Exile
A Keith Murphy Urban Fantasy Thriller
Peter M. Ball
Brain Jar Press
PO Box 6687
Upper Mt Gravatt, QLD, 4122
Australia
www.BrainJarPress.com
Original Copyright © 2013 Peter M. Ball. Revised edition Copyright© 2021 Peter M. Ball
This edition published in 2021 by Brain Jar Press. An earlier version of this story was published in 2014 by Apocalypse Ink Productions.
The moral right of Peter M. Ball to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted.
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reproduced in any form or by any electronic or mechanical means, including information storage and retrieval systems, without written permission from the author, except for the use of brief quotations in a book review.
Cover design by Brain Jar Press
Cover Image: Contract Killer, lassedesignen; ancient runic magic symbol, longquatro; viking rune symbol, longquatro/Shutterstock
ISBN: 978-0-6481761-6-9
PARADISE CITY
They found me in the Hard Rock. Thursday night, a little after ten. The bar drew a good crowd for a Thursday, all things considered. Lots of girls with inscrutable, backpacker accents clustered around the counter. Plenty more heading for the Beer Garden upstairs, attracted by the cover band’s caterwaul. Blondes, legitimate and peroxide — a Gold Coast epidemic. Swathes of exposed skin, despite the cool nip in the air. Twenty-dollar cocktails named after natural disasters: Typhoons; Tsunamis; rum-soaked Hurricanes.
I’d racked up three straight hours sitting in the downstairs bar, drinking short blacks and reading my book. A guy flying solo at at a cozy table for four, ignoring the crush of the late-night crowd, the heady mingling of sweat and perfume and the salt-water from the nearby beach. I blew off the irritated, dark-eyed waitress who kept offering to take my coffee cup in the hopes I’d fuck off and free up the four top. I wasn’t waiting for anyone else. Just me and my beat-up copy of Persuasion on yet another stake-out, killing time until the local talent picked up on my presence.
I’d selected a table up the back, wedged between one of Keith Moon’s polyester shirts and Mark Occhilupo’s surfboards. Earlier, when I’d been eating dinner, tourists stopped by to read the brass plaques and sniff at my empty seats. Personally, I didn’t give a shit about the memorabilia. My position delivered clear sight-lines on the bar, the gift shop, and both sets of sliding doors.
The band working upstairs distracted me with their off-key singing and affection for the Gunners. Every time they launched into another cover, I’d lose my place and have to re-read the same page of Persuasion again. I’d stumbled over the same line about fine ladies and calm waters ever since their version of ‘Knocking on Heaven’s Door.’ They were leading the bellicose crowd through the chorus of ‘Paradise City’ right as the demon walked in.
His arrival marked the end of my reading. I downed the dregs of my coffee and watched the big feller work. The purposeful stroll through the gift shop, all swagger and white teeth. The momentary pause as he scanned the room with a jungle cat’s poise, making a note of every warm body crammed in among the memorabilia. I figured him for six-nine, give or take an inch. Athletic and well-built, dressed to fit in with the local crowd. Tight black jeans and bright red high-top sneakers, a walnut tan just brown enough to be real instead of spray-on.
The kind of guy I’d remember, even after sixteen years, and I couldn’t recall anyone with his height and frame among Sabbath’s mooks. New blood, then. Definitely a demon. I didn’t need to pierce the veil to confirm it — he carried himself in that languid, unsettling way most creatures of the Gloom deploy when they forget to play human.
The short, dark-eyed waitress stopped by my table and removed the empty coffee cup. Asked me if I’d like another, and broke into a grin when I told her I’d finish up soon. I pulled a twenty out of my wallet, folded it, and slid it beneath the salt and pepper shakers. Dog-eared my current page and stuffed Persuasion into a jacket pocket so I wouldn’t leave it behind. Things would start moving fast now a demon was on the prowl.
He crossed the bar at a leisurely pace, stopped to chat up women and deploy a toothy smile. The first three shot him down, which took effort on his part. Demons flirt easier than most people breathe, and this guy's jaw and build were easy on the eyes. In the fourth he found a receptive partner, the kind of chick young men dream of meeting at a joint like the Hard Rock: bleached-blond; white t-shirt; tanned and smooth and friendly, her cut-off jeans showing off the pink hibiscus tattooed on her right thigh. Her intentions were obvious in the raucous laugh she deployed, and her drunken lurch into the demon’s side.
Then the Big Guy glanced my way, a surreptitious glance to confirm I’d clocked his presence. Could be a subtle warning to back off and let him feed in peace, or a predator recognizing a potential threat and disregarding it before hunting. And so we kicked off a round of my least-favorite game, trying to figure who was playing who.
The blonde made it easy for the Big Guy. Pressed against him, whispered into his ear. Midriff top giving him access to bare skin as he pulled her close. The veins closest to his fingertips turned dark as he siphoned a fragment of her life-force. He did it light and subtle, like a pickpocket filching your wallet. The drain left the girl woozy, bought the demon a chance to prop her against the bar and scan the crowd for another victim.
Slick work, and feeding in public is brazen for any demon. This guy played it cool, focused on the prey. My presence forgotten or disregarded, confident I wouldn’t risk a move on Sabbath’s turf and put a target on my back. Given the way possession enhanced human senses, he already knew I wasn’t local. My scent was fresh off the Greyhound, a sour-and-rumpled traveler who’d gone too long without sleep. My flannel shirt too warm for the Gold Coast summer, but ideal for covering the the tethers inked along my arm and the SIG tucked into my belt.
I tracked his movements, trying to figure out if he was overconfident, dumb, or extremely good. Realized too late he was the fourth option: a big, distracting billboard deployed to capture my attention. When the .38 kissed the hollow of my back, just below the ribs, a part of me was flattered I’d warranted that kind of caution from two alpha predators.
Of course, that part of me was dumb as rocks, but I guess nobody’s perfect.
Wesna Holjack leaned over my right shoulder, her voice tickling my ear. “Well, shit, Keith Murphy. How the fuck are you?”
“Hey Wes,” I said. “Been a while, yeah?”
“You think?” She slid into the empty seat beside me, draped her arm around my neck. The other hand jammed the pistol into my gut, made it clear trying to squirm or run would trigger a messy response.
“You should have left it longer,” Wesna said. “Now I’m kinda pissed I have to kill you.”
* * *
I knew I’d fucked up, the moment I heard Wesna’s voice. Desperation will do that to you.
Sixteen years back, Wesna Holjack was a friend. A tall girl, tough as boiled leather. Determined to carve out a reputation as one of the guys at our high school, less concerned with surfer kids than the motley crew of freaks who accepted her penchant for violence. She boxed and fought Muay Thai for a stretch, kicked more ass than any kid in our class.
The Wesna Holjack beside me, sixteen years later, matched the girl in my memory exactly. Same black hair hanging over her face. Same long, bulldog jaw designed to take a punch and let her keep on ticking. Same irritation in her eyes, the look that said she’d caught me fucking up yet again and resigned herself to covering my ass. Problem was, the Wesna Holjack digging her .38 into my ribs still looked about twenty-three.
The possessed don’t age like ordinary people. It’s one perk demons used
to con you into offering your body as a timeshare. Plenty of folks accept the deal, realize too late their humanity gets strip-mined away and the demon gets to walk around in their place. Wesna might not be that far gone, but any memories of our friendship were suspect. I played it safe, spread my hands on the table. Kept them clear of anything that might constitute a potential weapon.
Wesna leaned over to nuzzle against my neck, feigning affection we’d never shared. She cracked her gum in my ear and exhaled, drawing goosebumps on my traitorous arms as my body responded to her proximity. “Here’s the deal,” Wesna said, the barrel of the .38 steady as a rock against my ribs. “You play along, and I don’t shoot you here. We have ourselves a conversation, all nice and private-like, and you keep breathing until we’re done.”
Wesna threatened with confidence, utterly capable of following through. I buttoned my lip, both hands palm-down on the table. Experience taught me the value of gathering intel, and right now I needed to gauge Wesna’s self-control.
Her reaction to my silence was a long way from her boiling point. Wesna ground the gun barrel into my flank. “Tell me you understand, Murphy, or I ventilate your ass.”
“I know the routine, Wes. Jesus.”
Her dark eyes flicked over my face, eerily calm and unimpressed with my response. “If that were true, you wouldn’t blaspheme.”
“Good advice. I’ll keep that in mind.”
Wesna glanced at the Big Guy, over by the bar, and the second demon acknowledged her with a nod. He ordered a beer and slouched against the counter, eyes fixed on me and nauseatingly smug. “Your partners smarter than he looks,” I said.
“Randall has that going for him.”
I twitched my hands, drawing Wesna’s attention to me. “I’m armed. SIG in my waistband, around the back.”
Wesna’s hand slid down, slow and professional. She found the gun, pulled it free. Consigned it to the small handbag slung over her shoulder. “Anything else?”
I took a long, silent breath and shook my head. Confirmed my vulnerability, although she doubted the truth of it. Wesna checked out the other patrons, searching for weapons or gathered power. “Can’t see a second out there. That ain’t like you.”
“I’m flying solo here,” I said. “Not on the job. Not looking for a fight.”
I counted off the seconds as Wesna chewed that over. Watched her do the math, puzzle out the implications of trying to prove me wrong. Hauling me out by here would get very public, and demons aren’t fond of scrutiny at the best of times. Accepting my word meant risking the possibility I was lying and my own ambush lay in the wings.
She looked at me. I looked at her. Wesna idled her way to a plan of action. “I’m putting the gun away,” she said. “A favor for an old friend, yeah? I’d rather not drag you out of here at gunpoint, so if you’re willing to behave…”
There was a long pause as she studied my face, and I did my best to appear contrite and harmless. The .38 ceased pressing against my spleen, disappeared into the depths of Wesna’s jacket. My spleen shivered with relief and the rest of me followed suite. Wesna shifted to the far side of the table, poised like a serpent waiting for a cornered mouse to break and flee.
I let my vision shift past the real world, piercing the veil to glimpse Wesna’s face in the shadows of the Gloom. Not my favorite activity—I’d spent years suppressing a natural talent for breaching the facade we call reality—and the split focus took its toll. But when I concentrated on Wesna Holjack, familiar features gave way to a husk ravaged by prolonged possession. Mortal eyes decayed to hollow sockets with a crimson fire in their depths. Her skin burned dark and ashen, the scraps of her human spirit little more than bright pocks of sulfurous light waging a futile war against the darker presence in charge of the body.
The headache thundered in, right on schedule. The effort of piercing the veil of the Gloom extracting its price. Wesna recognized the signs from our teenage years. “That was incredibly stupid,” she said.
“Yeah. I’m aware,” I said.
“I should be calling Sabbath. He’ll be overjoyed your bitch-ass was dumb enough to come home.”
“You think?”
“Definitely.”
“Best you get on with that, then.”
My agreement caught Wesna off guard, fired up her suspicion I might be playing some longer game. She flicked a glance at the doors and her big, good-looking back-up.
She eased forward and dropped her voice. “Stop trying to be a hard-ass, Murphy. Give me a reason to let you walk, here,” she said. For a moment I glimpsed the woman she’d been, struggling her way to the surface.
A smile bloomed across my lips, ready to welcome her. Not a bright idea if I wanted to keep on living. I forced the nostalgia down with a vengeance. “Sorry, Wes. I got nothing.”
“Murphy, come on. Work with me.”
I folded my arms and looked to the Big Guy. He’d reared up, intrigued by our conversation and its departure from the expected. Ready to come in if I started trouble. I shook my head, turned back to Wesna. “Guess you’d better call, eh? Be a good little soldier?”
“Fuck you,” she said, and the phone was in her hand. Wesna searched my face for tells, waiting for me to give her something. We both remembered the threats Sabbath made when I left, and the price of coming home. Wesna ground her teeth and flared her nostrils, hissing like a kettle.
I kept both hands flat and waited. The band in the upstairs bar continued their tour through the best of Guns and Roses, segueing from “Sweet Child of Mine” into “November Rain”. Their guitarist could play, but the singer just liked to wail. Good enough for a Thursday night, though. All the crowd demanded was volume and the chance to sing along.
I jerked my chin at the stairwell, risked invoking a little history. “You remember when Nora drove us all to Byron and Use Your Illusion was the only tape in the car?”
Wesna snorted her disdain, but it seemed to push her towards a decision. “Lot of noise in this bar,” she said. “Hard to hear, you know what I’m saying? Think I’ll step outside to make this call. Should be, what, five minutes? Ten? Boss can slow to answer his phone, this time of night.”
The demon clawed and yowled behind her dark, terrible stare. A part of Wesna’s humanity just marshaled its resources to fight on my behalf, deploying a few scraps of mercy against the demon’s better judgment. She’d offered me a chance to avoid the torrents of shit coming my way.
It broke my heart that I needed to throw it all back in her face. “I appreciate the offer, but call Sabbath from here. I’m not running, Wes. The boss and I need to converse about things.”
Wesna swore, her jaw pulling tight. “He ain’t eager to talk, Murphy. And he ain’t your boss.”
“Then you may as well pull the trigger.”
She blew a long, frustrated breath. Dialed a number from memory and waited for someone to answer.
“Yeah,” she said. “It’s me.”
Her eyes stayed on me, hoping like hell I’d change my mind and bolt.
“It’s definitely him,” she said. Then: “Yeah, I can do that.”
She killed the call with her thumb, returned the phone to her jacket. Turned and signaled the Big Guy, waving him over to our table. He broke off from the backpacker he’d been chatting up, became a tall, good-looking shark cutting through the press of bodies. Up close, I could make out biceps and pecs testing the physical limits of shirt. Impressive to look at, but the big man’s grace was the real threat. “This is Randall,” Wesna said. “He’ll be escorting you.”
Randall exposed his teeth. A feral, eager smile.
“Randall, Keith Murphy. Don’t let the odor fool you.”
Randall’s eyebrows shot up at my name. “Well, shit. I’ve heard of you, man.”
I swung free of the table and stared up at him. “Good things, I hope?”
“Outstanding things.” The big demon cracked his knuckles. “It’s been ages since I tortured somebody.”
DOUB
LE-TAP
They walked me towards the door as a unit: Randall took point, sticking close enough to block my retreat, making sure none of the Hard Rock bouncers tried to get to help. Wesna right beside me, feigning inebriation, one arm slung across my shoulder and her voice slurring in my ear. At the exit, Randall went out first, waited for Wesna to push me through. Careful, efficient moves to keep me locked down.
Outside, on the crowded street, the humidity pressed down on us like a sweat-soaked rag over your mouth. The kind of vile and muggy heat that made the short list of reasons why I’d been overjoyed to leave the Coast and never come back. Emerging into it, after the air conditioning, took my breath away. Even Wesna straightened, unwilling to make anymore contact than was necessary given the way I perspired. That was a good sign. It meant she trusted the signs I wasn’t going to run.
The neon guitar over the Hard Rock entrance soaked the street in whisky-colored light. We were on the corner of Orchid and Cavill Ave, a perpetually crowded intersection where cars and pedestrians swore at one another and fought for right of way. The press of bodies made running impossible, and I figured the demons could track me even if I’d been inclined to try. Wesna frowned and considered the flow of drunks, the oppressive heat, and my compliance. She pointed at the wall. “You wait.”
I took a spot with my back to beige concrete, and Randall stepped over to pen me in. A slick, natural move like we were trying to talk over the crowd noise, decide which club to hit next. It put him between me and any real avenue of escape, and that wasn’t coincidental.
“Watch him,” Wesna said. “I’ll call us a ride, yeah?”
* * *
Things I understood, coming back to the Gold Coast, that I hadn’t known before I left: There are fourteen reliable methods of killing a body possessed by a demon, but that number drops the longer the demon’s been in residence. There are six effective techniques for eliminating the fey once they leave the Gloom and dwell in our reality. Eight ways of taking out a lycanthrope, if you’re not picky about saving the human half, and myriad approaches to disposing of sorcerers and witches after you’ve bypassed the protective magic they’ve used to keep themselves alive.
Exile Page 1
