Tattoo glanced down at the gun.
“Oh please make a move for it, asshole. Please. Make my night.” Denny’s voice and her body was hers once more.
“Why are you here? This ain’t none a your business.”
“I’m afraid that’s where you’re mistaken. Where is Peyton Farquar, the hunter?”
Tattoo shrugged. “Not a clue. You know what’s good for you and—”
“What’s good for me, asshole, is killing demons like you and gobbling up your oh-so-tainted souls for a quick fast food snack. I’ve tired of your pock marked face. You got nothing I need.” Denny drew Epée back when Tattoo dove for the gun with his good hand.
He ended up leaving his second hand lying next to the first one.
“Motherfucker!” He howled, holding up two stumps from the dirty ground.
“I’ve been called worse. Way worse.”
Tattoo lay on the ground, gawking at his handless wrists. “You cut my hands off you fucking—”
Denny placed Epée inches from his neck. “Enough of that word, jackass. Get up.”
Tattoo struggled to rise.
“I know you all think the legacy hunter is gone, but I am picking up where Peyton left off and I will begin clearing this city first thing in the morning. Low or high level, it doesn’t matter to me. I’ll keep cutting you all in half until one of you tells me where the fuck Peyton is. Until then, you and your handless wrists should be warning enough until someone comes to me with an answer. Got it?”
“You’re way outta your league, Hunter. This is New Orleans, not some backwater town with piece of shit demons.”
Denny grinned. “Savannah’s no backwater town butt munch, and the only league I play in is the major leagues where everything is for keeps, so you and your buddies stay at your own risk.”
Denny retracted her weapons as she watched Tattoo slither back into the shadows. “Assholes.”
Twenty minutes later, Denny was drinking a chicory coffee at Café du Monde and diving into her first order of the world famous beignets.
“Already creating quite a disturbance, aren’t you?”
Denny looked up from her powdery pastry at Jeanette. She had changed her clothes to something flowing and black. Her skirt moved even though she didn’t. Her red tresses hung in a single plait down her back.
“I didn’t come here to play games, Jeanette, but if I must, you’re either on my side or you’re not. I have no use for gray walkers.”
Jeanette sat across from Denny, trying to avoid all of the white powdered sugar. “Gray walkers. I like that.”
Denny ate in silence, the powdered sugar dusting her lap.
“I underestimated you, Hunter. Cassandra made it sound like—” She waved it way. “Oh never mind.”
“No, what did she say? She made it sound like what?”
“Like you were an ovis ad occisionem.”
Denny set the half eaten beignet back on the plate. “A lamb to the slaughter? Hardly.”
Jeanette looked genuinely surprised.
“Took two years of Latin in college and my demon spoke it at one time, I think. Hard to tell, but I do seem to know better Latin now than I did.” Denny tried calming herself and the Hanta.
“Cassandra was many things, but disloyal was not one of them. She should have known better than to fall victim to dyke drama.”
“Well, as you can see, I’m neither a lamb nor am I going to be slaughtered.”
“No, actually you are not. I’m quite impressed with what I’ve heard. Is it true you chopped off someone’s hands?”
Denny finished the beignet and wiped her mouth with the back of her hand. “News travels fast.”
“It does in the world of the supernatural, yes. I do not believe she meant it in a derogatory manner. I think she wanted to insure that I would keep an eye out on her lamb.”
“Either way, it’s not really important. Look, if you aren’t going to help me find Peyton, why are you here? I have no intention of fucking you, and you already made it clear you and your coven were of no use to me, so what do you want?”
Jeanette traced a finger over the back of Denny’s hand. “I must be losing my touch. I thought it was pretty obvious what I wanted.” Jeanette laid her hand over Denny’s.
Slowly pulling her hand out, Denny reached into her pocket for a twenty and tossed it on the table. “Sorry Jeanette, but that’ll never happen.”
“Because you’re hers?”
“No, because I’m not.”
Denny got two feet away before Jeanette reached for her. “I do have a tidbit of information.”
Denny waited.
“All I require for it is lunch. When this is all over, have lunch with me. My treat.”
Cocking her head, Denny nodded. “Fine. I can do lunch, but I pick the place and you keep your hands to yourself.”
“Hard bargain, but okay.” Jeanette slid her hand into Denny’s and shook it. “Deal.”
Extracting her hand, Denny waited again.
“From what I can tell, the hunter was injured. I had one of our psychics try to track down Peyton’s energy, and all she said was that it’s weak at best as there is some sort of magical force in play. That’s the best I can do under the circumstances.”
“So Peyton is still alive?”
Jeanette nodded. “Sounds that way. Here is the card to Jocasta’s. If she doesn’t know about it, then it never happened.”
Taking the card, Denny looked at it. “You’re telling me this psychic is stronger than your witches?”
“I’m telling you, Jo makes it her business to know what’s going on supernaturally in the Quarter. I never said she was better.”
Pocketing the card, Denny bowed her head. “Thank you. It’s a start.”
As she started out to the street, Jeanette called out to her. “Hunter, Peyton had very few friends in this city and a whole lot of enemies. Be careful aligning yourself there. You might find yourself playing for the wrong team.”
Denny tilted her head to the side. “Thank you, Jeanette but I’m possessed. There is only one team for me and that’s the same one Peyton plays for. Thank you for the tip. And yes, lunch.”
As Denny walked away, she wondered just how much she could trust this French Quarter witch.
***
The ringing phone woke Denny from a dreamless sleep. Reaching over for her cell, she placed it against her face. “Yes?”
“Golden Silver? This is Wynn Devereaux, Ames’s contact? I am returning your call.”
Denny sat up quickly. “Mr. Devereaux, thank you for calling me back so quickly.”
“When one of Ames’s girls calls, it’s usually very important. I understand you are searching for Peyton Farquar.”
Denny let the word girls slide. “Yes. Yes I am.” Denny was up and turning the shower on.
“Can you meet me at the Trolley Stop Café on Saint Charles in an hour?”
Denny found a pen and wrote the name and street on her thigh. “Absolutely. Thank you. How will I know you?”
“Don’t worry, I’ll know you.”
Fifty minutes later, Denny walked into the best smelling restaurant she’d ever been to, her eyes scanning the converted train car. It was quaint without being tacky and sweet without giving her diabetes.
“Mr. Devereaux is sitting over there,” a large boned waitress said, nodding in the direction of an older black gentlemen dressed in a suit with a red and black tie.
Wynn Devereaux rose when Denny approached the table which held two cups of steaming chicory coffee. “Ms. Silver, so good to meet you.”
Denny shook his large, soft hand and immediately understood why he said he’d know her.
He was a hunter.
“Thank you for seeing me Mr. Devereaux.”
“Please have a seat and call me Wynn.”
Denny sat, grateful coffee was already there. “Then call me Denny.”
Wynn Devereaux folded himself back into the booth and pulled his c
offee to him. “When Ames told me who you were looking for and who you are, I had no idea the strength of your passenger.”
Denny poured a pack of sweetener and cream in her coffee. “Passenger. I like that.”
“You look just like your mother.”
Denny paused her stirring. “You know my mom?”
“Oh yes. Quite well, actually. She came to New Orleans frequently to assist the other legacy who was here at that time. I am terribly sorry for her current condition.”
“Was it Peyton’s parent?”
Wynn shook his head. “No. That’s a story for another time, when you have an hour or two.”
Denny leaned forward. “You’re not a legacy hunter.”
Wynn also leaned forward. “No, I’m not, but we are not here to discuss me and my proclivities. Ames told me you believe Peyton is in trouble of some sort and you have come to lend a hand. That is admirable considering you legacies never enter each other’s territory.”
“I can’t speak to that. Mr...uh...Wynn. I’m pretty new at all of this, but I want to help out in any way I can. The problem is it seems no one is willing to help me.”
Wynn motioned for the waitress. “We’ll have two of the famous Paul Bunyons.” He looked at Denny. “Make hers over easy, mine sunny side up. Bacon crisp, hash browns almost burned. Thank you.”
Denny’s eyebrows knitted together. “That was good.”
He barely smiled. “It’s a gift. Do you understand why no one is willing to help you?”
Inhaling deeply, Denny nodded. “Peyton has alienated everyone, including the local covens. I don’t know why or what the issues are, and frankly I couldn’t give two shits. Another legacy is in trouble and I am here to find out what kind.”
Wynn studied her a moment as he sipped his coffee. “I have to say, in all my years of studying and researching the legacies, only you and your mother have stepped into the battleground of other legacies. It must run in the family.”
“Is there a rule somewhere?”
He smiled like one would at a small child. “Unwritten, perhaps. The energy from two legacy demons in the same space actually attracts more demonic activity. Like having two flames for the proverbial moths. If Peyton needs assistance, there’s a good chance that’s why you’ve not been asked for help. You could actually be making the situation worse.”
“Worse? What could be worse than a legacy dying? Who gives a shit if more of those demons come to us? It’s just more to kill, right?”
“Of course, of course. I forget how you legacies actually enjoy the hunt. Now, you are probably right about Peyton being in trouble. I’ve not seen or heard from her in a couple of days and—”
“Whoa. Wait a second. Her?” Denny’s cup paused in mid-air. Peyton Farquar is a woman?”
Wynn managed a knowing smile. “Why yes, she is. Named after the character in Ambrose Bierce’s Occurrence at Owl Creek Bridge, though the last name is spe—”
“All this time, I thought he was a man. She. Shit.”
“Understandable. Nevertheless, male or female, there is no better legacy hunter east of the Rockies than Peyton Farquar. Her absence has created quite a stir in the demon world. We’ve had an influx of them since you took over in Savannah. Apparently, you’re running them all out on a rail and they’re coming here.”
Sipping her coffee, Denny nodded. “I try.”
“You’re succeeding. Ames is very proud of you and the work you’re doing, though I could hear in his voice his displeasure at you being here. Are you so certain you should make your mentor worry?”
“He’s my trainer, not my boss. I may be young, but no one tells me what I can and cannot do.”
Wynn chuckled. “He said you’d say as much. You like hunting, don’t you?”
“It has its perks. Yeah, I suppose I do.”
“Come now, Golden. You are gaining quite a reputation—so much so, your demons are leaving Savannah. It’s okay to love the hunt...not so bad to enjoy killing. Just be careful you don’t fall in love with the power. Legacy power, from what I understand, is intoxicating.”
The waitress set down two huge plates of food and refilled their coffee mugs.
Wynn wasn’t exaggerating about the intoxication. Denny had experienced the near euphoria of legacy power in the past and it had almost destroyed her. “You seem to know a great deal about legacy hunters.”
“I’ve worked with quite a few in my life.”
“Your life as a hunter?”
Wynn grinned and nodded before placing a napkin in his lap. “Someday, I can regale you about the life of a demon hunter who is not a legacy hunter, but right now, we have more pressing things at hand.”
“Finding Peyton.”
To her surprise he shook his head. “I wish it were that easy, Golden, but we’re being overrun with demons here. I could use your help in culling the herd as it were.”
“What does Peyton think?”
He shrugged and shoveled an egg onto his toast. “We don’t talk much.”
Denny looked up from her breakfast and waited.
“It’s not like that. You’d need to meet her to really understand. Peyton is a lone wolf. Always has been. She prefers a wide berth and I give that to her. I do my thing, she does hers. I take out the smaller level demons—punks, thugs, etc. She does all of the heavy lifting, and to be honest, since she’s been gone, I can’t keep up.”
“Now that she’s vanished, they’re making an end run, huh?”
“The demons seem to double daily, led by at least one Dybbuk.”
Lowering her fork, Denny looked left and right. “The Jewish Demon?”
Wynn nodded. “The very one. Somehow, a Dybbuk was helped out of the body of the deceased and has been collecting soldiers for a war of some sort here in the city.”
“Oh, crap. If a Dybbuk has shown up just as Peyton has disappeared, I’m afraid I might be too late.”
“Except that the witches and seers say she is alive. Not one necromancer has been able to make contact with her in the spirit world. If Peyton were dead, they would know it.”
Denny pushed her food around on her plate. “Do we know where this Dybbuk is?”
Wynn shook his head. “All we know is that it’s here and was probably helped out of the dead.”
Denny nodded, glad her recent research was paying off.
The Dybbuk demon was a particularly vile demon that left the host only by exorcism. Or Saugen, whichever came first. They were malicious demons who possessed spirits of the dislocated souls of the dead. Supposedly, they leave the host body once they have accomplished their goal, sometimes after being helped out by one capable of such a task.
“You think the Dybbuk took Peyton out?”
“Heavens, no. The Dybbuk is a coward who surrounds itself with more powerful demons. Someone is supplying those creatures. We have to not only cull the herd, we need to find the Dybbuk and ascertain where these others are coming from before destroying it.”
“How can you be so sure they aren’t from Savannah?”
“While you are good, Golden, most of these demons are of a level you’ve rarely faced.”
Wynn patted his lips with his napkin. “And besides, the real key is that they speak other languages.”
Denny felt her blood run cold. “So they’re newly on the planet?”
“And quickly overrunning us, I’m afraid. Ames put out calls to several other hunters but only one is on her way.”
“Any legacies?”
He nodded. “One. Annalee Thiebold.
“From Miami.
He smiled. “Well done.”
“I had a late start, but I’m getting there. Let’s see if I’ve got this right. Annalee is a twelfth generation hunter who inherited her legacy from her father who raised her. Her line is Germanic, meaning she’s as cut-throat as they come.”
“Correct. And she is due in town day after tomorrow.” He slid a business card to her. “I’ll call when she arrives. Please call m
e should you locate Peyton before I do. I’d love to see her to make sure there isn’t anything I can do to help.”
Denny took the card and read it. “You’re a professor of philosophy and religion?”
“Yes. I am the South’s preeminent demonologist, or so they call me.”
“Impressive.”
“It would be if I could contain this influx, but I am quickly losing ground here, Golden. If we don’t start pushing back soon, New Orleans may very well fall to them.”
“Don’t worry, Wynn. We won’t let them. I’ll go on the offensive starting tonight.”
Wynn leaned over his half-eaten plate. “Good to hear. If you do not, it may not matter if you find Peyton.”
“It will always matter, Mr. Devereaux.”
Leaning back, he titled his head at Denny “Why do I get the feeling you’re willing to walk through the very flames of hell to help a woman you’ve never met?”
Denny ate another bite. “Because that’s precisely what I’m about to do.”
***
Denny’s Journal
What a night.
I’m exhausted.
What an amazing place New Orleans is. The architecture alone took my breath away. It was like a living organism full of life and color, vibrating to a frequency of its own.
I memorized the layout of the streets, where the graveyards were, and the areas where darkness blossoms from the shadows. Every place that could have the slightest possible danger, I took note. I crawled over as much of the French Quarter as I could; the Hanta was fully awake the entire time, pulling in details like a squirrel stuffing nuts in its mouth.
I started out taking down four dirt-bag demons in an alley. They were harassing a couple of tourists. They were just a tasteless little fast food snack and I disposed of them in under five minutes. Then I took the sidewalk a ways before coming upon three higher level demons smoking crack.
I dispatched them with one crack of the whip.
They exploded in one, two, three.
Bing.
Bang.
Boom.
I kept moving.
By midnight, I had destroyed eighteen demons. Fifteen were lower, three were mid-level. They may have had some power, but I took them by surprise.
Blood of the Demon (The Silver Legacy Book 3) Page 7
