Susan Tedeschi sang about having evidence that her man was a two-timing dog. Her voice was proof enough for me. Nobody else can touch her, the only one better was Koko Taylor. If some people consider Diana Ross a torch singer, then Susan Tedeschi is slinging napalm.
From there the music shifted to the blues rock of the Allman Brothers Band and their “Whipping Post” all about a man done wrong who isn’t putting up with it anymore. Son Seals sang out how he just wanted to go home, his guitar driving the point in front of his smooth vocals. By the end of that we were turning off the highway onto North Avenue and we were right around the corner from Helletog.
Pulling to a stop at the end of the off ramp, the road in front of us was crawling with college kids walking to somewhere. One of the South’s biggest colleges is on North Avenue, so seeing wandering groups of kids is not uncommon.
Waiting for the light to turn, I watched them pass by a homeless man with a sign that just said PLEASE in shaky marker on dirty cardboard. His clothes hung on a frail body in tatters. Grime and dirt filled the creases on his face, and a new trucker cap gleamed on top of dirty gray hair. The cap was white and red, and he obviously hadn’t had it long. It probably came from a homeless shelter just that day. Reaching out a thin arm that held a cracked plastic cup, he beseeched the groups of passing kids for change.
Most of them ignored him and kept walking. A few kind souls waved or nodded at him as they shuffled by, their high-dollar jackets pulled close against the evening coolness. At the end of a group one frat boy took notice of his fellow man.
Frat boy was big, not muscular, just bigger than average. Dirty dishwater blond hair and a chin that was weak all sat on a fat neck. He was dressed in hundred-dollar jeans that looked like they came from Goodwill and a red sweater. He moved toward the homeless man with a bad look on his face.
I’ve seen the same look on the face of a dog that is getting ready to bite.
A sharp push on the horn of the Comet made the frat boy’s head snap up and look at me in the car. I held up my finger and shook it at him, telling him no. Mouth breathing, he stared at me for a moment. Scowling, he flipped me off and walked away to join his friends. Tough guy.
The homeless man smiled and gave me a little bow of appreciation. His teeth were black and his clothes were rags on his thin, dirty body, but he was polite. A glimmer drew my eye to his hand. He held a box cutter with the razor extended. I hadn’t seen it before, and I knew the frat boy hadn’t either. So instead of saving the bum, I saved the asshole. Seems about right. The light turned and I goosed the pedal to pull out onto the road.
We were not on the road very long before I pulled off at a small, stand-alone restaurant that looked like a pagoda with a drive-through. Neon flashed on the sloping tiled roof and BENTO BOX blinked into the night. The restaurant had no dining room, it was drive-up only. There was a walk-up window in front and a few tables with benches outside, but the weather was a bit chilly for folks to be out, so they were empty. All the customers were in the drive-through. Pulling into line, I turned down the stereo and turned to Larson.
“Hungry?”
He looked around at the strange-looking building. “What is this place?”
“Bento Box. Drive-through sushi. Best damn sushi in the state of Georgia for that matter.”
“I don’t eat sushi.”
Turning back to him, I studied his features. “You don’t eat sushi because you don’t like sushi, or you don’t eat sushi because you have never tried it?”
“I just don’t think I would like it. Raw fish doesn’t sound good to me.”
The car ahead of us pulled away. A tap of my foot pulled the Comet up the speaker box. It sat on a miniature version of the restaurant itself. Behind it was a huge sign with colorful pictures of sushi and writing along with prices. The bulbs were kept fresh so it was almost blindingly brilliant.
“So I am ordering for the two of us,” I said.
Before he could say anything else the speaker box squawked and a woman’s voice called out of it, tinny and staticky. “Rel-come to Bento Box, rah-t is you order, prease?”
Leaning on the door, I spoke into the round speaker. “Hello, Katsumi, how are you and your honorable father tonight?”
A loud click sounded through the speaker and the static disappeared. So did the fake accent. “Deacon! It has been too long since you came by. Father is well, and I know he has missed you also.” Enthusiasm filled the smooth tone of Katsumi’s voice.
“It has been too long indeed,” I replied. “I will come back soon to visit. Unfortunately, I cannot stay tonight.”
“That is unfortunate. Will you be having your regular order?”
“I will, and if you could double it, that would be great. I have company in the car with me.” Silence poured palpably from the speaker. “It’s okay, Katsumi. It is good company.” If Larson had been bad company, then when we pulled around to the drive-through Katsumi would have been holding an Uzi out the drive-up window to distract him while one of the ninja sushi chefs came around to slit his throat. The Takakage family take my safety seriously.
“Very good. Pull around.”
The Comet rolled up to the cleared drive-through window and we pulled even to see Katsumi’s smiling face. It was a good face. The Takakage family is a family of beautiful daughters. Katsumi had glossy black hair piled on top of her head and held in a thick bun with ornamental chopsticks. Her big brown eyes were outlined in heavy kohl eyeliner, making them appear liquid and unreal. The skin on her perfect heart-shaped face was flawlessly smooth. Blood-red lipstick outlined full lips that would make a priest bite his knuckles. Just ask Father Mulcahy.
She was wearing a ridiculous sheath dress with a mandarin collar that was painted-on tight and showed her shapely torso. I knew there was a long length of just as shapely leg under that skirt. She looked like a young, vibrant, Japanese woman. She looked human.
She wasn’t.
The Takakage family was Tengu.
Tengu are figures from Japanese folklore. There they were called demons, even though they are anything but demonic. What they are is some form of raven shape-shifters who gave birth to all the ninja legends. To my knowledge, Katsumi and her family were the only Tengu on American shores.
A few years back, I helped her father, the patriarch of the clan, get his daughter back when some dumbass mafioso had kidnapped her. Jimmy Legbone was a feral little two-bit gangster who thought he could climb the organized crime mountain if he could harness some heavy firepower. He had kidnapped Katsumi’s baby sister, trying to force Maasakki to kill for them. I had helped him get her back, and ever since they never let me pay for my sushi.
Katsumi handed out a large paper bag, which I took and passed off to Larson. When I turned back she had two large cups filled with sweet tea. I took those, too, and handed them over as well. “Any chance you will let me pay this time?”
She waved a perfectly manicured hand in a shoo-shoo manner. The nails on it were about three inches long, painted blood red, and I knew could turn diamond hard and razor sharp. “You pay for it by promising to come visit my father as soon as you can.”
See, they never let me pay. I used to feel bad about it, but the sushi is just too damn good not to come here. I promised I would visit soon and told her we were eating in the parking lot before leaving. Katsumi leaned out the window, the edge catching her dress as she bent at the waist, pulling the fabric even tighter. Those blood-red nails lightly touched the back of my head and my chin. Strength vibrated down those shapely arms as she pulled my face close and kissed me on the cheek, leaving a thick imprint of lipstick. I left it there as I pulled away. I would wipe it off after I parked. I didn’t want to insult Katsumi in any way.
Once the Comet was parked facing out into the lot with a brick wall to the rear I unbuckled my seat belt and took the bag from Larson. Inside were two beautifully painted wooden boxes. The black lacquer on them was broken by colorful paintings of feudal Japan. Samurais, geisha
s, and mythical creatures swirled across them in breathtaking designs. Both of them were hand painted and unique. Usually, the food comes in preformed plastic Bento boxes, but they always gave me the fancy ones. I had a whole collection of them at home.
Handing one to Larson, I opened mine on my lap. He watched warily as I slid the top open to reveal the contents. Inside, the box was divided into sections, each compartment containing different forms of sushi.
I love sushi. The only kind I don’t care for is octopus or squid. Both are too chewy for me. The sushi in the box on my lap was all of my favorites. Eel, salmon, and tuna arranged on tiny beds of rice. Also, there was a veggie tempura roll and a dragon roll. Opening the soy sauce, I poured it into the space provided to hold it and grabbed the chopsticks that were stuck in the side. They were lacquered black to match the box but sharpened on the end into points. I used them to pick up a portion of my favorite sushi from the box, dip it quickly into the soy sauce, and pop it into my mouth.
Delicious.
“What the hell was that you just ate?”
Swallowing, I looked over at Larson. “It’s a Southern Deacon Roll. It’s tempura, which means ‘fried.’” I held up another piece for his inspection. “It’s a fried catfish sushi.” Maasakki Takakage had created the roll just for me. It was incredible. A lot like a tempura California roll, but with catfish instead of crab meat. Popping the piece into my mouth, I chewed and swallowed before speaking again. “You should eat up. We have a long night ahead of us.”
“You couldn’t have just picked a burger joint?”
I picked up my sweet tea and took a sip of it. Larson was being pretty damn annoying. “Look, slick. This is good food. Open your horizons a little. Plus, it’s perfect for the night we have ahead of us. I doubt everything is going to go smoothly. This will give you plenty of protein in a package that won’t sit heavy in your stomach.” My chopsticks tapped the crucifix of the rosary hanging from the rearview mirror, making it sway to and fro. “Besides, it’s Friday, which means no meat for us Catholics.” I pointed at his box with the chopsticks in my hand. “So shut the hell up and give it a try.”
Larson’s mouth pulled tight into a line as he slid the lid off his box. He did what I had and opened the pack of soy sauce, emptying it into the space provided. He surprised me by using the chopsticks properly. Avoiding the Southern Deacon Roll, instead, he chose a piece of eel. Gingerly, he dipped it into the soy sauce like I did and then put it in his mouth. Slowly his jaw worked as he chewed it.
It took only a second or two for the surprise to show on his face as the flavor hit him. He swallowed and picked up another piece, this time the veggie tempura roll. He ate that piece without hesitation. “This is actually good.”
“Told you.”
We ate in silence after that. When I was done, I put the empty box on the back seat and turned to look at Larson. My back was against the Comet’s door and I had my sweet tea. He was about halfway done with his meal when I broke the silence.
“Tell me why you are hunting vampires.”
The chopsticks in his hand closed over a piece of the Southern Deacon Roll. He held it wavering over the soy sauce. It trembled on the end of two pieces of wood until he decided against dipping it. He popped it in his mouth and chewed thoughtfully. Taking a drink from his tea made his Adam’s apple bob up and down. Blue eyes cut over to me and then back down to the box on his lap.
“I just think they are evil and somebody has to.”
He didn’t even sound convincing.
Taking my own sip of tea, I felt the sugar rush into my system. It was sweet enough to be syrup. My blood pressure rose slightly and I felt it tight in my temples. The Styrofoam cup squeaked when I lowered it.
“Bullshit,” I said. “There are people who hunt them. People like me, not people like you.” Again, those blue eyes cut over at the emphasis I made. “Something made you decide to get involved, even though you have no training to help you survive.”
His eyes were back to staring at the box of food in his lap. “When I was in school I did a paper on folklore in ancient cultures, specifically on burial superstitions. My research led me to book called the Morbius Manifesto.”
I had heard of this book. It was a subsection of the Darkhold, a book so full of evil and satanic knowledge that no one could pinpoint which occultist in the dark ages had spawned it. The Darkhold was broken up into the subsections and kept separated by the Vatican so that its evil power couldn’t be fully accessed.
I had asked Father Mulcahy why the Church didn’t just burn them, and he explained that some occult books actually have demons trapped in their pages, bound into the physical copy of the book and kept imprisoned for the safety of humankind. If they were burned, then the demons would be released to wreak havoc. The Vatican tried to keep them all secured, but being evil, demon-possessed books, the slippery bastards were always getting away.
My hand came up to pause Larson. “Wait, where did you read the Morbius Manifesto?”
Larson got that look that scholars get when dealing with the uneducated. You know that look, like the answer is so obvious they cannot even believe they are having a conversation with you. It’s the same look teenagers perfect when dealing with anyone over the age of twenty-two.
“Online.” The unspoken “duh” hung in the air.
See what I mean?
“So from that you learned vampires were real?”
His head bobbed up, then down, and he continued eating. “I didn’t believe it, of course. But the Morbius Manifesto did outline the characteristics of vampires, what one would look forward to if they were working with a vampire, and how to kill them if they got out of control.”
So that explained the crosses and the wooden stakes earlier. The Morbius Manifesto would have been written long before semiautomatics and silver ammo. But reading some old occult handbook wouldn’t convince anyone vampires were real. Taking another sip of my sweet tea, I gestured at him with the cup.
“Tell me how you knew they really existed. You obviously had never met one until Varney’s, and then you didn’t know what she was.” Larson’s ears burned bright red at this. “So what convinced you?”
“There was a newscast one night about an unsolved multiple homicide in South Georgia. Four people all died from having their throats ‘cut.’” Larson made air quotes with his fingers here. “They showed crime scene footage, and the four people were just slaughtered. I don’t even know how they showed the footage they did, except that there was so much blood it looked like an art exhibit. It didn’t even look real.”
His eyes glazed over as his mind took him back to that image he saw. I shifted and shook the ice in my cup. It was enough to bring his attention back to me. Motioning with the cup, I encouraged him to continue.
“In the midst of this footage I noticed that the bodies were surrounded by huge piles of dust, and the biggest pile had a wooden two-by-four that had been sharpened and driven into the floor.” His eyes were wide as he looked at me. “In that moment, everything clicked, and I knew that book was true and vampires did exist.”
“So that’s when you decided to strap up some stakes and hunt the damned things?” Larson flinched at the heat in my voice. I didn’t give him time to respond. “I can’t tell you how incredibly stupid that was.” My hand swung his way. I wasn’t going to hit him, I swear I wasn’t, but he flinched again. My finger jabbed into his face, emphasizing my words. “You are damn lucky some bloodsucker decided to use you to bait a trap for me instead of draining your blood after you led them to every person you ever loved so they could slaughter them in front of you.” The bag rustled in protest as I started gathering the trash from our dinner and shoving it inside.
Pale hands came up between me and Larson as if he were trying to shield himself from my anger. “I did more research before I went hunting.”
The paper bag sailed over the back seat, narrowly missing his head in my anger. Now it wasn’t just the sweet tea that had my
blood pressure up. My voice was hard and cold even in my own ears.
“Research? You did some fucking research? You know that scene you saw on the news? The one that gave you your ‘revelation’ about vampires?” It was my turn to air quote. Larson shrank back against the door from my bunny-eared fingers. “Let me tell you something that the news left out, slick. I hunted that kiss of vampires for three damn nights. They killed that family slowly. The entire time they drank from one of the family, they made the others watch them do it. Every member of that family was tortured and raped because vampires like the spice of fear in their food. Once I got in to kill them, they had already drank them dead.”
My hand grabbed the edge of my shirt and pulled it up to my chest. On the right side of my stomach, just past the words tattooed there, was a fist-sized knot of scar tissue. It sat fat and slick in my skin. Grabbing his arm, I pushed his hand against it. I couldn’t feel anything on the actual scar tissue, but his fingertips were cold and moist on the skin around it. The bones in his hand moved as I ground his palm into the scar tissue so he could feel its rough texture and hardness. His eyes darted from his hand to my face and back again. Sweat beaded along his eyebrows and upper lip.
“Before I could kill them all, one of those bastards sunk their fangs into my side and tore this chunk out. I almost died dusting those satanic cocksuckers, and NONE of the family survived.” In disgust, I shoved his hand away from my skin and turned to the steering wheel. “That’s my fucking research.” Flicking the key brought the engine roaring to life. I punched the MP3 player to blast music into the car so I wouldn’t have to hear him apologize. Dropping into gear, I launched the Comet out into the night like its namesake.
7
Turning the stereo down, I spoke to Larson. I had calmed down by the time we got close to the club, but my voice was still harsh. My throat was still tight from the rage I had swallowed. I wanted him to understand the ground rules for the night so he didn’t try to bolt.
Blood and Bullets Page 7
