Legion (Southern Watch Book 5)

by Robert J. Crane

  “Almighty,” Barney Jones said into the breach, and all hell followed the pastor’s words.

  “You can’t—”

  “Damned right, oughta drag his ass outta office right this second—”

  “Crazy as shit—”

  “I ain’t even joking about them doormats, Nathan, you asshole, I want—”

  “Like trying to change horses in the middle of jumping the Grand Canyon.”

  “What do you reckon?” Sam Allen leaned over to Braeden as shit sluiced on toward the fan and parliamentary procedure went right out the window again and everybody started yelling at once.

  “Hell, I don’t know,” Braeden said, trying to figure it all out. He looked down at his hands, covered in black stains that even the normal helping of Zep TKO couldn’t quite get out, and sighed. “Maybe this is too much to hope for, but I’d just like the murdering to stop.”

  “You said it,” Sam agreed. “Though there’s other funny stuff going on here, too.” He nodded at Erin Harris up on the stage, on her feet, face red, shouting at the top of her lungs. Braeden couldn’t hear what she was saying over the chaos, but he didn’t need to. He could read lips well enough to tell when someone was dropping the f-word every two seconds. “She went down Mount Horeb not that long ago, did you know? I hauled off the cruiser after she fucked it up.”

  “Did you?” Braeden didn’t look at Sam, switching his attention to Arch Stan, who was on his feet as well, behind Erin Harris, but about a hundred times calmer. Braeden had kinda had an eye on Erin lately. She was cute, seemed nice, but he didn’t exactly get a lot of opportunities to date. Hell, he wasn’t even sure he was ready to date. His daughter was only four, after all—Abilene Tarley, though he called her Abi—and her mother had only been gone a couple years. Still, a man in his position tended to notice things like a pretty girl crossing his path, couldn’t help it, really, especially when he worked with two other guys and a woman who was more like one of the guys than the guys themselves. Braeden had his own business to focus on. “I think you showed me that cruiser when I came to your junkyard, Sam.”

  “I did,” Sam said. “It was pretty fouled up, huh?”

  Braeden could vaguely recall. “Looked like it fell down a mountain, yeah.” The pretty deputy bellowing from the stage in front of him was at odds with the state of that cruiser he’d seen. It was the sort of wreck that nobody walked away from, he would have figured.

  Jennifer, his wife, certainly hadn’t, and her car hadn’t looked nearly as bad as that cruiser. She died anyway, though.

  “Weird shit going on around here, man.” Sam was observing the chaos unfold around him, and that donkey was sure making his way through the audience. Braeden watched it all with mix of fascination and disgust, but he couldn’t tell which was stronger.

  *

  Reeve met County Administrator Pike’s eyes as the yelling fest raged on. The man stared straight at him, cool as cucumber, with nothing like the face he’d presented to the sheriff only a week or so ago when he’d come to the office to offer his support. Reeve looked at him, watched the man push some of his perfectly coifed hair back, even though it was wet with enough gel to hold in place against a tornado, or that demon that had come through the town last week.

  Pike looked like he was the only one that hadn’t been completely blown away by his own pronouncement, though Reeve felt like he was doing a reasonable job of holding his cool. He just stared the man down, a sense of resignation papering over his anger, which was definitely present. He didn’t feel too blindsided, even though he definitely hadn’t seen this coming. This was the politician for you, working in the shadows to stab you in the back, or maybe the sack.

  The roar of all the talking was drowning out the individual voices. Reeve didn’t even know sixty people could be this damned loud. Everyone in the place was on their feet, some howling for his blood, others yelling at their neighbors about why they shouldn’t be so goddamned stupid. There was, of course, yelling back being done, and he figured shots were going to be fired for real in the next few minutes as this got louder and more acrimonious. They might even be fired by him, a round in the air to shut everyone up.

  “How do we make peace in the midst of all this?” Arch leaned in and shouted toward his ear. It was the first clear statement Reeve had heard since the war of words had started with Pike’s pronouncement.

  “I don’t suspect it’ll be quite as peaceable as how it was done at Appomattox Courthouse, but we’ll need to come up with something,” Reeve said, sure his deputy wasn’t going to hear him. He didn’t really need to, because it wasn’t the sort of answer that was going to elucidate anything. More like amuse for a quarter second at best. Maybe shooting a gun in the air was the right idea.

  Barney Jones slammed a Bible down on the back of the chair in front of him, producing a sound like a gunshot, and a couple people went diving for cover. Pike didn’t, Reeve noticed, but he did snap around like everyone else to look for the source of the sound. “Well, all right, then,” Jones said.

  “Let’s wrap this up,” Reeve said, taking advantage of the moment of silence offered to jump right in. “One thing, and then we’re done with this meeting.” He shrugged, by now just worn out from the realization that an awful lot of people he’d known and trusted now thought he was out of his damned mind. That was probably how Arch felt a few weeks ago, though Reeve didn’t much care to admit it right this moment. “I can see there’s a division here, and obviously the county administrator has his own plan in place to make things right as he reckons them. I expect we’ll see that election in the next couple weeks.” He held up a hand to stay any over-exuberant protestations or exultations, and for once, it worked. “I got my own plan, of course, but I don’t see any reason to waste any more of y’all’s time if you’re firmly in the camp of ‘Get Reeve the fuck outta here.’” He took a deep breath. “So … if you just want to raise your hand if you believe me, and are willing to try and help in some way … well, I’d greatly appreciate it.”

  He stopped talking, and the room fell into what felt like a real reluctant silence. Barney Jones raised his hand immediately, as high as he could, and so did Melina Cherry, God bless her soul, as well as Casey Meacham, the little pervert. Molly Darlington was practically standing on her tip-toes with her hand high, like she was trying to get chosen to give the answer in class, and Mike McInness was standing with his hand raised as well, though more sedately. There were others of course, but a lot of sullen faces in between, a lot of suspicion from people he would have invited to a barbecue only a week ago. Addison Longholt had her hand up, but next to her Pat from the Surrey Diner was sitting with his arms crossed, looking like someone had pissed in every kind of breakfast cereal on his menu. Gunther Sweeney was stroking his grey mustache without a hand raised anywhere, and Sam Allen was whispering right in Braeden Tarley’s ear, both of ’em with arms folded.

  “Thanks, y’all,” Reeve said, giving ’em a nod even though he damned sure didn’t feel grateful to see more than half the crowd thought he was off his nut. “If those of you interested in helping would please stay for a minute, those of y’all who think I’m out of my goddamned mind can go on about your lives now.”

  And so the meeting broke up, and thankfully not with nearly the acrimony it had started and nearly ended with. Part of that, he figured, was down to the fact that Pike was out the door before everybody, before Reeve almost even saw his back. That was a politician for you, though, wasn’t it? Like a goddamned snake slithering off into the high grass.

  *

  Lauren followed at the back of the line of them, demon hunters all now, as they escorted the kid home through the deserted streets of Midian, Tennessee, at sundown. It was a hell of a spectacle, she would have guessed, especially with her carrying a super squirt gun complete with tanks of holy water on her back like she was in the ultimate teenager water battle. The water sloshed behind her with every step, and goddamn, was it heavy. She was bringing up the rear of t
heir little procession, Alison Stan at the fore with the little boy clutched in her arms, his tears visible to Lauren on his petrified face whenever they’d cross into her view. He was a pretty big kid, maybe ten or so, and Alison was plainly struggling some under the burden, but she was too tough to make a peep. Lauren had the measure of her, she thought—but then, she’d thought she had the measure of life before a goddamned passel of fucking demons had leapt out like a jack in the box. Now here she was, wandering through the streets in a little parade with a tank of holy water sloshing on her back, which was not exactly something that had been on her bucket list.

  “Thanks for the assist,” Brian Longholt said, easing up to her, his gladius slung back over his shoulder, flat against his t-shirt. She eyed him as he nodded at her, bringing down that pointed faux-hawk ’do he was wearing as he glanced away from her eyes. “That was going pretty bad before you showed up.”

  “I’m sure you had it under control,” Lauren said coolly. She had gotten a whiff of interest from Brian Longholt and she didn’t want to squirt any gasoline on that brushfire. She thought about squirting him with the gun, but decided against it. While holy water was not a precious resource, it was a useful one, and dousing some geek stoner with it preemptively felt wasteful.

  “Maybe,” Brian conceded, “but you coming in with the heavy artillery and just burning the herd out sure helped.”

  “Uh huh,” Lauren said, focusing on Jacob, whose head was still perched on Alison’s shoulder. He was crying quietly, sobbing almost without sound.

  She could vaguely recall Molly being that young, but only barely. It was almost like a disconnect, like she could sorta remember her that size, but not exactly. She tried to recall the photographs she had of Molly from third grade, but it was kind of a jumble since she’d had one every year, and Lauren had been pretty much up to her neck in med school at that time. She did remember picking Molly up like that, a thousand times, a million times, but she couldn’t recall if her body was ever exactly that size; likely as not, Molly at age ten or so hadn’t expected to be picked up and carried any more than she came running into Lauren’s room in the middle of the night, scared and looking to creep under the covers.

  Then again, Jacob Arnold probably hadn’t expected it until he’d had his evening and maybe his youthful life ruined by a bunch of demons that wanted him for supper and worse.

  “You really do some good work in these fights,” Brian said, stirring Lauren out of her little reverie, and she detected a note of self-pity in the way he said it.

  She looked over at the faux-hawked young man, and her mouth came open and stuck there. What the hell was she supposed to say to that? Good job, champ, with that little peeny sword? She hadn’t watched him closely this round, but she’d seen him go charging into battle with it before, and it looked like someone was always having to run in and save his ass like a damsel in distress. Come to think of it, when she’d rolled up it looked like Hendricks the cowboy was fulfilling the role of knight in dull canvas coat to the poor bastard. “Thanks,” she finally said, in lieu of anything complimentary.

  It wasn’t like there wasn’t anything good about Brian Longholt, she reflected as she looked away in embarrassment. But if everyone had their specific purpose in life, she imagined his was about as far from an actual fight as his penis likely was from actual vagina at this stage in the game. He belonged on a college campus, arguing in the philosophy department over a snifter of brandy or something, lecturing a class in one of those tweed jackets with the stupid-looking patches on the elbows, maybe speaking in an English accent for extra hoity-toityness.

  Not in the middle of a demon fight in a backwater town in Tennessee. Lauren sighed. Hell, she didn’t even belong here, though, did she?

  “Thanks,” she muttered again, still not looking at Brian Longholt, and she tucked her head down and stared at her feet, the water sloshing in the tanks behind her in a steady rhythm, like the wash of the water on ocean shores as they made their way to getting Jacob Arnold home safely.

  *

  The meeting had broken up slowly and awkwardly but fortunately still hadn’t degenerated into anything unpleasant twenty minutes after it was officially over. Reeve was making his way through, talking to everyone who’d remained behind one by one, doing his best to solidify the support he knew he’d need here pretty quick. The air conditioner that had been turned up to account for all the excess bodies in the room hadn’t been dialed back when a whole ton of said bodies had left, probably to the parking lot to bitch and moan about how much he sucked—not that he was dwelling on that overmuch—and now Reeve was starting to feel the chill.

  “I sure do appreciate your support, Miss Cherry,” Reeve said, surprised the words were coming out of his mouth. In the long list of things he’d set out to accomplish when he’d been elected sheriff, nowhere among them was getting the support of the local brothel owner to help wage a war on demons.

  “We do what we can in these troubling times, darling,” Melina Cherry said with that accent of hers, rubbing a hand down his uniform sleeve. He eyed her as she did it and she yanked the hand back. “So sorry. Force of habit.”

  “Yeah,” Reeve said. “Well …”

  “Call upon me if you can think of anything I can do to help,” she said, giving him the nod as she headed toward the exit. She walked with a sway that he had to jerk his eyes away from. She might have been getting up there, but Melina Cherry was still younger than him, and she could seduce a schoolboy right out of his lunch money with minimal effort.

  “Sheriff,” Molly Darlington came up to him, burbling a little with excitement, like she’d had a cup or two of coffee before she’d come to the meeting. Reeve caught a glimpse of her grandmother across the room, talking to Addison Longholt but casting glances at Molly all the while, furtively watching her like Molly was going to evaporate or something. Reeve expected he might have kept a watchful eye on her in Mrs. Darlington’s shoes, too, considering what Molly had already been through.

  “Molly,” Reeve said, glancing around the room again. He’d worked his way through most everybody. Braeden Tarley was lurking back a little ways, scowling. Nothing too terrible, but Tarley had always been kind of a problem kid for him, a pain in his ass back when he’d been on patrol and written the little bastard more speeding tickets than anyone else in the county. There was a mutual antipathy there, so the fact that he was standing ten feet away, scowling only lightly, suggested to Reeve that talking to the man might not be the worst idea. He looked more open and less hostile than Reeve could ever recall seeing him, actually, and it had been a year or two since he’d had to write him a ticket. Maybe he’d grown up after having a kid. Most people did.

  “Sheriff, I need to ask you some things,” Molly said, following along as Reeve started toward Braeden Tarley. He met the man’s eyes and they didn’t waver, so Reeve nodded politely as he threaded through the chairs toward where the diesel mechanic stood.

  “What things?” Reeve asked absentmindedly, crossing the aisle in the middle of the meeting room. He hadn’t eaten dinner and it was catching up to him, stomach rumbling, taste of the turkey sandwich he’d had for lunch kind of bubbling up behind the coffee he’d drunk pre-meeting. It wasn’t having the same effect on him as whatever Molly Darlington had taken, though. Maybe she’d downed one of those energy drinks the kids were taking these days or something.

  “Demon questions,” Molly said, and Reeve halted about three feet from Braeden Tarley, who had shifted his attention to Molly trailing in Reeve’s wake.

  “The hell …?” Tarley muttered under his breath.

  Reeve swiveled slightly to the teenager standing behind him, looking up at him earnestly. “Can this wait?”

  “I’ve just got questions that my mom hasn’t been able to answer,” Molly said.

  Reeve looked back at Braeden Tarley, who was still scowling a little, but splitting it between Molly and himself. “Like?”

  “Lots of them,” Molly said confiden
tly. “Like, are demons responsible for the rapid explosion of portmanteau-ing?”

  “Port-man-what-ing?” Reeve asked, breaking off from Braeden Tarley, who was now sharing his confused look.

  “Portmanteau-ing,” Molly said, plowing along, twitching with energy as she spoke. “You know, like combining two words together to form a new one, like when you take a couple’s names and merge them into one. Like, Brad Pitt and Angelina Jolie are ‘Brangelina,’ Ben Affleck plus Batman equals ‘Batffleck’—”

  “How the fuck should I know if demons are responsible for that?” Reeve asked, bewilderment running together with irritation to whistle out.

  “Fair enough, sure, that’s a tough one,” Molly said, like she was checking off a list. “What about Martin Shkreli? Is he a demon?”

  “Martin who?” Reeve frowned at her. “Molly … not now, okay?”

  “Okay, okay,” she said and lapsed into silence, still standing there behind him, bouncing slightly on the balls of her feet.

  “Braeden,” Reeve said, turning back to Tarley, who was looking just about as put off as Reeve was at Molly Darlington. At least he’d kept his quiet while she was running off at the mouth with geysers of verbal diarrhea.

  “Sheriff,” Tarley said gruffly.

  “You got any questions, Braeden?” Reeve asked, probing gently as he could.

  Tarley took a long breath, looking sideways. “Nothing quite as sophisticated as, uh, port-towing or whatever the hell she said—”

  “Portmanteau-ing,” Molly said. “It’s French.”