The Beautiful and the Damned

by Jessica Verday

  “Cyn? She’s not a local. She’s only been here for, what, a couple of months now?” He had a dirty towel slung over his left shoulder, and both hands gripped the plastic tub. Cyn’s smile turned to a grimace, and a bead of sweat rolled down between her shoulder blades.

  “Only a couple of months?” The cop turned his sharp gaze toward Lenny. “You don’t say.”

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  The second night that Avian was home, he sat staring into the fireplace long after Father Montgomery had gone to bed. He could barely feel the heat it was giving off. Thanks to his . . . heritage, hot and cold were things he had a hard time distinguishing. Made it a real bitch if he wasn’t careful. More than once, he’d risked losing a finger to frostbite.

  But the fire was a welcome distraction. He still couldn’t shake the underlying feeling of danger, and he wondered if it had anything to do with that Echo.

  I need a drink.

  Avian stood up to go check the kitchen, knowing that he wouldn’t find anything in there stronger than cooking sherry. Which worked in a pinch. He’d admit to drinking worse. The liquor cooked up during the Prohibition-era days was right up there on the “worse” list. A mix of rotten corn mash and back-alley gasoline, it made paint thinner taste like fine bourbon.

  Bourbon. That sounds good.

  Cash would have some down at the Black Cadillac.

  He passed a twenty-four-hour diner on the way to the bar, and then the alley where he’d come upon a Grenabli demon/vampire fight late last night. Damn vampire had had a bull head with horns. Must have been part of the Navarro coven from Spain. He’d heard about their experimentations with drinking bull’s blood in order to make themselves stronger and become truly immortal.

  Guess they’d have to work a little harder at that whole immortality thing.

  He parked his motorcycle and went into the bar, automatically taking in the fact that there were eight people inside. All bikers. And all one hundred percent human.

  Cash was drying off a glass when Avian entered but immediately came over to greet him. “Thirteen! Always a pleasure to have you grace our presence.”

  Cash wasn’t one hundred percent human. But he made sure to let Avian know a long time ago where his loyalties were.

  Avian took his outstretched hand. “Nice to be back home.”

  Cash flipped the empty glass, and it landed neatly on the bar, upside down. Without even asking, he reached for a bottle of Buffalo Trace bourbon.

  Avian glanced around the room. The bar hadn’t changed much since the last time he’d been here. Same Johnny Cash memorabilia plastering the walls, a couple of large-screen TVs, and a jukebox that had seen better days. But there was a new addition hanging above one of the pool tables: a framed pool stick splintered into two pieces.

  “Arts-and-craft times, huh, Cash?” He gestured over at the hanging cue.

  Cash placed an amber-colored bottle and a glass filled with ice in front of him. “Since that was the thing that came between us, literally, when you saved my life, I figured I should give it a place of honor. Still chaps my ass that I owe you one for that.”

  “You could have handled that succubus without me.”

  Cash laughed and shook his head. “Yeah, I don’t think so. At least not while she was trying to eat my liver.”

  “Still sore?”

  Cash rubbed his side, and a pained expression came over his face. “Damn doctor sewed me up with a fishhook and twine. Left one hell of a scar.”

  Avian poured just enough bourbon to cover the bottom of his glass. “Chicks dig scars. Didn’t anyone ever tell you that?”

  “That’s what I keep telling myself. But so far, the ones I keep finding don’t.”

  With a rueful grin, Cash headed back to his bartending duties, and Avian took a slow sip of his bourbon. Savoring the taste as the liquor burned a straight shot through him. This was exactly what he needed after a year spent on the road. Granted, a human year was like a blink of an eye to him. But even he got tired of the daily grind of chasing down baddies who didn’t want to play nice with humans day in and day out.

  Then the door opened, and the girl who’d stopped by Father Montgomery’s house came walking in. She was wearing some kind of waitress uniform and didn’t have a coat on.

  “Whiskey. Jack Daniels,” she said from the far end of the counter. “Or whatever you’ve got.” Her pupils dilated, and she stared at Cash with the obvious intent of trying to make him give her what she wanted.

  Cash took her in slowly, but shook his head. “Nope.”

  Confusion crossed her face. Then she tried again. “I want some whiskey. Now.”

  Avian took another sip of his bourbon and watched their interaction bemusedly. He’d seen this before with Frank Rooney—another Echo—back in 1928. One of the souls inside Rooney had come from a voodoo priestess who had a lot of power. Rooney was able to tap into that power as well and compelled people to give him things. He used it on bank tellers. Stole three million dollars before Avian found him and made him give it back.

  The girl stared down Cash.

  Won’t take, Avian thought. That only works on humans.

  “I’ve got an ID,” she finally said, digging in her pocket. “Here. See?”

  Cash leaned in to get a closer look. “Uh-huh. So you’re twenty-nine?”

  “I’m whatever age you need me to be to get some of that whiskey,” she said in a low voice.

  Avian picked up his glass. Cash glanced at him as he moved closer, and Avian gave him a brief nod. Cash reached for the square Jack Daniels bottle and poured her a shot.

  The girl finally noticed him and glared as she took the glass. “Oh, nice. The guy who wouldn’t let me see Father Montgomery. Are you stalking me now? Back off, asshole. I’m not in the mood.”

  Avian grinned at her attitude. “You know I’m the only reason you’re going to be drinking at all tonight, right?”

  She gulped down the whiskey in one smooth motion and slammed the glass down on the counter. “Yeah. Okay. Go right on ahead and keep thinking that, douche bag.” Then she turned back to Cash. “I’ll have another.”

  CHAPTER EIGHT

  It took four shots of whiskey before Cyn was able to relax and stop thinking about Declan and wondering why he was here. After Lenny had let it slip that she was new in town, she’d told Marv she wasn’t feeling well and wanted to go home. Then she slipped out the door in the kitchen, leaving her coat out on the floor. She wasn’t about to go back and get it.

  She slid the empty shot glass down the bar counter and giggled a little when it bumped the wall then fell off. It didn’t break, though, because the asshole from Father Montgomery’s house reached out and caught it.

  “Hey, that’s a nice catch,” she said in spite of herself. He palmed the shot glass and then made it reappear on the bar. Cyn blinked once and squinted at him. “How’d you do that?”

  He didn’t answer but shook his head when she opened her mouth to call for another round. For some reason, this really irritated her—who was he to stop her from getting another drink?—and she gave him her dirtiest look. “I’ll have one more,” she said loudly.

  “No you won’t,” he replied. “You’ve had enough.”

  “Excuse me?” She tried again. Louder this time. “One more, please. Over here.”

  The guy exchanged looks with the bartender, and then the bartender ignored her.

  “It’s not gonna happen.” Annoying Tall Guy crossed his arms. “But you can keep trying. It’s amusing.”

  Cyn marched over until she was standing directly in front of the bartender. She didn’t know why her mind-mojo powers weren’t working. All she wanted to do was keep drinking. It made everything nice and hazy, so she didn’t have to think all the time.

  Cyn willed the bartender to give her another shot, but it was a useless act. He kept ignoring her.

  “Fine,” Cyn said. If the asshole was somehow responsible for this, then he owed her. And she was going to take th
at almost-full bottle of Buffalo Trace sitting next to him as payment.

  Cyn shot past him and grabbed for the bottle. Two full swigs of it were down the hatch before she felt his hand on her arm. Stopping her.

  “Why don’t we find a quiet table,” he said. “Come with me.”

  She didn’t know why, but for some reason she found herself following him.

  Maybe it was because he let her hold on to the bottle of bourbon.

  They headed for the far corner, where the people sitting at a table suddenly seemed interested in playing a game of pool on the opposite side of the bar and cleared out. Cyn picked at the peeling label on the front of the bottle as they took the recently vacated seats.

  “So, what do you want to talk about?” she asked.

  “Why don’t you start with what’s going on.”

  “What do you mean, what’s going on? Haven’t you ever seen someone get drunk before?”

  “Yeah, but that’s not what this is. And that’s not who you are.” He tilted his head to the side and studied her. Cyn realized that his eyes were the darkest shade of brown she’d ever seen.

  “You don’t know me. So how can you think you know what ‘this is’?” Cyn lifted the bottle to her lips. “I’m just a drunk teenager with a fake ID in a crappy bar. That’s it.”

  “Don’t let Cash hear you talking shit about his place, or it’s the last time you’ll ever see the inside of it.”

  She paused before taking a sip. “Seriously?” Then she laughed at him. “You think I’m afraid of being thrown out of here?” She glanced around. “The floor is covered in stains that look like they’re either vomit or . . . or . . . some kind of bile or something, and—”

  “It’s blood.”

  “Oh, excuse me.” She waved the bottle around. “How nice. The floor is covered in bloodstains. That totally makes it authentic. And what’s with all of these pictures of the same guy on the wall? Shouldn’t there be Sports Illustrated swimsuit models, or Victoria’s Secret posters? This is a biker bar, isn’t it?”

  “It’s a Johnny Cash–themed bar. Hence the Johnny Cash memorabilia.”

  “Gotcha.” Cyn cocked her finger at him like she was taking aim and then pulled the trigger. “I guess that’s where the name Cash comes from too.”

  “No, that’s his real name. Warren Cash.”

  “Riiiight. Okay, well I think that’s enough talking for now. This is a ridiculous conversation, and I just want to get wasted in peace, okay? I’m not looking for anything more than that.”

  “Why?”

  “Why do I want to get wasted? Or why do I want to do it in peace? Because both questions have the same answer: It’s been a shitty couple of days.”

  Cyn wasn’t paying attention to the other people in the room until there was the distinct sound of footsteps coming to a stop behind her. She turned around to see who it was.

  A squat guy with a blond crew cut and no neck, whose muscles rippled up beneath both arms of his Ed Hardy T-shirt, stared at her table companion. “Thirteen,” he said. “It’s been a while.”

  One of his arms suddenly split wide open, revealing a moving maw beneath the gaping flesh. It was lined with little suckers—like a miniature octopus tentacle—and it was hideous.

  Cyn recoiled for an instant before regaining her composure.

  “Bryn,” her table companion replied, “I thought we had an agreement. You don’t come back in here again, and I don’t kill you.”

  “I’ve worked out some new terms.” No-neck’s arm made a squealing noise, like a hungry baby piglet waiting to be fed.

  “Too bad for you I don’t renegotiate my contracts.” He looked down at No-neck’s moving arm. “You should think about feeding that thing, though. Looks cranky.”

  Cyn felt her jaw hit the floor as she turned back to the guy who had been so calmly sitting next to her. “You can see that?!”

  “Of course I can,” he replied. “And now I’m going to get rid of it.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  The rest of the bar patrons seemed oblivious to what was about to happen right in front of them, but Cash wasn’t. “You know the rules,” he said. “Take it outside.”

  Within the blink of an eye, the two guys in front of her were heading for the alley out back, and Cyn scrambled to follow.

  “Don’t make too much of a mess out there,” Cash called.

  “No promises,” Avian called back.

  No-neck made it to the alley first. He put up his fists in a classic fighting stance and bounced back and forth on the balls of his feet.

  “Old school,” Avian said. “You know I like it that way.”

  “Whatever it takes to kick your ass. That’s the way I  like it.”

  Avian didn’t assume a fighting stance but started taking off his leather jacket. Cyn was momentarily distracted by the sleeve of ink covering his right arm. She could also see something strapped between his shoulder blades. Taking his time to neatly fold the jacket, he set it off to the side, then simply walked up and punched No-neck in the head.

  No-neck returned the jab, only lower, and hit Avian’s stomach.

  Avian didn’t even flinch. “Is that it? You’ll have to hit harder than that if you want to leave a mark.” His tone was long and drawn out, taunting just by its even keel.

  No-neck reacted with a flurry of punches to Avian’s head and shoulders, his head bent low.

  With No-neck’s head left unguarded, Avian drove his elbow into the back of his skull so hard, Cyn could hear bone crack. No-neck fell back, stunned.

  Avian moved fast, striking again, and No-neck fell to his knees. “Damn it,” he panted, hands flat against the pavement, arm muscles tensing. “I’m tired of playing this game with you, Thirteen.” His biceps split open, and gaping tentacles at least three feet long uncoiled from each one. He flung them like whips and they hurtled with blinding speed, rushing for Avian’s face.

  One of the tentacle arms shot past Avian, but the other wrapped around his head. The wet suction noise it made turned Cyn’s stomach. As soon as the arm had gotten a hold, its little suckers opened wide and produced rows of shiny teeth. Gnashing and biting, they immediately stripped away anything they came in contact with. Little hunks of skin the size of fleshy Band-Aids were pulled from Avian’s cheek as the tiny carnivores started devouring him inch by inch.

  The second tentacle tried to wrap around his waist, but Avian moved out of the way. With his free hand, he reached behind him and pulled out a wicked-looking double-edged sword from the strap between his shoulder blades. The sword sliced through the tentacle arm, but it didn’t lose its suction grip on his face.

  Suddenly, Avian threw his sword straight up into the air as hard as he could.

  With both hands now free, he ripped off the tentacle arm and tossed it at No-neck. No-neck screamed as the gaping mouths latched onto his head and immediately started slurping.

  But No-neck wasn’t finished yet, and even half-blinded by his own appendage, he pulled back and lashed out again with his remaining tentacle. This time he went for Avian’s feet.

  Cyn couldn’t help herself. “Watch out!” she screamed. “He’s going for your—”

  A whistling noise split the air as the sword came crashing back down to earth.

  In that split second, Avian glanced over at Cyn and the sword fell blade down, just out of his reach.

  The look he gave her was so full of rage that she almost saw smoke come out of his nose.

  As the tentacle fell short of Avian’s feet, he dropped to the ground. When he lifted his head again, the sword was in his hand and his eyes were red. Even in the shadows, Cyn could see that. And the smoke? It was coming from his skin.

  She could see his arms more clearly now, and they were covered in scars that stood out in sharp contrast against the black ink of his tattoos. Rigid and bumpy, they were milky white in color. Although they weren’t scars, exactly. They were more like burns.

  His back muscles strained against hi
s dark T-shirt as he lifted the sword, and she could see the raised outline of burn tissue there, too.

  With a final heave, Avian lunged toward No-neck, who was still struggling against his own tentacle, and swung the blade down. The sword slid through No-neck’s body like butter, and Avian followed the trajectory by falling to one knee.

  No-neck wavered for an instant, then split into two pieces.

  The tentacle arm that was attached to No-neck immediately pulled back as all of the life left its host, while the arm on his head shriveled up like a piece of puckered skin jerky.

  Cyn briefly wondered if any of the people in the bar were going to come see what had just happened. But even if they did, she knew they wouldn’t see anything beyond two guys engaged in a bar fight.

  They wouldn’t see a weird octopus-arm man. Or a guy who had red eyes and smoke coming off of him, like she did.

  The winner of the fight was still clutching the handle of his sword and bent down on the ground. Cyn hesitantly walked over to him. Smoke curled off of him like steam, and she didn’t want to get too close. His shoulder-length dark hair fell around his face, revealing the nape of his neck and the large “13” tattooed there.

  Wasn’t that what Octopus Guy called him? Thirteen?

  “Um, Thirteen? Are you okay?”

  “Don’t touch me.” His voice was barely recognizable.

  “Wasn’t planning on it.”

  One of the burn marks on his arm deepened, and she stared at it. It looked like it was burning its way through his skin. From the inside out.

  Then he looked up and she saw the horns.

  CHAPTER TEN

  Avian had to give the girl some credit—she didn’t lean over and throw up before passing out at the sight of his slice and dice with Bryn. She was just fine with that. It was the sight of him that did it to her.

  Getting to his feet, Avian slid his sword into its scabbard and put his coat back on. Then he glanced down at his boots. One of those suck-mouth bastards had managed to strip away a good chunk of the sole. He’d have to get that fixed before he left town.