13
Hot Totty
New Orleans - 1885
Dustan rented a row house on Rue St. Ann in the Pontalba. The apartments had fallen to disrepair since the Baroness died in France some ten years ago. A shabby façade of broken shutters and chipped stone hinted at the interior’s condition. He entered the building and took the stairs to an upper hallway where four identical doors stood two to a side. Dustan turned his key in the last one on the left, positioned on the east face overlooking St. Ann Street. A scuffed bureau with a tambour sat butted to one wall near a rickety armoire. Hardwood floors covered in patchwork rugs creaked beneath his steps. The accommodations suited him fine. He wanted to remain out of sight, and couldn’t care less about lavish furnishings.
He slumped in the room’s single chair centered between twin windows and tried to tune out the sounds of foot and carriage traffic below. Voices and the staccato rhythm of clopping hooves lulled his exhausted mind and body. The bed beckoned, but he avoided it. If he slept now, he would not wake until next Christmas. Spring filled the air in the scents of fresh dogwood blossoms and in the songs of sparrows and cardinals. A bit of warm weather would be welcome after the trek from the plantation, which left a chill in his bones and saddle sores on his backside. He still loathed horses, and Shax always seemed to select the most cantankerous for him to ride.
On cue, the dwarf appeared in the room, obviously having no qualms with a potential nap. Stubby legs crossed, he reclined on the bed looking far too comfortable.
“I didn’t even smell sulfur this time,” said Dustan with a smirk.
“My farts scent of roses, lad. Almost party time, you ready?” Shax worried at his teeth with a tiny wooden pick, one hand on his belly. “Damn creole food.”
“I thought you never ate?”
“From time to time. I do have a weakness for spicy fare. Pissing and shitting are the human bits I hate the most. Not sure what god thought it funny for us to share all your damned secretions when in form. Sweating I don’t mind so much, but the rest….you lot can keep.”
Dustan shook his head. “Know where our angelic friend’s hiding?”
“Yes sir. And not hiding at all. Frolicking about pretty as you please, playing totty down at a boozer called Lafitte’s.”
“Any sage advice before I leave?”
“If you’re gonna jump in the water, do it headfirst. If it’s shallow, you won’t be conscious to hear me laughing.” Shax looked up with an impish grin on his face.
Dustan gritted his teeth. “Walked into that one I guess.”
“Headlong, lad. Headlong.” Shax rolled over and fell straight to sleep.
Dustan left at dusk. The French Quarter hummed day and night with angry shouts and playful banter. A colorful mix of working lower class packed the neighborhood. Most of the Creoles had picked up and moved to Esplanade over the previous few years, and a sea of Irish and Italian immigrants flowed in behind them. Dustan understood about every fourth word of the Irish and virtually none of the Italian. He should have Saerna teach him a bit next time he saw her.
He admired St. Louis Cathedral as he passed—a stately and regal building that would fit into London without notice. Crowds milled about Jackson Square, belted with shouts from vendors urging the purchase of their goods. A few beggars wandered the river walk and pestered him for coins while the mighty Mississippi drifted along beside him. He turned onto Decatur Street with the moon shining off rippling water and a cool breeze invigorated his stroll.
His first assignment. The thought made him jittery with excitement and trepidation. Aamon himself had showed up on the final day at the mansion to wish Dustan good fortune and inform him how his tasks would work. Whenever a spirit entered the human realm, a disturbance in the atmosphere signaled their arrival. The same occurred in the spirit realm. Spirits could not simply leap in and out from anywhere in their world; portals granting access to other dimensions lay exclusively along the edge of the realm. They were countless in number, so keeping all of them under surveillance was impossible. Still, specially assigned agents for both sides monitored comings and goings. They noted disruptions triggered when a spirit left or returned to the realm, and mapped general proximity if a spirit continued to remain in the same area for long. A lengthy duration usually meant the angel or demon enjoyed successful endeavors, making them a target for the opposing force. Sometimes they were picked off in the spirit realm, but most knew the risks and had developed quick, crafty ways to recharge their energies before discovered.
Lafitte’s sat in the heart of the wharf down from Lee Circle. A seedy joint, and legend had it the privateer Jean Lafitte owned the bar where he and his brother Pierre plotted illegal seizures and the sale of contraband. Pierre doubled as a blacksmith, so the bar was also known as Lafitte Blacksmith Shop.
Dustan sat in the rear of the small building, sipping thick brown Irish ale. Filled with raucous laughter and voices, the ambiance did not lend itself to relaxation and set his nerves further on edge. Heavy, acrid smoke wafted through the close confines, making his eyes and nose burn and itch. A buxom barmaid skipped through, trying to avoid slaps on the ass while balancing a tray of ales filled to the brim. He scanned the room, searching for the glow of an aura amidst the bustling throng. It did not require long. As Shax suggested, the angel did not attempt to remain incognito. An unusual and risky practice, any observant demon might discover her in time, even without the benefit of sensing auras in the human realm. Most likely sporting her first form, she sat in the lap of a brawny Italian man, giggling as he whispered in her ear.
“Boyo, how’s ’bout ya buy yer ol’ pal a scoops?” A russet-haired man dragged a chair screeching across a floor drenched in liquor, positioned himself opposite Dustan, and sat down. With a wide sloppy grin on his face, he appeared to be either having a good time or drowning a bad one.
“Excuse me?” Dustan eyed the man. His speech vaguely resembled some sort of English, but Dustan had no idea what he said.
“Aye, wee bit scuttered is we? I is, if’n you’s ain’t, ha.” The man slapped the table and roared with laughter.
“I’m waiting for someone if you don’t mind.” With his nerves frayed, Dustan’s patience with a drunk teetered on non-existent.
“You’s a sour puss. We’s just looking to ’ave a wee bit o’ fun.” The man wobbled in the chair, tipped sideways, and barely caught himself before hitting the floor. His eyes rose to peek over the rim of the table. He wavered upright in the chair, his lopsided grin still intact.
“Find your fun elsewhere.” Dustan hinted with a glower his tolerance had worn out.
“I’s only coddin ya, boyo. No need ta tell me twice. Know’s when I’m bein’ a gobshite.” His grin shifted to a rather pathetic, apologetic smile as he stood and moved away.
Dustan shook his head. He took another sip of the ale, his eyes darting around the room. The angel was gone.
Dammit.
He waved the barmaid over and handed her a few coins, pushed away from the table, and exited the bar. Luck was with him, the angel stumbled down the lane arm in arm with the Italian. She leaned against him while he kept one hand on her buttocks. No secret where this headed. An interesting method of recruitment. How many men would sell their souls for a bit of tail? He chuckled. In this city, judging from what he had seen thus far…most of them.
The angel was not alone in her nocturnal foray. Ladies of the night lined the river walk for blocks. Police ignored the practice or seized a cut of their earnings. The world’s oldest profession was always hiring. A slim redhead no more than sixteen propositioned him as he passed. Her enthusiasm amused him. She should take her act to the theater rather than the streets. He almost believed she ‘hankered a shag’ with him.
He followed the pair, keeping to the shadows. She appeared confident, never glancing back. The deception slipped when the Italian stumbled, and the angel paused her own totter to catch and hold him steady. Dustan appreciated the reminder—appearances m
eant nothing.
The two approached a row of rents across from the docks where riverboat steamers cruised past. Huge stern paddles churned the water, leaving a white-topped wake. As he watched them, he rubbed the back of his neck and considered the angel’s scheme. Angels relied on a person’s desire to covet absolution and gain entry into Heaven. Assuming this predilection indicated a pure heart was a misconception. Angels played on the misdeeds and regrets of their recruits, as often as appealing to their goodness and naiveté, as well as a fear of eternal torment sunken deep in their minds. Some version of everlasting punishment for wrongdoings existed in every culture around the world, and the method had proven effective for religions throughout history. Priests had sold indulgences using Catholics’ fear of Hell and Purgatory to fleece them of their money, and even employed professional pardoners for the purpose. Angels simply used the seeds already taken root to foster belief in their propositions.
Dustan guessed the angel would have a sudden change of heart once inside. The sinfulness of their actions too much to bear, she would preach the virtues of changing their ways and embracing the light. He assumed she selected ‘clients’ who displayed a hesitancy toward wickedness, a willingness to align evident in some subtle mannerisms or traits. Spirits might also know the guilt-ridden pasts of their targets. All conjecture, but it seemed a likely ruse to gain pledges, based on what he learned from Saerna and Geras.
Nevertheless, he needed to make his move before they entered the rents. No certainty the angel would reemerge tonight, and sneaking inside might alert her to his presence. In all likelihood, he was being overcautious. The spirit had no idea of his existence, he might well stroll right up to her with little to no reaction on her part. However, he knew the extreme reflexes, strength, and quickness they possessed, if he could take her unaware, all the better.
Arm in arm, the angel and the Italian wobbled alongside a temporary market stall erected on the waterfront—four poles raised roughly ten feet apart in a square, a sheet of plywood set atop and covered with a tarp. A bright half-moon hung in the sky and danced on ripples in the river. The air had fallen to a brisk chill with sunset, but Dustan did not feel it. Cotton pants with a button-down and thigh-high coat did not provide his warmth; anticipatory nerves heated his blood.
Twenty paces behind, he crouched at the corner of a building, stuck a finger in each side of his mouth and blew. The sharp whistle brought the angel’s head around, but the man staggered on ahead. Dustan clenched his trembling hands, took a deep breath to quiet the pounding of his heart, and bolted from the darkness. He drew Blood Dancer from beneath his coat and summoned its energy. One foot caught the top of a barrel beside the stall, and he vaulted onto the roof. With a spring, he leapt out and over the angel, extended his right leg, and kicked the Italian in the chest. The inebriated man hit the ground, rolled across the pier, and tumbled into the Mississippi with a splash.
Dustan landed lightly on the balls of his feet. Twisting Blood Dancer’s point parallel with the ground, hilt grasped with two hands at his chest, he pivoted toward the surprised angel and thrust the sword with lightning speed. The blade entered the spot dead center—the energy core Valefar had taught him. The angel’s expression of shock changed in an instant. The skin of her face pulled taut as if deflated in a vacuum. Her mouth widened in an impossible gape, eyes appearing as giant, lidless ovals filled with terror. All the air in the district felt sucked into a tight ball, a circle of intense pressure around their bodies. Brilliant white light burst from her every orifice and shot out, bolting into the sky. Dustan shielded his face from the glare, his arms raised, covering his head. A flash exploded without sound. An orb of radiance freckled with a constellation of pointed stars mushroomed up and out. Searing heat blasted his body, forcing him back as if he were fighting a gale wind.
All went still. The night surrounded him undisturbed. Dustan lowered his arms and scanned the area. No sign of the angel remained—no blood or bone, not a shred of clothing—as though she never existed. He dampened Blood Dancer’s energy and placed the sword beneath his coat. The Italian still flailed in the river shouting words Dustan did not understand, but he could guess at their content. He helped the man onto the dock where he collapsed on his knees and coughed a copious amount of water onto the wooden planks.
Dustan returned to Rue St. Ann, entered the house, and fell in to bed. He gazed at the ceiling, trying to wade through a torrent of conflicting emotions. Revenge tasted less sweet than he had hoped, an aftertaste like rotten fruit clinging to his tongue. With a wrist rested against his forehead, he did not acknowledge Shax’s arrival.
“How did it go? Oh, I know you did good. Word’s spreading through the Horde like wildfire.” Shax, giddy with excitement, rubbed his hands together.
“It was…not what I expected.” Dustan glanced at the little man.
“Ever destroyed an angel before? No. Bloody hell, lad. Hard to imagine a thing like that.”
“I was prepared to fight for my life. Everything Valefar taught me pulsed through my body. I felt like one of those cougars that would sometimes come down to drink at the pond. But she wasn’t a powerful monster, didn’t fight back at all. I didn’t need any of my skills, it was over so fast.”
“Bit of a letdown after ten years of training and twenty years of hatred, I suspect.”
Dustan nodded, his lips pressed tight.
“You got the jump on her. She didn’t know someone like you was possible, much less stalking her. If you want a fight, don’t worry, they’ll soon be on to you. You may get more’n you want.” Shax helped himself to a warm ale, sucked it down, and belched.
Dustan shrugged and massaged his neck. “It’s more than the ease of it, though. More than what I saw…how I felt.”
Shax sat on the edge of the bed. “Tell me about it. What happened?”
“I don’t know. I guess I thought I would feel better. I’ve hated them for so long, trained so hard, but something in the last moment, before she…erupted? Her expression…” Dustan’s hands felt cold, a tingling in his fingers. He wrung them in his lap, sitting up to face Shax.
“Don’t go getting confused. You’ve come a long ways, learned a lot about us, but you’re still human. Still want to see things with a human perception.”
“You have emotions, you feel. You have regrets from the past and look to a better future. I just ended every potential future she had.” Dustan rose and paced the floor.
“Ain’t the same. The human form’s only a mask. What you saw wasn’t real. You…how to say it…projected your own emotions.”
“That isn’t the point. Regardless of whether she was human or not, she had feelings. She wasn’t some abstract encasing of energy without thoughts or dreams.” Dustan shook his head. “No, it was more. You didn’t see it. Whatever she felt terrified her. Not only dying, but like some monster swooped down to devour her. I can’t explain it. I didn’t want to take it back. I don’t even regret it, not really. But I can’t get her face out of my mind.”
Shax sighed. “Sit down, lad.”
Dustan sat by the window, a cricket on the sill chirping at him. A knot twisted in his stomach, nausea roiling. Frustrated by the emotions warring within him, he repositioned himself in the chair and tried to shut them out.
Shax gazed at him with concern etched on his face. “The Void, Oblivion, The Bloody Abyss. Whatever you wanna call it, it’s the one thing we dread most. Humans fear eternal torment, fire and brimstone, but if they knew the truth not a one of them would sleep at night. Difficult to explain. You’d think the Void preferable to suffering in pain forever, but it ain’t. When a spirit dies, we enter the nothingness of Oblivion. No sight, sound, or feeling of any kind, only pitch-black forever and always. At least fire burning you would be something. The terror of that place is incomprehensible.”
“How do you know? Sounds like the same stories priests tell about Hell and Heaven. No one comes back. No way to know for sure.”
Shax nodded a
nd wiped a sudsy mustache from his lip. “We’ve seen it. It’s a realm like this one or ours. Well sort of…then again, nothing like them. It’s a waste where all the refuse of countless worlds ends up. Every soul and spirit that dies gets sucked into the Abyss.” The dwarf shivered at the thought.
“Makes no sense. Impossible to see nothing.” At least the discussion had taken his mind off earlier events.
“It’s complicated, but the old ones studied the Void. They witnessed the spirits’ lights, energy, shoot into the nothingness after death and blink out.”
“Still seems iffy to me. Could mean annihilation, like they don’t exist at all anymore. A lot of guess work and jumping to conclusions.”
Shax reddened. “You lot been around a few thousand years and think you know everything. We’ve existed near back to the start of it all.”
Dustan softened his tone. “I know. I don’t think I, or any human, know as much as your kind. All I’m saying, it’s hard to prove and know for sure.”
“You saw the look on the angel’s face. She glimpsed something…something awful.”
Dustan could not argue with him there. The doubt returned with all its intensity. “How can you…we, justify doing that to a living being? Even one we hate?”
“Because they’ll do it to us if we don’t.” The demon threw up his hands in annoyance. “War, lad. You can’t think in terms of right and wrong. There’s an enemy wishing to kill you, so you have to kill them first.”
“I’m not a spirit engaged in an ages old war. This is personal for me. You say right and wrong don’t matter, but they do. I accepted Aamon’s token because I didn’t want to die. I agreed to hunt the angels because I owe him my life and for what they did… or rather didn’t do. But I want to be on the right side.”
Shax stared hard into Dustan’s eyes. “You doubt which is which? Don’t forget what this is about. They let your mum die in horrible pain. They ignored you and her when you were dying. Where were they when your da bled out? Your folks put their faith in the angels and they did nothing for them. You going to spit on your parents and let those fucking angels get away with it? Aamon saved you, like you said. The angels could have saved your mum and your da. They care nothing for humans. Nothing but fodder for the war. Let them die first so the angels can hang back. That who you wanna spare?”
Blood for the Dancer Page 11