Sin City Daemon

by Rick Newberry

  She shakes her head. “I don’t know, but whoever it is has the Devil on their side now.”

  ****

  “Perfect balance, my ass.”

  “Language, Rosalyn, please. You must calm yourself and listen to me.”

  “You set me up to be murdered. How calm do you expect me to be? I’ll ask you one more time: what are you playing at?”

  The Mystic smiled. “Death is a part of life; so it must follow, life is a part of death. You, of all Daemons, should know this. Your life on earth has been quite…productive.”

  “You mean long.”

  “In any case, you knew it wouldn’t last forever, nothing ever does.”

  Aunt Rose huffed. “Death is overrated. For some reason, I thought it would be different. I thought I’d be able to communicate with the living, like Major Ransom does. I thought I’d still get to witness what goes on, you know? React with the world, but I can’t get through to anyone. This is worse than having a dead cell phone.”

  The Mystic chuckled. “Death—it’s a different experience for each individual.”

  “I thought, at least, I could speak with Jack and Jenny.”

  “Dixie’s parents.” He glanced up. “I’m afraid their essence has already been placed in the night sky.” He turned away, treading through the empty casino, and stopped at a roulette table. After spinning the wheel, he sent the little white ball in the opposite direction. He turned to Aunt Rose as he spoke. “Nothing is guaranteed in life except death, and nothing at all is guaranteed in death. Life and death spin on an unavoidable collision course. Just to be clear, once and for all, I did not set you up to be murdered. How did you ever arrive at such a preposterous notion?”

  “Preposterous?” She put her hand on his shoulder. “You suggested Gorgeous be at Claremont for the nightly execution. And why? You knew I’d be there.” She waited a beat then smiled. “That was just a guess, but judging by your expression, it hits the mark.”

  The roulette ball dropped into the number twenty-two slot. The Mystic removed his finger from double-zero on the table. “Damn.”

  Aunt Rose shook her head. “You’re sick.”

  “Perhaps.” He turned and continued his trek, meandering back to the elevator. After pressing the call button, he faced Aunt Rose and smiled. “The wolfhounds were created by Daemonic spell. They were never part of the grand design. They’re not supposed to exist.”

  “It’s kind of late to play that card. It’s not their fault they’re here. They don’t deserve to be gunned down like—”

  “Like dogs?”

  “That’s a stupid thing to say. Are you trying to be funny? They’re living, breathing creatures and deserve to live their lives just as much as—”

  “Rosalyn, I’m afraid you misunderstand me. I bear ill will toward no one. Your niece, Dixie, her wolfhound friend, Adam—I wish them all the best. But I’m sure you’re aware of the saying: happiness is not a gift; it’s a goal. I do hope they reach their goal, I truly do. It’s certainly not my place to say who lives or dies.”

  The elevator doors slid open. The Mystic stepped into the car and turned to Aunt Rose. “Please come up with me. There’s someone I want you to meet.”

  She hesitated for a moment then entered the elevator. The doors closed, and she faced The Mystic. “I’ve heard all sorts of things about you. At first, I thought—”

  “Shhh.” He put a finger to his lips, cocked his head, and smiled. “That Old Black Magic…Sinatra, one of my favorites.”

  Aunt Rose narrowed her eyes. “It’s all just a game to you, isn’t it? One side against the other—good versus evil—you sit back and watch it all unfold from a front row seat. If one side gets the upper hand, you meddle. God forbid the battle should ever end, that would spoil your fun. It may not be your place to say who lives or dies, but you really don’t care either.”

  “Everything dies. Will caring change that fact?”

  The elevator opened and The Mystic led the way to the door of his chamber. He held it open for Aunt Rose and nodded her in.

  “Ayala,” he called, “this is Rosalyn Chase, a new arrival. She’s not only a spirit, but quite spirited, as well.” He turned to Aunt Rose with a smile. “I’m sorry; I actually was trying to be funny just then.”

  Aunt Rose said nothing.

  “Rosalyn insists I don’t care about anything. I wonder, what do you say?”

  Ayala stood up and bowed. “I…uh…”

  “It’s quite all right, my dear. We’re on the other side, now. Speak the truth.”

  “The Mystic cares about a great many things,” the girl said. “I’ve never known a kinder soul in all my life. He loves everyone.”

  Aunt Rose set her jaw. “Then why did he have me killed? Does that sound like love?”

  “I did not kill you, dear lady.” His voice remained calm. “Maxwell Sullivan did that, and he, himself, is now dead. So you see; perfect balance is restored.”

  “And what of the seven wolfhounds shot to death at Claremont?”

  “Gorgeous paid for that with her life.”

  “And who pays for her death? This perfect balance you love so much is ridiculous. Lives ruined, lives lost, and for what? To keep everything balanced?” Aunt Rose took a deep breath. “And now rumor has it the gates of Hell will soon open. Where’s the balance for that? Will the Pearly Gates swing open as well? Evil Daemons against armies of angels? Who will protect Dixie from the Sangre di Real? Is this part of your perfect balance?”

  “Calm down, please. Would you like some tea?”

  “No. I’d like some answers.”

  “Perhaps a story then. I like stories, don’t you?”

  Aunt Rose spun around and marched toward the door.

  The Mystic raised his voice. “Gorgeous didn’t care for stories either.”

  Aunt Rose stopped.

  “I think you’ll enjoy this one. A story of how the gates of Hell have slammed shut, of how the balance will truly be restored.”

  Aunt Rose turned and ambled back. She faced The Mystic and folded her arms. “Keep talking, and make it good.”

  “As you wish. Have a seat. Ayala, tea for our guest. Cream and sugar?”

  Aunt Rose plopped into an armchair. “Very well then, two lumps—no cream. Tell me your story before I scream.”

  The Mystic raised his eyebrows. “Ah, a rhyme. Feeling your old self again?”

  “I’ll never feel like my old self again. Death does not suit me.”

  Ayala poured the tea and backed away a few steps. She stood with head lowered and hands clasped.

  “Thank you, Ayala.” The Mystic sat down next to Aunt Rose and whispered, “Funny you should mention screaming. Ayala’s a Banshee, did you know? No, of course you wouldn’t. in the human world she does not even know herself. Apparently, she’s supposed to scream, or sing, or hum or something when my death is imminent. Who makes up these crazy rules for our world, anyway?”

  “You know who. Regardless, you said you’ve got a story about the gates of Hell?”

  “Ah yes, the story. Evidently, a negotiation took place at the highest levels. The Tempter is much annoyed his son was killed and by a wolfhound, no less; a creature that should never have existed. However, even though he wanted to open the gates, unleashing the Sangre di Real upon the world, cooler heads have prevailed.”

  “The gates are locked?”

  “Well, not entirely. A handful of True Bloods have been allowed freedom. They will descend on Claremont to destroy the wolfhounds. This is how balance will be restored.”

  “No.” Aunt Rose clenched her fists. “You can’t allow that to happen.”

  “My hands are tied.”

  “But the wolfhounds are innocent in all this. They must be warned.”

  “My lips are sealed as well.”

  “But something’s must be done. Tell me what to do, please.”

  “Well,” he leaned in again, “you didn’t hear it from me, but Ayala reaches out regularly to her v
ast network of banshees. Perhaps, through some friend of a friend or whatnot, word will reach Major Ransom, and from there, who knows?”

  “Social networking? Even here?”

  The Mystic raised his eyebrows. “A sign of the times, my dear.” He paused a moment. “Oh, and I suggest you hurry. The human world is measured by time, which is a shame. Measuring time only shows how much has been lost—never how much remains.”

  “What’s that supposed to mean? Why don’t you just tell me what you’re thinking?”

  “I’m late for my performance.”

  Aunt Rose bolted from the chair.

  Chapter Twenty-Three

  I hug Dixie like it’s the last time—it may very well be.

  “I’ll call the National Guard.” Marco grabs his cell phone.

  “I’ll call Admiral Garrison at the UN.” Colonel Dayton brings his cell out of his pocket. “He’ll assemble a team to—”

  “No, wait,” Dixie says.

  “Wait for what, man?” Cutty is jittery, almost bouncing up and down in his seat. “You saw what happened last time, with The Disaster. We need all the help we can get, right?”

  “Major Ransom says not to call anyone. It will only escalate the situation.”

  “What does she suggest we do?” Marco says. “Do nothing and watch the city destroyed again? Not on my watch. I’m with Cutty on this one.” He dials a number and puts the phone to his ear.

  Dixie reaches forward, grabbing the cell out of his hand. “No. You, too, Colonel. Put the phone down. Major Ransom heard from Aunt Rose.”

  Colonel Dayton eases the phone down. “And?”

  A blue light flares. My first instinct is to imagine Gorgeous descending on our vehicle. I clutch Dixie in my arms then remember Gorgeous is dead. I glance behind us and see a Metro officer, flashlight in hand, approaching our vehicle. His motorcycle is parked a few yards back, blue lights flashing.

  “Good.” Marco rolls down his window. “Officer.”

  Cutty cracks open his door.

  “Stay in the vehicle,” the officer shouts.

  “Marco, Cutty,” Dixie says, “don’t say a word about anything. Please, I’m begging you.”

  The officer approaches the driver’s side and bends down, shining the flashlight beam directly into Cutty’s eyes. “There’s no parking on The Strip. I need your driver’s license, registration, and proof of insurance.”

  Marco leans over and glances at the officer. “Do you know who I am?”

  The flashlight covers Marco’s face. He shades his eyes with his hand. “I’m Deputy Chief Ramirez. We only stopped here for a minute. Nobody’s been drinking, and we’re leaving right now. Do you understand?”

  “Can I see your ID?”

  Marco produces his badge and ID book.

  “I’m sorry, sir. I had no idea—”

  “It’s okay. We’re leaving now.” He pats Cutty on the back. “Get us out of here.”

  “Have a good night, sir. Sorry for the—”

  Cutty slams his door, turns the key, and hits the gas. “Man, we shoulda totally come clean with him. We need firepower tonight and plenty of it—more than that.”

  “Okay, Dixie,” Marco says over his shoulder, “what does Aunt Rose suggest we do?”

  “She said there was some kind of agreement, and only a few True Bloods have been released. They’re going to Claremont to kill the wolfhounds. If the military gets involved, then all bets are off. All the Sangre di Real will be unleashed on the world.”

  “Why?” My heart races. “Why kill the wolfhounds?”

  Dixie squeezes my hand. “Because you killed the Devil’s son. He wants revenge.”

  “Then why not come after me?”

  “I don’t know.”

  “Cutty,” Colonel Dayton says, “how fast can we get to Claremont?”

  “It won’t take too long, but we should stop first—pick up some bazookas, or rocket launchers, maybe a couple of—”

  “Get out, Cutty, I’ll drive.” I open my door.

  Dixie grabs my arm and pulls me back in. “No. You should all stay here. I’ll go.” With that, a brilliant silver light illuminates the inside of the car and Dixie vanishes.

  I know she feels terrible about Aunt Rose and revenge is on the menu tonight, but she’s not thinking straight. Whether she wants to admit it or not, she needs our help. “C’mon, Cutty, in or out—right now.”

  He slams on the gas and weaves through traffic, running red lights and avoiding pedestrians to get to the 15. “Shit,” he says, sliding a hand through his scraggily hair, “there are all kinds of bad vibes on this. I’m all for helping the wolfhounds, but this…” Once he hits the freeway, he mashes the pedal to the floor and the engine screams.

  I don’t know what waits for us at Claremont, and I share Cutty’s apprehension. What I do know is Dixie’s already there, and this car isn’t going fast enough.

  Marco and the colonel check their handguns and rummage through pockets for extra clips. I only have one weapon: the wolfhound. I strip off my shirt and pants in the backseat and close my eyes, concentrating on the transformation.

  “Do you have a weapon, Cutty?” Marco shouts over the roar of the engine.

  “Nope. Oh, I’ve got a gun, but that ain’t gonna do any good. You guys remember what it takes to kill a Daemon, don’t you? Chop, scoop, burn. And those are the normal ones. Is that even gonna work on these super-freaks? Does anyone know?”

  A brilliant yellow light flashes inside the sedan. Cutty swerves across two lanes of traffic and holds the wheel through a skid before wrestling the vehicle back to the fast lane. “Holy shit, what the hell is that?”

  “The weapons are in the trunk,” Charlie Nguyen says. She sits right next to me, her gaze running across my body. “Do you often take road trips in only your underwear?”

  “What are you doing here?”

  “Major Ransom told me everything. You could certainly use the help.” She smirks as she turns her gaze to Colonel Dayton. “A pistol? Really? Against Sangre di Real? The weapons are in the trunk, gentlemen—six katanas ready for battle.” She leans over the backseat and puts her hand on Cutty’s shoulder. “And to answer your question, Mr. Ginger, there is one additional step to killing a True Blood.”

  Colonel Dayton leans away from her. “I thought you’d run off.”

  “I did, until I heard about Gorgeous and her long overdue demise. Now, do you want to know the extra step, or not?”

  “Absolutely,” the colonel says, slipping his gun back into its shoulder holster.

  “Very well, listen carefully. Once the fire has consumed their bodies, their bones must be ground into the earth. Dust to dust, understand?”

  “Got it,” Cutty shouts out, “chop off their heads, scoop out their guts, light them on fire, then stomp on their bones. Got it, got it: chop, scoop, burn, stomp. Chop, scoop, burn, stomp.”

  “Why did you come back?” I ask over Cutty’s chant.

  Charlie Nguyen lowers her head, her eyes staring at her lap. “If the Sangre di Real win this battle and establish a foot hold here on earth, then we’re all dead—Daemons, humans, wolfhounds—all of us. So, die now, or die later. Charlie Nguyen decides her own fate.”

  “How many of them are there?” Marco says.

  Nguyen shakes her head.

  “Are they already at Claremont?”

  She shakes her head again.

  I have to ask, “Do we stand a chance?”

  She shrugs her shoulders and remains silent.

  “Hang on,” Cutty shouts as he cranks the steering wheel, “Claremont dead ahead.”

  ****

  A silver-colored mist flashed in the night, illuminating a small clearing in the woods. Pine, palm, and Joshua trees surrounded Dixie. Brushing herself off, she closed her eyes and drew in a deep breath of warm air. She exhaled slowly then pulled in another long breath, filling her lungs to capacity; a slow and steady pattern repeated several times.

  Major Ransom�
��s thoughts found their way into her mind. What do you think you’re doing? There’s no time to waste.

  It’s a meditation technique. I’m trying to relax before…

  Before what?

  I don’t even know. Are they here yet?

  Who?

  Dixie clucked her tongue. Who do you think? The Sangre di Real.

  No, and it’s a good thing, too.

  Well, when do you think they’ll be—

  “What are you doing here?” A woman’s voice broke the silence in the clearing.

  Dixie crouched down. She scanned the area, seeing nothing but shadows in the thick brush. “Where are you? Come out of the darkness and show yourself.”

  “No. Stand up and walk straight ahead, toward my voice. Hurry, do it now.”

  Dixie weighed her options and came up with none. Perhaps, it was a bit foolish to leave Adam and the others behind and tele transport to Claremont. She had no allies, carried no weapons, and didn’t even have a plan. Stuck all alone in the middle of the woods, late at night, on the eve of an attack by the most powerful Daemons ever created had to be the exact opposite of a plan. She straightened and ambled forward. Seeing no one, she stopped after only a few steps.

  “Farther,” the voice commanded, “come on, hurry up.”

  Dixie held her ground. “I’m not taking another step, not until you show yourself.”

  “Come forward, or die.”

  Not much of a choice. Dixie took a few tentative steps toward the shadows masking the unseen voice. “This is as far as I go. Is that better?”

  “Yes. Now!”

  Dixie heard the sharp crack of something before her head exploded. Darkness faded to black as her legs buckled and the ground rushed up to punch her in the face.

  “Wake up.”

  The feel of an open hand drumming against her cheek and cold water running across her forehead brought her back to consciousness. She took a mental inventory of her body. No broken bones, no strained muscles. Her breathing was slow and measured, as if she’d been dreaming, but it wasn’t a dream. She couldn’t move.

  “C’mon, snap out of it,” a voice said. “You hit her pretty hard.”

  Another voice said, “Is she dead?”

  “C’mon now. Snap out of it.”