The man grunted an affirmative. “Hemmingway was a great man, even though bull-fighting is slightly antiquated.” He appraised me with a glance. “Shouldn’t you be attending some high society function or ritzy ball rather than entertaining a barfly in a Kill?” He asked with a refined degree of politeness, as if only curious.
“The public has always expected me to be a playboy, and a decent chap never lets his public down.” I winked, trying to flummox him with a different quote.
“Not many have read Errol Flynn. Learn that at one of your fancy dinner parties?”
I nodded, impressed at his taste. “Sociability is just a big smile, and a big smile is nothing but teeth. I didn’t feel like entertaining the crowd again tonight.” I decided, for simplicity’s sake, to refer to this stranger as Hemmingway.
Before I could ask if he was my contact, I felt a forceful finger tap my shoulder. Hemmingway chuckled in amusement at the stranger looming behind me.
I could feel the sizzle of power from even that light of a touch. This person was juiced up to a level I hadn’t seen in a while. Knowing my luck, the night was about to get even more interesting. And I had allowed myself to become distracted by Hemmingway.
Who apparently wasn’t my contact.
Chapter 3
I lazily swiveled on my chair to face the man. Time seemed to move slowly, most likely due to my sleep deprivation. Delicious tobacco smoke drifted through the air in lazy tendrils. Every surface of the room was wooden, splinter-laden, and filthy, coated with decades of blood, smoke, and various assortments of dried booze – an arsonist’s wet dream. When fistfights and worse were frequent, why spend the money to spruce things up? Especially when the owner was Achilles, the legendary Greek Myrmidon, and sacker of Troy. No one dared challenge his aesthetic vision. Or lack thereof. Unless they liked having pointy things shoved through their jugular.
The man before me stood out like the Queen of England had entered the Kill. He scowled at Hemmingway’s polite grin with equally polite disdain before returning his fiery eyes to mine. “This is a courtesy call. I apologize for my tardiness; however your methods of travel are unreliable.” His gaze assessed me as I pondered his statement. “Stop digging into the murder. Nothing good can come of it. Accept that fact like the rest of them do.”
My rage spiked at his tone alone, not even taking the time to get angry at his message. “Them?” I asked in a snarl, surprised that this person was my contact. He was immaculately dressed in a tailored suit. An expensive one. Not the usual garb for this locale.
“Yes, the humans. Do try to keep up.”
I didn’t dare risk asking him what he was, in an effort to not appear ignorant, but I noticed a faint glow around the man, something that would be visible only to wizards. Odd, because he was definitely not a wizard. He was wearing a bulky trench coat, and was much taller than me. He sported a clean-shaven, baby face, and moved with the grace of a Calvin Klein underwear model. My wizard senses picked up the smell of frost and burning gravel. Odd combination… I had never seen anyone quite like him. No doubt a smart person to avoid. But the cheap whisky had me wanting to vent off some steam.
“Am I to understand that you arranged a meeting with me – to which you arrived abhorrently late – in order to tell me to stop meeting people with information on my parents’ murder?” He nodded. “Our phone call would have sufficed. Otherwise, I might be inclined to think that you were deliberately wasting my time. And very few people would consider doing that to me.” The man shrugged, unperturbed. “What if I keep digging?” I pressed.
He assessed me up and down, not with overt disrespect, but merely as if wondering what form of creature sat before him. “This is a heavenly affair, not your… jurisdiction. But it’s your funeral.” Hemmingway burst out laughing. I frowned at him. Was he drunk? My appointment was obviously powerful, and Hemmingway looked as if a strong wind would blow him away like a kite. The man had casually said heavenly. Was he being literal?
“This is none of your concern.” He hissed at Hemingway, causing my drinking partner’s grin to split wider, revealing dazzlingly white teeth.
“Are you,” I began, giving him a mocking head-to-toe appraisal, “threatening me?” The man… blinked, as if seeing a kitten suddenly sprout horns. It made me even angrier.
“I don’t need to threaten a man hunting for death.” The stranger shared his glare with Hemmingway and gave a faint grunt. “Just a polite warning.” He began to turn away, business obviously concluded.
I disagreed.
I reached out and snagged the arm of his coat. An audible zap sent a lightning bolt of pain straight up my arm, making my fingers involuntarily snap open and my gathered magic dissipate in an instant. My entire arm was numb. The man whirled around, a look of surprised disgust on his face, which was… confusing.
Disgust?
He stared me dead in the eye as I somehow managed to formulate a parting threat. “Words have consequences. You should be careful how you speak to one such as me.”
He met my gaze. “That they do.” He didn’t acknowledge my threat, but sniffed the air curiously. “You stink like demons. This whole town does.” He leaned closer, taking in a big whiff of all the glory that is my aroma. “Especially you.” He added.
I blinked at the change of topic, uncomfortable with a strange man smelling me so deliberately. “Do dragons count as demons?” I asked, feeling the weight of the new bracelet against my forearm. The bracelet that held the late Dragon Lord’s teeth.
The stranger cocked his head. “It’s not your trophy. It’s you. Have you been consorting with demons in your search for the murderer?” He accused, somehow seeming to gain a few inches of both height and width.
“No.” I answered honestly, too surprised to take offense.
He grunted in disbelief, slowly appearing to return back to his normal size. “It would behoove you to wash the smell away, lest it offend your betters. We believe that your parents’ murder was directly caused by demons, which you stink of. We have people on the case, but these people,” he smiled proudly, gazing through me for a moment, “are the kind to stab and exorcise first, saving questions for later. We wouldn’t want any damage of the… collateral nature now, would we?”
“Okay. If you want me out of it, that’s fine. But I demand progress reports.”
The man blinked. “Only One commands us, and you are not H-,”
“Daily.” I continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Yes. Daily progress reports should suffice.”
The man actually let out a belly laugh after a momentous silence. “I would be cautious if I were you, mortal. Everyone has limits. Everyone should know their place in the world.”
“Ah. I’ll take that as a No on the progress reports then. If that’s the case, I will not drop my investigation. I need answers to this. There is more at stake than my grief. Although that is reason enough. I have a Blood Debt to them. I’m sure you know what it’s like to lose a father figure without explanation.” I smiled. I was suddenly slammed up against the bar. Although the man hadn’t moved, he was fairly tingling with blue power, and his shoulders were quivering as if threatening to bust out of his trench coat. Was he sporting a pair of wings under his coat?
Hemmingway sputtered out his drink, but the hulk of a man dropped me immediately, holding up his hands, placating. “Peace!” He commanded. Still, his tone was nothing but threatening. “Be careful to whom you blaspheme. My Brothers are not so tolerant. And my sons have no compunctions against violence in His name. You’ve been warned. Despite your Blood Debt.”
I let out a nervous breath. “And you’ve been given your answer as to my next move, pigeon.” I was playing a wild card, assuming by his words that he was an Angel, but the drinks had me feeling courageous. And I was pissed that he had slammed me into the bar without even a reaction on my part. A heavy hitter for sure. I would need to be on my A game if I wanted to tussle against him and his brothers. I was su
re that Angels couldn’t simply ‘off’ someone. Which was why he had immediately backed off when Hemmingway reacted. Hemmingway knew what he was, and knew that he had crossed a line. Apparently, there were rules. There were always rules. There had to be rules…
I hoped there were rules…
The man scowled in impotent frustration, turned on a proud heel, and left the bar, disappearing into the frosty outdoors as his shoulders fluttered anxiously underneath his coat as if alive.
Chapter 4
I turned back to the bar with a frown of concentration.
I was too tired to connect the dots. I needed to clear my head. I stood and walked outside, hoping to catch a glimpse of the man again. I entered the street, but saw no sign of him. Just the typical Mardi Gras revelers. Curious.
Apparently, someone sent from upstairs wanted me to stay out of my parents’ murder. I just wanted justice. Nothing more. But someone was watching me. Did that mean I was close to the answer? Why were freaking Angels concerned? And to top it all off, I apparently reeked of demons. But why?
I had no idea. Shivering, I stormed back inside, ready to pay my tab and leave.
Sauntering over to the bar, the TV caught my attention. As the words reached my ears, I groaned inwardly. Hemmingway seemed to be listening with rapt attention. It was a rehash of the news a few weeks ago. “Master Temple is still refusing to comment, so the world is full of speculation. As everyone is aware, a few months ago, our beloved benefactor, Nate Temple – recently nicknamed the Archangel – and heir of Temple Industries after his parents’ murder, was allegedly involved as a person-of-interest in a spree of murders the likes of which St. Louis has never seen before. At this time, he is not considered a suspect.” Her tone said otherwise. “Alaric Slate – Master Temple’s business partner in a so-called coalition of supernaturals – is apparently missing, so no interviews with him have been forthcoming.” The news reporter then went on to declare that the bridge chase with a demon was no doubt a monstrous hoax. A woman had been found at the bottom of the river, but was most likely a victim of the high-speed car chase. They had yet to determine her identity. I scowled. She had been a silver scaled dragon intent on mutilating me. My best friend – werewolf, and now ex-FBI agent – Gunnar Randulf had barely helped me out of that one.
I idly fingered the bracelet of misshapen teeth on my wrist. Dragon teeth. Acquired from the late Dragon Lord, Alaric Slate. I had killed Alaric, and used his dental palate to make a fashionable bracelet. It made me feel marginally better. When Alaric’s ritual had backfired, thanks to yours truly, the spell had then transferred the power and designation Obsidian Son to his offspring, Raego, making him the new de-facto leader of the dragon nation.
A twofer if I ever heard one.
Raego, always savvy, chose to break the morbid news to his fellow dragons by making my bracelet an award, like a god-damned Purple Heart, declaring me a friend of dragons everywhere. One phrase stuck in my eidetic memory like a persistent hunk of caramel corn. “He is the ultimate death for us. Our very own Grim Reaper for those who wish to act terrible to humans… or those who disappoint me.” I fingered the bracelet. “I won’t be Raego’s fucking hit man.” I growled.
I felt Hemmingway studying me acutely. “What?” I snapped, nervous at the attention the news story might have caused as well as my last comment.
But he didn’t acknowledge my idle comment. “Grandma, what great big balls you have!” He chimed in a falsetto voice, grinning wide.
I pondered that. “You think so? He didn’t look too tough.” I said, regarding my departed appointment.
“Well, does it take more guts to twice traverse a staircase in a burning building or to make a one-time leap into a volcano? Damned if I know, Kimosabe. All I know is when you’re making those kinds of calls, you’re up in the high country.”
I chuckled. “Never heard that before.”
Hemmingway nodded. “One of the Greats. S. H. Graymore. Interesting man.” He took a deep pull from his drink. “I hate those amoral ass hats.”
I choked a bit on my drink, biting back a laugh. “Pardon?”
“That was Paco. But he’s nothing compared to the Archangels.” He looked me up and down. “The real Archangels…” his eyes twinkled, alluding to the nickname the media had granted me.
I felt an icy shiver crawl down my spine. “So that was an angel? I thought he might have just been a temp employee. Paco? For an angel, that name’s pretty… lame.”
Hemmingway simply stared at me. Like, really stared at me. I began to fidget.
“Okay. It’s a badass name. Terrifying.” He continued to stare. I decided to change the topic to avoid his gaze. “Why didn’t you stop me from pissing him off? He could have smote me… smited me… no, that’s not right either… Anyway, I could have used a warning.”
Hemmingway’s gaze finally broke with an amused grin. “You handled yourself well. Except for touching him. You shouldn’t make that a habit. You wouldn’t look good as a pillar of salt. Then you called him a pigeon!” He roared in laughter. “Pigeon…” He muttered again before taking another sip. “He was right, you know.” Hemmingway added, almost as an afterthought.
“About what?” I grumbled, still trying to wrap my head around the fact that I had just met a freaking angel. And then mocked him. Boy was I damned.
The man scouted the bar carefully. Having already scoped the place out myself several times, keeping track of the people who had entered and exited, I noticed a new face down the bar glaring pure frustration at Hemmingway. I turned back to Hemmingway and watched him nod amiably at the scarred man. The Irish-looking man continued to scowl back, but finally gave a dismissive nod in return, swiveling to instead watch a pair of particularly cute vampires playing pool. I assumed the man was one of Achilles’ generals. Playing bouncer 2,000 years later must suck after such a glorious feat as starring in The Iliad. Hemmingway didn’t seem concerned with the stranger, so I let it go.
Maybe I was reading too much into things. I mean, it’s not often that an angel arrives in a bar to politely tell you to ‘cut it out.’ How many other angels were in the bar? Jesus. I had never considered tussling with an angel. I hadn’t even known they were real, let alone on our plane of existence. Regardless, no one was close enough to overhear us as Hemmingway took a long pull from a fresh cigarette.
My nervous fingers ached to reach out for the cancer stick, but I managed to compose myself. I had successfully remained smoke-free for a few days now, and was proud of my discipline. But I had just survived a smiting. Perhaps I deserved one. Just one. I shook my head defiantly. No. “So, what was the angel right about?” I asked instead.
“You smell like Brimstone. It’s a pungent odor, and it could get you murdered quick if some of his more blade-happy brethren noticed it.” I sniffed myself, picking up the light sulfuric smell, surprised that I hadn’t noticed it earlier.
“I don’t know why I smell like that. I haven’t summoned any demons. Lately.” Hemmingway blinked at me with those eyes that seemed able to weigh my soul, and judge my guilt. Was he an angel too? Paco had seemed nervous of him. “Honestly,” I said, holding up my hands.
Hemmingway shook his head. “Regardless. This town reeks of it. And so do you. Rumor mill does hint at demons being involved in your parents’ murder.” I blinked, suddenly pissed. This stranger, among others, seemed to know more information about my parents than I did. Hemmingway continued unaware of my frustration. “Get rid of the odor as soon as possible. It will only attract the wrong kinds of attention, as you just noticed. Angels don’t make a habit of appearing to mortals, but when they do… nothing good comes of it.”
He studied me for a moment before deciding to continue. “I once heard a story from a down-and-out farmer about angels and demons. It might put things into perspective for you, as it did me. It shook me to my core. But I was a different man then. A virgin to the true ways of the world. Perhaps wiser. Perhaps less.” His eyes
grew far away.
He shook his head after a moment. “Anyway, the man was distraught, filled with grief. And despite offering him a ride the following morning, I never heard from him again. He fled in the middle of the night. I’ve thought of him often as the years have passed me by, curiosity getting the best of me. Perhaps he was telling me his story.” Hemmingway winked. “Alas, I never discovered his identity…” He took a sip of his drink, gathering his thoughts. I nodded for him to continue and hunkered down, ready to listen. His next words enveloped me like a warm blanket. Stories from an experienced raconteur could do that.
An exhausted local farmer was on his way home from selling his wheat at the market a day’s ride away. It was drizzling, but a true rain would fall soon. He knew these kinds of things after farming for so many years. He didn’t know how he knew, but he was right more often than not. He was eager to get home and see his family after a long day, eager to share his success, and eager to revel in the more important joys life had to offer… family. He wasn’t an established farmer, with vast fields and many clients. No. He worked only for himself and his family.
A prideful, peaceful, god-fearing man.
He trotted his cart up the final hill to his home only to discover his son’s broken body on the lawn that led to the front porch. The farmer froze, unable to even blink. His boy was not even ten years old. His beautiful, daring, carefree son had been left to suffer, the long smear of blood trailing from the porch and down the freshly painted steps to the lawn a statement of his tenacity to escape. But escape from what? What could so terrify his bold, courageous son in such a way? Especially while mortally wounded? The farmer could not even begin to fathom, let alone accept the death before him.
His heart was a hollow shell of ice, liable to shatter at the slightest breeze. The wind began to howl, heralding the approaching storm, but it was a distant, solemn sound in his ears. He dismounted from the horse, dropping the reins carelessly as he crouched over his son’s broken body. He brushed the boy’s icy-blue eyes closed with shaken fingers, too pained to do more for his fallen, innocent offspring. But what he would see next would make him realize that his son had been the lucky one. The farmer managed to stand, stumbling only slightly in the growling, approaching wind, and entered the small, humble foyer of his home. Like so many times before, his wife greeted him immediately, although those past circumstances were never as abhorrent as this.
Obsidian Son (The Temple Chronicles Book 1) Page 32
