by G A Chase
Her stomach felt like it was in her throat as she pulled into the gravel parking lot of the western-style saloon, and as much as she hated to admit it, the sensation wasn’t the result of the hard ride. Get your fucking hormones in check. He’s nothing special. He’s just a bartender. I could teach Lefty how to open beer bottles. Unfortunately, Bart had more going for him than just a mixologist’s sinewy forearms. Sere envisioned his dark-brown eyes, Navy SEAL tattoo, and riding leathers so skintight she didn’t have to use her imagination to know he had dimples on the sides of his butt.
The picture in her mind made it hard to control the motorcycle between her legs. She rode past the row of Harleys and parked directly in front of the door. If things went badly—and they always seemed to with the biker crowd—she’d need a quick exit.
She swung her leg off the bike but held onto the handlebars in case her legs were still paying attention to the hormone-driven desires and not her commands. Checking the four-barrel shotgun holstered at her thigh helped her focus her attention on the threat of a fight that loomed when she entered the bar. With one look at the belt filled with extra shells that hung low on her hips, anyone would think twice before crossing her. But then, drunken bikers didn’t always pay attention to much beyond her bare midriff and female curves.
She reached into her saddlebags and pulled out her two rattlesnake companions. “You guys keep bitching that you don’t get to participate in all of the fun. This time, you can announce my presence.”
She tossed the two vipers under the swinging bar doors. Startled screams of men greeted her companions. Satisfied that the men inside were sufficiently cowed, she pushed her way into the bar, wielding her shotgun. As she’d expected, most of the patrons had scrambled off their stools and were headed for the back wall.
“I’m not here to fight this time.”
Bart didn’t even put down the glass he was wiping clean. “Overcompensating much? Or do you just insist on making an entrance?”
She set the barrel of the shotgun over her shoulder. “I thought it might be nice to not bust up your bar for a change. I need your help.”
He set aside the glass he was polishing and pulled down a bottle of Jameson’s from behind him. “Sounds serious.”
The bar customers huddled around the pool table as if they’d all decided they wanted a game. Fucking male egos, she thought as she watched the men pretend the snakes didn’t bother them in the presence of a woman. Just to ensure that their mistress wasn’t disturbed, the two vipers slithered their protective barricade ten feet past the end of the bar.
Sere sat at the polished cypress counter and accepted the shot of whiskey. “One of Monty’s friends showed up at Riley’s. I have reason to believe he wasn’t the only one. This isn’t a fight I can face alone.”
Bart pulled out a second shot glass for himself. She’d never seen him drink. He filled the glass but left it sitting on the bar. “I assume you dispatched him with your typical flair. Is that earlier fight why my establishment is being spared your usual drinking habits?”
His attitude didn’t help her maintain control of her desire for action. “Don’t make me draw this out. Shit’s about to get real. I beheaded that idiot in front of Riley and her barflies. There wasn’t a way to dispose of the body, so I have to assume I’m about to have the cops up my ass. Any chance your cousin can tell us who he was?”
“I thought Joe was your connection with the police. Can’t he stymie the investigation?”
“If we were simply talking about word of a bar brawl in a tavern on the Northshore getting down to the New Orleans Chief of Police, sure,” Sere said, “but a homicide in front of multiple witnesses isn’t so easy to sweep under the rug.”
Bart downed his shot and returned the empty glass to the bar in one fluid motion. “I can see that. From what I hear, Sheriff Newton still hasn’t let go of the last murders in this parish. With a new one to take care of, he’ll put every available officer on the case.”
Having sirens blast at her each time she gunned her motorcycle through a local town wasn’t going to make finding the demons who were the true threats any easier. “I can’t patrol the whole swamp on my own. You’ve seen what these assholes are capable of. It only took Monty a couple of days to figure out how to kill people without having the bodies splattered all over the place. Multiply that rampage times seven—well, now six.”
The expression in Bart’s wide, beautiful brown eyes from under his thick black eyebrows made it clear he didn’t like the idea of his bar turning into a stopover for serial killers. “This is a sleepy little town on the bayou, and the killings piling up around here are not business as usual. If you’re intent on beheading more demons, the cops aren’t just going to look the other way while you add to the body count.”
“Riley’s idiot will be an ongoing problem, but investigations take time. Any doppelgänger who emerges from the swamp will have their real in New Orleans, and that means any investigation up here will undoubtedly rely on information from the big city. Joe might not be able to stop every police report in this little parish, but he can slow down the transfer of requests between departments. And even if Riley and her customers can come up with a unified description of me—which I doubt, due to their inebriated states—it’s not like anyone is going to be able to look me up online. Joe taught me not to leave a paper trail regarding my identity.”
“So you expect me to help you dispose of the bodies?” he asked.
She wondered if he’d go to that extreme for her. “I’m not looking for that level of trust. Not yet at least.”
“That was some pretty weird shit I saw out in the swamp—two guys who could have been twins if one of them still had skin. As long as I live, I’ll never forget how you decapitated that ugly bastard and called him a demon. From your intensity, I knew you weren’t just being metaphorical. And based on his appearance, I’m inclined to give you the benefit of the doubt on that assessment. Then the Pleistocene Gator that’s supposed to be pure myth swims out of the swamp, and a horde of snakes transfers the bloody remains onto its back. That’s the kind of story that could end up with me being the village laughingstock.”
“Let’s not forget me healing right before your eyes.”
“Twice.” He refilled their glasses. “I’m willing to place my bet on you being the badass heroine and not the psycho serial killer, but I’m not going all in just yet.”
“That’s fair. I’m not asking you to go blowing demons’ heads off.”
“Just shoot their bodies once you’re done decapitating,” he said.
“About that. Apparently, you were supposed to shoot the head, not the body. But thanks for trying.”
He stared at her with his penetrating eyes for an uncomfortably long time. “You have to be kidding me. How could it possibly matter?”
She couldn’t see any reason to hide the full truth. “Monty was Montgomery Fisher’s evil doppelgänger. Because the two of them had met and were in close proximity to each other when Monty was extinguished, his presence transferred into Mr. Fisher. The shotgun pellets were supposed to sever that connection, but with his head cut off, shooting the body only managed to blow it into a bloody pulp.”
“Yeah. That would have been useful to know before I pulled the trigger.”
She knew the feeling all too well. “The pip-squeak who delivered the bullets was a little short on information. There’s no handbook on killing demons.”
Bart eyed the bottle of Jameson’s like a recovering alcoholic who’d already slipped two drinks off the wagon. “So that sweet CPA is now possessed by a demon?”
“It’s not that simple. Technically, Mr. Fisher is not possessed, as the demon was based on the man himself. Think of it as more like personal desires he’s trying to resist.”
Bart turned his glass upside down on the counter. “I’m familiar with the temptation. So any demon you kill will have the same effect on some unsuspecting person in New Orleans?”
“No. I
f the doppelgänger and its real don’t meet, the transfer can’t take place.”
“Real?”
“Sorry. The real is what we call the real person who acts as the blueprint for the doppelgänger’s existence.”
Again, Bart stared at Sere as if trying to see down to her soul. “You said Monty could heal just like you can. What’s your connection to these demons?”
Bart had seen her naked, hurt, and on the hunt and had watched her body quickly heal, but some things were still hard for Sere to admit. She tossed back her shot for courage. “I’m one of them.”
For a moment, she thought Bart was about to succumb to his temptation to fill the shot glass again. “Come again?”
“Look. It’s complicated, and I’ve already wasted enough time. Are you going to help me or not?”
“You know, one day I’m going to meet a woman who says her story is very simple and easy to follow. I’m looking forward to that day. You do realize I have a bar to run. That last little adventure had me shut down for days.”
She ran her fingers over the smooth butt of the shotgun at her side. “Bullshit. I’ve seen your waitress in action. She didn’t have any problem clocking that pool player over the head with an empty beer bottle when things turned ugly last time. And I’ll bet anything Fat Fuck over there never left his barstool during our little ride down to New Orleans. He may not be worth much, but he’d never let his favorite watering hole go belly-up. Besides, you know you loved the action.”
The Navy SEAL tattoo on Bart’s bicep waved like a flag in the wind as he flexed his muscles. “I’ve never turned away from a little danger.”
She favored him with a smile. “Thanks.”
“For what?”
“For not saying ‘I’ve never turned away from coming to the aid of a damsel in distress.’”
His laughter made the butterflies in her stomach fly straight up to behind her eyes, making it hard to see clearly. “Darlin’, I don’t think anyone would consider you a weak female in need of rescue. Any dude who had the effrontery to do that would find his testicles dangling off the point of your knife.”
She lowered her gaze to the bulge in his tight black jeans. “You’ve got that right. So I can count on your help?”
“I wasn’t kidding about needing to run this place. Even with the help of my regulars, there are chores than need doing. I can’t just jump on my bike and ride around after you. What exactly do you need?”
The prospect of having him with her on the hunt made the butterflies flap so hard she became lightheaded. “What I really need is information. Riley seemed to know who she was dealing with regarding that demon. I don’t think it was mere coincidence that he found his way to her bar. But now that I’ve defeated one of them in a favorable fighting arena, future demons will likely show up just about anywhere. All I know for sure is they’ll be oozing up out of the swamp. I need eyes and ears from here to New Orleans if I’m going to catch them before they go on individual killing sprees. I also need to know as much as possible about the doppelgänger I killed. Somewhere out there is the actual human, and I need to make sure he hasn’t become possessed.”
Bart nodded toward the two snakes, who—between their hissing and their rattling—were keeping his customers at bay. “You do realize siccing your vipers on those bikers isn’t going to ingratiate them to your plight.”
“Yeah, about that…”
“You want me to ask them, don’t you?” He gave her a snarky look that she could have done without.
“You know I’d never back down from a fight, but as you surmised with the snakes, it won’t help to intimidate those boys—and beating the shit out of them is probably not the most effective way of getting their help.”
He pointed seductively at her leather riding pants. “How much money do you have on you?”
She never paid much attention to what kind of cash she had available. She reached into the impossibly tight pocket and pulled out a small handful of twenties. “Must be left over from what Professor Yates gave me.”
“It’ll do. Call off your snakes.”
She turned toward the room and let out a low-pitched whistle. The two rattlers begrudgingly slithered away from the crowd and toward the door.
Bart snatched the money from her grip and held it high. “Next round is on the badass!”
Whatever fear the burly bikers might have had regarding Sere and her pets was overcome by the offer of free booze. Though they didn’t shout her name and hoist her up on their shoulders, they did gather around the bar and appreciatively nod at her. Fat Fuck even made eye contact without adding a derogatory comment about her diminutive size and supposedly weaker gender.
After Bart prepared each of their favorite libations, he raised his still-empty glass to command the room’s attention. “First, let’s let bygones be bygones. The bar fight a couple of months ago was nothing new.”
“Other than having a girl kick our asses,” said Fat Fuck.
Bart nodded. “True, but my point is, we’ve all mixed it up a time or two. No reason to hold that against Sere.”
Loud Mouth, who still had a fading black-and-blue mark on his jaw from where Sere had broken it during the brawl, slowly turned his bourbon and coke in his hand. “I’m getting the feeling this drink isn’t as free as I was led to believe.”
Bart added another shot of bourbon to the man’s drink. “All we’re asking is that you stay alert during your rides and tell me if you see anything out of the ordinary. Riley’s bar had an unsavory character this afternoon. We can all respect a good bar fight, but ambushing a woman when she isn’t prepared borders on abuse. I’d hate to see anything like that happen in my joint. And spread the word: anyone who finds this asshole’s companions gets a free shot on me.”
Fat Fuck pushed his beer stein back toward Bart. “I’ll report back to you on anything I see.” He barely cast Sere a sideways glance. “But I never want to see her skanky shadow cross the threshold of this bar again. Those are my terms. How can anyone enjoy a good beer when they’re constantly at risk of snakes being hurled at them?”
A general murmur of agreement went up among the men.
16
Chapter 4
Sere drove away from Bubba’s, grateful to not have the drumbeat of a dozen Harleys chasing her ass. She had no delusions about the fat slobs lifting a single finger to help her should she run across a demon, but they’d never betray their favorite bartender. Bart does have his uses. Though I’d never want to say that in his vicinity. That dude already has a big enough ego.
Out on the road, she considered what to do next. With Bart’s customers watching for strangers in the local taverns, she needed to again approach the gator hunters. They would likely be the first to make contact with the demons. This group, however, didn’t include an intermediary bartender favorable to her cause—which left her to rely on her nonexistent charms. She would also need to find boaters who weren’t patrons of Riley’s.
I need a different approach. The true hunters are mostly family men, not nightly bar patrons. I need to meet them where they’ll listen to me.
At the road-construction camp, she turned away from the swamp and the long winding highway into the next town. Passing Kelly’s Diner again was more than she could face. Monty had made it to shore by stowing away in the johnboat Sere had borrowed from Cody, and she would forever carry the guilt that for that. Then the demon asshole had followed her into town and killed Larry and Kelly. The memory ate at her like a slow cancer, getting worse each time she passed the diner. Even in the dead of night, she couldn’t brave riding through town.
She had to stop as many demons as possible while they were still deep in the bayou, and that meant getting out on the water. After her last adventure, however, the gator hunters had gotten more diligent in patrolling their docks. If another boat did go missing, she’d be their first, and likely only, suspect—as if being wanted for murder wasn’t bad enough. She needed the hunters on her side, not railing a
gainst her.
The meandering country road wound over a small hill that overlooked the back of Riley’s poorly lit bar. Behind the shiplap shack, the rusted-out trailer that had cradled the bar owner’s dilapidated boat still hung from the pine tree.
Sere pulled off the road to look over the swamp and consider what she knew. Cody had taken her out in Riley’s beat-up boat to find Kelly and retrieve his johnboat from Monty. Once they found Cody’s boat, he left Sere out there to face Monty alone. But after Monty killed Kelly, he took Riley’s boat to make his escape. That had left Sere with no other option than to swim her way out of the swamp.
If Riley’s combination of rotting plywood, fiberglass, and outboard motor is still afloat, I might have my way back out to the deep swamp. Since the bar owner hadn’t gone to fetch her boat, Sere doubted anyone was going to miss it.
But where is the damn thing? She could only clearly see the road below her for half a mile before the overhanging trees made the entire area look like one big forest. She restarted her motorcycle. Much as she loved the old bike, it wasn’t much use when it came to searching the interconnected waterways, marshes, and sandbars that made up the swamp. When she reached the main road, she turned north—away from Riley’s—and back toward the edge of town.
As far as Sere knew, Larry had no family to take over the business, so it was no surprise that his machine shop was boarded up. Eventually, some lawyer would figure out who was next in line to inherit the accumulation of tools and parts, but property law moved slowly in Louisiana. Without the loving brilliance of the master mechanic, the stuff would probably not be worth much anyway—certainly not enough to warrant the place being overly secured. No one was going to care if she snuck in.