Dedicated to Michael McCloud—thanks for all the fine entertainment at the Schooner's Wharf and elsewhere during my many trips to Key West.
Key West, Florida, is my home
And you know I never ever want to roam
Where the ladies are lovely, and drinking is my favorite sport
(Well, second favorite...)
I'd rather be here
Just drinking a beer
Than be freezing my ass in the north
—Michael McCloud
"The Conch Republic Song"
Historian's Note
This novel takes place a week after the third-season episode A Very Supernatural Christmas.
FIRST PROLOGUE
Two hundred years ago...
The chief priest sat in the canoe as the boy rowed to the sacred island.
The Calusa had constructed the island themselves, amidst the many natural islands that trailed off the home peninsula. Like their homes and their tools, the island was built from the shells that the water gave them. The water also gave them food and transportation.
Now the sacred island was one of the few refuges left. Once, it had been the place where warriors gathered and where their efforts were planned and blessed by the Three Gods.
There were times that the chief priest wondered if the Three Gods had forsaken them. He did not hold such blasphemy for long. But as he watched the leader, his only son, wither away, covered in the pockmarks that the outsiders had brought to them, it was hard not to at least consider that the Three Gods had forsaken them, that the Calusa were no longer worthy of the gods' gifts.
His son would be dead soon. Even if the outsiders' diseases did not take him, as they had the war chief, then the Creek or the Yamasee would. Once, such lesser tribes feared the mighty Calusa. Then the outsiders came. They, too, feared the Calusa, who rejected their trinkets and their single god. But the Creek and the Yamasee were weak, so they accepted the outsiders' gifts—including their weapons. The Calusa were once feared in part because of their weapons made with the shells provided by the water, but the metal shells of the outsiders were mightier than the shells of the sea.
Between the raids and the sickness, the Calusa were ravaged. They could no longer protect their friends, such as the Seminoles and the Tequesta, and they could no longer defeat their enemies.
The chief priest knew that soon they would all be dead. Perhaps within two seasons.
So he needed to prepare, as he and the other priests had decided.
"We are here," the boy said. The chief priest looked up, having fallen into a reverie and not realized that they had arrived.
"Come," the chief priest said, slowly rising to his feet on old bones that creaked and cracked.
The boy helped the chief priest steady himself as they disembarked, then he retrieved the large gourds containing the items that the chief priest had requested he bring with him.
When they were on the hard land of the sacred island, the boy said, "Tell me what I must do."
"The shadow soul and the reflection soul are of no use to us," the chief priest said. "They are given to the animals of the land and sea to live new lives. But the eye soul remains, and it is that which we must harness." The chief priest put a hand on the boy's chest. "We give our lives today so that one day the Calusa may have their revenge."
Standing proud, the boy said, "I would rather die in the service of the Calusa than wither away from the outsiders' sickness."
With a smile, the chief priest added, "Or be bloodied by the outsiders' weapons?" Before the boy could protest, the chief priest reassured him. "It does not matter. Your courage is already well known to us all. It is why the Three Gods chose you. And it is why, when our people are gone, you and I shall remain behind to bind the eye souls of our people together."
Nodding, the boy said, "I am ready."
First, the boy took out the masks. Calusa masks covered the entire face with painted wood, with holes only for the eyes, to keep that soul unfettered. For the priest, the mask was blue, white, and red, with an open mouth rendered to symbolize his conversations with the Three Gods. As for the boy, his mask was red, black, and white, and portrayed the fierceness of a warrior born.
The chief priest removed the three daggers from the gourd, handing one to the boy and holding the other two in his hands. Then he began the dance and the chant to the gods. The boy followed along, mirroring the chief priest's movements.
After they had completed three circles, the chief priest sliced open his left wrist with the dagger in his right hand, then reached out and did the same to the boy's left hand.
At a nod from the chief priest, he and the boy both then lunged for each other. The dagger in the priest's right hand plunged into the boy's chest even as the boy's dagger plunged into the priest's.
The chief priest felt the life blood drain from him, and he knew that the Three Gods had not forsaken him, for if they had, they would not have provided him with the means of avenging the Calusa upon the world.
When the time was right...
SECOND PROLOGUE
Six months ago...
The demons gathered.
Azazel had told them that it would be happening soon. Not everyone believed Azazel, of course. For all his power, he was still a demon, and demons lied—no one knew that better than the demons themselves. And even if he wasn't lying, not all the hellspawn were convinced that the old bastard would be able to pull it off.
Some thought the plan too convoluted—corrupting a whole bunch of children and having them compete with each other to see who would be most worthy to lead Azazel's army.
Some just didn't like the plan, especially since it called for them being led by a human. Yes, it was a human handpicked (and handcrafted, in many ways) by Azazel, but still a human. Most demons had long since lost whatever connection to humanity they once had, and those who had some dim recollection of their time on the mortal plane before they were sent to hell didn't exactly look back on that time with fondness.
But many believed in Azazel. They were willing to put their faith in him if it meant getting out. They were willing to subvert their wills to a human if it meant getting out. They would stand here at the edge of the gate, waiting, waiting, waiting, as long as it meant getting the hell out.
The gate had been put there by a human who was probably the most hated of that species among demonkind: Samuel Colt. A hunter who'd constructed a pistol that could kill demons—not just send them back to hell, which was certainly bad enough, but actually end them—and who'd constructed the Devil's Gate that kept the pathway between Earth and hell closed, forcing demons to more subtle means of entering the mortal plane.
Most demons were too lazy, too incompetent, or too stupid to contrive subtle means of escape. Or they simply didn't want to deal with the agita of having to follow the exact terms of the spell that summoned them, limited by the power of the human who cast the summoning.
So they gathered.
And they waited.
Colt, for whatever reason, had constructed the gate so that it could only be unlocked by his pistol. And now, after an eternity of waiting, the metallic clank of the pistol being inserted into the iron gate echoed throughout hell.
The demons screamed and cheered and pushed and shoved. This was it—this was freedom, at last! Free to roam the Earth, free to wreak havoc. With the squeal of century-old hinges, the gate flew open.
Freedom! Out they crawled, out they ran, out they flew. Some held back, recalling that Colt had also surrounded the gate with an iron pentagram, but Azazel had planned for that—the pentagram had been broken by the human who would lead them. (Another reason, those who had faith pointed out to the doubters, why it was wise for Azazel to conscript a human.)
B
ut there was no human here to lead them. No commands were given, no orders, no instructions, nothing.
They were truly free.
The demons scattered to the nine winds, Azazel's plan forgotten as they became drunk with the knowledge that they were unfettered on Earth and could do whatever they wanted...
ONE
This is the best way to celebrate Christmas and New Year's, Megan Ward thought as she took another gulp of the heavy amber beer that some guy had bought for her, thinking it would get him somewhere.
A resounding bass line made her ribs vibrate, the drums echoing, the guitar slicing through the air like a buzz saw. Megan couldn't remember the name of the power trio that was playing at the Hog's Breath Saloon tonight, but she was enjoying their music. They were a cover band, like most musicians who played the Duval Street bars on Key West, sticking with the usual classic rock favorites. Right now, they were doing "Magic Carpet Ride." The lead singer was a woman with a deep, throaty voice, and she also played the guitar, scorching through the Steppenwolf licks.
They had the volume up loud enough to be heard on Duval—the Hog's Breath had a large gravel-covered parking lot between it and the Duval Street sidewalk—and so the music could be heard around the giant tree in the center of the fenced-in, open-air bar. Megan was grateful for this for a variety of reasons, not least being it made it easy to ignore the guy who bought her the beer. She didn't turn it down, of course—free booze was free booze, especially on a college student's meager budget—but she wasn't about to let him have his way with her, either. Especially since he spit when he talked, which was just gross. Besides, it was just a beer. If he'd bought her a gin and tonic or a screwdriver, then maybe, but just a beer? Forget it.
After the human spit-take gave up and moved on to some other chick, Megan actually had one of the small, raised round tables with the high stools to herself. The table was located right between the two bars—the main one in the center of the Hog's Breath and the small one by the parking-lot entrance. That was bound not to last, as there was a steady stream of people in and out of the Hog's Breath on this Saturday night. Some came in from the parking-lot entrance, as Megan had, past that smelly guy who was selling his poetry. Others came from the back entrance on Front Street. She was grateful that she at least didn't have a view of the television behind the smaller bar. A whole bunch of dumb jock types were gathered around watching a college football game.
If Megan had wanted to spend the week after Christmas watching big dumb guys scream over what happened in a football game, she'd have gone back home to Atlanta and her redneck stepfather and stepbrothers.
Mom was all weepy about her little girl not being home for Christmas, but Megan pointed out that she wasn't "her little girl," she was a twenty-two-year-old adult who was trying to get a bachelor's degree at Boston College, and that Mom herself was the only person who'd be in the house that Christmas whom she didn't want to punch in the nose.
Megan didn't blame Mom for remarrying after Dad died in that car accident. Mom had never done the alone thing very well, and a teenage daughter wasn't sufficient, especially since Megan was trying to, y'know, have a life. Mom had met Harry in grief counseling, as he was a widower as well, his own wife having died during a liquor store robbery. He had three sons, and Megan was hard-pressed to decide which one was the worst—Harry Jr., who kept exposing himself to her at every opportunity, Billy, who kept grabbing at her chest and whom she caught once going through her underwear drawer, or little Joey, who set up a web-cam in the bathroom and uploaded a video of Megan showering to the Internet.
Of course, Mom kept insisting that they didn't mean any harm by it, and the boys were just being boys. Since Harry Jr. was twenty-nine and Billy was Megan's age, this didn't really fly, and as for Joey's "prank," Megan had had to hide in her dorm for two months after the shower video had been downloaded by half of BC's campus.
So no going home for Christmas. But there was no way in hell she was staying in Boston, either. Nice place and all, but the winters were just brutal for a Georgia gal.
Instead, she came down to Key West. She'd been saving the money she made at the Starbucks on Commonwealth Avenue, managed to get a cheap flight to Key West on the Internet, got a room at a nice bed-and-breakfast right on Duval Street—easy stumbling distance from the bars—and spent her holidays here in a tropical paradise.
Megan loved Key West. Her favorite thing wasn't the bars, the live music, the beautiful weather, the friendly people, the laid-back attitude, the fantastic seafood—though she loved all those things—it was the fact that every single night on Key West they celebrated the sunset. Every night, folks gathered at the boardwalk and on Front Street and watched the sun go down over the Gulf of Mexico, cheering and celebrating and drinking beer. The boardwalk was filled with vendors and performers, and it was a wonderful party. At first, Megan had thought it to be a onetime thing that she was lucky enough to have arrived in time for, but she soon learned that it was a daily occurrence.
Tonight, she skipped the sunset celebration. She just wanted to sit and listen to music. She'd spent the day playing tourist, going to several of the wrecker museums, the "Little White House," the Hemingway Home and Museum, and the lighthouse, and her feet were killing her.
About the only thing that hadn't happened yet was getting laid. Megan had never been good at the boyfriend thing, especially since she kept winding up with boneheads like her stepbrothers. Plus, after the web-cam incident, she couldn't bring herself even to talk to most of the guys on campus.
She'd gotten plenty of offers since coming to Key West, but none from anyone she even wanted to be in the same bar with, much less the same bed. All the cute guys she saw were either gay or with someone. For that matter, some of the people who'd hit on her were women, but Megan didn't swing that way, despite the best efforts of some of the other girls in the dorms.
Although if the offers from the men didn't improve soon, she might well consider it.
Still, at least she'd gotten to meet some fun people. Nobody who'd be a friend for life or anything, but fun people to talk to about music and college and life and things. It'd been a different group of people each night, and as far as Megan was concerned, it was part of the fun. She'd consider this trip a success even if she went home alone every night.
The band finished playing "Magic Carpet Ride," and the lead singer said, "We're gonna take a little break. Be back in fifteen!"
Along with most of the rest of the bar's patrons, Megan cheered. (The notable exceptions were the jackasses watching football.) She downed the rest of her beer, then looked around for Liza, the waitress.
"Excuse me, are these seats taken?"
Whirling around, Megan saw an older couple—maybe late forties, early fifties. They were both wearing the Key West "uniform": short-sleeved shirts, shorts, and either flip-flops or sandals. The man who spoke had a slight accent, though Megan couldn't place it—sounded kinda European.
Since they were unlikely to hit on her—though it wouldn't be the strangest thing to happen to her—she said, "No, go ahead."
They shifted the stools so they were right next to each other and facing Megan. The man was very attractive, with olive skin, and what her history professor always referred to as an "aquiline" nose. Megan had no idea why they were called that, except maybe because it sounded more polite than "big." Still, on this guy it worked. He had short, dark, thick hair arranged neatly without obvious evidence of hair-care products.
In contrast, the woman he was with—his wife?—had long dark hair that was laden with such product. She also had huge cheekbones and a perpetual smile. Where the man was rail-thin, the woman was curvy. They actually made kind of a cute couple.
"I am Alberto," the man said with a small smile. "This is my wife, Fedra."
"Thanks for letting us sit," Fedra added with a much bigger smile. "I thought we were gonna have to stand all night." Fedra's accent was more Brooklyn than Europe.
"No problem. I'm Mega
n."
"Glad to meetcha, Megan."
Alberto asked, "What brings you to Key West?"
Megan didn't really feel like burdening them with her family history, so she just said, "Christmas down here's a lot better than Christmas in Boston, y'know?"
"Oh, I know what you mean," Fedra said, putting her hand on the table. Megan noted the perfectly manicured nails—purple nail polish, with sparkles—and silver rings on most of the fingers. "I can't stand all that snow. And the cold— maron. "
"What about you guys?" Megan asked.
"We've been spending the past few months traveling," Alberto said. "We had a bit of a life change recently and decided to sell our house and simply move. "
"Wow." Megan blinked. "That's really cool."
"We're thinkin' a stayin' here for a while, though," Fedra said, leaning forward and speaking in a conspiratorial whisper. "I just love the atmosphere here, it's so beautiful." She enunciated that last word as "byoo-tee-full."
"Yeah, it's great."
Liza finally came by, a short woman with a deep tan, long brown hair tied back in a sloppy ponytail, and wearing a black shirt with the bar's logo on it. "Another beer, Meg?"
Megan sighed. She hated being called "Meg," but Liza apparently was only willing to use one syllable on a person. She'd been here last night drinking with these three other girls named Christina (whom Liza immediately started calling "Chris"), Melanie ("Mel"), and Elizabeth ("Beth," even though the girl herself preferred to be called "Liz").
Looking at Alberto and Fedra, she said, "And your friends?"
"Can I get a margarita, please?" Fedra said. " With salt."
Alberto smiled. "Just a glass of red wine for me, thank you."
"You got it." Liza disappeared into the crowd.
"So you live in Boston, huh?" Fedra asked.
Megan nodded. "I go to college there."
For the next ten minutes or so, Megan told the couple some details about her college career—the usual stupid small-talk answers that she'd given to pretty much everyone she'd met in assorted Duval Street bars over the past few days.
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