I looked at our mutual whatever-he-was, who had never been a stranger but now was both less and more of a man—a man?—than I’d known. “You said he’d be my backup.”
Grandaddy didn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
I shot a glance at Remi, then just plowed on through. “Well, in this war you’ve thrown us into, what good is he if he can’t kill a demon wearing a host body?”
Remi sat abruptly upright. He was not pleased. “I saved your ass the other night when the ghost—the demon—had ahold of you. And the bear. Remember the bear? And I exorcized the surrogate from the cop’s body so the cop, the host, is still alive. Hell, boy, I’m not sure you’d have survived had I not pinned the host to one place and spouted Latin at him. And it was me who had to tell you what to do: water, salt, spit. You want backup? Start there. Seems to me you’ve had plenty.” He flicked a glance at Grandaddy. “But he’s the alpha, is he?”
“Give him time, Remi. You might could be surprised.”
“Okay.” I was exhausted all of a sudden, dropped down into the armchair. “Yeah, okay; you’re right. But I’m just not understanding why Grandaddy—or whatever he is to us, being as we’re all cut from the same heavenly cloth—felt it was necessary to set me up so I’d kill a guy.” I remembered the moment I’d pulled the trigger, the shock on the man’s face as the bullet struck; and from my brother the whoop of exultation, of relief, the cheers of victory, as if he were an athlete who’d scored.
Scored—because a man had died.
Grandaddy’s tone lost its edge. “You killed that man to save your brother. It’s what you’ve done all of your life, made Matthew’s problems your own. And he knows it; he knew it then, that night.” I stared hard at the floor beneath my boots, thumbed the back of one hand over and over again in a nervous gesture. “He has abused your trust countless times, Gabriel. But Remi will not. Remi is not your brother. He is more than brother. And when the time comes, he will always save you.”
I leaned forward, slid elbows down my thighs. Kept on rubbing the back of one hand. “Hell, Grandaddy—I don’t even know if I can shoot a demon wearing a human host. I didn’t exactly enjoy killing that guy, regardless of what he was. And prison?” I straightened up again. “Prison cost me time, a job, a girlfriend, my self-respect, and it lost me my father, basically. He didn’t mince any words when he told me what he thought of me. He’d already raised one son he couldn’t respect, in Matty. And then . . . then it was my turn. You’d think a cop could understand that the shooting was justified. But he threw me under the bus. Hell, he told the judge he should throw the book at me!” I couldn’t help the bitterness. “Some support that was. Some backup, huh?”
“And now you are out,” Grandaddy said. “You are free, according to the law, and accountable only to me. You made sacrifices, yes. But now you are needed, and your particular skillset is required. Yours and Remi’s.”
I looked at the cowboy, caught a level stare unlike any I’d seen from him before. I needed confirmation he felt as lost as I did. “This is all kinds of fucked up.”
Before Remi could say anything to indicate agreement or repudiation, Granddaddy stepped in. “That’s what the End of Days means, Gabriel. And now it’s up to us—you two, me, Lily, all the other angels and our allies—to unfuck it.”
* * *
—
Remi and I drove to the roadhouse in his truck, fully armed, revolvers loaded with what I dubbed magic bullets, plus knives bathed in breath and holy oil. Remi said not a word on the way, probably, like me, contemplating what the hell was about to happen and what we were supposed to do about it. He didn’t say anything even when we pulled into the parking lot. McCue shut off the engine, but made no move to get out. I stayed put, too.
Early evening, but the sun was down. Monday was not a party night such as Friday and Saturday, but going by the parking lot a fair crowd was there nonetheless. Even as we sat in the truck, staring through the windshield, another pickup pulled in. Two Native American men climbed out, headed toward the door. A Toyota Forerunner turned off the highway; when parked, it disgorged a couple of college-age boys dressed cowboy style, and one thin, blonde girl probably not old enough to drink. Then a minivan arrived, and two middle-aged white women got out, settling purse straps over shoulders and moving close together for confidence as they walked toward the entrance. Too old for soccer moms; and anyway, soccer moms would be home with their families at this time of night, instead of at a roadhouse on a Monday night. I’d never played soccer, myself.
Finally I broke the silence. “What do you suppose the staff thought when they found those animals lying all over the floor? Especially the bear.”
“Vandals.”
“What about a field of crispified roaches and the remains of two ghosts who were possessed by demons?”
“I reckon that likely did not cross their minds,” Remi replied. “Whose mind would it cross? Three days ago, I was just a cowboy on a West Texas ranch who likes—liked—to rodeo on weekends.”
I stared out the windshield and said nothing. McCue now knew what I’d been and where.
He drew in a deep breath, blew it out on a gust. “How’s this going to go?”
I didn’t avoid it or beat around the bush. “Should it go? Seriously. What’s to keep us from splitting up and leaving? You’ve got a daughter—go back home to her. Me, I’ll just . . . I don’t know, have you drop me off at a biker bar. I can hustle pool for some bucks, hook up with someone who’ll help me collect my Harley from the campground without alerting Grandaddy or Lily.” Well, I hoped.
McCue didn’t look at me, just stared out the windshield with both hands hooked loosely over the top of the steering wheel. The big neon Zoo Club sign illuminated him in profile. Cheekbone, the shine of an eye. Gaze fixed on the building. A glint of silver from his ring.
It made me look down at my own hand, see an identical ring on my finger. What the hell were we doing?
“I remember,” he said, “when you tried to walk out the other night, and Grandaddy sat you back down.”
I kept my tone level. “Grandaddy’s not here.”
“Yeah, well, maybe his angelic powers can still reach this far.”
I chopped a sharp laugh. “If they can, why doesn’t he take care of this domicile clearing operation on his own?”
“Because we’re supposed to.” McCue turned his head, looked at me. “Get it?—this is a test. And I reckon it’s as much about taking hard advice as it is about taking out a demon.”
I rubbed at my forehead to stall, then met his eyes. “And if it’s in a human host?” Remi said nothing, and I knew what he was thinking. “Yes, I killed a guy. I had no choice, not if I was going to save my brother’s life. But I don’t go around shooting people.”
McCue’s tone was on the dry side. “Not what I was going to suggest. Was gonna say, what’s to stop us from escorting our surrogate outside into the dark and exorcising him? Just like we did with the cop.”
Relief washed through me, that he didn’t after all consider me eager to shoot humans hosting demons. Exorcism seemed like a very pro-active, healthy, positive approach. “So, do we steal a pitcher of water, throw salt and spit into it, sneak it outside when we do our escorting?”
Remi said, dryly, “I figure a glass might be a little more inconspicuous. There’s salt and pepper on the tables, we’ll ask for water, and then, well, one of us can spit into it.”
It was automatic, as if I were with Matty. “I did it the last time.”
McCue’s expression was deadpan. “Guess that means I can’t do me a little snuff. Who knows if tobacco might mess up the holy water.”
I stared at him. “You chew tobacco?”
“No, no, you don’t chew what I use,” Remi replied. “That’d get you sick right quick. It’s powdered, just sits in the mouth between the lower lip and gum . . .” Then he grinned at me. “G
reenhorns, I’m tellin’ ya. Fall for the stereotype every time. Come on, then. Let’s go visit us a bar and see what turns up.”
I grabbed the door handle. “And if nothing does?”
“Grandaddy seemed pretty certain-sure about it. I’m betting he knows something.”
I elbowed open the door, climbed out, shut it. “So, how’s this going to go?”
Remi exited the truck, shut and locked it, then glanced at me across the hood. “I already asked you that. Figure it’s up to you to call the shots. You’re the alpha, right?” And he strode off.
After a hesitation, I stretched my legs and caught up, heard him humming. Heard what he was humming. “Is that what I think it is?”
He ignored the question and sang a couple of lines.
Yes, it was what I thought it was. “You’re not old enough for that song, and neither am I.”
He broke off to comment. “But you know what it is, don’t you?”
Well. Yes. “Oldies station. Don’t judge: sometimes it’s all I could get.”
He didn’t alter his relaxed, loose-limbed stroll across the parking lot. Maybe it’s the boots that make cowboys amble so slow and easy, or what looks like slow and easy. “I figure this demon-baiting is something of a gamble, isn’t it?”
Okay, I knew what was coming. Or something like it. “Here we go.”
And he said, in his slow Texas drawl, “I just found myself in the mood for a little Kenny Rogers. This being a gamble, and all.”
I squinted up at the stars as we climbed the steps to the entrance. “Let’s just hope we don’t do any folding tonight. Of ourselves, I mean.”
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
It felt odd being back inside a roadhouse that over the past three days had hosted a hot demon chick, two demons doubling as ghosts, a Grigori—oh man, gotta ask Grandaddy about that—a Celtic goddess, stuffed dead animals that had come to life, a possessed cop, and a seraph.
And, well, us.
The animals were all back in their original spots, including the bear, though I noted if you looked hard enough you could see a broken-out eye. And judging by the customers wandering around the place, there’d been some vacuuming up of demon remains. Which amused me; how ignominious was that? Sucked into a vacuum bag, then thrown out with the trash.
Actually, come to think of it, fitting.
Remi led the way to the same alcove we’d inhabited when Grandaddy laid down the law about the end of the world and what we were and what it was we were intended to do. Both of us automatically spun the chairs so the backs were angled against the wall and we could watch the customers as well as one another.
We’d managed quick showers and fresh clothing before heading out. Once again, I wore biker leathers and boots, and McCue his cowboy duds from head to toe. And again I stuck out, though the clientele did not appear to be as full-bore cowboy as Friday and Saturday nights. Naturally Remi fit right in. A pretty waitress came by, gave us menus, took a drink order—water included—as McCue picked up the salt shaker and gave it an appraising once-over. Then he studied the ring on his forefinger.
“Looks a little weird, huh?” I asked. “Two guys wearing matching rings.”
He got it after a moment of blankness. His smile was crooked. “I suspect no one’ll think we’re married. We’re too similar. Brothers, maybe, and a family crest.”
I didn’t think we were that similar, though yes, one might assume we were relatives of some kind. Same dark hair, though mine was past my shoulders and his was cut short; bone structure and overall build that echoed one another despite slight height and weight differences; but he was tanned while I still bore the jailhouse pallor. Plus our eyes did not match, with Remi’s a clear blue, mine mid-brown.
“Genetically speaking,” I said, “I’m not sure it can happen.”
He looked at me, frowning faintly. “What can’t happen?”
“Blue eyes. Brown eyes. Siblings.”
McCue smiled. “Missed out on Mendelian genetics, did you? Yeah, it can happen. Has to do with dominant and recessive genes. But anyway, I don’t imagine it applies to us, bein’ as how we’re not, you know, human.”
It kinda creeped me out, thinking about that again. I mean, I’d heard and seen much over the last couple of days that persuaded me the world was not, after all, completely as I had viewed it, but born of heavenly essence?
The waitress stopped by and set down a pitcher of beer and two mugs along with a glass of water for each of us. Remi actually tipped his hat to her in thanks. She smiled, asked if we’d had a chance to look at the menus.
No, we had not, but pretty much every restaurant served burgers and fries, and both of us asked for that. McCue very clearly specified mustard and waited for her to confirm she would bring it.
As she collected the menus and walked away, I asked, “You got a thing for mustard?”
Remi drank down a third of his beer, then nodded at me. “You ever notice how everyone brings ketchup, or it’s sitting on the table already, but you have to ask for mustard?”
I blinked at him. “That would be a ‘no.’ I have not spent any time at all noticing things about mustard.”
“Well, pay attention,” McCue directed. “Happens all the time. And then usually the server forgets to bring the mustard, and your burger goes cold while you wait for it. Or you have to ask for it again.”
I mulled that over a moment. “I never really put much thought into it.”
Remi said, with deep gravity, “Mustard is the forgotten condiment.”
I lifted my mug, contemplated him over the rim a moment. “We have to carry salt around with us these days. Should we add packets of mustard to our supplies?”
He smiled his slow smile—I suspected many ladies fell for it—then picked up the salt shaker and tipped it over the surface of his water glass, tapped the butt end with the other hand. White granules poured out and clouded the water.
I grinned. “Don’t forget to spit.”
“You know,” he said, “you’d think blood would be better. I mean, there’s iron in blood. More protection for us, more threat to surrogates.”
“Well, you can’t really go around cutting into your hand or arm to spill blood into your water glass without alarming people, despite what they do on TV,” I explained. “And anyway, the hand has more nerves and pain receptors that many other areas on the human body.”
“So spit it is,” Remi murmured, and lifted the salted water glass to his mouth to attempt the business at hand without grossing anyone out.
I drank beer as he set down the prepared glass and pushed it up against the wall for protection. It wasn’t much to look at, but the pitcher of salt and saliva I’d poured over all those cockroaches exiting the cop’s body had sure done a number on them. I wasn’t sure I’d ever forget the sound of carapaces popping, and the stench.
“So Lucifer has a thing for cockroaches,” I mused.
“Makes sense,” McCue said. “I think they’re something like three hundred million years old.”
“And I’ll bet they were disgusting even then.” I paused. “Do we even know how old Lucifer is?”
“Depends on who you ask.”
“If he’s really old, maybe he’ll tire easily. I mean, maybe he has a bad prostate by now, has to piss sixteen times a night. That would interfere with ending the world.”
McCue eyed me over the rim of his mug. “You’re talking about an archangel. Do they piss?”
“I’ll ask Grandaddy next time we see him.”
The waitress arrived then bearing plates of burgers, fries, and a bottle of ketchup. She set everything down with a flourish, then asked if she could get us anything else.
Remi said very politely, “Mustard, please.” And shot me a look as she hurried off.
“The forgotten condiment,” I noted. “It’s very sad. Adding it to
the armory might not be such a bad idea. Along with Roach Motels.” I blopped ketchup onto my burger along with salt, rearranged ingredients and stuck the bun on top, then poured ketchup over the fries. “Do you think Lily will be open to that?”
Remi, still waiting for his mustard, watched me bite into the burger. “I’m not sure we could convince her or Grandaddy that mustard is a ward against evil, but we can give it a try.” He waited a moment, then asked, “You sensing anything? And by that, I mean sensing.”
I swallowed burger, washed it down with beer. “I know what you mean. And no, but then I haven’t really tried. And back at you: you sensing any demons around?”
After a moment he said, “Maybe we should both do our respective things and see what turns up.”
I paused before taking another bite of burger. “Can we finish eating first? I mean, Grandaddy didn’t prohibit us from eating. In fact, he said we could even shoot pool. So let’s eat, finish our beers, then do our respective things.”
“I can’t,” Remi said. “I don’t have any mustard.”
I stared at him over the burger clenched in my hands, then carefully set it down. I pushed my chair back, rose, glanced around, spotted the bottle, took two long steps to another table and liberated the bottle of mustard from the inhabitants. “Sorry,” I said. “Popeye needs his spinach.”
Of course by the time I turned back to our table the server had brought the bottle Remi requested and now we had two.
McCue was squirting mustard onto his hamburger. “You should give that back to those folk. It’s the polite thing to do.”
“I’m keeping it,” I told him. “I’ll put it in one of the cabinets with the guns, holy oil, holy water, knives, ammo, even the stakes meant to kill vampires.”
McCue bestowed a lazy smile. “That’ll do.”
I went back to my fries, burger, and beer.
* * *
Life and Limb Page 16