by G A Chase
“I see. So you’ll just stand out in the middle of the freeway, aiming your blaster at every car that passes?” He held up the four-barrel length of pipe. “Sure you don’t want me to make up a second one of these so you’ll have two monster-shooting scatterguns?”
“Stop making fun of me.” As a young girl living in antebellum New Orleans, Sere hadn’t been able to control her rage when she was teased. Some things never changed. “I have a few days at least before these assgängers find their way to the big city. I’ll blend in without hiding and round up what help I can. By the time they show up, I’ll be ready.”
Joe loaded a couple of cartridges in the barrels and snapped the gun closed. “I’ll do what I can to spot the demons and get word to you. Use your time wisely. There’s plenty of help down there. All you need to do is ask.”
19
Chapter 7
New Orleans loomed over Lake Pontchartrain in the predawn light like a spectral city of the dead. Even in the living dimension, the towers that dominated the skyline didn’t show much life until midmorning. Sere discreetly peered in the car windows at the people who shared the road with her at four in the morning. Each vehicle was filled with partiers up too late or low-level employees up too early. Neither set of commuters looked overly enthusiastic. She swung her Triton past the dozing drivers like an irritated emergency worker forcing a truck through lanes of disoriented tourists.
She had people she could call on in New Orleans who would be happy to help. They needed to be informed of the dangers. But contacting any of them would put her on the path to having other people think they were in charge of the situation.
Why does everyone think they understand hell better than I do? The answer wasn’t really all that complicated. Professor Yates, with his lab full of equipment, was responsible for projecting the human images into hell that resulted in the doppelgänger population. Kendell had lent her spirit as part of the dimensional prison that had incarcerated Sere’s father. On and on the list went, each person claiming to have some unique perspective that made him or her the perfect candidate for directing the paranormal defenses against hell’s demons.
The best defense is a good offense. The concept was far from new, but Joe had made it the cornerstone of his teachings. Ultimately, Sere would contact the people who had been as much her family as her educators, but while she was still a step ahead of the demons, she wanted to utilize that advantage. Talking with Kendell and her crew invariably took so long that Sere would lose her strongest advantage and end up playing catch-up.
She took an unassuming exit off the freeway before it snaked into the heart of the city. Though those she trusted had their tentacles in hell, she needed someone with a more direct connection to the demons—someone the evil genius behind the demons’ escape wouldn’t suspect. She kept the Triton’s RPMs as low as possible to avoid unnecessarily bothering the residents of the stately houses. Like a long-lost daughter sneaking back home, she felt both out of place on her café racer and at ease with the wealth and luxury that emanated from the mansions. A feeling of understated opulence surrounded her like the smell of night jasmine—all-encompassing but coming from an unidentifiable source.
She coasted the motorcycle up alongside the black Jeep Cherokee on the short driveway. The house was dark with the exception of the well-lit kitchen. A man was fumbling around, making coffee, oblivious to Sere’s approach.
This isn’t an attack. I don’t need to be so damn covert all of the time. She stepped out of the shadows behind the Jeep. As she walked along the brick entrance, the man looked up from his morning routine and smiled at her. At least you’re mostly happy to see me.
He greeted her at the door before she had a chance to ring the bell and wake the rest of the house. “I hope you have good news for me.”
“I wish that was why I came. I’m still working on removing the demon from inside you, but that’s not why I’m here. I need your help. Your doppelgänger has inspired followers.”
Montgomery Fisher—CPA, husband, father, and demonically possessed—stood aside to let Sere in. “Let me get you a cup of coffee. How do you take it?”
“Black…” Like my soul, she thought. Though maybe sometimes it takes darkness to combat evil… I really need to work on self-acceptance. It’s just a cup of coffee, not an existential crisis.
He led the way to the kitchen and pulled a purple-and-gold LSU cup off the shelf. The brew was so strong it looked black as ink as it flowed from the glass pot into the ceramic mug. “We can talk out in the courtyard. With this summer heat, early mornings are about the only real time I get outdoors.”
Sere followed him out the kitchen side door to the well-maintained garden behind the house. She wasn’t sure if he was stalling or simply didn’t want to contaminate his domestic bliss with a conversation about his possessed state of being. Outdoors, with wild animals lurking in the shadows, was a fitting location for a man fighting an internal battle.
“You’re handling your condition better than I’d expected.”
He sat on the garden bench swing and looked at the moon that was just fading into the early dawn. “Some days are better than others. At least I have a focus for the negative emotions. Defining where they come from helps me remain in control.”
Fuck. I’m about to make your life so much worse. “Without the body that was powered from hell, Monty has been cut off from that dimension’s energy.”
The kindly accountant took a deep swallow of his coffee. “Now that others are here, do you expect him to reach out to them?”
“I don’t know what to expect. When Monty was a separate being, he had the power to draw on your energy. Once I decapitated him and his energy fused with yours, I hoped the only thing left for you to deal with would be his desires. There is a threat, however, that with hell coming to the living, that evil side of you might get fed hell’s energy from the other doppelgängers. Think of it as being like a diver whose oxygen had run out. Another diver could give him a burst of air from his own tank.”
Mr. Fisher gently rocked the swing with his feet. “So you’re here like some witch doctor making a house call to check on her patient?”
I’ll bet you’ve used this swing a thousand times to calm your daughters from some fear or hurt, she thought. “I’m here because I need your help. If the doppelgängers do make it out of the swamp and find transportation down to New Orleans, you’ll be the first to notice their presence.”
“I see. I’ll be like your early-warning detection system.” He looked downcast.
“I know that’s not what you were hoping I’d say. You can tell me to fuck off. I wouldn’t blame you. I’ve already put you through way more than any human being has a right to do to another.”
He stared up at the predawn sky as if searching for an answer. “There are times when a person drops the documents that sum up their financial life on my desk, and they give me this sheepish look. It’s not embarrassment or even fear—more like pleading for a connection in their time of trouble.” He turned to her. “You see, what I do isn’t simply a matter of untangling a person’s money troubles. I’m putting my name and reputation next to theirs. We face the enemy—or rather, the government, which my clients often see as the same thing—together.”
“So am I the client or the professional?”
He leaned back into the wooden swing and sipped his coffee. “I suppose a little of both, as am I. We’re stronger and better able to face hell together. I’d be happy to throw my lot in with you.”
“Partners, then?”
He looked down and smiled. “The young, attractive, badass, motorcycle-riding superhero and her middle-aged, slightly portly, bookish sidekick? Even my family would laugh at that image.”
She put her hand on his. “Mr. Fisher, you’re an educated businessman who has fought his personal demons and has the inner strength to face the unknown with determination and a sense of humor. I’ll take that guy as a partner anytime.”
Even
in the dim light she could see the blush tinge his cheeks. “If I’m going to be working with you, we need to find a less formal address than mister. How about just calling me Fisher? I haven’t gone by my last name since high school, but it reminds me of being on the lacrosse team. Seems fitting to me.”
“Teammates then. Just don’t go calling me Badass Demon Huntress—at least not in public.”
Though Sere had hoped to secure Fisher’s help, she hadn’t expected him to lend her one of his offices as her base of operations. She set her saddlebags on a metal desk that she guessed hadn’t been used in a decade, based on the amount of dust that drifted into the air. The single window was so caked with grime that even without a window covering, privacy wasn’t an issue.
“It’s not much,” he said. “I used to bring in an associate to help with the tax-season load, but lately, I haven’t found anyone I trust.”
“It’s perfect.”
“What kind of hellholes have you worked in? Wait. Don’t answer that.”
She favored him with a half laugh at his lame joke. “I need to stay under the radar. If I go asking any of the people I know for help, their actions could too easily be picked up by whatever force is behind these escapes from hell. I don’t need a second-line parade announcing my return to the big city. Working out of a CPA’s broom closet is everything I could hope for.”
“Well, the office is yours for as long as you like. If you’re interested in something to do between demon outbreaks, I can put you on the payroll. There are always clients who need their stories investigated before I trust putting my reputation on the line. Some of those research projects can get a little dicey. People become defensive when I express my doubt regarding their financial records. Having someone who knows how to protect herself and doesn’t mind digging into the seedier side of New Orleans could be a great help. Think it over. If you need anything, just push down on the big bar to talk to Linda. I’m afraid the intercom system is straight out of the 1970s.”
Sere gingerly tapped on the yellowed plastic button. “Communications devices don’t work so well around me. It has something to do with wireless systems and the strange energy I emit.”
“What do you want, dear?” Linda’s voice crinkled out of the old speaker.
Sere pulled her hand away as if a demon had escaped from the box. “Jesus, that thing works?”
Fisher lifted the dried, cracked telephone line from the back of the intercom. “Like I told you—vintage electronics.”
Interesting. Direct-wired communication isn’t affected by my energy.
“I’ll try not to be in your way,” she said. “Mostly, I just need a place to stash my gear. Is there a way to lock the office?”
The CPA jiggled the antique door handle. “Even if there was, one good shake of this old door, and the hasp would come out of the latch. I have complete trust in Linda.”
Sere pulled her bullet belt from her saddlebag. One of the snakes came along for the ride. She laid the two on the desk. “So long as she doesn’t get freaked out by seeing things other than financial records.”
He blocked the entrance with his body and discreetly shut the door. “I see your point. I’ll have building maintenance rig something by lunch.” He took a seat opposite her in the guest chair, looking entirely too excited. “So what’s our first superhero challenge?”
Shit. Now I need to give him something to keep him busy so he doesn’t go running around the city doing something stupid.
“Well,” she said, “I’ve got Professor Yates working on identifying the real people who mirror the seven original escapees, but since I haven’t heard anything from him, I’m guessing he hasn’t found anything. You could go check on his progress.”
The CPA grimaced. “Errand boy? That’s not what I had in mind.”
She shrugged. “Sorry. I guess I’m not very good at delegating tasks. I only figured out Monty was after you because the professor’s equipment detected him sneaking out of hell. This new batch of demons appears to have learned from that first mistake.”
Fisher leaned back in the metal-and-cloth chair, drumming on the armrest with his fingers as if working an old-fashioned adding machine. “From Monty’s memories, one of his first big issues was getting down to New Orleans. Without money, travel can be a real challenge. If these new demons have learned from his experiences, one of their first chores will be laying their hands on some cash.”
She could tell he was going somewhere, but the path was as squirrelly as a deer trail through tall grass. “What are you thinking?”
“They’re doppelgängers, which means they could easily imitate the real people they’re based on, right?”
She nodded. “Obviously.”
“So why not just walk into a bank and say ‘I lost my wallet’? Between the doppelgänger’s knowledge of their real’s bank passwords, identical fingerprints, and photo IDs that would be on file, they could take out as much cash as they wanted.”
Sere began to get a glimpse of where the money expert was headed. “Their reals would see the activity and think their accounts had been hacked.”
“Exactly.” Fisher took out a pad from his breast pocket and began furiously making notes. “With my bank contacts, that’s something I can trace. If you’re right about the remaining four doppelgängers exiting the swamp in the same general area, there should be a handful of accounts all being raided from somewhere on the Northshore.” He got up like a cub reporter excited to follow a lead. “I’ll get right on this. With any luck, I should have some clues by the end of the day.”
Sere found his inquisitive mind encouraging. “There’s one other person you might look out for. I only know him as Thomas. In hell, his doppelgänger was Professor Yates’s assistant. Because he was something of a doppelgänger hybrid, when he died, his energy transferred to his real.” Sere couldn’t bring herself to tell Fisher about how she’d also beheaded that demon. “The real Thomas has already threatened to kill me once. It’d be useful to keep tabs on the little prick. I suspect he still has a contact in hell.”
“You think he’s the one behind these escapes?”
“I don’t know where he fits in, only that he didn’t have much trouble finding me. Anyone with that level of insider information makes me nervous.”
Fisher made some more notes on his pad. “Tell me what you remember. I’ve been able to reconstruct a person’s financial history with surprisingly inane details.”
Sere couldn’t imagine how her short captivity could be used to track down the bastard, but anything that kept Fisher busy would amount to time she didn’t have to worry about him.
20
Chapter 8
After an hour in the small room, Sere was about to crawl out of her skin. The nondescript accountant’s offices on a quiet back alleyway of the Quarter made for a handy place for her to stash her gear, but boxes weren’t good places to think. Every superhero needs their privacy: Batman his cave, Superman his phone booth, and Sere Mal-Laurette—demon hunter and immortal doppelgänger—her CPA’s broom closet. The thought nearly made her laugh.
She checked her bullet belt to be sure she’d replaced the shells she’d used in the swamp. The new shotgun Joe had worked up fit comfortably in the holster against her thigh. “I don’t care how I look. This is New Orleans.” She headed out of her office and poked her nose into Fisher’s doorway. “I’m heading out to do a little reconnaissance. Anything worth reporting on the paper trial—or anything else?” On the one hand, she hoped the kindly gentleman wasn’t being pestered from the beyond, but on the other, she needed something to do while she still held the advantage.
He shrugged. “It’ll take a few hours for my leads to pan out. As for the other thing, I’m afraid I’m feeling fine. I don’t know what else to tell ya.”
She gave him a reassuring smile. “I expect we have a day or two at least before things get interesting, but if you start getting headaches, don’t rely simply on aspirin.”
He shiv
ered, probably not from the tepid air coming out of the rackety air-conditioning system. “I remember the sensation. Convulsing on the floor isn’t something I’m apt to forget. If those unwelcome clients show up, I’ll know.” Unwelcome was as big an insult as Fisher would hurl at someone. He was no doubt watching his language for Linda’s sake. “I should be back before you close up for the day. While I’m out, I’ll try to come up with a communication network so you can reach me if something changes. And until they get the office lock fixed, it might be a good idea if no one messed with my saddlebags.” She wiggled her forearm and wrist while making biting gestures with her hand.
Fisher’s tightly pursed lips and tilted-head nod indicated that he was well aware of the snakes in the next room.
As Sere passed Linda’s desk, the old receptionist didn’t even look up from her dictation. “Heading out, dear?”
Yes, Mom. “Just going to check out the city.” Sere looked over her shoulder at Fisher’s office. “You might keep an eye on him today.”
“That’s my job.” The woman finally looked up at Sere. Her crystal-blue eyes were more penetrating than Sere remembered. “Be careful out there.”
Carrying a loaded shotgun in public, and in a big city, seemed like a way of inviting trouble. But then, when it came to Sere, trouble never waited for an invitation. She walked the streets of the Quarter like a new sheriff getting a feel for her jurisdiction, and she tried to figure out what to do. She did need a way to communicate without modern technology and a way to keep an eye on the doppelgängers’ reals—once Fisher or Professor Yates identified them.
“Damn, girl, that’s some authentic-looking steampunk right there.” The homeless dude who lay on a flattened piece of cardboard crammed into a doorway struggled to sit up. The peeling paint, rusted lock, and boarded-up windows of the building behind him made it clear that the place was deserted. He wasn’t in danger of being kicked off the stoop anytime soon.