Demon Rogue (The Half-Demon Rogue Book 1)

by Erikson, D. N.

  I’d just laid my hands around the bronze chain when the office door blew off its hinges with a tremendous gust. I ducked just in time for it to splinter against the wall behind me, showering me in plywood shards.

  Peeking over the desk to identify who had caused this disturbance, I saw nothing in the mix of fog and papers.

  But I did recognize the voice.

  “It has been a thousand years, Kalos Aeon, and I have returned to discover the truth.”

  A thousand and thirty-seven, to be exact.

  But then, who was really counting when they were dealing with a massively pissed off wiccan?

  3

  I tried to keep my cool and play it off.

  Maybe it was to annoy her.

  Maybe it was because I was slightly in denial.

  Or maybe I was just trying to stall for time, to make sure the next thing blown to bits wasn’t my precious skull. The Remkah Talisman was buried beneath a whole bunch of drywall and dust. And using my own magic to get rid of this particular menace had side effects I wasn’t crazy about.

  “Hilarious, Kitsune. You nailed the voice.” That dickish, shapeshifting fox had been a pain in the ass for years. I wouldn’t put a stunt like this by her, although it would’ve taken considerable energy and a lot of planning. “Spot on.”

  But Kitsune didn’t have powers like this. Very few people did.

  “Who is this Kitsune you speak of? Is she your new lover, come to take my place?”

  The jealousy was all too familiar.

  I stifled a groan. So much for denial. She was back.

  Whatever spell she’d cast to make her grand entrance dissipated. The papers dropped to the floor in a messy tussle. A dry Texas breeze blew through my stale office, replacing the magical gusts. With delicate high heeled steps that sounded like cannonballs to my paranoid ears, this long lost associate stepped inside the ruined doorframe.

  If only she were a vampire. Then there would be rules about her entering without permission.

  Thoughts whirled around in my mind, including just how the hell she was back after being permanently condemned to the Planes of Eternal Woe.

  More specifically, after I condemned her there.

  It was a miracle I wasn’t dead already. She wasn’t a demon, but her anger problems were worse than most creatures of the dark.

  Trying hard to look nonchalant, I swept the thick case file to the ground—no need to give her any information on how I was planning to unbind myself from Charon’s employ—and cleared my throat.

  No words came.

  What do you say to a powerful wiccan you tricked into a hell-hole in the year 979 A.D.? There aren’t rows of self-help books available to address this type of situation. My lips suddenly felt very dry and chapped.

  I coughed and managed to say, “I guess love truly knows no bounds. Even those of eternal damnation.”

  My desk lamp exploded in a flaming shower of sparks. The iron base bubbled and hissed as the metal melted into a formless blob.

  Fair enough. I’d be angry, too, if I had just spent a thousand years chilling in the Planes of Eternal Woe.

  Lest you be fooled by the name—the ancients had a penchant for understatement—the Planes were about the worst place in the known magical universe. The hierarchy of misery went something like this: the Underworld, Dante’s Nine Circles of Hell…and then, in the subbasement of suffering, the Planes of Eternal Woe.

  And before anyone accuses me of being a dick, let me state this: she deserved it.

  Oh, how very much she deserved it.

  Not knowing what else to do, I reached for a magazine and avoided her gaze.

  “Look at me, Kalos.” Her voice was smooth and velvety, with the slightest edge. Like a blues singer’s. Gleaming like a Bronze Age blade, but sharpened to a deadly point. You weren’t careful, a voice like that could take your damn head off.

  Or just make you lose your wits for a little while.

  Knew that from experience, which is why I refused to look up. I thumbed through the copy of Guns & Ammo I had lifted from a cheating husband’s house during a recent gig. Hadn’t salvaged shit, but did retrieve a couple pieces of light reading. Guns had a certain directness that most magical creatures didn’t appreciate.

  But I did.

  “You know this rifle will only set you back a couple thousand bucks? Crazy.”

  “I did not come here to discuss the trinkets of mortals. I am here to employ your services.”

  Two gigs in one day. I should be so lucky.

  Too bad I didn’t believe in luck.

  “You say that now, but this rifle would make your spells look like an ant pissing in the wind.”

  There was a snarl, and I grinned. “You dare to disrespect the power of Thrace’s Coven? You, Kalos the Halfling?”

  I wasn’t really a Halfling. That’s a little human, and they’re kind of a joke in the magical community, since their only skills are getting absurdly hammered and fitting in air vents. Me, though, I had a soft spot for them—and, besides, I wasn’t trying to join the cool kids’ table anyway. By attempting to insult my half-magical status—which most creatures took as a sign of weakness or disgrace—she was actually praising my wit. Most supernatural beings were long dead, and I’d survived just fine, precisely because my humanness allowed me to skate beneath the radar.

  “That does have a nice ring to it,” I say. “DMV probably wouldn’t allow it, though.”

  “Our first meeting in a millennium, and you utter feeble jokes?”

  I decided to twist the knife in further. “You remember Albin, right?”

  “Yes. I plan to visit him after our meeting convenes.” Not a surprise, given that they shared the same obsession. Eventually, he’d gotten to be too much.

  “I wouldn’t bother,” I said, pausing for dramatic effect. The rusty fan whirred in the corner, and the overhead lights flickered back on. I breathed a little easier—the power surge hadn’t been her, at least. Rolling blackouts had been spreading across the small towns in Texas for weeks. Austin swallowed up all the juice when temperatures rose, leaving us little fellas to fend for ourselves.

  Eventually, she said, “What fate befell Albin?”

  With a smirk, I said, “I killed him two hundred years ago.”

  An uncomfortable stillness descended on the room.

  I pretended that I wasn’t bothered by putting my boots up on the desk. It swayed slightly. I needed to get that fixed, but that required money. And I severely doubted that this woman was here to hire me. All things considered, she was probably trying to figure out the best way to kill me without Charon finding out.

  I should’ve been scared out of my wits, really. But, even after botching the Remkah Talisman defense, I was strangely confident that I could reach the emergency .45 taped to the underside of my desk before she made my head implode.

  And, worst case scenario, I still had my own magic.

  But that came with its own high costs, being a demon and all.

  “Albin was a majestic werewolf.” She huffed and growled slightly, doing her best to draw my attention away from the desk’s pitted surface. I was still committed to playing the if you can’t see me, you’re not here game. Admittedly childish, but you don’t survive multiple epochs by always taking the high road. “This is how you greet an old friend? You will look at me, Kalos.”

  I ignored her demands, instead returning my gaze to the magazine. Looking at her would throw me off—if she still looked like she did when I’d banished her to the Planes of Eternal Woe.

  Which was damn good.

  “Friend is a very loose term,” I said.

  “I thought we could talk. Like old times.” Old times had a sultry ring that excited me in all the wrong places. “Say my name, Kalos.”

  Focus.

  I refused t
o even think of her name. Pleased with my own willpower, I cleared my throat and let out an exasperated sigh. “Unless you’re a paying customer, I have other clients to—”

  A white envelope thudded to the desk, brimming with bills. This time I had to pretend not to care, even when the AC had been shut off for the last two weeks.

  Remember, Kal, you just got almost two grand. You don’t need her.

  But I wanted her. Which was worse, considering what she did back in 979 A.D. Time heals most wounds, but not scorched earth like that.

  Plus, she’d been in literal bed with Marrack. Which was a large red mark in the con column.

  “You’re a private investigator, yes? Unless that’s a lie, too.”

  A thousand years hadn’t been long enough for her to get over that lie. And it hadn’t been enough to get over her, either.

  “Salvage specialist. Occult and magical items only.”

  “Perfect,” Isabella said. “I was correct to come to you, then.”

  “You could’ve found someone closer to home, don’t you think? How is the Arctic Circle this time of year?”

  “I am from what the mortals call Norway.”

  “I always get them confused.”

  “Cold. It’s always cold.” There was a pause. “My Coven is gone. Everything I know is gone.”

  I could tell she was doing her best to maintain an even keel. Which is why I decided to lay off, my eyes remaining buried in the minutiae of hollow-points versus FMJs. The strong aroma was making me lust for her—no doubt her witchy charms were amplifying the scent of jasmine and vanilla coming from her smooth arms.

  There wasn’t much I could do to combat her magic. Because it wasn’t really magic—it was the human part of me she was exploiting. The feelings. I felt my eyes heat up and glow, scrambling my brain with dark thoughts.

  “There’s the Kalos I know.”

  Witches, man.

  But I didn’t like her tone. The snarky self-satisfaction turned me off enough that I bit my tongue and counted to six. My skin cooled.

  “Isabella.” I finally said her name through gritted teeth. The syllables made my heart pound. I assumed she still went by her given name. Some creatures cared less about laying low. I struck a compromise—I kept my name (it reminded me where I came from), but moved along. You can’t just be Kalos, the friendly neighborhood baker for three hundred fucking years. That’s how you get put up on a goddamn cross. “Your money doesn’t spend here.”

  I don’t know who was more surprised by that declaration: me or her. It wasn’t in my nature to blow her off, or give the finger to a decent pay day. And that wasn’t liable to change much over ten days or ten centuries. I was almost proud of my resolve, until I felt my hair blow straight back. The faded curtains rattled and the grime-streaked window cracked.

  “This is not optional, Kalos!” Her voice rose to a roaring shriek.

  Well, that had escalated quickly. I considered reaching for the .45, but my curiosity was getting the better of me. Had Isabella wanted to kill me, she could have done so using witchy means. She probably had a lock of my hair or something lying around, from when times were better.

  “Since you’ve been vacationing for a thousand years, I should tell you something,” I said, looking up at her for the first time. It took all my effort to continue with my train of thought. “You cannot simply tell people what to do any more. Slavery has been outlawed for quite some time.”

  Her blue eyes blinked as she processed this piece of information. Just as I suspected, she’d escaped the Planes—or been let loose—and tracked me straight down. No time for researching the current state of affairs. Hell, she could’ve been let loose an hour ago. Though I did note that she was wearing a slick, modern black dress that stopped a little too far above the knee, and red heels that were dangerously high. Cascading, long blonde hair flowed down to her plunging neckline.

  Good to know she still cared enough about me to look good. She still had a smoldering passion that I was undeniably attracted to. Too bad it was warped by all the darkness. Once upon a time, she hadn’t been a psycho.

  That was long enough ago to be an illusion, though.

  “But how does one mortal get another to do his bidding?”

  “We have to be clever about it,” I said. “Not that this matters to you.” Any man within a twenty-mile radius would do her bidding without question.

  Magic had its perks.

  She furrowed her brow, upset that I had derailed the conversation. “I do not care about the politics of mortals. I care about one thing only.”

  Uh oh.

  I reached under the desk, feeling the pistol’s tacky rubber grip. “And that is?”

  “You will take me to it.”

  “You’ll have to be a little bit more specific.”

  I knew what she wanted, and it made my blood chill to a sub-zero freeze, despite the sweltering heat. The same damn thing I’d killed Albin over two centuries prior.

  The same reason she’d gotten to hang out in the Planes for the past millennium.

  “Don’t force my hand, mortal,” Isabella said.

  For some reason, supernatural beings think the worst insult in the world is mortal. If I called Isabella that—instead of, say, a raging bitch—she’d probably blow the entire building sky high.

  Me, though, I like my mortality. Keeps me honest.

  “I’m not sure I understand what you’re talking about. A thousand years is a long time.”

  “We can make a trade, then. I have something you might want.”

  “I wouldn’t do that,” I said, moving my hand beneath the desk. “Just stay where you are.”

  “Then how am I going to find what I seek?”

  She reached into her cleavage, and I pulled the trigger on the .45. My ears stung from the pistol’s cannonball report as torched powder flooded my nostrils. Then something more natural, more human wafted toward me.

  Blood.

  “You will regret this, Kalos,” Isabella yelled. Her voice seemed to careen off the walls. When I glanced up, over the desk, she was nowhere in sight. I pointed the emergency .45 down the hall, but she had already vanished.

  I slid the gun into my waistband and edged out from behind the desk.

  Amidst the chaos and scattered papers, I saw what she had been about to offer me.

  My heart hammered as I reached into the blood.

  “Well isn’t this something,” I said.

  The creature’s furry paw glistened in the dim morning light. And it didn’t take forensic analysis to identify who it belonged to.

  Diana’s poor friend had apparently crossed paths with Isabella Kronos.

  Crouching next to the blood pool, I contemplated the ramifications of the past hour’s worth of events. It was rare to have your life upturned in such total fashion, but here I was, paddling through a storm of bullshit well before noon.

  I didn’t think the day could get much worse.

  But I was wrong. Oh, I was so very wrong.

  Because what did I see when I finally stood up?

  The tell-tale flash of red and blues outside the window.

  My old buddy Detective Scott had come to join the fun.

  4

  Apparently the potheads in the dispensary downstairs had called in the cavalry. Generally, they were pretty reticent to bring the cops into the equation—which was part of the reason my office was perched atop their establishment—but even they had limits.

  Which was apparently a three-thousand-year-old witch blowing the hinges off my door, then being shot in the ensuing clusterfuck.

  I stared back at the blood seeping into the battered floorboards. Sirens howled outside. If Scott made it up the stairs and saw this, he’d finally have what he needed to lock me away for good. Ever since I’d moved to Inonda, he’d been on my
ass.

  For good reason—his suspicions were right about me not exactly being on the up and up. But right now, the thought of doing time for a crime I committed wasn’t filling me with fuzzy vibes.

  The phone rang, startling me from my thoughts. Charon, no doubt trying to continue our prior conversation. Someone once said bad stuff comes in threes. Or fours, maybe, if you counted the cops. But I’d been around long enough not to believe in superstitions.

  And I didn’t believe in coincidences, either. It wasn’t by chance that this swirl of bullshit showed up on my plate today. The explanation was simple: Marrack was back, and with that, my world was plunged into chaos once more.

  But, for now, I had more normal matters to contend with.

  The blood.

  And the magical spear behind the filing cabinets that Isabella wanted so damn badly.

  First things first, though.

  I rushed to the desk, searching for a roll of paper towels or old T-shirt. Then I thought better of it. Blood wasn’t something I could just toss away on a whim—especially when it belonged to a powerful wiccan like Isabella. No, that would be silly.

  But collecting it would slow me down.

  “Jail’s gonna really suck, buddy,” I said to myself as I rummaged through the drawers. Making a mental note to clean them every once in a while, I rifled through the top three before I heard footsteps. My back stiffened, and I froze, unsure what to do.

  The office looked like a crime scene because, well, it was one. Even a silver-tongued demon like me couldn’t talk my way out of that. I stared down at the pistol still gripped in my right hand.

  Could at least get rid of that.

  I yanked one of the filing cabinets away from the wall. The rusty metal groaned in protest. So did my damn spine, but I got the job done. There was a light ting from the cloaked spear hidden in the corner as I tossed the gun next to it. If only Isabella knew I’d had that thing the whole damn time.

  But that was a discussion for another day.

  I threw my back against the cabinet and jammed it back up against the wall. There was a light crunch, and for a moment I was worried that I had ruined an ancient artifact of untold value.