“You the demon killer?” His basso profundo voice sounded skeptical.
“That’s me.”
“Lemme see some ID.”
I handed him my state-issued PA identification card. Its photo was better than the mug shot on my driver’s license, not that I cared what Lucado’s pet ape thought. He squinted at it for a long time. I was about to offer help sounding out the words, when he handed it back to me. Then he stood there, filling up the doorway, the Man-Mountain of Massachusetts.
“I need to talk to Mr. Lucado before I set up.” I went to push past him. He didn’t budge. I shoved a bit harder. I might as well have tried to move the wall. Then I realized the game he was playing. He must have heard about how I’d half-crushed Lucado’s hand; now he wanted to test my strength against his. Despite his size, I could pick this guy up and toss him over my shoulder if I felt like it, but I liked to conserve my strength when I was on the job. Worse, tapping into my full strength could cause the demon essence to stir—not a good way to start a new acquaintance, especially when the guy was already annoying me. So I’d let the ape think he’d won. This time. I stepped back and waited.
After a second, he moved aside. I think I saw the shadow of a smile way up there in the stratosphere.
“Leave your bags here,” he said. I didn’t like to be separated from my weapons at work, but I could understand a bodyguard’s reluctance to let them in the house. Some clients are funny that way. The second bag was more or less empty; it was for packing up the Harpy carcasses after the job. I let both bags drop where I stood.
“Frank’s in the living room.” He jerked his head back, then sat down in the chair beside the front door and opened a comic book. I’m not sure, but I think he was reading Casper the Friendly Ghost.
Lucado must have paid his interior decorator a fortune. Everything about the place said “old money,” even though rumor had it that most of Frank’s money was of the freshly laundered variety. Oil paintings in gilt frames adorned the walls, antique furniture was placed in artful arrangements, and the Persian carpet under my feet looked way too pricey to be walking on.
In the living room, Frank sat in a leather club chair, holding a brandy snifter. He looked up as I approached. The scar nearly made me flinch. I’d forgotten how impressive it was. If shock value could be measured in dollars, that scar would be worth a couple million, at least.
“You shouldn’t be drinking, Frank. You’ve got a sleeping pill to take, remember?”
“A little nightcap won’t hurt.” He swirled the liquid around in his glass, then took a swig. “Besides, I told you—I don’t take pills.”
“You’re taking one tonight, or I’m leaving.”
We stared at each other, tension in the air between us. Neither of us blinked. Finally, Frank banged down his glass, brandy sloshing up the side.
“They don’t work,” he said.
“What do you mean?”
“Sleeping pills. They don’t work worth crap.” A shadow of desperation crossed his face, making the scar stand out like lightning at midnight. “Like I said, I don’t do pills. But these attacks—it’s been so damn horrible, I’ve already tried sleeping pills. I thought if I knocked myself out, I’d sleep through it.” His hand, resting on the arm of the chair, clenched into a fist. “Didn’t happen. They woke me up somehow, and it was the same as every other goddamn night.”
“Tonight will be different. I’ll kill the Harpies before they can get to you. You’ll sleep like a baby, and tomorrow will be a fresh new day.”
“A fresh new day. La-di-dah. You sound like a song from a musical.” He glowered at me. “I hate musicals.”
But he picked up the sleeping pill from a tray on the table beside him. He held the tablet between his thumb and forefinger, pointed to it with his other hand, and then made a big show of putting it in his mouth. He swallowed it, then washed it down with the rest of his brandy.
“Good boy,” I said. “Now it’s time for bed. That pill works fast. You’ve got about three minutes to haul your butt between the sheets.”
“Listen to her,” he remarked. Already his words were slurring. “Haul my butt. Nobody talks to Frankie like that.”
He got halfway to his feet, then collapsed back into the chair. Jeez, how many brandies had he had? I went over to check his pulse. He didn’t blink when I put my fingers on his neck. The pulse was a little slow, but strong and steady. He’d be okay.
In the front hall, I said to the bodyguard, “Your boss needs some help getting upstairs. Be sure you tuck him in nice and tight.”
I picked up my bag and got ready to work.
IT TOOK SOME CONVINCING BEFORE THE BODYGUARD would let me into Frank’s bedroom with my duffel bag full of weapons. He had real trouble with the idea that I was there to help his boss, not attack him. A two-pronged argument finally penetrated that thick skull: (a) if Frank had hired me to do a job, and the bodyguard didn’t let me do it, Frank would be pissed off; and (b) if I harmed Frank in some way, I’d still have to get past the bodyguard. I promised to let him check on Frank before I left, scout’s honor. He really made me say that, too—“scout’s honor.” No matter that I’d dropped out of Girl Scouts after Brownies. It seemed to satisfy him, so what the heck.
Once he was gone, I set to work. Demon slaying is part science, part art, part ritual. First, know your battlefield. Frank’s bedroom was large, about sixteen by twenty. It was more spartan than the antique-filled living room—the only furniture was a king-sized bed, a nightstand, a dresser, and two slipper chairs. That was good. It meant there’d be less stuff in the way if the battle got complicated.
The carpet and walls were white; the furniture was black. Cushions and a couple of paintings added primary colors to the mix. The bed where Frank lay snoring was against the north wall; two closed doors occupied the west wall. I went over and opened each of them: bathroom and walk-in closet, both clear. The south wall displayed a huge painting, scribbles and drips of color on a white canvas. If anyone had been taking bets, I’d have put my money on Jackson Pollock. The slipper chairs were set side by side, facing by the east wall, which was almost entirely glass and overlooked the harbor. Must be an awesome place to watch the sun rise. There was a glass door on the right side of the window-wall, which opened onto a balcony. Frank had said that the Harpies, three of them, entered through the window, so this area would be my focus. The trick would be to nail all three Harpies without shattering all that nice glass.
I picked up one chair and moved it out of the way, over near the closet. I pulled the other chair to the side so I could wait in it and aim parallel to the windows, not straight at them. Surprise would give me an advantage of a second, maybe two. With any luck, it’d be three quick shots, three dead Harpies.
Time to prepare the equipment. I carried my weapons bag over to the dresser, whose top held a tray with a comb, pocket change, cuff links, and a wristwatch. I carried the tray into the bathroom and left it on the vanity. Back in the bedroom, I unzipped the bag, took out my rolled-up altar cloth, and spread it across the top of the dresser. A deep red cloth embroidered in gold, its symbols included swords (for Saint Michael) and harps (for Saint David).
I reached back into the bag, got out my automatic pistol, and checked the clip. All loaded up with bronze ammo. Bronze is lethal to demons, so all my tools—arrows, daggers, swords—were bronze at the business end. I got the silencer and screwed it in place. I wasn’t worried about waking Frank; with the magically charged sleeping pill I’d given him, I could tap-dance on his pillow and he’d just keep snoring. But I definitely didn’t want the bodyguard charging into the bedroom in the middle of a Harpy fight.
I placed the gun on the cloth and took out my dagger, the one Aunt Mab had given me at sixteen. It was a wickedly beautiful piece of work. Shaped like a cross, its handle was set with rubies and sapphires; its bronze blade shone dully in the light. Next was my backup dagger. This one was smaller and plainer, its curved blade etched with mystical sym
bols. I laid out the weapons in a row on the altar cloth.
As I reached into the bag for the vial of sacramental wine, my fingers brushed the pommel of my sword. Should I prepare that, too? It seemed like overkill. Swords were for bigger game than Harpies; I didn’t even know why I’d brought it. Knowing Difethwr was around had made me uneasy. But that was silly; I wasn’t out in Concord tonight. I was still in Boston, protected by the shield. I left the sword in the bag.
I closed my eyes and took three deep breaths, grounding myself. Then I murmured a prayer invoking Saint Michael, killer of demons, and Saint David, protector of Wales. I asked for their aid and assistance in dispatching these Harpies back into the ether. Amen. I unscrewed the top from the vial of the wine, which had been blessed by three sages of three different faiths, and touched a single drop to each weapon. The drop glowed; the glow spread, and for a moment each weapon shone like pure gold. When the glow faded, I was ready. I stuck the jeweled dagger in my belt and snugged the curved dagger into a sheath strapped to my ankle. I clicked the safety off the pistol and sat by the window to wait.
Lucado kept snoring, a weird combination of buzzes and snorts. The glowing green numbers on his nightstand alarm clock said 10:57. Soon, the Harpies would attack.
I dabbed some menthol cream into each nostril. I braced myself, then opened my senses to the demonic plane. Most people can’t perceive any demons besides their own. As one of the Cerddorion, I had the ability to step into the dimension where demons reign—and believe me, the demon-haunted world is not a nice place. The moment I tuned in, I was hit by a cacophony of shrieks and screaming, gibbering and cruel laughter. Colors dimmed, overlaid by a gray film of smoke and shadows. And the stench—a nauseating combination of raw sewage, rotting meat, sulfur, and sweat. The smell could knock you backward when it hit. That’s what the menthol was for.
I focused, sifting through the racket of thousands of demons tormenting hundreds of Bostonians. Through all that din, I was listening for one particular sound, the sound of frenzied Harpies approaching their prey, like a million out-of-tune violins shrieking out the music from the shower scene in Psycho. After about two minutes I heard it, and it was getting louder as the demons made a beeline for Frank’s bedroom. Showtime.
Keeping an ear tuned to the Harpies’ approach, I jumped up and turned the chair around. I knelt on the seat and braced my arms on the chair’s back. The shrieks grew louder, louder—waves of earsplitting screeching pounded my skull. My finger tightened on the trigger.
Crash! The Harpies slammed through the window. In the demonic plane, it shattered, shards flying everywhere. Pieces stung my face, my arms, but I didn’t flinch. I squeezed the trigger. Pop, pop, pop. One, two, three, the Harpies dropped from the air and thudded to the floor. The demons hadn’t made it more than two feet inside. Not even a hole in the wall; bronze bullets don’t pass through demon bodies. Clean, fast, complete. Nice work, if I did say so myself.
I stood, clicking on the safety and holstering the gun. In the bed, Frank moaned and turned onto his side. Some part of him sensed there were Harpies in the room, even dead ones. “No,” he murmured, then went quiet. At least he’d stopped snoring.
I fetched the second duffel bag and went over to collect the Harpy corpses. Even after ten years of exterminating these demons, I was still jolted by their vileness. Harpies have the body of a vulture—with extra-long, extra-sharp steel talons—and the head of a Gorgon, a creature that looked something like a woman, but with snakes for hair and a cruel, hooked beak. That Gorgon head was said to turn humans into stone, and that’s what it did—paralyzed them with fear and horror so that the victim had no defense against the creature as it tore into his guts.
The duffel bag was lined with aromatic herbs and pine branches to help counter the stink of dead Harpies. I opened it, then picked up the first Harpy by its feet and stuffed it into the bag. The second soon joined it. As I reached for the third, Frank moaned again. I turned to check that he was okay, and a deafening screech split the air as a slash of pain ripped across my arm. I spun around—the third Harpy no longer lay still and silent on the floor. It had taken to the air, hovering near the ceiling, its snake hair writhing in a spitting, hissing cloud around its head, its beak snapping open and shut. I barely had time to register its position before it dived.
Hurtling toward me, feet first, its steel talons targeted my eyes. I dropped and rolled, yanking the dagger from my belt. Shrieking with rage, the Harpy hit the ground hard, skidding across the floor and gouging twin tracks out of the carpet. I lunged for the thing and missed, and it made like a road-runner for Frank’s bed.
“No, you don’t!” I shouted, throwing myself at it, but grasping only a few tail feathers. They yanked out, and the demon spun around, howling in fury. It paused, torn between going after me or its victim.
“Come on, you damn demon.” I crouched, gripping the dagger, ready. The Harpy flapped its wings, lifting heavily into the air, but not getting higher than head level. Three feet away, its snakes strained toward me, trying to strike. I could see now that I’d only grazed it with the gun, under the left wing. I couldn’t use the pistol here, though; not this close to Frank’s bed. What if I missed? As the demon turned its head back and forth between me and Frank, I advanced. It moved away, trying to gain some height, and I pressed forward, herding it toward the back wall, away from the bed.
When it realized what I was doing, it struggled upward another couple of feet, then dived again. This time, I was ready. I stood my ground as the shrieking, hissing thing plummeted toward me, and at the last second I raised the dagger. It screamed as it impaled itself on the blade.
I kept my arm braced, took the impact and the weight. Then I lowered the dagger, and the Harpy slid to the floor. The beak still gaped open, but the beady eyes had lost their fire, and the snakes lay limp and unmoving. Steam curled from the place where bronze had pierced its flesh. I poked the demon with the toe of my boot. No response, just deadweight. Within a minute the Harpy had joined its sisters in the duffel bag.
In the bed, Frank had resumed snoring. I surveyed the room. On the demonic plane, it was a mess—shattered window, expensive white carpet torn and stained. I went into the bathroom to wash the gooey, smelly, green-black Harpy blood off my dagger. In the mirror, I was a mess, too—my face flicked with a dozen cuts, my arm gashed by a Harpy bite. Gazing at my reflection, I closed my senses to the world of the demons. As if by magic, the cuts closed up, faded, then disappeared. When I returned to the bedroom, normal reality showed the room in its previous condition, except for a whiff of sulfur in the air. If that wasn’t gone by morning, Frank’s carpet would need a good steam cleaning.
CARRYING MY TWO DUFFEL BAGS, I TROTTED DOWN THE stairs. By the front door, the bodyguard sat with his chair tilted back against the wall. He leaned there, mouth open, snoring like he was trying to beat the boss in a snoring competition.
The smell of sulfur still clung to me. I needed fresh air. I remembered there was a balcony on this floor, too, off the living room. I’d take a minute to step outside, get my head clear. Walking through the darkened living room, I dropped my bag by the chair where Frank had sipped brandy earlier. Then I opened the balcony door and slipped outside.
The night was chilly, with a hint of frost, but sparkling clear. Perfect. I stood with my hands on the cold railing, facing the harbor, and inhaled the crystalline air, cleansing my lungs of the foulness of demons. It was about eleven forty, and it was quiet. Blessedly quiet. I could perceive a faint echo of the screams and groans in the demonic plane, but as I stood and focused on my breathing, those subsided, then faded out entirely. Revitalized, I went back inside.
In the front hall, I stopped and regarded the big norm sleeping in his chair. Some bodyguard. Hmm, I wondered, how should I awaken Sleeping Beauty? A gentle shake of the shoulder—or a good swift kick to send the chair flying out from under him? Decisions, decisions.
Before I could make up my mind, a funny feeling prick
led along my arms, goose-bumping my flesh. I looked around. Nothing. The feeling returned, stronger, like an electric current. It raced up my arms and past my shoulders to make the hair on the back of my neck stand at attention. What was that?
I stepped forward, and the feeling intensified. I stopped and listened, straining to hear past the bodyguard’s snores. Somewhere in the distance, but inside the building, I heard a bang, like a door slamming. The sound sent shivers through my bones.
Get a grip, Vicky. This is a condo development. People slam doors.
Something banged again. Louder.
I ran across the hall, grabbed the bodyguard’s shirt, and shook him. The T-shirt tore like tissue. He sputtered and grabbed for his gun, but I held his arms fast. His eyes widened when he realized it was me, or maybe when he realized that I could force him to hold still. “What the—?” he began.
“You’ve gotta tell me something.” My voice sounded wild. “Do people slam doors in this building?”
“Slam—?” He looked bewildered. His eyes had lost that heavy-lidded, sleepy look, but there was drool on his chin.
“Hey, let me go. What the hell are you talking about, slamming doors?”
Another bang.
“Like that.”
A frown creased his forehead. “Nah. I never heard that before. Frankie built this place real good. It’s got sound-proofing.” He flexed his biceps, then strained both arms outward, but he couldn’t break my hold. “Come on,” he said, “lemme go.” I released his arms, and he wiped his chin with the back of his hand.
That’s when the screeching started.
This time, the bodyguard grabbed my arm. “What the hell was that?”
I yanked away. “Which way’s the kitchen?”
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