by M. D. Massey
“Shit,” I said as I stomped out the cigarette I hadn’t been smoking. I didn’t actually care for the habit at all, but it made for a good excuse to loiter outside places while you were scoping them out. Stand around doing nothing and you looked creepy and suspicious; stand around puffing on a cigarette, and you just looked like another nicotine addict.
I dug around inside my Craneskin Bag to make sure I had my silver-etched sword, a gun loaded with silver bullets, and my war club close at hand. The sword and pistol were for the were-bear, and the club was for the charm-worker. It was fae-made and packed a hell of a punch. If she got cheeky, it’d do.
I pulled off my jacket and slung the Bag over my shoulder, then put the jacket back on and walked into the bar. Inside, it looked like an episode of Vikings had mated with a Chili’s and exploded all over the walls. There were old street signs and other carefully-curated pieces of junk and antiques on the walls, along with several medieval weapons that looked to be the real deal. If a bar fight ever broke out in here, it was going to get nasty, fast.
But the place was clean, and it didn’t smell like stale beer and piss. According to the neon dry erase board behind the bar, they were having a one-dollar pint special on a local amber ale. Figuring there was no reason to avoid mixing work and pleasure, I sidled up to the bar and took a seat.
A minute later, a huge muscular dude with long, surfer-blonde hair pulled back in a ponytail came walking out from the kitchen. He carried cases of longnecks, probably flexing a lot more than was necessary for the task. I could practically hear the group of co-eds down the bar from me swoon as he set the beers down. Manny hadn’t been kidding. This guy looked exactly like Chris Hemsworth.
I hated him even more.
The guy flirted with the co-eds for a minute, while I sat there with a twenty between my fingers. He glanced down the bar at me and kept on flirting.
Fuck it. I don’t need a beer that badly, anyway. I stood up and walked into his line of sight behind the girls.
“Say, do you have a restroom around here?” Chris Hemsworth ignored me and kept chatting with the co-eds. “Around back, then? Super.”
I left him to his groupies and hooked a left around the corner, passing the bathrooms and heading for an unmarked door with a deadbolt. I checked it out for spells, and sure enough, it was warded. A little magical fiddling took care of that, and I cast another cantrip to unlock it.
Nothing happened.
I tried it again. Still nothing. I wondered if I’d missed a protective spell in my rush to nullify the first one I’d spotted, then it hit me. I looked around to be sure no one was watching me and tried the door.
Unlocked, of course.
I sighed and cracked it open, checking to make sure the space beyond was empty. I ducked inside and locked the door behind me. I was in a short hallway that ended in a curtained doorway roughly ten feet away. Based on my earlier scan of the premises, that was where the dead spot was.
“The spell on the door is just to let me know someone is here to see me,” a dusky voice said from behind the curtain. “You’re obviously not a customer, but you may as well come in just the same.”
I walked ahead, cautiously parting the curtains. The room beyond was dark, with only a few candles to light the space. An attractive, light-skinned black woman sat with her legs crossed on a dark leather and chrome office couch. A low glass coffee table sat in front of her, along with two matching leather chairs to either side. The room looked as though it had been set up to receive guests, much like any formal sitting area you might have found in a modern home.
The woman wore a black silk cheongsam with a gold flower pattern. Her dress showed off sculpted arms and shoulders, as well as toned calves that ended in black high-heeled pumps. Her hair fell in wavy curls, flapper-style, to just above shoulder-length. It framed her delicate features in the most flattering manner possible. She looked just like any beautiful, well-heeled professional out for a night on the town.
And, it was all an illusion. I had to strain to see through the glamour, and nearly gasped when I saw the real woman behind it. Her skin was weathered and wrinkled, her limbs were gnarled and twisted, and her cat-like eyes glowed red in the darkness. She was nearly bald, except for a few stray wisps of hair on her liver-spotted head. Most disturbing of all, though, were her teeth. Each one had been filed to a needle-sharp point. When she smiled and ran her tongue over those chompers, I got a chill down my spine.
A soucouyant, or one of the variants, more than likely. A literal bloodsucking witch. Interesting.
“You must be Cécile.”
She set her drink down on the table and extended her arms out to rest on the couch back, giving me a visual appraisal. I didn’t know if she was sizing me up as an interloper, a potential bedmate, or a meal. Finally, after several long uncomfortable seconds of silence, she spoke.
“Well, you’re not with the Circle. And I can see you aren’t fooled by my disguise, so that means you’re either a rival magic-user whose toes I’ve stepped on, or a hunter. Which is it?”
I crossed my arms, using the motion to slip my hand inside the Bag beneath my jacket. This could get ugly, fast—and I didn’t want to be caught off guard by someone who probably worked magic like I worked a blade.
“A little of both, actually, although I don’t have a beef with you.” Not yet, anyway. “I’m just here for some information.”
“About?”
“A rogue vampire who’s been hunting around town. One who may not be everything he appears, either.”
She picked up her glass and swirled its contents. “I see. Well, I have many clients, so you’ll have to be more descriptive if you want a useful answer.”
I almost didn’t catch her casting the spell, as she did it so artfully. But as she swirled her drink, her fingers made minute gestures against the glass—so subtle they were almost imperceptible. I switched my vision into the magical spectrum and immediately saw that the contents of the glass were glowing with energy.
I began to pull my war club from the Bag, just as the witch took a swig of the drink and spat it at me like a circus fire breather. The atomized liquid transformed into a fireball in midair, then it hurtled straight at my head.
“Aw, shit,” I hissed as I ducked and rolled out of the way. I tracked the fireball as it hit the wall, and watched it dissipate into sparks and mist. An illusion.
I came up to my feet, but she was gone. I quickly searched the room, looking behind the couch and chairs, and in every corner and cranny. The only exit was the one I’d entered through, and as far as I could tell she hadn’t gone past me.
“Oh, you’re good,” I said to the empty room.
“You have no idea,” a manly voice boomed from behind me. I turned around in time to see Chris Hemsworth barrel through the curtains. He looked pissed—and considering the short war hammer he was smacking into his palm, I could tell he wasn’t here to get me that beer.
12
Because he was blocking the only exit, I circled around the room to place the couch and table between us. I inclined my head toward him. “Since it looks like we’re about to butt heads, how about some introductions all around?”
He pointed a thumb at his chest. “Cade Valison. I own this place.”
“Váli’s-son? Are you shitting me?” He smirked as if to say, what of it? “Alrighty then. Colin McCool, freelance hunter.”
“Ah, the druid-trained hunter. I’ve heard of you. I’m not impressed.”
“Well, I only heard about you a few hours ago, so ditto. You want to tell me where the witch went?”
“Not in the slightest. And I think it’s time you left my bar, cretin.”
I tongued my cheek as I considered my next move. He was big, probably a hell of a lot stronger than me, and that hammer he wielded had “magic weapon” written all over it. I decided to see what he was about. It never hurt to try to talk your way out of a situation, although he did deserve a beating for his taste in music.
>
“Cretin? Are you for real?” I shook my head. “Never mind. Answer me one question and I’ll leave peacefully.”
“You’ll leave whenever I throw you out,” he replied. “But I can’t see the harm in conversing a bit before I knock you senseless.”
“Hospitality before an ass-beating. Must be a Viking thing. Here in Texas, we just skip the talk and go right to the ass-kicking.”
He tilted his head and hitched his shoulders. “I enjoy a good brawl just as much as the next marauder, but I’m not completely without manners.”
“Not much opportunity for that these days. Marauding, I mean.”
He sighed. “Thus, the bar. The markup on liquor is the closest I can get to the spoils of war in this day and age. That and the occasional bar fight almost make it worth it.”
“A bar fight among these bearded yuppies? Seriously?”
He shrugged slightly. “It’s rare, but it happens.”
Valison flipped his hammer in the air, catching it after it made several revolutions. He did it twice, effortlessly. He knew what he was doing with that thing, that was for sure. “Now that the small talk is out of the way, can we speed this up? I’m growing bored with you, and my fingers itch for violence.”
I spun my war club between my fingers as I replied, just to get his goat. He wasn’t the only one who could show off. “Fine. Tell me, what’s a werebear doing hanging out with a witch? And why are you letting her operate out of your club?”
He leaned against the wall, kicking a foot up to rest behind him as he laid the war hammer on his shoulder. “I’m not a werebear, I’m a berserker. Austin being a rather peaceful city, I rarely get to let that side run wild. And without an outlet for my more violent tendencies, I get a little…”
“Edgy? Peckish? Bloated and crampy?”
He barely reacted to my wisecrack. This guy had no sense of humor at all. “I was going to say murderous. It takes time to set up a new identity, a new life. I’ve grown tired of having to start over again, every time I kill someone. She is my solution. The witch provides me with potions and charms that calm me down, and I let her use this room to conduct her business. So long as she leaves my regular customers alone, I’m happy.”
“Why not move somewhere… I dunno… rougher and more violent?”
“Have you not seen the women in this town? This bar is a magnet for nubile young co-eds. And the sexual mores today! Why, in my day…”
I waved my hands in front of me. “Whoa, hold on there, R. Kelly. I get it—you’re a skirt-chaser. Point taken.” I leaned on the club like a cane as I continued. “And I get that whole ‘wanting to avoid losing control and killing random people thing’—believe me, I do. But c’mon, you have to know that she’s working with some pretty shady characters.”
“That’s none of my business. And none of yours, either.”
“I think she’s working with a vampire. One that’s been killing humans left and right.”
He kicked off the wall and stood with his knees slightly bent, in a sort of loose fighting stance that told me this wasn’t his first rodeo—not by a long shot. “I’ve lived for hundreds of years. What are a few human lives to me? Humans breed like rabbits and they’re fragile as glass. If a creature that’s higher on the food chain decides to kill a few to survive, that is merely the natural order at work. It is no concern of mine.”
Yeah, I’m going to enjoy kicking this guy’s ass. I stopped twirling the club and hefted it in my right hand, pointing it at him for emphasis. “You know, I was willing to let the White Stripes thing go. Anyone can be forgiven for ruining a perfectly good blues playlist with a clunker or two. I mean, you gotta throw that stuff in to please your patrons, right?”
The berserker shrugged. “I happen to like The White Stripes.”
“Seriously? As in ‘like-like,’ or you won’t turn the dial if one of their songs comes on the radio?” He gave me a confused look, so I waved the question away. “Never mind. I can even forgive blowing me off at the bar to get a phone number—really, that one can be chalked up to observing the dude code.
“But you used to be human, once. And the fact that you see all those people who pay your bills and keep you in ponytail thongs and chest waxing sessions as expendable, well… that I just can’t forgive.”
“I am only half-human and a demi-god. Your threats and the people you protect mean nothing to me.”
I rolled my eyes. “Whatever. Doesn’t mean you can’t get your ass kicked.”
“You talk too much, druid, and think too highly of yourself. I believe I’ll teach you some humility, along with some manners.” He slapped his hammer against his palm.
“I’m no druid. Now, are we going to dance, or just hurl idle threats?”
He lunged and leapt over the coffee table as he swung that hammer like Thor himself. I sidestepped and struck him across the ribs, then followed through with a backhanded blow that he almost casually blocked with his hammer.
As the two weapons collided, a thunderclap and subsequent shockwave threw me across the room. I bounced off the wall and landed on one knee. By the time I’d collected myself, Valison was walking around the couch, taking his sweet time about it. It didn’t even look like the shot I’d landed on his ribs had fazed him.
He has to be wearing armor. I exerted my will to see through any illusion or magic on him. Sure enough, he wore a set of lamellar armor, not plainclothes. A chest piece covered his entire torso and shoulders, and he wore sturdy metal bracers over his forearms and wrists. The whole getup was hidden by a glamour, one I assumed the witch had cast.
“Sweet hammer,” I commented.
“Thanks,” he replied. “It was a gift from my father. Not as good as my uncle’s, but better than that stick you carry.”
“Meh, it was designed to kill fae, not demi-gods. Still, it’ll do the trick,” I said as I rose to my feet. “That armor you’re wearing isn’t half-bad, either. But you know the problem with wearing armor?”
“I’m sure you’re about to enlighten me, mortal.”
I smiled. “It only protects what it covers,” I said as I ducked under a vicious hammer blow meant to crush my skull.
I countered his attack with a quick witik to his kneecap, a whipping strike I’d learned in the martial art of kali. When done properly, it was too fast to block. It connected. On impact, the bone and cartilage in his knee shattered with a satisfying crunch. As the leg collapsed and his weight shifted, I used the rebound motion to turn the strike into an abaniko, or fan strike. I aimed the blow at his temple, knowing he’d raise his hammer to block it.
Nope, not falling for that again. At the last moment, I changed the trajectory of the attack and struck his elbow, which was unprotected by his bracers. It shattered just as his knee had, and the berserker dropped his hammer to the floor, clutching his elbow with his free hand.
Rather than finishing him off, I stood back and watched as he slid down to the floor in agony.
“Huh. Seems to me like the whole demi-god thing is overrated.”
He gritted his teeth as he hissed a reply. “Fortunate for you that I’m currently under the witch’s spell, and my berserk nature is suppressed. Things would not have gone in your favor, were I in full possession of my powers.”
“Sucks for you.” I slapped the club in my hand and regarded it with appreciation. “Not too bad for a stick, eh? Now, I think it’s time we had us a serious chat about this witch, and where I might find her.”
13
Mr. “I Am A Demi-God With Great Hair” refused to give me any information—at least until I offered to smash his other kneecap… and then did exactly that.
Of course, he threatened me with eternal enmity, blah, blah, blah. Whatever. I’d killed a “god” before—or, at least, my Hyde-side had—so I knew what real power was like. Cade Valison was tough, and hell if I wanted to face him when he went berserk. But he was nothing compared to the Caoránach.
I did consider taking him out instead of
leaving him to seek revenge later. Technically, he was a monster and not human. From what Finnegas had told me, all the deities from folklore and legend were cut from the same cloth. The Tuatha, the Norse pantheon, Greek and Roman deities—they all had similar powers and similar flaws. And they all loved fucking with humans.
That made them fair game in my book.
But I didn’t want some Norse deity tracking me down for killing his kid. Which was why I left him there to moan and heal after I was done with him. Was it a tactical error? Maybe. But I had whipped his ass fair and square, so there was always the possibility he’d leave it alone.
Fat chance, but still.
After I finished interrogating Cade, I tied him up with a mess of parachute cord and duct tape. I hid him behind the couch and locked and warded the door on my way out. Eventually someone would find him—hopefully just not before I hit the witch’s hideout.
Once that was done, I headed over to the coffee shop for some caffeine and to let Luther’s crew know I needed help. I figured I was close to finding the vamp, and if so, I wanted some backup. Plus, it wouldn’t hurt to update my client on how things were going with the case.
Luther wasn’t around, so after ordering the “special brew”—man, that vampire knew how to roast coffee beans—I waited to see if any of his employees would speak to me. After a few minutes of being pointedly ignored, I decided I’d better act on the intel Cade had given me.
Just as I was heading out of the cafe, two hunters from the Cold Iron Circle blocked my path.
The Circle had its headquarters right down the street—in a glitzy, upscale glass high-rise that looked like just another downtown Austin office building. Unbeknownst to the typical Austin resident, the office workers bustling in and out the front doors of that high-rise were actually support staff for the most well-funded and dangerous paramilitary organization in the supernatural world.
The Circle had been a major pain in my side for months now. They’d been harassing me ever since I’d moved to Austin. From what I gathered, they considered me public enemy number one—since I carried a fae curse that made me a walking, talking weapon of mass destruction.
