Spider's Lullaby - 03

by James R. Tuck

  He was making two big mistakes if this situation went tits up.

  The first one was to hold his arm out within reaching distance of me. My mind flashed through the steps it would take to put him down: My hand on his wrist. A sharp twist to the outside, fracturing the ulna bone in his arm. He would drop forward to his knees. My foot would snap up into his stomach, shoving his diaphragm against his spine if I was being nice. If not, my foot would crush his larynx.

  I shook my head, visions of violence dissolving.

  His second error in judgment was to completely focus on me and ignore the girls. Tiff had a 9mm compact pistol in her coat pocket, forty-three rounds of ammunition for it, and the ability to use it. Charlotte was ... well, Charlotte. Dismissing her was like dismissing a tiger as a kitty cat.

  I get it, though. I am the one who looks dangerous. He was right at six foot tall, which put me four inches taller than him. I also outweighed him by an easy fifty or sixty pounds. That can be unnerving for a man who is normally the biggest guy in the room at 250 lbs. I had thrown on my coat to cover the guns, so most of my tattoos were also covered, but the ones on my hands, throat, and the back of my shaved head were all still visible, adding to the thug look I had going on. Add the goatee that hasn’t been cut in years so it hangs to my chest thick and gnarly, and I look like a real bad dude.

  But in this joint that shouldn’t be a problem.

  So why was I getting flack from the bouncer?

  “What’s the problem, pal?” I asked.

  His finger pointed to a sign on the wall. It read: DRESS ODE STRICTLY ENFORCED. He looked down his nose at my tanker boots, jeans, and black T-shirt.

  My voice spiked with incredulity. “Are you fucking serious?”

  “Absolutely.” Thin lips pulled into a thinner line.

  Time pressed in. Thoughts of Ronnie and the egg sac weighed heavy on me. I was on a deadline and time was not my friend tonight. No way was a door monkey going to keep me from going inside because I didn’t have a tie on.

  I leaned forward, dropping my voice. “I am here to see The Russian.”

  “We have many customers who happen to be Russian. You cannot enter, sir.” He said the word “sir” like it tasted bad.

  My teeth clenched as my blood pressure rose. The nerve under my left eye twitched. “You don’t understand, slick. I am here for THE Russian, and I am going to see him tonight.”

  He blinked at me. I watched the synapses in his brain fire as he processed what I had said. I shoved down the urge to fold him in half and stuff him inside a trash can somewhere. His mouth opened, then shut, then opened again.

  I was stepping forward when a tall, icy blonde came from the shadows behind him. Her fingers fell on his arm, jerking him out of his befuddlement. She stepped around him. Her face split into a smile that did not reach dark gray eyes.

  Sasha.

  I should have known she would be here. After all, she owned the club.

  She was the picture of elegance in a sheath dress that matched the color of her eyes. It hugged a body that was mannish despite the basketball-sized breasts that rode on her chest and spilled over the top of the dress. There was something that kept her just shy of being the height of femininity. Her shoulders were just a bit too wide, hips a bit too narrow, jaw a bit too square.

  Sasha had been Stephen when I met her.

  She had spent a childhood at the hands of freaks who made her suffer for being born in the wrong body. She’d spent an adulthood tracking them down and sending them to the hell they deserved. Some of those freaks had been monsters in other ways too.

  That’s where I had come into her life.

  I’d helped her boot the last of those sadistic perverts into the fiery depths of Satan’s asshole. After the dust settled, she had gone on to make herself whole. The surgeons had performed magic, but the therapists never could solve all her issues, or settle all her homicidal rage.

  I completely understood.

  She’d opened Cordite as a place where hit men and assassins could be entertained and do business if they wanted. The club catered to the criminal element, but it was a no-man’s-land. You didn’t start shit in Cordite. Sasha would bury you out back if you did.

  Her hands touched my shoulders lightly as she leaned in and kissed my cheek. Electrolysis smooth skin brushed mine. She smelled like green apples. Stepping back, her fingers lightly brushed over the top of her insane cleavage.

  “It is lovely to see you, Deacon. Did I hear you say you were here to see Ivan?”

  I took her hand. It was almost as big as mine, the knuckles still large from years of fighting. Her nails were perfectly polished, refined, elegant, and closely clipped so they wouldn’t snag in a trigger guard. I brought it up to my lips. “Speaking of lovely, Sasha, you are a vision tonight.” My lips pressed quickly to the back of her hand. The skin was warm and smelled of antibacterial soap. “I am here to see the Russian.”

  She pulled her hand back as I stood up and used it to fan the air by her face. Her cheeks were bright beneath her base. She rolled her eyes and batted long, thick eyelashes. She smiled. “I see you have not lost your charm, Deacon Chalk.”

  “My momma raised me right.”

  Her waxed eyebrow arched. “Are you planning to start trouble in my club?”

  I smiled at her. “You know I never plan to start trouble.”

  “That may well be, but somehow it usually happens around you. Try to keep things civilized, darling.” She turned and began walking into the club, fingers beckoning us to follow her.

  Me start trouble?

  Never happens.

  6

  Ivan Dragonovich wasn’t truly handsome. His dark eyes glittered inside deep caves carved between jutting cheekbones and a craggy brow. His nose pinched at the bridge and flared at the tip like a Roman boxer who always lost. His lips were thin, set in a permanent frown over a chin with a dimple so deep it looked like a special effect. Black hair swept back from his temples, cropped short and slicked down with some form of gel. None of his features were appealing on their own, but taken together they made a face that you didn’t get bored looking at, and you didn’t forget.

  He stood as we stepped into his private room, separated from the hustle and the bustle of the rest of the nightclub. Sasha shut the door behind us, closing off the noise with a shush. The Russian moved around the table to greet us. He was not tall, maybe 5’10”, and stocky but still lithe. His suit was expertly tailored, the expensive material caressing him like a lover. It commanded attention without drawing notice to itself. Now I did feel underdressed.

  “Deacon Chalk. Is good to see you, my friend.” His voice was deep, stilted with thick accent. You would think that being over 1500 years old he would lose it, but he never had. Maybe the accent wasn’t from English being his second language, but rather from human being his second form.

  Ivan Dragonovich was a dragon.

  Ivan Dragonovich, Russian hit man extraordinaire, was the human form of Zmey Gorynych, the Three-headed Wyrm of Doom. He had terrorized ancient Russia, wreaking havoc and raining destruction upon the lives of men until the day that Saint Dobrynya Nikitich had put an end to it by nearly killing him and then converting him to faith in Christ.

  Yes, Ivan Dragonovich was a born-again Christian. Russian Orthodox to be exact.

  Now he lived among men, killing bad guys as a form of retribution for his past sins. We were a lot alike, which is why we were kind of friends. Okay, so we were acquaintances who didn’t kill each other. He’s a monster who hunts evil humans. I am a human who hunts evil monsters. We don’t talk about the fact that if either of us lose our way and fall to the dark side, then we would instantly go to the top of the other one’s hit list.

  Number one with a high-velocity, armor-piercing bullet.

  “And who are these beautiful women you have with you tonight?”The Russian stepped past me. His hand reached out to clasp Tiff ’s. She offered her left, keeping the right one in her pocket where
the 9mm was.

  Good girl.

  “Ivan Dragonovich, meet Tiff. Tiff, this is Ivan.”

  Tiff bowed her head in greeting. Ivan held her hand for a moment, looking at her closely. Thick brows came together as he studied her. “Your eyes very beautiful. You should guard both of them closely.”

  It was a strange thing to say, but dragons are like that. Tiff made no response, just smiled and took her hand back.

  Letting go, he stepped to Charlotte.

  “Ivan, Charlotte. Charlotte, Ivan,” I said as introduction.

  He took her hand, smiling broadly. The moment their skin made contact his spine straightened sharply, bringing him to his full height. Wide nostrils flared as he took a deep whiff. Inhumanly fast, he stepped closer, bringing his face to the side of her neck. Metaphysical heat washed back over me, flaring my power to life.

  My gun was out and pointed at the back of his head two seconds before Tiff cleared hers from her pocket.

  The Russian ignored both of us, inhaling deeply, face only inches from Charlotte’s skin. She stood unnaturally still, not moving even the smallest muscle, not even breathing. It was like they were locked in some weird stasis.

  The heat was rising. My finger was tight on the trigger. I fought to keep from squeezing the last quarter of an inch. My voice came through clenched teeth. “Ivan, I’m going to shoot you if you don’t back off.”

  Drawing in another whiff of air, he stepped back. Slowly, his head turned, looking over his shoulder at me. His eyes were black. Not the pupil, not the iris, the entire eye was black. The surface swirled in rainbow patterns like oil-slicked water. Lids closed in a long, slow blink, batting down, then up, then down again. When they opened the second time they had clicked back to normal. Almost.

  His voice was even deeper when he spoke, throaty and thick with ... something. “I am sorry.” His hand waved in the air apologetically toward Charlotte. “Has been many, many years since have seen woman of your kind.” A toothy grin split his face. “She was just as lovely as you. I become lost in memory. Forgive me.”

  Charlotte tilted her head toward him. “No apology needed, Were-kin. The Arachnae always remember what you did for our race. Every generation bears the knowledge to every generation after it until the end of eternity.”

  The tension ran out of my shoulders as I dropped my gun down, finger easing off the trigger. I slid it back home under my coat. “One of you tell me what the fuck just happened. What the hell is a Were-kin? What the hell does any of what y’all just said mean?”

  Ivan motioned us all to sit. I let the girls slide in first, leaving me untrapped by the table.

  “I am Were-kin. Same family with different result.”

  I leaned in. “Wait. Ivan, are you telling me you are a lycanthrope but in reverse? You are naturally a dragon who shape-shifts into a man?”

  The Russian picked up a fat cigar that was laying in an ashtray. It was cold and black, the fire dead in the tip. He placed it in his mouth and took a few careful puffs. The tip began to glow reddish orange as a cherry of heat formed. White smoke billowed out of the sides of his mouth. I never met a dragon who didn’t smoke.

  “I am not telling you any more than I have. I am Were-kin. Similar to Were, but different.” His hand waved dismissively. “Is complicated.”

  Charlotte turned and leaned around Tiff to talk to me. “Long ago, Zmey saved the Were-spiders from extinction at the hands of a very bad man.”

  “How long ago?”

  She turned and looked at Ivan.

  He blew out a stream of white smoke. “Over one thousand years now.”

  “So this is a story you tell to all the little Were-spiders when you tuck them into bed?”

  Charlotte shook her head. “No, they all know it from birth. It is locked in the genetic memory of every spider that is born.” She reached out and patted the Russian’s hand. Her palm just covered the black tattoo that spilled out from under his sleeve and curled onto the back of his hand. This was his dragon form stored in his skin like a tattoo that wound around his left side, going from his ankle, up his body, over his shoulder, and spilling down his arm.

  She left her hand there and kept talking. “He did it to save one of our kind, a woman named Setvanya.”

  “She was very beautiful. I loved her very much. Count Drasco bring army to kill her and her people.” His face grew even more somber, hardening like granite. “I spill much blood that day.” He shook his head. “I do not want to talk about it. Is too painful.”

  Maybe Ivan and I were more alike than I knew.

  He picked up a glass decanter that sat in the middle of the table. It was a plain glass bottle, unadorned except for a small gold cross that was affixed to the cap. The liquid inside was rich amber reflecting back the low lighting. Tiny bursts of light twinkled like they were shining from inside the bottle. Around it was a row of shot glasses. Cigar clamped between his teeth, he turned up three glasses and began to fill them with the alcohol.

  “We don’t have time for a drink, Ivan.”

  “Bah! Is always time for drink. Besides, must try. Best scotch in world. Brewed by Saint Andrew himself.” Saint Andrew was the patron saint of whiskey. Every good Catholic knew him. We picked up the glasses, raised them in the air, then tossed them back.

  The scotch hit the back of my throat like a hot match, my tongue scorched along the way. The alcohol tumbled down, splashing inside my stomach where it sat, warm and inviting. My vision slid sideways for a second as the alcohol content spiked in my blood. I was left with the strong taste of scotch in my mouth. Heady and rich, it lay on my tongue with the oaken flavor of earth. My lips tingled ever so slightly.

  Saint Andrew, patron saint of whiskey, made a helluva good scotch apparently.

  Charlotte took a deep breath in and let it out slowly. Her eyes were closed as she absorbed the experience of the shot.

  Tiff looked as if someone had surprised her. She sat, eyes blinking rapidly, breath coming in short huffs. I had seen her drink, but never straight whiskey. It takes a different level of drinking to shoot whiskey, especially something as hard as scotch. There was a long second as she worked through it.

  Softly, I reached out and touched her leg under the table. I was going to ask if she was okay. That was my plan. Her skirt was higher than I thought and my hand came down on the bare skin of her thigh. It was warm under my palm, smooth and firm. Supple.

  Heat pushed through me, driving out any thought I had of speaking, and I found myself leaning toward her. She turned and looked at me. Cheeks flushed, eyes half-lidded, she looked sultry. Gorgeous. I leaned in closer.

  Ivan slammed his shot glass on the table. His smile was broad, stretching from ear to ear. “Is good stuff! Da? Make you feel good like scotch should.”

  The connection snapped.

  I leaned back and pulled my hand away. My palm felt icy without the connection to her skin. I wiped it on my pants leg and yanked my thoughts back together.

  We had wasted enough time. Ronnie was missing. People had died. The killer was loose and had a ticking time bomb full of homicidal, supernatural Were-spider offspring.

  I needed to get back to work.

  “Okay, Ivan. I need some information and I am out of time.”

  He poured another shot into his own glass and set the bottle between us. It was an offering. If anyone else wanted more, they could pour it for themselves. “Ask, my friend.”

  “I am looking for a killer. A professional.”

  “This club is full of professional killers. This very room holds two of the best in the world.”

  I tilted my head at the compliment. “This one uses a pair of silenced .45s and a katana of some kind. They also have the ability to take out five Were-spiders in close quarters.”

  He sat back and sipped his scotch. He did not speak, just looked at me with narrow eyes.

  I am not very patient.

  “Ivan, I’ve got no time on this. I need to know if you have any informa
tion I can use.”

  He moved his cigar from his mouth. “Why would you look for this man?”

  “He killed people in Charlotte’s cluster, stole her soon-to-hatch babies, and kidnapped a friend of mine.” I looked at my watch. It was just after 4 A.M. The sun would rise in a short time. “The eggs hatch before dawn. If my friend isn’t already dead, she will be by then.”

  He nodded, processing the information. When he spoke he leaned into the table. “Would bet is man named Kensai. Once work for Yakuza, now work for whoever have money. Is scum, but good killer. He is in town with no contract. No contract, no reason to be in my town.”

  “How do you know he has no contract?”

  His chest swelled with pride. “Is no contract would be offered to Kensai would not be offered to me first.”

  Ivan was right. Being the human form of an ancient reptilian killing machine made him one of the best hit men in the world. If Ivan Dragonovich took your contract, then the target was dead. He was so reliable he was always paid up front, never on delivery.

  “Where can I find this Kensai?”

  Reaching inside his jacket, he pulled out a sleek, square device. It was a brushed steel rectangle. His fingers moved, sliding it open. It was a phone. One so high-tech it looked like a prop from a sci-fi show. His fingers danced over tiny keys, moving rapidly. It took a second; then he snapped it closed and put it away. Before he pulled his hand out of his jacket the phone in my pocket buzzed, letting me know I had a text message.

  “That is last known place the Kensai was staying.”

  Standing, I moved aside so the girls could slide out of the booth. I stuck my right hand out to the Russian, my gun hand. He took it with his right and shook firmly. We held the grip out of respect.

  “Thank you, Ivan.”

  “Do you want my help? Kensai is very respectable assassin. Is low-life scum, but good killer.”