Soul Fire

by D. N. Erikson

  I glanced over my shoulder. Two of the guys were still peppering the Feds’ car with lead.

  The third was sighting his rifle on me.

  I scrambled over Deadwood’s warm body and kicked at it as bullets slammed against the entrance. Luckily, the door was one of those thick, old-school ones from bars long past. It wobbled and groaned but didn’t cave.

  Switching tactics, I grabbed Deadwood’s corpse by the lapels and dragged him inside. My wounded wrist felt like it was ready to about fall off, but I managed to get his body clear of the door. It rocked shut.

  I slammed a nearby stool against the wall and jammed one of the splintered wooden legs into the handle. Then I threw the deadbolt.

  It wouldn’t hold forever, but it would buy me a little time.

  Right on cue, the door rattled as the goon tried to enter.

  “Not today, buddy.” After dragging Deadwood’s corpse into the corner, I pulled one of the cushioned chairs over to the door as he worked the handle. I propped it against the door.

  The guy outside got wise and started shooting, sending me diving back to the corner.

  Even in temporary death, Deadwood’s eyes were manic—almost alive.

  I wasn’t sure how quickly he’d come back to life. I couldn’t afford to find out.

  An empty magazine clattered to the pavement outside.

  Hopefully the FBI would send backup.

  Right now, I had to make sure Deadwood didn’t return.

  The Reaper’s Switch was still stuck right below his collarbone. I yanked it out, blood spritzing from the fresh wound.

  I flashed back to him holding Hall’s head. How he had explained that, no, the undertaker wouldn’t be rejoining the land of the living.

  I held my breath as I put the obsidian-studded blade up to his neck, wondering if it would be sharp enough.

  I needn’t have worried. The knife sunk into the bone like hot string cheese. Twenty seconds of sawing later, and the head had thudded to the carpet. Blood coated my hands, glistening in the dead light.

  Bullets hammered against the entrance. Slivers of light peeked through the thick wood. I quickly relieved Deadwood of his blackened soul—just to be safe—and then scanned the club for an exit.

  All I saw was the bar at the opposite end.

  At least that would have cover.

  Hugging the wall as the hit man continued to spray and pray outside, I made it to the other end of the Players Pad without catching another bullet. I vaulted the bar, landing next to an ice chest.

  The gunfire stopped again. The guy must’ve had to reload.

  A quick glance at the front door revealed that the upholstered chair and wood were both shredded. After another onslaught of bullets, I’d be sharing this place with a suited jackass.

  My ears rang in the silence.

  I could’ve sworn I heard a female voice.

  Throwing a look around the back of the bar, I noticed a doorway leading to a back area. Keeping low, I crept toward it and ducked inside a dark hallway.

  On the left was an open door. A hushed discussion drifted through the air.

  I slunk forward, switchblade gripped tightly, and snuck a glimpse inside.

  Two people were tied up in a stripper’s dressing room. One—a woman—had a leather-clad dominatrix thing going on. She was gorgeous, with a sultry Spanish complexion and full lips to match.

  Her driver’s license had barely done her justice.

  Tamara Marquez was a knockout.

  Her companion—a man—was clad in a bowtie and had lustrously shined black hair, like he’d stepped out of an F. Scott Fitzgerald novel.

  The gunfire started again, and I stumbled inside.

  They both turned, fear painted across their features.

  Then the woman’s look hardened. “You should know I have very powerful friends.”

  “Tamara Marquez?” I asked.

  I couldn’t sense her soul. Which made sense, because she didn’t have one.

  Her black hair was cut short and maintained in a side-swept that made her look slightly dangerous. The tight leather revealed the figure of a girl intent on keeping in shape—or giving her ex-boyfriend the ass-kicking of the century. A pair of sigils snaked across the light brown skin on her navel. She’d made no effort to disguise them in a sea of other tattoos. They shimmered softly in the darkness.

  The woman nodded. “This is Max. My assistant.”

  That was all I needed for an introduction. I cut them loose and said, “I hope you have a gun behind the bar.”

  “Oh, I have a trick or two up my sleeve,” Tamara said.

  Her outfit didn’t have any sleeves—or much fabric at all—but I figured now wasn’t the time to be pedantic. She and Max kept low as they headed to the bar.

  I followed them out.

  Footsteps padded across the carpet. I counted two distinct pairs.

  Tamara reached into the ice chest and pulled out a single shot rifle. Without any fear at all, she rose up, placed the barrel on the bar, and squeezed off a round.

  There was a thud, followed by gunfire.

  She slid down and reloaded, barely breathing.

  “You’re that Reaper, aren’t you?” Her brown eyes analyzed me as her fingers worked another round into the chamber. “Evelyn something.”

  “Eden.”

  “Close enough.” Tamara popped up again.

  The surviving DSA agent was ready for her, though. A quick burst of automatic rifle fire erupted.

  She dropped to the floor, clutching her right arm. Blood flowed freely between her fingers. “Damnit.”

  Max, for his part, had pulled a revolver from behind some liquor bottles. He blind-fired a couple shots over the bar.

  “Is there a back exit?” I asked the fallen woman.

  “An underground tunnel,” Max said. “Formerly for customers.”

  A useful feature, no doubt, if you were paying for a little strange. Doubly so if you were engaged in magical activities that might raise a few eyebrows.

  “I won’t run,” Tamara said. “Pick up the rifle.”

  I said, “I can’t.”

  The area beyond the bar was silent. The DSA hitman had holed up, ready to take a shot when one of us popped out.

  Great.

  Outside, it sounded like the other DSA hitman was still shooting it out with the Feds. Hopefully they’d managed to get out of their damn car by now.

  Tamara glanced at my bloody hands and shot me a funny look. “You’re not a pacifist.”

  Instead of explaining, I touched my hand to the rifle stock. Then I held up my sizzling palm. “Hope you have a Plan B.”

  “We could torch the place, Mistress Tamara,” Max said, his voice low. “Kill this wretch in a sea of flame.”

  “I will not burn my life’s savings,” the woman shot back.

  “One must have a life to spend their savings,” Max replied with the vague wisdom of a fortune cookie.

  “This is all you have after four hundred years?” I asked. Max gave me a head shake.

  Sore subject.

  Tamara glared as she struggled to sit up. “Not everything in life is about money, Reaper.”

  “Clearly,” I said.

  She cocked her head, as if listening to the winds. Then she nodded to the right. In barely a whisper, she said, “You stand when I say the word.”

  I didn’t like this plan at all. “No.”

  “Do you trust me?”

  I said, “No.”

  “Good. Then you’re not a moron.” She reached for the rifle. “Now.”

  For some reason, I stood. She rose up quickly, placed the rifle’s long barrel on my shoulder, and before I could even move, it barked once.

  The vibration coursed through my entire body.

  The air was still, other than my ringing ears. Gun smoke drifted past my nose. Without a word, Tamara let the rifle slide off my shoulder and blew away the lingering smoke.

  I glanced to the right.


  About fifteen feet away, a dead guy in a suit was staring at the ceiling.

  I slowly turned to face her. She hadn’t even swept the hair out of her eye before shooting.

  Yup.

  I could see why Cross had fallen hard for this woman.

  Because she wasn’t just a pretty face.

  Tamara Marquez was also one hell of a shot.

  40

  Tamara Marquez took care of the hitman outside, too, since the FBI guys were still pinned down in the back seat of their ride. Kai hadn’t exactly dispatched the all-star team to help me out.

  Then again, I doubted he’d expected a massive firefight to ensue.

  I told the agents to call Rayna and Kai as Tamara and I dealt with more unusual measures.

  One of the agents puked in the bushes as Tamara hacked off a head. I followed behind, harvesting the soul.

  Hey, quotas didn’t stop just because the island might burn down. Besides, this would keep them from pulling a Lazarus.

  It was probably time for to call Lucille and make peace.

  When Tamara reached to the body closest to the Porsche, her brown eyes alit with fury.

  “Him.”

  Dante Cross had finally woken up. It took an impressive level of drunkenness to sleep through a firefight.

  He staggered out of the convertible, looking like he hadn’t showered in weeks.

  His eyes met Tamara’s, and he froze.

  Her revolver—the one I’d seen Max firing behind the bar—flashed in the sunlight, then kicked back six times.

  Cross fell to the pavement, cursing and screaming in agony.

  The agents drew down on her, shouting at her to drop the weapon.

  She tossed it on the concrete, hands raised, then walked over to Cross.

  “Son of a bitch,” the treasure hunter said, blood pooling beneath him, “that hurts.”

  “Nice to see you, Dante.” Tamara placed the heel of her boot in one of the bullet holes. He screamed. One of the agents told her to back away, but I waved them off. Tamara had a little catharsis to work out.

  Amazingly, they listened to me. Seems this consulting gig was for real.

  He convulsed on the ground and said, “H-how?”

  “You’re not the only one who can make a deal with a god.” Flame sparked in her eyes. “Tell me, did you even consider an honorable death?”

  Cross coughed, spraying her leather leggings with blood. “I’m sorry.”

  “A little late for that.” She shook out the revolver. The spent rounds clinked against the warm pavement. Tamara loaded a single bullet, then spun the chamber and snapped it shut. “An eye for an eye, as they say.” Tamara put the barrel up to his temple. “Or a soul for a soul.”

  “Do it.” His voice was already growing stronger, the immortality fighting his wounds.

  Tamara hesitated. “You want to die.”

  Exes stirred up a complex stew of emotions under the best of conditions.

  Far more complicated ones, naturally, when you killed the love of your life in exchange for immortality. And then, four centuries on, it turns out she’s been resurrected from the dead.

  That would get the old heart racing—guilt, regret, fear, paranoia.

  Quite the cocktail.

  At least Cross was ready to repent for his crimes. That was further than most people ever got.

  She spun the revolver on her finger before holstering it like an old-West sheriff. With a disdainful glare, she kicked Cross’s wounds, then turned around. “Watch this one,” she said to me with a joyless smirk, “he’s liable to steal your soul.”

  “I’ve heard most of the story,” I said. “He fucked up.”

  “That doesn’t quite capture the nuance.” The flame in Tamara’s eyes simmered down. I could see, now, that her sigils glowed. One looked like a serpent with a very long tongue.

  She saw me looking and pointed at the snake. “This poisons every blade and bullet. The Serpent’s Tongue.”

  My analysis was pretty good, I guess. “And the others?”

  She touched her skin. “It shields me from demonic urges.” She swept her short black hair away from her eye and added, “My own.”

  “Like the constant hunger for souls?”

  “It still exists,” Tamara said, giving Cross a hateful glare as he writhed on the warm pavement, “but it is toned down.”

  “So you’re a—”

  “Soul Eater.”

  “That sounds like a fancy name for a demon.”

  “A special demoness, brought back to serve a god.”

  “One of them gave you a pass, huh?” I watched as the glow died out in the serpent’s eyes.

  “And you would like to know why.”

  “Not particularly,” I said, and reached into my pocket. Deadwood’s blackened soul dripped blood in the autumn sun. “I just need you to read this.”

  “This one is free,” Tamara said, taking the soul in her palm. “For helping me escape that man’s bonds.”

  Without hesitation, in full view of the FBI agents, she devoured the soul. It crunched as she bit down. The other sigil gracing her navel glowed fiercely—protecting her, I suppose, from plunging into darkness.

  Tamara’s eyes rolled into the back of her head, and she shook for a few seconds.

  Then she snapped back to reality, her brown eyes consumed by flame.

  “Not a pleasant man,” she said, and spat what looked like tar on the sidewalk. “Perhaps worse than this one.”

  I didn’t have to look where she was pointing. I knew it was at Cross.

  “See anything?”

  “A visit to your house,” Tamara said. “Extremely nice.”

  I sensed a little jealousy. She was four-hundred-years old, and had a shitty bar, whereas I hadn’t entered my third decade and I already had my own villa.

  Hey, what can I say—some people knew how to play the game.

  “Let’s fast forward,” I said. “Last couple hours.”

  Tires screeched around the corner before Tamara could answer. A procession of government SUVs skidded to a halt. Kai bolted out of the lead vehicle, headed our way.

  “The man visited the slums and the suburbs.” Tamara looked testy and uncomfortable about the additional FBI presence.

  Went to see if Williams and Johns were home, apparently.

  “Anywhere else?”

  “Then to a carnival.”

  “Why?”

  “I don’t have access to his thoughts,” Tamara said. “Only the sights and sounds.”

  “Did you see a tattooed woman?” I rubbed my neck, indicating where the ink would be.

  “She fired a stream of crows as the assassin shot his pistol. Then he fled.” Tamara turned on her heel. “And this is my cue to leave.”

  The Soul Eater hurried back into the Players Pad just as Kai Taylor came up.

  “Who was that?” His shoulder-length black hair waved in the gentle breeze.

  “Old friend.”

  Kai’s head snapped toward Cross, who was continuing to moan. “Is that—”

  “He’ll be fine.” An ambulance wailed in the distance. “That’s not needed.”

  Kai took my wounded wrist. “You were shot.”

  “Flesh wound,” I said, then whispered in his ear, “I have a lead.”

  “Rayna just got back. I’m lead on this scene.”

  “Then do what you need to do,” I said. “And then let’s finish this thing.”

  41

  Despite my instructions, I watched as the arriving EMTs loaded Cross on a stretcher. He cursed and grumbled as they wheeled him away. All told, I figured he could’ve suffered a little longer for his sins.

  But maybe that was for the gods and goddesses to decide.

  Speaking of which.

  It struck me that, if I could barter with Aldric to solve a couple of my pressing problems, I could do the same with a drunken rain goddess.

  Or I could at least try.

  So I dialed Lucille as
I waited for Kai to finish processing the scene. Given the level of carnage, that would take a while. When the DSA tried to kill you, they left behind a lot of collateral damage.

  In this case, to a bunch of dilapidated properties, but still. Fire off a few hundred rounds in broad daylight at a couple agents, and the FBI was going to go over things with the finest toothed comb in their bureaucratic arsenal.

  Which meant Blondie and Hendricks—the A-team from the steppes—were on hand and knee, bagging and tagging bullet casings under Kai’s supervision.

  The rain goddess finally answered on the third ring. “You have a lot of nerve, Reaper.”

  “Let me tell you how this just went down,” I said, watching as a team of EMTs took the four headless, soulless corpses away on stretchers. “Your guys are all dead.”

  “I’m assuming you have read the documents,” Lucille said.

  “Interesting stuff.” Might as well bluff. She wouldn’t believe the truth, anyway: that I’d been interrupted before getting to the important information.

  “Then you realize my men will rise again.”

  “About that,” I said, watching as an agent wheeled a body bag past, “how does one come back without a soul or a head?”

  Lucille’s melodious voice thundered with unbridled fury. “You dare break our agreement again, Reaper?”

  I almost said, You should really get that in writing, but I refrained. No need to have myself soul-bound to her, further cementing the burden of these annoying trials. Instead, I said, “I wasn’t the one doing the killing.”

  “I still hold you responsible.”

  “Don’t be a sore loser,” I said. “Because I have a deal that will make us both happy.”

  “And that is?”

  “I need you to get the phoenix back.”

  Lucille unleashed a shrill laugh, as if I was asking her to bring me the deed to the island. “That is an absurd request, Reaper. There are processes which you do not understand.”

  “I read your documents. I understand them plenty.”

  A long, pained sigh. “It is not an easy matter to speed up the selection of a new guardian.”

  See? All you needed to do was listen. People were more than happy to fill in the blanks for you. I said, “Then make a call to the pantheon back in the Elysian Fields.”