by J. F. Lewis
I was carrying the last of the bags out to the limo (Phil insisted) when I heard motorcycles.
“Shit. Tabitha. Beatrice. Get your asses in the limo!”
Beatrice grabbed Tabitha’s arm in an attempt to hurry her toward the limo, but Tabitha pulled away from her. “What is it? What’s going on?”
“It’s the holy hairy wedding crashers. I think they want to see me off. Get in the car!”
“No.” She’d been seeming human, but still managed to pop her claws. As she got better at managing her powers, she’d discovered that anger helps her override the suppressive effect that seeming human has on her abilities, and the prospect of a honeymoon derailment provided more than enough of that particular emotion. “I’ll help you.”
“No, you won’t.” I locked eyes with her and pushed my way inside her head. “You’ll get in the car, ride to the airport, and get on the airplane. If I’m not there when it’s time to leave, then you can come rescue me. Now go!”
I’m totally going to have to answer for that when I get on the plane, I thought. Fang rolled out of the parking deck as if he sensed trouble brewing. As the limo pulled out, I reached into the glove box and drew El Alma Perdida.
“Ah cain’t believe it,” said a certain dead man with a southern twang I recognized. “You actually thought to use my gun. Yer learnin’, boy.”
Greta came running out the front doors of the Pollux, a bloodied mouse in one hand. She dropped it and wiped her fingers clean on the back of her jeans. “Are we fighting something?”
“No.” A thought occurred to me, the beginnings of an actual plan. What? Even I come up with a plan from time to time. “I’m fighting something. You’re getting in Fang and driving to the airport.”
“But, Dad!”
“No ‘buts,’ just do it.”
I didn’t have to make it an order. Greta’s a good girl, and she knew I was serious. Without a word, she jumped into Fang’s driver’s seat and tore off for the airport, leaving tire tracks and the smell of burnt rubber in her wake.
I stood in the middle of the street, gun at the ready, until a car, hopefully not one of my customers, whipped by me, clipping my hip. It swerved and slowed, but didn’t stop. And that’s why when Deacon and crew came hauling ass around the corner, I was pulling myself up off the sidewalk. They were already wolfed out and ready to bite, which must have taken a lot of practice and explained why they rode such large frickin’ motorcycles.
I didn’t have a shot on Deacon, so I took the next werewolf in line, squeezing off a round that took him in the chest. In the movies, gunmen make all kinds of trick shots, but in basic training, just like in any other place where they’re teaching you to use guns against people, Sergeant Shouts-a-lot taught us to shoot for the largest visible target. Usually, that means center mass. There was no spurting gout of blood, and I didn’t stop to watch him die. I moved on to the next target because in war that’s what you do, and anytime I aim a gun at a living thing and pull the trigger that’s what it feels like . . . like I’m on enemy soil . . .
El Alma Perdida barked like thunder and my ears started ringing, all other sounds buried by the all-encompassing whine. Silvery flames poured out of the wound, and the werewolf tumbled from his hog, clutching at his chest. I’ve been shot more than once with El Alma Perdida and it’s never been fun, but I didn’t envy him the flammable fur coat.
My next round hit the fourth or fifth wolf in the bunch. He laid his bike down, skidding to a halt, flame trailing from his neck where El Alma Perdida’s bullet had struck home. By then I’d forgotten I was standing in the road out in front of the Demon Heart . . . My mind was far away and long ago in the mud of some other place. Bombs were falling around me in that else-when, but I kept on shooting, because that’s what you do when you’re at war.
“They’re strong,” Courtney offered. “Normal wolves go out like candles, once Perdy gets aholt of ’em.” I looked at Courtney, didn’t recognize him. He wasn’t in my unit, but he didn’t look German or Japanese and he didn’t have a gun, so I told him to take cover and I took cover too, running for the Pollux entryway.
Both the injured wolves let loose with howls so shrill and terrible that it cut through the ringing in my ears. Air raid.
“Perdy got ’em anyhow.”
JPC’s voice came through loud and clear despite the fact that I could barely hear my own gunshots, but I didn’t have time to ask why. Using the edge of the Pollux entry for cover, I got off one more shot before Deacon was on me. A third werewolf went down, flames licking up his chest and engulfing his head.
“That happens sometimes,” Courtney said, “when you hit a vital organ. Must a’ got that fella right in the ticker.”
Deacon leapt straight for me, not even slowing to stop his motorcycle. We went backward through the glass double doors. Slivers of glass poked through my skin, drawing blood and eliciting a hissing yelp. A combination of the pain, the blood, and seeing the chandelier overhead brought me back to the present and I shoved Deacon off. I changed as he flew through the air.
Turning into the uber vamp was too easy. It felt natural, pleasurable, like putting on your favorite pair of jeans. Deacon hit the concrete, bounced back up, and charged into me. The hit carried us farther into the Pollux. We tumbled together in front of the concession stand, claws scrabbling for purchase in each other’s flesh.
Sounds came out of his muzzle, but if they were words I couldn’t understand them so I talked over him. “Three down. Nine to go, Deacon. You sure you want to keep doing this?”
Sharp pointy wolf teeth sank into my shoulder . . . always with the shoulder. He tore into the meat and I shouted an obscenity. A series of snaps and pops echoed in both ears complimented by a side of piercing pain and I could hear again, but something else was wrong. Fighting wasn’t fun anymore. It was vicious and bloody and it hurt. I’d killed three werewolves and nobody laughed. Worse, I was tired of it all. I’d even had a flashback, for crying out loud. I hadn’t had one of those since becoming a vampire, not one. If I hadn’t known any better, I’d have said I was coming down off some kind of . . . high. And that’s when I realized that I was.
According to Lord Phillip, I’d been under an enchantment that hid me from my sire and slowed the development of my powers since the very moment that I became a vampire. After the enchantment finally wore off at the end of the whole soul-stealing demon thing, I’d still had Rachel influencing me in subtle ways, making me happy. I didn’t have that anymore because I made her stop. It was the magic. I was coming down off a forty (fifty?) year high and this was real life. This was real life and I was tired of playing games.
I turned into my revenant form and walked toward the street. Cold rushed in and the world went watercolor; the unreality of it made things easier. Deacon rushed after me, angrily clawing at spectral flesh he couldn’t touch. A ghostly gun, El Alma Perdida, appeared in my ghostly hand (I guess because I’d been holding it before I changed) and I opened fire on the Apostles. They’d promptly formed a ring around Deacon and me, so they had very little chance to react. I’d say it was like shooting fish in a barrel, but it was worse than that.
“That’s cheatin’!” Courtney’s ghost appeared next to me, but I walked past him, reaching through the corpse of one of the dead werewolves to withdraw the bullet. It slid free of the flesh, a whole cartridge that looked as if it had never been fired at all. I popped open the cylinder, slid the cartridge home, and then snapped the cylinder back into place.
“I said, ‘That’s cheatin’ and you shouldn’t be shootin’ those wolves anyhow. They’re believers!’” Courtney scowled at me.
“This isn’t a game anymore.” I fired El Alma Peridida again and Deacon’s claws swept through me without effect. “It used to be, and then I sobered up.” The ice in my voice manifested itself on the asphalt as a spreading ring of frost. “This is war.”
Deacon changed tactics, seizing El Alma Perdida’s grip with both paws. The silver cross on the gri
p burned his palms, but he refused to let go.
“Now there’s irony for you,” I said.
“I. Will. End. You.” Deacon growled the words. I let him have the gun and grabbed him somewhere else, my glowing blue fingers sinking under the flesh and seizing energy that felt warm and alive.
“I don’t think you will, Deacon.” His eyes widened as he felt what it’s like to have a revenant start to tear your spirit out of your body. It can’t have been pleasant. “And I really wish you’d stop trying. I don’t need to hunt anymore. I have thralls, willing thralls, to feed me, and I’m not going to make any other vampires. I’m done with that. In fact, I’m on my way to Paris to try and kill the vampire that created me. I probably won’t stop at one.”
“You’re a monster.”
“And you’re dinner. Given a choice between the two, I’m more comfortable with my role in the scenario.”
“You killed seven of the Apostles.”
“If it makes you feel any better, they weren’t the real ones.” I let him go and he sank to his knees. I watched him shrink back down to human form, and he looked broken. Two of the remaining so-called Apostles grabbed him under the shoulders, pulling him away from me and to his feet.
They loaded up the bodies of their fallen comrades in a way that looked unsafe and illegal, and then they drove away. I didn’t realize that they’d taken the other five bullets with them until the last werewolf rode out of sight and John Paul started laughing.
“They’re getting away with your bullets, Hoss. ’Course, if you knew the other way to reload the gun, that wouldn’t be no problem, but I ain’t fixin’ to tell yeh how to go about that until you promise not to use Perdy on any more believers. And another thing . . .”
To say the least, it was a very long ride to the airport.
12
RACHEL:
SEE YOU IN PARIS
I should have been on that plane.” The words left my mouth ten minutes after Lord Phillip’s private jet took off. Eric actually left me behind. Me.
Me!
“Bye, Dad! Bye, Mom!” Greta sat on the hood of Eric’s Mustang, still waving, still smiling, as if she had no intention of leaving, not until he came back to find her still smiling and waving. “Come back soon!”
“Bye!” Maybe she thought he would turn around if she waved long enough or called loud enough. Tears of blood rolled down her face. Talbot saw the tears and walked over. He went to put his hands around her shoulders and caught himself, putting both hands flat on Fang’s hood instead.
“Let’s go on back to the Pollux, Greta.” Such a calm relaxing tone . . . A girl could forget he’s really a cat. “We can get one of the girls to feed you.”
“No!” She hit him with the palm of her hand. I think it was supposed to be a simple shove, but it knocked Talbot off his feet and into the air. He threw his body into a spin, rotating in the air, and struck the roof of the parking deck with his claws extended. Scratches trailed behind his claws, sparks popping from the needle-sharp talons as he used them to slow his progress. Inertia spent, he dropped to the floor on all fours with grace surpassing a cat’s. Green flashes of light winked on within his cat’s eyes, but he mastered his temper as he stood, and the light went out.
“I’m out,” I said, and headed for the nearest exit. A trip in an elevator that smelled of piss and French fries took me down to the arrivals section without having to pass through security. I got into the first taxi I saw and texted Andre.
“Drive.”
wht do i hv 2 do?
“Where to?”
I kept my eyes on the screen, ignoring the question, until I hit Send. “Give me a sec.”
“I’m starting the meter.”
“Whatever.”
Andre’s text came in fast: You apologized?—Andre
duh, I texted back at him.
“Head back into downtown,” I told the cabbie, and we began to move. “I’m either going to the Artiste Unknown or the Demon Heart.”
“The strip club?” The driver let out a whistle. “You a dancer? Aren’t you a little young?”
“Fuck you.” I tapped the screen of my phone and started a KenKen puzzle, impatient for Andre’s reply. “First of all, it’s a bowling alley now, and second of all, I don’t even work there. I’m dating the guy who owns it.”
“Don’t you mean the vampire who owns it?”
I looked up as my phone vibrated, then glanced back down. On the second pass, the words made sense: Meet at the Artiste Unknown. Winter is expecting you within the hour.—Andre
omw. I sent the text and looked back up at the cabbie, really seeing him for the first time. He was dark haired, white, a little pimply, maybe mid-forties. “Take me to the Artiste . . .” I paused, suddenly noticing that the driver had little horns, a set of three on each side of his head, tiny horns, flat above his ears. “Un . . . known.”
Horns.
Demon.
Shit!
I tapped into my magic, reaching out to his chakras before I realized what kind of demon he was. To an ancient Roman, a Gallus would have meant a castrated guy that served the goddess Cybele, but to a modern demonologist it means a sexless demon who serves as a messenger. While not physically very powerful fighters, the Galli have a knack of placing themselves in the future path of the people they seek. All they need is a photograph or a decent representation of the target. Once it’s burned, they snort the ashes and in a matter of days, or even hours (depending on the strength of the Gallus involved and the distance from the target), they will run into the individual they seek.
They’re perfect messengers. They don’t eat. They don’t drink. They don’t sleep. And they can’t have sex, which makes my magic all but useless.
“You must be strong.” He winked at me in the rearview mirror. “That tickles.”
“Who sent you?” Below his eye level, I flattened my right hand against the back of the driver’s seat and drew on some of the power I’d stolen from Eric. Swirls of black skin spread out from my wrist until the skin on my hand turned entirely black. My nails extended into claws. “I got out of my contract by the letter of the agreement and—”
“I’m not here to hurt you, Ms. Sims.” His attention shifted to the road as he jerked the wheel to avoid a collision with a Honda Civic driven by a moron who needed lessons on staying inside the lines. “I do have a message, however.”
“Who from?”
“One of the Nefario.”
Nefario are lesser lords of the demonic political landscape. J’iliol’lth, the demon I’d sold my soul to, had been one of them before Eric fed him to Talbot. Like the Galli, they don’t wield much direct power, but the Nefario specialize in giving power (some permanent, some temporary) to others, for a price . . . usually a soul.
“Which one?”
“Lady Scrytha, hatchling and heir of Scrythax.” His tone changed as he got going, moving out of easygoing cabbie guy to sycophantic ass licker. “First-circle Nefario, potential Infernatti, and former overseer of the voided entity called J’iliol’lth. I bid you greetings on her behalf.”
Holy shit! Jill’s mom? Not good.
“Heir to Scrythax . . . as in Veil of Scrythax?” I asked.
“Yes, I believe a small portion of the former Infernatti’s skin has been used on more than one occasion to alter the perceptions and minds of mortals.” My driver pulled up onto the interstate just like he was really taking me to the Artiste Unknown. I let my hand revert to normal. “Even dismembered, Lord Scrythax is quite powerful. May he rise again in infernal majesty.” He was in full dutiful servant mode, so much so that I wondered if he was transmitting the conversation back to his demonic mistress with a beacon link or Satan chime. I didn’t see one, but that wasn’t proof of anything.
“What does she want with me?”
“She wants to buy back your soul.”
“No, thanks.” I scoffed at the idea. “Doesn’t she know how hard I worked to get the damned thing back?”
>
“Nice pun.” He chuckled. “She understands the extent of your efforts very well indeed. And though my mistress, unlike her father, has no great fondness for humans, she has seen and admired your ability to deal with soul contracts. The Lady Scrytha also senses your imminent and utter destruction. If you would like to avoid the fate she has foreseen, my mistress would like to give you the opportunity to come and work for her as the Grand Madam of her succubae and incubi.”
My mouth fell open. “Why the hell would she want to do that?”
“Perhaps she merely desires intercourse with you.” The Gallus changed lanes, going all the way over into the outside lane. “I’ve never understood the draw it has for those with sexual organs, but—”
“Try again.”
“The truth? No problem, as I’m authorized to tell it to you. Eric Courtney has diverged from his destiny, and this concerns Lady Scrytha.”
“What destiny?”
“He is the last Courtney who may destroy Lisette and end the curse on the Courtney line. Eric’s destiny was to do so, and then become human.”
“And now?”
“Now, Lady Scrytha believes that he will not confront Lisette at all and will instead embark on a different quest, a quest that will be most disconcerting for the Infernatti.”
“I thought you were going to say he was the chosen one or something.”
“No.” He coughed. “Eric Courtney is of no consequence in the grand scheme of things. Despite his previous exertions in El Segundo, he was destined to be little more than a mortal under a curse who redeems his family name and dies a bitter, lonely, and ultimately broken man.”
