Sin City Daemon

by Rick Newberry

  I pop the top and take a few gulps. Mistake. I can’t stand the taste, or is it guilt rising in my throat? Tossing the can to the floor, I shout, “Dixie, I need to talk to you.”

  She frowns. “Go ahead.”

  “Not here. Let’s go to the bedroom.”

  She slips her arms around me and nuzzles my neck.

  With my hands on her shoulders, I push her back, moving her into the path of someone behind her. She apologizes to them and narrows her eyes at me.

  I step back, trying to create some room between us, and bump into a man behind me. He turns, grabs my arm, and grins. “There’s the man of the hour.”

  Every smile directed at me, every mention of “good job,” or “way to go,” buries me until I feel like I’m drowning. To be honest, I haven’t lied to anyone, they’ve made up their own truth, but my conscience is racked with guilt. “Dixie,” I say, tugging on her arm to pull her through the crowded kitchen. “I need to talk to you right now.”

  “But everybody’s here to—”

  “I can’t explain over this noise. Follow me.” My voice cuts over the clamor, and most of those close by stop what they’re doing and stare at me. I keep Dixie close as we navigate the crowded hallway.

  Five people occupy the bedroom, and I keep a level head as I ask them to give us some privacy. They smile and snicker as they leave. I can’t wait for them to leave, and shove the door closed as soon as the last one exits.

  “What is it?” Dixie asks. She touches my hand and leans into me.

  “Have you heard from Major Ransom?”

  “No.”

  “You need to contact her. Ask her what’s going on.”

  “What are you talking about? The fight is over, thanks to you. We won.”

  I jerk my hand away from her. “We didn’t win.”

  The door opens and two strangers enter along with all the clatter from the celebrations outside. They grin at the sight of me. “Well, if it isn’t the man of the hour—”

  “It isn’t,” I yell, “get out.”

  Dixie furrows her brow. “Adam, what’s wrong?”

  I wait until the door closes. “It’s all a lie. I’m a fraud, a fake. I didn’t kill one of those Daemons, not one. If I didn’t know any better, I’d say the hand of God was involved.”

  “What are you talking about?”

  “Please do me a favor, would you? Ask the colonel, Marco, and Cutty to come in here. I only want to have to tell this story once.”

  She gives me a look I’ve never seen before. Obviously, she’s worried about me. While she’s gone, I try to think about the best way to tell them what happened on the hill tonight. No words come because I don’t know what happened. The only thing I can explain to them is what didn’t happen.

  In a couple of minutes, all my friends sit on the edge of the bed, Cutty on the floor. I tell them what happened as best I can.

  “You never lifted a finger?” Colonel Dayton stands up. “But the lookouts swear you took them all down. They said—”

  “I don’t care what they think they saw. I didn’t do anything but watch those Daemons get killed by some kind of supernatural force. Their heads lopped off, and they split in two. Next thing I knew, they were on fire, and I crushed their bones to the earth.”

  “Hey, man,” Cutty says, “they wouldn’t be dead if you didn’t do that last bit.”

  “I get the feeling, if I didn’t do that last bit, it would have been done for me.”

  Dixie slips her arms around me. “That’s why you wanted me to contact Major Ransom.”

  I nod. “If anybody knows what happened, it’s her.”

  “Perhaps she’s unwilling to say.” We all turn to the door. Charlie Nguyen sticks her head in. “Perhaps she still thinks of you as someone who’s brave; who’s formidable.” She sidles next to me and sneers, “Or perhaps, as you say, she knows the truth.”

  ****

  Two knocks on the door. “Sir, twenty minutes till curtain.”

  “Yes, that should just about be enough time.” The Mystic winked at Ayala who sat in the chair facing the glass wall of water. “I’ll be back as soon as I can.” He waited a moment, and put his ear to the door. “The coast is clear.” He grinned. “I’ve always wanted to say that.”

  “Please hurry,” Ayala said.

  “As you wish,” The Mystic, wearing Ayala’s turquoise robe, called back in her voice. He opened the door and eased out, nodding to the bodyguards stationed in the anteroom.

  The Mystic truly enjoyed his visits to the other side—a recent ritual: in one moment, convincing Ayala to exchange robes, in the next, greeting her as his Banshee.

  He rode the elevator down to the casino level, enjoying the dulcet sounds of Perry Como’s “Prisoner of Love,” strode through the crowds of people and entered the Lucky Diamond Lounge. He sat down, closed his eyes, and listened as the frenzied sounds of the gaming house faded into silence.

  He never knew when it would happen, or where, much less how, but his solo outings to the casino floor always brought the transition. His eyelids rose and he confirmed everyone had vanished, all but one. Gorgeous sat at his table nursing a beverage.

  “Seven and Seven?” The Mystic asked.

  “Uh-huh. Why don’t you order one? Oh, you can’t,” her voice rose with each word, “because there doesn’t seem to be a fucking waitress, or a fucking bartender, or a fucking anybody around. What the hell is going on?”

  “Oh, my. I know it’s not in your nature to mind your language, but there’s no need to use those kinds of words here.”

  “Here? Where the hell is here?”

  The Mystic smiled. “The Diamond Lounge at the Sterling International Resort.”

  “I’m dead, aren’t I?”

  “Well, technically you—”

  “Just fucking tell me. Dead or alive?”

  “It’s true. You jumped to the other side.”

  “Jumped? More like pushed. That no-good, son-of-a-bitch, two-timing little weasel blind-sided me. Lucas Knight! Wait till he crosses over and I get my hands on him.”

  The Mystic laughed. “That’s not quite how it works.”

  “Oh yes it will.” Gorgeous gulped her drink down. “I want another drink.” She drummed her fingers on the table and glanced around. “I said I wanted another drink, and when I say—wait a minute. Are you telling me manifestation does not work here? Just what kind of Hell did I fall into?”

  “Oh, you’re not in Hell, believe me. If you’d like another drink, I’ll be glad to get one for you.” The Mystic rose and strolled to the bar with Gorgeous in tow. He found his way behind the bar, grabbed a bottle, and poured the blended whiskey into a glass. After plucking up the bar gun, he fumbled with it until he found the soda button. The liquid splashed and fizzed in the glass. He held an ice cube six inches over the rim of the glass then let it drop. He smiled as he handed the drink to Gorgeous.

  She took a sip. “Hmm. You missed your calling, Mystic.”

  “It pleases me to please you.”

  Gorgeous raised her eyebrows. “Well, isn’t that just so fucking pleasing? Now tell me what in the hell—”

  The Mystic nodded his head to the end of the bar behind Gorgeous. She swiveled around and dropped her tumbler on the carpet. Rosalyn Chase stood glaring at her, hands on her hips. Both women raised their arms and waved them at each other.

  “Relax,” The Mystic said in a soothing tone, “you cannot cast spells here. It is simply not allowed. Now then, let’s go to a table and sit down like civilized people. Would you care for a drink, Rosalyn?”

  “No,” she said, “bad for my health.”

  Gorgeous snickered. “So is death.”

  Rosalyn stared at Gorgeous. “In that case, I’ll have what she’s having.”

  “Ah, excellent choice,” The Mystic said. “I’ll make you both a fresh drink and then we’ll sit and have a little talk.”

  The Mystic mixed the drinks, finishing with his ice cube drop, and carried
them around the end of the bar to the lounge. Gorgeous sat at one table to the left of the bar, Rosalyn at a table to the right. “Come now, ladies. We have much to discuss and I have a performance in a few minutes.” He sat down at a table in the middle of the bar and waited. “Hurry now. I’ve never missed a performance in two years and I don’t plan on starting tonight.” The two Daemons stood and sauntered to a center table. “Good. Now sit down, please, enjoy your beverages. I will tell you a story.”

  “Not another goddamned story.” Gorgeous folded her arms and refused to sit.

  Rosalyn sat down at once. “I’m not afraid of stories.” She took a sip of her drink, grimaced, and faced The Mystic.

  Gorgeous sat. “Bring it on, old man.”

  “Excellent,” The Mystic smiled. “Very well. Once upon a time—”

  “Oh please. What a load of bullshit.”

  “Shut up,” Rosalyn said, “I’m trying to listen.”

  The Mystic cleared his throat. “Anyway, there were two very powerful Daemons. They were always at each other’s throat constantly bickering, arguing, and disagreeing. And what were they quarrelling about?”

  “The fate of the world,” Gorgeous said at once.

  “The fate of mankind,” Rosalyn said.

  “You are both correct. Fate. They were in conflict over fate. As they pulled and tugged and fought over fate, they dropped it. It broke. Now, no one could have it. The fate each one had fought for had changed.”

  “Ha,” Gorgeous huffed, “is this the part where we shake hands and promise never to fight again?”

  “No. This is the part where you fight even harder.”

  “I don’t follow your story,” Rosalyn said.

  “Do you both need another drink?”

  “Just tell us what the hell you mean.” Gorgeous downed her Seven and Seven.

  “The Sangre di Real have entered into battle with the wolfhounds on Claremont. The wolfhounds killed them all.”

  “Good for them,” Rosalyn said, taking a long pull at her glass.

  “I’ll drink to that,” Gorgeous said, air toasting her empty glass.

  “But the battle is far from over.” The Mystic pointed to the ground. “He’s not one to accept defeat lightly. More True Bloods are coming to earth, and this time not only wolfhounds, but Daemons are targets.”

  “How do you know this?” Gorgeous asked.

  “I have my sources. Let’s just say a blip appeared on the radar. In any case, Heaven is not likely to stop the attack—”

  “No,” Rosalyn said. “He’s never been too fond of us.”

  “And Hell will turn a blind eye. Balance will be lost; fate will be broken.”

  Gorgeous placed her drink on the table and glared at Rosalyn. “I suppose we haven’t made too many fans above or below, have we?”

  “What can we do?” Rosalyn said.

  Gorgeous raised her eyebrows. “How do we stop it?”

  “Ah, you have already taken the first step. The magic word has been spoken.”

  “What magic word?”

  “We. Work together to destroy the destroyer.”

  Gorgeous scoffed. “How the hell do you propose we do that?”

  “I’m not at liberty to say.”

  “But you do know how,” Gorgeous shouted.

  The Mystic smiled, drifting into the other side, leaving the two Daemons on their own.

  Chapter Twenty-Six

  “The council met.” Lucas Knight spoke with purpose, with passion. He felt another emotion rise to the surface—an emotion quite foreign to him: joy. He spoke fast, his tone aroused, “They found it difficult to believe a few dozen wolfhounds could take down twelve Sangre di Real—no, not difficult to believe…what were their words? Impossible to imagine, yes, that was it: impossible to imagine. Round one was a complete success. The council agreed to release one hundred more True Bloods. They’ll arrive soon.”

  “Only one hundred?” Sebastian said. “I thought He would release them all—”

  “He will, my friend, in time.” Knight offered a glass to his accomplice. He filled the tumbler and toasted. “To the world’s greatest stage manager.” He held out the bottle, pouring another round for himself and Sebastian. “This is just a minor setback, call it round two. He doesn’t like to appear weak, you know.”

  “You actually spoke to Him, face to face?” Sebastian’s eyes widened.

  “Well, no, not face to face. Of course not. Nobody ever speaks to Him one on one, but the council is almost the same thing. They speak on His behalf, as if standing with Him eye to eye. And, as I said, the defeat took everyone completely by surprise.”

  Sebastian beamed. “The logistics were kind of tricky. I’m used to a closed stage, but once I got my men in place and explained what to do, the rest was easy—a few yards of razor wire, some well-placed assegais, flash powder, and about thirteen rolls of gaffers’ tape—”

  “Enough details.”

  “Of course. But I haven’t told you the best part.” Sebastian laughed; a deep throated chortle before he raised his glass and took another drink. “The best part was the reaction of the wolfhounds. They were convinced they defeated the True Bloods on their own.” Another cackle.

  “Marvelous.” Knight stood up from the small settee in his dressing room and paced the floor, a nervous journey back and forth, back and forth. “They’ll be apt to engage the True Bloods in round two more aggressively, gives the battle a genuine flavor. How about the crew you chose? Did any of them question what they were doing?”

  Sebastian grinned. “One.”

  “And?”

  “He won’t question anything again.” Sebastian’s lips curled up forming a crooked grin. “The power you transferred to me was incredible. I’ve never felt anything close to it before, like the world’s most powerful drug. I felt like God.”

  Knight stopped pacing at once and rushed to Sebastian. He leaned down, grabbing the Daemon by the shoulders and whispered, “Don’t ever say that name.” He plopped down next to Sebastian on the settee. “Do you understand? Don’t use that name—ever.”

  Sebastian cowered, dropping his glass to the floor. “I didn’t mean anything by it.”

  Knight relaxed, his scowl fading, replaced by excitement. “I know you didn’t. But you must know every time that name is spoken, we risk exposure. We play a dangerous game, my friend. If my plans are leaked, overheard, or even guessed the consequences are fatal. We must stay off the radar.”

  Sebastian nodded as he picked up his glass. “It will never happen again, sir. You have my word—and my allegiance.”

  “Excellent.” Knight smiled and refilled Sebastian’s glass. “Now then, what do you need for round two? More men, more supplies?”

  “I have plenty of supplies, but I need a few more men and a lot more time.”

  “Two hours.”

  Sebastian’s eyes bulged. “You mean tonight? In two hours? You’re joking.”

  Knight stared at Sebastian and said nothing.

  “But, sir, there’s no way I can—”

  Knight placed his hand over Sebastian’s head, once again transferring the abilities of the Sangre di Real to the stage manager. He squeezed the Daemon’s skull, sending the spell deep into his essence.

  Sebastian opened his eyes, a new confidence spreading over his face. He beamed. “Everything will be ready.”

  “Outstanding.” Knight stood up and turned for the door. “The True Bloods arrive in a few minutes. Take your men and supplies and go out the back. The attack on Claremont commences at ten o’clock.”

  “Yes, sir.”

  “And remember,” Knight said as he pointed upward. “No mention of you know who.” He darted into the hallway and climbed a flight of stairs to the side door leading to the main stage. He paused for a moment and closed his eyes, mumbling under his breath, “Game face.”

  Knight pushed through the door, marching to center stage. He smiled and shouted, “Welcome. I bid welcome to each and every on
e of you.”

  The True Bloods huddled together on stage in the darkened theater. Some nodded in Knight’s direction. Most kept their eyes trained on him, watching, waiting, a warrior’s mistrust.

  “I don’t know what you’ve been told—”

  “We were told everything,” a voice from the back of the crowd bellowed.

  Knight felt his heart quiver. Everything?

  “We were told how twelve True Bloods died in disgrace. How a pack of wild dogs took them down. We were told they were slaughtered.”

  Grunts and murmurs echoed in the theater.

  “It’s all true,” Knight said; his hands rose for silence, bringing a hush to the assembly. “I asked for soldiers, for warriors.” His voice rose. “Instead, I got a small band of mercenaries unsure of what to do. Of course, they were slaughtered. They took the enemy lightly. They were vain, prideful, and foolish. Do not repeat their mistake. Do not—”

  “We were also told…they were led by you.”

  Knight moved into the band of True Bloods in search of the one who spoke so brazenly. “Reveal yourself.”

  A warrior emerged from the crowd—angry eyes, chest out, ready for a challenge. “You sent them to battle while you performed, like a monkey, for the humans.”

  Knight fixed his gaze on the Daemon. The perfect time for an example to be made to all those of the same mind. “I played my part. I expected them to do the same. What is your name, warrior?”

  “Mordem.”

  Knight marched toward Mordem and put his arm around the True Blood. He leaned in, whispering a curse under his breath; the secret word only he’d been given as a leader of the Sangre di Real, “Exteritus.”

  Mordem fell to the floor, unable to breath. His face turned red, then white. He wasn’t dead, not quite alive. It only took a few more moments for his body to melt into a pool of dark liquid and vanish from the earth.

  “My command is final,” Knight shouted. “Authorized by the council. Are there any more questions? Good.”

  ****

  “What do you mean you don’t know what happened?” Detective Ramirez places a hand on my shoulder. “Now, stop me if I’m wrong, but generally, Daemons are known for doing a lot of stupid things, no offense Dixie; suicide isn’t one of them. Someone took those Daemons out, and if it wasn’t you, then who…or what?”