Crimson Sword Stalker (Demon Lord Book 10)

by Morgan Blayde

  “So right now, I’m also back at the cabin?”

  Colt shook his head no. “You’re walking the shore of the lake, about to reach the cabin. By the time we’re done here, the you in the cabin will have popped out, and it will be safe for me to take you back.”

  I arched an eyebrow, stopping behind Colt. “Say I went back and found myself there now, what would happen?”

  “I think you know.”

  “Indulge me.”

  “Duplicate matter can’t occupy the same point in time and space. There would be a spatial and temporal implosion and one or both of you would be trapped between seconds—or violently annihilated. I’m not sure which.”

  I nodded, a piece of the puzzle falling into place. “That’s why the younger you waited years to come back in time, to a point where you haven’t been born yet?”

  “Exactly.”

  “So, when you’re born, you’ll be leaving?”

  “It’ll still be safe for me because I’ll have been growing older in the past. The human body replaces every cell, every seven years. Proximity is only a problem for organisms that have cells within the same seven years—like you and the you back at the cabin.” Colt opened the door and led the way in.

  “Good to know.” I followed. We stood together in a large space with a vaulted ceiling and dim lighting—nothing my eyes couldn’t process. Though in human form, my senses were wereliger sharp.

  The first thing I noticed were two pool tables in use, a corner bar to the right with an older blonde biker-chick handing out bottles of beers, and the sharp smell of gator. Most of the regulars were human, but at the farthest pool table, the bald man in leather pants and vest with unnaturally bright yellow-green eyes was a definite shifter.

  Behind him, waiting for the table, were our missing toms. Rick leaned on his pool stick, watching the gator-shifter knock around balls. Rick looked younger than he was; as a shifter, he’d stopped aging at the time he’d been infected with the were-virus. He wore a dungaree shirt with jeans, and a purple bandana to hold back a hair-style popular in the eighties among glam rockers.

  Morrie Chan wore black pants and a crimson tee with a black Thunder Cats logo on it. He leaned against the far wall, sleepy-eyed, a thin mustachio giving him a Fu Manchu look. For an Asian-American, he was big. A devotion to weight-lifting gave him a ripped upper body, and too much confidence. He’d been Kat’s enforcer before me.

  This situation was simply stupid; both toms had to be able to smell the gator on the pool player, and the bald man wasn’t small.

  If they had two brain cells between them to rub together, they’d be staying clear of him.

  Straightening from a shot, the shooter easily reached six-four. Circling the table, he shot a hard look at the toms. “I’m going to be here a while. “Why don’t you boys go buy a beer or something?” The flat, rumbling voice made it more an order than a suggestion.

  Morrie grinned. “We’re good, thanks.”

  Idiot!

  The back of the shooter’s leather vest had the head of an alligator with jaws open wide. There was no club name. It certainly wasn’t the Grey Ghosts MC logo; this was supposed to be their territory. I’d checked on the way from California.

  I looked over the other jackets being worn elsewhere. They were unadorned: outlaw riders with no official club.

  I also noticed that customers at the bar spoke English with Brazilian accents, the th sounds coming out as efs. One curious fact: their right arms had tatts of a spiraling jungle vine with small leaves. The vines grew higher on some than on others.

  Ranking.

  The front door opened and a Hispanic teen strolled in wearing tight jeans and a white tee. Her hair was tied in back and she wore bright red lipstick and blue eyeshadow, not that her beauty needed artificial enhancement. As the door swung shut behind her, she approached the man in the gator jacket.

  “Enter trouble,” Colt said.

  Seeing her, Morrie elbowed Rick to get his attention. They watched the girl the way a cat eyes a bowl of fresh milk.

  The girl stopped close to the gator shifter. She smiled. “Hey, Ringo, can I play with your stick?”

  Girl’s playing with fire.

  Ringo looked her over, hunger in his yellow-green stare. “Come back when you’re not jailbait, Rita.” He turned to the table and started lining up his next shot on a side pocket.

  He knows her.

  The girl wrinkled her nose at him and turned away. She saw the toms eyeing her. Her hips swayed, a subliminal invitation, as she strolled around to them. Stopping with her hands behind her back, she played at shyness. “Buy a girl a drink?”

  Colt moved close and whispered to me. “Here’s where it all goes sideways.”

  The shooter looked up from his shot and glowered. “No. Get out. All of you. Rita, go home to your momma.”

  Morrie straightened, rocking off the wall, leaving his stick. He smiled. “Fine. There are other bars in town.” He tugged on Ricks arm, moving toward the front door.

  Rick took a few steps, willing enough to go, but pulled free and he took the girl’s arm in passing. “Come along darlin’, I’ll buy you anything you want.” He tossed his stick onto the table. Balls clacked and rolling. The room went deathly quiet except for the rebounding balls.

  The dozen patrons watched closely.

  The shooter stared at his spoiled shot, and leaned his stick against the table, tension in every muscle in his body.

  Joshua recognized the signs of an imminent explosion. He launched himself to intercept. The toms were stupid, but also Pride. Protecting the Pride was his job.

  Ringo’s fingers splayed, claw-tips popping out in a partial change. The backs of his hands became bumpy bark. Similar scutes poked out the back of his neck. His teal blue shirt tore out at the shoulders as he bulked up, stretching the vest tight. The exposed shoulders had more bony plates. His soft roar wasn’t impressive, a low rumble like a distant motorcycle trying and failing to rev.

  His beast was close to the surface.

  I knew there wouldn’t be more gator traits filling in; a full conversion would be painful and take too much time. The toms would be long gone before the change was done. Few shifters had the strength to force a full-body change fast enough for an immediate crisis. It’s why so many shifters focus on partial change as a battle technique.

  Rita saw Ringo coming. She smiled in triumph. “Oh? Change your mind? Too bad. I’m with my new friends now.”

  Ringo ignored her, eyes on the toms.

  From their panicked stares, I knew they finally saw serious trouble coming. And they looked likely to hide behind the girl rather than get the human out of danger.

  The idiots haven’t even realized I’m here.

  That wasn’t true for Ringo. He caught himself, stopping and turning as I approached. Ringo’s eyes were deep-set, the brow jutting. Each eye had upper and lower lids. The pupils were vertical. His jaw looked swollen, as if the bones were reforming, thickening, and even closed, his mouth had visible upper teeth on display.

  He managed to speak. “You’re with the cats?”

  I stopped as well. “I am.”

  Ringo’s slit-like nostrils flared. His stare traveled me down and up again. “You’re not like them.”

  “They’re toms, basic werecat. I’m more…exotic.” I slanted the toms a glare. “Get the hell out of here and stop picking up underage girls.”

  Rick and Morrie didn’t argue, scuttling out the door like their tails were on fire.

  Abandoned, Rita put her fists on her hips. “Well, how do you like that?”

  “You looking for trouble?” Ringo asked me.

  “I am trouble—the lethal variety. But, no. We’re going, too.”

  “We?” Ringo turned his head and took another deep sniff as Colt came up.

  I smelled Ringo’s fear, an acidic tang in the air. He backed from Colt, eyes wide. The shifter all but stumbled over his own feet, backing to the pool table.

&nbs
p; There were surprised murmurs from the club’s patrons at the bar, the men with the vine tattoos.

  They’re wondering what Ringo sees in a teenage boy that they’re missing. Or they think he’s gone crazy.

  Ringo said, “You’re dragon-born!”

  Colt smiled. “It’s worse than that. Mom’s a dragon goddess and dad’s a shadow mage.”

  “That’s a demon sword you’re carrying,” Ringo added.

  Colt nodded. “Sure is. Looking for trouble?”

  Ringo shook his head no. “Don’t pick a fight you know you’ll lose; that’s my motto.”

  “That’s smart.” Colt tilted his head toward me. “All by himself, Josh could have broken you into small pieces.”

  I suspected a metaphoric cat was about to be let out of the bag. I wanted to head that off. “Colt, stop!”

  “Wereligers do that, you know?”

  Damn. I’m outed. Did he do that on purpose?

  “Liger?” Ringo turned his stare from Colt to me. “I’ve only ever heard of one wereliger. A Fed who works with the Preternatural Response Teams in Texas.”

  “Ex-Fed,” I said. “I don’t do that anymore. I’m a Pride enforcer now. Just another civilian.”

  Despite my reassurances, the bar emptied quickly. Moments later, Colt and I were alone with Ringo. We listened to outside vehicles start-up and peel out.

  Ringo sighed. “I’m out of a job and I don’t think they’ll pay me now.”

  “We’re hiring,” Colt said, “But it might involve a lot of justifiable homicide before we’re done.”

  Ringo shrugged. “Death is part of life. I don’t mind as long as I have a fighting chance to survive—and a good paycheck.”

  I looked at Colt. “We’re hiring?”

  Colt met my stare. “First time around you didn’t. The time-line will go better with this little change.”

  My turn to shrug. “Fine. Your choice: your responsibility.”

  He nodded. “Fine. He works for me.” Colt shifted his attention to Ringo who’d gotten over his fear and now perched on the edge of the pool table. “Do you want fairy silver or gold bars?”

  Ringo smiled, his face slipping back into more human proportions. “Gold will do just fine, Boss.”

  I said, “Go to the cabins down at the Cross Lake Marina. We’ll fill you in there. And the less you tell anyone about us, the better.” I caught Colt’s gaze. “Is it safe to go back now?”

  “Sure.” Colt stepped close to me and nodded toward Ringo. “Later, dude.” Copper-red light wrapped around Colt and me. Gravity fluttered. The shell of light collapsed, and we were back at the cabin, at the arch between dining room and living room. Older Colt was gone, replaced by the nine-year-old version, though he still had on a black sleeveless tee that showed off a barbwire tattoo.

  The front door opened and Morrie came in ahead of Rick. They closed the door behind them, circled Josh, and headed for the food on the table as if they weren’t in trouble.

  Playing with restraint, Kat murmured instead of yelling. “What took you guys so long?”

  “Loading the boat in the water,” Rick said. “Do you know there’s a giant squid down there in the water. I nearly pissed my pants.”

  I poked Colt’s tatt. “Is that real?”

  “Real as I want it to be.” He lifted a bent arm and flexed. Having little muscle—real or otherwise—it looked much less impressive than on his older self.

  Zahra ran up to squeeze his arm and stare at the tatt. “Oooo. That’s so cool.”

  Young Colt grinned. “I know, right? I’m so glad I thought of it.”

  “Do me!” Zahra said.

  Kat sputtered into her drinking water.

  The tabbies giggled.

  Kat slammed her glass down and glared from the table. “You better be talking about tattoos, young lady, and the answer is still no. It’s not legal, magical or otherwise. Now, all of you, come finish dinner so we can all go down and make friends with the kraken. If it’s staying, we want to be on its good side.”

  ONE

  “The Red Moon Demon—that handsome

  bastard—isn’t painted red by moon-

  light, it’s dripping blood you see.”

  —Caine Deathwalker

  So far, so good. No one’s tried to kill me all day.

  I sat behind the Red Centipede Rider, her long red hair a curtain down her back. I smelled the lingering herbal bouquet scent of her shampoo. Her bug-ride undulated, a soothing ripple of motion as we left the street, going in through a wrought-iron gate, past cameras, up the long sweeping drive, to a three-story mansion. The gate closed itself behind us.

  “Thanks for the ride,” I said.

  “No problem. Should I wait or come back later?”

  “Up to you. You have the new phone I bought you?”

  “Yes.”

  “If you’re not here when I ‘m done, I’ll call to touch base.”

  I jumped off her giant bug. It turned its head to watch me with compound eyes but didn’t try and eat me for dinner.

  I went past cameras that swiveled to follow me. Hidden security. Reaching the front door, I knocked. It opened. Gloria smiled a greeting and stepped back so I could enter a foyer with its wide, staircase winding up and around to an unseen landing. She led me to the left wing. Our steps echoed on marble floors. White plaster walls were on either side. Black oak accents were prominent: all in an expensive minimalism. Gloria strolled beside me, quiet, her thoughts kept from her lovely face, but a subtle tension possessed her spine. Several doors down, we went in where a brass plate said: MUSEUM.

  A private art gallery?

  Lord Kain—whom she called “Grandfather”—met us there. He stood tall and dapper in a formal tux with shiny lapels, white dress shirt, and a hell-red bow tie. He pointed upward.

  I stared. How could I not. “It’s me and God!”

  The ceiling was all a giant fresco, an imitation of Man’s Creation from the Sistine Chapel. I reclined up there, as if caught mid-change: half-human, half-dragon. I reached a finger-tip to touch a massive bottle of whiskey that floated in the clouds, my personal God.

  Michelangelo’s turning over in his grave.

  After absorbing the scene in silent awe, I drifted. The walls were lined with a gazillion snapshots of me. The first one dated from the moment I stepped into Gloria’s bar as a teenager. The photos documented moments I felt proud of, which I hoped would never come to the attention of the police or FBI. There were moments when I should have been alone with only corpses, and nobody with a camera around for miles.

  I would have noticed.

  I kept moving. Part of my mind noticed Gloria crowding me more than usual, being protective. I looked over a few more pictures stolen from my past. Gloria all but drooled on me.

  “What’s wrong,” I whispered. “Forgot to feed when you climbed out of your coffin?”

  Red fire glazed her eyes. “That’s not it. You smell so damned good. I just want to nibble away on you.”

  “No. Get a grip, Gloria.” Weirded out, I shrugged her off me and kept looking at the pictures.

  My life, in endless cataloged detail. How is this possible?

  One picture riveted my attention. Me, alone—I’d thought so at the time—in the rain, blood leaking from a large number of wounds. I had a smile on my face. In a corner of the picture, Kain gave a thumbs-up. He grinned, barring fangs, eyes red as hell-fire, dressed in a dark suit. It could be the same suit he now wore. Vampires like black.

  This picture has to be photoshopped, but the details are right. Has he managed to roll my mind? No vampire has ever been able to, but he’s the strongest. It would mean all this is illusion, for some reason. Maybe the frames are empty and my subconscious is busy filling them.

  Before I could say anything, Kain walked away, waving for us to follow. More pictures passed. We went through an open archway and found display cases. I recognized the items kept here: old guns, swords, some of them damaged from conflict, an
d in the center of the space, my first Mustang—that had been stolen years ago.

  I glared at Kain’s back. “You didn’t…!”

  “Finders, keepers.” He speeded his steps.

  Bastard! And I thought I was bad.

  The next room was an audience room. The throne was carved from black volcanic glass. There was a red-cushioned seat with an obsidian back that loomed twelve feet, chiseled into the shape of a giant bat fanning wings. Someone had given the bat eyes made of fist-sized rubies.

  Kain headed straight for the throne, leaving me to gawk in place. Massive oil paintings hung on immense walls, illustrating major events from my life. I scanned the images, feeling totally Punk’d. This all seemed an elaborate gag.

  “Where’s the hidden camera?” I asked.

  “Have you noticed…?” Kain’s voice effortlessly filled the great space without trying.

  “Our similarities? Yeah.”

  “When I became what I am, I was told I’d lost my soul, that it would wander with nowhere to go but hell on Judgment Day. It may be an insane fancy, but I have long wondered if that lost soul might not have been reborn—in you.”

  Fangs shining with an ethereal light, Kain pointed at one particular painting. “Welcomed by darkness, beloved by Death whom you gave this offering: this was your first kill, to make your adoptive father happy. An unfortunate necessity he told you.” Kain’s burning eyes came back to me. “And recently, you killed your brother. I did the same myself once. Killed my brother, not yours. You and I have the same name, though spelt differently. Our lives have taken similar tracks. Just coincidence?”

  I had no idea how to respond.

  Kain gestured. A ghost servant faded into the room, holding a tray with Cuban cigars and two glasses of bourbon with Norco on the bottom. Mixing acetaminophen/hydrocodone and alcohol was a bad idea—for humans. We had nothing to worry about.

  I took a glass, and a cigar and looked over at Kain, smiling. “So, you’ve been following me for years?”

  “More like following myself. Soon as you marry my little Gloria, she will be set to rule over the vampires and I can retire for real, knowing she has a strong protector.”