Moonstone Shifter (Demon Lord Book 8)

by Morgan Blayde

I said, “What about your law practice in California?”

  “California’s progressive leadership is about to turn it into a worst socialist mess than Venezuela. The tax burden is killing the lawful citizen so the criminal invaders in the state can be catered to. All the smart businesses are fleeing the state before their wealth gets confiscated. The writing’s on the wall.”

  “And your wolf pack?”

  “I’ll be bringing them here. L.A. never was that good a fit.”

  I shrugged. “That’s between you and the Fenris. He has say over all North American werewolves. As for the rest, it’s fine with me. I’m not sleeping with you any more anyway.” I shot a glance at Winter. “What about you? I was under the impression you wanted a job from me. You need one now that you’re an ex-cop.”

  “I figure you’re going to need someone to run security at your new hotel. Also, in case of local trouble, you’ll have someone plugged into the scene that knows all the players and has police contacts.”

  I could tell he’d thought about this. I nodded. “All right. You guys have my blessing.”

  Angie visibly relaxed.

  We worked on our drinks, and watched the traffic in the street and the deepening sky as night set in.

  My phone played The Lion Sleeps Tonight ringtone by the Tokens. Cleo’s favorite song. I answered. “Caine here.”

  Cleo sounded a little strained. “Mr. Deathwalker…I’ve been trying to get a hold of you for days!”

  Mr. Deathwalker? “What’s wrong?”

  “Mom and I have trouble out here on the property. Can you get here, fast?”

  With wolf hearing, both Angie and Winters heard her over the phone. Both set their drinks down and leaned forward, staring intently at the phone I held.

  “What kind of trouble?” I asked.

  The connection dropped.

  “She didn’t call you by your first name,” Angie observed.

  “I noticed. She wanted me to know there was something wrong about the call itself, someone forcing her to make that call.”

  Winters said, “Someone wants you back across the state line, in the middle of nowhere. This reads like an invitation to a hit.”

  “What are you going to do?” Angie asked.

  I smiled. “Walk into the trap, of course. It’s Cleo. She’s counting on me. It’s probably Jamison giving her trouble again. I think we can handle a few were-cat renegades on our own.”

  “We?” Winter’s said. “I’m going with you.”

  I smiled. “You are my security guy here in Vegas, right. That makes this your business. If I wasn’t in town, you’d be going out there all by yourself to handle things. What’s wrong? Scared of a few stray cats?”

  He smiled back, a very predatory look. “Not really, I just hope they put up enough of a fight to entertain me.”

  “Us,” Angie said. “I’m going, too.”

  “Fine.” I stood and pushed away from the table, tossing my trash in a nearby can. “We’ll take the Mustang.”

  * * *

  The little valley sat in a cup of mountains. The desert looked much the same as it had in the 1800’s. I hung in the dark sky, human in form, but with dragon wings out to catch the night winds. I wore my black combat suit, and harnesses for my guns and knives. Approaching the undeveloped property, I’d let Winter take over the Mustang. He and Angie were going in normally. I was the trump card. My job was to get to Cleo and her mom and safeguard them so Angie and Winter didn’t have to hold back.

  Locals out here lived off of dirt roads, in manufactured homes hauled onto their properties. Neighbors were far apart, and many had to have water delivered by truck, those that couldn’t afford to dig wells. Where Cleo’s family wanted to build, they didn’t even have electricity. There was a power pole, just no powerline. It wasn’t a spot I would have chosen to settle. It was almost like Cleo’s mom had come prospecting, maybe with an inkling that the Eyes of Bastet had been lost around here.

  Then again, I make paranoia a way of life.

  A white plastic shelter was new. It had been staked to the ground to defy the stiff winds, held up by poles and ropes, and it glowed like a lighthouse with lanterns inside. There were shadows on an inner wall, two slumped figures tied to chairs: Cleo and her mom, set out like bait.

  Nearby, was a small car and an RV. Jamison would be in the RV with whatever help he’d scraped together. The ballless wonder. And there were probably a few cats lurking near the tent, waiting to pounce on rescuers.

  I willed an adjustment to the DNA of my eyes and they went dragon on me, processing the low light with greater ease. I circled high above, looking for motion, for body heat. And I spotted two fuzzies ducked down in a wash near the tent.

  Bingo.

  Headlights speared along the dirt road that serviced the lot. Someone whistled sharply. Two figures jumped out of the RV. Moving with shifter grace and speed, they sprang to the RV’s roof and crouched low, another part of the ambush.

  The Mustang pulled onto the property, wheels churning gravel along the road, headlights aimed at the RV. Winter got out and stood beside the driver’s door. Angie got out opposite him, matching his posture, arms dangling loose at her sides. Playing me, Winter took out my phone and speed-dialed Cleo.

  I dipped lower over the lit-up tent, hovering silent as Death himself. I expected Cleo’s phone to chime within the tent. The sound came from inside the RV instead. That’s when I noticed that the shadows on the inside of the tent wall hadn’t moved all this time. I dipped even lower—and smelled the spoiled tang of rotting blood. Something was very dead. A dragon’s searing rage burned through my mind. I dropped from the sky, straight into the tent, shredding its plastic out of my way. I smashed poles and struts aside, and by the lantern light, I studied two skinned bodies tied to chairs. Raw and bloody, mostly exposed muscle, one was male, the other female. The desert bugs were enjoying the meal. And there were maggots.

  Apparently, Jamison’s developed an interest in ski-walking.

  My only consolation was that the bodies were days old. Cleo might actually still be alive inside the RV. The chiming in the RV stopped as someone answered Cleo’s phone.

  The two were-cat from the wash were still mostly human, but claws and fangs were out. Cat ears had migrated to the tops of their heads. Scrawny and hissing like alley cats, their tails whipped in their wakes as they sprang at the ruined tent. They should have come in sooner, but my Demon Wings magic confused them, letting them see damage, but not the cause. Still, just blundering around, they might find me.

  I lunged to the side with a beat of my wings for extra speed. From the side, I lashed out with dragon strength. My fist crunched into a skull. The were-cat fell into the other one. They went down in a tangle. I drew and fired one of my Px4 Storm semi-automatics. My protective spell muted the gunfire sounds. Neither attacker survived.

  I fired up the Demon Wings tattoo on my back with golden magic. The spell concealed me as I beat my wings, hopping into the air.

  Winter finished his call. He and Angie went forward at a gentle stroll. The two were-cats on the RV roof jumped down to support Jamison. He dragged a naked Cleo out of the RV and stood with a gun to her head. Hands were tied behind her back, she wore a gag, and had bruises on her face and thighs. In revenge for the loss of his balls, it looked like Jamison had allowed his pals to gang-bang her. She’d been crying.

  I was just glad she was still alive to be rescued.

  “No one move,” Jamison yelled, “or she dies.”

  Winters and Angie stopped between the headlights so they were lost in the glare.

  Jamison squinted, looking under his forearm for some shading. “You’re not Deathwalker! Where’s Deathwalker.”

  Right above you!

  I fell onto Cleo’s back and all but crushed her to the ground. My wings covered us both.

  Losing his grip on her, Jamison cursed. “What the fuck! Where’d she go?”

  We were there, vulnerable at his feet, but his pe
rceptions were turned by magic.

  I heard twin snarls and knew Winter and Angie were making use of my distraction.

  Jamison fired, and missed. One of my headlights went out, telling me what he did hit.

  I used a knife to cut away Cleo’s gag.

  “Caine?”

  “It’s alright, honey. I’m here.”

  “That’s not Jamison. Another skin-walker. In the tent, that’s Jamison and my Mom. Skin-walker’s been playing both roles.”

  Cleo had kept her head. Instead of giving in to the relief of hysteria, she’d made sure I had all the facts I needed. Cleo wasn’t one of the strongest of my warrior minions, but she had a good head on her shoulders.

  I cut her hands free.

  She wormed under me, turning to face me, and pulled one of my Px4 Storms from its shoulder holster. Pushing me clear, she knelt, gun in hand. The smile on her face looked like one stolen from me. Her voice sashed, razor edged. “This kill’s mine.”

  Breaking physical contact with me removed the shelter of my magic, making her visible and audible.

  The skin-walker swung his gun toward her.

  But she had hers already lined up. It bucked in her hand and spat flame, once...twice...three times. Jamison grunted as the slugs ripped into his body. He staggered back. The gun dropped from nerveless fingers. He crumpled.

  The Jamison skin peeled off like it wanted to escape the horror inside. The naked witch underneath was beyond old. Her sparse white hair revealed mottled scalp. There were weeping sores and cancerous growths. She had wrinkles on top of wrinkles, a hundred-and-twenty if a day, and stank as if allergic to water. Her teats were loose flaps of skin on a sunken chest. You could count every rib. One eye was human, pale with cataracts. The other eye was feline, a pale blue ring around a massive black pupil.

  Her hand were arthritic claws, and undefined by skin-walking magic, her spine was humped and crooked. Worst of all was the shaggy patches of coyote and cat fur on her legs and areas of bark-like scales. A stubby six-inch gator’s tail dropped from her scrawny ass. She had also spent too many years as assorted beasts, even crossing genders. She had male and female genitals. If someone had told her to go fuck herself, it would have been possible.

  This was the ultimate danger of skin-walking, abandoning your humanity so long, you never quite get it all back. Her inner demon had become an outer demon.

  Cleo took one look and spun away, grabbing her stomach, dry-heaving. I didn’t blame her. I could only hope this was the end of so extreme a witch clan. They’d dared more than most, elevating evil to an artform.

  We’ve got to make sure this is the last of the clan even if we have to kill off their kids.

  The old woman’s hands relaxed, no longer trying to hold in the blood leaking from her guts. With a last rattling breath, she chanted something that might have been a Navaho death curse.

  I didn’t wait for her to finish, but used my second Px4 Storm to punch holes in her eyes. The back of her head blew out, splattering bone chips, brain, and blood into the dirt.

  “Go wander the spirit trails blind, bitch, never finding the happy hunting ground.” I dropped my concealment spell and took my other gun back from Cleo. “You’re lucky that death curse didn’t land. I’ve taken a few in my time. They aren’t fun.”

  Clio threw herself against me. I caught and held her, watching as Winter and Angie finished breaking the last two were-cat renegades into screaming, bloody pieces. Having seen what was done to Cleo, Angie took particular delight in ripping off her victim’s male genitalia, feeding it to him as he died. Winter ended his cat by nearly twisting off his head.

  By then, I’d soughed off the dragon wings. They’d have interfered with my driving.

  “Anybody left inside the RV?” I asked Cleo.

  She shook her head no while pressing against me.

  “Angie, look inside for anything that can be traced back to Cleo. Don’t leave evidence behind. When you’re done, pack all the dead bodies in the RV. I want it off the road and set on fire. Take that other car, get back to Las Vegas, then see that the vehicle goes to a local chop shop.”

  Cleo pulled her face out of my chest. She looked over at the wrecked tent and the exposed body of her mother. “What about Mom?”

  “Say goodbye to her now. We’ll report her missing and ask the local police to come out here and investigate. They’ll figure out something happened, but probably not what. When the dust settles, we’ll come back from L.A. for a memorial service her friends can attend.”

  “Mom didn’t have many friends,” Cleo said. “She was pretty lonely, most of the time.”

  “Well, I can’t say she didn’t suffer, but those troubles are over now.”

  Cleo nodded. Together, we walked to my Mustang. I got her settled, went into the bags in the trunk, and found her some clothes to wear. She dressed quickly. I took my place behind the wheel and backed the vehicle off the property, onto the dirt road. The Mustang went rolling into the night with a happy roar. Cleo sniffed a little, but remained otherwise quiet until we reached Highway 68.

  “Are you sorry you met me?” I asked.

  She turned surprised eyes my way, blinking away fresh tears. “Why? You’ve never done anything to hurt me. My life is better for knowing you.”

  “Yeah, but bad things happen to those that hang around me. I’ve thought, sometimes, that I’m like a walking curse.”

  Her face hardened with anger. “You, sir, are an idiot. You can’t take the blame for all the evil in the world. I won’t let you.”

  I smirked at her. “You are one tough bitch.”

  “I am, and don’t you forget it.” She looked down at her hand, the one that had stolen my gun to gut-shoot a witch. “Oh, damn.”

  “What,” I asked.

  “I broke a nail.”

  We drove on in peaceful silence, making a stop at the station where I’d first spoken to Gemma. I wondered if it had really been Gemma then, or the skin-walker, infiltrating the pride.

  No way to know. It probably doesn’t matter.

  I got out, went into the store, and found a couple black tee-shirts. One had an Indian bonnet on a skull motif. The second shirt had a Route 66 logo. I picked up a couple energy drinks, and got in line. The guy in front of me had a .45 colt holstered on his hip. Open carry, no permit needed except the Constitution, just as it should be.

  I’d love Arizona if it weren’t so damn hot.

  I paid for my stuff and never drew a second look from the clerk for my weird outfit, and weapons. Not even the flashbangs drew comment. I left the store and returned to the Mustang. Getting in, I tossed the tee-shirts to Cleo. “Souvenirs.” I sat there and swilled half a can of Rockstar Organic Energy Drink, my brand of choice. No one paid me to promote it. Damn it! I just loved the stuff.

  Fortified, I sent the Mustang off into the night. Instead of heading toward Las Vegas, I went on to catch Route 66. We headed west, toward California, the Promised Land. Sure, the West Coast liberals would soon destroy the state, but fun stuff like riots and race wars would follow. The socialists would be put down like the mad dogs they were, and from the ashes of conflict—the Republic of Deathwalker would rise like a bloody phoenix to rule the sky.

  Chaos always gives birth to opportunity. Bless the stupid little Democrats with their pot-smoke dreams of utopia.

  “You look happy,” Cleo said. “What are you thinking about?”

  “Purging the land in fire, raising mountains of corpses, bathing in blood: the usual.”

  “What’s in those energy drinks of yours?”

  “Hopes and dreams, darling. Hopes and dreams.”

  EPILOGUE

  “Just when you think you’ve seen the end

  of evil, you find your face in a mirror.”

  —Caine Deathwalker

  The barbarians in their fortress had survived the Night of Death, with only the loss of their little goddess, the Red Centipede Rider. They hadn’t liked her anyway; too bold, too lou
d, too proud. They counted themselves lucky.

  The crawlers were less fortunate. The insect bodies they handled were burnt, the stench incredible. Most of the towers were fused glass, inaccessible. Still, these survivors found ways to recover their dead, taking the remains below. The Underworld Queens would eat the brains of the dead and gather memories, wanting to understand all that had occurred,

  Weeks later, on the floating island, in the City of the Wren, the Council of Thought gathered in the Grand Council Room. They were an ancient race of man, grown tall and stick like with bulbous heads and black eyes. Their hands were branch-like, forever painting the wind as they thought only the deepest thoughts.

  Forty of them ruled their dwindling kind. Though long-lived, they’d neglecting breeding with the abandonment of the lesser emotions. Indeed, few alive remembered quite how it was done. They sat around their loop of a white plastic table, supported by padded chairs. Green nutrients were injected directly into their veins so they need not bother breaking from the depths of their cogitations.

  Whazu lifted a gray finger for notice. Silence circled the table, for he was a respected thinker. In quavery tones, he spoke. This experiment, I think you will all agree, has been contaminated by the intrusion of…” He paused, searching for the perfect word. “The intrusion of Otherness. Energies were released, natural and otherwise, that cannot be explained by our current knowledge.”

  Such was the struggle to believe, that murmuring erupted for minutes on end.

  Finally, Whazu was given the floor once more. “While much we had hoped for has been spoiled with the experiment below, vistas of greater knowledge have opened as well.”

  He touched a control board in front of him. Panels lit up in various bland shades of taupe. He entered a pattern that triggered a white glow in the center space they all viewed. “These are images gathered from below, where so many of the crawlers perished. It is the same bio-derived substance the crawlers use for constructing the towers, but it is not another tower they are laboring to produce.”

  The murmuring returned, for it became obvious that the new shape would stand high above all else.