Truth is, the split is rarely quite that clean, but the kid does what’s necessary to make the partnership work. He’s always done what’s necessary. That’s how he rolls.
And he’s still killing folks, even if those folks aren’t human. It’s better, but it ain’t ideal, and he’s living life out of a suitcase. So he decides it’s time to quit that life. Tells Roark, his partner, they’re done.
Roark talks the kid into one last hit, picks this asshole down in Adelaide who definitely needs killing. The kid accepts the job, and it all goes down real smooth. They strip the target’s defenses and put a bullet in him. Siphon off his soul and trap it, so the target can’t disappear into the Gloom and resurrect himself.
The kid assumes it’s finally done. Mission accomplished. Crusade over. Time to go live a real life.
Then he gets back to the safe house and Danny Roark is gone. The note on the coffee table says everything’s gone to hell, and the kid knows what to do.
So he swallows a bullet with a soul stuffed inside and hightails it out of Adelaide. Heads back to the one city where the Gloom’s so thick and chaotic that tracking him with magic is damn near impossible.
Running doesn’t bother him. Running’s a survival trait.
What bothers him is running without having Roark for back-up. What bothers him is walking straight into a sorcerer’s ambush, before he’s clocked up his first twenty-four hours.
What bothers him is the nine millimeter bullet nestled in his intestines, the one with the soul of his last victim neatly trapped inside it. Walking into Sabbath’s turf with nothing to bargain with, knowing he’ll order the kid’s death.
What bothers him is that it’s never over, and he never gets to leave all this shit behind.
SABBATH
The cab deposited us at the front doors of Jupiter’s Casino. Fifteen minute drive. Twenty-bucks on the meter. Wesna paid the cabbie, led me through the lobby. Randall stayed behind, his chest raw and blistered from the sorcerer’s assault. Jupiter's is an open-minded place, the tuxedo crowd drinking alongside the country boys in flannel shirts and the hipsters from the local uni with their skinny jeans and lumberjack beards. Egalitarian by virtue of greed and the unity that comes from desperation and the white heat of waiting for the next spin. You could stretch the Gold Coast’s permissive nature, but there were limits. The one rule nobody broke: no shirt, no shoes, no service. Even demons abided by it, went looking for another entrance.
The interior of the casino was blessedly cool, the open spaces dotted with palms and lounges and discretely placed security guards. They were big lads, suits and radio mics in place, predominantly human in heritage. The sole exception checked ID at the entrance to the Prince Albert pub, tucked in beside the elevators. He looked my way and flashed a sharp-toothed grin, eyes blazing with a crimson light.
Wesna snapped her glare towards him, and the security ghoul backed off a step. I fell in beside her. Casinos do their best to keep you from realizing the time, but my gut said Midnight was coming soon and there’d be a Gloom tide on its heels. The frenzied slurry of noise from the Prince Albert leaked into the lobby, indistinct and chaotic. The pub crowd skewed younger than the bars down by the gaming floor. More interested in drinking, less interested in blowing money on blackjack or power machines.
We settled in to wait for an elevator. Wesna leant against the wall, her eyes locked on me. It wasn’t necessary—escape was impossible, once we stepped foot on casino grounds. Sabbath’s name didn’t appear on the deed, but he owned the place in every way that mattered. He’d bought in when they built, back in eighty-five. Clung on like a tick, feeding on the desperation that hung in the crisp, dry air they pumped through the complex, growing bloated and powerful.
The elevator came. We rode up in silence. The bell chimed, opened out onto a hallway extending in both directions. Twenty floors up. One below the penthouse suits. It’s the way Sabbath played things, hovering below the level that drew notice. Display just enough importance to let you know he meant something, but avoid center stage.
Gold Coast decor runs towards beige. They call it sand, explain all the ways it connects the inside to the beach, but beige is fucking beige. There’s no way of avoiding that. Sabbath never embraced the local motif. He renovated his suite in white and black, like he considered color an insult. White walls. White lights. White tiles. A dark couch and a deep, ink-colored coffee table. The sidebar lined with crystal decanters, and a big, fuck-off type television mounted on the wall. Sabbath’s own private movie screen running a feed from the cameras downstairs, patrons throughout the casino engaged in the business of losing money.
Wesna dumped my pack, patted me down. She took her time about it, removed the contents from every pocket. There wasn’t much. Spare change. A lighter. Three full clips for the SIG. They joined my other belongings on the coffee table. Wesna pointed towards the couch.
“Sit,” she said.
I sat my ass down.
“Wait,” she said.
I waited. Wesna emptied my pack and sifted through my laundry and second-hand paperbacks. Once satisfied there was nothing worth finding, she knocked on one of the big black doors leading into Sabbath’s study. It cracked open, and she talked with the person on the far side. I couldn’t pick up the specifics. I didn’t need to. The door closed and Wesna fell in beside the couch, close enough to hurt me if I did something stupid.
* * *
Sabbath emerged ten minutes later—a short, neat man trailed by a bodyguard. The security was sleek and wide-shouldered, built to play front-row in the Rugby Sevens. Sabbath wore glasses, kept his graying hair cropped close to the scalp. He sat on the black couch opposite mine. Folded his arms. His white linen suit shone under the bright lights. Three hundred dollar sandals, his manicured toe nails on display.
He looked at Wesna. Looked at me. Studied all my shit, spread out over his coffee table. Sabbath lifted my copy of Persuasion from the pile. “I wouldn’t have picked you as a reader, Murphy.”
“That’s because I wasn’t, when you employed me.” I kept my voice even. The sight of him flicking through the book made me irrationally angry, but anger was just going to get me in trouble. I took a deep breath, steadied my nerves. “Reading’s a habit I accumulated along the way. Lots of long nights in my job, now.”
“Lots of long nights,” Sabbath repeated, thumbing through the dog-earned pages, checking out the points I’d marked. “So a few hours ago, I hear this rumor. Someone says Keith Murphy’s returned, and he’s chowing down at the Hard Rock on a burger and fries.”
The twin pits of Sabbath’s dark stare bore down on me. “Now, personally, I thought they were crazy,” he said. “I told ‘em Big Keith Murphy fucked off sixteen years back, and he sure as hell knows better than to come home. We all knew what would happen if Big Keith showed his face again, ‘cause me and Danny Roark had ourselves a deal and it laid all that out. I told ‘em in intimate, bloody detail how that deal was off if you ever stepped foot on the Coast. It made me a little warm, to imagine you might be dumb enough to break the agreement, you know? Just didn’t think you’d do it.”
Sabbath took a deep breath, tossed my book into the pile of clothes scattered across the coffee table. “The discovery that you’re catching up on the classics, instead of getting bloated on junk food, does nothing to improve my mood.”
“I did eat a burger, if that helps.”
His eyes narrowed, fighting a smile. “That depends. How was it?”
“Okay,” I said. “Too much cheese.”
“Huh.” He lost interest in my pile of stuff, turned toward Wesna. “You got his gun?”
She produced the SIG, handed it over. Sabbath freed the clip, held it to his nose to catch the familiar scent. His expression soured. “Holy water?”
“Soaked the top halves for a good four hours,” I said. “Found a Pastor down in Byron with an erstwhile belief in the almighty. A pit-stop on the way through and a generous donation scored me a decent supply.”
He put the SIG on the coffee table, close enough for me to reach if I was sufficiently stupid to lunge for it. My younger self would have jumped for the gun. I wasn’t that guy anymore. “Maybe painful’s all I was looking for in a weapon.”
“That,” Sabbath said, “would be a very poor choice on your part.” He dropped his weight back into the couch, tapping his index fingers together. Fixed the hollow eyes in my direction. “You represent something of a conundrum, Mister Murphy.”
“Not sure why.” I glanced down at the table, all my stuff strewn across it. “You’ve got me dead to rights, no point in hiding anything. I can strip down to my skivvies if you want to do a thorough search.”
Sabbath’s frown grew deeper. “Don’t pretend to be an idiot, Murphy. I know you’re not.”
“No?”
“We’ve caught wind of your activities in Adelaide,” Sabbath said. “There’re rumors about an unfortunate incident, and the demise of a senior necromancer. Messy bit of business, that. Terrible consequences.”
“Angry cultists,” I said. “An irate soul. Some kind of death curse, the way I understand it.”
I feigned confidence, forced myself to keep breathing. Watched Sabbath wrestle with two sets of instincts. The first set told him to rip me apart, just like he’d promised to when I walked away. The second set warned him I could be useful, even if I came with baggage. Desperation made people pliable, and Sabbath loved working with the desperate.
“That’s a lot of trouble.” His lip curled around the words.
“Not so much,” I said. “We’ve got it under control and all.”
“We?”
“Roark and me.” I leant forward. “You remember Danny, right?”
That earned a low, glottal snarl from Sabbath. Yeah, he remembered Danny Roark. For a moment I caught a hint of fire in the shadowy depths of his eyes. He beat it down. Played it calm. A demon without a grudge. “Where is Mister Roark?” he purred. “I’d welcome the chance to reacquaint myself.”
I flashed a grin and held steady. “Like you said, I’m not an idiot.”
Sabbath nodded. He liked that. Always enjoyed a game. “I could have Wesna break fingers until you talked.”
“All that gets us is ten broken digits and another round of this same conversation.”
“Maybe,” Sabbath said. “But then we get creative.” He looked up at Wesna, a smile playing at his lips. “It’s been a long time since we broke someone. I fear our technique could be rusty.”
“Okay,” I said. “We can go that direction, and we both know I’m only human. You’ll get the screaming and the begging. Easy as. But Roark? It can’t get you any closer to him. We ain’t stupid, Sabbath. We took precautions. I’m here. He’s in the wind, and I don’t know where. Won’t even call until after this meeting’s done.”
Another nod. “Smart,” Sabbath said.
“It’s not like I came back on a whim.” I glanced at Wesna. She had the .32 out, discretely tucked under her free hand. Not pointed at me, but waiting for the order. I returned my focus to Sabbath, and his smile bloomed into life.
“Tell me about Adelaide.”
“Big city. Middle of the desert. Does a good meat pie.”
“Cut the shit,” Sabbath said. “I only have so much patience. I’ve allowed you to live this long because I may have use for you, and that just weighs out against the pleasure I’d gain from having you ripped apart.” He leaned forward, fixed me with a horrible stare. “Convince me you’re actually useful, Keith. You’ll only get one shot at it.”
“Fine,” I said. “Let’s cut the shit. You know about Adelaide, and you’ve already guessed why I’m here. I need to lie low. I pissed off a cult. Turns out, with the Ravens, it’s not a case of cutting off the head and leaving the body to die. And because Adelaide’s in play, you’ve heard about the rest. All the jobs that went right. All the entities we eliminated, me and Roark. That’s what I’m offering.”
Sabbath sat back, did the thing where he tapped his fingertips together once more. “I’ve got my own approach to taking care of problems.”
“I’ve been part of your crew. They’re blunt instruments.”
Sabbath shrugged. “They get the job done.”
“Then why am I sitting here? Wesna could have left me to bleed out in the Hard Rock bathrooms.”
I watched Sabbath sort through the ways he could play this, examining each half-truth and setting it aside. He enjoyed the game, always did. Bluff and counter. Looking for tells. He wouldn’t go all-in on my offer, not without knowing more, but he’d pay to see my cards. That’d buy him time to puzzle out my habits. That bought me time to figure out the next step.
“All right,” he said. “I’ve got some local nuisances I’d like eliminated, and your status as someone outside my organization makes you a somewhat useful tool. I could trade you a period of tolerance inside the city limits, in exchange for your specialized talents.”
“How long are you offering?”
“I’m thinking six months.”
I thought about Adelaide. The mess we’d made down there. “I may need longer. A year at least.”
“Then we’ll find ourselves back here, negotiating a second extension,” Sabbath said. “You get six months, and in return I deploy you to take care of three problems. I give you the targets and time-frames, and they die in the timeline I nominate. That earns you a single promise: none of mine are coming after you until the agreed period is up. I’ve got no interest in defending you, Murphy.”
“And I’m not looking for a bodyguard.” I stood up, glanced down at my gear sprawled across the coffee table. “You know there’s a limit on who I’ll hunt.”
“Even with your life on the line?”
“It’s not much of a life right now. I’d hate to trade it for an innocent’s.”
“Well, then. Best I commit to picking my targets with care.” Sabbath spread his fingers. “Relax, Murphy. I won’t ask you to shoot any mortals that don’t have it coming.”
“By whose standards? Yours or mine?”
“Yours, I suppose.” Sabbath grinned. “If that’s what it takes to get this done.”
I nodded, pointed at my gear. “I assume one of yours will bring all that down to the bar, once you’ve contented yourself that none of it is interesting?”
Sabbath shrugged again, his attention on the TV screen. He got what he wanted. Now the conversation was over. Wesna put a hand on my shoulder, guided me towards the door. The hall was cool and dry, courtesy of the air conditioning. “Twenty minutes,” she said. “Assuming we discover nothing.”
I caught the elevator down to the ground floor, confident they wouldn’t find anything to derail this deal.
After all, the only thing worth finding was nestled in the pit of my stomach, burning like a hot coal.
* * *
I nursed a bourbon in the Atrium bar, waiting for one of Sabbath’s flunkies to return my bag. I figured they’d be awhile, going through everything with a fine-toothed comb. Keep eyes on me to see if I sweated the search, trying to gauge the odds I’d brought the soul cage across the city limits.
I killed the time by speculating Sabbath’s next move, when he turned up nothing. Smart money suggested they’d picked up intel about Wotan, and Sabbath would figure I’d hidden the cage before surfacing in the Hard Rock. That made our deal attractive, gave Sabbath a few weeks to observe and suss out my play. One demon might suggest cutting me open, doing a messy search of my innards, but odds were Sabbath regarded that as a last-resort. For one thing, it meant they were out of options if my innards turned up nothing.
For another, Sabbath wanted me to suffer, even if he played things professional for now. Death let me off the hook, limited him to a single punishment. Alive, he could torture me for weeks and months.
Their second assumption would inv
olve Danny Roark holding the soul cage, and the possibility of using me as leverage would appeal to Sabbath. That too would keep me breathing for a stretch, albeit uncomfortably.
I finished my bourbon. Ordered another. Wesna showed up halfway through the drink, handed me the backpack. “Your six months starts now,” she said. “I call you in a week or two, and we discuss the first job. You and me, not you and him. Sabbath’s preference involves not seeing you for a while, lest he give into temptation.”
“The feeling’s more than mutual.” I sipped my bourbon. Rolled it across my tongue. “Where we meeting?”
“Wherever you end up staying.” Wesna produced a cell phone, tucked it into my pocket. “Burner. Untraceable. My number’s the only one in there.”
I put down my glass. Picked up my pack. “Pleasure doing business with you, then.”
She gave me a hard look. “Screw up once, and he’ll have you. He’s not fucking around with that. Whatever shit you’re running from, don’t let it spoil this deal.”
I slung my backpack over my shoulder. “You worry too much, Wes.”
“Like hell I do.” Wesna flagged the bartender, ordered a scotch of her own. “You planning on seeing Nora?”
I’d spent sixteen years working with Danny Roark, learning how to keep my emotions in check when talking to demons. I’d gotten pretty good at it, but her name brought all the memories back. When I abandoned the Gold Coast, Nora Otto was the only thing I gave a damn about leaving behind. I hooked my pack over my shoulder. “Nah, I don’t think that’s wise.”
“You know she searched for you, right? Tracked me down and started asking questions about work.”
“And you told her?”
“Just what you’d want me to tell her: that you were an asshole and no one could say where you ran off too.” Wesna attempted to hide the grin behind her bourbon.
“Good call.”
“She didn’t take it well.”
“Taking things well wasn’t her style.”
Exile Page 3
