This is what we were meant to do. It’s literally what we were bred for.
The certainty was profound.
Remi said, “Right now I’m about as confused as a goat on Astro Turf. But—this is right, what we’re doing. This is necessary.”
In an accord bordering on elation, I grinned at him. “Let’s go kill us another demon.”
And then Remi’s expression changed. I saw the revolver come up, heard the click on an empty chamber; McCue had not reloaded in the aftermath of being jumped by the male ghost. Breathing had come first.
I twisted, wrenched myself aside as I brought my own gun up; saw the glint of something in reflected light: one flash, two, a third. A glitter of silver, the silence of steel as it cleaved the air.
One. Two. Three. A perfect, deadly progression of superb physical awareness, of perfect control. McCue’s movements had been smooth and effortless.
The female ghost dropped. Three hilts stood out from her—its?—heart, like a tight bullet grouping.
And then the body, if it could be called a body, did the wheezing bagpipe rippling pixilation thing, collapsed into dust and grit, and the three throwing knives, falling, rattled against the floorboards, chimed steel-on-steel as they landed one atop the other.
That sweet smell again, almost overpowering. And ash. Charcoal. The astringency of heat. A trace of burned flesh. The stench of corruption, of putrefaction.
I held a revolver in one hand, cradled a shotgun in the crook of an elbow, felt like I’d run a four-minute mile in three. But the tide rose up in me again, bringing with it an awareness of accomplishment. Of an abiding satisfaction. A trace of something edging toward euphoria.
I grinned at Remi McCue. “Oorah! We just kicked us some evil ass!”
McCue bent, picked up his knives, safed them home in the tri-part sheath. Then he went back into the dimness, returned with his hat. His grin matched mine. “How about we light a shuck and clear out before the cops come? ‘Cuz I’m not too sure how they’ll take to a tale about shooting the stuffings—the literal stuffings, I mean—out of already-dead animals.”
I tucked my revolver into the shoulder holster. Yup, bear, cougar, lynx, bobcat, a hava-pig-thing all down from their mounts and shot full of powdered iron and silver, sprawled across the floor amidst a scattering of pool balls, might cause some consternation among the authorities. I already had a rap sheet, but this? This was just plain damn weird.
I heard it in my head: ‘Why, yes, Officer, we shot up all the dead, stuffed animals because they came back to life, and then we killed a pair of ghosts that were actually demons. Because Lucifer is coming and we’re supposed to save the world.’
Hell, I wouldn’t go to jail for this. I’d go to a mental ward. “We gotta come up with a cover story,” I murmured. “Maybe a whole boatload of them.” I pushed the door open, stepped into the coolness of the night.
McCue came out behind me. “A great philosopher once said, You may all go to hell, but I will go to Texas. Seems an appropriate quote for demons, don’t you think?”
I shook my head as I walked across the lot toward Lily Morrigan’s big rig, shotgun cradled across my elbow. “No philosopher ever said that.”
“Davy Crockett said that.”
“Davy Crockett? Davy Crockett wasn’t a philosopher!”
“He most certainly was. He also said, Be always sure you are right—then go ahead. Words to live by, son. Words to live by.”
“I suppose you’ve got a country song for all of this, too?”
“Well, I might could sing the theme song to the Davy Crockett TV show—I’ve seen the whole thing on DVD—but there’s also ‘Angels Among Us,’” Remi replied promptly.
I thrust up a silencing hand. “Don’t start. Do not start. And we’re not angels. Grandaddy said so.”
“Close enough. We’re kissin’ cousins.”
I cast him a glance. “Actually, I’m more a fan of Camus. Nobody realizes that some people expend tremendous energy merely to be normal.”
McCue considered that for a moment. “Then I reckon the two of us are gonna be expending nine whole boatloads of energy from here on out just to fake normal.”
I reached the steps of the rig first, glanced back over my shoulder. “Only the guy who isn’t rowing has time to rock the boat.”
“That Camus again?”
I pulled open the door. “Sartre.”
“Well, if Lucifer plans to row the boat, we’ll just have to rock the hell out of it.” Remi paused, followed me up the steps. “Rock him the hell out of it and right back into the pit.”
Lily Morrigan, as we entered, waited in the driver’s seat. “Go put those shotguns in the back. We’re leaving.” She started the rig, gestured for us to hurry. “Too much noise,” she said. “Scanner says the cops are on their way. We’re moving down the road a bit.”
“My truck!” Remi protested.
I was horrified. “My bike!”
“Tomorrow.” She put the rig in gear, started to roll. “And don’t worry about them tracing you through the plates; they’ll have no idea you’re with me in an RV campground, nor will they have any idea those vehicles are connected to what just happened. They’ll think you guys got drunk and took Uber or Lyft home.”
“Shit,” I muttered; I did not want to leave my bike. I put out my hand to McCue. “Give me your gun. I’ll put it up.” I accepted the second shotgun from McCue, walked hastily back to the garage, found the right cabinet and hooks, safed the shotguns, latched the doors, went back to the front. Remi had hung his hat over the window valance, found a spot on the couch. I dropped into the armchair beside the crow’s perch.
“How many shots?” Lily asked.
“For the demons?” I shared a puzzled glance with Remi. “Missed the first shot, sideswiped a head with a second, then took the guy-ghost out with a bullet straight through the skull.”
Her gaze was level. “I heard more shots than that.”
I was astonished. “You were counting? Seriously?”
She turned the rig north onto Route 66, the Mother Road. “Yes.”
“Why?” Remi asked.
At this hour, the street was nearly devoid of vehicles. “Your grandfather asked me to.”
I eyed the big crow, seeming unperturbed upon its perch as the RV jostled down the uneven paving. “Why would he do that?”
She was very clear. “He said Remi might at some point opt for knives, which are silent. He said you would go with the revolver, and do what needed doing in two shots. Well, I heard more than two shots.”
“That’s because every stuffed animal in the place came back to life,” Remi protested, “and those damn ghosts, or demons, don’t exactly hold still.” He moved aside hastily as the big Wolfhound bitch expressed a desire to join him on the couch. She didn’t ask. She just—arrived.
I was annoyed. Yeah, he had missed the first shot. The second had hit the target, but failed to put the ghost down. “Most of those shots were aimed at the animals. The stuffed animals. The stuffed dead animals. That you didn’t warn us about.” I paused. “Did you expect that to happen? Was that some kind of test?”
Lily laughed. “What you should expect is to expect anything. And if you want to talk philosophy, here’s a saying for you. About the Irish. You might find it apropos.” She lifted her voice, shaped the words with a lilt more pronounced than she’d had before.
“Be they kings, or poets, or farmers,
They’re a people of great worth,
They keep company with the angels,
And bring a bit of heaven here to earth.”
She grinned at us. “That’s you, boyos. That’s the pair o’ you. A bit of heaven here on earth.”
With great seriousness, Remi drawled, “I’m a Texas boy. Of course I’m a bit of heaven.” Then he smiled real slow. “Or so the ladies te
ll me.”
Lily laughed. “I don’t doubt it!”
“Oh, Jesus.” I rose, walked back toward the kitchen. “I need a drink.”
The cowboy quirked his brows. “It’s four o’clock.”
I began opening cabinets. “That’s close enough to five.”
“In the morning!”
“That’s close enough to five.”
CHAPTER TEN
I did indeed pour myself whiskey, once I dug a bottle out of the kitchen cabinetry, even as Lily pulled into the RV campground site assigned to the massive rig. I was more than a little impressed as she wheeled the big motorhome through the narrow road hedged by huge pines, seemingly unfazed by the challenge.
I reflected then that I should probably say nothing whatsoever about being impressed, since she would, in all likelihood, consider it some kind of sexist comment, but I rode a motorcycle, after all, which was infinitely easier to park, so what did I know? I was pretty damn certain I couldn’t handle the motorhome in close confines.
And I also reflected, with a weird twitch of disbelief, that the most impressive thing about the whole situation was that the woman driving the giant RV claimed to be an ancient Irish goddess.
Christ, and I’d thought it was culture shock when I went to prison.
The big RV swayed, and I decided it was easier to ride out the parking job from where I stood in the kitchen, rather than falling over on my way back to the armchair, as she maneuvered the rig into the narrow site. So I clung to a cabinet, braced myself with spread legs and loose knees; saw Remi’s amused eyes on me. But since the cowboy was currently pinned down by the weight of half a huge dog, I wasn’t certain McCue was looking any more badass than I was.
So, we take out demons and undead dead animals, and we fall down in motorhomes or get engulfed by snoring dogs.
Yeah. Badass, all right.
Lily parked, turned off the engine, opened the driver’s door and climbed down, out of the rig. I turned loose of the cabinet and made my way back to the armchair.
“You want help hooking up?” Remi called.
“I do not!” Lily called back.
“Yes, ma’am,” McCue said. “Not sure this gal would let me stand anyhow.” And he placed a hand on the wolfhound’s head, threaded fingers through wiry hair.
I heard the sounds of compartments being opened from outside, rapping and banging, and shot Remi a glance. “What’s she doing?”
“Hooking up water, sewer, power,” the cowboy answered matter-of-factly. “You ever been in an RV before?”
“No.”
McCue grinned. “It’s not exactly rough camping. ’Specially not a rig like this.”
Lily came back in after a bit, cast us a quick smile, then triggered toggle switches above the door. “Lap of luxury,” she said.
And the motorhome, on the whine of hydraulics, grew.
“Damn,” I muttered. When the sound shut off I realized the RV was now twice as wide as it had been. “It’s like a pregnant house. On wheels.”
“Slideouts,” Remi explained, which told me exactly nothing.
“Couch, dinette,” Lily said. “Both convert to beds. You two can crash on those. Bedroom’s mine, of course.” She plucked the glass from my hand, downed what was left of my whiskey, gave me back the empty glass. “It’s five o’clock,” she said simply to my raised brows. Then she moved on through to the kitchen. “Coffee coming up. You two go clean those guns, oil up the knives. And from here on out, any time anything calls for oil, make it holy oil. Water?—holy water. Always. Leave nothing to chance.”
I shot a glance at McCue. “Holy water go for showers, too?”
She was taking a coffeemaker out of a cabinet, pulling grounds out of the refrigerator. “Screws up the plumbing, pretty much, because of the salt in it. But, you know, you can always buy bath salts, exfoliate your heavenly skin so you’ll be smooth and pretty for the demons. ’Course you’ll need to bless it first.”
McCue intoned, “We humbly ask you, almighty God: be pleased in your faithful love to bless this salt you have created, for it was you who commanded the prophet Elisha to cast salt into water, that impure water might be purified.” He paused. “Well, leastways, that’s the beginning.”
I clapped a spread hand over my face in disbelief. “Stop quoting!”
Lily laughed. “Havin’ a hard time of it, are you, Gabe? Not quite reconciled to what you are? Here, let me help.” She walked over with a bottle, poured more whiskey into my glass. To Remi’s glance of disbelief, she said simply, “I’m Irish. What do you want?”
“Coffee,” he answered pointedly.
She grinned. “Irish? Or straight?”
“I think I’ll just go clean my weapons,” Remi observed, but didn’t immediately move. He pointed to the dog sprawled half across his lap. “Is she going to let me up?”
“Faigh suas ó ann,” Lily said. “Lig cinn an buachaill bocht.” The wolfhound lifted her head, and from gold-brown eyes stared at Lily, who then said, “Yes, I mean it.” And the dog rose up slowly, slithered off the couch, collapsed upon the floor.
McCue stared at her. “That first part wasn’t Texan.”
“I told her to let the poor boy up. More or less. So, now you’re unencumbered by the terrible great dog.” She waved a hand. “You’re free to move about the cabin.”
Remi got up, hesitated a moment as he touched the back of his head, proceeded on through the motorhome and into the garage.
I watched him go by. Blood. There was blood on the collar of his shirt, spotting down the back. I set down my glass with a thunk, followed McCue into the garage. “You’re bleeding.”
Remi unholstered his gun, placed it on the cabinet counter. “Like I said, I got up close and personal with a table.”
“You didn’t say you cut yourself.”
McCue shrugged. Lily came through from the living quarters, carrying mugs of coffee. “Cream and sugar are up front,” she said, then frowned at Remi. “What’d you do to yourself?”
He looked a little like a deer caught in the headlights. “I’m fine!”
“You’re bleeding.” She set the mugs down, tapped her hairline above her forehead. “Right there. Just now.”
“Back of his head, too,” I said. “Whacked his head on a table. I don’t know what that is in front.”
Lily stepped in close and caught a handful of McCue’s shirt, holding him in place before he could back away. She pushed back his hair, uncovered a small wound. “That,” she said, “looks like buckshot caught you.” She turned her head to look at me.
And just like that, I was flung back years to the day I stupidly tricked my brother Matty into riding his bicycle down a hilly street while blindfolded.
When Grandaddy had said, “Do you understand? If you do something stupid, if you do something wrong, there are always consequences. You might have killed your brother.”
It rose up in me abruptly, the same wave of fear and remorse and terrible sense of guilt that had overwhelmed me when my brother had been injured. Here. Now. Again. It wasn’t Matty—and yet, oddly, it was.
I’d pulled my shot intentionally when the ghost had grabbed McCue, trying to keep the buckshot spread away from human flesh. But I’d gone into the fight with an unfamiliar gun, unfamiliar ammunition; had walked into the middle of a wholly unfamiliar kind of battlefield—and got bitten in the ass.
McCue, who’d been bitten a little worse, smiled crookedly. “Guess you might could use a little target practice.” And then his smile faded. “Hey. Hey, it’s just a joke. This ain’t nothin,’ trust me. What—are you squeamish? One of those badass studs who passes out at the sight of blood? Because you sure look like you’re goin’ to. You okay?”
No, I was not okay. I remembered with visceral clarity how sick and frantic I felt when Matty had been injured, and how grateful I w
as when Grandaddy had lifted the pain from my brother and transferred it to me. Because pain didn’t matter when it was my own. So long as it wasn’t my brother’s.
I could have killed Matty.
I could have killed Remi.
Lily grabbed a mug from the counter, pressed it into my hands. “There’s whiskey in it,” she said. “You look like you need it.”
Grandaddy had said, “Matthew was Remi’s proxy. He represented the younger brother you needed to have, to trigger the drive to protect.”
Well, if I was supposed to protect McCue, I’d done a piss-poor job of it.
“Can I take this from him?” I asked. “Grandaddy did it for me years ago—lifted it from my brother, gave it to me. Can we do that?”
“Jubal can,” Lily answered. “I can’t. Neither can you.”
I stared hard at the cowboy a moment, cast a fleeting glance at Lily, then turned abruptly and headed toward the front of the motorhome.
I heard Remi ask a question. Lily said simply, “Primogenitura. But it’s a process, a growing into it, and not a perfect one.”
I brushed the scar in my eyebrow. Hell. It had been a process with Matty, but at least I’d figured that one out. I’d learned how to bring order to the chaos that was my brother. All I had to do was make it my own chaos.
Which was how I’d ended up in jail, by saving my brother and killing a man in the doing of it.
* * *
—
Not long after sunrise, I hoped to hitch my way to the Zoo, maybe a mile, mile-and-a-half down the road from the campground, but few vehicles were out so early Sunday morning. So I hoofed it. And was grateful beyond measure to discover, when I got to the big roadhouse, that my Harley was exactly where I’d left it. The only other vehicle in the parking lot was a bright silver extended cab Ford F-250 pickup bearing Texas license plates, parked over on the side between the roadhouse and a large pine. Remi’s, I figured.
I picked up my helmet, donned it, pulled on gloves, threw a leg over the saddle, lifted the bike, started to tap up the kickstand, then paused.
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