07- Black Blood Brother

by Morgan Blayde

  “That’s a big sacrifice.”

  I shrugged. “You need to decide if she’s worth a few changes. Not that I’d ever make any.”

  The door opened. We stepped onto the elevator; him, me, and the carafe.

  Zero-t followed me in. “You’ve got the coffee. Let’s stop for some cinnamon rolls.”

  “Nothing too sweet. We’ll get some without frosting.” I pressed the button for the lobby.

  He looked at me like I was crazy.

  I said, “What?”

  “Dude, I’ve seen what you guzzle; all those fruity-sweet, diabetic-coma-on-the-way drinks. You’re all about sweet.”

  “I practice moderation in what I consume. Alcohol, sushi, and women are an exception.”

  “I could do some sushi.”

  “I just got up. It’s going to be a while before I want a full meal.”

  The doors chimed open and we stepped out. I spotted Chrys over by the lobby desk. She was dressed-down in pink denim jeans, a sea-foam colored top, and an expresso tinted leather jacket that showed wear and tear that might have been added on by the manufacturer for a vintage look. Her blond hair hung in a loose pony-tail.

  The attendant pointed my way.

  She turned and saw me. Slapping on a bright smile, she hurried over. “Caine! There you are.”

  “How’d you know this was my hotel,” I asked.

  “You’re the Hub Lord of L.A. Every supernatural player in Vegas is tailing you to find out what you’re up to here. I just flashed a little cash around and someone pointed me here.” Her smile widened with pride in her sleuthing skills. Her gaze slid to Zero-T. “Oh, it’s you again.”

  “Chrys, this is Zero-T.”

  “Zero-T?” She looked him up and down. “That’s a street name, right?”

  “Zero Tolerance,” Zero-T said. “It’s why I never finished high school.”

  I added a little more. “His school had a zero tolerance policy for bullshit.”

  Zero-T looked at me. “Now, don’t be hatin’. I got thrown out for being a bad momma-jammer. Don’t go tarnishing my street cred.”

  “Whatever.” I caught Chrys’ gaze. “We’re heading out to a few gun shops. Want to come?”

  “I know a place,” she said. “A Villager contact. I can get you a real good deal.”

  Zero-T stared at her and pointed. “You’re a Villager? I mean, they’re real.”

  “Real hot,” I said.

  Chrys squealed and threw herself at me. “You say the nicest things.”

  Zero-T said, “Nice? Him?”

  Having caught Chrys in self-defense, I returned her kiss. Being preoccupied, I was unable to kick Zero-T with a steel-toed boot. He’d danced back a few steps and was out of range anyway.

  Later, I promised myself. When he’s not expecting it.

  Chrys broke the kiss. “Why don’t you ride with me? I’ve got my dad’s black SUV. Plenty of room and it’s spell-shielded to hold up against automatic weapons and explosives.”

  “Fine. Lead on,” I said.

  She took my hand and pulled me along. Zero-T followed us out of the lobby, into the parking area. As we passed his Eldorado pimpmobile, he patted the trunk with affection. My vindictiveness didn’t extend to his ride. Some things are sacred between guys. Besides, I had my own customized Mustang to think about. If I went for his wheels, he’d definitely go for mine.

  Chrys led us to her SUV and we climbed in. Minutes later, we were tearing down the strip. Chrys’ driving was erratic at best. I wondered if she’d just gotten her license—out of a Cracker Jacks box. Unlike humans, she wouldn’t have grown up where cars were common. Actually, I didn’t know for sure she had a license at all.

  As Chrys roared through a yellow light, taking a high-speed turn, I glanced into the back to see how Zero-T was holding up. His eyes were tightly closed, he crossed himself, and seemed to be muttering a prayer to Saint Francis. He had a medallion on a chain clutched in one hand.

  Time for revenge. I drew upon my knowledge of modern mythology. “That won’t help you. The Catholic Church took the job of being patron saint of travelers away from Saint Francis. You need a Saint Joseph medal now.”

  His eyes opened. He glared at me. “You’re fucking with me, right?”

  “Yes, but it also happens to be true. Google it on your phone if you don’t believe me.”

  He did. And then he started cussing under his breath.

  Smiling, I turned to look forward.

  “I’m not sure,” Chrys said, “but I think I ought to feel a little offended. I’m a good driver.”

  She ran a bicyclist off the road, into a trashcan by a bus stop, and never noticed.

  Zero-T started praying to Saint Joseph.

  I smiled, loosened the cap on my coffee carafe. I took a deep whiff and lost my smile. Beneath the mellow aroma of the roasted coffee, I smelled oil of wintergreen. Methyl salicylate. Someone had dumped a whole bottle in, trying to poison me. Cyanide, arsenic, digitalis, puffer fish toxin; there were better ways to go. This poison indicated that it was a last-minute improvisation. The wintergreen oil might have come from the kitchen, a food flavoring, maybe used in in making wintergreen tea.

  Someone went that proverbial extra mile.

  My half-dragon constitution could probably have handled the essential oil in that excessive dosage, but there was no reason to put it to the test. Besides, it would likely spoil the taste.

  I put the lid back on and set the carafe on the floor.

  “What’s that?” Chrys asked.

  “A gift from someone who wants me dead. Poisoned coffee.”

  “I could hit a drive-thru at a coffee kiosk if you’d like.”

  She’d probably sideswipe the stand, and we’d waste time if the cops were called. And they were probably still wanting to talk to me. “No, that’s all right. I’m not in the mood anymore.”

  She swerved around an old lady in a sky-blue VW bug who was creeping around at the speed limit. The old woman flipped us off as we roared past, rattling her doors with our jet stream.

  “I’m not in a hurry to die,” Zero-T muttered.

  “Keep praying,” I told him. “It might be helping.”

  “Why does everyone complain about my driving?” Chrys asked. “I’ll have you know I have never been in an accident.”

  “Not for lack of trying,” Zero-T muttered.

  Chrys’ face pinched with anger. Her eyes narrowed.

  I remembered the mercs at the bar where I’d first met her, how their bodies had looked after she’d dealt with them. I had the feeling I was about to lose Zero-T to some kind of catastrophic event.

  I distracted Chrys by pointing at the gas gauge. “You’re almost out of gas. You better pull in at that station up ahead.”

  She frowned at the gauge. “So that’s what that is.”

  She pulled off the road and up to a gas pump, killing the engine.

  “Do you know how to pump gas?” I asked.

  “No. Do you?”

  “I can manage. Give me some cash. I’ll handle this for you.”

  She turned to me, pulling a clipped wad of cash from her coat pocket. “I only have thousands. Will one of these be enough or do you need more?”

  I had to be making these magically in the Village.

  “Burn them,” I said. “They’re counterfeiting.”

  “Really?”

  “They aren’t printed in this country anymore. One or two still in circulation could have been snapped up by you, but if you wave all those around, you’ll get arrested. I feel the sudden need for a fifth of Jack.” I’d buy for myself even though I don’t normally work for free.

  “Buy me a Snickers bar,” Zero-T said.

  I looked back at him. “Sure, where’s your thousand.”

  “Never mind.” He opened his door. “I’ll get it myself.”

  NINE

  “A gun is the gift that keeps on giving,

  until you run out of ammo. Even then,

&
nbsp; you can still pistol-whip somebody.”

  —Caine Deathwalker

  Chrys pulled the SUV up to Dark Star Pawn and parked. My heart beat faster at the thought of guns. A gun is the most faithful mistress a man can have. Properly cared for, she puts out on demand. And never gains weight.

  “Leave the idiot in the vehicle,” Chrys said. “I don’t want him annoying my friends. They’re less forgiving than I am.”

  “No way,” Zero-T said. “It’s my job to provide security.”

  Chrys said, “Caine is safe with me. At least until I have his love-child.”

  Suddenly, I wasn’t feeling safe at all. Especially since the birth control tatt that used to be on my ball-sack was now gone. Note to self: Stock up on rubbers.

  Zero-T appealed to me. “Caine, Imari is going to give you hell if you slip your security, yet again. Let me do my job.”

  I looked at Chrys. “Sorry, but I need to keep the help happy. The Old Man’s been on my case about this, too.”

  She gave me a sour frown. “Fine, but if he gets himself killed, I won’t be held responsible.”

  I smiled at her. “Fair enough.”

  We piled out and locked up. Chrys led us to the pawn shop. I reached ahead and got the door for her. She cooed, “How gallant.”

  My smile widened. “Isn’t it pretty common to be nice to those you fuck?”

  She paused in the doorway, turning toward me. “Speaking of nice, chaining me up last night, stuffing me in a bag, stepping on my throat to threaten my parents; what do you call all that?”

  I looked at her wide-eyed, stripped off my smile, and made a guess. “Foreplay?”

  I thought she was gripped by rage at first, the way her lips pressed together, the shudder that went through her, but as she faced forward again, I realized she was trying not to laugh. She went and I followed.

  Zero-T whispered. “Chains? Stepping on her throat? You are my hero!”

  “Don’t try it with Imari right away,” I warned. “Get a coke-ho and work your way up to demons, Pimp-daddy.”

  “Shoot! She’d kill me if I looked at her cross-eyed. Imari has a temper, you know.”

  “A man can only deal with woman from a position of strength. Never sleep with a woman who doesn’t respect you—not more than once or twice. Then lose their number. It makes life easier.”

  “You should write a book,” Zero-T suggested.

  “I should, indeed.”

  I scanned the interior of the place: tools, locked ammo cabinets, compound bows on the wall, a section with TVs and stereos, rotating displays of DVDs, a section with jewelry under glass, and the counters with the clerks and their cash registers. The counter displays housed assorted handguns accessible only to the clerks. The wall behind them displayed assorted katana sets, and guitars. This was pretty much what every pawn shop looked like. There were a few customers at the counters, making purchases.

  As we went by, one of the clerks—a woman with short red hair and glasses—meshed glances with Chrys.

  Chrys pointed toward the back.

  The clerk nodded and reached down, probably to buzz us in, though I heard no actual buzz. They seemed to know Chrys, giving her the run of the place. She’d gotten a little ahead of us, reaching a back door. She opened it and waited for us to catch up. A sign said: EMPLOYEES ONLY.

  We went through. Chrys closed the door and I heard it lock behind us. The new space was a high-class armory with a much more expensive grade of weapons. While humans had manned the outer storefront, the employees in here were fey. That meant that these weapons were likely spell-enhanced. The prices were going to be stiff.

  Well, whatever the expense, I was here to buy. In my suit’s inner pocket, in my hand-stitched Italian wallet, was a Visa Signature card issued to those like myself with liquid assets totaling more than twenty-five million. The card even had a trace amount of palladium bullion over Seven hundred dollars. A physical wealth that made my inner dragon smile and ripple his tail in joy. The card was known as the card for the top one percent of the top one percent. Of course, that didn’t mean I wouldn’t be looking for a deal, or an edge in negotiation. I didn’t want anyone to think I’d just fallen off a turnip truck.

  I no longer had my Dragon Vision tatt for seeing hidden magic, evaluating it, and appraising commercial items, but I had an inner dragon with the same gift. His eyes opened in the back shadows of my mind, ablaze with greed as he looked through my eyes at the surrounding merchandize. Indeed, it was his natural ability I drew on when groping tits; he infallibly kept me informed of the exact bust sizes of women I might want to sleep with—a useful skill. My inner dragon could tell gold from iron pyrite, a quality gem from a flawed, doctored stone. And he had a sense for when someone was trying to pawn off junk on us. His gaze was snagged on several items on display.

  I made mental notes on them as a pair of gray-suited men approached. One of them looked part moth with compound eyes and feathery antennae projecting from bumps in his forehead. It was a partial change; his wings hadn’t grown out. The other guy had a Hollywood, pretty-boy image that I suspected to be pure glamour. I focused, shifting mental gears, and saw under the illusion: a fey with dusky blue skin, burnt almond eyes edged in gold leaf, wearing silken robes. Hollywood smiled with sharp, triangular teeth—not a pretty sight.

  He bowed to Chrys, speaking to her first. “How can we serve?”

  She said, “I have assured my good friend here that you can provide him with items of self-protection.”

  “And recreational hunting,” I said. “Let’s start with the Smith & Wesson .460 Magnum revolver.”

  “The backpack cannon?” Mothman said. “What are you going to hunt with that?”

  “Kodiaks, raptors, hell beasts, and wild boar,” I said. “And other assorted vermin.” The oversized revolver only carried five shots, but the bullets were 1.7 inches with a .452-inch diameter, delivering 65,000 psi of pressure to assure the destruction of whatever was hit. The stainless-steel weapon had a thick shock-absorbing coating on the grip to assist against recoil.

  The perfect back-up weapon.

  I pointed at another display case. “I also want the Glock 17, and a 30 round, double-drum magazine.” When inserted in the Glock, the augmented magazine would dangle below the pistol grip like a cock-and-balls.

  Fuck semi-automatic. Why kill when you can overkill?

  I said, “I’ll need four or five of the 30 round magazines and a backpack for transportation if you’ve got one handy.”

  “What about me?” Zero-T asked.

  “What about you?” I asked.

  “Don’t I get a new toy, too?”

  “How about a zombie apocalypse hammer?” Mothman said. “I hear the Red Moon Demon is in town. Anything could happen.”

  I widened my eyes. “That bastard? Hasn’t anybody killed him yet?”

  “Not hardly,” Mothman said. “The bounty on his head just keeps getting bigger.”

  I lifted an eyebrow. “Yeah? What’s it up to now, in US dollars?”

  “Twenty million, last I heard,” Hollywood said.

  Snorting with contempt, my inner dragon spoke up: I’m insulted. Is that all? I wouldn’t even turn myself in for that.

  Good thing for me, I thought.

  “Yeah,” I said. “Give us two of the zombie apocalypse hammers. And I’m going to need some incendiary ammo. A lot of it. Get me two Beretta Storm PX4 semi-automatics—the compacts if you’ve got them, and I’ll take that Kriss Vector Gen 2 machine pistol on the wall. Give me two of your thousand-round packs of 9mm ammo for it and the Berettas.”

  “Why not get a small tactical nuke while you’re at it?” Chrys asked.

  I shot Mothman a sharp, inquiring glance. “Got one?”

  “Not currently, but leave a contact number. You never know what might come across the Mexican border.”

  “That’s a lot of self-defense,” Hollywood said. “Are you paying cash?”

  I pulled out my card and handed i
t to him. He took it from my hand with both of his, staring at the Palladium Card like a crusader-pilgrim in a Turkish bazaar, stumbling across a splinter of the True Cross. His eyes grew huge. His hands gripped the card tightly like he was afraid it might grow wings and fly to heaven. He muttered, “I’ve never seen one of these before.” He looked at the name on the card: Caine Deathwalker. And paled. “You’re him?”

  Mothman beetled his brows in puzzlement and leaned in to look at the card. “What’s the problem?” He studied the card. A second later, his gaze swung my way. I could almost read his mind. Greed shone in his iridescent, blue-green eyes. His antennae fronds shivered. The muscles in his body tightened. If his mouth opened to unleash his prehensile tongue, I was going to rip it out by the roots and beat him to death with it.

  Hollywood jostled Mothman. “He’s with Chrys. Chill.”

  Mothman nodded and relaxed, but I wasn’t fooled. He was not a person I could leave alive at my back. Every time I’ve seen someone with that look in their eyes, they’ve never been able to let go of their consuming greed.

  My inner dragon confirmed: He’ll always be dangerous to us, even if today, we leave the pawn shop alive.

  The requested items were rounded up. I inspected them, and kept the Glock 17 in hand. I used a covert hand signal to trigger Zero-T, letting him know I needed a small diversion. He yammered a war cry and gave an impromptu display of melee techniques with both of the long-handled hammers, knocking over a rubber bust, a human head and torso with all the nerve-points dotted in red.

  During the confusion, I loaded the Glock. Everything else went in the two backpacks. My card was run, funds were transferred, plus a sizeable tip I insisted on. There was no background check. This shop was every liberal’s nightmare: a truly constitutional business. Zero-T and Chrys escorted me to the door, which led back into the main shop.

  I let them go first, spun, and placed a bullet between the compound eyes of Mothman. Zero-T and Chrys jerked around to stare at me. Hollywood stared as well. I told him, “The big tip on the card is for the clean-up. Sorry about that.” I put the Glock in my waistband, inside my coat.

  Hollywood relaxed. “I never liked him, anyway. Always chewing on the hunting socks.”