Demon Lord 4: White Jade Reaper

by Morgan Blayde

  I sharpened my tone. “Onyx!”

  “Yeah?”

  “For someone who hates blathering, you sure do lot of it. I think you’re turning into a girl. You better go drink a few beers, belch, and scratch you nuts before they get snipped off and you’re a shadow girl.”

  “Damn, you’re right. I’ve been contaminated. But I can’t go anywhere until night when Dom wakes up.”

  “Stuck on babysitting duty? Well, those are the breaks.” My phone vibrated; I needed to go. “Okay, I’m off.” I backed up until the blackness paled to a smoky quartz consistency and I could find the front door. I went out and took the call. “Yeah, Caine here.”

  Lysande’s voice poured into my ear like honey. “Caine, I’ve missed you terribly. You should come by.”

  “Is there a particular reason?” I asked.

  “We need to coordinate our clothes. I want to see what you’re wearing tonight?”

  “Tonight? You mean—?”

  “Yes, Love, I’ve been contacted. The auction is tonight. I have the address, and a special invitation to get us through the door. You’ll be posing as my personal security, but I don’t want to show you up too badly.”

  “I normally go with basic black and blood red. They’re my favorite colors.”

  “Someone will mistake you for a vampire.”

  “When I stab them in the kidney, they’ll realize their mistake.”

  “No doubt, but I don’t think you’ll want to get kicked out before you retrieve the coffin you’re after.”

  Hmmm, I didn’t actually tell her or her salesladies what I’m planning to recover at the auction. How does she know? I guess I’ll have to ask her.

  I smiled, masking suspicion with warmth in my voice. “Shall I meet you in Fairy, or the jewelry shop?”

  “The shop. That’s where I’m calling from.”

  “Good,” I said. “I’ll drop in before lunch.”

  “I can’t wait. Bye, Love.”

  “Bye.”

  I put my phone away, leaned on the balcony railing, and thought about things. Maybe Lysande’s father had originally contracted with the mercenaries to steal the coffin. They would have taken time smuggling it into the country. They would have turned it over to Einion and collected their pay, but something had gone wrong there. Possibly me. I might have killed the silversmith before final payment had been made.

  I went to the stairs and descended to the parking lot, heading for my car.

  If Lysande had taken over the deal—as fey—she might feel she wasn’t bound by the original agreement. She wasn’t the one who gave her word over it. She might well have figured that she could take the coffin, and leave a fake payment. Magic is good for things like that. Ask any mother who’s had a changeling left in place of a human child—a copy that turns into leaves and twigs in dawn’s cold, gray light.

  I unlocked my car and slid in, deactivating the various anti-theft security measures that didn’t seem to do a thing to keep Onyx from borrowing my car. Gotta do something about that. I started up the car and backed out of the space. In moments, I was crossing the lot and heading for the street.

  I returned to my line of reasoning to see how far that might take me. If I was right, it would explain why pissed-off mercenaries were cruising town. If they hadn’t known the identity of the contractor, then it would explain hitting Rasputin’s art gallery. The mercs might reason that the contractor was a vampire since he wanted another vampire’s coffin. And even if that guess was wrong, the mercs would be sending a message to potential buyers that bidding on the coffin could bring a helluva lot of pain and suffering their way.

  Of course, the vampires had proven that they were more than happy to retaliate with just as much violence. Chances were good that the merc survivors had left town already, cutting their losses.

  As my Mustang roared down the road, I kept an eye out for a good place to eat. I’d just pulled into a Benny’s Diner and parked when my phone buzzed. I took it out and switched from vibrate to ringtone. That saved me having to read the screen to identify callers. My phone attaches snatches of songs to people so I know the caller by the ringtone. Tears of the Dragon by Bruce Dickinson played. The Old Man’s ringtone. I wondered what he’d heard, and from whom. Despite the high probably of a scolding, I answered, “Hello?”

  “Caine, you surprise me. You actually took my last lecture to heart and have acted in what I hear to be heroic fashion.”

  Am I being punk’d?

  “Old Man? That is you, right?”

  “Of course. What’s wrong? Is this a bad connection?”

  “Uh, never mind. You were saying?”

  “Word’s come through multiple sources that you fought off a hoard of slayers to save Santa Fe’s

  Vampire Princess. The local demon clan there is often pushed around by the larger preternatural community. Apparently, they’re walking around with heads held high. Respect you’ve earned is reflecting off of them. They are grateful. I’ve also spoken with Dracula. He says you are doing an adequate job. That’s high praise coming from that old rogue.”

  “Well, we’re all God’s children,” I lied, “so we’ve got to stick together. By the way, I think I know who’s got the coffin, and the auction is tonight. I just might have most of this business wrapped up by tomorrow.”

  “Caine, have I ever told you that I’m proud of you?”

  “No.”

  “Well, you’re getting closer. Talk to you later.”

  He hung up on me. I put away my phone and just sat there. “Sonuvabitch!” I shook it off and went into the dinner for refueling. My day was considerably brightened by a nineteen-year-old waitress with twin tails and perky tits. Her ponytails swayed as she led me to a table and left menus for me to peruse. One menu was the regular one. The other advertised specials and new items.

  “Can I get you a drink while you decide?” she asked.

  “Coffee, cream, and your phone number, darlin’”

  Her smile brightened. “I don’t think my boyfriend would approve.”

  And here I was on a roll.

  The glass doors behind me opened. I heard the click of heels on the tiled floor. Cowboy boots. Not uncommon in this area. A tall man stopped by my table. My peripheral vision caught a flash of faded blue jeans, a scorpion in a glass-faced belt buckle, and a cinnamon-brown western shirt with yellow lines crisscrossing. There were also pearl-snaps. I looked up, knowing I’d see a red bandana tied at his neck, and a leathery, weathered face with a big nose. He’d left his fancy hat someplace else, but had added a couple of silver and turquoise rings to his hands. I wondered if he’d made the rings himself. His iron gray hair was ruffled, but the rest of him generated an aura of unflappable patience.

  “Hey, Walking Eagle, have a seat.”

  “You buying me breakfast?” he asked.

  “Depends. You got something else to tell me?”

  “I reckon so.”

  “Then grab a menu.”

  He drew an envelope out of a back pocket and took the chair opposite me. Once settled, he slid the envelope across the table. I reached out and claimed it, pulling it closer. “What’s this?”

  “Rundown on that conservatory that’s at the site of the old murders.”

  I stared at his red, crinkled face. “And?”

  “It’s all in there. The boy they pulled out of that place, the last victim, the one that survived…”

  “Yeah?”

  The waitress came back, put my coffee down and a small pitcher with milk in it. Sugar and sweetener packets were already on the table. Her pen hung poised above an order pad. “What can I get for you?”

  The Indian P.I. smiled at her. “I’ll have the cinnamon roll French toast with sausage links and a cup of coffee.”

  She scribbled and looked at me.

  “Steak and eggs. Full grain toast.”

  “That’s it?” she asked.

  I nodded. She left to put in our orders. I returned my attention to the P.I
. “You were saying?”

  “Turns out the boy was connected to the property he was found on. It was where his father—a bigamist—once lived with his other family. Turns out the last girl to die there was a half-sister. The two weren’t supposed to know anything about each other.”

  “Kids creep around,” I said, “they listen. They find things out that they aren’t supposed to.”

  “Sure. Want to hear something even more interesting?”

  I nodded.

  He said, “The boy’s father owned that property, a childhood home no one had lived in for years. The dad was a high-finance guru who died in a car wreck. The murders stopped after that. The boy’s grandfather took in his grandson, raised him, and built the conservatory as a shrine to his dead son, who hadn’t a musical bone in his entire body. Gramps is still school president and the chairman of the board.”

  “Dr. Shawcross.”

  It’s curious that the killings stopped after the car wreck. There might not be anyone left alive to bring to justice, or—if it’s the grandfather—maybe he got good enough not to be caught. I just can’t get that secret room of his out of my mind. After the auction tonight, I need to see what’s down there.

  TWENTY-THREE

  “There can only be one King of the Corpse

  Pile; I will stand on whom I must to win.”

  —Caine Deathwalker

  I went to the jewelry shop after breakfast. There were several couples wandering around inside, under the raptor-bright, all-seeing eyes of the fey salesladies. They smiled warmly as I approached and waved me toward the back. I found my way the break room. Wearing a silver silk pantsuit and silver nail polish, Lysande sipped chamomile tea. Its flowery steam hung over the table where she pored over notepads and some office files, an untouched breakfast burrito on a paper plate at her elbow.

  “Learning the operation?” I asked.

  She looked up at me. “Running the shop is easy enough. It is its secondary purpose that I’m catching up on.”

  “That sounds mysterious,” I took a seat opposite her. “What else is going on? Running a secret meth ring?”

  She glared. “Don’t even joke about something like that. Without our family reputation, I might as well close up operations in the human realm, and stick to mining ore in Fairy.” She took a swallow of tea and set the cup down. “No, my father was dabbling in brokering deals, a middleman of sorts. For a commission, he arranged for humans to come by fey artifacts of power—many of them untrustworthy or flat-out dangerous.”

  I caught her gaze. “Tell me flat-out, did your father arrange for this auction house we’re going to tonight to come into possession of Dracula’s coffin?”

  She sighed so softly I almost didn’t hear it. “Yes. I just found out that was one of his recent deals. Dad liked to cut corners. He was representing himself on that deal. I think he was trying to muscle in on the occult antiquities market by coming up with something nobody else could get.”

  My turn to sigh. I shook my head sadly. “It wasn’t that nobody else could get it. Nobody else was willing to piss off one of the most powerful vampires ever to live outside of the royal family itself. . Dracula has a very long history of avenging himself thoroughly against personal slights. Your father is safely dead, but that doesn’t mean Drac will let this go. He could very well come after you.”

  She stiffened with fey pride. “I am not without resources, or defenses.”

  I thought of fey magic, manticore statues, her family’s servants and hounds, and ability to draw superhuman strength by touching the ground. “Did any of that keep your father alive?”

  She glared at me. “No. But you’re a demon lord, not some neck-biting fossil.”

  “You obviously haven’t had any experience with black ops, or you’d know how vulnerable you are.”

  “I’m doing all right.”

  “The way you ripped off that merc force instead of getting them paid was totally amateur. You don’t think their running amok among the local vamps is going to come back on you? When Drac comes after you, the local vamps will be with him. All of which is likely to bring in the unwanted attention of the Preternatural Response Organization. You haven’t been messed with until Federal witches and warlocks start nosing into your affairs.”

  She clamped her lips shut on an angry retort, and seemed to actually be considering what I’d said. Finally she said, “So what am I supposed to do? Cut all ties with your world and hide underground in fairy, living out the rest of my life in fear that one day I’ll be found?”

  ”Do the mercs know who hired them?”

  “No. That was done anonymously on the Dark Web.” She didn’t mean the internet every human took for granted, but its dark mirror image, a secret, covert web used by mercs, spies, governments, and the powers behind the thrones of the world. “My father gave the mercs half up front, and when the coffin was delivered, he was supposed to have given them the second payment.”

  “But I killed him.”

  She nodded.

  “Let me guess.” I leaned back in my chair. “You sent them the second payment, fulfilling the contract, but used magic during the process so you could steal back your funds.”

  “Fey believe we are entitled to keep whatever we can honestly steal.”

  “I admire the sentiment, really, but just because the mercs can’t be tied to you, doesn’t mean that the coffin can’t be traced to you through the auction house it went to.”

  “But they assured me of complete confidentiality. And I went in disguise when I arranged for them to sell it for me.”

  I had a sudden premonition of more shit hitting a fan. “Lysande, who exactly did you go as?”

  “Well, the best glamour is based on reality. I’ve studied some of the preternaturals my father used to do business with. One of them caught my eye at a recent event, a real vampire princess.”

  “Dominika.”

  “Yes, I believe that was her name. Sad little girl, really. So much power, and so little will to live. I don’t understand why the vampires haven’t replaced her by now.”

  I sighed again. “So the mercs found the auction house with the coffin, and from there, went after the vampire princess instead of you. You better hope no one uses strong magic to uncover the real trail. Dom might find the strength to live after all if she gets filled with enough rage. And she’s the least of your danger. She’s in power because of family ties. Anyone who messes with her, messes with Rasputin.”

  “Rasputin?” She said the name without real interest.

  “Don’t you know anything about human history? Rasputin was a feared madman and mystic with miraculous powers before he became a vampire. Now, he’s something that might keep even

  Drac awake during the day.”

  She looked at me beseechingly, her breasts flouncing under her crossed arms, her eyes brighter, and a lovely flush on her cheeks. Her lips seemed much more inviting. Her scent was fresh apples and cinnamon, and countless mountain wildflowers. I felt an overwhelming compulsion to drag her across the table, to rip off her clothes, and take full possession.

  Her voice was husky and sexy, like she’d been belting back whisky. “But you’re on my side, right? You’ll protect me?”

  I felt a nearly overwhelming desire to say, “Fuck, yes!”

  I shook off the compulsion, and grinned at her.

  She chose to believe in her own irresistibility so that she could project that glamour to me. To deceive anyone else, a fey must first deceive themselves. Unfortunately for Lysande, I was as impervious to fey glamour as to a vampire’s mind roll. I knew what she wanted me to see and feel, but I also saw a second, ghost image through all that, the truth that hid beneath, the plain, fey girl who was too scared to spit.

  I should have been furious that she would try to control me, but all girls try that. It’s in their genes. And what male turns down a free fuck from a hot fey slut anyway?

  * * *

  I wore a suit of midnight green. My shirt
was bright white with silver cufflinks. My silk tie and handkerchief were the contrasting green of freshly printed money. Clutching my arm, Lysande swept along in a silver-scale sheath with a filmy pink wrap over her bare shoulders. A metallic pink clutch purse contained makeup, cash, phone, but not a number of innocent-looking fey charms. Those, she’d been forced to leave at the door.

  The security for this preternatural event was being provided by the wizards, witches, and warlocks of the local clean-up squad. Such people—able to rewrite reality to various extents—were necessary to keeping the secret of the preternatural from human society so that witch hunts and monster slaying didn’t return in a new Dark Age. There were agencies in the government that knew of course, but dealing with the unnatural gave their budgets reason to exist; they weren’t going to rock the boat unless we made too big a public spectacle of ourselves.

  Lysande breathed a sigh of relief as our invitations were examined, and we were waved into the back of the hall where refreshment tables were set up and there was open floor space to mingle with strangers.

  “What’s that sigh about?” I asked.

  “I was hoping—if I gave them a stash of low-grade charms—that they’d miss the really important ones, covered by my glamour.”

  That intrigued me. “What did you smuggle in?”

  “Not me, you. Those silver cufflinks I gave you. If we get in trouble, give them to me. They will bring immediate assistance.”

  I sent her an appraising look. “What kind of assistance?”

  Her face went clear of guile as if a cloud shadow had just abandoned her. Instead of answering the question, she snagged us a couple of Champagne glasses from a passing waiter. Her eyes scanned the far reaches of the building, taking it all in. The place was half full, most of the occupants milling about, not yet taking their seats. Well-dressed, potential competitors were feeling each other out, voices blending in an ocean of sound.