Pure Souls - Book Two
Killian McRae
Copyright ©2013 by Killian McRae
All Rights Reserved. Except as specified by U.S. Copyright Law, no part of this publication may be reproduced, distributed, or transmitted in any form or media or by any means, or stored in a database or retrieval system without prior written permission of the author.
Tulipe Noire Press
P.O. Box 815, Palo Alto, CA 94302
www.tulipenoirepress.com
First Print Edition, April 2013
First eBook Edition, April 2013
This work represents a work of fiction. References to real people, events, establishments, organizations or locales are intended only to provide a sense of authenticity, and are used fictitiously. All other characters, and all incidents and dialogue are drawn from the author’s imagination and are not to be construed as real.
100% of this book is dedicated without hestiation to my pillars: the FP.
Chapter 1
The last time Jerry had seen this many men wearing makeup had been at one of J. Edgar’s “special” parties.
This back alley demon dive could have made a pretty penny renting out empty space. Despite the lack of audience, Tall, Dark, and Until-Recently-Unholy sashayed the distance between the door and the bar like a ninety-pound supermodel headlining the Milan Fashion Show. The body in which he currently resided may have been borrowed, but the attitude packed in it represented one hundred percent, Class-A Jerry Romani.
Jerry sauntered through the door and grabbed out the pack of Capris from inside his jacket pocket. He’d gone through the stash of Marlboros inherited along with Marc’s apartment, cell phone, and wardrobe. The lighter smokes suited him better, tickling his throat as he took another drag. Just because he hadn’t been a smoker himself didn’t mean the body he’d taken over gave a damn. The sooner he could kick this habit, the better.
“Zima.” He slapped his hand, cupped in the shape of a c, down on the bar, ready to receive the drink like he was James-fucking-Bond.
The barkeep—big, burly, and beautifully-manicured—didn’t bother looking up. “Only sell those pansy things in Japan now, jack.”
Jerry grimaced, but put in an alternative order. “Appletini then.”
“Oh, good. And here I thought you might order some girly drink instead.”
Jerry introduced Mr. Hamilton to the bar and gave him a ski lesson under his fingertips. It was then that the barman finally chanced a look up at his patron. The rotund host, a more feminine version of Rosanne Bar, scowled as he shook his head side to side, parked his paw on the ten spot, and pushed it back across the way. “Fuck off. We don’t serve your kind here.”
Jerry drew back his hand, leaving the greenback in place, and pulled at the collar of his turtle neck to show, well, the other collar. “Priests?”
Miss Man could have pressed olives with the gnashing he put his teeth through. “Mortal wiccan good-doers. Think I don’t see your aura glowing like the Chrysler Building on New Year’s? Move along, Father, or whoever you are, and don’t let the gates of Hell hit you on the way out.”
Jerry had half-expected as much. After all, the saloon didn’t exactly cater to many a mortal, a fact well known amongst Boston’s worst and wicked community. Given that the doors could only be seen by magical eyes, the barmen would have known something about his padre patron wasn’t exactly as mundane as appearances might suggest.
The faux priest looked far left, then right, taking in an inventory of the half-dozen mixed-luck souls seated in pockets around the establishment. Certain everyone else was too devoted to their own woes and/or booze to give him a second glance, Jerry locked the barman’s gaze to his own. “Look a little closer at that aura o’mine,” he invited, now leaning in over the bar and flashing a spark of darkness through his psychic field. Though sprung from the Underworld, Jerry’s soul and magic still clung to a demon tether. He could call on the power of Hellfire just as strongly as when he’d been one of Lucifer’s primo servants.
In the back of his mind, he recited his own corrupt version of the Million Dollar man intro. We can make him faster, smarter, more evil … and fucking fantastic in bed.
All the demon, but none of the damn. A fact that he had been darn sure neither of the other two Pure Souls, the witch Riona Dade or demigod Dee Zitka, had had an opportunity to find out. The “office” already felt awkward enough. Hard to have many a pleasant water cooler conversations with the boss when you were possessing the body of the last man she loved. And, being that Riona and Jerry had also once made bunny rabbits look like sedated sloths, the tension surrounding them at all times didn’t exactly abstain from the sexual variety.
As evil burned in embers through Jerry’s aura, lighting the edges of his soul in a black and crimson smoke, the barman blinked wildly and jumped back. “What the fuck are you?”
“Ah, now you’re smelling what I’m stepping in. Don’t flip, bro. I’m … currently between positions and fielding my opportunities. See though, I got this great interview lined up with a certain famous agency, and I really want to impress their keystone player, if you catch my drift.”
He seated himself at the bar and motioned again for a glass. This time, the barman seemed all too happy to provide. Within three blinks, Jerry smacked the tart, toxic treat on his palate in the wake of the blessed first swig. “Ain’t nothing as sweet as this sting in Hell. Nothing.”
With another pull, he finished off the portion that had been poured out for him and set the glass on the bar. “I have a few questions, and I want honest answers, yes? Play nice with me, and I won’t torch this place and send everyone in it back to Old Nick.”
Eagerly the barman nodded.
“What’s the chatter say? What’s Lucifer’s sitch?”
The barman leaned in, bringing with him an invisible, noxious cloud of Aqua Velva. “From what I heard, vanquished.”
Of course, Jerry knew this. He’d seen the event unfold before him. “Got himself a nice twenty-nine year respite from Earth duty, yeah? But ain’t like Lucifer to hang back and not have a finger in some evil plot. Or several. So what’s the news? Any demon flock being herded into town?”
“Usual suspects- low level demons, some imps, goblins. Oh, and the IRS guys of course. Jesus fuck, ain’t been no one who’s found a hex that can take care of those bastards once and for all.” They exchanged a smile. Lucifer had tried to claim credit for the U.S. tax code for years, but something that complex and sinister was beyond even his abilities to conceive. “And …”
“And?”
The barman’s eyes took measure of an empty spot on the counter, clawing at it as though trying to pick something up. “That’s funny, I could have sworn there was something here.”
The implication was lame, but it was so much easier—and cleaner—to hand over a few pieces of symbolic paper rather than waste real energy and uselessly draw blood by beating information from the brute. With an eye roll, Jerry reached into his pocket and pulled out $43 in cash. It wasn’t an amazing amount, but Mark’s financial reserves into which Jerry had been able to tap weren’t exactly overflowing.
Fortunately, it proved enough to sate the barman. With a smile and a whisk, his hands swooped up the folded bills before stuffing them down into a teal green push-up bra. “There’s rumors going around something, or someone, big is on the way. You didn’t hear it from me, and sure as shit it didn’t happen here, but we’re having some record Grigori sightings as of late.”
“Get the fuck out.” Jerry didn’t need to feign surprise. Sincere shock ran the length of him, right into his baby toe. “Why would Hell’s board of directors be visiting our fair city this time of yea
r? Walking the freedom trail?”
The barman choked on a chuckle. “Don’t think fallen archangels are exactly the ‘one if by night, two if by sea’ types, capice? Demons aren’t exactly known for their modesty when they stroll in to town, but even then, they’re hanging some pretty tall flags, get? Like, they’re trying hard as Hades to make it look like they have no problem being seen, like they got nothing to hide. Real hiding in plain sight vibe, from what the grapevine says.” As though that statement had brought him to realize something, the barman froze in his wiping off of the counter. “Say, what kind of mortal wiccan can wield hellfire at will? That’s something I ain’t never heard tell of before, and I’ve heard a lot of tales. Curious.”
“You know what I’m curious about? Why the Girgori give a fuck what’s going on in the Greater Chesapeake Bay area. I mean, I know Boston has some great schools and a strong labor market, but something about that seems just a little odd to me. They looking to open up a new portal to Hell here? What’s a matter, they finally get booted from the one in the basement of the New York Stock Exchange?”
The barman shook his head. “We got a lot of Chinese laundries, too, but can’t off the top of my head give you directions to a single.”
Jerry’s arm shot out, grabbing the barman around the wrist. His incantation cut through the air and fell like a thousand knives into the goon’s flesh, leaving an ancient symbol of three intertwined circles burned into a green patch of skin.
“I was never here, okay? And if anything develops, you’re to call me so I can’t be here again then, too.”
The fingers of Jerry’s right hand unfurled, leaving his marker in the creature’s being.
“Do you know of the Honest Herald’s charm?” Jerry asked in response to the barman’s confused stare. “One of my favorites I picked up in my less holy days. Anyways, you rub this mark with three drops of blood on the tip of your left hand’s middle finger and invoke the word clarate, and I get pinged, letting us spend some more quality time together. It’s like instant messaging, psychic style.”
His breath panting, the barman’s eyes flashed up to a spot on the counter, where a cell phone sat. “I get great coverage with Verizon.”
Jerry gave him a chuckle before continuing. “Yeah, but here’s the upgrade. The charm is very basic, but it’s in the QA area where it really kicks ass. It has this awesome bonus element: if you dare try to tip anyone off about this conversation, the circles will spin over your skin and slice off this pretty little hand of yours. As far as I know, your phone doesn’t have an app for that.”
“Take this fucking relic charm off me, bitch. You got no right to … Who the hell are you anyways?”
Jerry’s head turned in contemplation before his mouth cracked into a smile. “Dude, look at your face! You thought I was serious?” He tossed a business card with his digits on the counter. “What kind of sick fuck would use Ancient Egyptian magic on a fine imp such as yourself? Look, call me here, ask for Father Angeletti. That mark’s just a temp magical tattoo, it will dissolve in a few hours. God, you thought I was being for real!”
First a confused glare, then a smirk, and finally the barman broke out in a round of raucous laughter that complimented Jerry’s own. Jerry shook hands with him with all the sincerity of a candidate running for public office before turning on his heel and making his way out into the street. The pack of cigs doled out sweet relief rolled in crinkly paper before he had even felt the light of the sun on his face. Jerry took a few steps, paused to find the lighter in the depths of Marc’s jacket pocket, tilted his head to the side, and cupped his hands around his mouth to ward off the wind.
The door had just closed behind him when the barman’s screams rang out.
Inwardly, the ex-demon chuckled. “Maybe I should have told him the part about being a joke, was the joke.”
He hadn’t come to the bar to vanquish anything except his ignorance. Still, if life handed you lemons, you chased down some vodka and made lemondrops. Besides, demon slaying burned major carbs, when done right. Nothing wrong with a resurrected Keystone witch moonlighting outside the group as a personal hobby.
Nothing wrong at all.
Chapter 2
When she was brought into the Pure Souls less than a year before, Riona Dade had been jumping jack happy to discover that her upgrade on the evolutionary ladder came with a few fringe benefits. Never again would she have to worry about getting her hair to look just right. With a swish of her hand, her locks arranged themselves in a coiffured perfection that would make a drag queen jealous. The weatherman’s guesswork voodoo would fuck with her plans no longer; her body was attuned to the rhythms of nature like she had downloaded an app for it right into her brain. And, best of all, she had finally gotten that long-awaited root canal taken care of. All Pure Souls were provided with stellar medical and dental, for reasons no one was still able to explain to her.
However, the ability to lift more than a couple of duffle bags up two flights of stairs, or to have enough coordination not to knock a barbell off a side table she passed so that it landed squarely on her big toe—sending her into a cursing spree more colorful than the collective cast of Rainbow Bright—those unique perks must have been reserved for the next tier of cosmic warrior up.
“Fuck. Holy mother … Mary of God!”
“Riona! Be careful. You’ll invoke the dead.” Dee rushed into the room to see what the ruckus was, and to make sure his favorite witch in the world hadn’t broken anything else in the master bedroom of the new house. He found Riona hopping on one foot while trying to delicately place a box marked FRAGILE on her bed. “Jesus Christ, I told you to let the movers handle that.”
“What, I can’t say Mary, mother of God, but you can invoke Jesus and it’s all Gucci?”
“There’s a big difference. Jesus doesn’t do house calls. Mary, on the other hand, still likes to put in appearances from time to time. We’re trying to stay on the D-L here. Having a bunch of religious yahoos show up because the Holy Virgin comes for tea isn’t my idea of incognito.”
Dee grabbed the box like it was a marshmallow before setting it carefully at the foot of the bare queen mattress. Then he turned to her and swept her off her feet—literally—depositing the witch on the edge of the bed.
“We should slap one of those fragile stickers on you,” he joked before turning eyes on her damaged foot. “Move your hands, you big baby, and let me see it.”
Obediently she complied, hissing as he removed her black Vans and socks to inspect more closely.
“Is it broken?”
“Yup.”
“Fuck.” Rolling her eyes, she threw herself back. Just what she had been trying to prove with her bull-headedness, not even she knew. Already the red-and-blue digit took to swelling like a bad impression of the national debt. “Broken toe. That means a cast and crutches, right? And of course I had to choose the second floor bedroom. Can’t I catch one little break? First my car dies, and now this? Did I run over a gypsy when I wasn’t paying attention?”
“Yup, definitely some sort of Romanian plague meant to make you immobile. Now, if you would just wait a freaking second and calm the fuck down. Let me look at it.”
“I didn’t think you were the type to have a foot fetish.”
He shot her daggers. “Shhh.”
Dee eyed the toe intently, then leaned in and whispered in a tongue Riona didn’t recognize. A layer of warmth spread over her foot. The best foot baths never made her tootsies so toasty. Almost immediately, the swelling began to subside.
Dee examined the restored digit with satisfaction. “There, all better. The oracles must have seen you in my future long, long ago and tipped off my dad. No wonder he worked so hard to convince Panacea to give me this gift to heal.”
Pulling her foot back up, she put her sock back. “Just because I’m prone to paper cuts—”
“And slicing your finger tip off.”
“That was just one time, and only because the bagel wa
s still frozen on the inside. You can’t really use that as evidence of a trend.”
“Says the statistician.”
As she moved to sweep herself off her bed, Dee’s hand landed on her shoulders and pushed her back down.
“Stay, puppy, stay. There’re only a few more boxes, and then the big stuff from my place to get in. Let Krishna and Pedro earn the sixty-eight fifty plus tax we’re paying them per hour to actually carry your things in like we agreed, okay? You keep grabbing boxes like that, those two might file a grievance with their union.”
“What am I supposed to do, sit up here and knit?”
“Can you knit?”
“No.”
Dee shrugged. “Maybe you should learn. Winter’s coming, and I could really use a new wooly snow cap. FYI: I think blue really sets off my eyes the best.”
A fleeting smile passed over her face, but as though she had caught herself in the act, she immediately doused the joy.
Dee’s head cocked to the side, a posture he was given to assume whenever he was sympathetic, confused, or watching Mexican wrestling. “It’s okay to smile, you know. I’d even suggest it on occasion. For the change of pace, and to exercise those beautiful muscles on the edges of your face, if for nothing else.”
A sigh emanated from the depths of her soul. “I know. I’m trying. I just feel so guilty. One smile, and I feel as rotten as the fish market at 4 P.M.”
“Because Marc would so want you to be guilt-ridden and down the rest of your life.”
She shrugged. “He was Catholic. Not quite Jewish in terms of guilt, from what I understand, but they get at least an honorable mention.”
A grimace crawled across Dee’s glare. “Stop that. Marc loved you. Yes, he’d have wanted you to mourn him, but he wouldn’t want you to go on like this forever.”
“Forever?” She looked confusedly at the demigod. “It’s only been a month. I think I’m still within my rights as ‘grieving would-have-been girlfriend if not for the fact that the man in question was a priest.’ Ahch, you know what? I think maybe I just need to get out for a while. Can you handle the rest of the … you know, movers and things?”
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