Book Description:
My name is Thaddeus Kane. I exist in Los Angeles, the city known for the hustle of Hollywood, an average 266 days a year of sunshine, and smog.
That’s not my L.A. I operate under the mantle of the city as a troubleshooter for the demon clan who saved my life. Not a bad job if I can stay alive, but I have my limits. I refuse to risk innocents, which causes me problems. That one line I won’t cross for anyone. Loyalties—I have them. I’m pretty sure none of my associates would approve of my particular choices.
Human sorcerers are murdering my clan to harness superpowers and I’m the only one capable of finding the evil. A tough assignment, made harder by my secret alliance with a rival demoness to save prophetic teenagers from the same horrible fate. I’m all they’ve got.
THE MARK OF KANE
Thaddeus Kane Book 1
L.W. Herndon
Published by Digital Crystal Press
CHAPTER 1
Death.
I inhaled slowly through my nose as I tried to decipher the layers beneath the reek of smoke and gasoline.
Humans, obvious and milling about, though this was my first job investigating a human death.
Demon, accounted for to my right, shuffling his size fifteen Italian leather loafers on the blacktop.
Dark magic. The strong, acidic presence barely concealed and the contact harsh enough to burn the hair in my nostrils.
Sorcerer.
Each essence detectable around the briquette char of the corpse. My unique skills were a blessing and a curse, disgusting on the worst of days, but there was no ignoring a talent that keeps me alive.
The very reason I stood here, at two in the morning, watching cameras flash as photographers raced to catch the morning editions and the five thirty a.m. cable news. Yellow police tape roped off a large segment of the Razorbacks’ high school parking lot and the rear access to their gym. Reporters edged along the tape and a bordering chain link fence to get a clear shot of the officer on the scene and the pathetic smoking remains of what vaguely resembled a Toyota Prius.
I fingered my press card inside my bomber jacket’s pocket, sandwiched by a rubber band to my PI license, my blood-and-organ-donor card, a UCLA staff card, and other manufactured credentials needed to buy me quick access. All bore the name Thaddeus Kane. I palmed my camera and moved closer to the brick edge of the building for a better view.
Four hours ago, the Razorbacks’ quarterback had thrown a thirty-five-yard spiral to his receiver, Stan Markowski. The catch bought the Razorbacks the yardage for a first down and put them within striking distance of the touchdown they needed to tie the game. Six plays later, Stan caught the winning ball and clinched the game to rank his team for an end-of-season match for the state championship. Every reason for an eighteen-year-old senior to celebrate.
Instead, his crispy remains lay curled inside the burnt shell of his hybrid, within spitting distance of the gymnasium door. Not to mention a fire hydrant.
“You’re sure about this because why, TK?”
I didn’t answer Chaz or look at the demon but gestured with my head to the car.
He sidled away from me. Avoiding the photographers, he walked behind the ambulance and faded from his human shell into elemental vapor. He drifted around the loitering police, avoided the paramedics, and circumvented the stretcher waiting on the police photographer to finish his final shots, reappearing seconds later as only a faint shimmer at Markowski’s car door.
At six foot five with two hundred and sixty pounds of dense, hard muscle, Chaz’s human shell maintained a footprint too large to camouflage. On the plus side, his demon form moved soundlessly and blended without color, invisible with his surroundings in shadow or light.
Almost.
I could make out his spring-green, leather-and-bone form. Sorcerers would sense his demonic vibration. Humans would look right through him with only a confused inkling of déjà vu.
A quick scan of the crowd allowed me to check again for the odd scent I’d isolated earlier, since I’d deemed Chaz’s risk minimal with the assembled crowd posing negligible threat. Twenty people, give or take, between the rescue personnel, photographers, and a few gawkers drawn by the sirens and police lights. But the number of human spectators had doubled in the last half hour. Hiding evil on the outskirts would be easy as the night waned.
I scanned again for potential menace to guard Chaz’s back as I categorized the composition of the newer bystanders.
The smell of human blood, sweat, and artificial fragrances saturated the air. No useful information there. No demon besides Chaz stood out, but scents vary. Clan origin, demon appetite, and the ability to mask one’s presence made pinpointing threats in large gatherings more difficult. Just because I couldn’t detect anything didn’t mean the sorcerers who had toasted Markowski wouldn’t return and make a quick play to trap Chaz.
After returning a nod to a perky blonde female paramedic, I continued surveillance with increased diligence. Losing my demon sidekick would go over poorly with the boss and he’d take more than a pound of my flesh in retaliation.
I shook my head, still puzzling over the unfamiliar aroma. Unfortunately, it didn’t dislodge any brilliant insights. Layered beneath all the other scents, almost hidden, it possessed a subtle combination of fragrances that triggered nothing in my memory.
Dangerous.
The oddball scent was why I pushed Chaz to perform up-close duty with Markowski’s corpse. He would try for smell, but my ability surpassed his. I wouldn’t challenge him on it, but our boss, Shalim, was intimately aware of the depth of my skills.
My unique sense of detection had saved Shalim’s royal ass. An ass he valued above any other, the only reason Shalim’s clan tolerated my human-demon carcass. However, Chaz possessed skills too, which was the reason we’d both been sent to check out this murder that had provoked a ripple in the underworld.
I’d picked out the abnormal scent. My magic stopped there. Time for Chaz to check the abnormality against his several-hundred-year-old taste register. I watched him swipe his long, chartreuse tongue for any residual taste on Stan’s charcoal cheekbone and bit back the urge to lose my dinner. A sharp twitch jerked his body, the reactive shudder of a wet dog’s shake, before he glanced over his shoulder at me. The snide twist of his lips when he turned and signaled “no” didn’t bode well for answers. Not human. Not demon. No classification for the boy, and Chaz was pissed.
Too bad.
I did my fair share of grunt jobs for the clan. I drew a line at licking shit. I could smell the dead body from here. Thankfully, taste processed differently for me than it did for Chaz.
Without a word, he disappeared, refusing to stick his neck out for more than his fifty percent of effort. A live human would have interested the emotional succubus in him; a dead one didn’t merit his time. He would give the initial report to Shalim and leave me to filter through the details over Markowski’s death, as well as confirm a sorcerer’s involvement, rule out any clan losses due to demonic summons, and negate future threats. It fell to me to exterminate the sorcerer, if possible. The steps demanded I gain some clear reason for Markowski’s selection as a target.
And there was my problem.
Stan Markowski wasn’t a demon. He definitely wasn’t human, and the reek of sorcerer hung like a suffocating fog, earmarking this act as sacrificial magic.
Whatever Stan was, his death had been a rush job. Less than four hours separated the football game’s finish from Stan’s incineration. The perpetrators had run a high risk of exposure to human witnesses. An unacceptable complication, even for sorcerers.
This death appeared to pose no direct connection or threat to Shalim’s clan, my clan
. And while that should be good, from my experience, sorcerers focused only on furthering their own power, making everything in their path expendable—human and demon alike. This youth, innocent and powerless, shouldn’t have appealed to a sorcerer’s aims. His victimization by black magic placed him, by default, on my team. I added identifying the reason for his targeting, like my fellow summoned demons, to my growing list of questions. Whether Chaz or Shalim agreed on my assessment was a different issue.
The dead boy’s physical scent, coupled with the essence clinging to his body, presented another problem.
The breeze carried a light, sweet, caramel-layered fragrance, another marker that elevated Stan’s status above the human he resembled. In the air currents, the decay of the body drifted to me as well, again with something off. I closed my eyes and worked through the layers.
Complex. Normally, I could break down a scent. When someone wears a bearskin coat, I can smell the bear, tell its age at death, its gender. I also smell the bear’s last meal.
Yeah, it’s gross from my standpoint, too. Yet, like fingerprints, the layers are unique.
Woven in with Stan’s scent was his body’s condition, a wealth of degenerative decay and lack of strong fresh blood. Neither was the result of his roasting, and neither worked for a boy his age. A man of ninety? Maybe. Eighteen and fit? Not so much.
I hung out for a few more minutes and watched the police and media canvass the school grounds, searching for answers or evidence of what had caused Stan Markowski to explode in his car. Alone. Hours after the rest of the team had gone home.
They wouldn’t find anything. The Sorcerers’ Consortium never leaves traces of their crimes.
***
I pocketed the keys of my Suzuki GSX-R 600, annoyed that twenty-two hours hadn’t granted me any insights, and headed for a stool at the bar.
Paco & Pablo’s was packed tonight, even given the after-midnight clientele of the bar-turned-nightclub. From a seat next to Chaz, I waved three fingers to the late-shift bartender. He slid a large glass of Macallan’s twelve-year-old my way and continued his conversation with an animated redhead.
“Got the taste out yet?” I said, deliberately provoking a too-quiet Chaz.
“Screw you, TK.”
I bit back a laugh. He’d been hanging out around humans too long, picking up bad lingo only exacerbated by his demon heritage, the taunts more the equivalent of a bratty ten year old.
A quick look over the bar and adjoining restaurant confirmed the after-dinner crowd had shipped out. The shiny, checkered tablecloths and family clusters were gone, replaced with easy-clean naked wooden tabletops and bar hoppers well into multiple rounds of drinks.
The humans were loaded with alcohol, pheromones, and expectations. The demon contingent passed their time sucking in the emotional high of sexual advances, desperation, and aggression.
Demons, the emotional succubae at least, thrive on any swell in the emotional atmosphere, from one-night stands to a voyeuristic seat at a relationship on the skids. The blood demons, gathered in the darker corners, were banking on an early-hour bar fight or a little gang skirmish. Each focused on their need, but both depended on opportunity for a good feed. Luckily there was enough fluctuation in the human mental state within L.A. to keep the average demon fed and entertained for centuries.
“So, we got nothing.” Chaz turned his gaze toward me not bothering to conceal the flicker of jade flame and ice dominating his eyes in lieu of pupil and iris. The eyes, distinctly demon, revealed for a second in public, but he kept them fixed on me. The rest of his alter ego—dark mocha skin, shining, shaved head, and muscles capable of hoisting cinder block pallets—looked classically human in a pressed black silk shirt and khakis.
I sipped my drink and shrugged with a faked casualness. “At least it wasn’t one of the clan.”
“That’s your luck, not mine. I could be next. Shalim wouldn’t let it slide if we missed an opportunity to track the sorcerer. For you, last night was just an inconvenience.” Cynicism rolled from his words in a thick ooze and I stifled the urge to debate the nuances of his accusation.
All wizards were sorcerers to Chaz. All humans were a sexual food source, black and white, good and evil. Chaz acknowledged no distinctions of gray. Due to my mixed heritage, I was low on his list for investigative partners, though we had ironed out an effective working relationship over the last twelve years. I used my skills to keep him safe, and he allowed me to work with him. History gifted me with enough tolerance and insight to know he was anxious and itchy. I was pretty certain it had nothing to do with our assignment.
“More than inconvenient.” I worked to keep my voice low. “Definitely too late for the kid who died. You under the illusion I would knowingly allow something that horrible?” Four times in the last few weeks, we’d followed the leads. Each time we had arrived too late for two fellow demons, one homeless guy, and now Markowski. Not that Chaz wanted to save anyone. He wanted recognition with Shalim, not morality points.
His quick recrimination touched a sore spot with me. After days of no new leads, irritation dug a little deeper than normal with me as well.
I rolled my glass between my fingers, waiting a moment to savor the strong bite around the edges of my tongue. I don’t get drunk, perhaps a gift of my DNA. Sometimes not such a gift. “What’s the gain for taking out one of the top high school receivers in the state? Where exactly does that fall into a sorcerer’s purview?”
“Hell if I know.” The misery slid from Chaz’s face, quickly replaced by a calculated, malevolent grin. His eyes had reverted to milk chocolate. The intensity warned me he was about to get more annoying. “Hear that kid the other night was supposed to get a scholarship from USC. Guess the sorcerers messed with your innocents.”
I tapped the fingers of my right hand in a measured staccato on the lacquered bar top and avoided looking at Chaz’s eyes because—hell, there wasn’t anything there anyway. His attempt to jerk my chain wouldn’t provoke me and he knew better than to try to feed off of me.
He leaned closer. “So, TK, guess it’s now personal for you, too.”
Not bothering to turn my head, I met his gaze in the mirror behind the bar. “Don’t be a shit. It’s always been personal.”
Chaz shrugged and gripped the bottle of his Irish Red Ale with both hands.
His response, his sullenness, spawned a nasty new suspicion. “If Shalim feels I’m holding out on him, he can—”
Hands up in defense, Chaz’s eyes narrowed. “Hey, I didn’t say anything about Shalim.” He shook his head, breaking eye contact first. Then he turned back to his beer and glanced down the bar’s counter. “You know how it is.”
“Yeah, anything to get a rise. Would’ve thought you fed well enough last night at the crime scene. Dead kid left plenty of fear and depression to suck from the bystanders.”
“That crowd? Not as much fear or regret as you’d think. And a dead human’s not food for my soul.” A snide chuckle erupted, and he patted his chest. “Oh, yeah. No soul.” He gave a soft snort. “I’d rather feed on sex than death any day.”
No disagreement from me there.
“Pissing you off will have to fill in the gap.” The corner of his mouth lifted before he pulled a long draw on his beer.
“Being a jerk will only get you killed faster.” I shook my head and tilted back to swallow the last of my drink. I kept my eyes closed for a second, one hand flexed on the bar, body still. I reined in the fiery vibration that sizzled up my spine and the taste of burned rubber invading my mouth that had nothing to do with the whiskey. Muscles tensed, I focused and broadened my search of scent, sensation, and sound.
I opened my eyes and squinted at the patrons’ reflections in the mirror. My gaze gravitating toward the pool table in the rear corner of the room. Three men and two women gathered around that table and I focused on each one. Light green haze revolved around the first two men and both women. A dusky haze covered them, not vibrant or luminous, bu
t typical for the level of inebriation at this hour.
Chaz tensed beside me. From the corner of my eye, I caught his furtive glance over his shoulder to the right, to the left, and then back to me.
“What is it, man?” He looked around again. “Where?”
The third man, a sorcerer’s scout, emanated a low vibration of dissonance—the harsh tinny rasp of someone beating old bedsprings with an iron skillet. I could feel the twang inside my bones all the way across the room. Draped around him in shreds of brash orange and dense black, his essence wafted in and out.
Sometimes I can see and hear as well as I can smell. Not that the impact is any easier on my system or in any way normal.
Tendrils, thick molten vines of power, snaked in constant motion around him, snaking out and wisping back. Bits at the end of the tendrils broke off and flitted through the room, here and there, skimming the edges of the human customers. After a few seconds, the broken bits disintegrated and fell, diffused, to seep into the floor of the bar.
As the last bits dispersed amongst the customers, the scout handed off his pool cue and sneered, issuing some derogatory comment. He gathered his money from the table lip and patted his disgruntled opponent on his bristled cheek. Seemed no one could resist a cheap shot tonight.
The second man took a stance in front of his friend. The two ladies hung on to the poor loser’s arms and neck to keep him from launching himself in retaliation.
“TK,” Chaz hissed in my ear.
My empty glass raised, I deflected a wisp of the essence with a wave of my finger as it floated toward me.
“When he leaves, we follow.” I tracked the scout’s path in the mirror. “Just follow. Nothing else. He’s on the hunt.”
Chaz frowned. His gaze followed the activity at the pool table and the man now departing from the bar.
The Mark of Kane Page 1
