Shadow & Soul (The Night Horde SoCal Book 2)

by Susan Fanetti

  When Demon remembered his childhood, that resignation was his greatest shame. That he had let those things happen. That so many years had passed before he’d really fought back.

  He would eat the gun in his lap before he’d risk a fate like his for his son. It wasn’t even a question. If being gone kept Tucker with Bibi and Hoosier, then it was easy.

  But he didn’t know if it would. So he stared at his gun and did nothing.

  ~oOo~

  He saw the motorcycle coming up the empty road long before he could hear that it was Muse. He sat and watched him ride up, a beacon of white light on a black road. He pulled off at almost the same spot Demon had. He wasn’t surprised. Muse had found him here before, and Demon knew that either Bart or Sherlock could track him with the GPS in his phone.

  He’d been half expecting Muse to show up. Only half; the other half thought they might just let him disappear.

  So he sat where he was and watched Muse dismount and climb up on his rock. They were sitting side by side before a word had been exchanged between them.

  “She’s dead, Deme.”

  Demon hung his head. He still thought the club would help him cover it up, but he’d killed a woman, someone innocent in club business, and he’d done it in the clubhouse. Best case, he thought, they’d send him away again. Away from Tucker, away from Faith, away from his home. He stared at his gun.

  “You didn’t do it. I did. Hooj’s call. She was already loaded up to her eyeballs with shit. I filled her up the rest of the way and dumped her in an alley in San Bernardino. It’s gonna look like a junkie whore turned a bad trick while she was high off her ass. Nobody’s gonna give half a shit about it. You’re clear of it, Deme. You’re clear of her. You and your boy. She can’t fuck you up again.”

  Without yet lifting his head, Demon began to cry, and Muse put his arm over his shoulders and let him.

  After a minute, as Demon choked off his tears, Muse asked, “You plannin’ on huntin’ coyotes out here?”

  Demon turned and looked a question at him. Muse nodded at the gun in his lap.

  “What’s that about?”

  He shrugged. He didn’t know how to say everything in his head, or even if he should say it. What he said was, “I’m not gay. What Kota said—I’m not gay.”

  “Didn’t think you were.”

  They were both quiet for a spell, and Demon knew that Muse would let it drop right there. Maybe the whole club would. But it would lie there, in the middle of everything everybody knew or thought they knew about him. He didn’t know how to make that not true, and it was choking him now, all the memories loose and screaming in his head, grabbing at him, pulling him into shadow.

  He had to get them out, but he couldn’t let them be said. He tried to think if there was anything he could say.

  “Kota came up in the system, too. She ran when she was fifteen, but she went in before she was a year old. I think maybe that was why I thought I could be close to her. We weren’t good long, but when we were, we talked about it. She told me about the shit that happened to her. And I told her about the shit that happened to me. Never told anybody else, not anybody. I was stupid to trust her. But she lied, tonight. She lied. The shit that happened to me—I didn’t like it. Not ever. It hurt, and it made me sick. It scared me and made me mad. It fucked me up so bad. It hurt. I hated it. I hated all of it. I’m not gay.”

  “I know you’re not, brother.” Muse’s voice was tight. “But what you’re saying—what happened to you wasn’t about that. You were a kid. It was abuse, not sex. You were tortured.” Muse looked out at the horizon. “And I’ll tell you something else. I knew already. I was in the system a little, too, remember. Nothing like you. But I saw what it could be when it was wrong. And I see how you are. It’s not a tough puzzle to put together, Deme.”

  That thought had never occurred to him—that those scars were visible, that everyone in his life had already known his shame. “Do you think anybody else…”

  “Maybe.”

  “FUCK!” he shouted into the desert. “FUCK!” Throwing his hands onto his head, he began to rock, trying to keep himself contained inside his skull. “FUCK!” His gun slid off his lap and clattered to the rock, then slid off the rock and landed on the ground.

  Muse’s hand locked hard on the back of his neck. “Deme. Five beats.”

  He heard, but he couldn’t. He shook his head.

  “Yes. Make it ten. C’mon, brother. One…two…three…” As he counted, his voice low and calm, he steadily increased the pressure of his hand on Demon’s neck. “Four…five…six…”

  When he got to ten, he was holding Demon down hard, keeping him from rocking. He didn’t ease up. In the same calm voice, he said, “It’s not a bad thing, my brother. We all love you for who you are. No secrets. No shame. That’s family. Trouble is as much the glue as love.”

  Demon shook his head.

  “Yes, Deme. Yes. It don’t matter. We know who you are, however you got there.”

  “Faith…”

  Muse’s hand eased up a little, became support instead of restraint. “Well, she don’t remember me, and I barely remember her. She was just a little thing way back when I went Nomad. I know you two have a past, and I know it’s not all pretty. But the woman I saw tonight—she’s upset, but it’s worry for you she’s feeling. She wants you to come back.” He shook Demon a little. “You got a family, brother. They’re waiting for you. Let’s go home.”

  More scared than he’d been since he was a boy, Demon nodded.

  When they got down off the rock, Muse picked up the Glock and slid it into the back of his jeans.

  ~oOo~

  When they walked back into the clubhouse, the Hall was quiet. The passarounds and hangarounds were gone. Demon didn’t see any women at all. Faith wasn’t there. But all his brothers were. Every one of them. Muse led him to the bar, where Bart, Jesse, Lakota, and Connor were sitting. They sat down, too.

  Bart slapped Demon on the back. “Beer or Jack, brother?”

  “Beer is good.” He needed a beer. Just one. It was more than the drink. It was sitting here with his brothers.

  Bart looked at Fargo, the Prospect behind the bar, and the kid nodded and reached into the cooler. When Demon had his bottle, his brothers lifted theirs at him, and they all drank.

  That was all.

  Hoosier walked up behind him and dropped a hand on his shoulder. “How you doin’, brother?”

  He turned and faced him. “I don’t know, Prez. Where’s Faith?”

  “I had Peaches take her to Bibi. She needed a woman’s touch. She’ll be glad to see you, I can tell you that.”

  He nodded. “What Kota said—”

  His President cut him off. “No need. You got no troubles here. You understand? It’s all good here.”

  “Thank you.”

  “Nothing to thank, son. Finish your beer. Then go see to your lady.” With a wry smile, nodded at Demon’s hands. “Might wash up first, though.”

  Demon examined his hands. They were still crusty with Kota’s blood.

  Weary from the way his emotions had been buffeting his head for hours, Demon thought he might break down. It was Hoosier who’d broken the news to him of his sentence ten years ago, sitting him down and easing him into it. It was Hoosier who’d then led him to the shop to face Blue, giving his shoulder a reassuring squeeze before he let go.

  It was Hoosier who’d brought Muse in to teach Demon the Nomad ropes when he was healed enough to ride out.

  It was Hoosier who’d welcomed him home after Blue was dead.

  He trusted his President implicitly. He understood in this moment something he didn’t think he’d ever fully realized. Hoosier was more than a man who was like a father to him. He was a father. The only one Demon had ever had.

  And Muse was a brother in ways that transcended the patch they both shared.

  Tipping back his beer, Demon swallowed down the rocks that seemed to have filled his throat, and he remembered.


  memory

  They hadn’t taken his patch, so he was still their brother. They set him up in his room in the clubhouse and put the P.O.T.s on nursing him back to health. Some of his brothers even stopped by to check in on him. Not many, and not for long. Blue was still on a rampage, so for the most part, they left Demon on his own. Only Hoosier made a regular appearance.

  It was a week before he was strong enough to ride—and then only just. But he was ready to go. Knowing that the family he’d lost was everywhere around him had been hard to bear. Knowing that the love he’d lost was close but not allowed anywhere near him, knowing that he had fucked up her family and the way her father saw her, remembering the fear and sadness in her eyes in the shop, the pity and guilt—that was just too much. He had to get away. Maybe when he was away, he’d be able to lock it all up with the rest of his horrors.

  So he was sitting on the edge of the bed, lacing up his military-surplus combat boots, the pack holding everything he owned but the bike he’d ride out on leaning against the wall near the door.

  After two sharp raps on the door, it opened, and Hoosier came in. He was holding a kutte. Demon assumed it was his own. They’d taken it in the shop, when they’d stripped him to his skin from the waist up, and they’d torn the Los Angeles patch off the front and the California bottom rocker off the back right there. Now, Hoosier set it on the bed at Demon’s side, showing a new patch that read Nomads. He knew the bottom rocker would read the same. They were brand new, but they wouldn’t stand out much; he’d hadn’t even had his patch two months.

  He was damn lucky he still had it. He hoped he’d feel that luck someday.

  “Muse is ready to ride. How ‘bout you?” Hoosier closed the door and took a couple of steps to lean against the cheap bureau. “You good?”

  Demon had met Muse a couple of times, but he’d been a Prospect, and Muse had paid him no mind at all. He didn’t have a read on the man who was going to ride with him, and he had no idea what he knew about why Demon was joining the Nomad charter, or what he thought about what he knew.

  Nomads didn’t always ride with a partner, but it wasn’t unheard of. Demon was glad that he would, even if his partner was a stranger. He thought he’d just spin out into space if he were left completely on his own.

  “Yeah, Prez. I’m ready.” He dropped his head and swallowed hard, and then he looked Hoosier in the eye. “I’m sorry.”

  “Yeah, you’ve said. At some point, Deme, that’s just words.” Hoosier considered him a moment before he spoke again. “There’s no send-off out there. You understand? You’re still one of us, but you fucked up. Right now, you need to get some distance and give your brothers time to remember that patch on your back. When Blue settles down, everything will. Meantime, you get some miles on your tires and some grit in your teeth. You learn to be a brother. Let it show that you deserve that patch. Look to Muse. He’s steady.”

  “Understood.” He stood, picked up his kutte, and slid it over his shoulders. Hoosier handed him his pack, and Demon took it, staving off a grimace at the way the weight pulled his mending ribs. Then he followed his former President out into the main room of the clubhouse.

  No one was there. None of the men who sat at the table he’d patched in with, none of the brothers he’d lived with, worked with, partied with. Only Muse, leaning on the bar. As Hoosier and Demon came into the room, he stood up straight and took a step toward them, his hand coming out.

  “Demon. Hey, brother.”

  Demon clasped hands with his new partner. “Hey.”

  “Ready to ride?”

  “Always.” Demon turned and held out his hand to Hoosier. “Thank you, Prez. For everything.”

  Hoosier grabbed his hand and gave it a shake hard enough to make his body ache. “Good luck, brother.”

  ~oOo~

  Muse slid into the booth. “I’m guessing the redhead has our table?”

  “What?” Demon looked up from the menu. He didn’t even know why he checked the menu. They were at yet another location of a big chain of truck stops, and he got the Hot-n-Spicy Burger at every one.

  “Passed her up by the register when I came in. She’s got the big googly eyes for you, brother. I figure she’d ice anybody got in her way between here and there.”

  Demon looked over and scanned for a redheaded waitress. Yep. Behind the counter, near the register, staring at him. When their eyes met, she grinned, blushed and turned away. She was cute, but no.

  He looked back at his brother and shrugged. “I guess so. Didn’t pay that much attention.”

  “Shame.” Muse dumped a creamer into his coffee. “Got a ten-spot says she’d blow you in the john before we ride out.” His grin was ironic. After six months on the road together, he knew Demon wouldn’t take that bet.

  Demon suppressed a shudder. “We’re three hours out of Corpus Christi. I’ll take my pussy on tap, thanks.” P.O.T.s were all he’d touch—and not always even that. Some of the charters they’d worked at, or just rested their heads at, were rougher than others. He’d gotten to the point where he thought he could tell if the passarounds were there because they wanted to be. Those girls, he’d spend some time with. In a couple of the clubhouses, though, the girls looked used up and jumpy. They had marks on them—bruising and tracks. He could barely stand to stay there and pretend to drink.

  He’d known even before he’d started hanging around the L.A. clubhouse that the club as a whole was into some dark shit. They had a fearsome reputation. Yet L.A. had been fairly mainstream outlaw, and they’d been working with the public, too. Demon had pulled his gun only twice since he’d had a kutte, Prospect or otherwise. Club life had been pretty calm. Now, though, he was getting an advanced education in how dark the club could get.

  And how the Nomads were expected to be the darkest of all.

  The redhead came over and took their order. When she left, lingering as she took the menu from Demon’s hand, Muse chuckled. “Damn shame.”

  He rubbed his hands over his newly-cropped head and changed the subject. “You reach Carrie? She good?”

  Muse had stayed out by the bikes to call his sister, who’d left a couple of messages. “Yeah. I just pissed her off, but she’s good. I’m gonna need a swing through L.A. again soon, though.” He gave Demon a long look. “You think you’re up for that?”

  Demon was shaking his head before Muse had finished the question. He wasn’t sure he’d ever go back to L.A., unless he was ordered there. It was only in the past month or so that he’d stopped waking up every night in a cold sweat, hard and afraid, feeling Faith under him and her mother behind him. “No. But it’s cool. I’ll call Zed and see if anybody’s got a quick job somewhere. We can hook up again after.”

  “You know, you could take some time. We been riding hard more than six months now. You could sit your ass in Vegas or something.”

  “I’m good. I’ll call Zed. Just let me know when you want to take off.”

  “Okay, brother. Let’s finish this job, and then I’ll go.” He squirted ketchup onto his fries. “This intel better be good. I want this motherfucker. Sick to shit of chasing him around.”

  ~oOo~

  The intel was good. Muse and Demon sat in a rental van at the back of a motel parking lot in Laredo, Texas, and watched their target, Ernie Jennings, pull bags of takeout from the back seat of mid-range Toyota sedan—also a rental.

  “That’s a lot of food for one guy,” Demon observed. “He’s skinny, too. You think he’s got company?”

  “Fuck,” Muse grumbled by way of response. “I want this fucker, Deme. Four weeks we’ve been looking. He’s always one step up. I don’t give a fuck if he’s got company. We’ll just dig a bigger hole.”

  Muse had been dogged about this job, and Demon understood it. They were after a rat, a guy who’d given up information to enemies of the club’s Billings, Montana charter. Muse was closer to that charter than to any other besides L.A., which had been his home base, just like Demon. The infor
mation in question had gotten three brothers killed.

  Demon wanted the guy, too, but he didn’t want to take innocents down. Before he’d gone Nomad, he’d killed one man: just before his fifteenth birthday, he’d beaten a man to death. In six months with Muse, he’d killed three more. Between the two of them, that tally more than doubled.

  He liked it. Not his first killing; that one had been rage and a mania of years of bottled-up self-defense, and he barely remembered it. But what he’d done with Muse, killing in cold blood, meting out justice or vengeance, he liked that. It made him calm, it made his head quiet, made him feel more in control, and that scared him. Maybe there was a serial killer lurking inside him amongst his demons. Killing innocents was a line he couldn’t cross.