Just, no one wanted to admit it yet.
Taking a deep breath, James threw his F-350 into gear to head back to his own place. He hoped the girl would be okay, but he’d already done more than enough to help her.
He pulled away from the curb and rolled down the road.
He revved his engine.
There was one thing he could always count on, and that was the wonderful feeling of power he got when he revved his old Ford. Los Angeles was infested with electric cars, and he wondered how long it would take before people started puttering around on magic carpets woven with Oriceran magic or using wings.
Fifteen minutes brought him to his house, an older wood-frame place. Plenty of space for him, and a nice upstairs loft he used for storage.
James picked up the sleeping Leeroy and headed toward his front door. He wondered how his dog had gotten out, and so far away from his property.
“You better not secretly be a shifter, Leeroy,” he muttered. “And if you are, you better damn well explain why you’ve shit or pissed inside so many times instead of using the bathroom.”
He set the snoozing dog down. Leeroy woke up and stretched for a moment before letting out a happy bark.
James fished a key out of his pocket and unlocked his door. Most people on his block had gone to smart locks—more tech to hack and fail. Extender drones could even do it remotely.
At least with a physical lock, you had to kick it open. Or blow it open. Both made noise, though—and noise would alert him that someone was there to kill him.
He opened the door, and Leeroy ran in.
“Stick around this time, dog,” James called after him.
He took off his boots. A closet stood right next to the front door, and shoes and boots sat in a neat line on a multi-tiered shoe rack inside. He set his boots in an obvious hole in the line.
James glanced around as he walked farther into the house. Every pile of papers was where it should be. He ran his hand along the wall…no dust.
He chuckled to himself. A stupidly clean house was what happened when you didn’t have any other real hobbies. Plus, it gave him something to do when he was watching cooking shows on television, or listening to barbeque podcasts.
James stepped into his living room and pulled a painting of Saint Jerome to the side. There was a sealed weapons locker with a palm sensor in an alcove behind the painting. Violating KISS annoyed him, but some things he wouldn’t risk. He placed his hand on the sensor, and the locker clicked open.
He put his knife and gun inside, then slipped off his necklace, eyeing it for a moment. He put it in the locker and closed it. He didn’t want to wear that thing unless he had to.
James headed to a black leather recliner in his living room and dropped into it, then pulled out his phone and brought up the LAPD Bounty Hunter Outreach Department app.
Spending all day helping smart-mouthed little girls and enraging Japanese mobsters might be fun, but it didn’t the pay the bills.
He tapped away, scanning through the available bounties. Mostly low-level cases, Level Ones and Twos, mostly humans. Barely worth leaving home for. A few rogue-troll wrangles—those might be worthwhile. He felt bad, though, because the trolls got in trouble too, and it was mostly the assholes who bonded with them who were responsible for them turning dangerous.
A nice, even-tempered person bonded to a troll might end up with nothing more than an annoying pet. On the other hand, a psychopathic criminal gangbanger might end up with a walking killer yeti to throw at his enemies, if a troll were willing to bond with such a person. Trolls were damned smart; much smarter than they got credit for. Only in very rare cases would they connect with shitty people.
But when they did…that was where the “bad troll” stories came from.
James tossed his phone on a small table next to his chair and picked up his remote. He didn’t give a shit how old-school using a remote instead of voice-control made him. The damn machines didn’t understand his deep voice, for whatever reason.
He glanced at his watch. Yeah, about time for his favorite show, Barbecue Wars: New Generation. A few clicks brought it up.
“I don’t know, Jill,” said one of the judges. It was Henry, an elderly Asian man with white hair. “I’m a barbecue purist, and I don’t know or trust a sauce made using ingredients not native to this world. I mean, we’re not talking South Carolina versus North Carolina, we’re talking Earth versus Oriceran.”
Jill, the show’s token perky blonde floor reporter, shook her head. “We don’t see a lot of non-human competitors on Barbecue Wars: New Generation, so I’m excited to see what magic this Elf pit-master can bring to the competition.” She winked.
James grimaced. “KISS!” he shouted. “Magic isn’t fucking simple!”
Sure, it could be useful, but it was never simple.
Leeroy barked in response.
He scrubbed a hand across his face. If he’d been born thirty years earlier, he wouldn’t have to deal with this barbecue sacrilege.
3
James slammed the truck’s door closed and stepped over the cobblestone path that led to a simple stone church nestled among several huge ash trees.
He smiled to himself as he gazed at the stone, which was worn by the wind and the rain. For two centuries, the church had stood in a land that had passed through the hands of different countries. Nations came and went, but the Catholic Church was eternal, and this specific church was well on its way to that status as well.
To the bounty hunter, there was nothing simpler than a Catholic church. You knew exactly what to expect when you entered one, and what kind of people might be inside. This contrasted with the Church itself, one of the most complicated social organizations in history.
James opened the door and made his way through the mostly empty nave. A few older Mexican women sat in the back pews, and they glanced up at him briefly before returning to their silent prayers as he continued toward the confessional. On arrival, he carefully opened his side and stepped in before sliding the door closed.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned,” James began. “It has been one week since my last confession.”
“Go on, child,” said a familiar voice. Even with the screen up, James recognized the voice of the elderly Father McCartney. His New Jersey accent was unmistakable, no matter how formally he was speaking.
“I’ve experienced great wrath,” James said, “besides enjoying smacking around some of the bounties. Yesterday, I helped a girl who found my dog.”
“Nothing wrong with helping a girl. That doesn’t sound very wrathful.”
“This girl was looking for her mom, and she set up a meeting with some shady sh—” James gritted his teeth. He wouldn’t profane this place. “Some shady men. It turns out they were Harriken.”
He didn’t need to explain. Father McCartney was many things, but he wasn’t naïve about the evil that stalked the world—human or otherwise.
“They tried to take the girl,” James continued. “They did not...respond to my attempts at peaceful negotiation.”
“Of course they didn’t.” The priest sighed. “I see, child. And did you take the men’s lives?”
“No, I didn’t, even though they threatened the girl and tried to pull a gun on me, and it would have been justified. Instead I really hurt them, and I’ll admit I enjoyed it.”
James resisted smirking, even though he was proud of what he’d done.
“The Harriken are dangerous, child. It might not be wise to stoke their wrath.”
“Scum infest the city. Scum infest the world.” James shrugged. “Someone has to push back.”
“There’s some truth to that, but as the Gospel of Matthew teaches us, those who will take up the sword will die by the sword."
James coughed. “Just want to remind you that I didn’t kill anybody—although they really, really had it coming.”
“The righteous warrior will smite the wicked and the enemies of the Lord,” the priest intoned, �
��but he must always be wary of letting wrath and vainglory into his heart, for it will turn him into the monsters he faces.”
James didn’t know about that, but he wasn’t going to argue with a priest about what God wanted.
“You are blessed by the Lord, child. He has touched you in this time of tribulation, and given you a special purpose. The veils between the worlds have worn thin, and evil walks our planet with strange powers. Use your talents wisely, as you have done in defense of those who are weak. Blessed are the meek, for they shall inherit the Earth.”
“I guess I’m not going be part of that crew,” James muttered.
“And what of the girl?” the priest asked.
“I took her home. I think she’s living by herself, but she isn’t starving or anything. Her mother is gone, and her father might be involved in the disappearance. The cops have already been worthless. Big fu—uh, big surprise.”
“I see. Then it might be best for you to keep an eye on her.”
James snorted. “I don’t have a lot of time to babysit.” He sighed. “Look, I gave her a one-use card, and she’s got my number. If she gets in trouble, she’ll call me. Good enough?”
“For now.” Father McCartney chuckled quietly. “If you’re paying attention to her, not much more I can ask.”
“Yeah.” James slid open the booth. He needed to escape before the priest put him in charge of a busload of orphans.
Cowardly? Sure.
But even he couldn’t win against God.
At the Leanan Sídhe, his favorite Irish pub, James sat across a table from a white-haired man with a couple of decades on him, the Professor—or at least that was what James called him.
Officially he was Doctor F.J. Smite-Williams, Professor of Historical Extra-Dimensional Engineering, which was a fancy way of saying he studied magical artifacts.
If you got a few drinks in him he liked to go by Father O’Banion, which amused James on some days and annoyed him on others.
They hadn’t met in a while, but James wanted to keep up his contacts—especially those outside the Church or the police.
“I might be able to line up something for you soon, lad,” the older man told him. He leaned back, resting his hands on his slightly pudgy middle. He’d already downed more than a few beers before James’ arrival, leaving his cheeks even ruddier than usual. “I’m just running down a few more contacts.”
James swallowed a sip of his Irish Stout. “This isn’t another bullshit run, is it?”
The Professor laughed and shook his head. “Sorry about that, lad, but you never know. It could have turned out to be the Holy Grail.” He sipped some of his own beer, a Harp Lager. “And we can’t be having just anyone get their hands on something like that, human or otherwise. Too many artifacts are spilling out onto the streets as it is.” A huge grin appeared on his face. “These times of chaos are interesting, but also damned dangerous.”
James shrugged and drank more of his beer. “Not disagreeing. Just make sure it’s worth my time. Been doing too much free shit lately.”
“Like picking fights with the Harriken?” The Professor let out a merry chuckle.
“It seems like everyone has heard about that.”
“You sure know how to make friends.”
James smirked. “Guess it’s my wonderful personality. I didn’t figure the Harriken would go blabbing so much about their guys getting their asses kicked.”
“They didn’t, but people are always watching these days, one way or another.”
James thought that over. From what he could remember, no surveillance drones had had line of sight on the alley, but that didn’t mean some magical spy bee hadn’t been flying cloaked overhead.
The Professor leaned forward, a bright smile still on his face. “Just remember, lad, that organizations like that can call on allies. It’s not some tiny fool playing at being a big man because his uncle gave him a magic ring.”
James grunted. “What, you worried about me?”
“I’m more worried about local property values.” The Professor’s eyes glinted in humor.
“Don’t worry about me. Just let me know about your lead.”
“Will do, lad.”
A dog barked in the corner, and a customer handed the dog an open bottle. The Amazing Malty was one of the bar’s attractions. Malty grabbed the bottle with his paws, upended it and started chugging.
“Chug, chug, chug,” everyone in the bar started chanted in unison. The Professor shouted louder than anyone.
James didn’t join the chant. He waited until Malty was done with his beer and chuckled.
“That dog is more hardcore than I am.” He turned back to face the Professor.
Smite-Williams shook his head. “That’s sad, lad. You shouldn’t be outdone by a dog.”
James shrugged. “He gives more of a shit. No big deal.” He finished his beer. “I should get going. I need to make sure my dog’s not stealing my beer.”
“I’m sure he has much better taste than that.”
James threw the door open of his house and called, “Leeroy, buddy! Let’s go for a walk!”
No response. No eager bark. No thump, thump, thump of the dog charging through the house.
“Leeroy?" James called again. He frowned. “You’ve got to be fucking kidding me.”
He searched the house and confirmed his fear. Leeroy was nowhere to be found.
No obvious holes in the wall or ceiling presented themselves as possible escape routes. Fifteen minutes of searching brought the bounty hunter back to his living room, which conspicuously lacked one foolish black lab.
James ran his hands over his bald head. When it came to normal bounties he was good at thinking like a criminal, but he had no idea how to think like a damned dog.
Leeroy could be anywhere. He’d managed to make it fifteen minutes away by car last time, where he somehow got his useless ass stuck in a drainpipe.
Damn it, Leeroy. How did you get out again? Why can’t you just be satisfied, dog?
Well, the best strategy when you’ve lost something is to start looking where you last saw it. James had already tried the house, so it was time to move on to the second-to-last place.
He pulled out his phone and dialed Alison.
“Mr. Brownstone?” she answered.
“Hey, Alison. You didn’t happen to find my dog in a drainpipe again, did you?”
“Leeroy is missing?”
“Yeah.”
Alison sighed. “Sorry. I’ve barely left home since yesterday. I haven’t seen him.”
“No problem. It was a long shot, anyway.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Brownstone. I’m really sorry.”
“Too bad you can’t track with that magic vision of yours,” James said. “And don’t worry about it. This isn’t the first time I’ve had trouble with Leeroy escaping. I’ll find him.” He chuckled. “Last time I ended up having to fight Harriken, though.”
She laughed quietly on the other end. “I think they regretted it more than you did.”
“Sometimes it’s good to remind monsters that there are always bigger monsters out there.” He paused in a moment of consideration. “Though now that I’ve said that shit, some dragon’s probably gonna eat me.”
The girl’s smile faded and she shook her head, although he obviously couldn’t see her. “You’re not a monster, Mr. Brownstone.”
“Sure I am, kid. I’m the monster you point at other monsters, kind of like how sometimes Godzilla’s good and sometimes he’s bad.”
“You forget, I can see your heart,” she reminded him.
“Then you need to get your magic eyes checked, kid. I’ve done a lot of brutal things in my life.”
“And have you ever hurt anyone who didn’t have it coming?”
He pursed his lips. “That’s all a matter of perspective, kid.”
James furrowed his brow. He didn’t have time to debate with a teenager as to where he fell on the Sonofabitch scale. His dog was m
issing—one of the few creatures he’d ever run into who loved him unconditionally. Plenty of people respected his strength, but that was just another way of being afraid of a monster.
Delusions were for the weak. Being human didn’t make him any less of a monster than some of those wacked-out magical assholes from Oriceran.
“If you see him, give me a call,” James requested. “I’m going to go ask around the neighborhood.”
“Okay.” She hung up, and he slipped his phone back into his pocket.
A trip to James’ closet netted him a sheath and a shoulder holster. He returned to his living room to move the painting of Saint Jerome aside to access his weapons locker, from which he retrieved a .45 and a K-Bar. That should be enough for neighborhood interviews.
He went toward the door. “Now to find my dog.”
Two hours later, James pulled his F-350 up to his third street corner. Several gangbangers wearing matching bandanas loitered in the area, most leaning against a wall trying their best to look intimidating. It might have worked on someone who couldn’t punch a man into a wall several yards away.
They were a far less hospitable crowd than the old ladies at the first street corner or the school kids at the second street corner.
Not that James worried. These guys were teddy bears compared to the Harriken—almost a joke in today’s dangerous world. They were a vestige of another time that wanted to pretend it still had relevance.
James rolled down his window.
The gangbangers pushed off the wall, surrounding the truck in a semi-circle, and squaring their shoulders.
Now, if they dared hurt his truck, James would have to have a one-way conversation with them that might involve typing a few exclamation points using his knuckles.
“Hey, guys,” James rumbled. “Trey, that you back there?”
One of the older gangbangers sauntered forward, a cigarette dangling from his mouth. “Fucking Mr. Brownstone.” The man gave him a comically exaggerated bow. “Haven’t seen you around for a while. I mean, I’ve seen your sweet-ass ride, but you don’t talk with the peasants enough, man.”
The Unbelievable Mr. Brownstone Boxed Set One (Books 1-3): Feared By Hell, Rejected By Heaven, Eye For An Eye (The Unbelievable Mr. Brownstone Boxed Sets) Page 3