No More Devils: A Visit to Superstition Bay

by Benjamin LaMore

  “You!” I let the point of my Springfield drop and fix him with my left index finger. He jumps at my shout, staring at my finger like it’s the business end of an anti-tank weapon and wheels about to head for the hills. He actually makes it three steps when I yell out, “Stop running!”

  He actually stops, his knees visibly quaking. I didn’t expect him to actually stop. I’d thought I’d have had to kneecap him. I look to see how Knife Guy is taking the discovery of his friend’s deep and wide yellow streak, but I’m looking at empty air. Guess they stuck together for a reason.

  “Get back here,” I order. Timidly, he turns back to me and starts sheepishly walking back my way. He holds his hands out far from his body, and when I tell him to drop the weapons he does so almost before I finish speaking. This one will gain no points for bravery.

  “What’s your name?” I demand.

  “Saburo,” he whispers. His eyes are locked onto my sneakers.

  “Well, Saburo, I remember you now,” I say. “Two weeks ago. You were in McLaughlin’s the night of the brawl, weren’t you?”

  “You drowned the fiend in my stew,” he mournfully confirms.

  Imagine a jigsaw puzzle with the outer edge complete. Now imagine that the inside isn’t a thousand pieces artfully assembled, but a single mammoth piece. That’s what Saburo is.

  “That was it, wasn’t it? Breaking the fiend’s chain. Sota already knew that I’m immune to magic, but he didn’t know what my touch does to spelled objects.”

  “I have seen the ritual needed to separate a bonded human and fiend,” Saburo says. “It’s long and complex. You did it with a touch. When I got back afterwards Mr. Gamagori saw that I was in an emotional state and demanded I tell him why. Afterwards he disappeared into his laboratory for two days.”

  “He wanted the ley seal broken,” I continue. “That’s what he wanted the whole time. And when he heard your report he knew he’d found a way. He just needed an excuse to get me down there.” Son of a bitch. All of this because I’d just had to be the good Samaritan. If I’d waited half an hour to get the stone for Lisa’s gift, all of this might not have happened.

  “I am sorry,” Saburo says.

  He looks so downcast I actually feel sorry for him. “If it makes you feel better,” I say, “you’re probably the best member of your family I’ve met yet.”

  “You are… not angry?” he stammers.

  “Not even a little bit,” I reassure him. His face switches from beaming relief to shocked agony as I drive my left knee into his unsuspecting abdomen and he folds like a cheap lawn chair. I leave him where he falls and fight through the wind towards the helipad.

  I’m very nearly too late. The helicopter comes straight at us from the south, buffeting winds plowing its path. Gamagori takes an anticipatory step towards the landing pad. I’m still a good thirty feet away, but the greater the size of the target the less your relative distance means, and a helicopter is a hell of a big target.

  I pop off two rounds over Gamagori’s head, very deliberately hitting the window on the empty passenger side of the cockpit. The pilot expertly banks the aircraft away from the building, goosing the engine to gain some space. He levels off a hundred feet away from the rooftop, no doubt squawking angrily into his headset.

  Sota Gamagori has no headset, but he gets the message loud and clear. The pilot’s not coming back into hospital airspace as long as the maniac with the gun is there. And without his security, he’s going to have to go hands-on.

  From the look on his face when he turns my way, he’s not opposed to the idea.

  He’s a stately battleship as he walks smoothly down the ramp, his suit and tie still immaculate despite the propwash and Nature’s own answering winds. He walks with measured strength, his gait even. He’s in no rush; in his mind, his own satisfaction is inevitable. If he gets his hands on me, he’s probably right. I’m sure he could dismantle a train without tools, and I’m far more fragile than that. I can’t let him get close.

  I pull the trigger three times, nice and smooth, no jerking the trigger. The rounds hit home just above his knee. He’s a big, strong bastard, and I need to stop him but I don’t want to kill him. His punishment has to be more protracted than that.

  He stumbles, clutching his knee and spitting out harsh Japanese words. I wait for him to drop, but he remains stubbornly on his feet. His willpower is amazing. He still has his hands wrapped around his knee but something about them seems odd, and it takes me a moment to realize what: there’s no blood. His leg should be shining red from the knee down, but there’s nothing. His big machine hands release the knee, smoothing own the fabric and letting three flattened bullets drop harmlessly to the roof. He stands up again, looking pissed but not scared. I can see why. The fabric of his suit isn’t even wrinkled. My shots did nothing except maybe bruise his leg.

  “I should have reinforced all of their clothing,” he says. “The process is expensive, but clearly worth it. I will armor all my men’s clothing from now on.”

  Damn it. My options just got cut down to a head shot, which is only a last resort but he doesn’t have to know that. I bring the sights up and let two more fly. He packs so much mass that I can’t miss his breadbasket, but the high-impact rounds only draw the same flinch from him that an ordinary man would get from a horsefly bite.

  “You don’t want me dead,” he says. “You’ve already lost, since I hold no reservations about you.”

  He reaches for me, but though he’s quick for his size I’m still far more agile even in my ground-down state. I duck the arm, hop to the left and loop an overhand left into his temple. He barks, more in outrage than pain, and swings wildly. I’m already gone, his fist smashing hell out of the hole in the air where I’d just been. I dance away from another grasping lunge, but a sudden hard impact on my left arm stuns me for a moment. I’ve danced myself right into a retaining wall and now I’m all out of room.

  His fist, thick and callused as a club, slams into my side like a piston and I feel two ribs crack, sending white-hot pain spiderwebbing through my torso. I cough, retching, and he does it again from the other side with a sharp martial yell. Every scrap of breath is driven from me and I drop to my knees, keeling forward so that all I can see is the concrete.

  Then there’s a new sight: two highly polished Oxfords. He stands there for a moment, letting me enjoy the view. I can almost see myself in them. Then those hands clamp down on my shoulders and haul me upright.

  Despite the fresh blaze of pain I come up swinging. I don’t want to shoot him in the head, but Wyatt Earp taught me there’s other ways to use a gun. I swing my Springfield like a club, cracking the butt against his forehead. He grunts as the blood trickles down his face, but otherwise I might as well have been a mosquito. I slash at him again, but he takes it on an upraised forearm and it’s all I can do to hold onto the gun. He shoves me back hard and I slam into the wall. The back of my head bounces off the unyielding concrete and I suddenly the snow’s not the only thing sparkling in my vision. I can only watch as he walks over to me. It feels like each step shakes the building.

  His hands are iron clamps, squeezing my throat like they’re hydraulically powered. My vision blurs, red around the edges, darkness flooding in. The brain shuts down after less than five seconds of a well-applied choke, and I’m sure mine is not the only throat to have felt this power. Immediately the world fades around the edges. My vision clouds with red.

  Then white.

  Then gray.

  With the last of my conscious reasoning I stick my gun up under my chin, then slide the barrel to the left. Into and inside Gamagori’s jacket sleeve. As the fog closes in for the last time I squeeze the trigger.

  The gunshot deafens me, but thankfully most of the percussive force of the shot is absorbed by Gamagori’s dense hands. I drop back to the rooftop, not feeling the impact on the cold concrete, taking deep, coughing breaths as life blooms in my head again. Gamagori is stumbling backwards, his face a frozen ric
tus as he clutches his right arm with his left hand. Blood is pouring from his sleeve like a flood. I can only imagine the damage the bullet, trapped by the charmed fabric, did to the limb inside it.

  Choking on oxygen, I force myself to my feet and will myself to move towards him. He’s so absorbed by the damage to his arm he’s blind to my approach until I’m almost on top of him. He makes a desperate grab for me with his catcher’s mitt of a right hand but I dodge it easily and Wyatt Earp him again, this time clubbing the butt of the Springfield into his wounded left arm. He collapses, gasping in pain.

  It crosses my mind to put a couple of boots into his arm to make sure he stays down, but before I can decide one way or the other a gentle arc of light spills out onto the roof. I look over to see the elevator opening up, allowing four people to step out. Three of them are human, a woman and two men. The fourth looks like a human from the waist down, but up top he’s an octopus in a specially tailored black dinner jacket and rakishly tilted matching fedora.

  The woman is clearly in charge, radiating authority from her 5’4 body. Her hair is a neat, doe-brown wave and her face, normally charmingly elfin, is as firm and scowl-eyed as any homicide lieutenant. She comes over to me, directing her men to see to the wounded. The octopod (if I remember correctly, his name is Ted) gets Sota Gamagori while the two humans start working on the security team.

  “Ian.” Her voice sounds lighter in person.

  “Sam. You’re late.”

  “Stop whining. I knew you had it under control.”

  Off to the side, where they think I can’t see them, I see one of the human Envoys slip Ted what looks like a folded bill.

  “Is this him?” she asks.

  “Samantha Chappel, meet Sota Gamagori. There’s about a dozen of his friends around here, too. Oh, and a helicopter pilot who seems to have made himself scarce.”

  “We’ll get him.” She crouches down at double-arm’s length from Sota. “Mister Gamagori,” she says, “I’m afraid you’re going to have to come with us.”

  One of the Envoys has removed Gamagori’s jacket and is doing what he can for the ruined arm while another has shackled his ankles together. The whole time he’s being worked on he doesn’t make the merest sound, but his eyes say more than any word. Sam looks over the wound.

  “Nasty,” she says. “What did you do to him?”

  “Wasn’t me,” I tell her. “Must’ve been that one last Devil.”

  Sota Gamagori glares at me, already imagining what he’s going to do to me when he gets free of the Aegis. I’m not worried. I know where he’s going, and it’s not a place people come back from.

  When he’s deemed stable enough to move four Envoys circle up around him and escort him over to the elevator, his glare almost hot enough to melt the snow as it falls. While they’re leading him off something catches my eye. About a foot away from where he’d fallen, partially hidden under a support strut, is a thick ivory envelope.

  Acting quickly, I kneel down and tie my shoe, hissing against the pain in my ribs. When I stand back up the envelope is stuffed rather awkwardly inside my right sock, hidden under the leg of my pants.

  Then the door closes and he’s gone. Samantha appears by my side, startling me.

  “Don’t suppose you remember how to fill out a report,” she asks.

  “Oh, hell no,” I say. “Didn’t you get the memo? I’m retired.”

  Thirty-Four

  I take Samantha’s advice and stop at the Special Care wing to get my ribs looked at. Much to my surprise, Doctor Laveau’s there. When he sees my expression he’s quick to explain that Lisa’s sleeping comfortably in Kimberly’s expert care, and that she’ll be walking around comfortably tomorrow. I let him do what he can for my ribs, but there’s not much that can be done. He tapes me up with practiced efficiency and gives me two industrial strength painkillers and prescribes me twelve hours of sleep.

  The elevator ride down is blessedly silent. The silence continues into the lobby and out into the street. As I cross the parking lot I finally take a second and kneel down. Laveau did a good job on my ribs – they flare up on the downward motion, but by the time I retrieve the envelope from my sock and stand back up the pain’s already fading. The rest of it gets pushed out of my mind when I approach my Jeep.

  There’s a man leaning against the front quarter panel.

  He has some age on him, but it’s tough to tell just how much. Thick, light brown hair that’s just starting to recede. Well shaven, with clear, pale skin and attentive eyes. About six feet tall, with a strong nose-tackle build. He’s wearing a white button-down shirt with the wrists open and rolled up to his forearms, a half-mast tie of violent crimson, casual black slacks and well-worn black loafers, and his attitude is much too relaxed for my liking considering it’s my Jeep he’s leaning against. I stop ten feet from him.

  “It’s been a long night,” I tell him. “If you’ve got something to say, make it quick.”

  He doesn’t take the bait. “Hello, Ian,” he says in a smooth baritone. He rises smoothly and takes a neutral stance facing me, hands clasped casually in front of him. “It’s nice to finally meet you.”

  “You know me, but I don’t know you. You have me at a disadvantage.”

  “You don’t know the half of it.” He takes a slow step towards me, holding out his right hand. “I’ll take that envelope, if you don’t mind.”

  I look closely at his face. It’s a strong face, hearty as a lumberjack, with a heavy nose, prominent cheekbones, and a model’s jawline. If it weren’t for the nose he probably could have been a model, despite having committed the mortal sin of aging over age twenty. I’m certain I’ve never seen him before. He’s too distinctive to easily forget. My eyes find his.

  “And you are?”

  “My name’s Henry. Henry Brighton.” He pauses, like he’s watching for a reaction to the name. I don’t have one to give. After a moment he says, “I’m sorry, but I really must insist.”

  Without breaking eye contact I hold up the envelope.

  “I’ve become very attached to it.”

  “Hmm. Yes, I thought you might have.” He finally lets his hand drop back down, where it’s immediately re-clasped by his left. “But I’m afraid I can’t let this become an impasse. It’s really quite important.”

  I’ve been watching him. He’s much bigger than I am and undoubtedly much stronger, and he has the advantage of not having just been in three different life or death struggles since sundown. But I’m armed and he’s not. No conventional weapons could be that easily concealed in those clothes, he’s not carrying himself in such a way that makes me think he’s got anything in the small of his back, and not even a pocketknife could be hidden in those loafers. That means he’s relying on magic and, no matter how confident he is or how much he knows about me, I’m pretty sure I’m the one who has him at the disadvantage. I switch the envelope to my left hand and draw the Springfield.

  “I think we just reached impasse, Henry.”

  “Almost,” he says, “but not quite.” As he finishes a woman walks into the street from behind the Jeep. She’s of an average height, maybe five-two or three, with long blonde curls and a stunningly voluptuous figure. She’s wearing a white dress that’s far too sheer for this weather. It glows under the street light, low cut in the front and split high up her left thigh. She walks gracefully in between us, the street light casting intriguing shadows around her body.

  “For me? Gee, Henry, this is a first for me. I’ve never had anyone try to tempt me with sex before.”

  “I very much doubt that’s true.”

  “I admit it, it’s a filthy lie.”

  “I’m not for you, little man” she says in a sweet Alabama twang, a voice designed to break men into pieces from the waist down. It’s a good voice, but I’ve heard better. She dips two fingers into her cleavage and pulls out a slip of paper. “This is.”

  It’s about the size of an index card, folded across its width. “And this is?�
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  “The answer,” Brighton says simply. “The one you’ve always wanted.”

  The blonde holds out the card. I could reach out and take it, but I’d have to free one of my hands first. I stand fast.

  “And what would that be?” I ask.

  “Why, this, of course.” He opens his hands and a small coil of fire flares up in his left palm, bouncing up and down like a cartoon spring. He lets me get a good look at it before he throws it at me. Before I can react it’s in my face, sputtering out with a small gasp as it touches my skin.

  “Your invulnerability,” the blonde says in her down-home voice. “Your immunity to magic.”

  She could probably step forward and scoop the gun right out of my hand. It’s been a background thought ever since that night back on the mountain when I first raised my hand against a magical threat. Nobody, not even the Aegis’ famed librarians had ever uncovered any record of another person like me, and they’re all at a loss as to how I came to be the way I am. I’d given up thinking about it. I’d told myself it’s the same reason one person has a jump shot that never misses, or another can thread a needle with an arrow, or can run a four-minute mile with no training. Just a unique snowflake of genetics that produced this bizarre side effect.

  Further along this line of reasoning, it goes to reason that there actually have been others like me. Probably quite a few, but they had the fortune to never interact significantly with anyone or anything magical. Magic is far more common in this world than most would believe, but running into something that has it is still not an everyday event. Others like me have, most likely, simply been swallowed by anonymity and history. But as to there being an actual reason for it? I’d given up on that.

  Was I too rash? Did I simply not dig deeply enough? Or was this Brighton guy simply full of shit?

  “You’ve got me curious,” I admit. “But there’s a problem with trust. Can you prove that what’s on that paper is legit? How do I know it’s not the recipe for your favorite pork marinade?”