by Linda Welch
I let go of River and whack on my side. He collapses on his face. Sore and bruised, my hands still burn, so I shift out and back in.
River is propped on his elbows as he watches what again is an impenetrable shadow. He gets the words out on his second try. “What is that?”
I push up from the floor. My legs are unsteady, not from burns because they went when I faded, but from knowing we had a close call. “A demon.”
The dark cloud pulses.
“Go on,” River urges, and coughs. “Get out while you can.”
How chivalrous. He wants me to run, save myself, though it means leaving him. I bite back a sarcastic response because I know he means it. “Get up, asshole. You can walk.” I take his arm.
The cloud contracts, collapsing in on itself, and disappears in a puff of vapor and stink of rotten eggs.
I straighten up. “Damn.” The demon is gone. Good. Took my blades with it. Bad.
“Move, River. We need to get going.” Because the demon is gone doesn’t mean another won’t come through.
I swing around to find River on his feet, staring at me. His gaze scours my body from head to toes, lingering in particular places.
“What are you looking at? You’ve never seen a naked girl before?”
“Not one as perfect,” he murmurs with a lopsided grin. “Though that Betty … ,” and he sighs theatrically.
Snickering after nearly losing your life to a demon seems flippant, but I can’t help myself.
We leave the attic once I’m dressed. Unlike my knives and River’s mask and net, which disappeared with the demon, we still have most of the equipment we rented. I’ll have to reimburse the store only for what we lost.
Remembering the feeling I experienced before, I stop on the next landing. I still feel it and know what it is now. No sound, no smells, the sensation of emptiness in a deserted building.
I turn along the corridor, walk to the first door and try the handle, which is locked.
River is so close behind me, I feel him. “River, those boots look like they can kick that in.” And the door is pretty flimsy.
“Why don’t you walk through?”
I throw an amused glance over my shoulder. “Nuh uh. You’ve seen all of me you’re going to.”
An exaggerated sigh, and his hands on my shoulders gently move me aside.
He kicks the door with one boot. Wood splinters from the frame, the door bursts open and hits the inside wall.
“Nice.”
“Thank you.”
We don’t need to enter the apartment to know it is unoccupied. Like the attic, old wallpaper peels in strips and mildew stains the walls and ceiling. A stained mattress lies on the floor surrounded by paper litter, bottles and cans. A shattered wood crate is in pieces below the filthy cracked window.
“I don’t think any of the apartments are in use. This place has been empty for a long time,” I observe.
“And Mr. Tipola?” He angles over my shoulder.
“Doesn’t exist. I could check public records but I suspect Tipola is a pseudonym.”
“He was good,” he observes. “Convinced me.”
“Me, too. Son of a bitch.”
“It was a trap.” River moves aside as I back out.
“And not the first. Attics are not a demon’s natural habitat. It was summoned, and that’s just the tip of the snowflake.”
“You mean tip of the iceberg.”
“I knew it was something cold. I’ve been here too long.”
I return to the stairwell and start down, and tell River about the hellion as we descend.
“Hellions and demons aren’t the same thing?”
“Hellion. Hell’s minion. Said to be humans who sold their souls to the devil. Demon’s are Satan’s children, born of the Pit.”
“You really believe all that.” His soles scrape on the stairs behind me. “Angels, demons, gods, an actual Devil.”
I smile to myself. I’m repeating what others say, which doesn’t mean I believe it. “I know what we call demons and angels are real. Can’t say where they come from, or if they’re given form by an omnipotent entity.”
“Are we going to the police?” he asks as we reach the second floor.
“What purpose would it serve? They can’t investigate a demonic incursion or go after it to the nether realm. All it would do is put me on their list of folk who create more work for them. If it had attacked someone important, like one of the Triad, that’d be different. They’d make an effort, probably pay a sorcerer to look into it.”
Something tickles the back of my brain, but slides away before fully formed when I try to fasten it.
Exchanging the building’s musty interior for the wet but fresh-smelling street is a relief. Yes, Downside gets lots of rain, but it washes away the trash and noxious aromas.
River sets the unit on the step. “What about this, do we have to lug it back?”
“Leave it, they’ll be by to collect it.” My gaze tracks up the building’s façade. “I don’t understand it. An entire apartment complex, empty?”
Color catches my eye as we stand on the steps. I angle over the railing. There, at the bottom of the steps to the basement, something blue. A lot of something blue. I scuttle down there.
Wide, shining blue tape is wadded into three large balls, one of them stuck to the wall inches above the concrete floor. I can see paper inside the balls, and although it’s torn into pieces and trapped by the adhesive, I’ve seen these posters around Gettaholt enough times to identify a demolition notice.
River leans over the railing. I start up the steps. “This place is scheduled for demolition. Tipola or a crony took down the tape and public notices.”
We walk away and head for the river. River’s eyes are trying to look every way at once.
“Bet you’re wondering what you got yourself into.”
“Nah, I’m good.”
But the weak smile he offers tells me that is exactly what he’s thinking.
He holds his coat collar closed with one hand as we cross the bridge.
“Bet you’re covered in bruises. Does it hurt?”
His mouth twists. “A demon strangled me. Sure it hurts.”
My fingers trail along the bridge’s rain-speckled iron railing. “I thought you’d drop everything.” His inability worries me. What better stimulus can there be than a monster from hell choking you? Is River handicapped?
“You just want me to get naked,” he says, gaze ahead as he strides, perfectly straight-faced.
I snort through my nose.
Chapter Sixteen
The carport’s wooden slats dig in my back as we stand in the shadows.
“What are we waiting for?” River asks.
“Him,” I reply as Jessy leaves his house by the backdoor and strides along a street not much wider than an alley. “He doesn’t miss much of what happens in the street. Tonight is his weekly darts match at The Cricket; he’ll be gone two hours or more.”
Which gives us ample time to get Castle’s arsenal.
The law says a deceased person’s financial assets go to the City and his possessions to auction when he has no next of kin. The process is on hold for two weeks on the off chance a hitherto unknown relative turns up, or a will is found. The window of time is almost up.
Our weapons belong to the partnership. I won’t let them go to the City or police.
Refusing to let my feet lag, I stride across to Castle’s house. Though Castle lives on in another form, the memory of his death is rooted in my mind and lingers in this house. But I shall not falter. My hands will not tremble as I insert the key in the lock.
“Why don’t you go through the door invisible and let me in?” River asks.
“It is so not invisible.” Then the sparkle in his eyes catches mine. I give him a look. “Give it up, River. I’m not going naked for you again.” I grin into his face. “Tell you what, you do it, I’ll do it.”
His turn to snort.
&
nbsp; “Anyway, we’ll be loaded down when we leave,” I add. “We need mass to carry what I’m here for.”
Inside, the house smells strongly of pine cleaner. City workers have scoured the place; they’ll soon be back to box Castle’s possessions. Evidence in the home no longer concerns Gettaholt when money can be made. Castle’s case folder will be filed in some musty storage room. His death will be forgotten.
But not by me.
I make the panel slide open.
“Awesome!” River exclaims.
“We’re taking the lot.” I kneel and unzip the duffel bag.
“Are we stealing?”
“It belonged to our partnership. That makes it mine. Anyway, if the police find this, it’ll never go to auction.”
I haul Castle’s padded duffel from the bottom of the closet. We remove weapons from pegs, brackets and the shelf and stow them in the two bags.
River takes a steel box from the floor and opens it. A big .500 handgun with a seven-inch barrel nestles in molded foam.
“We don’t want that.”
He removes the gun and inspects it. “Why not?”
“Guns are curiosities, you won’t find many Downside.” I lower a mace into the duffel. “Something about the magic. They’re not reliable. As soon as backfire in your face than hit your target.” Nobody understands why firearms are undependable. They’re powered by combustion but so is a lot of factory equipment and it works fine. Maybe Downside magic doesn’t like guns.
“I like curiosities.” He replaces the gun in the case. “Is there ammo?”
His stubborn streak rivals mine. “Guys and their toys. Leave it.”
He looks like he wants to argue, mouth locked, eyes narrowed. I ignore him and continue transferring stuff to the bags. When I lift my head a minute later, he stands just inside the living room.
“Don’t - ” I begin, a familiar queasiness in my belly. I clench down on the words. It’s a room, nothing more. No blood, no body. Cleaners have made it respectable for the auction.
I get up off my knees and touch River’s sleeve. “Come on, we should go.”
“Castle told you everything you know about Downside,” River says as we tromp through the square. Delivery vehicles constantly streamed through here during business hours but it’s deserted now. Except for the road in and out, warehouses make a solid wall either side. Broken by huge double doors and loading ramps, their old chipped brick walls loom three floors high. We trudge along, passing in and out of shadow and yellow lamplight.
“I picked up some, but yeah, most came from him.”
“He was your mentor. Are you my mentor?”
“Someone has to stop you making a fool of yourself.”
He sighs heavily. “I’m not an idiot, Rain.”
“I know you’re not. But you’re new. Avoiding trouble is easier than having to extricate yourself from it.”
“Rain! Heads up!” Castle yells.
I decelerate as a figure steps into a pool of lamplight up ahead. It looks like… .
Did I say trouble? I lower my duffel to the cobbles as another werekin slinks from the shadows, and another. Werekin in the city. Not right. Not good.
“Rain,” River warns in a whisper.
I inch around. Two more are behind us.
Looking over my shoulder, I grope in the bag. The group of three moves with an unhurried, ungainly, loping gait. Their faces become visible as they close with us, the long stringy, greasy hair, hollow cheeks and yellow cat’s eyes with vertical irises and murky sclera. Though naked except for filthy clouts cupping their genitals, they look like human men with bulky hunched shoulder, broad chests and muscular arms which end in blunt-fingered hands tipped with horny yellow nails.
Werekin are timid ferals, but these are near enough to detect madness in their eyes and spittle drizzles from their mouths.
One crooks his head and snarls. Their fingers are splayed to slash and rend.
My instinct says fade out and disappear, but River can’t do that yet.
“We have a problem,” I breathe. I go down on one knee to unzip the duffle. “Find whatever you can use.”
“What are they?”
“Werekin.”
I come upright holding the sword I used on the ghouls. Lamplight glints in the werekins’ eyes and off my angled blade. Praying River can hold off the other two until I’ve dealt with these, I run toward the three and veer at the werekin on my right who is a little apart from the others. Powerful legs springboard him from the ground and he leaps at me.
Slashing, I cut a shallow groove in a reaching arm. Rotating on one foot, the blade curves to slice across his collarbone. He howls and grabs at me, nails barely missing my face.
My ears strain for sound behind me. Nothing, no scuffling or snarls.
Holding the sword two-handed, I slice up and across the werekin’s belly. He collapses to the ground as I back up. Got to get to River. Please, gods, if you’re listening, don’t let them have him.
Fingers snag my collar. I gasp and throw myself sideways, desperate to keep my blade apart from my body as I go down. A dark shape crouches over me as I come up on my knees.
I bring up my sword, but it feels wrong. I’m not balanced. The sword, usually an extension of my arm, is a dead weight in my hand. You left him. That’s River back there, not Castle. He doesn’t have Castle’s skill.
I push up with one heel. The werekin circles me, the other closes in.
Boom. Boom.
The noise hits the walls and throws itself back at me. I can’t help flinching and my grip on the sword slips. Curved hands hook in my shoulders and lift me off my feet. I stare into sulphurous eyes and a slavering maw.
Boom.
The werekin jerks. Blood sprays my face and chest. It crumples and I tumble down with it. My blade clatters on the ground.
Boom.
Stunned, I scrabble for my sword, touch metal, find the hilt and wrap my fingers around it. Rolling on my back, I hold it vertical in defense. Have to get back on my feet.
“Rain,” River says. “Easy, Rain.”
I blink warm sticky liquid from my eyes. River stands over me, the big handgun in his lax grip, the smell of cordite strong in heavy night air.
He presents his hand. I stare at it.
“They’re dead,” he says. “We’re okay.”
My mind starts working again. I swipe at my eyes, look at the red on my skin. Ignoring River’s hand, I clamber to my feet.
The werekin who grabbed me is missing the side of his head. Another werekin splays on his back, limbs thrown out, with a big charred hole in his chest.
I rotate on my soles. The two werekin I left to River are on the ground fifteen feet away. Gaze skittering over the square, I cross to them. He shot one through the head, the other in the throat.
“Bet you’re glad I brought the gun along.” He’s not even short of breath, while my lungs try to heave out of my body. He stood his ground and fired. I put my body through physical contortions.
My pulse hammers. Anger clips my words. “What were you thinking?”
His grin fades. “I think I saved your life.”
I close my eyes and rub my forehead, the werekin’s blood tacky on my skin. “You could have killed yourself with that thing.”
He gets the stubborn look I’m becoming familiar with. “But I didn’t. I don’t know how to use a sword or any of that other stuff. But the gun is right. I knew I could use it. And I’d say I’m pretty good with it.” Backbone stiff, radiating indignation, he goes back to his duffel and puts the gun in its case.
Am I supposed to be grateful? I’m grateful. “Thanks,” I mumble, then lift my chin and project my voice. “Thank you. I couldn’t have taken them all.” And protect you at the same time.
“You’re welcome,” he mutters as he stands with the duffel in hand.
“We should go. Gunshot is uncommon and probably heard streets away. The police will come.”
But first… . Mewling,
the werekin I gutted curls around himself, intestines spilling over his hands.
“Turn around, River.”
“Rain.”
“Turn. Around,” I snarl. “Please.”
He spins on his heel.
I’ve never given the mercy stroke before, I don’t want to, but there is no saving this poor thing and I can’t leave it to die in agony. I look down at the werekin and lift my sword. “Forgive me.”
On my knees, I bend over the shower stall, swishing water, trying to rinse off flakes of blood stuck to the ceramic sides.
River leans on the doorframe, arms folded over his chest. “I thought I heard someone yell back there.”
I present a thoughtful face. “Me, too. Did you see anyone?”
“No.”
“Another mystery. Whatever - it was timely.”
He’s silent for a moment, a faraway look in his eyes. His shoulders drop. “Werewolves.”
“Werekin, not werewolves. They’re not humans who change into animals. What you saw tonight is what they are. Someone way back called them werekin because they look something like popular mythology’s werewolf, and they’re so primitive I doubt they have a name for themselves. They are rare, and I’ve never heard of any in the city. They keep to isolated areas - normally, anyhow.”
“You regret killing them.”
I do. The poor things were used. They didn’t have a choice. “Werekin are a perversion of nature, beasts with human limbs and purely animal instincts. They keep out of the cities. They avoid people. Coming after us doesn’t make sense, unless they were spelled, bound to someone who controlled them.
“Whoever is after me has gone from calling up demons to using Downside’s citizens. Demons don’t mind being controlled when they’re ordered or allowed to terrorize and kill. Using werekin is heinous. They’re weak-willed, easily manipulated and usually avoid other entities. What was done to them is pure evil. So no, I didn’t want to kill them.”
“We didn’t have a choice.”
My voice is leaden. “No, we didn’t. They would have torn us apart.”
