Deal with the Devil

by Kevin Lee Swaim

  They would be off by a millennium.

  Henry glanced up from his coffee cup and nodded, then ran his hand through his shaggy brown hair. “Sam.”

  His voice was a rich baritone with the hint of a twang, but it was all part of his disguise. I’d heard his voice become harsher, more guttural, and knew that English was not his first language.

  Not the English that we speak.

  I took the seat across from him, and Callie slid in next to me, her hand reflexively caressing the silver cross between her breasts.

  Henry didn’t acknowledge the gesture. “Sister. I see you’re well.”

  “I am,” Callie said. “Why do you want to speak with Sam?”

  Henry raised his coffee and slowly took a sip. “I’ve heard the breakfast here is good. Stick-to-your-ribs good. You might want to avail yourselves of a good breakfast.”

  “Avail?” I said. “Fancy word for a sheriff from Montana.”

  Henry brown eyes lit up. “I’ve been a few places, but I don’t like to put on airs.”

  Callie glanced down at the menu. “Stalling for time?”

  “The world spins on,” Henry said wistfully, “but a good breakfast should never be taken for granted. I know a thing or two about starvation.”

  I blinked. “You mean…”

  Henry’s smiled faded. “No, not … that way. I mean back in the old days. Before I was given the gift. Food was scarce. Wars were fought for crops and livestock. Power and nobility are abstracts. You can’t eat ’em. When your belly is empty, and there’s nothing in the larder? You can’t stop thinking about food. You just”—he took a deep breath—“can’t.”

  He glanced down at his coffee. “It’s worse watching your people starve. They expect you to feed them. They depend on you, but when no amount of fighting or scheming can put food in their bellies? And where starvation goes, disease follows. Watching your people suffer and die is hard. Life today is comfortable. You order food, and it’s delivered with a smile. You warm yourself indoors, and disease and starvation are distant problems you see on the television.”

  Callie watched Henry with astonishment.

  I felt the same way. No matter how many times I reminded myself of Henry’s age, I could never wrap my head around the amount of history he had witnessed.

  “Isn’t it a little early in the morning for heavy conversation?” I was going to continue, but our waitress finally showed up to take our order. I placed an order of bacon and eggs with coffee, while Callie stuck to wheat toast and water. After the waitress left, I asked, “Why did you want to see us, Henry?”

  Henry sipped his coffee.

  A thought occurred to me. “You’re drinking coffee? I didn’t think vampires needed food or … drink.”

  Henry took another sip. “We don’t. Technically.”

  “Technically?”

  Henry regarded me thoughtfully. “Because life isn’t just about what you need to survive. Without an occasional indulgence, what’s the point?” He cleared his throat. “You never told me about Dallas.”

  Callie’s hand froze on her toast.

  “It was fine,” I muttered. “We made the kill.”

  Henry smiled sadly. “Judging by the Sister’s expression, you’ve left something out.”

  The silence stretched out for several seconds before I finally murmured, “The woman had three kids. She…”

  “Yes?”

  “She slaughtered them,” Callie whispered. Her face had gone ashen, and she looked like she might vomit. “She didn’t just kill them. She took an old Tupperware bowl, a brown one, and she … drained their blood into it.”

  “We found her in a daze,” I said. “She was sitting on the carpet in her living room, covered in her children’s blood.”

  “It doesn’t seem right,” Henry said. “Does it?”

  “Of course it doesn’t seem right—”

  “It’s like God shouldn’t allow such wickedness,” Henry said. “Something like that? It can shake your beliefs.”

  Callie blinked rapidly. “I don’t understand. How can things like that happen?”

  “I don’t know,” Henry said. “I’ve seen a lot in my long life, and I still can’t make sense of it.” He turned to me and raised an eyebrow. “You killed the vampire?”

  “Of course,” I said. “She put up one hell of a fight, but we managed.”

  Barely.

  Henry nodded, as if to himself. “I’ve got a job in Chicago. I could use your help. Both of you.”

  “Chicago?” I asked. “What kind of job?”

  “I have an understanding with the handful of vampires in Chicago. They keep a low profile, control their appetites, and I leave them be.”

  “That’s changed.”

  “People are missing. If they’ve broken our agreement…”

  “What?”

  “I’m going to have to set an example.”

  “You want us to help you threaten a vampire pack?”

  Henry frowned. “A clutch, technically. And not threaten. Something more … permanent.”

  “Doesn’t Chicago have a vampire killer?”

  “Yes,” Callie said. “Joseph Garski.”

  “That’s right,” Henry said.

  “Why can’t he handle this?”

  Henry hesitated. “Garski can be … difficult.”

  “Difficult?” I asked. “Difficult enough that he can’t do his job? Difficult enough that you need to step in? Difficult enough that you need our help?”

  “You’ve been through some hard times, Sam. You and the Sister have survived some terrible things. You put the farmer down. A year ago, you didn’t even know about vampires. Now look at you. Did you save the girl?”

  “We did,” I said.

  Before I could elaborate, our waitress arrived with our food. We took the plates, and she left without a word. I glanced down at my scrambled eggs and bacon and then looked back up to Henry. “We saved the girl, but…”

  Henry licked his lips. “Did he feed from her?”

  “Yeah.”

  “What did you do with her?”

  “We returned her to her mother,” Callie said.

  After a moment of silence, I asked, “What’s wrong, Henry?”

  “Sometimes,” Henry said slowly, “after a feeding? It hurts their mind.”

  “She seemed okay.” Even to my ears, it sounded defensive.

  “There’s nothing you can do about it,” Henry said. “She’s with her mother. That gives her a chance.”

  “Why?” Callie asked. “Why does she have a chance with her mother?”

  “There’s a bond there that’s stronger than just about anything,” Henry said. “It might be enough to ground her. To give her something to focus on.”

  “And if it’s not?” Callie asked.

  Henry reached for the check. “It’s better not to think about it.”

  Chapter Three

  We finished our breakfast and exited the restaurant. Henry was waiting for us in his Suburban. He rolled his window down and inspected us. “Go home and pack. It should only be a couple of days. Bring clothes. And guns.”

  I glanced around the nearly empty parking lot. “Who said we were going?”

  Henry smiled. “You’ll go because you think it’s your duty, but mostly because you can’t help yourself.”

  Callie touched my shoulder. “The sheriff is right. It is our duty.”

  For a fleeting moment, I felt the urge to tell Henry to get lost, to tell him that I wasn’t put on earth to do the will of the Ancients. I thought about telling him that I wasn’t really sure if I could trust him, or if I should be trying to stake him.

  For the briefest of moments, I wondered how it would feel to press Callie’s lips to mine, to experience a woman’s touch again, and to feel her skin against my own.

  Then I remembered Jack. Consciously or subconsciously, Jack had passed up the chance to kill his o
wn son, Silas. Those actions had led to the eventual death of my wife and daughter, and to Jack’s change into … the kind of monster Jack had become.

  As much as I hated to admit it, Henry was right. It was my duty. And, like that, the moment passed. It had taken less than a second or two, and Henry was patiently waiting for my response. “How much hardware will I need?”

  Henry smiled sadly. “You never can tell when vampires are concerned.”

  * * *

  We returned to the house. Callie went to pack a change of clothes for us, and I manhandled one of the four-foot tool chests into the armory. When she returned, I was still staring at the wall of guns.

  “Sam?”

  I blinked. “I can’t wear the trench coat in this heat.”

  She nodded, then picked up a box from the steel shelves piled high with ammunition. “Mary Kate gave me this a few weeks ago. Lori took it in trade and thought of you. She said it was a belated Christmas gift.”

  Mary Kate Glick ran Hawkeye Gun and Pawn in Marshalltown, Iowa. She had known Jack and was now our supplier of silver ammunition. Lori Glick was Mary Kate’s sister-in-law. I had tried to protect Lori’s son, Colden, from Ignacio Santiago, But Santiago had murdered her family. “What is it?”

  Callie opened the box and handed me a small semiautomatic pistol. “It’s a Kimber Micro 9.”

  The gun was heavy, even though it was barely larger than my hand. I pulled back on the slide, and it racked as smooth as silk. “Nice.”

  “There’s something else,” Callie said. She handed me an ankle holster, a neoprene band with sheepskin on the inside. “It’s a Galco.”

  I studied it. I usually wore a Galco shoulder holster with my Kimber Tactical, but without the trench coat to cover the shoulder holster, the ankle holster would have to do. I removed the magazine and loaded it with six silver 9mm rounds, then inserted it into the gun and racked the slide. Once again, the action was buttery smooth. “Remind me to thank Lori and Mary Kate.”

  “Lori seems to be doing … better,” Callie said. She reached deep into the box and handed me another pair of magazines for the new Kimber.

  I loaded them with silver ammunition, then stuffed them into the front pocket of my jeans. “That’s good, isn’t it?”

  “She lost her family in the most violent way possible. It’s only natural for her to grieve.”

  I took my Kimber Tactical and Galco shoulder holster from the workbench and put them in the top drawer of the tool chest. “She barely spoke a word until Christmas.”

  Callie took a handful of wooden stakes and put them in the bottom drawer of the tool chest. “It’s okay to grieve, Sam. You should be, too.”

  I grabbed Callie’s modified Remington 870 shotgun and raised an eyebrow. She nodded, and I put it in the second drawer of the tool chest, followed by boxes of shotgun shells loaded with silver shot.

  “I’m over what happened,” I said. “The last few months … I guess I’m as good as I’m going to get.”

  Callie took the Ingram Mac-10 from the workbench and offered it to me. “You think you’ll need this?”

  “I think I don’t know what Henry is getting us into,” I said, taking it from her. It went into the tool chest, along with a handful of loaded magazines. “Where’s the other thing?”

  “I put it in the third drawer. Isn’t it a little … pointless?”

  “If it comes to it—”

  “If it’s that or nothing, then the vampires are too close.”

  I stared at the tool chest and sighed. “We need a plan.”

  Callie frowned. “You said you didn’t know what Henry is getting us into.”

  I shook my head. “I mean a bigger plan. What are we doing? Are we just surviving? Is this what we do until we screw up and get killed by a vampire? We’ve already made mistakes.”

  Callie placed her hand on my shoulder and squeezed gently. “God has a plan for us.”

  I bit back several possible replies, then said, “I wish He would get around to telling us about it.”

  * * *

  The drive to Chicago took less time than I expected, and Henry was waiting for us when we pulled into the parking deck in downtown Chicago. He led us north, and we stopped at Jackson Boulevard.

  I turned to him and asked, “Why are we here, Henry?”

  Henry squinted at the building across the street. “When they built Union Station, nothing looked the way it does now. All these tall buildings? None of them were here.”

  Callie and I looked around. The sun wasn’t yet directly overhead. The surrounding buildings loomed over Union Station, but the train station itself looked incongruous. “It’s like a relic,” I said.

  “Aren’t we all,” Henry muttered.

  “You still aren’t telling us why we are here,” Callie noted.

  “We’re here to meet with someone.”

  “A vampire?” I asked. “What is a vampire doing here?”

  “He’s … not a vampire,” Henry said. “Let’s go.”

  We hurried across the heavy traffic on Jackson Boulevard, past the cabs, Ubers, and Lyfts, and entered the building. I had never been to Union Station before, and my mouth dropped at the sight of the grand hall.

  Callie turned to look at me. The ghost of a smile flitted across her face. “It’s beautiful.”

  People streamed around us, men and women and children all rushing to their destinations, seemingly oblivious to the stunning architecture around them. Henry continued on, like a soldier marching his troops into battle.

  Callie grabbed my hand and tugged. I sighed heavily. “So much for sightseeing.”

  We descended through the building, taking escalators and stairs until we came to a long hall filled with restaurants. The aroma of pizza and burgers and diesel fuel swirled in the air.

  It made me queasy.

  Henry took a seat against the wall in front of a Starbucks and motioned for us to join him.

  “What are we doing here?” I asked.

  “Just … wait,” Henry said. He withdrew a ten-dollar bill from his blue jeans and handed it to Callie. “Get yourself some coffee, Sister. It’s going to be a few minutes.”

  Callie took the bill and started to speak, then shook her head. I watched as she walked to the Starbucks fifteen feet to our right and placed her order.

  The foot traffic quickly died down around us. There were a handful of people ordering food, but most of the tables in the hall were empty. A few panhandlers walked around, asking for change, but a pair of police offers appeared, and the panhandlers disappeared like magic. By the time Callie returned with two large coffees, the police had swept the area, and the panhandlers had quickly returned.

  “It’s like a dance,” Henry said.

  “What?”

  He nodded at a young man strolling through the hall, looking for people to accost for change. “Some of these folks are destitute. Some are addicts or alcoholics. A few live in penthouse apartments and drive BMWs. They have a sixth sense about the police. It’s been like this since before you were born.”

  “Great,” I mumbled. I took a long sip of my coffee. It was rich, and bold, and completely unlike the diner coffee I used to serve. I hated it. “Ready to tell us what we’re doing here?”

  Henry’s eyes perked up, and he offered a wry smile. “Better you should make up your own mind.”

  Henry’s eyes tracked someone behind me, and I turned to look. Coming around the corner was a black man in his fifties or sixties. The more I tried to place his age, the harder it was. He wore brown trousers and a dark blue denim shirt. A striped woollen cap kept his short dreadlocks from getting too out of control.

  He shuffled toward the Starbucks, then spun to his left and made a sweep along the other restaurants before spinning slowly around and approaching us.

  His eyes never focused on us as he strolled by and gave the young man at the cash register at an Italian place a nod, then headed back to the
escalators. He was almost out of sight before he stopped, circled through the small gift store across from us, and headed back our way.

  I thought he was going to pass by again, but he stopped at the last moment and slumped into the empty seat across from Callie so smoothly that it looked like he had poured himself into the hard plastic chair.

  The whites of his eyes were yellowed, and I mentally upped his age by another decade. He gave Henry an up-and-down glance, then said in a voice that rumbled like an old freight train, “Sheriff.”

  Henry stuck out his massive palm, and the man took it, blinked, and then released it. The two stared at each other and Henry finally said, “What’s new, Peter?”

  “Been a few changes,” the man mumbled. His eyes flickered toward mine but went back to warily scanning the hall. “Why are you here?”

  “I think you know,” Henry said. “How many people pass through this station?”

  “Beats the airport,” the man mumbled. “Ask what you came to ask.”

  Henry nodded. “Who is in town?”

  “What concern is it of mine?”

  I had no idea what they were talking about, but I was getting a whiff of something from the man, a stench that reminded me of the time I had visited a petting zoo as a child. “Who are you?” I asked. “What are you?”

  The man didn’t bother looking my way. “A Harlan. I should have known. I met Jack once, before the war.”

  “Which war?” Callie asked.

  The man turned to inspect her with a stony expression. “Hard to say, Sister. Hard to say.”

  Callie sucked in her breath. “How did you know I was—”

  “Give him your hand,” Henry said to me.

  “What?” I asked.

  “Give him your hand,” Henry repeated. “It’s the only way.”

  “Why?”

  Henry frowned. “Just do it.”

  I reluctantly stuck out my hand.

  The man took it without comment and squeezed gently, almost delicately, with his weathered black hand, then let it drop and glanced up at Henry. “It’s like that?”