Charm City (The Demon Whisperer Book 1)

by Ash Krafton

  He boosted himself up and rolled over the bar, digging through the upset garnish tubs. Lime. Cocktail onions. Perfect for protection spells. All gone, lost in the mess of ice and glass and splintered bar.

  "Simon!" Chiara was on her feet. "Get out of there before you get tagged!"

  He ducked out of the way of the black vapors, stepping a wide berth around them.

  The smoke curled into Bobby's nose and mouth and the man rolled his head, rousing. His eyes blinked open. His pupils glowed a sullen red that spread and quickly engulfed the entire eye.

  The voice that came out of Bobby's mouth was not Bobby's.

  ALLIANT. The voice was like a screech of metal under the roar of a massive waterfall. I'VE BEEN LOOKING FOR YOU.

  Simon scrambled backward, out of reach. Bobby twitched, limbs dangling uselessly. Broken back. Not what he deserved.

  Neither was a possession. Simon pushed up his sleeves and dug his thumb rings out of his front pocket. This demon was leaving. Now.

  Raising his hands, he let the power of his rings connect in a flashing arc.

  The demon that had taken Bobby just smiled, bloody teeth reflecting the glow of magic, a look of hungry challenge.

  "No, Simon!" Chiara jumped over the bar and grabbed Simon by the sleeve, pulling him away before he could start the binding ritual. She scrambled over the debris, the smashed bar, the steaming crumpled mess of a pickup, and dragged him along behind her. "It knows you. It's tracking you."

  A cold sweat broke out on his neck, his back. If it knew him—if it could track him—

  Outside, a crowd was gathering, sirens grew louder, closer. He looked back at his favorite hole-in-the-wall, which was now really little more than a big hole in a wall.

  The sinister black smoke crept out, mingling with the dust. Any one of those people could be the demon's next stop.

  Chiara shook him. "If you want to live, Simon, you'll run."

  She turned and sprinted. He didn't waste a minute in following.

  Simon ran like the devil was on his heels. Maybe this time, he actually was.

  They ran until they'd hit an empty alley. No innocent bystanders for a demon to possess.

  She barely paused to catch her breath before tearing into him. "First angels. Now demons? What kind of friends do you keep?"

  "That was no friend." Hands on his knees, he panted. He tried not to think of the sort-of could-have-almost-been friend that had lay sprawled across the counter, like a broken toy. "I don't know who that was."

  "Well, that demon certainly knew you." She pushed her hair back from her face, looking very unhappy. "Come on. There's only one place it can't follow you."

  Their pace brisk, they hurried several blocks south, farther away from the harbor, past Federal Hill. Once out of the tourist spotlight, the buildings became shorter and narrower. City beautification appeared to be a random thing here.

  Each building had its secret. He wondered which one was keeping hers.

  She rounded a corner to a one-way street and paused outside a row of triple decker homes. A weathered wooden sign over one of the front doors read ROOMS TO RENT. The sign was so old that the phone number had worn clean off. The stoop was too cracked to invite even the least discerning of vagabonds.

  And God only knew why the basement window had been freshly boarded up. That alone was enough to alarm a sensible man.

  Thank goodness he wasn't that sort. How would he ever get anything done?

  "In here." She scanned the street behind them. "Hurry."

  She used her shoulder to force the door, the hinges so rusted they protested and allowed only enough space for them to pass one at a time. The foyer walls were 1970s yellow ochre and peeling and hung with outdated fixtures. The single working light wavered like it would give up the ghost at any minute. Not like there was much to see, beyond the dried up leaves on the floor and old sales flyers laying shriveled and brittle in the corners.

  Chiara bumped the door shut with her hind end, the wood chirping against the floor as it closed. She jerked her chin toward the staircase. "Upstairs. Third floor."

  "Uh…" Simon hesitated. "Maybe you should go on up first, hon. Those stairs don't look like they'll hold both of us."

  "You'd be surprised." She slung her bag over her shoulder and began to trudge up.

  "Don't doubt it." He stepped onto the first and bounced a bit, testing the boards to make sure he wouldn't go crashing through. The stairs groaned but they held. His lucky day.

  On the third floor, a lone door stood at the end of the hall. Definitely not the sort for a home and garden magazine cover. The bottom edge was chipped and splintered, as if something on the other side had tried to claw its way out from underneath.

  Maybe it was still in there.

  Chiara dug a key out of her purse and unlocked the door, her knuckles white from the exertion. The lock clacked open like a shot from a gun.

  He flinched and shifted his weight to one foot to hide it.

  "Well, it's not much." She pushed open the door and walked in. "But it's home."

  His eyes went wide. The inside of the room was a spacious suite, floor to twenty-foot ceiling windows with heavy brocade draperies and richly furnished. Elegant tiles covered the floor beneath thick oriental rugs, orchids in antique vases.

  And lamps. Looked like a lamp warehouse. Hanging lamps, Tiffanys, floor stands, table lamps, every kind imaginable. Only a few were lit, enough to illuminate the room in a homey glow. He squinted involuntarily as he imagined what it would be like if they had all been switched on. Could land a space shuttle by it, probably.

  A massive black marble fireplace burned a cozy blaze. Everything, straight out of a royal estate.

  Except for the couch.

  It wasn't enough to say it didn't fit the rest of the décor—it positively rebelled against it. Orange upholstery that had probably seen the best Starsky and Hutch had to offer, with thin cushions that had started to develop an accidental along the edges. It probably couldn't even be called orange.

  Puce. That sounded like a better fit for the mess. He wasn't even sure what puce was but he had to guess, he'd say he was looking right at it.

  "You can stay the night. Time enough for the trail to go cold. I'm sure there's a room you'd find comfortable. Feel free to look around." Chiara dropped her purse onto the wretched sofa and sat down. "You are coming in, right?"

  "Oh. Right." He didn't realize he was still standing in the doorway. "Is there a—"

  "No barriers. No wards. Anyway. Upstairs is through there." She pointed at large arched pass-through on the far side of the room. "I've never gone through it all."

  He slid his fingers into his shirt, touching the medal he wore on a chain. Pulling up layer upon layer of protection, he cracked his knuckles, rolled his shoulders, and cautiously stepped forward.

  No explosion. No demon attack. No being flayed alive by booby traps.

  Yet.

  He side-stepped his way over to her and leaned over, peering through the doorway. A grand staircase swept up and out of sight. He'd seen some pretty intense illusions before but this was off the fricken chart.

  "This glamour must be consuming a ton of power. But—" He hovered his hands near her. "Not yours. I'd feel a drain on you."

  Chiara leaned back against the cushion. "That's because it's not a glamour. It's real. This place travels wherever I do. My father insists."

  "Your father—"

  Chiara smiled, more saccharin than sugar, and tugged off her boots. "Still don't want to talk about him."

  "But this would take infinite strength to sustain."

  "You really don't grasp the concept of infinity, do you?"

  He chuckled. "What's not to grasp? Big. Really damn big."

  "Okay, give me one good example of something infinite."

  "Easy." He clamped a cigarette between his lips and lit a tinder stick from the fireplace. "The universe."

  "Seriously?"

  "Yeah, seriously."
>
  "The universe is anything but infinite. Matter can neither be created nor destroyed, remember? Even humans know that."

  "But it's expanding."

  "Expansion doesn't make it infinite. There is still a limit. The front of the storm, the leading edge. That limit keeps it from being infinite."

  He sat on a satin lowboy near the mantelpiece and flicked his ashes into the fireplace. "So, Dr. Hawking, what is infinite, then?"

  Chiara shrugged. "Humans."

  Simon chuffed out a lungful of smoke and barked a laugh. "Humans, my dear, are the very definition of the word limit. The antithesis of infinite."

  "That's where you're wrong. The human mind is infinite. There is no limit to a man's dreams, or hopes, or despairs. The imagination, the fear, the desperate wishes could overfill a bottomless well and drown the lot of us. That's why this war will be so bad. It will be fought on the battlegrounds of man's infinity. That's why I need to make these corrections. The darkness has an unfair advantage. Hell isn't much one for rules and their players keep going off sides."

  "So, you kick them back into line with your corrections."

  "So do you. You just don't realize the scope of the game you're playing."

  "That damned angel, though." He thumbed the filter, staring at the ember. "He does."

  "Yeah. You can bet he does. And—I know it's not worth much, but...I'm sorry."

  "For what?"

  "For what you're carrying around inside." Before he could reply, she pointed toward the staircase once more. "Go find a soft bed and get some sleep, Simon."

  For the first time in years, morning didn't arrive like a right hook to the jaw. Maybe because for the first time in years, he'd slept in an actual bed.

  He lay a while without stirring, watching the sunlight slowly shift itself across the bedspread. A pillow. How could a sock full of fluff make such a difference in a man's outlook on the new day?

  The half-bath off the bedroom didn't boast more than a mirror and a scented square of soap, but even that left him feeling like a slice of spring. By the time he made his way downstairs, he felt ready to take on the world. Perhaps a bit of the otherworld, as well.

  Chiara lay curled on the sofa, that ugly rickety old thing, staring at the fire. She sat up when she saw him.

  "And I thought I was an early riser." He trotted down the last few steps and bee-lined over to the fireplace. He'd left his smokes on the mantelpiece overnight. That was as quit as he ever wanted to get. "I've been nosing around. Hope you don't mind. I like to look in the corners, if you know what I mean. Especially in rooms that shouldn't exist. Did you know there's a swimming pool?"

  "A pool, yes. But it's not the swimming kind."

  "Where you down here all night?"

  Chiara nodded.

  "I saw at least a dozen bedroom suites up there, at least. Don't you sleep?"

  "Sometimes. But only if I have to."

  Simon lit his cigarette and waved a hand at the ratty couch. "Why not something a little more aesthetic? Or at least less fire sale?"

  "This is mine." She ran her hands over the fraying cushion. "It's ugly, I know. But it's mine. It's actually what was in my room the first time everything got…upgraded. I like something organic. Does that word make sense? Just something I know is real. This couch, this exact location where it sits, it's actually physical. Real. I don't stray beyond these dimensions very often."

  He thought about the fact that he'd just slept upstairs in a room that shouldn't exist. If she didn't go up there… "But you can, right?"

  "I can go lots of places. I simply choose not to."

  "So the pool upstairs doesn't see much action?"

  She rubbed her hands and looked away. "Not if I can help it."

  "So would you mind if I…?" He pointed over his shoulder. "I didn't exactly pack my trunks."

  "I think you'd be happier if you stick to the, ummm… " She looked upwards, thinking. "…hot tub, instead."

  "There's a hot tub?"

  "Maybe. Go look for one. You'll like the bubbles."

  He winked at her and rubbed his palms together. "Bubbly is my middle name."

  By noontime, his belly had got the best of him. Towel-dried, his hair was a lump of damp waves that make him look twelve years old. Not the imposing look for a master of Arcanum.

  The one thing he hadn't found while snooping through her place was a kitchen. The least he could do, he figured, was offer to buy her lunch. His favorite place was a diner by the river. Definitely a "locals only" kind of spot.

  "First," he said. "I need to make a quick stop."

  Adjacent to the diner was a parking lot, its pavement cracked, crumbled, and reduced to dirt in many places. Bushes had grown through the chain link fence bordering the back edge. Looked like a place you'd only park on a dare.

  On the far end, a faded blue late model Chevy Astro was backed into a parking space. The front tire was booted, the dingy windshield littered with tickets.

  Chiara wrinkled her nose and bounced a few suspicious glances off it.

  "Aw, hell," he said. "The cloaking spell wore off again."

  Going around to the back, he ran his finger over the lock, muttering. He pulled open the door to reveal a make-shift living space: the last row of seats had been pulled out to store open duffle bags stuffed with rumpled clothing, a scattering of camp cooking implements. Several steamer trunks took up most of the space.

  He watched her survey the interior, make the connection. Well, if she had any doubts, she could always take a look in the windows. Pretty sure she'd see the blanket rolled up on the back seat.

  Not that he slept here much. Not that he slept anywhere much. Magic was better than caffeine for all that.

  "I just need to pick up a few supplies." He pulled one of the duffle bags closer and rummaged through it. "And freshen up, if you don't mind. I hadn't packed an overnight bag and your, ah, apartment wasn't equipped for male company."

  He turned to a small mirror hanging on rear door. Chiara poked around at the nearest box, lifting the lid. He eyed her a moment, but didn't stop her. If she wanted to look at his magician's workshop, so be it. What would she care about books and vials and herbs? Natural mages had no need for such tawdry tricks.

  Chiara clinked through the bottles, lifting one up and peering into its questionable contents. "You're a travelling show, like the vaudeville folk I remember growing up."

  "I'll have you know it's all quite authentic, thank you." He grabbed a cordless razor and began to shave. "One hundred percent snake oil free."

  "Mmm." She closed the lid and pushed the box back enough so she could sit in the bay. "So this is where you live."

  "I don't live anywhere." Dropping his razor into the bag, he located a hair brush and a stick of deodorant. "My home is the open road. Sometimes, quite literally."

  She turned her back, giving him a little privacy.

  He eyed her. Manners, after all. Don't often see that in an exorcist. They tended to be a bossy lot, especially the well-funded, natural kind.

  She swung her feet. "Home is where you hang your hat."

  "Don't like hats." He reached behind her and flipped open a small metal box. Another thing he didn't care if she saw. Just his piggy bank. Rolls, wads, rubber-banded stacks. He shuffled through the loose bills and took a few, flipping the box shut again. "But I do like all-day breakfast. Come on."

  She hopped down so he could shut the doors. "Aren't you going to lock it?"

  "I'll do one better." Raising his hands, he chanted a few lines. It was a dead language, but it still held power. He pulled a thin stick from his pocket.

  "What's that?"

  "Chicory. Grows like weeds around here." He pointed behind him, where the blue flowers straggled along the fence line of the parking lot. He'd harvested enough to last a long time. One of the reasons why he parked the van here. "In addition to being a very manly type of flower, it's a magical aid."

  Flicking his lighter, he set the tip aflame. The
stick sizzled and incinerated into a puff of smoke.

  Chiara watched him, wearing an amused expression. She pointed to the boot. "What are you going to do about that?"

  "What I always do. Fast talk my way out of it." He jerked his head toward the diner. "Come on."

  Perhaps three feet from the van, they passed through a shimmery border. Chills raced down between his shoulders as he crossed through the ward. Something he never got used to—a prickly kind of shiver that both thrilled and terrified him. Just a little. Not that he'd ever admit it to anyone.

  He shook it off. Once on the other side, the van vanished from their sight.

  "See? Invisibility from a weed. Will magical wonders never cease?" He smoothed his hair once more. "We've fed the meter, love. Time to feed us."

  Chiara wasn't hungry.

  She never really was. One of the perks of being part divinity.

  Or maybe not. Simon was working his way through a pot of coffee and his second plate of waffles, seeming to enjoy every crowded mouthful, yet devouring the food like it was his last meal. Such urgency, such hurry, such relish.

  All she did was push pieces of cantaloupe around a plate with her fork. Maybe not a perk at all. She scowled. Better not to think that way.

  She glanced around the diner. Simon had said it was a favorite spot of his. Suited him—casual, loud, a little rumpled around the edges. Very human. Very temporary, and not seeming to mind in the least.

  It was strange, sitting in a place like this, as if she were just an ordinary person having an everyday meal. Strange but…nice.

  And "nice" was a welcomed change.

  "How you doing with coffee, Murph?" The waitress stopped at their table and lifted the pot. "I'll bring you a fresh one. You okay with your juice, hon?"

  Chiara just nodded. The glass was almost full.

  "Okay, you need anything, just holler." The waitress winked at Simon before walking away.

  "Strange to hear them call you Murphy." Chiara took a shy glance at his face and tilted her head. "You don't look like a Murphy."

  "How many Murphys you know?"

  "In Baltimore or in general?" She blinked innocently at him. "I did spend some time in County Wexford before the Great Migration. Murphys all over the place."