Heaven Sent - a Quincy Harker Novella (Quincy Harker Demon Hunter Book 5)

by John G. Hartness

  “Or they turn out like Baxter, a fucking psychopath,” Christy chimed in. She was wiping down the bar and doing something with liquor bottles that looked a lot like adding water to vodka, but I decided not to ask.

  “Or that,” Mort agreed. “Baxter was a piece of work. He was Nephilim, all right, but he acted more like a Cambion than a lot of half-demons I’ve known.”

  “Hold up,” I said. “You’re saying that the Cambion are real?” I asked. I’d heard of these mythical half-human, half-succubus demonspawn, but in almost a century of traipsing all over the world and peeking in all of civilization’s dark corners, I hadn’t found any real proof of their existence.

  “Of course they do, idiot boy.” Mort actually managed to make a cat’s mouth sneer at me. I never knew you could sneer without lips, but he managed. “The universe relies on balance. If there’s a yin, there’s gotta be a yang. If there are Nephilim, there have to be Cambion. Angels…demons. Pizza…asparagus. Beer…Zima. You get what I’m saying.”

  “All but that last one. You know as well as I do that Zima is not of this universe,” I said.

  He nodded. “Yeah, it was a sixth-circle idea that never really panned out. Like New Coke, just not quite evil enough to catch on.”

  “So what’s the point? Baxter was a Nephilim, and he was a psycho Nephilim, and somebody punched his ticket. Sounds like the suspect list is about half a mile long at this point, but really, what’s the big deal? Some asshole angel got killed, so what?” I asked.

  The cat looked at Christy, who shrugged. Mort turned back to me. “Are all humans this fucking stupid, or are you just a shining example? Look, fuckwit, you’re missing the point. The point is not that something killed Baxter; the point is that something killed Baxter. Killed. Made dead. Took the part-angel son of a bitch and made him not be here anymore. That takes a lot of juice. And this ain’t the first time it’s happened, either.”

  Now I was really interested. “There are more?”

  “More what?” Mort asked.

  “Goddammit, I can’t tell which part of you is a bigger douche, the demon or the cat!” I exploded. “More dead Nephilim, you fuzzy prick!”

  “There’s no need for name-calling,” Mort said, suddenly all prim and proper licking one paw and washing behind his ears.

  “I’m pretty sure I can’t kill you, but I could have you spayed,” I growled.

  Mort looked at me, eyes wide. “You are an asshole, Harker.”

  “We call these our given circumstances, Mort,” I replied. “Now, about those other Nephilim?”

  “Baxter is the third in the past few weeks, which is really odd. Usually the Nephilim don’t hang around each other, mostly because they hate each other, and usually they don’t die, like ever. So three dead Nephilim in one city in one month is way outside the realm of chance.”

  “Do you think it might have something to do with Big Ugly back there?” I pointed in the general direction of the booth where my mild disagreement with Orobas began.

  “Oro?” Mort asked, his voice dripping with the disdain that you always knew cats would sound like if they could talk. Well, this one could, and he sounded every bit as obnoxious as I always thought a talking cat would. “Oro has way more important things on his mind than a couple of dead angels. He’s one of Hell’s top dogs, and he doesn’t mess around with small fish.”

  “So why was he here waving me off the case?”

  “I don’t know,” Mort admitted, and the cat at least had the courtesy to look embarrassed.

  “So we’ve got something killing supposedly un-killable half-angels, a high-ranking demon telling me not to poke around in a case, and you don’t think they’re connected? I’m no Sherlock Holmes, but I think you might be missing the boat there, Morty.”

  “And what do you propose to do about it, Harker?” the cat asked.

  “Now that I know there are two more dead Nephilim, I want to see if their bodies are still in the morgue. I have a couple of connections in the police department that may be useful, too.”

  “The bodies are long gone, but you can probably get the autopsy reports,” Christy said. “Here.” She slid a piece of paper across the bar with two names written on it.

  “These are the other two Nephilim?”

  “Those are the names you’ll find their corpses under,” Christy confirmed. I nodded and turned to go. “Harker?” she called.

  I stopped and turned back to her. “Yeah?”

  “Be careful. These things are way outside your usual weight class, and they think they’re right about everything. That makes them way more dangerous.”

  *****

  The autopsy reports were a dead end, since they don’t tend to give those out to people without some official rank or, you know, job, and I had nothing like that. All my trip to the morgue got me was a distaste for the smell of formaldehyde and a lot of blank stares from paper-pushers who weren’t buying any of my lies about “Freedom of Information Act” or the public having a right to know. Smart bureaucrats are something I have no superpower against.

  I was just walking out the front door when my old buddy Detective Sponholz walked in. He took one look at me, scowled, and turned to leave again. I put on a little extra gas and pressed the door closed before he could pull it open.

  “Where you headed, Detective?” I asked.

  “Anywhere you aren’t, Harker,” the portly investigator replied.

  “What’s wrong, Detective? Scared that if you share information with a civilian, I’ll show you up?”

  “More like scared anything I say to you will end up on the internet,” Sponholz replied. “What are you doing here? I got a call that some reporter’s down here digging around in my case files, and when I show up, it’s everybody’s least favorite asshole—Quincy Harker.”

  “That’s not fair, Detective. I must be somebody’s favorite asshole,” I replied.

  “Nope, I checked. Called everybody on Earth. You’re the winner. Asshole of the year. Now what do you want?” Sponholz suddenly turned serious.

  “I want the autopsy reports for these two cases.” I handed Sponholz a scrap of paper with their names on it.

  He immediately looked suspicious, kinda like he did when I spoke, or show up unannounced at crime scenes. “Why do you want autopsy reports?” he asked. “Do you think these two might be somehow connected to Baxter?”

  “I don’t know,” I replied. “But these bodies were both found in similar circumstances, rainy parking lots, early morning, not very much blood at the scene…it’s not much of a stretch to think they might be connected. Have you found anything?”

  “I’ll be honest with you, Harker, and I don’t know why I’m even giving you this much, I’ve just started looking myself. I wasn’t on the first one of these cases, but I remembered the Brecker scene once we got everything buttoned up this morning, so I came down to get the files and check it out myself.”

  He didn’t know why he was telling me that, but I did. It had a lot to do with a very minor truth incantation I was murmuring under my breath and the piece of quartz crystal I was channeling my will through while he spoke. The spell didn’t force him to do anything, just made him more likely to respond to suggestions or answer questions honestly.

  “How about I help you?” I offered, and focused my will on the crystal.

  He started to shake his head, and I could almost feel his resistance, then his eyes glazed for a second and he said, “Alright, sure. I mean, two heads are better than one, and it’s better to keep you where I can see you.” He walked over to the officious woman behind the desk and filled out two forms, one for each report. He handed them in, paced around in front of the Plexiglas window for a few minutes, then reached into a slot cut under the window and pulled out two thin manila envelopes.

  “Come with me,” Sponholz grumbled, and I followed him down a short hallway to a small room with no windows.

  “This looks like the kind of place where you guys bring out the rubber ho
ses,” I joked.

  “Not for years, Harker. Not for years,” Sponholz said, and I chuckled at what I thought was his little joke. Until I saw the drain in the floor and decided he might not have been joking. Regardless of the room’s former uses, it now held a small table and four chairs, with one weak fluorescent light overhead. Sponholz dropped the two envelopes on the table and sat down in one chair. I sat opposite him and reached for a file. He slapped the back of my hand, and I was impressed with myself as I didn’t break any of the bones in his hand. I was hardly even tempted.

  “Here’s how this is going to go,” Sponholz said. “I’m going to look through these autopsy reports. I’m not going to tell you shit about them. Then, when I’m done, you’re going to look through these autopsy reports. You’re going to tell me anything out of the ordinary that you notice. Do you understand me?”

  “Sounds like this partnership is kind of a one-way street, Detective,” I said, looking him in the eye.

  “That’s because it’s not a partnership. We’re not buddies, partners, pals, or friends of any sort. You are a consultant to the Charlotte-Mecklenburg Police Department, and I am the officer overseeing you. You are here because you always seem to pop up where the weird shit happens, and this case qualifies. So anything you see that’s weird, you flag. Anything that you see that’s unusual, you flag. Anything you see that’s abnormal in any way, you—”

  “Flag. I get it,” I grumbled. Oh well, I got half of what I wanted. I got into the room with the files, and I was going to get access to them, even if I wasn’t getting the benefit of Sponholz’s expertise. I leaned back and waved at the envelopes. “You first, partner.”

  A couple hours later, I had a clearer view of the method of the murders, even if I had no idea what I all meant. I closed the last folder and slid it back into the second envelope. “Let’s recap,” I said.

  “All three victims were killed between 10 p.m. and 4 a.m., the quietest time of night in those areas. Their bodies were dumped in areas where they would be found quickly, but where the dump itself was unlikely to be seen. Cotswold Mall, the Eastland Mall parking garage lower level, the parking lot behind Independence Arena are all public places, but also places that are unlikely to be patrolled around the clock. So our killer knows the city and knows which places are just deserted enough to make great dumping grounds,” Sponholz said, his manner cool, but professional. At some point over the last two hours, he seemed to have resigned himself to working with me, at least for today.

  “What else do we know?” I asked.

  “Your turn, smartass.” Sponholz pointed at me. “You’ve got my quid, now for a little pro quo.”

  “Fair enough,” I said. “All the bodies show signs of extreme exsanguination, and not the kind that is consistent with the trauma they experienced. Each man was struck a sharp blow behind the ear, which would have rendered him unconscious, but all three men died from excessive blood loss.”

  “An easy call, since all their throats were slit,” Sponholz said. “What have you got that’s new?”

  “I have agreement from the coroner that they weren’t killed where the bodies were found. Like Baxter, the first two men were not found with nearly enough blood around them to explain the level to which they were drained. So they were killed elsewhere and then dumped.”

  “What else?”

  “When is it your turn to detect, Detective? Regardless, there are ligature marks on each man’s hands and feet that show he was bound, and judging by the directional marks on the ankles and the angle of the cuts on the throat, these men were hung upside down, their throats cut, and their blood drained, just like hunters do with deer.”

  “They weren’t murdered,” Sponholz said, his eyes big.

  “They were butchered,” I said.

  Chapter 6

  I left Sponholz at the morgue and headed over to Luke’s place, after a detour down Monroe to get a bowl of Lupe’s chili and a little alone time to process everything I’d learned today. And hammer down a six-pack of Foster’s to help my bruises fade. By the time I left the restaurant, it was close to full dark, and he’d be waking up soon. Renfield met me at the door with a smile. This Renfield was tall, thin almost to the point of gaunt, and getting way on in years. He’d been with Uncle Luke for a long time, even given the extra years hanging with the King of Vampires grants humans, and I could tell his time was coming to an end. But he still had a sparkle in his eyes and the key to the liquor cabinet on his ring, so I was always happy to see him.

  “Master Quincy,” he said, pulling the door open wide.

  “Renfield,” I replied with a nod.

  “Your uncle has begun to stir. I expect him to be down for breakfast within the half hour, after he finishes his daily ablutions and newspaper.” Luke is still the only person I know who reads the entire newspaper before he begins his day. He claims it’s a habit he picked up from Mark Twain, but I’ve never found any proof he ever met the famous writer, riverboat captain, and newspaperman. Like myself, Uncle Luke has sometimes been known to embellish his proximity to some historical events and downplay his participation in others. For example, he’s all too quick to bring up my poor decision-making in helping Pol Pot into power in Cambodia, a mistake I’ve long regretted and which set in stone my policy of never again interfering with the politics of Asia. They really are fucking inscrutable, and I hate getting bluffed. But you’ll never hear him mention the St. Valentine’s Day Massacre, where he got hungry and pissed off with a bunch of mobsters and ate them all. Capone took credit for the murders, shot up a bunch of corpses, and rose to power in Chicago, but if investigators ever looked around, they would see the same thing I’d seen this morning—not enough blood for all the deadness.

  But anyway, Luke also had the best mystical library of anyone I had contact with. Anyone who didn’t want to kill me, that is. Pesky thing about people who collect mystical texts—they either do it for nefarious reasons, or to destroy those with nefarious motives. Since my motives often are way more gray-tinged than some practitioners would like, I’m persona non grata in a lot of the magical circles. And let’s not even mention Luke.

  “Let him know I’m in the library whenever he’s feeling ready for company,” I said to Renfield, taking a left under the grand staircase in the foyer and heading to the large, wood-paneled room where I hoped to find more information on Nephilim and the things that killed them.

  “I will do so, Master Quincy. Would you like something to eat brought in?” Renfield had a hell of a mommy instinct, always making sure I ate. I’m blessed with a hellacious metabolism, so even though I just knocked off a meal at Lupe’s, my stomach rumbled at Renfield’s mention of food.

  “Yeah, send in a sandwich or something. Don’t go to any trouble.” I felt like I had to say it, no matter how useless. I know Renfield would whip up something worthy of a five-star restaurant and deny there was any trouble to it.

  I was barely into my second tome when Renfield came in with a tray bearing a cold Sam Adams beer, a roast beef sandwich, chips, and a pickle spear. It looked like it had just come from a New York deli with crisp lettuce, fresh tomato, and rare roast beef almost dripping. I pushed away the book I was leafing through and dove in.

  “Hey, Renfield,” I said before the thin man reached the door. “What do you know about Nephilim?”

  He froze and turned around very slowly. The look on his face told me I’d hit a nerve, but I didn’t understand why at first. “Master Quincy, why in the world would you wish to know about those abominations?”

  “Abominations? Isn’t that a little strong?” I asked.

  “I don’t think so,” he replied. “They are a mix of the earthly and the divine, creatures that were never meant to exist. I feel that abomination is a perfectly acceptable way to refer to them.”

  “There are those who would call me the same thing, Renfield. What would you say to them?” My uncle’s voice was low, but dangerous. I could tell Renfield was choosing his next few words
carefully. Uncle Luke wasn’t a terribly vindictive man, but he had been known to eat employees in a fit of pique.

  “I should hope that I am not put into a position to converse with such close-minded people, sir, but if I am, I am certain that you need no help from me in defending your honor or emotional well-being.” The stiff-necked man then turned and continued his trek out of the room and vanished into the kitchen area.

  I looked over at Luke, who stood with one eyebrow raised, his gaze locked onto the hallway where Renfield had disappeared. “What’s up with Renfield, Uncle?” I asked.

  “He has recently been reminded of his mortality, Quincy. I am afraid his time with us grows short.”

  That rang a little odd. Uncle Luke had gone through several Renfields by this point, the name becoming more of a title than anything else. But all of them had died of natural causes, as far as I was aware, and all after extremely long lives. This Renfield looked no more than sixty, but being around Luke made people’s lifespans blurry, and I didn’t remember how old he was when he came to the position.

  “What’s up with him?” I asked.

  “Cancer,” Uncle Luke replied. “It seems he knew about it when he took the position, but was hoping the exposure to my magic and his duties would either cure him or hold the tumor at bay indefinitely. That has not been the case.”

  “Bummer,” I said. “Sorry about that. How long does he have? And have you started looking for a replacement?”

  “As I understand it, his time can be measured in weeks, and I have not yet begun the search for his successor. That task is usually undertaken by the current Renfield, but…” His voice trailed off, and he raised a wine glass full of a rich red liquid to his lips.

  “Yeah, I get it.” I walked over to an antique sideboard. “Which bottle is the unleaded cabernet?” I pointed to two decanters. One held wine, I was fairly certain. The other, well, it was always better to ask before you drank anything in Uncle Luke’s house. I poured myself a glass from the crystal decanter Luke indicated.