Kicking It

by Faith Hunter

  Portia couldn’t. She said nothing more, but she silently begged me to let her go, and I did. It was as simple, in the end, as letting go of her hands. The bond severed itself in our minds at nearly the same moment, snapping like a thin silk thread, and her body sighed and sagged and Andy and I eased it back to the steel table. Empty once more, and still.

  “I’ll see to her later,” Andy said. That, too, was something done by his brand of magic, not mine; he could unmake a dead body back to the tiny fragments of skin that had created the shell. In the hands of some witches that was a clinical, cold process, but not when Andy did it; he would see her put to rest gently and with respect. “We ain’t got much time now.”

  “I’ll get the case,” I said. My potions case—a square leather bag with holders for vials, each one filled and labeled—contained all the secrets the two of us knew, and that was considerable. Was it enough? It was hard to tell.

  First, though, we had to get out of the house.

  Lyons had dispatched new emissaries—a different group, larger this time, simmering with ugly energy. They crowded the sidewalk and overflowed onto our lawn. Andy, without being asked, loaded the shotgun and extra shells, and strapped on his gunfighter’s rig, with two six-guns. He also put on his leather duster, and a cowboy hat he particularly liked.

  Loaded for war.

  I just settled for a good pair of sturdy lace-up boots, a leather jacket, and a bad attitude.

  “Ready?” he asked me. I nodded, and hit the garage door opener. It rattled up, and I already had the car in gear, moving slowly but with purpose. I managed to get the garage closed again before anybody thought to rush the opening, at least, but that left us pinned, with the protesters swarming around us like angry wasps as we crept slowly down the slanted driveway.

  They were climbing onto the windshield, the hood, the roof. Clawing at the doors and hammering on the glass. Something metal hit the windshield and left a mark.

  “Go,” Andy said.

  “I can’t!”

  “Do it.”

  We didn’t have much choice, but I felt sick as I nudged the accelerator. It was even odds someone would tumble under the tires, but somehow, miraculously, nobody did.

  The car broke free.

  As I accelerated, the crowd howled after us; those who’d crawled on lost their grip and tumbled off. One man raced faster than the others and threw a brick that bounced off the trunk and onto the back windshield, leaving an ugly crack.

  But we were moving.

  I let out a slow, trembling breath, and Andy squeezed my shoulder.

  “Good job. Don’t get comfortable,” he said.

  I didn’t.

  —

  The old train station was one of those places constantly under discussion around Austin—quaintly decrepit, decidedly in need of upkeep, and unused for fifty years, since the thunder of the road had killed the romance of the train. Amtrak now ran out of a smaller, more modern location, one with all the elegance of a cheap strip mall, as the older structure sat in limbo.

  It had always struck me as full of darkness somehow. As we parked along the side, in its shadow, I felt it again, only stronger—that vile sensation of snakes and decay. I shuddered, zipped up my jacket, and joined my gunfighter lover on the station’s porch as he pulled off a stubborn piece of plywood to reveal an open, blackened rectangle of doorway.

  The potions case dragged on my shoulder, but at least that left my hands free to use the flashlight. I shone a beam ahead, and it lit up a streak of dirty marble. We were entering at one end of the long main terminal hall, strewn with trash and the rat-chewed remains of the furniture that had once graced it. Some things had stood the test of time: the barred ticket cages, still flecked with gilding that looked surprisingly rich; the concrete arches, with an elegance that echoed a hundred years past.

  But the whole place stank of rot and corruption, and I heard the hiss and rustle of disturbed animals. This place would house worse than rats and black widow spiders, though.

  Portia was never wrong.

  “One thing you ought to know about demons,” Andy said softly, as we moved forward. He had the shotgun in both hands, steady and controlled, and his attention stayed riveted on what was around him. “They ain’t all-powerful. A demon inhabiting a human body has to let it cool off, or it overheats and burns up. If he’s been using Pete Lyons as long as I think, he’ll have to let ol’ Pete rest a spell.”

  “Here?” I probably sounded more appalled than I meant to, but . . . ugh.

  “Here’s a good spot where he won’t be bothered. Pete’s married, got kids. Can’t trust anybody to leave him alone and unobserved at his home. Here, he’s safe.” Andy did a slow quarter turn, checking out a sound, but it must have been nothing to worry about, because he resumed forward motion. “He’ll have to rest without those boots on. Those are where the demon lives, when it ain’t in him.”

  “Destroy the boots, destroy the demon.”

  “May not be so easy,” he said. “But that’s the answer. Thing is . . .”

  He broke off, because something echoed through the thick, fetid, empty space.

  A growl. A thick, harsh one, ratcheting up in ferocity until it sounded like a chain saw howl.

  “Thing is,” Andy said with unbelievable calm, “he won’t be unguarded.”

  And that was when the devil dog opened its red eyes and stepped out of the shadows ten feet ahead of us.

  It was massive—some kind of muscular attack dog breed, but bigger than anything I’d ever seen. Unnaturally bulked up. And those eyes were definitely not something that occurred in nature.

  Andy didn’t need to mention that we were in trouble, and he didn’t have time to, either.

  As the dog leaped for him, Andy dodged to his right, aimed, and fired both barrels as I dove left. I already had one potion out of my box, and now I dropped the flashlight, threw the potion vial to the gritty marble floor, and stomped on it. The glass shattered, and an explosion of light filled the room, white and clean. It lingered on every surface and angle, and gathered around the black dog as if drawn to him. He shook himself, but the swirls of light just thickened like fog around him.

  Andy emptied two more shots into the dog, to no effect, and I opened the potions box, took out two more vials, and tossed them both to him.

  He dropped the shotgun, grabbed both bottles out of the air, and smashed them together.

  The smell of roses and incense filled the air, and something else, something as sharp as knives and as soft as feathers . . .

  And the light around the dog rose up into a column, twisted, spread into wings, and as the dog snarled and snapped at it, it took on a breathtaking form. I could not exactly comprehend it, or see it directly, but the impression of wings and light and the stab of a golden spear burned through my closed eyelids.

  The dog gave out a howl that pitched higher and higher into a scream, and rolled over and over on the floor, struggling to free itself.

  It ripped loose of the light, and I saw its bloody eyes fix on me.

  Beware the dog, Portia had said.

  I had nothing else to fight it, but I wasn’t going down easy . . . not even to this hellhound. As Andy dove for the shotgun, I backed up to the wall, braced myself, and as the dog launched itself for my throat, I kicked.

  The sole of my work boot met it right in the center of its broad, snarling face.

  It yelped, landed awkwardly, and scraped claws on marble as it was pulled back into the blazing, sanctified light.

  It went down hard, and lay there, pinned in place by what I could only think was . . . an angel. An avenging one.

  Andy didn’t seem too impressed, even by a manifestation of heaven. He walked to me, opened the potions box, found what he was looking for, and poured it into the barrel of his shotgun.

  Then he walked back
to the pinned demon dog, put the barrel to its head, and fired.

  The dog vanished in a cloud of greasy, filthy-smelling smoke. The angel faded with it, as if it couldn’t exist without its opposite; the smell of roses and incense lingered, though, after the terrible stench was gone. “Andy,” I said slowly, “we . . . we didn’t just kill an angel, did we?”

  “Can’t kill either one of ’em,” he said. “But they’re both gone. That’s all that counts. Now come on. Lyons will be waking up.” We ran fast, dodging broken benches and fallen ceiling beams. The walls were black with mold, and roaches swarmed in dull hordes ahead of us.

  We came to the end of the hall, and there, lying in the center of a ruined rotunda, lay Pete Lyons. He was still in his fine suit, flat on his back on a sleeping bag, and his battered cowboy boots were standing neatly together by his stocking feet.

  He was already awake, and as we came to a stop, the circle of stone around him flared with hot red light. It looked poisonous, and Andy halted before he touched it. He extended the shotgun—and it hissed and melted where the metal touched the glow.

  “You killed Fido,” Lyons said. He sounded different—hollow, somehow, and weak. Portia had been right; this was where he was vulnerable. But there wasn’t any way to reach him that I could see. The circle was an unbroken dome of crimson around him and the boots. “I’ll fucking eat your eyeballs for snacks.”

  “You named it Fido?” Andy said. He tossed the melted shotgun aside, and I set the potions box down between us as he crouched to open it up. “Demons ain’t got much imagination. At least call the damn thing Spot.”

  He combed rapidly through our bag of tricks, pulled out something, uncapped it, and poured. The silvery liquid sizzled and vanished on impact. No good.

  Lyons was reaching for the boots. We had to break the circle.

  Andy drew his pistol and fired. The bullets disintegrated on contact.

  I tried another potion, then another.

  And then I saw one tucked in way at the back—a mistake, really, jammed in with the high-powered attack potions.

  Holly’s Balm: Andy’s calming brew, meant only for bringing peace to troubled souls.

  I grabbed it, uncapped it, and poured the fluid on the surface of the red shield . . . and a white streak ran down where it touched the red. It had a glassy shine to it, and I yelled at Andy and pointed.

  He fired at it, and the hardened shell . . . shattered. Popped like a red blood bubble, leaving spatter on the walls and on our faces, and it smelled foul. I wiped at it with my sleeve, but didn’t pause as I jumped the line.

  Lyons had one boot in his hand and was fitting it on his toes. I almost reached for it, almost, but something stopped me—the memory of that feeling of snakes slithering on my skin. Fangs gleaming and ready to strike. If I touched it, it would own me, too.

  Instead, I shifted my weight and kicked, hard. I broke Lyons’s fingers in the process, most likely; the boot flew off to smack against the far wall. I kicked its mate over to join it.

  When Lyons tried to crawl after it, Andy stepped up, cocked his pistol, and put it to his head. “I wouldn’t,” he said. As always, he sounded way too calm. “Unless you want to see what’s on your mind, friend.”

  Lyons froze, breathing hard, and I grabbed my potion box and ran to the boots.

  They were moving. The pointed tips turned to face me, and worked into that battered leather was something living, a reptilian, vile face that stared back at me. Something that needed to go back to hell fast, because I knew it was capable of moving on its own now . . . capable of touching me.

  And if it did . . .

  I fumbled in my case and found what I was looking for; it felt hot to the touch, and I pulled the cap and threw it like a grenade, straight for the boots that were striding inexorably closer to me.

  The potion ignited on contact with magic, and I reeled back from the fireball as it exploded . . . white-hot, a fury that held power of its own. The color changed, from white to a clear, fierce blue, and inside it the boots jittered, danced, kicked, and turned into snakes that writhed and bit each other in a frenzy of rage as the fire ate them slowly away into tubes of gray, inert ash.

  “You bastard,” Lyons whispered. He was weeping, but it wasn’t in grief—it was bone-deep anger. “You fucking bitch. I don’t need the boots. I don’t need anyone else to take you down. I’ll burn every witch in this town, every one in this country. I’ll build a mountain out of your bones and piss on it—you hear me? I’ll end you!”

  Andy took in a deep breath, then let it out. “That turquoise you got there on your bolo? It ain’t demon-touched. Only things you had to give you power were your knife, your boots, and your hate. Guess I’ll leave you the hate. You go out and try to make your case to people without those other things. We’ll see who wins in a fair fight.”

  “You’d better kill me, witch!”

  Andy holstered his gun. “Mister, you ain’t worth the powder it’d take.”

  But he wasn’t above kicking Lyons right in the face when the man tried to lunge for him, and left him moaning in the fetal position on the floor with his broken teeth scattered around him.

  “Fine job,” he said to me, and I smiled at him as I shouldered the weight of the potions box.

  “You might just have to teach me to shoot for next time,” I said.

  “Now, let me keep some advantage,” he said. “What with you not needing me for much else but—”

  I kissed him. “But that?” I wiped some of the rotten red liquid from his cheek. “Never mind. I know what you mean. You’ve got demon crap on you. Maybe later.”

  Lyons was still trying to make threats, but lying there in his blood and picking up teeth, bubbling tears and snot, he just looked like an angry, beaten old man.

  Andy and I walked out into the clean, clear Austin evening, and drove home.

  —

  The protesters were gone. They’d left behind a mess of broken signs and rocks and glass, and spray-painted DIE, WITCH in red on our house, but none of them had lingered. I opened the garage door, and we parked the car. Andy took the potions case inside, and I went out to survey the damage.

  The neighbor from across the street was on his porch. As I started to pick up some of the trash, he went inside, then came out again, walked over, and silently handed me a pair of work gloves and a trash bag.

  He helped me clear it up. Not a word spoken until the very end, when he said, “I’ll be over tomorrow to help you clear that paint off the door. Can’t have that kind of thing in the neighborhood. Leaves a bad impression.” As if it were just gang graffiti.

  I gave him a nod, fighting back tears. It was the briskest kindness I’d ever received, and the most meaningful. “Thanks,” I said.

  “Well, we are neighbors,” he said, and shrugged. “You take care.”

  The next day, Pete Lyons was on TV, red-faced and sporting spectacular bruising and missing teeth as he spouted off an insane rant about witches. He gained a few new fringe supporters; he lost the vast majority of those he’d assembled, who woke up feeling considerably less motivated.

  At the next election, he was voted out by a massive margin, in a conservative district, in favor of a guy who advocated marijuana farming and open marriage.

  And Austin PD? Started using witches again for investigations. Not right away, of course. But Ed Rosen was the one who got it rolling. He also bought a dealership for Holly’s Balm and became our top seller in the Austin area.

  Oh, and for my birthday, Andy bought me a pair of cowboy boots.

  Snakeskin.

  It’s a good thing I love him.

  STOLEN GOODS

  BY SHANNON K. BUTCHER

  1

  Simone Solange was reputed to be one of the world’s best thieves, but after watching her walk into the café, Marcus Brighton guessed that men would simply
give her whatever she wanted without her needing to steal a thing.

  She was utterly stunning. Her midnight black hair fell in glossy waves around the face of a temptress, lending a bit of softness to her strong jawline. Her long, lean body was encased in black leather clinging to curves powerful enough to cause even Marcus’s disciplined mind to sputter to a halt for a split second. Her stride was slow, almost sinuous. Every move she made screamed of confidence. As she saw him staring at her, her full lips, painted a shiny red, lifted in a knowing smile.

  She came up to his table, spun a chair around, and lifted one shapely leg to straddle it. Deep red boots tooled with painstaking detail hugged her calves. The familiar flash of leather caught his attention for a moment as she settled into place across from him in a move that had him thinking about lap dances.

  Suddenly the table seemed much smaller, putting her well within reach. He could smell the oncoming warmth of spring clinging to her riding leathers, along with a hint of wildflowers and even wilder woman.

  “What did you bring me?” she asked in a voice made for sin. Low, soft, with just enough rasp to make a man imagine what she would sound like in the throes of passion.

  “Just like that?” he said. “No introductions. No small talk.”

  Her slender shoulder lifted in a negligent shrug. “Life’s too short for small talk. You’re Marcus. You want something from me. And I want something from you. Show me.”

  Her words had his mind reeling for a moment before it caught back up with reality.

  He opened the leather satchel he carried and pulled from it a deep red purse the exact same shade as her boots. Like the boots, the leather was tooled with intricate symbols that had taken weeks to get just right. The handbag was small enough not to get in the way but big enough to do the job she required of it.

  Marcus slid it over the tabletop.

  Simone hesitated for just a moment before reaching out to touch the leather’s surface. She drew the tip of one finger over the markings, following their winding path around the edge. “You’re right. It matches my boots perfectly.”