by Hannah Jayne
I got into the car as Nina slid into the driver’s seat, still grinning, still beaming rays of stupid sunshine everywhere.
“What are you talking about?”
She gunned the engine. “You know how I’ve always been looking for my calling? My reason for being?”
“Re-being,” I clarified.
“Whatever. But you know? I mean, I tried being a novelist, which wasn’t exactly what I wanted.”
“Not exactly what you wanted? I seem to remember the words ‘abysmal failure’ being tossed around.”
She shot me a death glare. “And there was the musical and the documentary—which would have been epic, by the way, if I had had a more willing cast.”
“Documentaries don’t have casts, Neens.”
“Yeah, you’re telling me.” She narrowed her eyes at me, the sole “star” of her cast. I hadn’t been chosen so much for my optimal work or acting ability as for the fact that I was also pretty much the only member of the Underworld Detection Agency who could be seen on film.
“Anyway,” she went on, guiding her little black Lexus through traffic, “I know what I’m here for now. It’s to make people happy.”
She grinned so enormously that the bloodless veins in her neck bulged.
“To make people happy?” I asked skeptically. “No offense, but your track record is not . . . exactly”—and here I treaded lightly, because my best friend has fangs—“friendly.”
“That’s because I haven’t started yet.”
“Oh. Sure. Right.”
She swung the wheel and cut off three lanes of traffic, honks and tire screeches sounding in our wake. I gripped the dash. “When exactly are you planning on starting?”
I very slowly, very carefully, made my way over to the Krav Maga studio for my second lesson with the bouncy Melody and the terrifyingly strong Aikiko and Yuu. This time I managed to mostly stay on my feet and not get attacked by either the Grigori or Aikiko, so I was feeling pretty good when I stepped out into the crisp San Francisco night.
I was painfully aware that an undead theological army was hunting me and that there were grumblings of my father making his grand debut among the debris of the city, so I kept my head up, my keys spiked through my fisted hands, and I wore an old Jesus Jones T-shirt. I didn’t exactly go to church, and I had a vague fear that a crucifix would burn through my flesh due to my bloodline, so I thought the shirt might be a fair compromise—or at the very least, a tick mark in the “trying not to be evil” box.
The city was teeming with energy and life like it did every evening around this time. The buses were loaded with business people in suits and sneakers, throngs of them heading out at every stop, mixing into the crowd of diners, shoppers, tourists, and wanderers. I scrutinized every face that passed me, wondering which one was going to advance, to attack; which one was listening to my father whispering horrible, murderous things in his ear right now.
Somewhere, sirens rang out. Car horns honked. People chattered. Church bells rang. The city moved in harmony, nothing so obvious or showy as strangers striking up conversations or people bursting into song, but a peaceful, moving coexistence.
I found myself boiling with anger.
My father, for whatever reason, had chosen now to pull the strings. He had abandoned me and worked his evil away from me, but now it was here, in my city, and blood of mine or not, I wanted him to leave.
I had to find him. I had to stop him. And I knew that for the good of everyone—San Franciscans, Nina, Vlad, Alex, and Will—I had to do it on my own.
I sucked in a deep breath and felt the heat roil through my body. I made a beeline for the little shop in the back of an alley in Chinatown.
I hadn’t been to Feng and Xian’s shop since the massacre that had killed Xian. The place was boarded up with huge sheets of graffiti-covered plywood, but even behind the wood and spray paint smells, the place carried the bitter stench of death. It invaded my nostrils as I closed in, and as I shimmied down the narrow alleyway I paused, listening. My hackles went up, suspicion pricking at the back of my neck. When I didn’t hear anything, I sucked in my stomach and pushed myself all the way through the narrow tunnel to the alleyway behind, and landed with a breath-stealing thud on my back.
I blinked twice and saw stars, bright pinpoints of glorious white light and then I saw Feng, eyes pulled into narrowed slits, eyebrows angry slashes.
“Sophie Lawson?” she said.
There was more than a hint of distaste in her voice, but she leaned over and offered me a hand. I let her help me up and brushed off the rotting vegetables and general garbage that litters every San Francisco alleyway.
“Hi, Feng. Thanks for not . . .” A starburst of pain shot out at the back of my head and I let my words trail off.
“What do you want? Finally want me to kill that rabid dog?”
The “rabid dog” to which she was referring was Sampson. Feng and Xian were werewolf hunters and, up until Xian’s fairly recent death at the hands of a nutcase, had been the sole reason that our werewolf files at the Underworld Detection Agency were painfully slim.
“No. I need to talk to you about something else.” I jutted my chin toward Feng’s workshop, a cement block room with all the charm and warmth of a jail cell. “Privately.”
She studied me for a beat, then offered a sharp, quick nod and pushed me into the workshop.
“I—I think I need weapons.”
Feng glared up at me, clearly taking me in, clearly certain that a weapon and me would only result in one thing: me shish-kebabed.
“I don’t do weapons, I do bullets.”
They were all lined up in glowing Lucite cases behind her. I was rather impressed at this swanky new addition, even if was a collection of body-shattering ammunition. But they were shiny and silver and glinted under the lights, looking both elegant and dangerous—and I liked shiny things.
“Why did you come here?”
“I think I need something . . . special.”
Truth be told, I wasn’t exactly sure why I had come to Feng. She made silver bullets that tore through werewolf hide and were made to eradicate a species. I didn’t know if I would need a weapon against my father, or if there even was one available.
Feng’s eyebrows went up. “Explain special.”
I swallowed, not sure why I was nervous that this nut job would think I was a nut job. “I need something—a weapon, or protection, or some kind of defense against the devil.”
Feng’s tight lips quirked up into a smile. “What kind of devil?”
I blinked. “The devil. Satan, Lucifer.” I stopped going, suddenly worried that using too many names would Beetlejuice forth my jackass of a dad. I wanted to meet him, to defeat him, but I wanted the opportunity to have some sort of defense or chain-mail underwear or something when it happened.
She snorted, her teeth showing through her wide grin, and shook her head. “There is no defense against that evil. There is nothing you can do when you face it. If T’an-Mo wants you, he will have you.”
I took a step backward. “Oh. Oh. Well.” I waved like we had just shared a remotely normal conversation. “Thanks anyway.”
I turned and had my hand on the doorknob when Feng spoke again. “It’s not a weapon like you think.”
I looked over my shoulder, eyeing Feng as she advanced, the hard meanness gone from her expression. She almost looked . . . thoughtful.
“It’s not a weapon like you think that will stop him. He cannot be stopped with mere force.”
“I don’t understand—”
“He is force. He is violence and hate and danger and pain. He cannot be stopped with blades or bullets.”
“Oh. Well, thanks for that.” It wasn’t that I’d had my heart set on getting a weapon from a woman who, not very long ago, had been my mortal enemy. But I really hadn’t expected her to drop the “basically, you’re totally screwed” knowledge on me either.
I turned back to the door.
“
But he can be stopped. He can be pushed back to where he belongs.”
This time, I didn’t bother turning around. “And how would one go about doing that, if there isn’t a weapon that can be used against him?”
I heard Feng let out a long, slow breath. “Like kind,” she said slowly. “The trickster tricks.”
My shoulders sagged. “Thanks, Feng. Have a nice Armageddon.”
I heard the door snap shut behind me, and as if on miserable cue, the rain started in cold ribbons. I pulled my hood up over my head and trudged to my car, suddenly feeling the weight of the situation sinking into my muscles.
My father was going to get what he wanted. He could pull the strings and bring his darkness to the world and there wasn’t a damn thing I could do about it, Vessel of Souls or not. I was Sophie Lawson: Total Waste of Skin and Tear Ducts.
As the rain continued to sail down, it hit my cheeks, burning there, mixing with the tears that were already there.
I drove home with the radio off, listening only to the thudding sound of rain on the hood of the car, to the sound of tires splashing through puddles and my windshield wipers scraping drops away. I wanted to formulate a plan, but my mind kept rolling, kept flashing images of little Oliver Culverson, of the maniacal grin of the man in my dream. I had longed for a father my whole life. I was desperate for his approval, his love, and now I was ready to kill him to defend my friends, my city, from this man who I had spent my entire life dreaming about, building up, and wishing for.
By the time I got to my apartment building, the rain had grown into heavy sheets that reflected back the streetlights and pelted my car in a whooshing cacophony. The rush of the water mimicked the rush of the blood going through my ears, and I tried to focus on the road in front of me even as it swirled and blurred. I didn’t care what it took; I was going to make this right.
I was going to find him.
I had no other choice.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t exactly sure how to find the devil right off the bat. Sure, I had a hollow, terrifying memory of the homeless guy who’d turned himself into a human torch calling forth my father, but being completely engulfed in flames wasn’t something that interested me.
There was always a couple of guys at the Powell turn who claimed that Satan lived in the strip clubs or Congress or in J.K. Rowling books, but I was pretty sure they were just guessing or had their own agendas.
So really, where does one go looking for the one from whom everyone else is trying to hide?
I really had no idea.
Once I’d pulled the car into the underground lot—and said a prayer to the god of apartment buildings to thank him for sending me a dry spot to park my car—I was more focused and more determined. My jaws hurt from the constant clench and I was chomping to get in front of my laptop to start my research another way. Feng had said it was going to be hard to stop my father—she hadn’t said it was going to be impossible.
I plodded up the stairs, exhaustion lingering in every muscle, but when I got to our floor, I straightened. I felt the familiar tingle on the back of my neck that meant something bad—something really bad—was happening. But it wasn’t so much a feeling as it was a scent. A horrible, noxious scent. It seemed to permeate my every cell, filling my nose with its bitter stench, making my eyes water.
I paused, trying to place it. I had smelled the sickly sweet stench of death that comes, seconds before, to claim the living. I knew the wretched scent of flesh decaying, the dull, copper-penny scent of blood. Even the sharp, enveloping smell of fear. But this wasn’t it. It was bitter, but smelled like rot—mold, maybe. There were traces of fear and fire and—chocolate?
I raced across the floor just as Will threw his door open, a panicked look on his face. His hair was disheveled, his eyes slightly red, and he was shirtless. It wasn’t until he sprung through the doorway that I realized he was also pantless, clad in nothing but an excruciatingly well-fitting pair of boxer briefs and a fire extinguisher. He dashed past me, rested his palm flat against my door, and then yelled, “Is anyone in there?”
We both heard the clatter of metal as the sickening stench of fire that must have enveloped something horrific puffed from under the door. I thought of Nina and Vlad, of what the burning flesh of a vampire might smell like, and my stomach went to liquid. I didn’t think, I just moved. I body-checked Will and sunk my key into the lock. I was pushing open the front door when Will grabbed me.
“Stay back!” he barked.
Tears were blurring my vision. “She’s my best friend!”
He raised the extinguisher and pulled the pin at the same moment the front door opened. Nina, in a frilly apron that was splattered with something that must have once been alive, grinned from the doorway.
“Oh, you’re home! And you brought Will!” She scanned him, her smile beginning to fall. “Who didn’t exactly dress for the occasion.”
“Nina! Get out! Something is in there! There’s fire! Fire!” I was panicked, screaming maniacally. I threw my arms around Nina’s still-cold skin, throwing all my body weight backward, trying to move her from the throes of death.
I couldn’t budge her.
“So, nothing’s burning then?” Will asked.
“Burning? No, of course not. But I’m so glad you’re here. Sit, sit!” She bustled us into the apartment, shoving us toward the dining table that had been set with pink napkins and a fistful of wilting flowers shoved in an empty Prego jar.
Once Nina turned her back on us, heading toward the kitchen, Will leaned in to me and opened his mouth. I abruptly held up a hand and shot him a warning glance. “Don’t talk. You never know what’s going on when she’s like this.”
“I heard that,” Nina sung from the kitchen.
We stayed silent and Nina returned, oven mitts up to her pin-thin elbows, something horrendous in a nine-by-thirteen-inch metal pan between her hands, the noxious odor wafting up from it. She dropped the pan on the table between Will and me. It landed with a dead-weight thunk.
“I made brownies!”
“Out of what?”
I elbowed Will hard in the ribs and tried to keep my eyes averted from the smoking pile of whatever in front of us.
“Mmm, Neens, thanks! It—that—they look fabulous.”
Will gaped at me. “What is wrong with you?”
“What is wrong with you?” I hissed under my breath. I took a pink napkin, laid it on my palm, and held out my hand. “I’d love one, Neens.”
Nina preened like a peacock hopped up on antidepressants and dug a spatula into the brownies. Her smile faltered just the tiniest bit, but she lifted out a brownie and slapped it into my palm. It kept its shape for a half-second before melding into the napkin, hunks of something that could have been chocolate chips or asphalt sliding over the edge of my hand and falling onto the table. I pinned my lips together and smiled, forcing myself to utter an “mmm.”
Nina wasn’t convinced. She dropped the spatula on the table, bits of brownie shooting over Will and me. She slumped into a chair, holding her wobbling chin in her hands.
“This is awful!”
“Oh, no, Neens, don’t be so hard on yourself!” I looked at the slopping mess in my hand. “They’re just a little undercooked. A lot of people do that on purpose because they like their brownies gooey.”
She looked hopeful and I painfully realized I had cheered myself into a corner. I leaned forward and took a little nibble.
I couldn’t stop my gag reflex. “Oh, God, Nina!”
Her lower lip popped out. “It wasn’t my fault! We didn’t have any stupid cream of tartar. I had to make my own.”
I stopped guzzling everything liquid in the house and looked at her.
“You can’t make cream of tartar,” Will said. “Can you?”
“How did you make cream of tartar?”
Nina groaned and threw open the refrigerator door. “Okay, so I didn’t make it from scratch. It just seems so ridiculous. You know, cooking wasn’t this diffic
ult when I still chewed.”
She slapped a bottle of tartar sauce—mainly just little chunks of pickle in the few sad wisps of mayonnaise—in front of me.
“Do you know how long it took me just to get the cream?”
After the brownie debacle was redeemed by an extra-cheese pizza and a side of crazy bread, the conversation switched from what star was liposuc-tioning what body part and turned, as it does, to Armageddon.
“You made it through the day unscathed, so that’s a plus, right?” Nina said cheerfully.
I immediately grabbed the box that was holding all of my information on the case and plunked it in the center of the table. Two hours later, everything we had, all the information I’d gathered, was spread out on the dining room table, and Will, Nina, Vlad, and I all took turns staring at it blankly.
“None of this really fits together,” Will said.
“Yeah, it’s like Lucas has evil ADHD. First he lights a vampire on fire, then he’s got crazy people starting fires, and the dog and the kid, and then he sets off the Grigori. . . .” Vlad frowned, leaning back in his chair.
Nina cradled her head in her hands. “It’s like he’s just throwing random stuff at you, Soph, then just, hiding out. Frankly, I’m a little disappointed. I kind of thought the devil would be way more organized. You know, strategic attack, A-plus-B-equals-C kind of thing. Even I can plan a more sinister and orderly attack plan.”
I nodded. “Every text says he’s smart. Brilliant, even. But he’s . . .” I let the word trail off as something hit me. “But he’s not unorganized. He’s not stupid. He’s playing tricks.”
Will’s brows shot up. “Come again?”
I was about to answer when there was a quick, insistent knocking on the door. I pulled it open and Alex shoved past me. “I’ve got to talk to you about some—”
He paused in the foyer, his leather jacket in mid slide over his arms as he took in the assembled crew. “Am I interrupting something?”
“Actually, you just interrupted Sophie’s big breakthrough, bloke.”