Dead Man Walking: Nick Holleran Series A Paranormal Investigator Book One

by David Green

  The damp Fall heat dogs my steps, and I’m glad to get inside the Styx with its air conditioning, a fact that staggered me the first time I entered. It doesn’t look like the kind of place that’s even heard of air con. More than once over the years, I’ve thanked my lucky stars Ruby reached out to me. She keeps her ear to the ground for news, and a bar is a prime location to build a network.

  I still remember the email that landed in my inbox one afternoon: ‘Mr. Holleran, meet me at the Styx. You’re gonna get yourself killed. Again.’

  I laughed it off at the time, but I never deleted it. Just kept reading it until the day I decided I needed to know more. That damned curiosity again.

  Let’s just say, knowing Ruby has kept me living my second life. She gives good advice. Direct, but sound. And she doesn’t suffer fools.

  Four or five people are sitting with bottled beer as an angst-ridden teenager plays acoustic guitar on stage, dyed raven hair falling like curtains over his forehead. I smile at the sight of one of the Styx’s resident demons, Cyril, sitting in rapt attention. He’s immense, his muscled bulk covered in red and purple scales. His lower teeth protrude from his jaw like tusks. If the human patrons of the bar knew Cyril—I don’t know who named him—sat amongst them, they’d run a mile. And then keep running for one or two more.

  See, the living don’t see his kind at all. It’s like their minds don’t comprehend demons and the like. Their eyes just slide over them. The chair Cyril sits in would stay ‘empty’ all night, and no one would mention it. No one would even try to sit at his table. It’s like some subconscious self-preservation instinct. A demon wouldn’t react well to some human sitting in its lap.

  Sometimes, I think the living do know on some level; I remember the times I’d get goosebumps or feel anxious for no reason at all. You know that old saying when you’d shiver on a roasting day? ‘Someone’s stepped on my grave.’ That didn’t happen, but maybe a demon took a seat next to you on a bus.

  The smile fades from my face as I remember something else. Cyril’s the reason I ain’t called into the Styx for a while. I lower my head and take a couple of steps back, hoping the Robert Smith-wannabe on stage keeps the demon’s attention.

  Nodding at Guz, the barman, I step behind the bar and through a door with a sign that reads: STAFF ONLY. It ain’t really for people who work at the Styx. It leads downstairs, and it’s the place for dead-friendly folk like me and the rest of Hell.

  What I grew to understand is that the demons, ghosts and all the creatures of Hell have existed thousands of years. And these folk, just like humans, have their vices. They eat, drink, shit and curse like the rest of us. Ghosts even have their own liquor. Tasted it once. It’s like paint stripper. Felt it tearing up my insides as I gulped it down. Never again, let me tell you.

  Not all of them can drink right away. It takes concentration and will to hold a glass. But once they learn, they drink. Why the Hell not?

  They have their own society, their own laws—I’ve worked more than one case on behalf of demon kind in the last five years—and just like humans, there are demons and ghosts I like. And there are assholes. Cyril is the former, but I’m thankful to avoid him as I slink down the stairs to Styx proper—me and his ex, Francis, disagreed a while back, and it didn’t end well for Francis. Sometimes jobs just go that way.

  Ruby’s behind the bar, wiping down while she chats to some washed-out stiff. She sees me and her eyes narrow. Nice, just the reaction I like to get from people.

  The joint isn’t busy. Two Strengthened ghosts I don’t recognize are talking by the jukebox—Helter Skelter by The Beatles is playing, which I’m sure would give old Charlie Manson a giggle—and, much to my delight, a Nephilim sits at the bar, nursing a bottle of Scotch.

  Nephilim are an enormous deal, highest on the hierarchy of Hell, just below Lucifer himself and no one ever sees him. The children of angels and the daughters of men, they’ve been around since the Eden days. So Sunday School used to preach. Only they weren’t wiped out like we were told. God granted them clemency and, in return, the Nephilim sided with their fathers against Heaven. And, when their commander-in-chief fell, the gates closed to them forever. My buddy, Harry tells me the Bible had the story mostly right, and he’s read up on a lot of lore in his time.

  Always a touch of truth in legends, my boy, he says.

  I should check in with him and Maeve; it’s been too long.

  It’s part of my mission to discover the truth. A Nephilim would be an ideal next step, but they don’t talk much. Haven’s home to two of them, and this one’s name is Suraz. I’ve exchanged nods with him, and I’ve only ever glimpsed the other. Her name’s Absin and she keeps to herself for the most part.

  They’re the saddest creatures I’ve ever laid eyes on, and seeing as we’re all living in Hell, that’s saying something.

  Suraz’s raven hair flows to his waist above his gold-plated armor, and his skin is the same color as his hair, like obsidian. Strapped to his back is a golden sword, about six feet in length. The sight of it’s enough to make most folk in Hell fall into line if they’re acting a little rowdy.

  It should. I mean, imagine getting impaled by that thing.

  I take a seat a few stools down. He glances at me. His deep yellow eyes hold eons-worth of sorrow. I nod and he inclines his head, then turns back to his bottle. Like I said, everyone in Hell has their vices. Suraz has seen Heaven, and can never return. No wonder he’s drinking.

  Rosa used to say I held too much sadness in my blue eyes for her to stand. That seems a long time ago now. A wave of longing rises in my guts. My thoughts often turn to Rosa when I least expect it.

  If anyone would know the answers to the questions that plague me—Hell on Earth and why—a Nephilim would know. They’ve been around since the beginning, spoken to everyone from the top to the bottom. Problem is, they don’t do a lot of talking. And when they do, it’s not to answer questions from the likes of me.

  Still, I might have something Suraz wants. I saw Heaven, just five years ago. Felt its glow. Maybe we can trade, a story for a story. A little glimpse of what he’s been craving all this time. I just don’t know how the Hell I’m going to articulate the sensation of going to paradise.

  “Holleran,” Ruby says, breaking my concentration. She’s frowning at me now. She’d been gazing at Suraz until a second ago. Easy to understand; a Nephilim’s beauty surpasses all else. “Cyril’s upstairs. I’m sure you noticed. Is there going to be trouble?”

  I spread my hands and give her my best grin. Lopsided and boyish, I’m told. “Me? Come on, Rubes. You know I ain’t like that. He didn’t see me come in. American Goth Idol upstairs has his attention for the night. I just need some info, that’s all. And a drink?”

  She cocks her head, raises an eyebrow. Ever the skeptic. “Right. Long time, no see. What can I get ya?”

  “Coffee, please,” I reply, slipping my jacket off. “So. What’s new?”

  “Plenty. Wendigo sightings out in the country. Notice how the sky seems darker at night than it used to? Red during the day too. Something’s in the air, Holleran.”

  I nod in agreement as she moves to the coffee machine. She’s tall, about five-ten, with bright pink hair at odds with the deep wrinkles around her eyes and on her forehead. Ruby pulls it off, though. She’s what I imagine a sixty-six-year-old PJ Harvey would look like. I take another glance at Suraz. His unfocused stare into the bottom of his bottle suggests he’s in a different time zone. Or a different reality.

  “Working a fresh case?” Ruby asks, placing black coffee in front of me.

  “Maybe,” I say. “What’ve you heard about Dean Wheeler’s death?”

  “Wheeler? That crook who shot you?”

  I nod. I sense Suraz shift. Out of the corner of my eye, I can see him watching me. Guess he wasn’t as far away as I thought.

  “Yeah, the one and fu
cking only. Heard he died four weeks back but tried to ignore it. Water under the bridge, right? His widow came to me today, said her dead husband was stalking her from beyond the grave, that he followed her to my office. She wasn’t wrong either. I saw his spirit out in the street. Hasn’t Strengthened yet, but you can bet this whole joint he will, and the cocksucker will be trouble.”

  “Wait,” Ruby says, holding her hands up. “How’d she know Wheeler trailed her to your place? Could she see him?”

  I do a double-take. The ghosts of my past with Wheeler had clouded my thought process. How had Michelle Wheeler known?

  “That’s a damn good question,” I say. “I mean, she said she could sense him. She’d done her research so I didn’t think much of it. You think she could see him?”

  I don’t find out what Ruby thinks. She’s staring beyond me, her mouth making a perfect O shape.

  Shit.

  Sulfurous breath smothers me as an iron grip seizes my collar and lifts me into the air. I fly into the far wall and hit the ground hard. The impact against the concrete breaks at least one rib and I fight to breathe as the vice closes around my lungs. Before I realize what’s happening, I’m picked up again and pressed against the wall.

  Cyril’s four eyes, black and glinting, are inches from mine. His furious, brimstone-tainted breath fills my nostrils. He holds me with one hand, and presses the claws of his other into the stubble on my neck.

  “Cyril,” I say. “Listen, I’m sorry about…”

  “Shut the fuck up,” the demon barks, his voice a mixture of rage and grief. “Don’t you even say his name.”

  I hoped he wouldn’t see me. A fool’s fucking hope. Like I said, Cyril was the reason I hadn’t darkened the Styx’s door for a while.

  See, Francis and Cyril were familiars. Not lovers like in human terms. It’s deeper than that. They mate for all of existence, and demons live a Hell of a long time. They connect on every level—physical, mental, spiritual. They know each other’s thoughts, each other’s pain. It’s a bond too visceral for a human to understand.

  A few months back, my source at the local PD passed me a missing persons case that had gone cold. Five missing persons, to be exact. All girls, all sixteen years old, all from the Greater Haven area, and all reported missing on a full moon night.

  Turned out old Francis had sacrificed them, looking for a way to speak to Lucifer himself. Harry tells me it’s possible, but neither of us have ever come across a soul who’s done it. Satan keeps to himself.

  Blood sacrifice is nasty business. By the time I found Francis, it was too late to save the girl. He’d ripped her to pieces. Only bits and blood remained. I did what I had to do. Cyril would have felt Francis’ destruction. Felt it deep.

  “Had no choice, Cyril,” I snarl, inching my fingers towards the Ruger-57 at my waist. Normal bullets wouldn’t do much against a demon, but the ones doused with holy water in my magazine would pack a punch. “He murdered five girls. The bloodlust had him. He’d have ripped me limb-from-limb. I know you don’t want to hear that, but Francis forced my hand. I had to Expunge him.”

  I’m right. It isn’t what he wants to hear. He wants his partner back. Failing that, he wants to watch me bleed. With a growl, he draws his claws back, ready to tear my throat out.

  “Stop.”

  It’s like a whisper, but the command reverberates inside my head, almost to the point of pain. My fingers had already found the revolver’s handle, but they stay there, unable to move. I look past Cyril and see my savior, Suraz, standing as tall as the monster holding me. His golden eyes burn into mine, his mighty sword gripped in both hands, point scraping the tiles on the floor. My instincts scream at me, tell me to look away, but I can’t. Suraz’s focus is like a force of nature. Stronger, even.

  “Is this true, demon?” he asks, soft voice hard as titanium.

  Cyril snarls, but has no choice but to answer. The Nephilim’s will forces him to speak. When Suraz and his kind want to know something, only Lucifer himself can withstand them. And maybe Charon, that sonofabitch.

  “Yes,” he bites out, saliva dripping from his maw. “But Expunging? He’s gone, Suraz. Forever.”

  For a moment, I pity the demon. I could never comprehend his loss. Expunging wipes a creature from existence. It doesn’t work on humans, but makes a ghost or demon vanish, with no chance of returning.

  It’s not something I enjoy doing, but it’s an ace in the hole. When I Expunged Francis, Cyril would have felt his partner’s confusion, his fear as he stared into oblivion. Then…nothing.

  Where his bond with Francis once lived, emptiness would have replaced it.

  My empathy ends as, with a snarl, the demon takes a swipe at me.

  Suraz is faster. Like a blur, he drives his golden blade into the demon’s back and through his chest. Ichor spatters my blond hair, streaking it black and stinking of sulfur. Cyril’s grip loosens, and I slide to the floor. The demon copies me and, a second later, his decapitated head bounces off the tiles, tongue lolling between his tusks and lifeless eyes staring toward Heaven.

  “Some advice, human,” Suraz murmurs, his whispers beating at my skull. “You play a dangerous game in our world, but I see in your eyes you cannot stop yourself. Tread with care. Ruby is correct. Something is amiss, and it troubles me.”

  With that, the Nephilim turns and strides for the exit. I look at Ruby over Cyril’s perforated corpse. She sighs and points at the body.

  “Jesus fucking Christ, Nick, I thought you said you wouldn’t cause any trouble. You just got my best customer killed.”

  “I thought I was your best customer.”

  She considers for a moment. “Tell you what. Help me clean up this mess and I’ll think about it.”

  ILL OMENS

  Cleaning up after a Nephilim impales, then decapitates, a demon of Hell is just as fun as it sounds.

  “So, Dean Wheeler…” Ruby says. I grunt in reply.

  We’ve talked only a little since Suraz made Cyril a head shorter. Thick, black blood stains the floorboards, and I’m covered in it. Its sulfurous smell lingers, like someone’s pushing a finger down my throat. Ichor crusting into my hair and skin is not a pleasant sensation.

  “Yeah,” I say, hoping that speaking might distract my nose. “Dean fucking Wheeler. You know the story. Five years back, I had a job to trail him. Didn’t get much from him, except three to the chest. Tried to forget about the sonofabitch after that. You know anything I don’t?”

  Ruby stands with a sigh and rolls her neck, working her shoulders. “This fucking blood’ll stain for weeks,” she says, tossing her mop into the filth-encrusted bucket. “I’ve probably heard what everyone else has heard about Wheeler. The family’s notorious, Dean in particular. Drugs, guns, girls. Hard to find items. Reckon they knew him as far as Seattle but that’s neither here nor there. What’ll concern you is, two or three years back, he came snooping around upstairs, bothering Guz about some ‘secret’ bar for ‘certain’ types of customers. ‘VIPs’ he kept calling them. I dug a little. Always do when people come by asking questions. Word is, Dean Wheeler took an interest in the supernatural. Now, they say suicide finished him, but a piece of work like that taking his own life? No, I’m not buying it. Not a chance.”

  “This is getting too fucking interesting,” I mutter, reaching for a cigarette. I tried vaping after I died for a while, but what’s the point? Not going to get me to Heaven any quicker. “I guess it makes sense. Someone must have clued Michelle in on our world. I mean, there’s plenty of folk out there who believe in spirits, creatures and things, right? But she did her homework after she suspected her dead husband started following her, and when I confirmed it, she wasn’t surprised. Not by a long shot. She fucking knew about Hell, and here’s me, too wrapped up in Dean goddamn Wheeler to notice. Doesn’t change a thing though. It’s been weeks, so Wheeler’s spirit is still w
orking on instinct, but if he’s following her already, I don’t think I want to leave it till he Strengthens to find out what his unfinished business is.”

  “That leaves the wife as your lead,” Ruby says, with a nod.

  “Yes, it does,” I drawl. “She knows more than she’s letting on. My guys tell me the cops and Wheeler’s old associates are watching her too. Think I need to pay her a visit. Plus, wherever she is, her husband won’t be far behind. Need me to stay and help some more?”

  Ruby laughs. It’s a sound full of heart. She always looks on the bright side of Hell. “Go. You’ve not done much more than spread poor Cyril’s blood around the place. Going to miss that guy, but that’s life, right?”

  I stand with a grimace that’s almost a smile and retrieve my jacket. Ruby calls after me as I head for the stairs. “Nick? If the state of Hell worries a Nephilim, I’d be extra careful out there. Something has him spooked.”

  Spooked. Good one.

  “Hey, it’s me. I’m always careful.” She rolls her eyes. Fair response, all things considered. “Thanks, Ruby. See ya around.”

  Throwing her a wink, I leave the Styx. It’s time to find out what in Hell is going on.

  …

  My smartphone tells me it’s just past 10 p.m. Michelle Wheeler should be at home, and lucky for me I know where that is. I staked the place out once or twice before dying in that alley—an enormous mansion on the outskirts of Haven—but intuition tells me I’m going to need to prepare before I head over there.

  Ruby’s right: If a Nephilim’s worried, we should all be worried.

  I have Michelle’s number. It’d be easy to call her, but I want to look into those beautiful eyes of hers when she lies to me again. It’s a fetish of mine.