Life and Limb

by Jennifer Roberson

—

  Once done eating, with plates collected and mugs refilled, we stared at one another. McCue said, “Do you sense anything?”

  “I haven’t started yet. You?”

  “Me neither.”

  I thought it over. “Maybe we ought to walk through the crowd, see what we feel. Meet back here.”

  Remi pushed away from the table, grabbed the homemade holy water, headed around the busy dance floor. No live music tonight, thank God, just a juke box. I could hear myself think.

  I wandered back toward the pool tables, remembering the blonde demon chick. It was not an entirely welcome recollection, since she’d come close to doing both a hand-job and trying to kill me almost simultaneously. Talk about mixed messages.

  I hung out by the tables, trying to sense something. Anything. And for the first time since being released from prison, all of ten days ago, I felt vastly uncomfortable having people behind me. The hairs twitched on the back of my neck and my shoulders itched.

  I reached under my jacket to the butt of the gun, then realized I couldn’t exactly pull it out if the demon showed. Or a knife, either. Arizona was open carry, but I assumed drawing a gun in a dancehall full of people would not be well-received. It might even get me shot, if there were any wannabe heroes.

  Remi was right: we needed to grab the host body and take him—or her—outside into the dark. Hell, if you had to say surrogate instead of demon in a room full of people who might overhear, you couldn’t exactly shoot or knife the host in the middle of a bar.

  But I had an idea a demon might not feel the same reluctance. I didn’t know what one could do to us. The woman had tried to gut, then strangle me. So maybe demons had to use human means to kill us.

  I went to a wall and placed my back against it to ease the itch, then unfocused from the surroundings and tried to feel out the heart of the place. But I heard the clack of balls, the jukebox, laughter and loud voices, which made it difficult to concentrate. When Grandaddy had asked me to sense stuff, it had been outdoors in quiet places, such as on the mountain looming over the roadhouse, and when I walked through this place the night the Grigori showed up.

  I wondered if there would be bleed-over, if I did get a sense of demonic presence. Two demon-inhabited ghosts, and a cop. Could I cancel those out and track down the new threat?

  I went inside myself. Eased my breathing, tried to relax my whole body. Slowly let the surrounding environment fade out.

  “Hey dude, you okay?”

  Vision focused again. Standing before me was one of the college-aged boys I’d seen in the parking lot. Red hair, blue eyes, freckles, boots, and a big buckle. He looked honestly concerned.

  “What?” I asked.

  “You okay? I mean, you look like you’re about to blow chunks.”

  Well, that was an illuminating image. And then it crossed my mind to wonder if this kid might be whoever—or whatever—we were supposed to ‘clear’ tonight.

  And could Remi sense him, if he was? That would be awesome. But a quick darting glance told me McCue wasn’t handy, nor the glass of holy water. Maybe I could use the Vulcan nerve pinch or something, get him outside, and do the exorcism.

  I decided to go for it, hoping I might see something in his face, his eyes. “You a surrogate?”

  He was baffled; but then a demon would know how to use the host’s expressions and movements. “A—what?”

  “You here because it’s a domicile?”

  He blinked. “I’m here because it’s a bar.”

  I scowled at him. This was going nowhere fast. “Don’t you have school tomorrow?”

  His brows knit. “It’s summer.”

  Well, there’s that. “Okay, then don’t you have to work tomorrow?”

  His eyes were wide and concerned, but not necessarily with me. He took one step backward. “Dude, you’re not my father, you know? And I just meant you looked like you were going to puke, so I was going to get you a chair. ’Scuse me for caring.”

  A demon could be polite. The cop had been. They wouldn’t necessarily look like they served Lucifer.

  I remembered how the eyes of the blonde demon had shifted, with pupils elongating into something resembling a cat. I was tempted to ask the kid if he could do that, but it would undoubtedly sound completely off the wall and thus draw even more attention. And what we didn’t need was attention once we found the surrogate.

  So, to put the kid’s mind at ease, I told him I was not about to blow chunks so his shoes were safe, and thanked him for thinking to get me a chair. He nodded a little, then wandered off. I wandered off, too, looking for Remi.

  He found me before I found him. He was still carrying around the full glass of cloudy holy water. “Any luck?”

  He shook his head. “I’m smelling cologne and perfume, booze, and I know what everyone at the bar is drinking, and that apparently the steak here is mighty fine, but nothing more than that. You?”

  “That I look like I’m going to blow chunks when I’m trying to sense something.”

  His eyebrows shot up. “You what?”

  An idea occurred. “Come with me.”

  “Where?”

  “Just follow me.”

  He obliged, and I led him to the pool tables. I glanced around, then told him to lean his back against the wall nearby and close his eyes.

  “What the hell—?”

  “Just do it. I want to try something.”

  Remi rolled his eyes after squinting wariness at me, then leaned against the wall.

  “Take your hat off,” I directed. “And mess up your hair.”

  “Do what?”

  “Take your hat off, mess up your hair, then lean against the wall and look like you’re going to hurl. Or pass out.”

  “Look—”

  “Just do it,” I said urgently. “I want to try something.”

  McCue drew in a very long breath, let it go slowly, took off his hat and set it on the nearest table.

  I looked at it, then back at him. “It’s upside down.”

  He ran a hair through his hair, ruffling it. “Yup.”

  “Why is your hat upside down? Is it a cowboy thing?”

  “If you set your hat down flat, you can warp the brim. You know these hats are steamed into a specific shape. So if there’s nothing to hang ’em on, you rest them on the table upside down.”

  “I did not know that,” I replied. “Are you telling me cowboys in the Old West set their hats upside down?”

  “No. Hell, them boys used to tote water in ’em sometimes. That’s where the term ten-gallon hat came from, for a hat with a tall crown.”

  “So it is a cowboy thing.”

  “It’s a cowboy thing.” He paused. “My hair good enough for you?”

  I gave it a look-see. He had a cowlick that stuck up in back, now that he’d mussed his hair. “You’ll do. Now lean against the wall and look like you’re sick.”

  “You gonna tell me what this is about?”

  “Look, there’s a guy—probably a college kid—who walked up to me, said he was checking on me because, according to him, I looked like I was about to ‘blow chunks,’ and he wondered if I wanted a chair.”

  McCue considered that a moment. “Well, that was downright neighborly,” he observed, no more taken with this explanation than others, “but it could just have been a nice kid looking after a stranger. We do that in Texas.”

  “It could,” I conceded, “in which case you’ll be able to tell. But I’ve still got a hunch. Since you’re supposed to sense things in people, I thought I’d send him over here.”

  “Why don’t I just walk over by him?”

  “Because he noticed me.”

  “You’re a long-haired, leather-clad biker in a cowboy dancehall,” he pointed out. “Of course he noticed you.”

  “What
if it was more than that?”

  “You mean, that he’s the surrogate?”

  “As you would say, he ‘might could’ be.”

  Remi shifted against the wall. “Okay. Let’s get her done.”

  The kid was shooting pool against his friend, whom I looked over, too. Watching them was the thin blonde girl who I believed was too young to drink, but she had a beer in her hands, probably bought by one of the boys. None of them was looking at me. None of them was looking at Remi.

  I dug a ten dollar bill out of a pocket, walked slowly up to the table and laid it out on the top rail. “I’ll play winner.”

  Both boys paused and looked at me in surprise. The red-head recognized me; the other, a sandy-haired boy, did not, but now he paid attention. “We’re not playing for money.”

  “Why not?”

  They exchanged a glance. “It’s just for fun,” the red-head told me. “We play for who buys the pitcher of beer.”

  “I lose, I’ll buy you two pitchers.”

  They were clearly uneasy. The blonde girl came up, gave me a big smile. “I’ll buy you a pitcher.”

  “I don’t think you can buy you a pitcher,” I said, and saw her face fall. “So you boys go ahead and finish your game, and I’ll play winner.”

  The sandy-haired kid was so nervous he scratched on his next turn. Well, that worked for me. “You rack,” I told the red-head.

  He nodded, began pulling billiard balls from the pockets and collecting them at the foot rail to move them into a rough triangle with his forearms. Then the rack went down.

  I walked over to him, like I was inspecting his rack as he rolled the balls inside it. “Hey,” I said. “That guy look sick to you?”

  He brought his head up. “Who—?” And then he followed my line of sight.

  I’ll admit it, Remi was doing a good job. He mostly leaned against his left shoulder, hunched a little, the water glass dangling from the rim in his right hand.

  “Bad food?” I asked. “Or too much booze.” I clapped the kid on the shoulder. “Look, you were thoughtful enough to check on me . . . how ’bout you see if he’s okay. I’ll just wait here.”

  The kid nodded, went unerringly to McCue. I couldn’t hear the conversation over the sound of balls clacking and voices, plus now someone was speaking into a microphone in the main room, but I did see Remi nod at the kid, wipe a hand across his face as he straightened up, grabbed his hat, and wandered off just a shade wobbly on his boots.

  The kid came back. “He said he had two shots of tequila too fast. He’s gonna go outside, get some air.”

  McCue had headed toward the main room and the entrance, which wasn’t the plan. It was the back door we wanted to use if we came across the surrogate. And I needed to know what he thought.

  I looked beyond the kid, gave a low whistle. “Shit,” I said, “I just saw one hot chick . . . dude, gotta check that out.” I scooped up the ten dollar bill. “You mind?”

  He’d barely said no before I headed off to work my way through the crowd. No more dancing. A mic was in the center of the parquet dance floor, and a couple of guitars were on stands close by. I crossed in front of the guy talking into the mic, but I wasn’t paying any attention to what he said.

  I found Remi waiting back at our table. I dropped into the chair, raised brows in a question.

  “I got nothin’,” Remi said. “He could be Lucifer himself, for all I know, but I didn’t get any vibe off him. Offered to get me a chair.”

  “I wonder if that’s code.”

  McCue stared at me. “Code for what? That he’s a good kid? Some just are, you know. I was a good kid.”

  I sighed, turned back to gaze across the main room. The bar stools were full, and everyone had swiveled to face the dance floor. The man behind the mic announced they were ready, and called a woman forward.

  It became abundantly clear, as a woman walked out of the crowd and stood behind the mic—I was pretty sure it was one of the middle-aged non-soccer moms—what was going on.

  Remi read my stricken expression. “You didn’t see the sign? Open Mic Night.”

  “In a cowboy bar!”

  “Yeah. So?”

  “They’ll be singing country music!”

  He gave me a long, assessing examination. “Probably,” he agreed. Clearly, he thought I was pretty stupid.

  “And butchering it.” I paused. “Not that country music isn’t already pretty butchered.”

  He set down the glass and drank beer, which now was room temperature. “So, what do we do now?”

  “I don’t know. Leave?”

  “You want to risk Grandaddy’s heavenly wrath?”

  I turned my mug around and around on the table, watching it glumly.

  The woman did indeed sing a country song, something about trashing a cheating boyfriend’s pretty little souped-up 4-wheel-drive, which I thought was a weird way to describe a pickup. Pretty? (Of course it was a song about a truck.) The crowd rather raucously joined in on the chorus. I debated stuffing fingers into my ears, but decided I was badly outnumbered by country fans, and I’d do better to keep my mouth shut and mind my manners.

  Remi abruptly sat bolt upright in his chair. “Listen, all we want to do inside is ID the surrogate, right? Then get him—or her—outside where we can do the deed in private.”

  “Well, yeah. That was the plan.”

  “So you get up—take the water with you—and wander through the crowd. Look for someone starting to choke, like maybe cockroaches are going to start spilling out of him.”

  “I thought they had to be dead for that to happen. Kind of obvious, don’t you think? And people do cough just to cough.”

  He ignored me. “Make your way to him, threaten to spill the holy water over him, and escort him toward the back door. Can you whistle? I mean, like hailing a cab?”

  “Yeah.”

  “So start checking people out.”

  Still struck me as lame. “What are you going to do?”

  “I got an idea. Just look hard for someone acting funny. Don’t pay attention to me.”

  And McCue walked away, making a beeline toward the man who had called the woman to the mic.

  Oh, shit. I was pretty sure I knew what was coming.

  Sure enough, Remi stepped up to the mic. He nodded his head around at the crowd as if thanking them in advance. The applause was tepid at best; likely the singers were regulars, and McCue definitely wasn’t.

  As he introduced himself, his voice was diffident, though the drawl was a little stronger. “I am a stranger in town, out of West Texas and headin’ down to Phoenix. I hope ya’ll don’t mind if I sing somethin’ for you. It was my nana’s favorite song. Probably some of you know it, too, if you’re church-going folk. Christmas services, at least. I know it’s not what you usually hear performed in a roadhouse, but today would have been her ninety-fourth birthday. I hope ya’ll will give me a listen.”

  Church-going folk?

  “Schubert’s ’Ave Maria,’” Remi announced earnestly, as he removed his hat. “Give glory to God.” Then he drew in a deep breath, smiled shakily, nodded nervously—all an act—and opened his mouth.

  Yeah, I’d heard him sing before. Just snatches, but I knew he had a pretty good voice. This was a little more than pretty good. But why now? Why that?

  Oh.

  Tune the same, still in Latin, but different lyrics. The guy was singing the exorcism rite.

  Clever bastard.

  But I didn’t listen for more, because I was on the move with a glass of makeshift holy water in my hand.

  CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

  It’s not easy looking for someone beginning to vomit cockroaches in the middle of a roadhouse. I mean, it would be pretty damn obvious, but I assumed there was a step before the roaches actually put in an appearance. Remi’d specifi
ed someone just beginning to choke. And that’s even tougher, because any number of people might start coughing or choking for all kinds of reasons. People just do that sometimes, without being demons.

  So I threaded my way through tables, walked the length of the bar, paused now and then to take a closer look around.

  Pretty much everyone’s attention was on Remi, except for those shooting pool. Because patrons were fixed on the performance, I could look into faces more easily. “Ave Maria” is sung in Latin, which is probably why Remi picked it, but I did notice a few people exchanging puzzled glances.

  Well, it’s true that the exorcism rite sounds nothing at all like the song celebrating the Lord’s mother.

  I saw nothing in the main room, heard nothing suspicious. Then I headed back toward the pool tables, where I found that someone was coughing. It was one of the college kids, the sandy-haired guy, not the red-head who’d come to check first on me, then Remi.

  He paused, thumped himself on the chest and said something about beer going down the wrong way, began coughing again. The red-head looked suitably concerned, and the blonde girl was not present.

  Okay, Remi had not covered what to do if the surrogate had friends. Maybe all of them were demons. Grandaddy had not specified number. I’d ask about that next time, if we survived this time.

  I made my way to the table, put down the same ten dollar bill, called the next game—then with feigned concern looked at the kid who was coughing. “Hey, dude, you gonna be okay?”

  It came out hoarse, and oddly suppressed. “Yeah. Fine.” Then he clamped a hand over his mouth like he was about to puke.

  I rounded the table, stepped close. “You need some help?”

  Now he shook his head.

  I closed a hand around his upper arm, as if I meant to help steady him. Then I leaned close and said, very quietly, “There’s holy water in this glass. I’m suggesting we step outside so no one gets grossed out by the sudden appearance of a river of roaches spilling from various orifices, and have a conversation.”

  Then I whistled, piercing and clear.

  In the kid’s eyes was speculation, as if he were evaluating me and what I might do, or maybe daring me. Then, clearing his throat, he looked at the red-head, hovering to make sure his friend was okay. “Hey Rick, I’m going to go outside for a minute, get some fresh air. You go ahead and rerack ’em, okay?”