Soul Bite

by D. N. Erikson

  “There!” A rifle’s ghostly flashlight cut through the jungle, and a shot whizzed past my head.

  I lowered my shoulders, trying to keep low. The box banged against my ribcage with each stride.

  Boots cracked and rustled through the brush, more lights joining the first.

  I pushed myself faster and faster.

  “Sierra!” I called into the darkness, having no idea how far it was to the road. “Start the car.”

  To my surprise, I heard an engine growl to life. It sounded maybe a quarter mile away.

  That made me run harder, so fast that I could barely feel my feet on the ground. Harmless bullets cratered against trees I’d left far behind.

  I emerged into the road, taillights casting a red glow over my pale skin.

  Panting lightly, I got in the back seat. “Drive.”

  Sierra peeled out, leaving the men behind.

  37

  I had barely broken a sweat, despite my manic sprint for survival.

  I stared at the blood on my fingertips as the car headed into the city, oddly ambivalent about its presence.

  The changes had already begun—and this was only day one.

  How cold and uncaring would I be when Friday night approached?

  Tamara Marquez broke my train of thought. “Is that the three million?”

  I dragged the Reaper’s Switch out of my pocket and jimmied the lock. Crisp bands of cash, glimmering gold bars, and a neat stack of bearer bonds greeted my gaze.

  I pushed the box into the front seat. “All yours.”

  Tamara took it with a skeptical expression. “And this is three million.”

  “Feel free to count it,” I said.

  “I will.”

  I groaned, not bothering to hide my annoyance. But it didn’t stop Tamara from systematically tallying everything in the box—twice—as we drove around Atheas’s downtown district.

  After the second run through, she closed the box. “There’s almost three and a half million dollars here.”

  I almost told her to keep the change, but I wasn’t feeling like Robin Hood at the moment. “Leave the rest.”

  “I do not want the bonds.”

  “Then take the gold and cash.”

  Tamara grabbed a fistful of papers and handed them back to me. Without anywhere better to stash them, I tucked the bearer bonds into the pocket behind the driver’s seat.

  “The number, if you will.”

  “I will not be present when you make your move on this man.”

  “Not even for an extra half million?” I scowled into the rearview.

  “No.”

  “That was a joke,” I said.

  “Not a very funny one,” Tamara replied.

  “It’s hard to be funny when you’re going to be a vampire in two days.”

  Tamara extracted a folded slip of paper from somewhere in her leather clothing.

  I snatched it from her fingers like a hungry dog.

  Two names and numbers were crossed off the list: a Dennis Reed and Brenda Perrier.

  Below that was another name: Michael Davis.

  I pulled out my own list and cross-referenced it. All three names appeared.

  “Good?” Tamara eyed me in the rearview.

  “Looks that way,” I said.

  “Then let me off up here.” She pointed to an empty corner, and Sierra pulled off. The Soul Eater’s fingers lingered on the door handle. “Remember what I said.”

  “Yeah, yeah. If we forget to free you from Loki, you’re going to kill us.”

  “I’m very persistent.”

  A wicked grin flashed over my lips. “Maybe I should be proactive and kill you now.”

  Fear bolted through Tamara’s eyes.

  “Another joke,” I said. “Take care of yourself.” As she got out, I rolled down the window and called after her, “And leave Cross alone. That chapter is over.”

  Tamara hurried away with her rifle over her shoulder.

  When she had disappeared around the corner, Sierra turned to look at me, worry dancing in her eyes.

  “That wasn’t a joke, E.”

  “Don’t worry about it.”

  “You were serious,” Sierra said. “I could see it in your eyes.”

  My insides turned over as I felt the vampiric coldness seeping through my veins.

  And I looked back at her and said simply, “I know.”

  38

  I didn’t use the phone number to call Agent Davis.

  Instead, I did a reverse-lookup search to find his address. It was in the nice part of the suburbs—the really swanky section, where you needed serious money to live.

  Being on Loki’s demonic bankroll must’ve had its perks.

  We rolled past the million-dollar spreads, shrubbery still blooming in the winter thanks to constant irrigation. I caught sight of the sprawling pink mansion that had once belonged to Stephen Cambridge.

  Thinking about the former mayor’s exploits brought back bad memories.

  Hopefully the new mayor would make good on her promise to fight corruption.

  But she’d need a little help from the people in the shadows.

  People like me.

  Sierra parked around the corner from Davis’s place. “Do you wanna just wait here, or…”

  “Maybe look around his place a little. Find out what these gods might be planning.”

  “You think he’d just leave info like that lying around?”

  “Worth a shot, right?” I shrugged, feeling ready to roll the dice. “Check to see if anyone’s still casing the joint. I gave Rayna the list.”

  “You’re not coming with?”

  “They know my face.” I kicked my feet on the dash. “Besides, you were always the little heart thief.”

  When you had a secret weapon like my sister, you had to use it. If I ever wanted to be invisible, all I needed to do was put on my best little black cocktail dress and go out with Sierra in a muumuu.

  Guys still couldn’t buy her drinks fast enough. She was magnetic.

  Tonight, though, that worked to our advantage. The FBI wouldn’t be on guard for her. And even if they somehow were, Sierra had enough charm to make any man ignore protocol for the nonexistent chance of bagging a ten.

  “Be back in a few.” Sierra checked her makeup in the mirror, then slipped out of the sedan.

  I waited, alone with my thoughts. I allowed myself the luxury of jumping to next steps: how when Miesha popped out of the woodwork, I would…

  Well, actually, I wasn’t sure what I’d do. The original plan had been to gather intel on the state of demonic infestation, but I had that pretty well covered at this point with the list.

  With that being the case, I settled on a new alternative: forcing Rayna’s hand. If I had the murderer in custody, that gave me leverage. She couldn’t just sweep things under the rug when I had the smoking gun.

  The FBI would have to clean up its act.

  I squinted as Sierra hurried back.

  She slid into the driver’s seat. “At least two agents surveilling from unmarked cars.”

  “Any sign of Davis?”

  “The lights were on. Probably home.”

  “And Miesha?”

  “Without a description, it’s hard to say, E.”

  “Did you see any women lurking in the bushes?”

  “No.”

  “Then she’s not here.” I adjusted my feet on the dash. “Get comfy. We could be here awhile.”

  A few hours passed, interspersed with small talk and comfortable stretches of silence. Right before three in the morning, a car drove past with its high beams on.

  I recognized it.

  “What the hell is that asshole doing here?” The car stopped at the corner, and a ruddy-faced young man stepped out carrying a notepad.

  “Who?” Sierra nodded awake and leaned forward. “The young guy?”

  “Byron Murphy.”

  She stole another glance. “I’ve seen him before, E. Kind o
f hanging around like a creeper.”

  “Did he talk to you?”

  “I just figured he was one of those guys who just stares but doesn’t have the balls to make an approach.”

  “Oh, he has the balls,” I said, flashing back to the poker game where Tank had almost snapped his neck, “and that’s a real problem.”

  I’d forgotten all about him, mainly because of all the other garbage swirling around. But now, Byron Murphy, ambitious reporter for the Seattle Free Post, was going to piss all over my plan.

  Murphy drank from a flask, wiped his lips, then hurried around the corner.

  “Where do you think he’s going?”

  “Same place we are, if I had to guess.” Murphy had been hunting two stories: the string of murders across the US and the bigger one he’d stumbled upon when he’d reached the island.

  My sister and I rising from the dead.

  But cracking the serial murder case would still be a career-making scoop—not quite Pulitzer-worthy, but big enough for Murphy to keep digging.

  “What do we do, E?” My sister looked at me for guidance.

  A million thoughts rattled in my mind.

  Why did Aldric have to ever bring me here?

  Why couldn’t this just be easy?

  Didn’t I deserve one break after the past couple days?

  But reflective whining about the unfairness of the world never got anyone closer to a solution.

  After a minute of self-pity, I snapped into action.

  “New plan,” I said. “You head inside while I make a distraction.”

  “But then Miesha won’t show.”

  “With that idiot waltzing up the front steps, that ship has sailed. We need to salvage the situation and regroup.”

  “I don’t know—couldn’t you wind up in jail, E?”

  True—this could be construed as obstruction. But I was willing to risk that for answers.

  Before my sister could protest, I got out of the car and jaunted up the street, right out in the open. I waved at the unmarked cars as I passed.

  Byron was getting ready to knock.

  So I yelled, “Hey!”

  The reporter wheeled around, surprised by my shout. “Emma Miller.”

  “Get away from the house,” I said.

  “Is the FBI trying to suppress the truth?”

  “I’m not with the FBI anymore.”

  “Then why do you care?”

  “Because I’m tired and I don’t need you stepping in my shit.”

  “I told you before, Emma.” Murphy rubbed his ruddy cheeks. “You can’t stop the truth.”

  “Watch me.” I dug out the Reaper’s Switch and flicked it open.

  I heard a car door open behind me. “Drop the weapon, Miss Hunter.”

  My arm hair stood on end, sensing the agent’s position from the sound of his voice. “Can’t do that.”

  “Listen to your colleague,” Murphy called with a smile.

  The lights flicked on inside Davis’s house. It was an all-glass structure, two stories, with frameless windows.

  Way too expensive for a government employee.

  “You need to drop the weapon. Now.” The agent’s pistol cocked.

  I glanced back. I recognized him from the crime scene. Sanders, I think.

  Or maybe it was Smith.

  “I’m not leaving until he does, Sanders,” I said.

  “It’s Shaw,” the man replied.

  Damn. Not really even that close. “That’s what I meant.”

  Then my blood went cold.

  Malcolm Shaw.

  That was a name from the list. He wasn’t here on Rayna’s behalf. She must’ve withdrawn the surveillance at Kai’s behest.

  No.

  He was here to make sure the demon hunter didn’t get Michael Davis.

  “Director Denton authorized the use of suppressing force,” Shaw said. “For any threat to Michael Davis’s life.”

  “Is that what she told you, huh?” I wondered if Sierra was inside.

  “I have all I need,” Murphy said, his ruddy face still expressionless. “Suppression of the press by a government agency. That’ll turn some—”

  But before Byron Murphy could finish his threat, Agent Shaw shot him right in the head.

  39

  “Holy fuck!” The Reaper’s Switch slipped from my fingers, clattering to the road. “He’s—”

  “Dead.” Agent Shaw coolly turned the gun back toward me. “I never could tell what Denton and Taylor saw in you, to be honest.”

  “And what do you see?”

  “A useless bitch.” He aimed the pistol at my head.

  Lights flickered on across the neighborhood from the gunshot. Someone would surely call the cops.

  But by the time anyone showed up, I’d be a corpse.

  A gunshot sounded from Davis’s house. Distracted, Agent Shaw’s head glanced up to see what was going on.

  I used the opening to dive behind a car. He peppered the road with bullets, just missing my legs.

  “Goddamnit.” Davis reloaded and whistled. Another car door clicked open.

  The other agent watching the place was another demon, no doubt.

  Pressed up against a luxury SUV’s bumper, I stared at my Reaper’s Switch lying in the road.

  It wasn’t much in a gunfight, but it sure beat being unarmed.

  Another gunshot rang out in the house. Shaw said in a panicked voice, “What the hell is going on in there?”

  His partner replied, “I’m calling Davis.”

  “Let’s get rid of the woman first.”

  “We can do both at the same time. She won’t put up much of a fight without a gun.”

  Cocky.

  “You can make this easy, Miss Hunter.” Shaw’s shoes clicked against the asphalt as he came closer. “Just a single bullet to the head. We’ll even spare your soul.”

  “I doubt that.”

  The other agent snapped his fingers. “Davis isn’t picking up, man.”

  “Try him again,” Shaw said.

  “Already did. Twice.”

  As if to drive the point home, the second floor window shattered. A body slammed face first into the grass below, fifteen feet from Byron Murphy’s corpse.

  A hooded shadow passed by the broken window.

  It didn’t look like Sierra, but maybe she’d thrown a hoodie on from Davis’s closet to hide her identity.

  The figure brushed the glass away and sat on the sill, legs kicking over the side. A large, glowing gun was clutched in her hands.

  It seemed to be aimed beyond me.

  Then the woman called out calmly, “Let the Reaper go, demons.”

  “Miesha.” Shaw’s voice dripped with hatred. I heard his gun bark.

  A massive rod of amber light burst from the woman’s gun.

  Shaw didn’t say anything after that. But I heard him collapse to the pavement.

  “You will all die.” Miesha aimed the weapon at the other demon.

  Before she could fire, a huge blue ball of light rocked against the SUV. Screams erupted, and a burning man, his head engulfed by blue flame, sprinted past before collapsing on the sidewalk.

  “The one who has seen death.” Moreland’s flat voice grated against my ears. “Miesha.”

  He stepped past the SUV and glanced down at me, his wispy hair waving on his pale head.

  “Of course you are here, too, dear girl.” His mouth twisted with scorn, revealing his jagged yellow teeth.

  Tires screamed up the street.

  Miesha fired another amber bolt of energy that hit the ground at Moreland’s feet. The asphalt bubbled from the heat.

  The warlock cursed and returned fire with a spell of his own. A blue ball hit Miesha center mass.

  Light shimmered around her, some sort of wards absorbing part of the blow. I watched as she tumbled from the window and crashed to the ground.

  In the midst of the mayhem, I scrambled for the Reaper’s Switch.

  “Put
it down, dear girl.” Moreland pushed with his hand, and I flew across the street, to the opposite sidewalk. The Reaper’s Switch clattered from my grip.

  A car screeched to a stop.

  “Miesha!” It was Kai.

  “Face down, asshole.” Rayna Denton.

  They must’ve figured out Miesha’s next target and decided to head her off at the pass.

  Too late.

  I saw two of Rayna as she strode forward confidently, pistol raised.

  I blinked, trying to focus my eyes.

  Rayna repeated her command. “I said get down on the ground.”

  Moreland’s glowing hand cast a blue tint on the street. “You have lost control of this island. Only Ares can fix this mess.”

  “I doubt he can fix a fucking hole in your head.”

  A booming gunshot erupted, sounding more like a cannon than a pistol. Skull fragments and brain matter streamed across the pavement as Moreland crumbled.

  I propped myself up on the grass, still reeling from the spell.

  Rayna Denton cut into my field of view, blonde wave bouncing. “Fucking hell, Hunter, you just don’t listen.”

  “Did Moreland kill her?”

  “Kill who?”

  “Miesha,” I said, rolling over to look at the front yard.

  But there was only one body on the grass.

  The demon hunter had vanished.

  40

  We found Sierra in the backyard, unconscious. Rayna shoved some smelling salts up my sister’s nose, and she came to, wild-eyed and screaming.

  “What happened?” I asked, after she calmed down.

  “Someone cold-cocked me while I was picking the lock.”

  “Miesha,” I said.

  Rayna flung the spent smelling salts to the grass and shook her head. “You two idiots have ruined this investigation.”

  “How’d you figure out she was here?”

  “It’s called police work.” Rayna holstered her massive revolver. “Something you wouldn’t recognize if it bit you right in the ass.”

  “I found the demon hunter, too.”

  Rayna stomped around to the front of the house, cursing the whole way. I helped Sierra get up.

  “And this disaster,” Rayna said, looking at Byron Murphy’s body in disgust, “what a shitshow.”