A thought send my weapon back to the satchel in my room. “Okay, swing by a liquor store, have Onyx get me some Jägermeister and Red Bull. Tell him I give permission for him to kill whoever he has to.” Dropping a shot of Jägermeister into a sports drink is a Jägerbomb, the American variety. In Europe, the shot is dropped into beer. Watching the chupacabras had made me thirsty. And having booze with her might just keep her alive when I see her next.
I killed the connection and put my phone away, continuing to watch the hunting chupacabras and their intended prey. Not having a dog in that fight, I didn’t really care to root for either side. The hindmost pig skidded to a stop, turning to face the goat-suckers. This was intended to let the rest of the herd get away. The guardian pig would go down, of course, but might do some damage before he died. That was my hope anyway.
I want to see some blood.
The three chupacabras slammed into Doom Piggy. A dust whirl sprang up like the Tasmanian devil was cleaning house. Doom Piggy slashed with his tusks. A goat-sucker went down, throat ripped away. By then, prehensile tongues had flipped the pig on his back and pierced him with incisors. The surviving chupacabras carved up the pig’s stomach and a flank with their freaky claws. Squeals of distress spiked, then fell off. I didn’t need to notice the sudden stillness or glazing eyes to know Doom Piggy was gone.
I was about to go back to the room when a Hispanic maid came out of a ground floor apartment, pushing a cart loaded with cleaning supplies, towels and sheets. She looked hot, about twenty-five, her lustrous black hair tied in back. She wore an apron over street clothes instead of some special uniform, and smiled as she passed.
I felt the monster in my pants stirring with equal interest. There was something special about her scent, something not quite human. I drew a deeper breath. A shifter? Fey? No, something else.
“Good morning, sir.” Her purred words were accompanied by the slight squeak of a cart wheels and a little metallic rattle. “Can I help you?”
I grinned at her. “Most people think I’m beyond help, but there are a few possibilities that come to mind, though it will probably throw you off schedule.”
“I have a break coming up, but the best things in life should not be rushed.”
I leaned against the cart, and toward her. “You have a name, sweetness?”
Her voice was a breathy tease. “Elena.” She leaned on her side of the cart. The tip of her tongue appeared, wetting her full upper lip. “What about you?”
“Caine.”
She stared at me, eyes flaring with realization. “I know you!”
“I think I’d remember.”
“Deathwalker, right?”
My eyes narrowed. “You got my name from the hotel register?”
“No, from here.” She brushed a towel back, reaching for something.
A flicker of thought caused one of my Beretta PX4s to appear in my right hand. I didn’t let her see the semi-automatic—and wouldn’t—unless she pulled a weapon of her own.
She produced a folded tabloid. I watched carefully as she opened the paper. Nothing dangerous lay hidden inside. I sent my gun back to its satchel. The tabloid was the Dark Side News, one of the underground newspapers put out by our kind; a rag devoted to gossip, dark trends, and often comical conspiracy theories.
She spun the paper around and held it up, one finger stabbing a photo. “This is you!”
I looked at the photo as her finger came away. The story caption read: Deathwalker fucks coven into submission. Yeah, that was me all right: sitting in the back of an ambulance, surrounded by EMTs, a ritual dagger jutting from my shoulder. That’ll teach me to fuck an aboriginal witch without disarming her first. Bitch tried to feed me to Kurpannga, the hairless devil-dingo of the Dreamlands.
Infiltrating the EMTs was a pet project of the witches in L.A. who helped clean-up the city after major occult battles so humans could go back to blithe ignorance of the fragileness of their lives.
Inaudible to others, my cock spoke to me (as he often does): One of my best performances, ever.
“It wasn’t actually a coven,” I said. “More like an Australian dwarf and her demon familiar.”
“Were you scared?”
“Yeah, for a second; I was afraid I wouldn’t be able to get
off a fourth time, but I managed. Fortunately, the EMTs were able to hang out in the driveway while I finished up inside.”
She set the paper back on the cart and slanted me a look. “They say you’re a demon lord.”
“By adoption, my father’s the Atlantean demon who runs the L.A. territory.” And me.
“So what are you?”
“That’s my question. I can tell you’re not exactly human, but all I smell is—talc?”
She gave me a mysterious smile. “So, what does that tell you?”
“Hell if I know.”
There was a double honk as my Shelby Mustang pulled into the parking lot, looking fierce in its black paintjob with gold-lightning jags for contrast. I turned and scanned the body for signs of damage. I saw none, which—for the sake of the girls—was a good thing. Of course, I was still planning on flipping them over my knees for a well-deserved spanking. Madison at least. The car rolled up into a nearby parking spot.
The doors opened. Madison slid out from behind the wheel. I think she was the only one with a license. Wearing a pastel green cowgirl hat that hid her mothy antennae, Grace emerged from the front passenger seat. Onyx came out from the back, sheathed neck to foot in black. His denim jeans were slashed out at the knees, flashing skin as he walked. His tee-shirt had a picture of an anime girl wrapped in chains, wearing hot-pants and halter top, one eye dark, the other ablaze with blue fire. She had some kind of massive rifle. The logo said: BLACK ROCK SHOOTER. His black sneakers were laced with acid-green strings. Apparently, the girls had decided to dress him funny, not that he’d know that.
Elena came around the cart to stand beside me. I shifted my head to watch her peripherally. Her gaze locked onto the Mustang. “Sweet ride,” she purred.
I nodded. “I like it.”
“Want to take me for a ride?” she asked.
“My bed or yours?”
She turned and playfully smacked my arm. The casual blow staggered me, telling me she possessed strength far above human levels. Elena said, “Not on a first date. I’m a lady.”
Grace came up and shoved a paper bag at me. “Here, we thought you might be hungry.”
I was. I took the bag. The bottom felt warm from the food inside. They hadn’t taken my car too far to get fed. That at least was considerate.
“And we put some gas in,” Madison added.
Onyx nodded, standing behind her. “Five whole dollars.”
Grace glared at him for outing her cheapness.
He looked confused. “What?”
“Never mind,” Grace grumbled. She and Madison shifted their attention to Elena, taking her and the cart in with a measuring glance.
Onyx smiled at her and waved. “Hey!”
Elena smiled back, then turned her attention back to me. “I really ought to finish up my shift. How about I give you my number, and you give me a call later. We can go out for drinks, or something.”
I took out my phone, and let her add her number to my contacts. I put my phone away as she gave her cart a push, sending it rolling on to the next room in need of cleaning. Grace waited until Elena was a distance away, then looked to me. “She seems nice. If you want some private time later we can always take the car and—”
“Die a bloody death?” I smiled like it was a joke, but my eyes stayed cold and dead, making my words a promise.
“We didn’t want to take in the first place.” Madison thumbed over her shoulder at Onyx. “He made us.”
From the shocked expression on Onyx’s face, that was news to him, but—nobly—he took the blame without protest.
I looked at Onyx. “So, you’re officially taking responsibility?”
He shrugged. “
I guess so.”
“Then when you don’t expect it, expect it.”
“Go easy on him,” Grace said. “He has a good heart,
mostly.” She held out the bag with the Jägermeister and Red Bull in it. Instantly, I felt a slight measure of forgiveness trying to be born, but squashed beneath a mental thumb.
Madison said, “I think you should force him to take us clubbing tonight. That will teach him!”
By then, the last two chupacabras had finished their pork entrée and scampering off about their business. I thought scampering off was a good idea. I’d eat lunch, wash it down with a Jägerbomb, and then go see a man about some serial killings, and a stolen coffin.
EIGHT
“I’ve a hard and fast rule: don’t kill the
Informant before he’s done talking.”
—Caine Deathwalker
Tinka-tinkka. The pool hall was dim, the lights being concentrated over the green-felt tables. The place wasn’t particularly busy having only a pair of pool players on the premises and the man behind the counter who nursed a silvery can of half-and-half lemonade and tea. A flat-screen TV on the wall displayed a car race where the vehicles roared at one another as they maneuvered for supremacy. The door swung slowly shut behind Onyx and me, tinkling the bell once more. We’d left the girl’s behind; this was a guy’s-only mission. No way was I having Grace tell Cassie I dragged her to a pool hall. I like my internal organs inside me.
We walked over to the register, paid for a game, and went to a wall display of parallel cue sticks.
Onyx looked them over, his all-black jeans and tee soaking up all light that hit them. “These weapons are poorly balanced.”
“Assaulting people is only their secondary function,” I said.
We watched a scrawny ponytailed brunette in a sleeveless, denim dress lean over a table, one hand knuckles up on the surface under a sawing cue stick. The stick made a final slide. There was a clack. She straightened, watching the white ball crack off of a pair striped balls, sending them rebounding wildly. Nothing went into a pocket. She scowled at the results. “I think there’s something wrong with this stick.”
With her, a grizzled, biker-looking dude grinned. “Yeah, operator error.”
Onyx looked back at me. “Some kind of game?”
I nodded. “Yeah, first person to sink all of their type of balls, and then getting the black ball, wins. Some people bet on their skill in this area.”
“And we’re going to play?”
“We’re killing time while I wait to be contacted by an information broker, who will indeed leave us broker, but better informed.” Old Man Lauphram had called ahead of me, contacting the fire-demon clan that held this territory. Being small and often neglected by the big players in the preternatural world, the local demons had fallen all over themselves to be helpful. For the usual price, they’d reached out to one of their informants, setting up this meet.
I chose my stick, looking down its length to check for warps. Finding it adequate, I moved on to an empty table. After a moment, Onyx joined me. His gaze followed my every move as I pulled balls from the pockets, wracked them in a triangle, and put it away. I looked across the table at him, as I placed the cue ball. “I take it you’ve never played pool before.”
He shrugged his shoulders in a very liquid manner that suggested having bones was just an illusion. “I’ve been a pool, but never played it.”
“So, looking human is your power, being shadow is your natural state?”
“If you use the term ‘natural’ very loosely, sure.”
I nodded, and took position for the break, sawing the stick on my knuckles. “You probably don’t want to bet on the game then,” I said.
“Money?”
“A favor, payable on demand.”
Onyx slanted me a look packed with suspicion. “What kind of favor?”
“It will probably have something to do with keeping me alive at some point.”
“How will I know we’re at that point?”
“I will probably be screaming, ‘Onyx, do it fucking now!’” I hit the white ball and watched it break up the triangular cluster. Balls rolled everywhere, creating secondary impacts. A striped ball and a colored ball went in.
“So, which type of ball do you get to play?” he asked.
“I’ll take solid.” I moved for my next shot, rounding a corner. Onyx stepped out of my way as I passed. “If you sink both a solid and a stripe on break, you get your pick.” I made a point of missing my next shot to sucker him in. “Damn!”
He grinned at my annoyance and circled the table, looking for options. “Fine,” he said. “You’re on.” He smacked the striped purple twelve ball into the striped yellow nine. Both rebounded with high energy, stirring up the table. My solid red, number three ball went into a side pocket. He looked up at me. “That doesn’t count, right? You have to knock in your own balls.” He spoke with confidence, trying to convince me.
“Yeah and a drunken unicorn’s going to do a horn-stand and puke me a rainbow with a pot of gold at the end. My turn.”
Onyx backed away as I passed him. “We did say best two outta three, right?”
“You wish.” I took aim and sent the white ball smacking a bank, glancing off the black ball. I dropped the solid orange five. On a streak, I circled the table and was soon down to the eight ball.
The door opened and a man with a crinkled, red face came in. His shirt was yellow-and-white plaid with pearl-snaps instead of buttons. A red bandana was tied to his neck. He stood six-four in cowboy boots, not counting the feather and turquoise laden hat he wore. What little hair could be seen back of his ears was iron gray. His glass-faced belt buckle bulged, a small scorpion encased inside. The door closed behind him as he looked around. His gaze dismissed the biker couple, slid over Onyx, came to me, and went back to Onyx as if the stranger knew he was seeing something not of this earth.
It pissed me off that my informant judged a mere shadow man to be more dangerous than a demon lord. Of course, no one had mentioned I was part dragon as well.
The Indian in cowboy duds stopped beside me, still watching Onyx. He turned his face toward me to ask a question, but his
eyes didn’t move. “One of you is Deathwalker?”
“Me,” I answered.
He looked at me then. “That a real name?”
“Sure, Kemosabe. Picked it out myself because wherever I go, Death walks with me.”
“Death?” The Indian stared at Onyx again. “That him?”
Smiling, Onyx flattened himself into two dimensions, looming high, losing his human features. It was only for a heartbeat, and he was back as he had been, smile and all. “What do you think?”
“I think I’m leaving.” The big guy turned and started for the door.
I sent out a thought and my semi-automatics filled my hands. “One more step and you die.”
He turned back and shrugged. “Well, if you put it that way.”
The proprietor hollered over at me. “Hey, no guns. This is a family place.”
I picked up a striped green, number fourteen ball with my free hand, and—without looking—chucked it at the guy.
“Fuck!” he yelled.
I think I hit his chest. The sound wasn’t hollow enough to be his head, besides, he was still alive.
The biker dude stomped up behind me. “That’s my brother-in-law, Clem. Only I get to rough him up.”
I heard the whoosh of his swinging stick and ducked. The pool stick went over my head. From the corner of my eye, I located his left boot—and shot it.
“Gawd-luvva-duck!” He dropped the pool stick. It smacked the floor with a sound almost as loud as a gunshot. Biker dude hopped on his good foot, getting away from me while he could.
Onyx called out. “That was my ball you threw, so I’m counting it as going in a pocket.”
“Fine,” I said, “you need the handicap. Hey, if you see anyone calling the police, stop them, and they don’t necessar
ily have to keep breathing.”
Onyx sighed. “Whatever.”
That’s when the biker’s old lady leaped on my back, track-
marked arms circling my neck in a choke hold. “You fornicating bastard!” she shrilled into my ear.
“Is that an offer?” I asked.
“Fuck you!” she said.
Apparently it was. “No thanks, I don’t fuck sub-human trash.” Though there was that one hot zombie stripper a few years back…
I spun so my back was toward the pool table, and jumped onto it backwards so she cushioned my fall. Balls clacked around. She groaned. Her grip loosening at impact. I rolled off her and, weapons extended, covered the whole room. “Next idiot tries anything and I will continue to be irresponsible, only more so.”
The woman rolled the other way, falling onto the floor with a whap and an inarticulate curse.
Onyx scanned the table. “I think we’re tied now.”
“Yeah, but it’s still my shot. Far corner pocket.” I fired a Berretta at the white ball and nicked it, smacking it off the black ball which rolled into the pocket I’d called. What was left of the white ball bounced and attempted to roll, but the big crater in it proved less than helpful. I looked at Onyx. “I win.”
Onyx looked from the table to me. “It that legal? You didn’t use a stick.”
The Indian said, “He’s holding two guns. That’s legal enough for me.”
“You’re going to pay me for the damage!” the manager screamed.
I pointed a gun at his pie-hole.
“Or not,” he said.
I told him, “I don’t mind paying; it just needs to be my idea.” I willed my guns away, and pulled out my wallet, flashing a handful of hundreds. I dropped two of them on the table. “That should cover it.” Putting my wallet away, I walked over to the Indian. “So, you have information for me?”
“Best money can buy. Are we talking here? Someone might have heard the shots and called the cops.”
“Better make it fast then.” I didn’t look at him as I spoke. I
would have had to crane my neck to look into his face. Being short was bad enough. I declined to emphasize my condition.
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