Blood Debts (The Temple Chronicles Book 2)

by Silvers, Shayne

  I swiveled a bit on the squeaky wooden stool, scouting the seedy bar in a way that I hoped seemed nonchalant, doing my best to look inconspicuously lethal…

  And my clumsy bleeding fist knocked the drink plum out of the old gentleman’s hand beside me. Some of the liquor splashed onto my open wound, causing me to hiss in pain. I instinctively called to my gift, filling myself with magic in order to defend myself from the Octogenarian, doing my best to ignore my stinging palm.

  Sure, he might look like a frail old man, but you never knew in a Kill. Plus, he hadn’t freaked the fuck out when I had my conniption a few minutes ago. He had steel nerves. Which usually resulted from having a severe case of badass-itis.

  The man smiled amiably at me, waving me off with a forgiving hand motion. “It happens. No worries.” His eyes twinkled like arctic ice, seeming to glow. The silence stretched as I waited for him to make his move. His smile grew wider. “You can release your power now. It was just a drink.” I let loose the breath I hadn’t known I’d been holding, and then, slowly, my magic.

  This was when he would attack. I knew it. Wait for it… I was ready for anything. I would never let my epitaph say ‘The dragon slayer that was slain by a nursing home patient.’

  He shook his head as if amused at a child’s antics, and turned back to the bar, for all intents and purposes seeming to dismiss my distrust. I swiveled back myself, still tense as a spring. What the hell? Courtesy? I slowly began to relax. “Huh. Paint my lips and call me Suzie. You meant it.”

  The man turned his mercurial gaze my way, and I briefly noticed purple flecks in his icy blue eyes. “Why would I call you Suzie? You are Nathaniel Laurent Temple, of course. Kind of a big deal.” He seemed amused at that. “And why would I say something and act otherwise? Is this a riddle? Or one of those New Age ideas that don’t seem to make a lick of sense? Are you a… Hipster?”

  The word sounded unfamiliar on his lips, but I could see that he was proud to have used it, as if it was one less thing pulling him from the grave, a last clutch at his youth. But as I appraised him, I began to wonder if he was really as old as I had originally thought. He had a youthful… vibrancy to him. I managed to stammer a response. “No, never mind. I thought… you know… this is a Kill.” I finally grumbled, as if he were the one being strange. He shrugged and began to completely ignore me as he studied the bottles of liquor behind the bar, apparently deciding on his next drink.

  Which was extremely odd. See, my reaction was an important stance in a place like this. I compared a Kill to an African watering hole — where one went to do his business, grab a piece of water, and then efficiently retreat to his hidey hole — all the while watching his back for any threats. The place wasn’t full, big surprise, with it being cold as balls outside and a week night to boot, but enough patrons lingered here and there to justify the sultry guitarist idly strumming cover band music in the corner. And it was vitally important to keep this crowd entertained.

  For they were primarily Freaks, as the Regular folk called them, or supernaturals.

  Even though my new glass was a few inches from my hand, a distinct chime overrode the guitarist in the corner, as if I had tapped my glass with a fork. “Get him a replacement, please.” I mumbled to the bartender, and then reached out to down my drink. “Me too. But not this swill. Get me a decent whisky.” The grizzled barkeep grunted, and I received a new glass of Johnnie Walker a few moments later.

  I lightly sipped the new drink in an effort to fuel my lidded eyes from drooping further. Mustn’t fall asleep again. I shivered to clear my head, noticing a pair of men down the bar whispering to themselves and glancing pointedly at me. I shrugged to myself. “I have enough friends.” I muttered under my breath. I wasn’t in the market for new ones.

  The older gentleman rapped idly on the gnarled wooden counter with a bony hand as he spoke out of the side of his mouth for my ears only. “You can never have enough friends. Never. Also, this doesn’t seem like an ideal place for sleeping.” No one else had heard, I was sure of it. “I’ll take a Death in the Afternoon, Barkeep.” He requested in a louder voice to the bartender, who seemed to be respectfully waiting for the man’s order. Absinthe and champagne, I mused, immediately interested, and a little alarmed at what quality of champagne they might have behind the bar. If any at all.

  “Nice choice.” I spoke, suddenly curious that this might be my contact. He had been here since before I had arrived. Had he been assessing me before deciding to follow through with his information? I was suddenly glad I hadn’t stormed out.

  The man glanced over at me, his unique frosty blue eyes twinkling in amusement. He was gaunt, skeletal even, but wiry with a resilient strength underneath, and he sported long, straw-colored blonde hair in a man-bun. He was dressed sharply; formal even, and seemed to fairly reek of money, looking like Don Draper from Mad Men. I concluded that he definitely wasn’t as old as I had originally thought. Just frail. He plucked a cigarette from an ornate silver case, casting me a curious brow as if asking my permission. “Coffin nail?” He offered me one. With a Herculean effort I managed to decline, waving him to go ahead. He lit up, speaking softly between pulls. “I became infatuated with the drink many years ago. It’s the color, I think. Silly reason, but there it is.”

  I nodded distractedly, trying to catch a whiff of the second-hand smoke. I had recently quit, but still craved a drag. “It’s an inspiring drink.” I dredged through my exhausted eidetic memory. “Anything capable of arousing passion in its favor will surely raise as much passion against it.”

  The man grunted in recognition. “Hemmingway was a great man, even though bull-fighting is slightly antiquated.” He appraised me with a sideways glance. “Shouldn’t you be attending some high society function or ritzy ball rather than entertaining a barfly in a Kill?” He asked with a refined degree of politeness, as if only making idle conversation.

  “The public has always expected me to be a playboy, and a decent chap never lets his public down.” I winked, trying to flummox him with a different quote.

  “Not many have read Errol Flynn. Learn that at one of your fancy dinner parties?” He drawled, unimpressed.

  I leaned back, impressed at his literary knowledge. I nodded. “Sociability is just a big smile, and a big smile is nothing but teeth. I didn’t feel like entertaining the crowd again tonight.” I decided, for simplicity’s sake, to refer to this stranger as Hemmingway, after his drink of choice.

  Before I could ask if he was my contact, I felt a forceful finger jab my shoulder, sending a jolt of power all the way down to my toes. Hemmingway chuckled in amusement at the stranger looming behind me. I lifted my gaze to the bartender and realized he was not moving.

  At all. Not even to blink. Then I realized that no one else in the bar was moving. No one but Hemmingway, the stranger, and myself. My sense of alarm reached a crescendo in the blink of an eye.

  The sizzle of power still tingled in my feet from the stranger’s touch. This person was juiced up to a level I hadn’t seen in a while. And he had apparently gone to the trouble of stopping the flow of time in order to speak with the notorious N.A.T.

  Knowing my luck, the night was about to get even more interesting. And I had allowed myself to become distracted by Hemmingway.

  Who apparently wasn’t my contact.

  Chapter 3

  I lazily swiveled on my creaky stool to face the man. Time seemed to move slowly, whether a result of the stranger’s power or my sleep deprivation, I wasn’t sure. Delicious tobacco smoke drifted through the air in lazy tendrils. Every surface of the room was wooden, splinter-laden, and filthy — coated with decades of blood, smoke, and various assortments of dried booze — an arsonist’s wet dream. When fistfights and worse were frequent, why spend the money to spruce things up? Especially when the owner was Achilles, the legendary Greek Myrmidon, and sacker of Troy. No one dared challenge his aesthetic vision. Or lack thereof. Unless they liked having pointy things shoved through their jugular.r />
  The man before me stood out like the Queen of England had entered the Kill. He was dressed too nicely, and when I say nicely I mean nicely as in formal wear a few hundred years or more out of date. He had a pompous air about him, as if about to check his shoes for filth. He sniffed idly, as if smelling something that personally offended him. He scowled at Hemmingway’s polite grin with equally polite disdain before returning his fiery eyes to mine. His long, black hair was pulled back into wavy order like a Disney Prince. “This is a courtesy call. I apologize for my tardiness; however your methods of travel are unreliable.” His gaze assessed me as I pondered his odd statement. “Stop digging into the murder. Nothing good can come of it. Accept that fact like the rest of them do.”

  My rage spiked at his tone alone, not even taking the time to get angry at his message. “Them?” I asked in a snarl, surprised that this person was my contact.

  “Yes, the humans. Do try to keep up.” He answered, sounding annoyed.

  I didn’t dare risk asking him what he was, in an effort to not appear ignorant, but I noticed a faint glow around the man, something that would be visible only to wizards. Odd, because he was definitely not a wizard. I just didn’t know exactly what he was. He was wearing a bulky 1980’s era trench coat that clashed with the practically archaic dress clothes underneath, and he was much taller than me. He sported a clean-shaven, baby face, and moved with the grace of a Calvin Klein underwear model. My wizard senses picked up the smell of frost and burning gravel. Odd combination… I had never seen anyone quite like him. And the fact that he didn’t know how to dress to fit in with the modern day humans was unnerving. It meant he didn’t belong here. On Earth. No doubt a smart person to avoid.

  But the cheap liquor and his unexpected warning had me wanting to vent off some steam.

  “Am I to understand that you arranged a meeting with me — to which you arrived abhorrently late — in order to tell me to stop meeting people with information on my parents’ murder?” He nodded. “Our phone call would have sufficed. Otherwise, I might be inclined to think that you were deliberately wasting my time. And very few people would consider doing that to me.” The man shrugged, unperturbed. “What if I keep digging?” I pressed, idly assessing my surroundings for collateral damage, shivering as I remembered that everyone was frozen and unable to escape. That changed things. Hemmingway took a sip of his drink, watching the exchange with interest. Why was he not immobilized?

  My contact assessed me up and down, not with overt disrespect, but merely as if wondering what form of creature sat before him. “This is a heavenly affair, not your… jurisdiction. But it’s your funeral.” Hemmingway immediately burst out laughing. I frowned at him. Was he drunk? My appointment was obviously powerful, and Hemmingway looked as if a strong wind would blow him away like a kite. Something the man had said drew me back away from the frozen patrons of the bar. The man had casually said heavenly. Was he being literal?

  “This is none of your concern.” The man hissed at Hemingway, causing my drinking partner’s grin to split even wider, revealing dazzlingly white teeth.

  Him threatening my brand new drinking buddy pissed me right the fuck off for some reason. “Are you,” I began, giving the stranger a mocking head-to-toe appraisal, “threatening me?” The man… blinked, as if seeing a kitten suddenly sprout horns. It fueled my anger even more. I mean, I wasn’t the scariest kid on the block, but I was formidable.

  Wasn’t I?

  “I don’t need to threaten a man hunting for death.” The stranger shared his glare with Hemmingway and gave a faint grunt. “Just a polite warning.” He began to turn away, business obviously concluded.

  But I wasn’t finished. Not at all. He needed a lesson in manners. Since Hemmingway seemed content to merely watch, and the other patrons of the bar were immobilized, that left me to teach him.

  I pulled the energy that filled the room from all the supernatural presence surrounding us deep into my soul into a cocoon of raw power. Enough that my vision began to twinkle with black flecks, and then I let loose a wallop of pure power straight into the stranger’s stomach. It punched him about as hard as a Mack Truck, and he went sailing out the front door, taking half of the frame with him. I grunted, nodding proudly. Hemmingway’s eyes shot wide open in disbelief and then alarm.

  I was instantly surrounded by shiny, pointy things, all resting at my throat. I hadn’t even seen anyone move. Wasn’t everyone in the bar frozen? I swallowed. Carefully. Apparently I had misread the situation.

  Then Hemmingway burst out laughing.

  I looked at one of my assailants, my gaze cool despite the uneasiness squirming in my belly. “I don’t take kindly to pointless meetings, pointy things at my throat, or threats.”

  “Don’t speak, mortal, or I will carve out your jugular.” The pompous ass threatened.

  I shrugged slowly, trying to appear unconcerned as I studied the gang of swords. They were professional. Not a single wrist quivered, and eyes of cold, merciless justice met mine. They were pros. And they each wielded Crusade Era swords. The creature I had sucker-punched strode back into the bar a minute later, shaking off dust and debris from his trench coat, his face a thunderhead. For the amount of force I had dished out, he looked perfectly… unaffected. “Did you need some fresh air?” I sneered.

  He halted before me and his gang lowered their weapons. “Do you have any inkling of what you just did, and who you did it to?”

  “Man, if I had a nickel for every time I heard that line.” I muttered.

  “Don’t be coy, wizard. You just struck an Agent of Heaven. I have every right to carve out your eyes.”

  “But then that would make me the holy one, and I was under the impression that was your shtick.”

  The man scowled at me with disgust, not amused by my blasphemy. I could take any number of insults, but disgust? That was just… confusing. Who had the balls to feel disgust to wizards? I mean, we were some pretty heavy hitters on the block of the supernatural community.

  He stared me dead in the eye as I somehow managed to formulate a parting threat in retaliation to his disgusted look. “Words have consequences. You should be careful how you speak to one such as me.”

  He met my gaze, shaking his head with arrogant disdain. “One such as you…” he mimicked in amusement as if at a child. My anger was only growing stronger at the lack of respect he was showing my kind. He didn’t acknowledge my threat, but sniffed the air curiously. “You stink like Demons. This whole town does.” He leaned closer, taking in a big whiff of all the glory that is my aroma. “Especially you.” He added. His mob of thugs inched closer as if to protect him, despite the fact that I had just laid him out with my best punch, and he had merely shrugged it off.

  I blinked at the change of topic, uncomfortable with a strange man smelling me so deliberately. “Do dragons count as Demons?” I asked, feeling the weight of the new bracelet against my forearm. The bracelet that held the late Dragon Lord’s teeth.

  The stranger cocked his head. “It’s not your trophy. It’s you. Have you been consorting with Demons in your search for the murderer?” He accused, somehow seeming to gain a few inches of both height and width. His thugs grew tense, swords slowly rising again, ready to stab on command.

  “No.” I answered honestly, too surprised to take offense. “Listen, you probably shouldn’t hulk out here. Achilles wouldn’t like it. He’s territorial like that.” My mouth wouldn’t stay closed.

  He grunted, slowly returning back to his normal size. “It would behoove you to wash the smell away, lest it offend your betters. We believe that your parents’ murder was directly caused by Demons, which you stink of. We have people on the case, but these people,” he smiled proudly, holding out a hand to his gang of backup dancers, “are the kind to stab and exorcise first, saving questions for later. We wouldn’t want any damage of the… collateral nature now, would we?”

  “Okay. If you want me out of it, that’s fine. But I demand progress reports.�
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  The man blinked. “Only One commands us, and you are not H-”

  “Daily.” I continued as if he hadn’t spoken. “Yes. Daily progress reports should suffice.”

  The man actually let out a stutter of disbelief, then a momentous silence. I managed to control the urge to fidget. Barely. Then he finally spoke. “I would be cautious if I were you, mortal. Everyone has limits. Everyone should know their place in the world.”

  “Hmm. I’ll take that as a No on the progress reports then. If that’s the case, I will not drop my investigation.” I leaned forward. “I need answers to this. There is more at stake than my grief. Although that is reason enough.” I leaned back into the bar, reaching out for my drink. I took a sip as I considered my next words. Why not poke the bear a bit more, the insane Id of mine whispered. I very stupidly listened. “I’m sure you know what it’s like to lose a father figure without explanation.” I managed to smile before I was suddenly slammed up against the bar. Although the man hadn’t moved, he was fairly tingling with blue power, and his shoulders were quivering as if threatening to bust out of his trench coat. Was he sporting a pair of wings under there?

  Hemmingway sputtered out his drink, but the hulk of a man dropped me immediately, holding up his hands, placating… to Hemmingway.

  Huh.

  “Peace!” The man commanded. Still, his tone was nothing but threatening. “Be careful to whom you blaspheme. My Brothers are not so tolerant. And my sons have no compunctions against violence in His name. That is their purpose, after all.” His smile was ice. You’ve been warned. Consider yourself lucky.”

  I let out a nervous breath. “And you’ve been given your answer as to my next move, pigeon.” I was playing a wild card, assuming by his words that he was an Angel, but the drinks had me feeling courageous. And I was pissed that he had slammed me into the bar without even a reaction on my part. A heavy hitter for sure. I would need to be on my A game if I wanted to tussle against him and his brothers. I was sure that Angels couldn’t simply ‘off’ someone. Which was why he had immediately backed off when Hemmingway reacted. Hemmingway knew what he was, and knew that he had crossed a line. Apparently, there were rules. There were always rules. There had to be rules…