by Brian Fuller
“No,” the man said with finality, raising his voice over the din. “Let’s go. We’ve got to move it fast in case they actually do send in the troops for our boy here. And don’t worry, Mr. Angel. I’ll have someone come in later and make sure all of you gets down the drain. The maids really despise unsightly bathtub rings.”
They left.
Helpless. Trace could only watch as the water steadily rose, lapping against his feet and then waist, working its way upward to baptize him into death. He had no idea what to regret besides probably being the shortest-lived Ash Angel operative in the history of the world. As the water rose inch by deliberate inch, he wished he could have done better for Cassandra’s sake. She would blame herself for his fate, and he suspected that despite her gruff exterior, she blamed herself for more than anyone really knew.
The bathroom door swung open. After a tentative glance inside, the geeky man in the green sweater vest darted in and quietly closed the door.
“Turn off the water! Turn it off!” Trace begged.
The geek came to his side and grabbed him underneath the armpits, dragging him upward and out of the tub. Water sloshed to the tile as Trace fell, pain searing his sodden, broken body.
“I can heal you, but not while we’re in this building. I sure wish you were lighter,” he said, his voice different than it had been all night at the bar. It was familiar.
“Dolorem?”
“Yeah. So much for earning that rookie-operative-of-the-year award, huh? They’ve busted you up good.”
Trace grimaced as the movement ground his broken bones together.
“How did you know?” he said, voice barely audible.
Dolorem pointed to his head.
“You’re a Visionary?”
“Yep. Second vision I’ve had about you.”
“Did your vision happen to show you how we’re getting out of here?”
“No,” he answered. “That would spoil all the fun. The room connected to this one has a window. Let’s see where it leads.”
Straining, Dolorem grabbed Trace under the armpits again and hauled him out into the adjoining room. The door hung slightly ajar, and he closed it quietly before inspecting the window.
“Looks like the back alley. Desecrated, of course. Well, that’s our best bet. It’s a fixed window, so I’m afraid you get to be a battering ram. This will likely stir up the nest.”
The door cracked open, and Dahlia stepped in, a look of surprise blooming on her face. Trace closed his eyes in despair as Dolorem dropped him. He opened them again as the sound of a door shutting rather than a scream for help fell on his ears. Dolorem had grabbed a lamp stand, ready to do battle, but paused as Dahlia did nothing but look at them.
“You’ve got about twenty seconds before I have to alert someone.” She looked at Trace and then back to Dolorem. “And prepare this one a little better next time.”
Quietly, she stepped out, red aura disappearing behind the door.
Dolorem hurried over. “I’ve seen a lot of weird things in my time . . .” he mumbled, and with a heroic effort, he hefted Trace and tossed him through the window. Glass shattered, and Trace fell with it, the blaring music fading as he plummeted one story and hit the pavement with a painful thud, neck and ribs shattering. Dolorem slipped down after and immediately dragged Trace toward the side alley and street, glass crunching beneath his shoes.
“I’m parked in the lot across the street,” Dolorem said.
Dolorem was putting everything he had into dragging Trace when good fortune favored them. An employee of the restaurant next door opened a side door into the alley to deposit a garbage sack into the dumpster.
“Help!” Dolorem said. “He’s been shot!”
The employee paused for a moment and then motioned them inside to undesecrated ground and shut the door. The relief was immediate, and Trace closed his eyes to relax and let the pain go.
“I’ll get the manager,” the young man said, disappearing through another door.
Dolorem reached down and placed his hand on Trace’s head, Virtus flowing into Trace and knitting his fractured body back together. Once whole, Trace sat up, voices outside the door alerting them to Dreads searching the alley they had just escaped.
Dolorem helped him to his feet. “Let’s get out of here.”
The manager burst through the door with a phone in hand. “Yes, they say he’s been shot!” he reported.
“No, no,” Dolorem soothed. “He’s okay. False alarm. Just a little drunk is all.”
Trace folded his arms over the bullet holes in his shirt and gave the man a sloppy grin.
Relieved, the manager apologized to the 911 operator on the phone and ended the call. “What the hell is going on? Why is he all wet?”
“I don’t know,” Dolorem replied in an exasperated tone. “I found him in the alley. He said he was shot, so I decided to help. Guess that’ll teach me to be a Good Samaritan.”
“All right,” the manager said, probably relieved that no one was bleeding and that a host of cop cars wasn’t about to descend on his establishment. “Just get out of here.”
“You mind if we go out the front?” Dolorem asked pleadingly. “My car’s across the street, and there were some scary folks out in the alley, if you know what I’m saying. I’ll get this guy wherever he’s going.”
A heavy kick rattled the outside door. Then another. They were coming.
Chapter 23
Redemption Motorcycle Club
“Don’t open that door if you know what’s good for you!” Dolorem warned the manager as another kick from the outside loosened the hinges. Trace tailed Dolorem at a dead sprint. Shocked faces met them at every turn as the bow-tied nerd and soaking-wet drunk plowed through the cleaning crews of the nearly deserted Mexican restaurant. They held up at the glass front doors, Dolorem scanning outside.
“That’s no good,” he lamented. “They’re all on this side of the street. I can see where my bike is parked, but as soon as we go out, they’ll be all over us.”
“Maybe they’ve cleared out of the alley and we can take the long way around,” Trace suggested.
“Worth a shot.”
As they turned back toward the kitchen area, the manager popped through the entryway, still gripping the phone. He opened his mouth and put up a finger, but Trace and Dolorem rushed past and right into the path of a Dread turning the corner. The Dread’s eyes shot wide, and the telltale red glow around him intensified. Trace didn’t hesitate. He didn’t know what Bestowal the Dread was powering up, but the last thing Trace needed was another torching. Boosting his Strength, Trace smashed the Dread in the face so hard it caved in, sending his head through the drywall behind him and snapping his neck. The Dread slumped to the ground in a shower of sheetrock dust.
The manager pecked at his phone with his finger, hands shaking. Dolorem pried the phone away from the manager, dropped it on the floor, and then jumped on it.
“Sorry,” he apologized.
Two apron-clad employees converged on the scene, cleaning rags in hand, forcing Trace and Dolorem to wade through them and out into a rear loading-dock area. Rather than risk the noise of raising the loading-bay door, they unlocked and pulled open the solid metal door next to it. The rear alley behind the restaurant was poorly lit and was part of the same alley where they landed when Dolorem had tossed him from the second-story window. Luckily, the desecration didn’t stretch to the loading bay.
A dark sedan purred behind the loading door of the Hammer Bar and Grill, and they could sense rather than see a malevolent presence behind the wheel. The car’s lights were off, but light from inside the open loading bay revealed the mix of red and black auras around the waiting driver. Dolorem stepped back and let the door clank shut.
“My visions didn’t tell me why you would be on a bus or in a bar full of Dreads and Shedim. What is going on? I’ve never seen Dreads in these kinds of numbers. I suppose it has something to do with Trevex being demolished, but tonight
I’ve seen a Sheid, and the driver of the car is a Sheid Thrall. What happened today? Why are you here?”
Learning about Sheid Thralls almost convinced Trace he was trapped in a nightmare. Creating a Sheid Thrall required a Dread—willing or kicking and screaming—to be brought before the Sheid. There, the Sheid ripped his new servant limb from limb and head from neck. Reaching inside the orphaned chest cavity, the Sheid would consume the Thrall’s heart and then knit the body back together with its dark power. From that moment, the Thrall had three days of life and was controlled completely by the Sheid. With no heart, the only way to kill a Thrall was to wait out the three days or immolate it completely. To fight one at night rarely ended in anything other than defeat. Only fighting a Sheid itself was worse.
Trace swallowed. “They got the Ash Angel database, Primus. If they can decrypt it—”
“Yeah, I got it,” Dolorem said. “What were you supposed to do about it?”
“Just report when it was being taken out. The Michaels have cordoned off the area. If they can get a bead on the car, they can try to stop it. But this seems a bit too easy.”
“There’s nothing easy about a Dread Thrall.”
The same nagging mental itch that had bothered Trace during the Tela Mirren operation bothered him now. “Look, unless they’ve got some secret road out of here, one of the sentries is going to pick up on a Dread Thrall going by. The Dreads have relied heavily on baiting tactics lately. They know the Ash Angels are watching this area with everything they’ve got. They’ll send in a bunch of Michaels to dance with a Dread Thrall at night, and all they’ll get is—”
“A bunch of piles of ash,” Dolorem finished, nodding his head.
The sound of an approaching car interrupted their conversation. Peering through the thick glass of the rectangular window set into the door, they watched the sedan speed past. They waited for a moment and then stepped out into the alleyway, ducking behind the cement stairs.
“You know the manager has found another phone and called the cops. They’ll be here any minute,” Dolorem warned him.
Trace peered around the edge of the steps and saw what he was looking for. A bullet bike pulled up to the loading dock. Its driver was helmeted and auraless, but Trace marked the familiar gray suit. It was the man who’d just tried to drown him. Dahlia stepped out and handed him a satchel, which he slung over his back.
“They’re using a normal to get the backpack out?” Dolorem said incredulously. “Clever.”
“I don’t think that guy’s normal,” Trace said. “He told me he’s lived for millennia.”
“He’s got no aura! There are no Blank Dreads. Maybe he’s a Blank gone bad.”
Trace shrugged. “I don’t know, but he controls the Dreads and the Shedim somehow. He’s got Primus. This is our shot.”
The motorcycle engine gunned, tires squealing as the rider hurtled forward. There was no time for carefully planned strategy. Trace set his jaw, ignited his Strength, and stepped out, clotheslining the rider clean off the bike with a hard strike to the upper chest, the rider’s ribs snapping like dry twigs. With a loud, scraping whine, the bike skidded into the dirty brick walls of the alley, driver flipping midair and impacting with the street in a satisfying crunch. Dolorem Hallowed the street around him, the rider screaming in pain as his dormant nerves flamed to life. Trace snatched the satchel, breaking the shoulder strap, and stomped the man’s knee.
“I’ve got it!” Trace yelled before the man could recover. “Run!”
Trace and Dolorem tore out of the alley between the restaurant and bar and grill as if shot from a gun, the man they had robbed of the precious package scooting awkwardly toward his bullet bike. The wailing of nearing sirens had cleared most of the Dreads from the front of the Hammer Bar and Grill, but a whole pack of them charged out the doors before they had reached Dolorem’s motorcycle, a powerful Harley Heritage with dual seats and black leather saddlebags.
“This doesn’t exactly fit your persona,” Trace commented as they clambered on.
Dolorem grinned. “Hang on.”
The Harley powered out of the parking lot with a guttural roar that echoed thunder through the empty streets. Dolorem angled around a corner to avoid the incoming cop cars that scattered the Dreads in all directions. They hadn’t gone far when the damaged bullet bike popped up in the side mirrors, approaching at an incredible clip. The bike didn’t overtake them. In the light of the streetlamps they passed under, Trace craned his neck like a fighter pilot trying to find a bogey. The man on the bike held the silenced pistol that had punched three holes in his heart.
Trace yelled “Gun!” but he couldn’t be sure Dolorem heard him over the deafening roar of the primal engine gunning down the deserted city streets. Bullets spit from the pistol, pecking at the asphalt and buzzing past their ears.
Dolorem juked the bike, Trace clutching the frame with a white-knuckled grip. The man juiced the bullet bike forward, but Dolorem threw their weight to the right, burning around a corner so aggressively Trace thought the bike might slide out from under them. Before they straightened up, Dolorem punched it. The sudden acceleration nearly whipped Trace off the back.
Two black SUVs moved down the street straight toward them, the red auras packed inside clearly visible to their Ash Angel eyes. The SUVs angled toward them on a collision course, forcing Dolorem up onto the sidewalk with a bump and a bounce that set the motorcycle to wobbling. They barely scraped past the front bumper of the lead SUV, and Dolorem had to throttle down until he could steady the bike.
“Sorry!” he yelled. “Not used to passengers!”
“Where are we going?”
“We need weapons!”
No sooner had he mentioned weapons than a thunderous blast tore into their rear tire, shredding the rubber in a shower of smoke and sparks. Again the bike wobbled, Dolorem decelerating but unable to control the bike’s fall to the pavement. Trace tumbled along the asphalt, pulling his limbs in close to keep his bones in one piece. He slammed into Dolorem and then the curb.
The closing motorcycle and SUVs prevented any time to mourn the loss of Dolorem’s ride. With ripped clothes and scraped skin, they scrambled to their feet and bolted down the street. The SUVs reversed, trying to turn the other direction.
Trace scanned for a place to hide. Staying out in the street was suicide. They were in a more suburban part of town now, closed strip malls and fast-food restaurants dominating an empty four-lane street.
“My place is about a quarter mile from here,” Dolorem shouted as he jumped a hedge into a small parking lot. Trace followed him over. The motorbike and the SUVs punched it down the street, engines revving high. Trace trailed Dolorem to the edge of a one-story quilting store that was one of eight stores in the small business park. The Dread vehicles barreled into the parking lot after them, suspensions bouncing as they accelerated over the curb.
“Use your Strength and toss me on the roof!” Dolorem said. Trace made a stirrup with his hands, and once Dolorem stepped in, threw him farther than he should have. The Old Master flailed and landed hard on the roof. Trace secured the satchel and flared his Strength again as the SUV’s lights played on him. A Dread hanging out the window pointed a bulky, metallic rifle at his back. Another deafening gun blast blew out the display window of Zuni’s Quilts just after Trace vacated the spot with a leap and landed next to a scrambling Dolorem.
“That will set them back a bit,” Dolorem said, beckoning him toward the back where the stores adjoined with others at the rear. The reversing SUVs squealed away. “Now we jump down on the other side, duck behind the McDonald’s, climb a fence, and we’re there.”
“Where?” Trace asked.
“The Redemption Motorcycle Club.”
With his Strength, Trace jumped down from the roof to the parking lot on the opposite side with ease. Dolorem hung over the side and dropped down, rolling to absorb the impact. They continued their sprint, the dark SUVs tracking them from the street like hound dogs w
aiting for their prey to come back within reach. Trace and Dolorem raced through the McDonald’s parking lot and clambered up a weedy chain-link fence.
“Welcome to my home,” Dolorem said as they dropped onto the grounds of the Redemption Motorcycle Club.
Despite its glorified name, the building was nothing more than an unattractive sheet-metal mechanic shop with a tan stucco building attached to the left side. A bright light shone on a sign that announced the club’s name and sported a cartoonish logo of a motorcycle with twin halos around its exhaust pipes. A black cross hung above it on the apex of the roof. The worn asphalt was littered with loose gravel, and a couple rusty motorcycles leaned forgotten against a banged-up dumpster on the garage side.
“Quick, in here,” Dolorem said, opening the side door of the garage with a key pulled from his pocket. Trace followed Dolorem inside and shut the door. While they couldn’t yet see their pursuers, the whine of the bullet bike and the growling of the SUVs announced their imminent arrival. In the dimly lit garage, a handful of motorcycles in various states of disrepair awaited attention.
“Any of these work?” Trace asked.
“A couple,” Dolorem said, crossing to an oversized toolbox. “You know how to ride?”
“Yeah.” His dad had bought him and his brother dirt bikes and they’d ridden them to death every summer. “Is there a phone? If I could get a hold of Cassandra, we could get some help.”
“Not in the garage. In the chapel there is. Ah, here they are,” he said, sliding out the bottom drawer. Instead of the hoped-for Big Blessed Guns, Trace was looking at a set of polished Japanese katanas.
“You know how to use a sword?” Dolorem asked.
“Swords? The Dreads have guns. You have any here?”
Dolorem’s pained face jogged Trace’s memory. This was the man who had inadvertently killed Tela Mirren’s dad with a stray bullet from a BBG.
“No guns,” Dolorem said. “Give me your hand.”
Trace held it out. Dolorem concentrated as Virtus traveled from Dolorem’s body and into his. Trace’s eyes flew open.
