’t say anything. I was too busy trying not to think of Amalfi bashing a little goatman’s head in with a nightstick.

  “They’re cowardly creatures,” she continued. “which is why they can’t be trusted with anything more dangerous than monitoring and encouraging revelry—sorry, partying. Usually that means they’re nothing more than gossips. But this one had some useful information,” she said.

  She looked at me. “You’re the duke’s knife, or were, anyway. For some reason, the Lyndale Coven believes you’ve gone rogue, rather than being released from service.”

  “What’s the distinction?” I asked.

  “Desertion versus discharge,” she said. “If you are discharged, you’ve completed your service. You owe Hell nothing more. If you desert, you’re shirking your obligation. To creatures granted power by magical compacts, that is a very severe offense. Were they to do it, their magic powers might be taken by their granting powers, so they hold oath breakers in special disdain.”

  That explained the break-in vampire’s threats and Anders’ bizarre posturing. But it didn’t make any sense.

  “Would the Patron tell the coven that?” I asked.

  Amalfi shrugged. “When I knew him, he did not know my name, or what I preferred to
be called, so it is likely he does not care much about the goings-on of tributary clans. I doubt he told them, though they seem to have come to that conclusion on their own. It also sounds like the duke owns the coven’s compact. If the compact is nearing renewal or renegotiation, it would make sense that the coven’s leadership is interested in branching out. It sounds like typical demonic intrigue—a chance to get ahead with your corpse.”

  We walked up the stairs past an unconscious woman wearing a halter top and nothing else.

  “Is there any way I can contact the vampires to see if I can fix this?” I asked.

  Amalfi shook her head. “They may have a sliver of the strength of the underworld, but they’re still very much human, with human flaws and human grudges. This master vampire, whoever he is, sounds like he’s ambitious. On top of that, you killed one of his coven. That makes his social climbing a bit more personal. And then there are the Byzantine intrigues of vampire covens. I’ve got no idea what supplication measures or tribute you would need to seek an audience.”

  The yard was abandoned, and even the fraternity brother with the shattered kneecap had been moved.

  “I’d like to contact more creatures with knowledge of the world beyond the veil,” she said, “but I fear we are too close to daylight, and I will be expected at the Ranch for my normal duties. I would like to give you a useful tool. I expect you’ll use it wisely.”

  “Of course,” I said immediately.

  She picked up a rock off the ground and chanted a few words I didn’t understand, moving her fingers as that shadow claw emerged. There was a scraping sound as she traced an insignia on the rock.

  “This is a summoning stone,” she said. “Drip a bit of your blood on it, and I’ll come as quickly as I can.”

  “It has to be blood?” I said.

  She nodded. “Protectors of Hell require sacrifice. I’m more generous than most, I only need a drop or two. Some of my brothers and sisters require a limb.”

  She grinned like the fiend she was. “Living with humans has made me soft, I suppose. But I appreciate those like you.”

  She reached up and lifted my ball cap to tousle my hair. I did the best I could to look pleased.