He belched, loudly, and took another swig of his cocktail.
“He’s a son of a bitch alright,” he said, answering a question I hadn’t asked. “I wouldn’t have survived if it wasn’t for Mimi. She saved my life.”
He swallowed the last of his bourbon and lemonade, clinking the ice together as his leathery hands swirled the glass, trying to get any last bit of booze out.
“I only made it as long as I did because of her,” he continued. “I don’t know why she fell in love with me, but Hell, it worked out. She did all sorts of subterfuge for me. She’d translate stuff so I wouldn’t have to use one of Hell’s servants, and she’d make sure my caches contained exactly what I needed, instead of the usual bare minimum bullshit. She would steal the Patron’s notes and change the targets. At one point, I was supposed to try to shoot President Reagan!”
“I thought no specifics,” I muttered.
He shrugged. “Yeah, I know. I guess I mean don’t ask me about people I killed. I’m not a soft man, but some of the targets still bug me, and I’m not prepared to talk about them.”
I wanted to ask him why not. I wanted to vent. I wanted to tell someone about the conflicting fears I had and how I’d failed to suppress my problems, but I was concerned, and though I was more than a bit buzzed, I erred on the side of discretion.
The silence hung over us, interrupted only by the chirping crickets. Vinter looked off into the Texas night.
“I’m real glad you made it out, Nick,” he said. “Real glad.”
“Thanks Jerry,” I replied. “Can you tell me how you coped? How you returned to normal?”
He paused, clinking his ice cubes together again, and looked at the patio.
“Shit, I don’t think I did,” he said. “Not sure if I’d want to. Best way to cope is to find purpose, and purpose is gonna be tough for you to ever find.”
He took a swig of his cocktail.
“Besides, ain’t no normal, Nick,” he said. “Can’t return to something that doesn’t exist. Everyone’s hiding something. Everyone’s got their own problems to bury, their own trauma to repress. No sense in worrying about that. Purpose, though…Purpose I can provide. Now that you’re out, you can help me and Mimi.”
“Help?” I said. “Help do what?”
I somehow suspected he wasn’t going to ask me to put on a maid’s uniform and dust the hallway.
Vinter sighed, deeply. He put his glass down and steadfastly refused to make eye contact with me.
“Kill the Patron,” he said, his voice barely a whisper, “and overthrow the order of Hell.”
* * * * *
Chapter Two: About Last Night
I hadn’t asked Jerry for any more details about his offer. I wish I could say I talked him out of it or bravely volunteered. In truth, I could do neither, so we had a few more sips of bourbon and awkwardly discussed current events and sports, like that would somehow take the sting off, then he showed me to my quarters.
I collapsed in the queen-sized bed, fell asleep quickly, and rested without dreams, except for the nagging fear that I’d get a call from the Patron.
The next morning, I lazily opened my eyes and saw a smirking Amalfi gently ringing a small bell.
“Breakfast, it is said, is the most important meal of the day,” she said, bending over slightly and softly kissing my forehead. “You’re wanted in the kitchen.”
I mumbled an incoherent assent, and she walked, or more appropriately, sauntered, off.
I stumbled out of bed and over to the wardrobe, a behemoth of a wooden thing that wouldn’t have looked out of place in a Western. Blinking a few times, I saw that the Western theme extended to the whole room. The walls looked like they were from an old saloon, and the paintings that hung there were of cowboys and sweeping desert vistas. I opened the wardrobe and found my clothes neatly hung in a way I never did at home, as well as a set of matching bowling shirts, much like the one I’d worn yesterday. I put one on, buttoned it up, and headed down the hallway toward the smell of bacon.
I found Zaira and Jerry sitting across the table from each other, enjoying plates of bacon, chorizo, and eggs. According to the clock, it was about five minutes before noon. Two of Vinter’s other daughters, I wasn’t sure which, were putting some clean dishes away. As I walked up to the table, they hurried out of the kitchen, tittering about something as they passed me.
“Nick!” Jerry said, beaming broadly. “Hope you’re feeling good today, brother! I want you to be ready to go. Lots to teach you, much less time than I’d like.”
“Yeah,” I said noncommittally as I slumped into a chair.
“You like coffee?” Jerry asked. “I can have Amalfi get you some. I can’t stand the stuff myself, plays with my insides.”
“Daddy’s just sensitive,” Zaira added. “I made sure we’re well-stocked, though. I prefer Americano, but we’ve got plenty of other types.”
“How about tea?” I asked.
“Sure,” Zaira said. “That’s Mom’s favorite.”
The idea of the muscular demoness daintily sipping tea caused me to chuckle a bit. Zaira raised an eyebrow.
Though I’d said nothing, nor expressed interest in a flavor, Amalfi walked over and nimbly placed a cup of dark chai in front of me, cooled for the Texas heat by a pair of ice cubes.
“Enjoy,” she said.
Jerry smirked at me. “She likes you. That’s pretty rare. Amalfi’s not fond of most people.”
I looked up at Amalfi, who nodded a slight assent and smiled. “Many years of service have given me a keen sense of who to trust.”
“Yeah, Amalfi’s been with Mimi since shit, damn near the beginning,” Jerry said. “Where’d ya’ll meet up, again?”
I tried to figure out what the Hell Amalfi was and sensing my confusion, she grinned broader.
“The final assault of the siege of Syracuse was when I met the mistress,” she said, pleasantly. “That was a good day. Lot of blood spilt.”
“So who, or, uh, what are you?” I asked.
“Surely such an intelligent man knows better than to ask so directly,” she said demurely. “You’ll know in time.”
Amalfi departed the kitchen, humming as she left.
“Right,” said Jerry. “I think you should hold off guessing the help’s true nature for a bit. We’ve got a busy day. I’m gonna let you into the armory, get you equipped. I ain’t talkin’ some kinda peashooter or some entry-level shit. I’m talkin’ heavy firepower, the kinda stuff that’ll save your life. I’m assuming the Patron has some enforcers back where you live, and I’m gonna let you in on a secret—”
“They hate my guts,” I told him. “I’m already expecting a visit.”
To be honest, I was surprised they hadn’t hit me already. Maybe it was my erratic behavior. Maybe it was that they didn’t care enough.
“Ah,” Jerry said, simply. “Who’s he got watching his flank? That pair of fellas who look like Clint Eastwood if he had a diet of nothing but beef and protein shakes?”
“Nah,” I said. “Pair of women. Look more like they double as go-go dancers and security at a goth club.”
“Times change, I guess,” Jerry said, shrugging slightly. “Now, eat your breakfast; you’re gonna need the energy.”
We finished and walked out of the main house and onto the ranch. The horses were in their pasture, and the late summer Texas sun beat down on the property. We walked past the shooting range and the pasture, and over to where I’d seen that small slope in the ground. There was a small building that looked like a maintenance shack in front of it. A sign with three orange triangles in a circle and a helpful description below hung on the wall, out of place.
“You’ve got a fallout shelter?” I asked.
Jerry shrugged. “Shit, you don’t? Lot of badness out there in the world, Nick. Sometimes it’s nice to have a place to get away. Does wonders to clear the mind.”
He opened the door to the shack and motioned toward a hole in the center of the ro
om, with a ladder descending. A lone, unshaded lightbulb hung from the roof, casting dull light around the windowless shack. The rest of the shack was bare; the floor wasn’t even finished. I stepped through red-brown West Texas dirt to get to the ladder. I looked down, and couldn’t see the bottom, but Vinter must’ve hit a switch, because a bunch of lights came on and illuminated the hole, which was three or four stories deep.
“Go ahead and climb down, I’ll be right behind you,” he said.
I climbed down steadily, hitting each rung, taking note of the soft blue glow they emitted. I wondered where Jerry had gotten it, or what he’d done to it. Before long, I was standing on concrete, looking at the front of a bunker marked with matching FALLOUT SHELTER signs on either side, with a neatly drawn circle of salt in front of the door.
“Insurance,” he explained, dismounting the ladder and waving at the salt. “I’ve no idea if this shit actually works against someone like the Patron, but Mimi said it would at least stop his minions.”
He walked over to a keypad on the door and punched in a code, shielding it slightly. The door opened, and I walked into what could only be described as a wonderland of weapons.
The mostly modern weapons were arrayed on immaculate steel racks. Each locked rack held assault rifles, submachine guns, pistols, a few grenade launchers, crossbows…Ammo crates dotted the floor, hand-written labels covering their original Cyrillic or NATO designations, and a few loose boxes of 9mm ammo were stacked in a corner.
Some of the less modern weapons—a wodao here, a halberd there—were scattered among the modern stuff, though I noticed a few exceptions.
In the center of the room sat a zweihander, ensconced in a glass case atop a finished wood pedestal, looking like it belonged in a museum, not a prepper’s armory.
Vinter saw me gaping at it and smiled the cocky grin his face wore so well.
“That’s the sword of a fella who fought in the Thirty Years’ War,” Vinter said. “Guy made a bad deal with Mimi, and when he fell, she got the blade. It’s the strongest magical thing I’ve ever owned. Killed 43 men. That’s not impressive in the era of automatic weapons, but in the time of swords? Shit, only men I know who did better have their own shrines in Japan.”
He walked over to one of the display cases full of archaic weapons. He tapped the glass a few times and looked at me.
“My daughter Zaira loves this shit, but for the life of me, I don’t get it,” he said. “I’m a simple man. I think you should deal in the most efficient version of death possible. In 2018, for the average person, that’s a gun. Fuck, if I thought an atom bomb in my pocket would do better, I’d carry one of them.”
“You’re not a believer in style points?” I said, half-joking.
He shrugged a bit. “Not really. I want a weapon I’m trained with, that I know is reliable.”
“That’s the reason you don’t carry around a pocket nuke?”
He grinned with his tobacco-stained teeth. “Shit, I guess that’s part of it, that and the obvious availability problem. Plus, I’m not immune to that kinda thing, at least, not yet. The whole point of self-defense is to stay alive.”
He pushed a chair over to a roll top desk sitting in the corner.
“Anyway, I could go on all day about the stuff I’ve got in here without telling you anything you need to know. Take a seat,” he said. “Gonna have to orient you.”
As I sat down, I looked over at the desk. There were many photos and awards on it—a photo of Jerry in camouflage battle dress in a jungle; one of him in a tuxedo, arm in arm with Princess Diana; another of him dressed like a cowboy, smiling happily, with Mimi, sans horns and with normal eyes, dressed like a dancer and sitting on his lap, in a frame advertising Fort Stockton.
He seemed to be the same age in all of them, an age that matched how he looked now, somewhere in his late 40s or early 50s.
There were also a number of autographed photos, mostly of cowboy actors from the midcentury, though one of them was a promotional still from Die Hard, with a personal inscription. The desk was bare, though Jerry had spread a rag on top of it.
Jerry walked over from the weapons rack and handed me a rifle.
“This here’s a Croatian VHS bullpup,” he said. “For when you want a retro name on a modern rifle. Shit, you even old enough to understand what a VHS used to be?”
I looked at him out of the corner of my eye, then hoisted the bullpup. I held it, trying to get a sense of what it would be like to carry the weapon on a mission. It was a bit heavier than I liked, and bullpups always felt awkward to me. The idea of putting the magazine behind the trigger to make a shorter rifle should’ve appealed to me and others who had to rely on concealment as much as power, but I found most of them too damn awkward. I had used such rifles before—a Steyr AUG on a mission to kill a vampire and a Tavor to shoot a priest—but not the VHS. I did a quick functions check, then looked up at him.
“It seems like a fine weapon,” I said. I wasn’t totally convinced, but I wasn’t about to step into a man’s weapons bunker and shit-talk the first thing he handed me.
“It’s a bit more than that,” he said. “Mimi doesn’t have access to all the enchanters and mystics the Patron does, but when you rebel against Hell, sometimes you get contacted by some pretty interesting people. That particular rifle is blessed by Saint Joseph.”
As I racked the charging hammer, a soft blue glow came from the rifle’s chamber. I felt the rush of holy energy.
“It’s the rifle I think you should have,” he offered, “along with about three thousand rounds of 5.56mm for it. I’ve got the good stuff, that army green-tipped tungsten, which should be enough to deal with any vengeful retainers.”
“Thanks Jerry,” I said. “But this seems like an extravagant gift.”
Jerry’s face turned dark, his look almost one of loss. “I can’t use it, Nick. Truth be told, it hurts just a little bit to be in the same room as that rifle, same way it hurts a little more every time I go down that ladder. You may not be a good man anymore, but your soul is, at least, human.”
I was at a loss for words. I put the rifle in the case he brought over and sealed it, noting the interesting inscription on the top. It appeared to be Croatian army but was stamped excessively with Catholic seals and crosses. The crosses were of several varieties, but the most common and prominent looked like a cross formed from a series of knots.
“It’s a Croatian Cross,” Vinter said, seemingly reading my mind. “St. Joseph is their national patron. I’m not sure how they got him to bless that bolt carrier.”
“You were in the military?” I asked, trying to change the subject.
“Yup,” he said. “Army. 82nd Airborne. Found my way into the Patron’s service that way.”
I nodded. I wasn’t sure if I should thank him for his service or change the subject again. Jerry was bristling slightly, and I didn’t know him well enough to know why.
“Now,” he said, walking over to an arms rack, “when you take that rifle home, you’re going to need something to alert you when you’re going to be attacked. We talked a little bit earlier about what kind of supernatural heavy hitters the Patron’s got at his disposal. You got an idea of what they are?”
“Yeah, I’ve got a basic idea, but I need some help with it,” I said. “Most of what I ran into while in service was something I was shooting at or running from. I’m still not clear about what’s real and what’s not, and I’m definitely not clear on what’s threatening.”
“Let’s start with what you do know,” Jerry said.
“Vampires,” I said. “I know about two covens of them in the Cities. I know about a few cults, too, but they’re mostly focused on the bizarre esoteric shit those guys like. I think there are werewolves. Demons and angels are real. And the Patron has his Hellhounds.”
Jerry nodded. “There are probably more, but I don’t know Minnesota. When I worked with the Patron, he was in central Texas. With that said, I’d assume most creatures from bey
ond the veil are harmful. The ones that are usually benevolent, angels and such, are gonna sense your former affiliation pretty quickly. It’s safer to assume anyone who isn’t on this ranch is going to be against you.”
He stopped to pick up a rifle that had fallen over, replacing it in its rack.
“As far as stuff that might get upset about our little idea for a Hellish regime change, demons and devils like the same sort of predictable servants,” he continued. “It’s safe to assume all those vamps up there belong to the Patron one way or another. Werewolves, too, might even overlap with his Hellhounds. The Patron doesn’t like exotic stuff. You don’t get to be in charge of bureaucracy if you do, I’d imagine. Then there’s always the chance you could run into something unholy but unaffiliated. A lot of stuff haunts these lands, stuff way older than humanity. Anyway, be prepared.”
I hated how casually he said that. I had prepared.
“Were you attacked, when you…”
“Got out of my contract?” he said. “Yeah, a few times, mostly by a cult I crossed a while back. Didn’t happen immediately. They waited until they thought I’d gone soft, a few months after I left. Thought they’d catch me napping. They didn’t last long. Like now, I had Mimi and her servants.” He grinned. “Makes me tough to hit.”
“But I’m an easy target,” I said.
“I’m afraid so,” Vinter replied, nodding. “I’m not gonna bullshit you, Nick. Your life, for a bit, is going to be much more dangerous. Hell, that’s why I gave you the rifle! And I’ve got one more little gift for you.”
He opened a chest with crusader markings on it and pulled out a small, golden oil lamp. The impure gold was a bit tarnished, but the markings on it were clear—a blend of Arabic writing and Christian sigils.
“I’m gonna give you this,” he said. “Now I know what you’re thinkin’—it ain’t a genie. Ain’t no such thing, far as I can tell, and the djinn they’re based on are in league with Hell, so even if it were, it wouldn’t help you at all, ‘cept if you wanted a particularly painful death.”
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