by Alex Gates
“I-e,” she said, “and I’ll put it on the girl’s tab. We’ll chalk it up to the cost of standing on my bar.”
I clapped my hands together and rubbed my palms. “You pick the poison.”
All in all, our plan to harass women had worked, despite my initial bumbling and stumbling with Dakota. Nearly a decade of not talking to strange women at bars had spread a coat of rust over my abilities—and I didn’t have many women-oriented abilities to begin with. But with the help of tequila, I think I had navigated a major disaster quite well… especially with Elizabeth. The alcohol had loosened my tongue to near fatal levels, but it had also allowed me to pull some quotes that Callie and I had spent a lot of time discussing.
Callie was, by all measures, as opinionated and outspoken as they came. Did her eagerness bully me into listening to her ideas? Yes. Did her incessant need to discuss this shit grate on my moral beliefs that we shouldn’t live life shoving each other around with opinions? Yes, quite a bit. But she also had a good sense of humor and an open mind, so we discussed and debated and grew together. She didn’t overshadow me with her singular thoughts, nor did I freeze her out with my unrelenting stubbornness. We learned to adapt and understand the world through multiple lenses.
Fortunately, the quotes had worked on Lizzie, softening her to me a little. And why the hell not? I was, after all, quite charming when you got enough alcohol down my—maybe your—gullet.
“Charged her well-prices for something a little more top shelf,” Lizzie said, handing me another shot glass.
If I made a habit of pretty women buying me drinks, I would have to build my tolerance a little more. As it was, I still possessed enough clarity to keep my thoughts organized, but whether or not that affected my flapping lips was another story.
“To you, Lizzie,” I said. “And me.”
“To us,” she said, smirking like she knew something I didn’t—but I thought I knew what she thought I didn’t know, which was that she knew who I was but didn’t I knew who she was... wait, that’s hurting my head.
We shot the tequila.
“Excuse me,” someone called to Lizzie from across the bar—a portly gentleman with a doughnut body and jowls that would make a purebred boxer jealous. Lizzie peered at him from over her shoulder. “You,” he said when she regarded him. “You the only one behind the bar?”
“At the moment,” she said.
“Pretty lousy business practice, if you ask me. You’re taking shots with customers, sitting on your phone, and ignoring me. I shouldn’t have to wait this long for a drink.”
Lizzie gnawed on her lower lip for a second. “After one, we stop allowing new customers into the lounge,” she said, defending her actions for some reason. “The other bartenders are cleaning up, taking last orders, and counting inventory.”
I couldn’t take my eyes off her—not because of her mesmerizing beauty, though she was easy to look at. But because she had information about Mel, possibly about Callie, and I had to sit there and twiddle my thumbs and wait for a more appropriate time to speak with her. Well, to interrogate her. To possibly scar up that pretty face until she told me how to find Hecate. And until then, I had to pretend I liked her, all while tolerating some drunk ass-hat taking more of her time for no other reason than because he was pissed at life.
The man glanced at a watch not on his wrist. “Seems to me it’s not quite two,” he said, his voice thick with alcohol. “I’m a paying customer. I shouldn’t have to wait to be served because you want to punch out early and fuck that pretty-boy.”
That pried my attention from Lizzie to the pile of lard passing for a human being. I pointed at myself with both thumbs, then shouted loud enough for the entire bar to hear. The tequila shots and the scotch at Xander’s place and the couple beers had really washed over me. “Wow!” I yelled, standing from the stool. “Enough is enough! I can sit back and listen to you insult this pretentious lounge. I can even tolerate you berating the bar staff. But when you drag this,” I circled my face, “into it, I can’t sit back any longer. This, my tire-shaped friend, is the money-maker.” It sounded better in my head, I promise. I pushed on. “Only two people can call me pretty—my momma and my barber. To anyone else, I’m as rugged as Clint Eastwood.” By the time I finished my rant, I had crossed the distance separating us and stood a foot away from the man.
He hopped off his stool and squared off with me. Though he was about six inches shorter than me, he weighed about a hundred pounds more. My posturing didn’t intimidate him in the least.
I sniffed, scrunching my nose. “Smells like a sweaty ball sack,” I said, cringing at my insult. I allowed myself a little grace since I was out of practice, but I mean, that was middle school stuff. I’d have to start working on my material. Chuckling to play it off, I glanced over my shoulder at Lizzie. “If I hurt him, will I have to leave?”
Rumbling in from behind, Xander wedged himself between me and the man. He shoved us both to arm’s length, then stared right at me, eyes narrowed. “What are you thinking? Are you drunk?”
“I—”
“Save it,” he said. He turned to the portly gentleman. “I apologize, sir.” Xander removed his hand from the man’s flabby chest, stuck it in his own front pocket, and produced a twenty-dollar bill. He set it on the bar, and then regarded Lizzie. “Get this man something to drink, please. As a paying customer, he shouldn’t have to wait, no matter the time.”
“Thanks, Mom,” I said. “Night was just getting fun.”
“We’re leaving.” Xander shouldered me around, facing me toward the door. “Now.”
“Wait,” I said, breaking free from his grasp. “Lizzie, I need that credit card. Oh, and… could I get your number?”
Xander gripped my wrist and tugged on my arm. “Now,” he said again, glaring at me. That dude was like a broken record, repeating himself more times than a parrot.
Lizzie hesitated, glancing at the man who had earned a fresh twenty for his poor manners—way to teach that guy a lesson, Xander. Fucking entitlement. She turned and closed out Dakota’s tab and handed me her card, a receipt wrapped around the plastic. “Customer copy,” she said. “I went ahead and included gratuity to the bill.” She dropped her voice to a whisper, so that only I could hear. “And don’t worry about Mr. Balloon. I’m a big girl.” She bit her lip and sauntered over to the man to take his order.
“You ready now?” Xander asked.
I pulled my arms from his grasp. “You need to cool it with the whole overbearing dad vibe. I’ve managed to survive the past five years without your constant nagging. You would think I could last another night.”
We stepped out of the Snake Head Lounge and onto the sidewalk. The wind had picked up from earlier, and it swept through the street, carrying a brisk temperature.
“I saw you talk to three people,” Xander said after we had walked a few yards from the lounge. “That girl who left. The bartender. And that man you tried to fight. Oh, the bouncer. So, four people.” He looked at the smoggy sky. “You’re drunk, too. I don’t get it, man. Your daughter is missing. We have a lead, and you f—“ he paused, taking a deep breath. “You screw around the entire night. Is this why you couldn’t ever find Callie’s murderer?”
“Fuck you,” I said, a red splattering of paint covering my vision. “How about that?” I sat on the curb just outside the lounge and sighed.
“You’re just quitting? That’s it? You had a bad night, so now you’re done? Giving up?”
“I’m not asking you to hang out,” I said. “You can fucking go. I won’t miss you.”
Xander coughed, and then sat beside me. “You already know I’m not going to do that. Callie meant too much to me. Mel and you still mean too much to me. I don’t care how much you act like a child, how much you want to pout and deflect, I’m here for you.”
“Dude,” I said, “quit coming at me with that mushy stuff.” I actually appreciated his sensitivity and support, but in that moment, I wanted nothing more t
han for him to shut the hell up. So, I tried my best to make that happen. “I don’t remember you being this weird. Have you always been like this?”
“No,” he said. “I used to be like you—angry, frustrated, depressed.”
I gritted my teeth and bit my tongue. He would say what he wanted to say if I tried to stop him or not.
“Then I made my pact,” he continued. “Except, unlike you, I take my vows seriously. I serve my God, capital G, with purpose.”
Have I not gone over Xander’s pact yet? Shit, my bad.
Xander’s pact hadn’t imbued him with magic, like most pacts with the Nephil. He had all the typical superhero enhancement bullshit: speed, strength, stamina, health, blah, blah, and blah. Hephaestus, Ares, and Athena, the Nephil at our university, had all offered him a pact upon graduation. I don’t know of anyone else offered a pact by three Nephil at once. He had spat in all of their smug faces. Instead of accepting their offer, Xander had gone to God and had submitted himself to the Almighty—well, to the closest thing to God. The Archangel Gabriel. It’s an impossible pact to earn, as God and his celestials doesn’t much interfere with in this realm anymore. But somehow, like Noah and Samson and Jesus, like Van Helsing and King Arthur and Cotton Mather, Xander was imbued with strength from Heaven to fight against the darkness. So, he didn’t have magic, but he had the blessed and radiant power of Gabriel and God, capital G, on his side. It made him pretty powerful. I’ve witnessed some of the shit he’s defeated, situations he’s escaped from—shit that no one, not even a Nephil, had any right to survive.
“Holy fuck,” I said, rubbing my eyes, not wanting to hear another sermon from the choir boy. “The bartender’s name was Elizabeth. But with your nose so high in the air, it’s probably pretty difficult to look down on us sinful folk. You probably didn’t notice her arms were filled with sigil tattoos, either.”
“What?” Xander asked, stiffening. “You’re serious?”
“As serious as you are dedicated to reading the Bible every morning and night.” I crossed myself, as if to prove how serious I was. I burped up some bile, then swallowed it and grimaced. “Teletubby was super rude to her, so I thought if I stood up to him, she would be more inclined to trust me, to accept my request for a walk after her shift.”
After a second, Xander grinned, patting me on the back. “You sneaky devil. That’s why you settled and sat here, isn’t it? Instead of storming off like you usually do?”
“You figured it all out, Sherlock.”
He chuckled. “Well, mind if I wait with you?”
“As long as you don’t ask me to hold your hands and pray, I’m fine with that.”
“The power of prayer goes beyond the Father. For someone such as you, with little faith, it can serve as a healthy, mindful way to meditate. To lay out your blessings and your sufferings. To—”
“Nope,” I said, shaking my head. “Go away.” I shoved him, and he leaned over, chuckling. He wrapped an arm over my shoulder. The embrace warmed me, warded me from the darkness.
Then my phone rang.
9
Fishing my cell from my front pocket, I checked the caller ID. Blocked. Xander nodded after I showed him the screen.
“Answer it,” he said.
I tapped speakerphone, so Xander could listen in. “Hello,” I answered. My throat felt tight and dry. My tongue had swelled in my mouth.
“Joseph Hunter?” a male voice asked.
“Yeah?” I glanced at Xander, who stared at my phone’s screen, as if the caller’s face might appear.
“This is Sacramento Sheriff—”
“Excuse me,” another man called from behind me. “Joseph.”
My heart sat in my stomach like an acidic lump. I turned around and saw the portly gentleman from the bar as he stomping toward me, three of his friends in tow. The deputy’s voice had fallen into static on the phone.
“Joseph, are you there?” the deputy asked.
“Yeah,” I said, not taking my eyes from the pissed off patron and his buddies. They formed a wall around me and Xander, brooding over us like trees in a dark forest.
“I’m a detective,” he said, still on speaker phone, “with the Sacramento Sheriff’s Department.”
“We’re at the Snake Head Lounge,” the stocky man standing over me said loud enough for the deputy to hear, though his words were slurred and exhausted from booze.
I lifted a finger and pressed it to my lips, shushing him. Then I shrugged, mouthing, What the fuck?
“You might want to get over here, Joseph isn’t doing too well.” The man smirked at me, and his buddies snickered.
“Joseph,” the investigator said for everyone to hear, “are you okay?”
Xander, finally making himself useful, snatched the phone from my hand and hung up on the deputy. “He’ll call back,” he said. “I’ll take the call. But do something with these guys.”
I provided Xander with my full, admiring attention. “You mean it?” I asked in my most pitiful voice. “You really mean it? I can have this? You’re allowing it?”
Before Xander could entertain me with an answer, a steel-toed boot connected with my ribcage, cracking bone. All my breath exited my body in a giant exhale, and I crumpled onto the sidewalk, rolling off the curb.
My ringtone sounded again, and through misty eyes—no, I wasn’t crying because it hurt, it’s just that sometimes, when I’m in a lot of pain, my eyes sting and water—I saw Xander hold a finger up to the gang. “Give me a second,” he said. “I need to take this.” He stood and slipped through their ranks, and they stepped aside for him. Must be that God thing—deciding to abandon his friend during a public fight.
I moaned, clutching at my ribs. “I think I need to renegotiate my pact,” I said, wishing Hephaestus’s magic could perform little tricks like allowing me to skirt through a line of enemies ready to kill me.
“What?” asked the bull-headed ringleader.
“I said,” I paused, trying to think of something to say. I couldn’t. “Fuck it. I think you broke my funny bone, which is strange, because I always thought it was in my arm.”
While Xander took the call and I had writhed on the ground—feigning pain, of course—I accessed my dwindling magic to partly heal myself. I had never spent much time practicing restoration magic. As a hunter, I never really needed it. Also, utilizing it required a shit-ton of energy—something I preferred to spend on attacking enemies—that often resulted in the death of an untrained restorer. Besides, during my time in the military, a practiced healer was always around to care for the wounded.
I knew enough to snap a bone back in place to continue fighting until I could seek real care. So, that’s what I did before springing off the ground—springing might be the wrong word. I didn’t really leap into the air like a young athlete. I sort of wavered and stumbled. You know, something akin to a drunk, who’s physically and mentally and emotionally spent, trying to hold his head up.
Draco Malfoy and his Slyther-shits must have been a few sheets to the wind, too, because they didn’t react near quick enough to prevent me from standing, which took around thirty-two minutes.
Honestly, I felt more exhausted than I did drunk. I think the healing spell had sapped the last of my reserves. The world tilted and swayed, and I had a hard time standing straight. Draco’s bulbous face smeared across the night sky, breaking into three smudgy heads.
A fist with twenty knuckles smashed into my nose, snapping the world back into focus. Blood poured down my clothes and adrenaline pumped through my veins, allowing a surge of magic.
“Shit,” I said, grabbing my face. “Oh wait. Never mind. I thought this was my favorite shirt, but…” I chuckled. “It doesn’t even belong to me.”
I reached for the new current of energy to enhance my perception and reflexes, then halted. Would using magic to bolster my physical abilities breach my pact with Hephaestus? Then I remembered I didn’t give a shit as that ship had long ago sailed away. The First Law of magic s
tated that I couldn’t use my power to harm Sheep. But I could use a protective ward. Problem was, Hephaestus imbued me with fire magic, and most protection spells involving that element are flame shields of some kind. So, even my warding magic would inadvertently harm the Sheep.
The doughnut man swung at me again, but this time—still without my magically enhanced ability—I dodged easily, sidestepping and slamming my elbow into his forehead. It split open, spilling blood into his eyes and down his cheeks. A nasty affair. He bled like a slaughtered hog—but, in his defense, he sort of looked like one.
His three friends hesitated before jumping at me. They kicked and punched like it was their first time—timid, respectful, not wanting to hurt me. I appreciated their tenderness. One of them bit at my forearm and clawed at my neck. Not to make the experience weird or anything, but I hadn’t experienced teeth and claws since Callie’s death, and I didn’t mind it at all. Well, not at first.
I covered my face with my arms after another punch split my lip. One of the men tackled me. I landed on my shoulder and my head whiplashed against the cement sidewalk as a quick barrage of kicks bludgeoned my torso.
The assault stopped, finding me curled into a fetal position—hey, they say it’s the best way to counter a bear attack. I lowered my arms from my face and glanced up to see the ogreish bouncer from the lounge breaking up the fight. Xander’s bulky silhouette stood behind the bouncer, somehow shadowing him. Had he summoned the man instead of jumping into the brawl? It seemed like something that prude would do.
“Back away,” the bouncer said, clearing bodies.
Still lying on the cool cement, I decided to stay there. Why get up, anyway?
The bouncer faced the gang leader, the chubby man with the bloodied forehead. “What happened here?”
The man, eyes blinking away the blood from his forehead, shook his head, flopping his jowls back and forth. “I don’t know. We were walking out of the bar, and he... he was just waiting for us. You saw him at the bar, the way he threatened me.”
